Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin Read online

  “Hey handsome,” she said.

  You know what I said to that? You know what razor-sharp riposte my lightning brain fired back?

  “Uh.”

  Unbelievable. After everything I’d done, after all the women I’d been with and all the experience I’d gained over the years, I just went blank! All I could do was turn and watch her walk up the stairs – watch that awesome backside move in those tight jeans.

  She glanced back, saw my face and laughed. Not a girlish giggle but a full-throated laugh. And then I stood there and listened to her walk up to the second floor.

  Holy shit. Was that Barry’s niece?

  I couldn’t believe it. How could a girl like that be related to Barry O’Nion? She was stunning! Barry was… well, he was just Barry. Stocky, ham-fisted, bullet-headed Barry. How could he be the uncle of an absolute knockout like that?

  For a full minute, I stood there on the stairs, wrestling with the idea of going back up to the office. Introducing myself. Talking to her. Getting to know her. Barry said she was only in town for a few days. How could I let her get away? I had to do something…

  And then I stopped myself. Remembered who I was. Barry was my agent. He was work. How could I get involved with a member of his family, even if only for a short time?

  Plus, I was in the middle of a job. I had things to do. I couldn’t go spending time and energy romancing some girl for real when I was supposed to be putting all my efforts into the Hargreaves case.

  So I walked out of the building and wandered through the nuclear-wasteland streets, not really seeing them. All the way home, there was only one image lingering in front of my eyes, like when the blazing sun leaves its imprint on your retinas.

  The girl on the stairs.

  I felt ten times more unbalanced than before. Stomach doing funny things. There was a weird feeling of nostalgia, and it took me a while to place it. Nostalgic for a time when my head would be turned. That I’d feel like going after a girl because I genuinely wanted her. Because I really, really fancied her. Not because I was getting paid.

  I felt like crap for the rest of the day. Moped about my flat. Hammered away at my pinball machine and failed to get anywhere near my high score. Just couldn’t make the flippers work the way I wanted them to.

  Funny. Only recently I’d been asking myself what my type was, not really able to pin it down. In fact, I didn’t have a clue.

  Maybe she’d just walked by.

  Chapter 6

  Watching The Detectives

  Friday evening, just after eight, and Soho was starting to kick off. People, traffic, noise. It wouldn’t be really busy till about ten, but the restaurants and bars were filling up nicely. Not the best time or place to be standing all by yourself like a lemon, wouldn’t you agree, Ms Hargreaves?

  Becky looked great in a little black number, nothing too exotic but perfect for a night out in town. Long auburn hair curling down onto her shoulders. Bit of jewellery. Expensive leather handbag. She was even wearing heels. But she was clearly alone. Stood up.

  I can well imagine what Becky must have been calling me. I could see the scowl on her face right from the top of the road, where I spied on her for a good five minutes until I decided to put her out of her misery.

  This time, as I came roaring towards her on the motorbike, she saw me coming. She just couldn’t believe it.

  “Evening!” I called out.

  She looked me up and down: black leather trousers and jacket, motorcycle helmet, the Honda grumbling beneath me, pumping out fumes. Folded her arms. “See you’ve made an effort.”

  I pulled the helmet off. “I always dress for the occasion.”

  The restaurant doorman was scowling at me, arms by his side, body language for If you think you’re coming in here looking like that… There were half a dozen other punters at the door, all gaping at me and the growling bike.

  I love an audience. In case you hadn’t already picked up on that.

  So I had great fun yanking off my jacket to reveal a white Jermyn Street shirt with matching tie and cufflinks, stepping out of the leathers to reveal black trousers, and pulling a suit jacket out of the bike’s storage box. The small crowd laughed and applauded as I transformed in ten seconds flat from biker to gentleman. Even the doorman smirked, relaxing.

  And Becky? She couldn’t help herself – her irritation burst into laughter. And a long, smiling look into my eyes.

