Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Read online

  Swallowing with a loud gulp, Barry scowled at me. “I tell you what, Scott, how about you let me worry about the economies, all right? You know, let me do my side and you do yours, okay?”

  Fair enough, I thought, that’s what agents were for. And Barry isn’t Barry unless he’s in business of some sort. When he agreed to be my agent – a story in itself – he didn’t just start working for me, he went the whole hog and set up Infidelity Ltd from scratch.

  The funny thing is, it’s all above board. Legally registered as a limited company, Barry’s got his name down as the director. Officially, we’re a legitimate escort agency, providing attractive men and women to accompany senior professionals when they entertain each other. Our company motto: Take them out.

  And that’s what I do.

  But that small deception aside, Barry runs Infidelity Ltd by the book. Accounts, budgets, business plans, the works. His geekboy nephew, Billy the Kid, comes in every other Saturday to sort out techie problems and update the website. You’d be surprised how many enquiries we get from www.infidelity-ltd.com, God bless the information superhighway and all who ride her. There’s a bloke from Barry’s old detective agency who supplies us with detective-y stuff, like surveillance gadgets and fake IDs – our very own Q. Then there’s the Operations Department… well, that’s just little old me. Every other name on our organisation chart was fake.

  It’s my business, really. Legally it’s all in Barry’s name, because there’s no way I could ever be bothered to run something like this, but it’s what he was born for. Okay, so we’re in a shitty office in a shitty building in the borough of Shitty-On-Thames, but still, that never stopped Barry from treating it all very seriously and thinking big.

  “It’s time to make a few changes round here, Scott.” Barry licked bits of Scotch egg off his fingers and wiped them on his tie. Despite working alone, he always wore a suit, albeit one that hadn’t seen a dry cleaners for a while.

  “Like what?”

  “Look at that phone. That one there. What’s it doing? Or rather, what’s it not doing?”

  I peered closer. “What’s that stuff on the buttons? Is that ketchup?”

  “It’s not ringing, Scott!”

  “Because of the ketchup?”

  “Should be ringing all the time! Should be ringing off the bloody hook!” He waved a hand and knocked over his mug of tea. Swore like a docker as he tipped it out of his keyboard, mopping up the little brown pools with his shirtsleeves.

  “We don’t do too bad. I’ve been busy this year.”

  “Yes, with cheapskate little cases! Our overheads are on the rise, and they’ve just raised the rent on this place for the second time in six months, greedy bastards.” He thumped his keyboard back onto the desk wetly. “It’s time to shake things up a bit round here, start hitting the big time!”

  I sighed. This was becoming a regular thing. “I know what you mean, and I’d love to be making more money, of course I would. But what am I supposed to do, walk round wearing a sandwich board? The end of your relationship is nigh?”

  Barry tilted his head, as if actually considering it. I went on: “Look, you know how tricky it is getting a new client. You’re the one who has to sell the whole concept to them. And you’re damn good at it,” I added, making Barry shrug modestly, “but you of all people know it’s not a quick sale thing.”

  “True,” he muttered.

  “And after all, it’s just you and me. And there’s only so much I can do at one time.”

  Barry nodded vigorously, drumming his fat fingers on the desk. “That’s very true. Very true.”

  “So, I reckon the best thing we can do is keep plugging away and hope we get some big juicy cases in soon, eh?”

  “Might have one sooner than you think, as it happens.”

  “Ah, now that’s more like it. What have you got?”

  “Well, first off there’s another small case that’s come in this morning. No details yet, I’ll send ‘em on to you when I get ‘em, but we’ve got something a lot bigger in the pipeline. And we can thank Larry for this one.”

  Larry was Barry’s old boss (I know – Larry and Barry – you can just see them on stage at the London Palladium, can’t you). Larry was a director at Global Investigations UK Ltd, one of the biggest security firms in the country. Huge company, handling everything from private investigations to background checks to bodyguards for superstars. At least half of my cases were referred from Larry, who could easily tell the difference between a client looking for evidence of indiscretion and a client who would pay money to create such evidence. Obviously, Larry took a percentage as a finder’s fee, but he basically kept us in business. It was smiles all round whenever Larry got in touch. Everyone’s a winner baby, that’s no lie. (That’s no lie.) I’d been listening to that when I was shaving that morning, singing along in my bathroom. Love a bit of disco.

