Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Read online

  Then I kicked the door open and stormed out, beginning the long walk home. I’d had to trudge through the streets for a mile before finding a public phone box, which irritated me no end. It’s like trying to find an endangered species. No need for them, everyone’s got a mobile. For God’s sake, how are you supposed to make an untraceable phone call these days?

  Bugger. Sajjan wasn’t my client after all. I’d been so sure!

  Except…

  No, he’d never heard of Londonwide Associates. That would have been the giveaway. I was going to ask if he’d received our update on the Hargreaves case. Then start probing him on who might have hired a second agent to watch the first. I didn’t need to actually tell him anything, his acceptance would have been proof enough.

  But he didn’t accept it. So it wasn’t him. Somebody else was hiring me to set Becky up. Maybe it was her dear old mum and dad after all. Racist old farts. Imagine screwing up your own daughter’s love life just because you can’t bear the thought of non-white grandchildren. Jeez.

  Except…

  Or maybe weirdo brother Robert, the twisted little sister-botherer.

  Except…

  It nagged me all the way back to my flat. Something about my conversation with Sajjan didn’t quite feel right. He hadn’t said anything wrong, as such. It was more the way he said it. Towards the end there, his calm doctor’s voice had begun to waver.

  “How did you get my number? No, just tell me how you – ”

  Twitchy.

  If you’re a professional people-watcher like me, you develop a sense for things like this. My call had put Sajjan on the back foot ever so slightly, caused his suspicions to be raised. I could hear it in his voice.

  So maybe Sajjan wasn’t my client. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t up to something. All the way oop north in Brum, way outside of Becky’s radar for the entire weekend. Assuming he was in Birmingham. There had been some ambient noise in the background when I spoke to him – sounded like an enclosed space rather than outdoors, filled with the hum of conversation. He could be anywhere. He could be doing anything. With anyone. Becky didn’t have a clue what the bloke she was due to marry was up to that weekend.

  I had to find out what it was. But how?

  Frustrated, I stormed into my flat and headed straight for my pinball machine, like I usually did when I had something on my mind.

  There was the usual start-up routine as I switched it on. A movie trailer voice growling “SE-CRET A-GENT!” followed by a volley of pistol shots and a dramatic musical fanfare. I pulled back the plunger and spat the first silver ball into the game. Gunfire sounds were mixed in with traditional chimes and bells as the ball rebounded from bumper to bumper. It was a gorgeously tacky bit of mid-Seventies design, covered with images of men in suits aiming pistols, silhouette-women cavorting in gunsmoke, cars and boats and helicopters, with a villain in a white suit looking suspiciously like Scaramanga from my favourite movie, The Man With The Golden Gun. And filling the backglass, where the scores and signs flashed, was an enormous target sight underneath the words ‘Secret Agent’.

  Can’t think what made me want to own this one.

  I stabbed at the flipper buttons, thumping the side with my palm when the ball got past me. Wrenched the plunger back, sent another ball into play. My eyes followed the rebounding ball but my mind’s eye saw only Sajjan. Why was he nervous? What was he up to? Damn, missed that rollover target, come on come on… Where was he today, how could I track him down when I didn’t even – no no no, second ball down already! Fired the third, too hard, missed the bonus ramp, shit!

  I kneed the machine in the coin slots and suddenly a loud siren cut through my flat. The pinball machine went dark, except for a single word lit up in the top left and right corners: TILT. My stomach dropped, even as the ball clunked and rolled down between the dead flippers by itself. If you’ve ever played pinball, you’ll know how horrible it feels when you TILT: complete loss of control. Game over. Your fault.

  As Secret Agent went dead, it played a recording of a doddery old voice. Cheekily, not to mention copyright-breakingly, it was a line lifted straight from a Bond movie:

  “Do try to bring it back in one piece, double-oh seven.”

  Flicker of lights, voice, gunshots, fanfare, player one, new ball. I pulled back the plunger and just held it there, suddenly realising who might be able to solve my problem. Abandoned the game, snatched up my mobile, dialled a number that very few people have access to.

  It answered on one ring. “Tech.”