  Seeing something in a new light.

  I chained up the bike to a broken streetlight in the alleyway along the side of the restaurant. Then I offered Becky my arm as we went inside. The Glasshouse was one of the nicer restaurants in that part of town, not over the top but definitely the sort of place you made an effort for. We fitted in perfectly as I escorted Becky to our table and pulled out her chair for her. She smiled up at me and softly whispered “You’re a fucking nutter.”

  I grinned. Like I did this all the time. John Holmes, I’d decided, was the sort of cheeky sod who got away with blue murder.

  So far, I’d had a good time playing John. Wearing this particular mask didn’t feel so much like hard work, although in some ways John Holmes was one of my more well-rounded creations. Simon Templar had also been fun to play, but pretty one-dimensional really, just another smooth-talking wealthy charmer. My dear, you’re looking radiant tonight, can I tempt you with some more champagne? That sort of thing would never have worked with Becky. She’d have told Simon to shove it up his radiant. John had to be more believable, down to earth, just like she was.

  It had been a good week. After taking her home last Friday, I’d given Becky my mobile number, give me a buzz if you fancy a quick drink at some point, no pressure, see ya. I’d been prepared to make more visits to her office if need be, but in fact I started getting text messages that very evening. She called me a fucking nutter.

  There must have been fifty or sixty texts back and forth that week. You can probably imagine most of it. Me taking the piss. Her giving me abuse. Making each other laugh. Accusing each other of being – and this was fast becoming our private joke – a slag.

  You know. Flirting.

  Nothing had happened yet. Just chatting, texting, a lunchtime coffee, a quick drink after work. But it was all bubbling under the surface. The tension. Becky always lit up like a Christmas tree when she saw me – that excitement of meeting someone when you know you shouldn’t. The very second we got together, we’d start mucking around, having a laugh. But at some point a shadow would cross her face, and I’d know she was having second thoughts yet again.

  Still, here she was, going for dinner with me. A proper date. The best thing was that she’d initiated it herself. Sajjan was seeing some family in Birmingham that weekend, which gave her a bit more spare time. She almost never said his name in front of me. Most of the time we pretended he didn’t exist. But now she was telling me he’d be away for a while. A green light.

  “So what do you want to do?” I’d asked.

  Her smile was a challenge. “Take me out.”

  Of course I would. That’s exactly what I do.

  She’d been pleasantly surprised when I suggested a West End restaurant. No doubt she thought John Holmes was more common than that. Probably expected me to just come round with a kebab. But that night, I needed somewhere public. The night I made the kill.

  “You and that bloody bike are bad news,” said Becky after we’d ordered. “Especially last week, turning up out of nowhere and offering me a ride like that. And in front of everyone!”

  “Tell you what, nearly backfired on me, didn’t it? For a second I thought I was going to end up with what’s-her-name, your mate, Laura?”

  “Oh, Laura the Explorer, yeah, she’d have jumped on you like a shot…”

  I laughed. “Laura the Explorer?”

  “John, believe me, that girl will go anywhere, to the ends of the earth, if she thought she was going to get a shag out of it. It always cracks me up when she starts accusing other people of bei
ng slags, like that Scottish girl off EastEnders and all that. She just never sees herself that way. Hasn’t got a clue.”

  “Some people can’t see what’s right in front of them, can they?”

  “Exactly. As far as Laura’s concerned, every famous woman in the world is either a complete slapper, or has her pictures airbrushed or had plastic surgery or something.”

  “Hmm.” Pensive.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What!”

  “It’s just weird you mention plastic surgery. I was kind of… don’t laugh, but I was thinking recently about getting some done.”

  “You’re winding me up.”

  Straight face. “No. I know it sounds stupid, but…”

  “Jesus, John, why?” Half-shocked, half-sympathetic. She scanned my face, looking for imperfections. “You of all people don’t need plastic surgery! What on earth would you get done?”