  Anyway. Barry went on. “Only thing is, he’s playing things a bit close to his chest at the moment. Not giving much away. Sneaky fella, is Larry.”

  “Any idea how much it’s worth?”

  “In his email he said – get this – it was a six-figure sum.”

  Bugger me sideways. That was one figure more than anything we’d handled before!

  Sounds insane, doesn’t it? That somebody could pay tens of thousands of pounds just for proof of their missus shacked up with another bloke. But not if there’s a million-pound property and access to a shared Swiss bank account at stake. Then it becomes a small price to pay. It’s all relative, you see.

  Six figures! If we landed that, I could take the rest of the year off. Buy my own flat instead of renting. Go to Australia for Christmas (winter in London drives me crazy – I hate the cold). Barry could get some fresh hamsters to run his computer.

  “We could really do with this one, Barry.”

  “I know that, don’t I? The problem is Larry’s not playing the game.”

  At that point, my mobile started chirping. Barry went back to typing up his notes as I flipped it open.

  “All right, Darren?”

  “OI, TOSSER!”

  Yes, it was Darren all right.

  “Wossoccurin’, geezer? And where the FUCK you been, man! I left you a load of messages this weekend and now you go and send me another new number!”

  “Yeah, I’ve been working. Remember I told you about – ”

  “Oh yeah that’s right, you been WORKING!” He laughed long and hard. For Darren it always seemed to be quarter to eleven on a Friday night, when you’re so drunk that everything’s funny. “Yeah that’s right, that posh company bird, yeah? How did it go, mate, you manage to nail ‘er?”

  “Mission accomplished. And in style. I’ll have to tell you all about it.” In fact, I was dying to tell somebody about the Bentley-Foster case, and in particular about crashing the Mercedes – Darren was going to love that. But I wasn’t saying anything with Barry around. He was scowling already, never liking the idea of me talking about my work. Most people thought that I lived off an inheritance, a little story I’d put around so that nobody ever questioned it when I bought my round at the bar. Only occasionally have I had to lie to someone’s face about where my money comes from.

  But Darren was different. I wasn’t about to start lying to someone I’d known since I was a kid. We grew up together on the same estate. Of all the hoodie kids I’d hung out with, he was the only one I kept in touch with after I reinvented myself. Darren’s always been my best mate. He’s a good bloke, but different to me in a lot of ways. If you think I’m a sexist, misogynist bastard, believe me, he puts me in the shade.

  “Oh mate, nice one! I knew you’d do it! I been getting some this weekend as well, met this amazing bird on Friday night who was all over me, man! Had to slap the Deep Heat on my dick this morning!”

  See what I mean?

  “Hang on!” he said suddenly. “When’s your birthday again? It’s not today, is it?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. I’d bee
n hoping Darren would forget, like he did most years. I’ve never been one for making a big deal out of my birthday really. Why would you want to celebrate getting older? And I’d been trying not to think about turning twenty-nine. The big three-oh on the horizon, too scary to think about. Fast train to Old City.

  Darren let out a whoop and demanded we go out that night to celebrate – or as he put it, “get seriously wankered!” I could tell from the building site noises in the background that he was at work, probably hanging off scaffolding, whistling at office girls on the street. He’d have work again tomorrow, but that wouldn’t stop him from treating a Monday night like it was Friday. What the hell, I was at a loose end now, and what better way to spend Bob’s money?

  “Tonight it is then,” I said. “Anchorage, usual time?”

  “Nice one! See you there mate, stay lucky, eh?”

  “Will do.” I ended the call. Barry whirled round in his chair to have a moan at me, probably, but I was faster. “Right, Barry, you know what I’m gonna do? I’m going to sod off right now, so you can work your magic on Larry.” I slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going to leave this in your capable hands. I know you’ll land it. This is what you’re good at. This is your arena.”

