Not Passing Go!

I picked up a beautiful young woman from her office to take her to the airport. She immediately realised that the limo was the one that Yousif drives.

Clearly disappointed to find a rough-looking middle-aged guy driving, she asked tersely, "Where's Yousif?"

I fed her a line, no choice really.

"Sorry, Madam," I apologised, "It's my first day with the courtesy car firm. This airport run's only my second unsupervised job."

I gave her my most charming smile reflected in the rear view mirror and hoped she'd buy it. Her brow remained furrowed. Damn! This job was supposed to be for a quick 200 quid.

The plan was to drive her to the airport to catch her flight and collect two hundred sovs from Yousif's pal. And see if I could sneak off with her passport, leaving her there tapping her pretty little foot.

A simple plan. Now I knew it was far from simple. I should have realised sooner what trouble we were in and walked away. I could still do that. Just stop the car near a tube station, get out and leave her and that limo well alone. Then saw her beautiful face in the mirror and knew I couldn't leave her. She'd be an innocent victim. And Yousif? Well, he'd have to take his chances.

She was waiting for a better explanation from me. I couldn't tell her what was really going on, she'd've freaked.

So I lied. Told her I'd been introduced to a dozen drivers and staff on my first day today. All a blur of faces but, I suggested, maybe Yousif was the tall, slender, dark-haired, handsome and charming young man with a neat moustache?

"Yes," she said, "That's Yousif, so why's he not driving?"

Damn good question, Danny boy, I thought. She's an attractive, sharp smart chick, in her mid- to late-twenties, I guessed. With a comfortable lifestyle she'd probably look gorgeous well into her middle years. Me? Only 41 but dog-eared by hard life and knocks, so I look older.

I replied, ”I'm the new guy and don’t really know much. I understood this Yousif had the afternoon and evening off and left before this job came into the dispatcher's office. Otherwise, he might have been driving instead of me."

In fact he would have been, if I hadn't intervened.

Without waiting for her reply, I moved the car out into the heavy early evening traffic, even knowing that the airport was not now the best place to go. But I'd head that way until I could think of something better.

She went quiet and closed the soundproof courtesy window. She tried to ring Yousif on his mobile. In the mirror I could see her key in the number from memory and press her mobile to her ear. I felt his phone silently vibrating against my thigh. I knew it could only be his phone, because I didn't have one. Eventually it stopped and presumably went to voicemail. I saw her lips move, leaving a message. She fiddled with her phone, making other calls, probably trying Yusif's known haunts.

Best of luck finding him, girl. He was actually only three feet away from her, thrust up and locked in the boot but she'd never hear him in that soundproofed compartment.

She knew his number off by heart, which reminded me of Yousif's smirk earlier when he told his caller that he knew the pick-up on sight. I didn't know what religion Yousif was but I recognise when someone knows another person in the Biblical sense. I was just late in picking up on those signals. I guess I got rusty over the last five years locked away from normal society. He'd even repeated the name too, Susan Kollikov, over the phone, I recalled. It was a common enough Russian name, even in London, so didn't ring any alarm bells at the time.

They were jangling like bloody fire alarms at an oil refinery right now.

I knew we were both in serious trouble. Yousif was too, although he didn't know it, nor did she, yet.

Obviously there was no way to tell the young lady that I had Yousif's mobile in my pocket. Nor admit that Yousif was trussed up tight and gagged in the boot of our sleek limo, next to whatever was packed in her luggage was going to kill them both. Me too, if I stuck around too long.

OK, I'm no limo driver but you've guessed that by now. Sure, I've driven a few getaway cars, smaller, more manoeuvrable and a whole lot faster than this baby elephant. Not by choice, I was driving this limo purely out of desperation.

I only got out of nick three days ago. The old muckers I was relying on for a decent leg up, having done my time at Her Majesty's Pleasure on their behalf, had disappeared. Probably off to warmer climes to spend theirs and my share of the multi-seven-figure deposit box takings.

I'd already located Mikey's Spanish hideout through my connections. I only needed the seed money to get to him before he heard I was out looking for him and he jumped. Through Mikey I hoped to find the other thieving buggers, Marty and Simon.

I intended taking out my fair share from each of them, either in lump sums or simply lumps. I was easy either way. I like accounts to be balanced, debit and credit, settled nice and neatly to satisfy my own self-audit.

