“You gave her the three hundred?”
“Someone from London overpaid me for finding a dog,” says Steve, and Gary Gough nods in understanding. “I just thought you might have a word with Lauren? Ask her to leave this girl alone?”
“Pick on someone else?”
“Or maybe don’t pick on anyone?” says Steve. And Gary laughs again.
“Law of the streets, old friend,” he says. “Law of the streets.”
“You don’t live on the streets anymore,” says Steve, getting up to leave. “You live in a mansion in a village with a delicatessen and a gastropub. Your daughter has a horse. She’s not some tough kid fighting her way out of poverty like you were; she’s a rich bully. So remember what you thought of rich bullies when you were growing up.”
Steve takes his leave, walks around the side of Gary Gough’s house, and gets into his Vauxhall Corsa. It is parked between a Range Rover and a Lexus. Steve had really been hoping to use Gary Gough’s loo before he left, but he felt his parting shot was so good that he didn’t want to draw focus from it.
Had Gary Gough been listening? Maybe, maybe not, but Steve had tried. He’ll drive back the long route. It’s Italian night at the pub this evening. They do a bolognese, and a bloke from Havant sings opera. He’ll go home, have some quality time with Trouble, maybe collect his dry cleaning. Then a bit of TV and he’ll head to Tony’s, then the pub, remembering, of course, that he needs to collect the dog from Mollie Bright. Just ten minutes with Gary Gough had reminded him how much he hated his old world. Give him dogs and shops and ponies on notebooks. He messages Amy.
When’s good to chat?
There is a delay in her reply.
Might need an hour or so?
You okay?
Another delay. Steve looks out of his window. The mighty forest growing about him, giving way to gorse-strewn heathland patrolled by armies of ponies.
Finally a reply.
All good here.
Amy is normally a little more chatty than this. Perhaps she is busy. Though how busy can you be on a private island? Steve asks her the question he’s been dying to ask.
Glad to hear it. I want to talk to you about a man called Andrew Fairbanks. Heard of him? The shark influencer man?
He knows she’ll respond with a bit more enthusiasm to this one. He passes a beautiful whitewashed pub. A man with his top off sits with a pint while his dog nuzzles the nose of a curious pony. Amy seems to be composing a reply for quite some while. And, when it arrives, it reads, simply:
Yes.
Less enthusiasm than he’d hoped for, but he’s glad she’s heard of the case. That’ll be a fun chat.
Steve had looked up Krusher Energy Drink online. There didn’t seem to be any adverts for it. A rudimentary website, where the “Buy Now” button didn’t seem to work. And, strangest of all, the registered head office was at the same address as Vivid Viral Media. Must be owned by the same people. Makes sense, but a bit of Steve is tempted to go up to Letchworth Garden City. He’s not sure why—it just feels like there’s a stone in his shoe.
But. Not. His. Business.
When he gets home, he’ll send Amy a heart emoji. Something in her tone has worried him. Probably nothing.
14
Dubai, that gleaming temple of sunshine, money, and glorious possibility. Whether you’re after a two hundred dollar steak or a rocket launcher, you will find it here, in a world of speed and heat and handshakes. Huge buildings reflect the sunlight, at once dazzling newcomers and hiding the insiders. The whole city is a giant turbine constantly eating and creating money. A merry-go-round that spins night and day. It has been the making of Rob Kenna.
To the outside world, Rob Kenna is a DJ, traveling from glamorous party to glamorous party. It’s a hell of a lifestyle. Just take a look at his Instagram if you have any doubts about that. Look at Rob’s villa on the Dubai Palm. Look at his Ferrari, wrapped in metallic gold. Must be a lot of money in DJing.
And there is a lot of money in it, that’s for sure. Or there was, back in the day, at least. But even then there wasn’t Ferrari money in it, Rob has always had side hustles on the go, and Dubai welcomes side hustles.
While DJing is not a bad business, murdering people for a living is a great business. Robust. Recession-proof.
The world economy can tank, fuel prices can rise, clubbers can stop listening to nineties trance music, and interest rates can go through the roof, but people will always want to murder other people. And Rob acts as the middleman. Tell him who you want killed and where, and he’ll find someone for the job. No need to tell him why, any more than you’d need to tell a newsagent why you want to buy a paper.
Rob only started a couple of years back; he was into all sorts of other bits and bobs beforehand, but he’s got some very nice contracts now. It all began with François Loubet, really. Loubet heard about him, used him, then used him again. Word got out that Loubet trusted him, and then the business started pouring in. Minimum charge a hundred grand, but that goes up steeply depending on the job, and no shortage of clients.
All Rob has to do is to pick up the phone to the right person and it’s done. And Rob Kenna always knows the right person to ring.
And now a new job from Loubet, Amy Wheel—
“Hmm?” he says.
“Your shot, dickhead,” says Big Mickey Moody.
“Miles away,” says Rob. “Dreamland.”
Mickey Moody, the big lunk, has never killed anyone, you can just tell. Some people don’t have it in them, but that doesn’t make them any less of a human being, does it? We’re all built different. Big Mick hasn’t killed anyone; Rob doesn’t like sushi. Horses for courses. They both like golf and sunshine, though, and that’s enough.
Rob steps up to the tee and pulls out his driver. He looks down the fairway, picturing his shot.
So François Loubet needs Amy Wheeler dead too? She’s a professional, so it’s not one for a gun-happy local cop. Fortunately the perfect man for the job is already there, and should be easily persuadable for the sort of money Rob can pay. Because Amy Wheeler is a pro, Rob’s commission will be around two hundred grand. He’ll offer the shooter fifty grand. Easy money for them both. He’ll make the call.
Yep, he thinks, the Dubai sun dancing on his visor to the sound of birdsong and high-performance sports cars—it’s not a bad old life, is it?
Rob Kenna then hooks his tee shot into the bushes. In fury he throws his driver over a ducking caddy and into the trees, while screaming an obscenity that frightens the birds.