  He nodded, bad mood vanishing as I bigged him up. “Right, well then… suppose I’d better get on with it. I’ll let you know if I get anywhere.”

  I bobbed my clenched hands round like a cheerleader with a pom-pom. “Go Barry! Go Barry! Go Barry!”

  “Piss off, will ya!” he laughed, giving me the finger. But the laugh was genuine. He was in better spirits. Which meant he had a better chance of getting me this juicy job.

  I was on a high as I left, already looking forward to a night on the town with Darren. And going out for my birthday for once might be fun. Maybe go clubbing as well. Yeah, I was in the mood for that. One of those retro clubs that play all the stuff I like. Darren wouldn’t care where we went – “As long as there’s birds!”, he’d say. I wasn’t on the pull, though. I never am, really. Just wanted to have some fun. Already I was humming Boogie Nights to myself, as I rattled down the steps of Assassin Towers and out into the street with a smile on my face. Ain’t no doubt, we are here to party!

  One case successfully closed and a new one about to open. With the promise of something really big after that. Bring it on, I thought, bring it on! Right then I felt like the bloke with the biggest willy in the world. What was his name? That Seventies porn star?

  Yes. For my next mission, I decided, I’ll call myself John Holmes.

  Chapter 4

  Operation Becky

  Phase 1: First contact.

  Monday 7 June 10.25am.

  Once the security guard had buzzed me into the building, it was a quick walk up to the first floor, through the main doors and into reception.

  Big company logo on the far wall, three huge letters: ABC. In front of that was a curved reception desk with two girls behind it, both answering telephones. To the right, glass doors leading to a busy open-plan area filled with desks. To the left, inner doors leading to offices. A few corporate types walking back and forth, shoes clicking on lacquered floorboards.

  Nobody looked at me. Asquith and Bream Consolidated was a busy place. Deadlines. Sales targets. Meetings. Who had time to notice the courier?

  I pulled the motorcycle helmet off my head and walked to the front desk. Both receptionists glanced up briefly. They must have seen dozens of guys like me in their time. Just one more bloke in black leathers, with a satchel over his shoulder, a two-way radio handset clipped to the jacket and an ID card dangling on a chain. Your average City courier, making another routine delivery. (Can I just say, however, that I looked great in leather. No, seriously. I looked the business. Fit me like a glove. And it wasn’t even my gear.)

  But now I had a problem. I glanced back and forth at the two receptionists. Both around the same age, mid-twenties. Both with brown hair tied back. Both quite cute, in fact. One wearing glasses, the other with hoop earrings. But otherwise, both matched the description.

  Bugger.

  The girl on the right, the one with the earrings, finished her call – “I’ll make sure he gets back to you, thanks for calling, bye!” – and looked up at me. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I rested my helmet on the desk and flashed my ID card. “Just one package to sign for.”

  She nodded, waiting while I brought out a padded envelope and paperwork from my satchel and handed them over. She frowned. “Who’s this for?”

  “Er, a Mr Leiter, I think, it should say on the…”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think we’ve got anyone here called Felix Leiter. Hang on.” She tapped away at her computer. “There’s a Leffler in HR, but no Leiter.”

  “Oh.” I looked a bit lost. “Don’t suppose you can sign for it then.”

  “No, not really. You sure it’s for us? The rest of the address is right…”

  “Tell you what, let me take it back to the office and check the details, okay?”

  “Sure.” She handed the package back.

  I picked up my helmet and turned to go, glancing at the other receptionist, still on the phone. What if it was her? I had to know one way or the other. So I turned back. “Oh yeah, I’ll need to log who I spoke to, all right if I use your name?”

  The girl smiled. “Yeah, it’s Becky. Rebecca Hargreaves.”

  Target acquired.

  “Cheers Becky,” I smiled back, then left.

  And that was it.

  Yes, first impressions are important, and obviously it helps to make a positive impact. But trust me, when it comes to a seduction, first contact is best kept brief. Acceptance takes time. Especially for women. They don’t tend to fall head over heels for the first handsome guy who comes strolling into their workplace, even if those black leathers do show off his firm arse nicely. Big deal. Firm arse never won fair lady.

