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Authors: Tom Bale

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Fifteen

James Vilner had come a long way in his thirty-eight years, both
geographically and socially. He reflected on this as he drove his Range
Rover into the basement car park of one of London's most exclusive
hotels.

Born in Scarborough, his life had changed at the age of seven when
his father died in an industrial accident. Denied compensation by a
legal blunder, his mother moved to a poor district of Leeds, where
financial hardship drove her to supplement social security benefits
with prostitution. Young Jimmy quickly learned that to survive in this
harsh new environment, he had to be financially independent.

He stole his first car stereo at the age of nine, and within two years
had become a proficient thief. At twelve his mum kicked him out,
and he was happy to go, happy to be away from her creepy punters
and her violent new boyfriend. He slept on the back seat of stolen
cars, camped out with friends whenever he could, and sometimes he
slept rough, curling up in bus shelters or office doorways in the quiet
streets around Park Row.

One night a fat, middle-aged businessman took him for a rent boy.
Never one to miss an opportunity, Jimmy began to lure men into
toilets on the promise of sex, then produce a Stanley knife and demand
their money. It was a good earner, but several times he picked the
wrong targets, and once he came close to being raped by two men.

Then, at fourteen, he lost control of a stolen XR2 on the Armley
Interchange and flipped it, killing his passenger, a fellow thief. Jimmy
was caught trying to flee the scene, despite a broken leg and half a
dozen cracked ribs. He was in hospital for three weeks, and then
a young offenders' institute for two years. It was like attending a crime
academy, and when he graduated he immediately began putting his
newly acquired skills to good use.

In 1989 his life went tits up again. He and two other men held up
a sub-post office in Roundhay Road, but the Pakistani family who ran
the store put up a fight. Jimmy discharged his shotgun during his
escape, injuring the shopkeeper's daughter, and then fired blindly
from the car while trying to shake off the police on the inner ring
road. He was sent to Wakefield prison at the age of twenty-one and
served just over six years.

It was a much smarter operator who emerged. Moving to London,
he made use of prison contacts to find work as an enforcer, and
within a few years he'd built enough of a reputation to set up on
his own. With the approval of one of the big North London crime
families, he carved himself a share in several clubs and restaurants,
using the proceeds to set up similar, legitimate ventures. A small
chain of video and DVD rental shops was particularly successful,
and soon he was laundering money for others, before diversifying
into money lending.

Now he had a four-bedroom home near Finsbury Park and a couple
of cars each worth more than the houses he'd grown up in. By any
measure he was a success, but somehow it wasn't enough. He was
aware of a whole other league above him: people with so much money
they didn't even
think
about money any more. That's what he wanted,
and his aim was to get there by the time he was forty – the age at
which his mum had died of a brain haemorrhage.

At first he had no idea how such a grand ambition would be realised,
but he was a patient man, with an optimistic outlook. The right opportunity
was out there somewhere. All he had to do was find it.

And then, one day, he did.

He found the Mathesons.

He was ten minutes early, but not from any desire to be here. He
had no time for posh functions in posh hotels, and no idea why Kendrick
had told him to attend. If it was about a show of strength, Kendrick
had plenty of his own muscle. As soon as Vilner stepped out of the
lift he saw two of them, stationed outside the Dorset Room. Gorillas
in tuxedos.

One of them recognised him, nodded him past. He pushed through
the double doors, into a room that was a little smaller than he'd
expected, but beautifully laid out. A huge ice sculpture shaped like
leaping dolphins formed the centrepiece of the buffet table, flanked
by ice luges. The catering staff seemed to be exclusively female and
stunningly attractive. A smart move, considering the majority of guests
would be male and middle-aged.

There were none here yet, he noted. Just the waitresses buzzing
around, and half a dozen of Kendrick's men eyeing them up. Then
a door opened at the side of the room and Jacques emerged. He
was a thin, dapper man with slicked-back hair, pale brown skin and
very dark, almond-shaped eyes. Whereas the muscle was mostly
locally recruited, Jacques had come from the Caribbean. It was
clear he'd worked hard to install himself as Kendrick's right-hand
man, and he was pathologically jealous of anyone who might
threaten his status.

'You've left it too late,' the little man declared. He had a prissy voice
that perfectly suited his pinched features.

'No, I haven't,' said Vilner evenly. 'I only need two minutes.'

'Well, you'd better hurry. The first guests will be here presently.'

