The Sunshine Cruise Company Read online

  ‘Yes,’ Susan said.

  ‘Old friends,’ Julie stressed.

  ‘Very good, very good. I have not seen Terry in, oh, five or six years. We first did business together back in the early nineties. Shipping Range Rovers into the former Soviet Union. A lot of money. A lot of money. Anyway, we –’ He stopped and frowned, looking at the table, seeming to notice something for the first time. ‘But you have no drinks. Many apologies. This is terrible.’

  ‘No, no, we’re fi—’ Julie began.

  ‘Please, some champagne?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind. But maybe just a Coke, thank you,’ Susan said.

  ‘COKE!’ Tamalov barked. ‘Coke is for children! Come, please, I have some excellent Pol Roger.’

  ‘I could go for a glass of champagne,’ Julie said.

  ‘Very good!’ Tamalov said. ‘This one here –’ he smacked the table in front of Julie – ‘she has a look. In the eye. Much trouble, I think.’

  ‘You’ve no idea,’ Susan said.

  ‘DOMINIC!’ Tamalov shouted. A guy of around thirty, tanned and handsome, appeared from around the bar, his teeth glinting white in the murky neon of the club. ‘Champagne. From my office. Not the syrup you sell behind that fucking bar. Excuse me, ladies. So, Terry is well, yes?’

  ‘Very well,’ Susan said. ‘He sends his regards.’

  ‘And you must give him mine. The old bastard! Do you mind?’ He had produced a pack of Sobranie, the cigarettes pastel-coloured, in greens and pinks, yellows and blues with a gold band near the filter, which he surprised them by breaking off.

  ‘No, please,’ Susan said.

  ‘Actually, do you think I could have one of them?’ Julie asked. Susan looked at her. ‘Oh, when in Russia,’ Julie added.

  ‘Ha. Of course. Please.’ He took a green one and passed it to her, holding out his lighter. Julie lit it and inhaled the thick, rich smoke.

  ‘Oooh …’ she said.

  ‘I have them sent by the case from back home. Before you go, I will give you a carton.’ Tamalov puffed on his unfiltered cigarette, then pulled a strand of tobacco from his teeth.

  ‘Oh God no. Don’t tempt me.’

  ‘Julie,’ Tamalov said, ‘you do not look like you need much in the way of temptation.’

  Julie giggled coquettishly. OK, Susan thought. Down to business. ‘Mr Tamalov, Alexei, we –’

  But he was there before her. ‘Yes, yes. The reason you came to see me. Of course. I will take the liberty of assuming, ladies, that if Terry has pointed you in my direction, then you are not here because you need cigarettes. So, please, let us all speak frankly. What do you need?’

  Julie and Susan looked at each other. Julie nodded.

  ‘Passports,’ Susan said.

  ‘Which nationality?’ Tamalov said without blinking, as though they had indeed just asked him for some cigarettes and he was enquiring after the brand.

  ‘British,’ Julie said.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Ah! Excellent, thank you, Dominic,’ Tamalov said, spying the approaching ice bucket, the green neck of the bottle protruding, the three flutes. ‘Pol Roger. Your own beloved Winston Churchill would drink it every day.’ Dominic set it down and immediately retreated as Tamalov set about the foil and the wire. ‘Three British passports …’ Tamalov repeated to himself as he twisted the cork. ‘Three British …’ CRACK! He popped the bottle open smoothly, professionally, still holding the cork in his right hand, a whisper of smoke appearing to curl from the neck. (As she did whenever champagne was opened Susan had to fight a girlish urge to go ‘Oohh!’) Tamalov poured and said, ‘I can help you with this.’ Julie and Susan glanced at each other again, fighting smiles. ‘However, nowadays, with the terrorist sons-of-whores everywhere, you must have only the best work. Anything less and, well, I am afraid you might have a short trip. And, as I am sure two refined, cultured ladies know, the best never comes cheap.’ He passed them their drinks, the champagne very cold, already beading and misting the glasses.

  ‘How much?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Twenty thousand euros,’ Tamalov said, taking a sip of his wine.