  “Hello,” I said. “This is Scott Rowley. I work with Barry O’Nion?”

  “What can I do for you?” said Q.

  I’m going to have to shatter your illusions at this point (not to mention my own) and point out that Q’s voice didn’t sound the way you might imagine. Q wasn’t a starchy old English bloke, and he wasn’t likely to say “Now pay attention, Scott!” or “Do try and bring it back in one piece, Scott.” Q was actually a young-ish Oriental guy, maybe late twenties, very calm and controlled. And obviously with a real name of his own rather than a letter, but who cared what that was?

  I might have mentioned Q earlier. He was one of the chief technical support people with Global Investigations UK Ltd. When they set us up with a case, they would sometimes provide help in nailing it. It was through Global Investigations’ techies that Barry got me whatever I needed to pull off a mission. False IDs. Credit card accounts. Transportation. Business credentials. Rolex watches with laser beams in them. Not that last one. It was all part of the deal between Barry and Larry, and if I’m honest, I absolutely bloody loved it. Just couldn’t get enough of the fact that I had one of the country’s biggest private investigators supporting me when I went undercover. Fantastic! I know, I’m just a big kid really.

  But the minute I asked Q to do me a favour (shh don’t tell anyone just between us) was the minute he reported to his superiors: Barry O’Nion’s little shag-puppy is performing an unauthorised investigation. Q always played by the book.

  So instead I said “I just wanted to ask if the technical people at Londonwide Associates have been in touch with you recently?”

  “No.”

  “Right.” I paused. “Okay, well that’s good news, I suppose. I just thought they might have called for your help.”

  Dangle dangle. Look at the lovely worm. Dangle dangle dangle…

  “Why would Londonwide Associates call me?” Bite.

  “Well, Barry and I have been working with them on one of their cases, and they’re having a hell of a time with it. It’s got them stumped. Barry was furious that they might not be able to solve it themselves, he thought they might, you know, try and call you guys in on the sly to help them crack it. But obviously they haven’t.”

  “I see,” said Q.

  I tutted. “Still doesn’t help us out, but at least they’re trying. I suppose it is a tricky one…”

  Dangle dangle dangle.

  “So what’s the problem, exactly?” Bite. Chomp.

  I span Q a nice little yarn about a missing person’s case that didn’t exist. Not too much detail, and anyway he didn’t really care about the reasons. He just needed to hear the problem. “So we need to track down this guy urgently, but we haven’t got much information on him. Just his mobile phone number. Londonwide Associates are telling us that it’ll take them two to three days just to get an idea of his whereabouts.”

  “Two to three days?” Mild surprise. “I can do it in two to three hours.”

  “Really? Are you serious? They told me to call them on Monday…”

  “What’s the number?” asked Q, and I gave him Sajjan Lakhani’s mobile phone number.

  Reel reel reel.

  Don’t get the wrong idea about Q. He wasn’t stupid. Nor did he have anything to prove. No, the thing to remember about Q was that, like most techie nerdy no-life geekboys who spend their sad little lives in front of computers (God love ‘em), he couldn’t stop being helpful. They’re wire
d that way, all of them. Got a problem? Sure, I’m super-busy but let me give it a shot. Even then, it had to be something that only Q could help out on. A problem that was challenging but not so challenging that he didn’t already have an idea how to crack it. It was a bit like casually letting Tiger Woods know that nobody ever beat you at crazy golf.

  Still, I had to be extra careful. What would happen if Larry found out I was getting his staff to do unpaid work for me? He’d give Barry a new arsehole. And Barry would give me five new arseholes. Even I’m not that full of shit.

  Twenty minutes later, Q called me back. “I’ve got an approximate location for you. That mobile was last switched on at eighteen twenty-one hours in West London. The number’s logged at a mobile phone mast in WC1.”

  West London! Sajjan wasn’t anywhere near Birmingham after all. He hadn’t even left town! I felt my pulse race. I was onto something. Telling Becky lies, are we? What the hell are you up to, behind her back?

  “That’s incredible!” I told Q. “I can’t believe you managed to find that out so quickly. But I suppose it will take the full two days to track down his exact location?”