Vilner strode away, not waiting to be dismissed. He went through
the side door and found himself in a small, functional anteroom. Max
Kendrick was sitting at the only table, tapping deftly on a laptop.
There was a leather bag at his feet and a glass of water on the table
next to him. He looked up as Vilner approached. Nodded and almost
smiled. Almost, but not quite.

'With you in a moment,' he said.

'Okay.' It was only then that Vilner noticed the woman in the
corner, sitting so still that she might have been part of the
furniture. A young black girl, barely out of her teens, she was tall
and willowy, wrapped up in a tight velvet dress like a gift too exquisite
to open. She had flawless skin and long, glossy hair. Vilner's
stomach contracted at the sight of her. She risked only a single
glance in his direction, then cast her eyes back to the floor. She
had the nervy poise of a beauty contestant facing the flare of cameras
for the first time, while a voice in her head screamed:
This is not
me!

With a pianist's flourish, Kendrick stopped typing and rested back
in his chair. A year or two older than Vilner, he was a handsome man
who also had a slightly disquieting appearance. His striking features
were obviously the product of a confusing array of genes. From what
Vilner had gleaned, Kendrick was from Trinidad, the son of a successful
businessman with interests in the Caribbean ranging from leisure and
tourism to insurance and oil. His father was a white Englishman, but
his mother's heritage was a complicated mix of native Caribbean,
Venezuelan, Indonesian and Dutch. Perhaps this explained the dark,
wavy hair, flecked with grey, the coffee-and-cream complexion and
brilliant blue eyes.

The unmistakable Caribbean lilt was equally disconcerting, mostly
because of its similarity to the patois adopted by a generation of white
kids who'd never travelled beyond the M25.

Kendrick said, 'Been quite a day, hasn't it?'

'I had a call from George Matheson.'

A thoughtful look warmed Kendrick's face. He stared at the laptop
for a while, then leaned forward and snapped it closed. 'What did he
say?'

'Not much. He'd like a meeting with you.'

Kendrick chuckled. 'Well, I guess I can spare some time next week.
You heard anything more from the playboy?'

'Toby? No. He's on his best behaviour.' Vilner wanted to ask why
Matheson hadn't been invited along today, but thought better of it.
No doubt Kendrick had his reasons.

He said, 'I'm not sure why I'm wanted here, to be honest with you.'

'As a guest, James. This is a celebration of future success, and you're
as entitled as anyone to share in that.'

'You don't think it'll seem insensitive, celebrating on a day like
this?'

Kendrick nodded towards the function room, where the hum of
conversation suggested his guests were arriving. 'You think these people
care about anything except preserving their own pampered existence?'
He chuckled, but there was no mistaking the contempt in his voice.
'You could wipe out half the population before this group took any
notice.'

Vilner shrugged: if you say so. Kendrick put on his suit jacket, then
reached into the leather bag and brought out a small black revolver.
Noticing Vilner's frown, he held it out to him.

'Smith & Wesson 686, four-inch barrel. It's a beauty, isn't it?'

'What do you need it for?'

It was a gut response, and came out harsher than Vilner intended.
Anger crossed Kendrick's eyes. He slipped the gun into his waistband
and made sure it was concealed by his jacket. Checked his watch.

'You'll see,' he said.

Sixteen

Toby Harman had spent most of the day slumped on his long white
sofa, skipping from one news channel to the next like a junkie chasing
bigger and bigger hits. It was a grim lesson in the law of diminishing
returns, but by now he was too lethargic to do anything else.

Toby was twenty-six years old, five feet ten and weighed a hundred
and sixty pounds. He wasn't muscular and he wasn't flabby. He
belonged to an expensive gym but rarely attended it, and although
he liked to eat well in restaurants he was lazy about cooking at home.
During periods of social inactivity he could subsist for days on cheese
and Ritz crackers.

He wasn't particularly good-looking, but he wouldn't have changed
a thing about his appearance. He had a long face, dark wavy hair and
thick black eyebrows. His upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower,
with pronounced crests that made him seem to be sneering, or about
to blow a sarcastic kiss. Women were either entranced or they found
him repulsive: he enjoyed both reactions equally, although the latter
made for a more satisfying conquest.

When the phone rang, it sent a bolt of energy through him. About
time.

'I thought I should warn you,' George said, 'the media are camped
on my doorstep. They followed me back from Chilton.'