  ‘Twenty thousand?!’ Julie said, nearly spitting hers out.

  ‘That is per passport of course.’

  ‘Sixty thousand?!’ Julie said. ‘We bought a bloody Porsche for less than that!’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Tamalov toyed with the base of his glass, turning it on the table. ‘I fear your Porsche will not take you as far as you need to go.’

  ‘Thirty thousand for three,’ Julie said.

  Tamalov smiled. ‘This is not the fish market.’

  ‘How soon can you get them?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Maybe a week.’

  ‘No,’ Susan said. ‘By tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Tamalov laughed now. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘If you can get them by tomorrow we’ll give you sixty thousand plus the Porsche. Otherwise no deal.’

  ‘Susan!’ Julie nearly screamed.

  ‘Year, model and mileage?’ Tamalov said.

  Susan looked at Julie. Julie glared back. ‘Julie,’ Susan said.

  ‘This is …’ Julie said hopelessly. ‘Oh, right, fine. It’s a 2012 Cayenne. Just under 20,000 miles on the clock.’

  Tamalov’s brow furrowed as he did some maths in his head before saying, ‘I believe we can do business on those terms.’

  ‘I bet you can!’ Julie said, already grieving for the loss of the Porsche.

  ‘I’ll have my man begin preparatory work. He’ll need to work through the night on this, you understand? You will need to come back as soon as possible with photographs.’

  ‘Of course,’ Susan said.

  ‘Excellent,’ Tamalov said, taking the bottle from the bucket again, topping them up. ‘Well, ladies, a toast. To living well. It is the best revenge, no?’ Julie and Susan raised their glasses, the latter more enthusiastically than the former.

  Moments later, on the street in the hot sun in front of Le Punisher, Susan said, ‘Oh, stop sulking. What were you going to do? Take the bloody car on the plane with you?’

  ‘It’s the principle of the thing!’ Julie said, stomping along, utilising the last argument of the doomed. ‘You didn’t even try and haggle! With the car that’s over a hundred grand!’

  ‘You know something, Julie Wickham?’ Susan said, putting her sunglasses on. ‘You’re the most tight-fisted millionaire I ever met.’

  ‘God,’ Julie said, stopping for a second. ‘I am, aren’t I?’ She let it wash over her. She really was a millionaire. They both burst out laughing, holding each other’s arm as they tottered off into the warm afternoon, both feeling the sunshine on their faces and the tingling rush of the champagne in their veins.

  Had they not been so caught up in the moment, in the joy of being alive and, momentarily, one step ahead and of having successfully completed what they feared would be a difficult negotiation, they might have noticed the beige Mercedes saloon parked across the street from the nightclub.

  They might have noticed the four men inside it.

  Might even have noticed the one in the passenger seat, hefting the camera with the telephoto lens above the dashboard, pressing the button and snapping off several high-quality frames of them before they disappeared round the corner and back towards the hotel.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  SITTING ON THE stone steps of Cannes police station, a pleasant building on the avenue Michel Jourdan, just a little way back from the Croisette, Wesley turned as he heard a heavy door slamming and Boscombe was striding down towards him. You would never have called the sergeant’s natural demeanour ‘cheerful’, or even ‘pleasant’, but this was something else. He looked as though, well, if you’d put an automatic weapon in his paws right now you’d have had a sizeable massacre on your hands. As he drew closer Wesley could see he was sporting two iridescent black eyes, one cut on his cheek, and an earlobe doing a good impression of a piece of broccoli. There was somethin
g else a little off too. That was it – he was wearing a pair of black uniform slacks that were at least three sizes too big for him. They flapped around his ankles like flares, obscuring his shoes completely. He hitched them up like a skirt as he drew closer and it took everything in Wesley’s power to keep the grin off his face. He went for as neutral and respectful as he could manage. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

  ‘Am I OK?’