  “Well, it depends how many phone masts are in his area. Every time you switch on a mobile phone, it pings all the local masts to determine which one’s the closest and which cell of the network the user is in. The masts all log the signal, so it’s just a matter of tracking down those logs and the signal timecode. Then I can triangulate a geographical position. The more masts there are, the more accurate the triangulation. There should be plenty of them in West London so we might be in luck.”

  “Incredible,” I repeated, reeling him clean out of the water.

  Bit later, Q called again. “I’ve narrowed the location down to an area about fifteen metres square. That’s as accurate a fix as I can get. I can email you a grid reference if you like.”

  “That’s great!” I sounded over the moon. No acting required. Q had surpassed my expectations. But it wasn’t over yet. If I just said cheers mate and hung up, I knew that Q’s geeky-nerd superbrain would start ticking over, wondering if he’d just been duped. He might report it to Larry and turn me into Arsehole Boy. I had to derail that train of thought before it even left the station.

  So I gave him some flannel about how I wanted to set up a technical support group between agencies, with Global Investigations taking the lead. Sharing best practice, raising standards for the whole industry, teaching geeks to be more geeky. Q agreed it sounded like a good idea, something he’d raise with his boss. I knew he’d say it was his idea though, and that suited me fine.

  And that’s how I left Q, pleased as punch at having broken the law to help a guy he hardly knew.

  Now for Sajjan. The cheating little bastard.

  The email from Q included an image taken from a streetmap website. Slap in the middle was an orange circle, overlapping the West End, not far from Chinatown. The orange circle was my target sight, and I peered at the map as if looking down the scope of a rifle. Somewhere in that area was Sajjan, lurking in London when he should have been in Birmingham…

  Somewhere, but where? Okay, so he’d switched on his mobile in that neck of the woods within the last hour, but where was he now?

  I knew that part of town well. In fact I’d been there only the evening before, with Becky. So many options, especially on a Saturday night. He could be knocking back the pints in any of the dozen bars in that area. He could be doing a bit of late-night shopping in Oxford Street. He could be taking in a movie at Leicester Square. He could be stocking up his porn collection from the basement shops on Brewer Street. He could be wolfing down the noodles in a Chinatown restaurant. He could –

  And it was then I realised that the Glasshouse restaurant was in the middle of my target sight.

  The same place as last night. Where a strange man had taken a great interest in the Hargreaves case. Where Jake’s bike had been swiped from under my nose. The very same place that the fiancé of my target could now be found, despite claiming to be elsewhere. The exact same place, twenty-four hours later.

  Coincidence? My arse.

  I had my jacket on and was out the door before I’d even thought about it. Jumped on a tube and roared into the West End, pacing round and round the carriage. I wasn’t thinking really. Just feeling like I had to get there. Had to get back to the scene of the crime.

  I ran all the way from Charing Cross tube, knocking aside tourists and theatre-goers and backpackers. There was the Glasshouse, people queuing to get in. I ducked into the alley that ran alongside, slowing to catch my breath.

  Dark and grimy, bins and broken crates piled up against the walls, the metal door of the Glasshouse’s fire exit… just being in that place again made me want to punch something. In my head, I could still see my motorbike – Jake’s motorbike – chained up to the broken street-lamp right there. Right there. Right in front of me. That empty space right there.

  Time to –

  My mobile bleeped. A text message.

  Hey easy rider!! Hope

  you’re getting done

  what u have 2. Get

  your ass back here

  soon as u can! Xxx

  Funny. Every text message I’d ever had from Becky, even the very first one, ended with Xxx. Like a signature. Like a ritual. I’ve noticed how much women love rituals. Oh, just a silly little thing that the two of us do, we’ve always done it! They also love coming up with pet names for their blokes as quickly as possible. Becky had tried out half a dozen for me but hadn’t decided which one to stick with yet.

  Hey pervert! Ok ill

  try. U b good, if u

  can! I no its hard!

  Xxx

  Right. On with the show.

  My fist hammered on the metal door. “Open up!” I bellowed. Bam bam bam! The noise echoed off the alley walls. “Police! Open the door!”