Anyway, earlier that afternoon, I was relaxing in a café, enjoying a warm sweet cuppa. It made a change from the tongue-strangling stewed brew I'd become accustomed to inside. I was minding my own business and keeping out of the winter chill. I wasn't used to being outside much. Just half an hour a day exercise for over seventeen hundred consecutive days leaves you a touch agoraphobic.

That's when this skinny guy Yousif, dressed in a smart grey drivers' uniform, took a phone call, of which I only overheard one side of the conversation. The gist was that he had to pick up a girl from a nearby office and take her to the airport. He scribbled down the flight number on a scrap of paper. He added the city office post code, pick-up and departure times and finally the girl's name, which he repeated saying he knew the person. That's when that smirk played on his greasy chops.

What pricked up my ears was that some guy was bringing round her cases to the café with a two hundred quid down-payment. Yousif repeated the caller's promise of another two hundred at the airport. He was to meet someone at the airport who'd bring her tickets and passport, provided they were in time to catch the flight. Yousif assured the caller, "No problemlo".

I could definitely use both those payments as I was boracic. In Freddie the Forger's hands that passport could get me to and from Spain, without my parole officer being any the wiser-like, between our weekly appointments scheduled for my first six months out and about, I wasn’t quite free as a bird from bird, yet.

I left the café first and waited, freezing my bloody balls off. Sure enough a big black car rolled up to the café, driven by a mature heavy-set bloke with a buzz cut, who looked a bit useful.

From where I stood, in an alleyway behind where this limo was parked. I could see they knew each another as soon as he entered. They came out and walked to the big dude's car. The guy opened his boot and handed over a couple of heavy smart leather cases to Yousif. They shook hands and Yousif was counted out four crisp fifties, which he folded and put in his top pocket. The big guy drove off. Yousif dragged the cases over to his limousine, unlocked and opened the boot.

That's when I hit him, short and sharp. In my game one punch is enough. I bundled his limp body into the cavernous boot, taking the keys out of his hand. I dropped the cases in on top of him and looked around. Nobody was around to see anything anyway. I drove the car around the corner where it was even quieter and I opened the boot.

His uniform would never fit me, I was tall and broad, he was just tall but painfully skinny, so I just took his cap. Good job he had a big head. I'd lost a lot of weight in five years on prison grub, and was a lot leaner and harder than when I went in, I'd had to be to survive.

I really needed to drill another hole in my old leather belt but the battery in my cordless drill round at Mum's had been flat so long it wouldn't take no charge no more, so I had to keep hitching up me trousers to stop them falling down. Hipsters may suit the kids, but I was too old to be comfortable in them.

There was a pack of polishing rags in the boot, they like these cars to be kept gleaming. I stuffed one in his gob and tied another over his mouth to keep it in place. Used others to tie his hands and feet and finally lashed them together with his necktie to stop him moving about when he eventually came to. He couldn't move much anyway, jammed up against them heavy cases.

Jeez, I thought, this Susan woman was either one big broad or she likes to wear a lot of boots, those cases sure weren't packed with skimpy knickers and bikinis. Perhaps she was going to the North Pole and had flat-packed the sled and a team of huskies?

In his pocket, along with the folded fifties, was the note of the office address and flight number. I took his mobile, too, using the web function to find out the check-in time. There wasn't much time to spare, so I drove straight to her office.

So there we was, me driving up front and Susan was sitting in the back wondering where the hell Yousif was and why she couldn't get hold of him. Not much I could do about her concerns.

My concern was that I already knew of her hubby, Benny Kollikov. He was the banker who financed my last bank job, my only bank job. I never actually met him, that kind of business uses middle men, so Benny's hands were clean as he raked in his huge cut. Made his money on Afghanistan drugs, apparently, with his hands also on an almost inexhaustible supply of plastic explosive. I needed a few grams from him at the time for my bank job.

I had organised the bank job, and took on the risky business of driving decoy. I drove a car recently registered in my own name, while a very similar car with fake plates did the actually getaway from the job. I drove off as the second part of a tag team, with the police following me in hot pursuit, while the other car and the loot was driven into a gated yard we'd rented.

Damn those stingers. Stopped me in my tracks, they did. I had expected that, though. They arrested and charged me with the bank job, while I countered with "I thought you were chasing me for unpaid parking fines. It's a fair cop for the fines, officer, but I don't know nuffink about no bank heist!"