  “Well… I was thinking of getting a penis reduction.”

  Becky froze as I added “I’m having trouble finding trousers that will hold it, to be honest, and it just gets in the way all the time…”

  She exploded with laughter, so loud it made nearby tables stare at us. I kept my poker face on – “What?” – and that just made her worse.

  “You bastard! You had me going there as well!”

  I grinned, pleased with myself, and took a casual glance round the restaurant. Two tables away, against the back wall, sat a black man in his forties, hair greying at the temples, picking at a salad, a carrier bag lying on his table. Reading a hardback novel, held aloft so he was half-hidden behind it.

  There you are, I thought, and drained my beer in triumph.

  I shouldn’t have done it, really. It was enough that I knew there would be an operative from the detective agency there, taking photographs. That was the whole point – to provide evidence of Becky’s little indiscretion. Photographic proof that she was seeing someone other than her fiancé. I wasn’t supposed to know who it was, though. The pictures wouldn’t come across as natural if I was actually looking to camera. Although the camera could have been anywhere – inside his book, in the carrier bag, the cufflinks on his wrist…

  In fact, the reason we were in the Glasshouse in the first place was because of Londonwide Associates. They had a list of approved locations for surveillance work, and recommended the Glasshouse as an ideal place to spy on Becky. Not quite sure why. Maybe some deal they had with the owners, or perhaps the lighting there meant the pictures always came out well – who knows.

  But now that I knew where the detective was, I could relax. I shifted slightly, angling in my seat, keeping him to my left. Making sure he got my best side.

  And so the evening went on. Our starter and main course came and went, accompanied by two more rounds of drinks. I made sure Becky looked happy, throwing in risqué comments to make her smile, and when she threw them right back at me – which was often – I would stage a big laugh that would look great on camera. Becky the entertainer. See how much she likes her mystery man? See how happy he makes her? Don’t they make a great couple?

  Something else that would look good on an 8 x 6 glossy was me holding my fork across the table, letting her sample some of my peppercorn steak. She returned the favour with a chunk of lemon chicken. Then it got silly, offering each other potatoes and spoonfuls of rice, me taking a sip of her red wine, her glugging down three quarters of my beer while I gaped in amazement. She belched like a brickie. More laughter.

  More evidence.

  “So how come you never see women couriers, that’s what I want to know!” she said as she poured herself more wine.

  “Women couriers?”

  “Yeah you know, I imagined they might be real biker chicks, all in leather with tattoos and everything, I’d have thought you’d go after someone like that. Aren’t there any girl couriers?”

  “Um, not really, can’t say that…”

  I hesitated, unable to believe what I’d just spotted out of the corner of my eye.

  “…Can’t say that I’ve noticed any.”

  “Oh, there must be some, what happened to equal opportunities and all that bollocks?”

  “Well…” I scratched the back of my neck, head turning to get a better look.

  I was right.

  “Er, well, I guess… couriering’s a guy thing.”

  “Maybe I should become the first chick courier,” Becky smiled. “Get myself all leathered up. Go riding around like you all day. Give boys a lift home.”

  I nodded, tuning her out. Over to my right, one guy sat alone at a table, still wearing his coat, just a glass of water in front of him. He was looking down at a tiny digital camera in his hands. Aimed in my direction.

  I was being filmed. By someone else.

  Even as I watched, the man (thinning blonde hair, quite tall, in his late thirties) angled his camera away from me. I relaxed a little. Paranoid. There I go again, thinking the world revolves around me. Obviously he was filming the whole restaurant, maybe for some kind of documentary thing –

  But then I realised that he was now filming the black guy with the book.

  He was watching my detective.

  Behind his book, the detective shifted, glancing up. He’d obviously noticed this new guy as well. He flicked a glance my way, frowning, as if to say Who’s that? What’s going on?

  So this second man wasn’t from Londonwide Associates. That made sense. They were a modest organisation, they wouldn’t have the resources to send a second operative as backup. Especially not for a measly seven grand payoff.