'You've been in Chilton? Today?' In fact Toby already knew this,
because several channels had reported it, but he wasn't going to give
George the satisfaction of letting on. He thought he might get more
information if he played dumb.

'Terry Sullivan wanted me there. Ca— the killer apparently broke
into the manor.'

Toby nearly dropped the phone. 'You know who it is. What did
they tell you?'

George sighed. 'I'm not in the mood for this.'

'It'll come out soon enough. I don't see why you can't let me—'

'Christ, Toby. The Caplans were murdered today, along with God
knows how many others.'

'The latest is twelve dead, according to the BBC. CNN say fourteen.'

A noise from George: a stifled groan.

'What about Philip Walker?' Toby said. 'Is he one of the victims?'

'I've no idea.' George seemed taken aback by the question, as though
he hadn't considered it.
Surely you have
, Toby thought.

'If he is, then who knows what could happen?' he suggested. 'Let
the dust settle for a few weeks. The protestors might not have the
stomach for a fight.'

'Listen to me,' said George in a steely voice. 'If one whisper of what
you've just said were to leak out, can you imagine the flak it would
attract?'

'Calm down. I'm just thinking aloud.'

'It's bad enough that I still have to keep Vilner off our backs.'

Toby sighed. So that's what was really irking George. 'What's he
saying?'

'If he doesn't get the contract you promised him, he'll want another
instalment.'

'Tell him to piss off.'

'Don't lecture me,' George shouted. 'It's your bloody debts I'm
sorting out, remember?'

Toby grunted. No point going down that route.

'Anyway,' he said, 'this affects my earnings as well. What if we do
have to wait longer for a second application? How am I supposed to
live in the meantime?'

For a second there was a silence so intense that Toby could imagine
George vibrating with indignation.

'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' said George quietly, and put the
phone down.

Vilner didn't feel much like a guest. No one paid him any attention.
No one tried to flatter him or talk to him. Kendrick ignored him
completely, and so did Jacques. Even the catering staff were a bit slow
to offer him their trays of champagne.

That suited him, he decided. He preferred Coke, anyway. Piling a
plate from the buffet table, he found a chair on its own in the corner.
He ate slowly, scanning the room, and wondered exactly what it was
that Kendrick was trying to prove.

He didn't have to wait long to find out.

It was a select gathering, a couple of dozen people at most. Nearly
all male. Everyone looked prosperous and smug. The ruling class.
Until he'd moved to London, Vilner had been sceptical about the
concept. He thought it was a cliché of the past, watered down if
not washed away altogether. Yet here they were, all around him:
florid cheeks and braying laughs, bred to give orders and recognise
only their own kind. You could see it in the way they wafted drinks
into their hands, as though the tray had floated up to them on strings.

Vilner couldn't distinguish much of what was said, but it did seem
to him as though a low thrill passed through the crowd at each mention
of the shooting in Chilton. An equally powerful thrill accompanied
Kendrick's presence as he moved from group to group, skilfully working
the room. At first Jacques followed, trying to join in with his boss's
conversation, but gradually it sunk in that he wasn't welcome. He
ended up standing by the wall opposite Vilner, gazing into his glass
and pretending solitude was a deliberate choice.

It's like an old-time dance hall
, Vilner thought.
And we're the boys
who can't dance . . .

Then Kendrick moved in front of the ice sculpture, and one of his
men clapped his hands for silence. Kendrick began by grinning modestly.

'Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. For those who don't
know me so well, let me tell you a bit about myself. I was born in
Trinidad, to an English father and Trinidadian mother.'

His audience were listening intently, but there were fixed smiles,
and one or two quiet sniggers. Laughing at his accent, Vilner realised.

Kendrick sensed it, too. He hesitated, the grin still in place, and
Vilner saw that dangerous look in his eye again. The moment passed
and Kendrick spoke a little about his childhood. About his troubled
teenage years and his time in the wilderness. His triumphant return
to the family fold in his late twenties, and the decision to knuckle
down and build on his father's legacy.

Now his voice wavered with emotion. 'I wish he had lived to see
me now, on the brink of a whole new chapter. My mother, too. But
I know how proud they would be. I didn't let them down.'

Vilner watched people grow fidgety; Kendrick was in danger of
losing his audience, but now he ramped it up.

'I want to thank all of you,' he said. 'It's a thrilling journey we're
embarking on together.'

