Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Can you be serious for a minute?”
“I am being serious.” She laughs. It sounds so forced. Then she smooths her skirt over her thigh rather than look at me. “It’s not a big deal, Raif. You were angry, and I got a shock. That’s all.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Just leave it,” she snaps, that little insight slipping out.
Fuck it. If she won’t tell me, I’ll find out for myself.
“Anyway, what are you doing here?” She smiles. Brittle rather than bright. “Have you come to buy art?”
“I was just passing.” Fucking liar. “I thought I might take you to lunch.”
Her turn to lie now. “Sorry, I’ve already eaten. You should’ve called ahead.”
“How about coffee?”
“Except you’ve just chased out my gallery assistant.” She shrugs. “It would be bad business to close.”
“I could call Luis to come play shop.”
“No offense, but his customer service skills would probably put me out of business.”
“You don’t like him? We can get you someone else to drive you.” Someone other than Leo, that is.
“No, honestly. Luis is great. He’d just make a rubbish salesperson. Rain check on the coffee, though, yeah?”
“Sure. I’ll call ahead next time.” I hold out my arms, but she doesn’t step into them. But she lets me take her hand which, sap that I am, I feelgrateful for.
26
RAIF
“Really?”
I nod, though don’t lift my gaze from my copy of the master plan spread across the tabletop. “An urban oasis. Parklands and a canal,” I say, my finger following the meandering path designated in the paper. “Ten thousand new homes and three new schools.” According to the architect, whose meeting I was only forty minutes late for. London traffic. “You know what that means?”
“A community.”
“And every community needs somewhere to spend their money,” I say, glancing. “So there’s—”
“Arrgh! Fuck, that hurt! Don’t do it again, please. I got a wife and kids.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, straightening. “Pete, come on. Keep it down. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”
“Sorry, Mr. Deveraux.”
Luis’s left leg shoots out, catching Pete in the shin, who grunts this time, biting back any other instinct.
Pete, my second appointment of the afternoon, drops his chin to his chest, shivering in the cold air. The sun might be shining outside, but it hasn’t penetrated the damp brickwork.
“I have every intention of paying you back.” He sniffs. “I just don’t have the money right now.”
With a sigh, I roll up the plans and slot them back into their cylindrical holder.
“Put this in the car,” I instruct, throwing it at Antonio.
I pivot, and my shoes echo against the concrete floor, halting only when I lower myself to an old-fashioned wooden kitchen chair. The same kind Pete is sitting on.
I say nothing but eye the man. The incessant drip, drip of a leaking pipe only adds to the gothic atmosphere.
“We’ve been here before, Pete,” I eventually begin. “Gambling when you don’t have the means to pay…” I allow my words to trail away as I shake my head. “It’s fucking astonishing.”
“I know,” Pete placates, his East End accent turning whiney. “I have no one to blame but myself, though they do say it’s a disease.”
“One that’ll cut short your life if you’re not careful.”
Pete turns the color of putty under the fluorescent light. But it’s just a bit of theater because dead people can’t pay their debts. We prefer to leverage what’s owed against other outcomes. Things my organization might find useful.
A trader on the stock market floor? How about a little inside trading in exchange for writing off your debt? A policeman? Information. Or maybe turn a blind eye to our activities. In local government? Help grease the wheels with our planning applications. A politician? The possibilities are endless.
Pete is a property developer, and this isn’t his first time in the hot seat. Last time, he was in for a hundred grand and helped us with some shady property dealings.
So many upstanding citizens. So many to bend.
“You weren’t thinking about the bigger picture, Pete. You got lost in that rush.” I don’t know why I’m wasting my time. Or my breath. “What’s wrong with your face?” I glance Luis’s way. “Why is Pete’s face twitching?”
“Nothing I do, jefe.” For a big scary fucker, Luis has a surprisingly soft voice, his Spanish accent mildly endearing.
My attention turns back to Pete, who wiggles his fingers—spirit fingers, Daisy would call them—but fingers are all he can wiggle, given his wrists are tied to the arms of his chair and his ankles to its legs.
“Itchy nose is all,” Pete explains before carrying on. “The thing is, Mr. Deveraux, I just paid my tax bill. My bank accounts are empty until the money comes down the food chain—you know how it is.”
Pete knows I know how it is. I have my fingers in many ventures, including property.
“Time and the tax man wait for nothing. The quantity surveyor is arguing with the cost plan on my last job,” he continues. “It looks like it’s heading for mediation.”