  So what the hell was this guy doing? Why was he filming me? How did he know that I was already being filmed?

  Jesus, that meant… he knew who I was!

  All this zipped through my mind before I turned back to Becky. I couldn’t let her know what was going on. If she saw what I’d seen, and realised she was on camera…

  My stomach tightened. Shit. I could really mess this up.

  “Listen,” I heard myself say, “need the big boy’s room.”

  “You mean little boy’s room.”

  “I know what I mean. Do us a favour and pay for everything while I’m gone, yeah?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” she said cheerfully.

  I smiled and got up from the table. The toilets were at the far end of the restaurant, which meant that I was now walking towards the blonde man. The smile dropped off my face as I locked my sights on him. Target acquired.

  He glanced up, met my eyes, and was suddenly moving. Folding the digital camera into a coat pocket and striding away from the table.

  I felt my pulse race. I was right. He’d been after me.

  Except now I was after him.

  He ducked through the door marked TOILETS, barging past a surprised woman. I walked faster, and would have been right on his tail if the woman didn’t stop right in the doorway and shout “Watch where you’re going!” after him. She turned to me, blocking my way. “Did you see that? He just walked right into me! Honestly! Can you believe how rude some people are these days?”

  “Bloody move you silly bitch!” I so very nearly said. Instead I gave a weak smile and danced around her. By the time I was through the door, he was gone.

  But I could tell where he was. Neither the door to the gents nor the ladies were swinging shut, and there was only one other place to go: into the restaurant kitchens.

  I ran straight into a white-coated chef coming out of the swing door, and there was a scuffle, me apologising and half-pushing him out of my way. The kitchen was a large room, all stainless steel and formica, pots and pans, half a dozen people in white, sizzling and stirring and chopping. Busy, lots of chatter, clanging and crashing, and there – at the far end – the flash of a brown coat. The blonde guy, shoving past another startled chef and out through a fire exit.

  I was going to lose him!

  I almost got a paella in the face. Dodged the steaming hot wok with maybe an inch to spare
and bolted through the kitchens. A couple of the chefs told me what they thought of me interrupting them like this, in words of one syllable. I didn’t waste time replying, but again I had to dance round them all. I started to panic. He was getting away fast!

  Shoulder-charging the fire exit door (boy, did that ache the next morning), suddenly there was air on my face. I was outside, in the alley beside the restaurant.

  I looked up and down. Narrow. Dark. Grimy. Huge wheeled bins. A couple of piles of empty boxes. No sight of him.

  And then – the cough of an engine starting up.

  Down at the far end of the alley. It was so dark I could hardly see a thing, but the familiar snarl of the Honda being revved told me precisely what was going on.

  “Oh God, no!”

  The bastard was stealing my bike!

  “OI!” I yelled, haring down the alley. Now I saw him, sitting on the motorbike and twisting the throttle. I was only a few feet away when the bike rocketed out of the alley, into the street. A few people screamed and jumped aside. The blonde guy didn’t even bother trying to avoid anyone, he just roared into the road and was away.

  I came running out after him, way too late. I stood there, gasping, watching the Honda weave into the Soho traffic and vanish from sight. Around me, people were giving me vicious looks, like it was my fault they’d nearly been knocked down by a maniac. But all I could do was stare down the road in disbelief.

  Holy Christ, what just happened! In about ten seconds flat he’d sprung open the chain securing it to the lamp-post, and somehow started the ignition without the key. How the hell had he done that so fast? Who was this guy? First he films me, now he nicks my bike!

  Or rather… he nicks Jake’s bike.

  A chill went through me. It wasn’t my property that had just been stolen. It belonged to Darren’s mate. Darren’s tattooed, shaven-headed, done-some-prison-time mate.

  What had Jake not said to me? “One scratch on my bike and I’ll kneecap you.”