Dead Centre (19 page)

I went to the front door and checked the hallway before closing it behind me, using the sleeve of my brand new fleece.

Outside, the kids were nowhere to be seen. I turned downhill towards Asda.

How the fuck had Ant and Dec managed to deal with both locations? Maybe they’d followed me to Nadif’s place, done him, then found out about Jan via his mobile. Or maybe they’d seen us together at Saxtys. It didn’t really matter. What did was that they had both confidence and ability, and that made them dangerous.

I felt sorry for Jan, and even sorrier for Blue Stripes. All he’d wanted was a shag. The Jock on her voicemail was going to have a pretty hard time too. The police would find his pissed-off phone messages on Jan’s other phones and he’d have a fuck of a lot of explaining to do. Another poor bastard dragged into this nightmare – but at least he was alive.

I pointed the 911 out of the city. I wanted to get into the countryside as quickly as possible.

I jumped out at a lay-by beside the mud flats, engine still running, and pulled apart Nadif’s first two phones. They didn’t have his two a.m. call in the memory, but they did have the ones I’d made. I took out the batteries and wiped them on my fleece. I clambered up the bank and through the hedge. I kicked a hole with my heel in the mud the other side, stamped the phones into the bottom of it and smoothed wet earth back over them.

I powered up Nadif’s remaining mobile and hit redial on the Somali number as I got back in the 911.

It rang several times, then I was treated to a high-decibel crackle of the local dialect. The only thing I could tell from it was that the guy who’d answered was very old indeed. I waited for him to pause for breath.

‘Do you speak English?’

More crackle. ‘
Italiano?
’

‘No. English?’

There was a sudden explosion of invective. It sounded like everyone around the old boy was getting shouted at to shut the fuck up. I held the phone away from my ear. Then there was a rustling sound, as if the mouthpiece was brushing against facial hair. A new voice came on, much younger.

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘Where is Nadif? This is Nadif’s phone. Where is Nadif?’ He had a soft American accent, more
Twilight
than
Friends
.

‘Nadif has been killed. I don’t know who did it, and I don’t know why. I want to find out. But I need help. I need help from someone with power and influence. I want to pay for my friends to be released. Nadif was going to help me, with his powerful friend. Are you his powerful friend?’

‘Yes. Only I can help you get your friends released. What is your name? Who are your friends?’

‘I’m Nick. My friends are a man, a woman and a child – a little boy. Their names are Justin, Tracy and Stefan.’

He was straight down to business. ‘Do you have the money, Mr Nick? Do you have three million American dollars?’

‘I am trying to get it. Please can I speak to them? I need to know they’re OK.’

And then it was as if we hadn’t had the first part of the exchange. ‘Nadif, where is Nadif?’

‘Nadif is dead. I don’t know who killed him.’

He thought about it for a while. I heard more rustling. ‘You will call again tomorrow. Same time.’

The phone went dead.

I gave it thirty seconds and rang again. Nothing. He’d powered down.

PART FIVE

1

Courchevel 1850, French Alps

16.32 hrs

THE SKIDS OF the Bell 222 settled on the tarmac and the pilot killed the engines. The stainless steel and fibreglass rotors wound gradually to a standstill. I took off my headset and waited for the door to be opened.

The Bell could normally take eight passengers at a time on the shuttle between Geneva and Courchevel. Frank’s people had booked it exclusively for my use. The pilot said his instructions were to wait as long as I needed him to. Then, as soon as he’d worked out I wasn’t Russian, he started talking and didn’t stop until we landed. Better thirty minutes of that, I supposed, than two and a half hours up the mountain by car, duelling with kamikaze Peugeot drivers.

Apparently it had been a very strange season. Winter had started a month early, with heavy snowfalls in October. Spring had also arrived way ahead of time. The sun had shone almost continually and there had been weeks of bizarrely hot weather. Then December had had some of the best snow of the season.

‘But you know how I will remember this season most of all? As the one when the snow didn’t fall. We waited through January, February and now this month for the big dumps of snow that never came. That’s why we’re lucky we live in the Trois Vallées.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Wise leaders who invested heavily in snow cannons, reservoirs and piste groomers.’