I thought that when the real getaway car was found later that day, burnt out with almost the same number plate, with an F in the index number and mine with a broken bottom stroke of the E, I would have the perfect alibi and released in time to get home to the Missus for tea.

The other car never bloody-well turned up.

Somebody put me away, while the others involved in the robbery got off with all the proceeds. The police had a tape recording of me telling the lads my plan for the raid in the pub. The recording implicated me only, the rest of the boys kept schtum during the recording. Yeah, real funny that!

I got five years from the judge and ended up doing the lot. I was picked on for fights a lot inside, winning most, losing some, but mostly I lost any chance I might have had of early release for good behaviour. Funny that, too!

My buddies on the outside were supposed to look after me missus, while I was inside. They certainly did that all right, she had twins 15 months into my sentence. My Mum told me she'd named them Martina and Michaela, which meant either Simon was innocent or my wife was double-bluffing me and Simon was the culprit. Agnes wasn't that bright, she was cute but dumb when I met her working hospitality while I was on alpine training in Norway.

Agnes and the girls were still living in our cheap near-hovel flat on a sink estate in Tottenham, so she definitely wasn't the mastermind behind my prolonged incarceration. The three stooges didn't share a brain cell between them either, but sod it, all three of them were getting the good kicking they deserved.

Susan slid open the courtesy window, breaking me out of my negative thoughts.

"I don't have my passport with me," she announced, "I need to go via my place, first."

I had been led to believe that the passport in question was already waiting for her at the airport and that she had been informed of that fact. I knew that was now more than likely extremely bloody unlikely, as was Yousif's promised two hundred for passing Go!

Anyway, (A), she didn't need to know that and (B), not moving towards the airport was a really good plan as far as I was concerned.

"Certainly, Madam," I replied, "What's the postcode?"

She told me and I keyed it into the SatNav. The resulting route led me to a destination just twelve minutes away, which was way better than the ninety or so estimated to get to the airport. At this time of the evening, it would mean maybe an hour before reaching open country. No way was I staying behind that wheel for anywhere near another sixty minutes.

I didn't know what the margin of error was, I wasn't prepared to assume anything.

"Thanks, driver, sorry, I don't know your name?"

"Daniel, Miss, most of my friends call me Danny."

"It's Mrs rather than Miss, Danny, and you can call me Susan if you like, I prefer informality."

I understood that. She'd clearly been informal with Yousif. At least she hadn't asked for my telephone number. Perhaps I was too old for her, being only about twenty years younger than her jealous husband.

We had a short conversation, she found out about my family (all right, I lied, saying the minimum about Agnes and the twins, but it ain't a lie if we're still married, is it?) She admitted there was just Benny and herself, no kids, yet. Like a sixty-year-old gangster with a grown-up family back in Moscow wants more kids? Anyway, she rabbited on, Benny had a holiday home in the Bahamas and that was where they were headed, apparently.

"Last minute plans?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Yes. My husband's secretary called me out of the blue about this surprise trip," Susan said, "I love surprises. ... Although I’m sure Benny has a Lodge meeting on the first Tuesday in the month and never misses. Why the panic? We could fly out tomorrow."

Yeah, why the panic? I guess old Benny found out about Yousif. Legal niceties are anathema to Russian gangsters. Well, to any gangsters I suppose. But, a Lodge meeting with all those senior police officer brethren brothers present, makes a convenient alibi for a brother Mason.

Once we reached her luxury riverside gaff, Susan directed me to the underground car park. I guessed that limo had 40 minutes left on the clock, enough time to get to the apartment, grab her passport, and let Yousif out. He had behaved himself, after all.

I wasn't sure what to do with Susan herself. She was hot and bright, while my type was definitely cute and dumb. I smiled at the thought. Yeah, right, any attractive girl was my type. I knew in my wildest dreams I’d have no chance as being Susan’s type. No, even without rewards in that way, I’d have to get her out of there alive somehow. Her marriage had terminal stamped all over it, but that didn't necessarily have to apply to her life.

We pulled into a parking spot next to a smart new shiny black Bentley that I’d seen already today, outside that café. Benny's Bentley, no doubt. We both got out.

"Do you want me to go up with you?" I asked, "In case you need a hand bringing anything down. You didn't pack your own bags, I believe?"

