TURKISH DELIGHT Barry Faulkner (i love reading txt) 📖

stairs before raising his arms and coming down. When he was a few stairs away from his gun I moved fast and picked mine up and covered him. He kept coming down and stopped at the bottom.

‘What are you playing at, Rankin?’

‘Reynolds would have heard those shots Ben, he’ll think I killed you, one to the body and one to the head. Tell your partner she can come out now.’

I didn’t need to; Gold emerged from between two stacks of crates on my right, her AK-47 up and pointing at Rankin.

He smiled. ‘Did Woodward give you a phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got it with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take a picture of me and send it.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see why. Do it please.’

I took Woodward’s mobile from my trouser thigh pocket, switched it on, took a picture of Rankin standing with his hands in the air and sent it. Almost immediately it rang.

‘Yes.’

Woodward’s voice was very calm. ‘He’s one of ours.’

‘He could have been killed.’

‘What is happening?’

I explained where we were and what had unfolded.

‘Put Rankin on.’

I passed the phone over. Rankin listened for quite a while before closing it and passing it back.

‘There’s a team of cleaners coming over to clear all this up and get rid of the bodies. Once that’s done the Anti Terrorism Boys will come in and remove any paperwork from the office, then the Army Ordnance will clear the warehouse. I’m to stay and supervise. Nothing happened here, Ben – the warehouse will become vacant.’

‘And us?’ I shifted my hand between Gold and me.

‘You’ve forty-eight hours before the fraud squad go into Rambart- Reynolds International with warrants and the Stock Exchange delists it.’

‘Forty-eight hours to do what?’

‘Woodward didn’t say.’ Rankin smiled and shrugged. ‘But I personally wouldn’t be too happy about being played like that by Reynolds, if you see what I mean. Nasty piece of work – we could do without people like that.’

Well, if that wasn’t a nod and a wink I don’t know what is.

‘And the Turkish Army lady?’

‘Foreign Office will raise a deportation order on her, but she’ll probably be on her way to catch a flight to Turkey as we speak. If she isn’t then I would guess that as soon as the balloon bursts at Rambart-Reynolds she will be.’ He held his hand out and we shook. ‘Good to work with you again Ben, even though you didn’t know we were.’ He turned to Gold and shook her hand too. ‘Thank you for not being trigger-happy,’

We walked towards the door, then a thought struck me and I shouted back. ‘Oh, I forgot – there’s a security guard under the desk in the gatehouse that might need some medical treatment.’

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CHAPTER 22

I didn’t sleep well. Every time I thought of Reynolds I got angry; I’d done him lots of favours in the distant past, lots. I’d taken people off his back, nasty people, and even sent a couple to the magician – the magician being a chap I know who makes things disappear, mainly bodies. Okay, so Reynolds had put me in line for a couple of million quid, but only to harvest multi-millions for himself and then kill me afterwards. Yes, I was angry. I finally got to sleep about four in the morning and didn’t wake ‘til after midday. I showered and ate a bowl of All-Bran sprinkled with walnuts, my regular breakfast – keeps the bowels moving, and if that part of your system is working regular everything else will be too. I gave Gold a call.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine, you?’

‘Yes, still bloody angry at Reynolds.’

She paused for a moment. ‘Have you forgotten something?’

‘It’s not your birthday again, is it?’ Four years running I’d missed her birthday; it’s on my mobile with an alarm flag, but I hadn’t heard it beep.

‘No, not my birthday.’

‘Okay so what have I forgotten?’ I was expecting some mundane trivial thing.

‘You’ve got a set of keys to Reynolds’s dealing rooms.’

Of course I had – of bloody course I had. I used them to go in with the sweep team every month after office hours. How could I forget that?

‘He won’t be expecting you – you’re dead.’

‘I am, aren’t I.’ I thought for a couple of moments. ‘Are you gold-digging tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, meet you in the car park here at midnight.’

‘Okay.’ She rang off.

I had some work to do.

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Gilbert Charles, not his real name, owns an up-market gunsmith’s in St Martin’s Lane, just up from Trafalgar Square. The old-fashioned brass hanging doorbell rang when I went in. Charles was fiddling about at the counter polishing a shotgun; his main income came from the country set, the toffs who bred birds in order to kill them in their first year of life – nice people. I once dreamt about having a line of them running off over a gorse scrub whilst I pumped lead into their arses from a double-barrel. I get dreams like that; never forgotten that one. I ought to get help really.

‘Mr Nevis, long time no see.’ Gilbert put down the gun and shook my hand, his welcome genuine. He gave every impression of being a country gent himself: tweed check jacket, cavalry twill trousers, brown brogues – all he needed was a deerstalker hat to complete the image.

‘How are you, Gilbert – still facilitating the deaths of a million birds every year?’ I read the word facilitating in the paper a couple of weeks ago and had been itching to use it ever since. Silly, eh?

Gilbert spread his hands and made like Fagin. ‘Got to make a penny or two.’

We go back quite a way do Gilbert and me; if his la-di-da clients knew his background they’d run a mile. His main income, before he served seven years for it, was