  Most women are naturally on guard against strangers, and strange men especially. They’re seen as ‘The Other’ – unknowable and untrustworthy. It’s only seeing the same face again and again that gradually wears down their defences, and turns ‘The Other’ into ‘Oh yeah, that guy’. And even that can take days or weeks of repeat showings.

  But I had a short timescale on this one. So it would have to be hours.

  Phase 2: Familiarity.

  Monday 7 June 3.45pm.

  In-stant re-play! (Oh, got to have it.) In-stant re-play! (Oh wohwohwoh!) I bounded back into the building with that song in my head. The security guard even gave me a nod of recognition. See what I mean about repeat showings?

  “Hello again,” said Becky as I walked up to the desk.

  “Right, think we got it sorted!” I said cheerily. I yanked out the package, now addressed to a name I got off their company website. “Richard Leffler?”

  “Oh yeah, the HR guy.” And so Becky took the package, signed the receipt and tore off a copy to hand back to me. Flash of diamond. Engagement ring. “What firm are you from?”

  “Ontime Direct.” I held up my ID card. Real delivery company, but fake namebadge. “We’ve just set up an office down the road, in Moorgate.”

  “You going to be a regular, then?”

  “Yeah, guess I am. Sorry about the name thing, someone messed up somewhere.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where’d you get your lenses, by the way?”

  Becky looked up at me properly. “What?”

  I tapped a gloved finger to my eyes. “Your contact lenses. I was thinking of getting some myself. Not that I need them, but they always look so cool on people – ”

  “I’m not wearing contact lenses,” she said, puzzled.

  “Oh right. Sorry.” I looked right at her, my eyes flicking left and right a fraction, as if scanning her face. “I thought you had those special lenses in, you know, the ones that make your eyes blue. Or whatever.”

  She smiled. “Nope. I’m au naturelle.”

  “Ah,” I nodded, “trés bien.�
�� That caused a small chuckle, at which point I snatched up my helmet. “Bye.”

  I didn’t look back as I walked out. But I did catch a reflection of Becky in the glass door as I swung it open. You know, I’d swear she was checking me out.

  The wannabe-Casanovas among you probably think that was kind of lame. All that bollocks about contact lenses, and then leaving just as I might be getting somewhere. Should have just gone for it, you’re thinking, asked her out. But that’s because you’re an amateur and I’m a professional. Trust me, this is how you do it: I’d broken a little ice, displayed a sense of humour, and by coming back so soon I’d become a recognisable face, no longer a stranger.

  Most important of all: I’d noticed her. Not just another courier, rushing in and out as quickly as possible to get on with the next delivery. This one had noticed her. If I’d said “Hey baby, you have beautiful eyes,” I’d have got the finger, quite rightly. But this looked more like an unplanned compliment. And it helped that I didn’t hang around to milk it.

  Another reason for keeping it brief was that I hadn’t decided upon my character yet. I was trying to keep my mannerisms as neutral as possible. Polite, but not giving much away. My accent could still go anywhere between Chelsea and Mile End, because I had no idea what might be attractive to Becky. Maybe she liked her boys rough, like Mrs Raine had. Boy, did she ever. Bonnet-of-the-transit-van rough. Or maybe smooth, charming and educated, like Mrs Stephenson-Payne and her love of Wilde-quoting, finishing school gentlemen. Most likely somewhere inbetween, but time would tell.

  Something else I want to make clear. Up until that morning, I knew next to nothing about my target. This wasn’t the big case we were waiting to get from Larry, just another small one, and Barry’s briefing notes had been meagre. A basic description, a bit of background, a few details about where she worked and what she did. Other than that, not a clue. So the blue-eyes thing wasn’t planned. Becky Hargreaves could have been grossly overweight, or car-crash ugly, or had halitosis so bad I needed to keep my helmet visor down. All of which I’ve had to deal with in the past, by the way. (Man, Mrs Trussler had been all three. And she had a laugh that sent her own cats running under the bed. Bloody earned my pay on that one.)