atmosphere. ‘You okay?’ Dillon asked in a whisper after Steve had cleared his throat six times in as many seconds. Steve nodded glumly, staring at the polished floor, wrapped in his own thoughts. He had to wear his tie loose and shirt collar undone, a strip of gauze and adhesive tape just visible below his Adam’s apple. Dillon started as one of the double doors silently opened and a slender dark-skinned man with oiled black hair and gold-rimmed spectacles glided into view. He wore an immaculate silk suit that changed colour as he moved, hand-stitched shirt and grey silk tie, the dull gleam of gold on his wrist, fingers and from the fob chain looped into the pocket of his embroidered waistcoat. Salah Al-Gharib crooked his finger. Dillon wet his lips and obeyed, Steve trailing a couple of feet behind. It was like being summoned into the sultan’s palace. The large room had white-panelled walls edged with gold, a Persian carpet floating on the polished floor. Over by the window overlooking a walled garden, a six-seater sofa and three deep armchairs in white leather were grouped around a low table of beaten copper and mosaic tiles. Above the marble fireplace, a mirror with scrolled edges, and in front of this a huge desk, made to seem even bigger because all it contained were four telephones, each a different colour, and a leather blotter without a mark or blemish on it. Behind it, reclining in a winged leather chair, Raoul Al-Mohammed gazed into the remote distance with heavy-lidded eyes, dark folds of skin beneath resting on swarthy bloated cheeks. Never once did he look at Dillon and Steve, nor acknowledge they were even breathing the same air. In their grey suits they were no more substantial than vague grey blurs, so it didn’t matter that they shuffled uneasily like two schoolboy miscreants summoned to the headmaster’s study, awaiting the clap of doom. Raoul Al-Mohammed twitched a finger, and Salah Al-Gharib, his principal secretary, ghosted forward and placed Dillon’s folder in front of him. He flipped it open, laced his dark-haired fingers across his stomach, and with heavy, sombre eyes began to read. Dillon sneaked a glance at Steve. But Steve was still in some faraway place, not of this world at all. Ignoring a black cab’s furiously tooting horn and its driver’s mouthed obscenities, Cliff pulled out into the swirl of traffic and headed north round the Crescent towards Marylebone Road. In the back, Dillon was chortling and jumping about with almost childish glee, as if he was the birthday boy who’d just been given the present he’d always wanted; even Steve seemed a mite excited, cheeks flushed, some of the old devilry dancing in his eyes. ‘He closed the folder, looked over my letters, never said a word. He just gave a nod to the other geezer and walked out of the room!’ Cliff looked at Dillon through the rearview mirror. ‘He’s a real bastard. Used the firm six times in the last two years.’ His lip curled. ‘Fired two or our guys because one of ‘em was caught smoking. But take his crap and you could see two grand minimum in the hand on top of your fee…’ ‘How you gonna handle it,’ Dillon was concerned to know, leaning over the front passenger seat, ‘when they pay the company?’ ‘Taken care of.’ Cliff flashed his confident smile. ‘I’m having a fling with the secretary, she’ll lift it before it gets to accounts.’ ‘SaiD he WanTs uS — rouNd tHe clOCk — onE dRiviNg — oNe —’ ‘What did he say?’ Cliff interrupted, frowning. Dillon interpreted, ‘We’re to be on call twenty-four hours, one driving, one baby-sitting. Two weeks definite, could be longer. Start Monday.’ Cliff gunned the car to beat the lights and spun right into Baker Street at the Planetarium, broad black hands caressing the wheel, steering with his fingertips. He laughed aloud, shaking his head. ‘You lucky so-and-so’s… you just got yourselves a class A earner!’
CHAPTER 10
Bugger
CHAPTER 10
Bugger
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