His accent was momentarily stronger:
a trillin journey we're
embarkin on
. . . Vilner had no doubt it was deliberate. He wanted
them to think he was a country bumpkin, the God-fearing boy from
the Third World.

'Some of you have already worked with me, here and back in the
Caribbean. I'm hoping you all want to be on board as we grow and diversify
in the UK, and I tell you now, I haven't come all this way just to
start small and slow. I'm already in discussion to acquire a major business
in the UK with interests in land, property, leisure and construction.'

That's why George Matheson wasn't invited, Vilner thought. His
presence would have given the game away.

Kendrick acknowledged the exclamations of surprise and admiration.
'Your support is warmly appreciated,' he went on, 'but I need
to know how far that support goes. Some of the places I've done business,
the rule of law can't always be relied on, you understand?'

There were nods and grunts, but they sounded slightly confused.
They sensed a subtle change in tone, and so did Vilner.

'Trust,' Kendrick declared. 'In business, it means everything. You
agree with that, Maurice?'

His attention zeroed in on a short, overfed man with thinning ginger
hair and a freckled scalp. He stared at Kendrick, red in the face and
blinking furiously. His mouth dropped open, and when Vilner turned
back to Kendrick he saw why.

Kendrick was holding the revolver. He opened the cylinder and
displayed it to his audience. There were six chambers, five of them
empty. Just a single, ominous round in the gun.

Kendrick spun the cylinder and slapped it back into place. 'Come
here, Maurice,' he said.

There was silence in the room. Nobody moved. Vilner noticed the
catering staff had made themselves scarce. The gorillas were standing
in front of the doors, discreetly preventing entry or exit.

'Don't be scared, Maurice.'

Nudged by the man next to him, Maurice took a couple of reluctant
steps towards Kendrick.

'Maurice here kindly lent his assistance on one of my last deals
back in the Caribbean. Told me about a hotel in Jamaica, ripe for
redevelopment. Promised he could get me the best price for it, and
offered to act as go-between.'

Maurice was now only two feet away from Kendrick. There was
sweat dribbling down his cheeks. Everyone else had shuffled as far
back as they reasonably could without drawing attention to themselves.
But nobody protested, Vilner noticed. Nobody put Maurice's wellbeing
ahead of their own morbid curiosity.

Kendrick said, 'What I didn't know was that Maurice had a stake
in the business, which someone else was already keen to buy. News
of my interest sent the price much higher, which was his plan all
along.'

Silence, except for Maurice's high, wheezing breath.

'Now I'm sure Maurice and his partners didn't intend me any harm.
It was a tactic, that's all. Using me to make a little more money for
themselves. And it didn't cost me much, financially. Some lawyers'
fees. Including this lawyer right here.' He prodded Maurice in the
belly with the Smith & Wesson. Maurice squealed and shut his eyes.

'But it cost me time,' Kendrick said, emphasising every word. 'And
it damaged my reputation. Some people think I was beaten to a deal.
Well, I can live with that, I guess. But others know I was set up.'

At this, Maurice finally seized the courage to protest, but Kendrick
cut him off.

'Professional suicide,' he declared, raising the gun and jamming it
against his own temple. 'That's what I'm talking about. Betraying trust
is professional suicide.'

He squeezed the trigger. There was an audible click. A woman
screamed. An elderly man sank to the floor, his face ashen.

Kendrick looked grimly satisfied. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
He let the gun fall away, then pointed it at Maurice, holding it level
with the man's face. 'Your turn.'

Maurice opened his mouth again, but couldn't speak. Someone
behind him exclaimed and pointed at his legs. There was urine running
off his shoes, pooling on the floor.

'Russian Roulette is a fool's game,' Kendrick said. 'I know you're
not a fool, Maurice. None of you here are fools, are you?'

It took a second for the question to penetrate, then there was a
chorus of overeager nods. No one was laughing at him now. Vilner
even detected a certain loathing directed at Maurice for embroiling
them in such an unsavoury scene.

'To succeed in life, it's essential to be lucky,' Kendrick concluded,
tapping the gun against his chest. 'I guarantee my luck by careful
preparation, and by working with people I can trust. I know none of
you are going to let me down.'

More nodding. More keen murmurs of assent. It was a masterful
performance, thought Vilner, and it worried him that Kendrick had
wanted him to see it.

Did Kendrick suspect him of disloyalty, and if so, why?

BOOK: Skin and Bones
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