‘Man-made snow doesn’t sound very eco-friendly.’

‘It’s economy-friendly. Without it, the Russians wouldn’t have brought their bling-bling.’

‘Good for business, are they?’

‘These days, they
are
the business.’

I stepped out into a landscape that looked white enough to me. The piste groomers must have been working their miracles.

I looked along just 525 metres of steeply rising runway. There was a vertical drop at the end. It was easy to see why Courchevel airport was rated one of the most dangerous in the world. There was no go-around procedure, the pilot had said. The hill was supposed to help to slow a landing aircraft.

‘Does it work?’

‘Not always.’

Add to that a hazardous approach through deep valleys that could only be performed by specially certified pilots, and often freezing conditions with black ice and heavy snow, and you had one of the most challenging landings on earth. Jets couldn’t use it. Larger propeller aircraft like the Twin Otter and Dash 7 could, but they had been phased out. Smaller Cessnas and helicopters had taken over.

A driver in his early twenties greeted me and led me to a car. He was smartly dressed in a black suit, shirt and tie. His gold-rimmed Ray-Ban Aviators glinted in the sun.

I couldn’t help smiling to myself as I climbed into the back. I’d listened to Talk Radio on my way to Bristol airport. The coalition’s austerity measures weren’t going down well. Prices at the petrol pumps were higher by the day. So was the number of unemployed. All in all, it had been another grey and gloomy day in Broken Britain. Yet in a parallel universe Frank’s plane had turned out to be a G6 Gulfstream, more airliner than private jet, and I was in a black Merc limo with darkened windows on the way from the ‘altiport’ at one of the world’s most upscale ski resorts to meet with one of the world’s richest men.

According to a brochure I found in the Gulfstream, Courchevel 1850 was the highest and most famous of the resort’s four centres, distinguished from each other by their height in metres. It was also the bit where the billionaires hung out. 1850 was in fact only 1747 metres above sea level, but the good burghers were keen to shaft arch-rivals Val d’Isère. Everyone wanted a slice of Russian action, and the Russians always flocked to the biggest, highest, priciest – anywhere, in fact, with
est
on the end. With five-star hotels charging $35,000 a night for a suite, chalets at $190,000 a week and restaurants that boasted more Michelin stars per head of population than anywhere else on the planet, they wouldn’t have been dis appointed. If there was snow, they were here – if they weren’t in Moscow making money, or in London spending it. And where the Russians go, the
nouveaux riches
from the emerging economies in Eastern Europe, Asia and South America follow.

I’d landed in Geneva and got straight on the Bell. The helicopter transfer company’s choice of aircraft gave me a big kick. It had starred in
Airwolf
, one of my favourite TV shows as a kid. It looked much the same: navy blue, sleek and menacing as it flew low between the mountains.

There had been property brochures in the Gulfstream, too. As I drove in the back seat of the air-conditioned, leather-upholstered luxury bubble, I knew I was passing ‘chalets’ that cost upwards of $5 million. We were a world away from the shabby, peeling shit-pits I’d left behind me in Easton. No clapped-out Ford Focuses, either. All the other vehicles on the road were Range Rovers or Cayenne 4×4s. It seemed you could have any colour you liked as long as it was black.

We passed people out and about. They were walking little rat dogs wrapped up in Prada Puffas the same colour as their owner’s. This was Bling Central, on ice.

Even my young driver looked too cool to need to breathe. His Aviators didn’t have fingermarks; he never needed to adjust his short, wet-gelled hair. My own hair was greasy and my eyes felt so knackered they probably looked like they belonged to Vlad the Impaler. Fuck knows what he made of me in the back, contaminating his leather.

‘Are you here for the party, sir?’

His English was clear and crisp.

‘No, mate, just a quick visit. Whose party?’

‘I’m not sure, but they say it’s costing five million euros. Cirque de Soleil are being flown in all the way from Canada.’

‘That’s some party. Keeping you busy?’

I found myself doing the cabbie chat I normally saved for London.

‘Three hundred people are coming, or so they say.’

‘Not for the skiing, that’s for sure.’