  The door squealed open and there were two white-shirted chefs staring at me, with the entire kitchen behind them gaping. I didn’t give anyone time to think. My wallet was out, flipped back and forth between their faces. “CID! Detective Sergeant Jack Carter! Following up on last night’s incident, let me through please!”

  They stepped aside and in I went.

  As I strode through the kitchens, I passed some familiar faces from last night who clearly recognised me as well. It was that recognition that allowed me to pull this off. Remember what I was saying about becoming a familiar face rather than being ‘the other’? Only last night they’d seen me chasing a man through their kitchens, establishing my credentials by coming back in and shouting about being with the CID. Now I was back. That’s all it took. A cheap trick really, but it usually worked, especially if you did it quickly and didn’t give people time to think. Sleight of mind.

  This was a fast mask, not a detailed one, no time for anything fancy. Just had to hope nobody remembered Jack Carter from The Sweeney… Denis Waterman was dead by now, wasn’t he? But I still had to play the role. I put on a professional scowl as I walked through the kitchens and into the restaurant. Police detective at work. Stand aside. Nothing to see here.

  Everything seemed just as it did last night. Tables full of people eating and drinking. Waiters gliding back and forth. Music and chatter. The scent of food reminded me I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Should have scoffed a few of Becky’s Jaffa Cakes while I had the chance. I slowed but kept walking, like I was just making my way back to my table. My eyes flickered in every direction. Target sights. Looking to focus on a familiar blonde man. That bastard had to be in here somewhere…

  My phone went off again. I snatched it out of my jacket pocket, irritated.

  Being good sucks! &

  so do I! ; -) So get ur

  platforms movin disco

  boy & get back soon

  Xxx

  ‘Disco boy’. She knew my tastes already.

  I flung the phone back in my pocket, annoyed. For Christ’s sake, Becky, leave me alone! I’m trying to find out wha
t your fiancé is up to! I’m doing this for you!

  …Aren’t I?

  People circled round me as I stood there, wondering: Am I really doing this for Becky? No, it’s got nothing to do with her. With the Hargreaves case, that is. Nothing to do with anything except getting Jake’s bike back and stopping that bottle from messing up my face. That’s what I’m here for, I reminded myself. Who cares what Becky’s fiancé’s up to? Nothing to do with me!

  I didn’t really know quite what was going on, to be honest. Hadn’t stopped to think. It just seemed that all roads led to the Glasshouse. I had to find some answers there.

  Just as I was starting to feel like a bit of a nob for being there, I caught sight of a familiar face, half-hidden behind a large hardback novel.

  That’s my detective!

  I edged closer. It was definitely him, the same black guy in his forties who had tailed me last night. The Londonwide Associates operative. And I suddenly remembered – the Glasshouse restaurant had been suggested to me by Londonwide Associates in the first place, as a location to snap pictures of me and Becky. This place was their choice.

  History was repeating. Their detective was sat at the same table, reading the same book. He didn’t notice me. It wasn’t me in front of his lens this evening.

  So who was?

  My eyes darted left and right and suddenly landed on another familiar face. Sajjan. There he was, forking chocolate cheesecake into his mouth. He looked just the same as the photo on Becky’s dresser table: oval glasses, thinning hair, smooth face, wide friendly smile aimed at the woman sitting opposite. A slim, blonde woman with her back to me. As I watched, she held out a spoonful of ice cream and slid it delicately into Sajjan’s smiling, smiling mouth. Laughing as he swallowed and smiled smiled smiled.

  So my detective was filming Sajjan! But… Sajjan and Becky couldn’t both be the target in this case, could they? And who was this woman he was having dinner with?

  Her deep laughter drifted across the restaurant.

  Suddenly my knees went weak. Seriously, I felt my legs go watery, like I’d just had a heart murmur or something. I staggered, holding out a hand to support myself. It plunged straight into some poor bloke’s spaghetti bolognese. I backed off, taking a dripping handful of meat and pasta with me. Can’t remember if the bloke said anything or not. He might even have just tutted and kept on eating. All I could hear was that throaty, confident laugh.