Susan thought, just a momentary hesitation.

"Not a problem, please wait here for me, Danny."

"OK, Susan."

Not much else I could say, she was holding all the cards, calling all the shots. "Shall I come up in twenty minutes if you are not down by then?"

"That's a good idea," she smiled, "The Penthouse, the code to the car park door is 1234 and the elevator code is 5678. Damn! That is so lame, I hadn't really thought about it before."

I nodded and rested my butt on the bonnet, folded my arms, apparently resigned to wait. "See you in twenty, then."

She flashed that stunning smile again and turned, walked through the car park and the code-protected door. My eyes followed her all the way, she sure looked tasty in that pin-striped suit cut just above the knee.

I gave her two minutes in the lift before pulling the rubber torch from the glove compartment and followed her through that door. I ignored the lift and climbed those stairs rapidly, I was in good shape for an older guy. Plain food and plenty of HMP gym exercise for the last five years helped in that regard.

The only problem was, my damn loose trousers kept going south on me. If Yousif had worn a belt I might've tried it on for size. It occurred to me then that I could've taken his tie to hold my kecks up, if I hadn't already used it to lash his hands to his feet.

That reminded me about Yousif, I should’ve dragged him out and dropped him the other side of the Bentley for safety. Plenty of time though, I could leave him for another twenty minutes or so. Just about.

The stairs didn't go right up to the penthouse, they stopped at a solid door a floor short. It took a different code to the ones Susan had given me, I guess she didn't use the stairs much.

I had to open the window and climb out. Alright, I've done a little cat burglary in the past, I just never got caught, so it's not on my police record. I knew the mountain climbing training I had in the Forces would come in handy. Plenty of handholds in the brickwork and I made it to a skylight over one of the darkened bedrooms in no time at all, carrying the torch in my mouth. A little judicious knife work with Yousif’s driving gloves on to avoid leaving fingerprints and it was open. I dropped down almost silently into the room, pausing for a moment to hear any sounds in the apartment.

I could hear voices, a male and female conversing faintly but animatedly, some distance away. I was in an empty single bedroom.

I crept over to the door and twisted the knob slowly, it was well oiled and silent. I opened it a crack, using a single eye to look through into a deserted brightly-lit corridor. I opened the door wider and chanced a glance up and down. A door at the far end was open, where the voices came from. There was another closed door opposite this one to explore. I stepped over and opened cautiously, it was in darkness, so I went in and closed the door silently behind me.

My eyes had long been attuned to the dark and I soon recovered from the brief exposure to the bright light in the corridor. It was too dark to make out much though. I flicked on the torch. I was in what looked like the master bedroom with one of the biggest beds I'd ever seen. But what took most of my attention was a body on the floor in front of the bed, oozing scarlet onto a very nice Axminster rug.

He wasn't quite dead yet, but he didn't have long to go. Gut shot, single bullet, nine-millimetre by the size of the entry wound. Recently shot, longer than ten but twenty minutes tops, so it wasn't Susan. Somebody she rang from the limo?

I knew the signature of the gut shot, Dmetri.

He was another Russian gangster I knew of. Had been around a while, started off pimping, drug dealing, owned a couple of small bars-cum-nightclubs, all small stuff. Couldn't remember his surname but I knew it began with P, because everyone called him Poppemoff. He liked to hit his victims with a single shot in the gut and let them die slowly, twenty to thirty minutes.

Benny on the other hand liked to blow people up, timed to go off outside town in the countryside. There, it was less messy, but it would not be allowed to go as far as the airport where they had sniffer dogs and the victim might just get away. Also, Benny no doubt wanted to kill two birds at the same time, his cheating wife and the cheeky bastard driver who did the nasty.

Anyway, there I was thinking about this nearly deceased body, with Benny's life leaking casually into that lovely woollen weave when I realised the obvious. The only reason for a rug on top of the thickest, plushest fitted bedroom carpet I've ever seen in my life was ... a floor safe.

I rolled the big bugger over, lifted up the Axminster and there it was.

Oh, goody, I thought, a Marshall-Eckhart Mark 2a. Typical Russian gangster, drives a top of the range Bentley but keeps his valuables in the kinda safe you couldn't give away for 99 pence on eBay. Ideally, I needed a slotted screwdriver, but all I had was my trusty heavy penknife, which would have to do.