There was snow around the chocolate-box village, but it was dribbling down the mountain with every passing minute. Now we were lower, I could see large expanses of rock fighting their way into view.

He checked his sat-nav for the hundredth time. ‘Not far now, sir.’

2

WE STOPPED OUTSIDE a massive, classic Swiss chalet that looked as if it had been carved out of the granite high ground behind it. Snow covered the gently sloping roof and wide eaves. The pathway had been freshly cleared.

‘Are you the new owner, sir?’

I checked out the three-storey slice of paradise like I was trying to remember if I’d bought this one or the next, and dreamt a little before coming back to the real world. ‘No, mate, not me. How much did it go for?’

‘Twenty-two million dollars. Just last week. They say it has a pool.’

For that amount of money, I’d have demanded a bigger driveway as well. It only just fitted the gleaming black Range Rover with French plates and darkened windows.

‘I’ll tell you if it has when you take me back. You’re waiting, yeah?’

‘Yes, sir. I am booked until you want to leave. Same as the helicopter.’

I opened the door. The cold, crisp air attacked my face. I liked it. It woke me up a little. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

He swivelled in his seat, smiling under his sun-gigs. ‘Jacques.’

I leant down. ‘You new at this, Jacques?’

He nodded like a puppy. ‘My third day.’

‘Try not to speak to the guests, Jacques. These people don’t like that.’

He flapped. ‘Sir, I’m so sorry, I—’

I put up a hand. ‘It’s no drama with me, Jacques. You seem a good guy and it would be a nightmare to lose a job like this. Best to have fun using your eyes and ears. You might find out exactly what’s going on around here, yeah?’

He let it sink in.

‘The guy in that house, Jacques? He can buy that shit because he knows that knowledge is power. He told me so himself. So, if you listen, look and learn while you drive you won’t have to depend on “them” to tell you what’s what. They’ll depend on you. Get it?’

He nodded.

‘See you in a bit, then, Jacques.’

The huge wooden door was a few centimetres ajar. I pushed it wider. The hallway was empty. No one lived here. But it was far from a rustic ski lodge. The interior looked as if it had been ripped out of a Manhattan penthouse. Sleek, modern lines. A symphony of glass, steel and dark grey marble. The front of the house was all that was left of the original.

I could see now that the hall wasn’t entirely empty. Mr Lover Man and his mate Genghis were hovering. They didn’t look fazed to see me. There was no reaction at all. Frank must have been giving them tutorials.

I nodded a greeting. ‘Afternoon, lads.’

I didn’t get as much as a blink in return. Genghis just pointed upstairs. I walked across the marble floor to the grand glass and steel staircase.

As I climbed, I began to hear the echo of excited, high-pitched voices. They spoke English with heavy French accents. They were enthusing about how beautiful the new colours would look. I reached the first floor and walked towards the oohs and aahs. I went through large double doors into a high-ceilinged room that could have doubled as a wedding venue. The tall panelled windows overlooked the dog-walkers up on the mountain path.

Swatches of material and big wallpaper folders covered the parquet floor. Frank was wearing jeans that had creases ironed into them, and a white open-necked shirt under a yellow golfer’s sweater. He was staring down at the collections of colours and patterns strewn around his feet. Either this was about taking his mind off his troubles, or he was back in Terminator mode.

The high-pitched voices turned out to belong to a man and woman who looked like they should have been on one of those makeover shows. They were talking to each other as if they were the only ones there, and Frank was the film crew.

‘Everything looks so wonderful in this light.’

Frank glanced up as I headed towards him. His face said he definitely wasn’t as jacked-up about it as they were. Besides, the light was shit: the cloud made sure of that.

He was doing some serious weight training with that platinum Zenith Class Traveller on his wrist. I’d fancied one myself in the Moscow watch shop until I’d seen the price tag. It had no jewels, no glitter; it was just a practical-looking lump of metal with loads of little dials on. I wasn’t sure how they justified it being £475K. For that price, it should be making the tea.

Frank followed my gaze. ‘You know your timepieces. I have a passion for them.’

He twisted it to and fro on his wrist. ‘But, you know, they’re easy to come by. Unlike decent houses under thirty million dollars in this place.’ He looked around him. I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.