The voices were still coming from the other room at the end of the corridor, so I had to be quiet. I lined up the knife, pulled the carpet back over to muffle the sound and struck the knife with the heel of my hand. I listened for a moment. Nothing came my way, so I checked the safe. It was open. It's criminal what rubbish some of these security firms pass you off with nowadays.

Inside were thick bundles of banknotes plus a lot other papers. I took the lot, with just a quick glance through. In cash alone there must've been eighty grand in fifties. I stuffed the notes around the front of my waistband. At least they solved the problem of keeping my trousers up! The other documents I slipped into my jacket or back pockets. I closed the safe, which gently clicked shut, rolled back and smoothed out the carpet and then rolled poor Benny back. He let out a low groan. I stood up, time to get going, I thought.

Suddenly the door crashed open and before I could react a slug hit me at close range and lifted me off my pins. I fell back against the bedside cabinet, cracking my head on the wall and slipped out of consciousness.

I don't know how long I was out, the bedroom was still in darkness but now the corridor light was out as well. The only other immediate thoughts that surfaced was that my head and gut really bloody hurt. I was about to lift my hand to my head when I realised there was a gun in my ungloved right hand. That immediately brought to mind where I was and how I got there. I released the gun and fumbled around and found my torch, flicked it on. Benny was still on the Axminster and he didn't look any better.

I checked the gun, it was an automatic with the magazine and chamber empty. It had my dabs on it and I was sure as hell that Benny's dabs would be on it too. I could guarantee that there'd be nobody else's.

I imagined how Dmitri's mind worked, the created scenario being that Benny had disturbed me, a known criminal and suspected burglar. He shot me, I wrestled the gun from him and shot him back, Benny pushed me against the wall and then we both conveniently died of our wounds. That was the police explanation scenario. I was feeling less than happy being that convenient for Dmitri and the recently-widowed Susan.

I got up, unsteadily, and checked my stomach. The wads of notes had stopped the bullet going right the way through to the skin although I would have some colourful bruises and probably piss blood for a few days. Written off about five grand, had Dmitri, but maybe Mum could still pass them off through the local shops. Blame it on mice, she could; we get a lot more bloody mice round our way than fresh-minted fifties!

Couldn't leave the gun behind, I'd wipe it and dump it in the river on my way home. I stuffed it in my jacket, zipped it up and put my right glove back on.

As I limped down the back stairs, the building suddenly rocked violently. It wasn’t an earthquake.

Damn it Benny, I thought, used too much plastique again as per bloody usual. I guess when you have to pay through the nose for the stuff you use barely enough; when you got loads at your disposal, you use loads. Well, he'll never learn now. I decided to take the fire escape the rest of the way and let myself out the back of the complex, take that stroll along the river.

Shame about Susan, if she'd stuck with me we could've had a gas instead of being vaporised with both her lovers. I recalled that instant back in the apartment, the open door, Dmitri and his gun, with Susan peering out from behind him, both hands clinging to his protective non-shooting arm.

Anyway, I've a few bob literally tucked under my belt now so I can track down my ex-buddies, and got Benny's Russian passport in my back pocket for Freddie to work his magic on. Wonder what I'd look like in a buzz cut?

In my jacket I had the deeds for a seafront property in the Bahamas and another set for a luxury yacht; wasn't sure where it was moored but I'd track it down. I may have to invite Freddie over for the next few winters, he don't get out much. I know I carried what was left of Freddie after he stepped on that UID, over five kilometres of mountain desert, so he still thinks he owes me. I'll persuade him he's got to concede that we can finally call it quits so that I can pay him the going rate he deserves in future.

Then there was the bank vault key nestling safely in my pocket, along with the yellow post-it with the bank code, account number and password on it. Thank goodness Benny's memory for numbers was like a bloody sieve. I looked upon that as a bit of a bonus.

I reached the end of the fire escape and strolled unconcernedly along the riverside walk. I breathed in the night air, which started out heavy with the smell of cordite, burning rubber and fuel. Further along the air became cleaner, with the fresh pungency of the ebb-tide river breaking through. It was a damp chilly evening, a light mist rising from the water.

I thought how nice it would for the twins to learn to swim in a warm and secluded Caribbean cove.

What the hell, I thought, I can't help it if I'm more comfortable with cute and dumb.