  The last few hours had been a blur of phone calls and emails from Wilson, Wilson’s superior, Chief Superintendent Tanner, and even, in the end, the Foreign Office. Once they’d got hold of the fellow at the Carlton who’d wandered off with Boscombe’s ID things had got straightened out fast enough. It’d taken a while to get there though. Wesley’s right ear was still ringing. The noise Wilson had made … Wesley had heard the man angry before, livid even, but this had been off the charts. At one point he’d just been making animal barking noises.

  ‘Am I fucking OK, Wesley?’

  ‘Easy, Sarge …’ Wesley said.

  ‘Those bastards worked me over!’ Passing office workers turned to look.

  ‘Come on,’ Wesley said. ‘Motor’s down here.’

  ‘Gave me a proper fucking hiding!’ Boscombe hissed. ‘Look at my fucking face, Wesley!’

  ‘Well, fair’s fair, Sarge. They did think you were a nonce. Remember that time we got that bloke in who –’

  ‘Fair’s fair?!’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘Fair’s fucking fair?! I swear to God, Wesley, when I get my hands on these women …’

  ‘Yeah, you might want to watch it with that after …’

  Boscombe glared at him.

  ‘Joke. Come on, we’ll get you a cup of tea or something. I’ve got a lead.’

  ‘Lead?’

  ‘Yeah, we traced a call from their penthouse to this number in Marseilles. I think –’

  ‘Penthouse?’ Boscombe had stopped walking and balled his fists up.

  ‘Yeah, at the Carlton. Christ, you should have seen the size of it. The view from their terrace was –’

  ‘Oh yeah – THEY HAD A NICE VIEW FROM THE TERRACE OF THEIR FUCKING PENTHOUSE WHILE I WAS GETTING BATTERED IN A FRENCH FUCKING NICK, DID THEY?!’

  ‘Keep it down, Sarge. Don’t want any more trouble now, do we? Here we go …’ Wesley clicked the remote, opening the teeny Citroën. Boscombe stalked around towards the passenger seat, his flares flapping. Wesley couldn’t help himself. ‘What happened to your trousers?’

  ‘I fell,’ Boscombe muttered. ‘Ripped them. They lent me some.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Wesley knew of course. He’d got a bit chatty with one of the arresting officers while he’d been waiting for the paperwork to get all sorted out. Nice fella, he spoke really good English and genuinely seemed sorry about the misunderstanding and all that. But the mess, he’d said. Merde!

  They’d had to hose Boscombe down in the courtyard where they kept the dogs. The guy had even enquired after Boscombe’s health and diet. He seemed genuinely concerned that a human being could produce the kind of effluent that Boscombe had pumped into his underpants. Oh man, wait till the guys back at Wroxham station heard about this one. Wesley was already curious about the welter of new nicknames that would be forming very soon.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  SUSAN WAS PACKING. They’d bought themselves a few nice bits and pieces in Cannes, mostly warm-weather stuff. They’d dropped the passport photos into the club. Everything seemed to be in hand and Susan allowed herself the luxury of fantasising that they might be about to get away with it, with all of it. Vanessa was lying on the bed across from her, her gaze flickering between Susan and the TV – some old Hollywood film in black and white. Julie had popped out to get them something to eat. Ethel and Jill were next door.

  ‘Susan?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Can’t I come with you guys?’

  ‘Oh, Vanessa love, no. I’m sorry. It’s just too dangerous. What if we get caught? What’s going to happen to you then? After all that stuff back in Cannes you might be charged with being an accomplice.’

  ‘Accomplice?’

  ‘You know, with helping us.’

  ‘But, I …’

  ‘Besides, you’re only fifteen! You need to be back at school. You don’t want to be running away to South America with a bunch of old ladies!’

  ‘You’re more fun than any of my friends …’ Vanessa pouted.

  ‘Oh, love, that’s nice to hear. But really, you can’t come with us. It’s impossible. You need to get home to your dad.’

  ‘He’s never there. He probably hasn’t noticed I’m gone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m sure he loves you very much.’

  Susan kept folding and packing, trying to think of a way to change the subject. Julie was getting too close to the girl – that was the truth. Susan understood why, but it …

  Then, as though reading her mind, Vanessa piped up again. ‘Susan?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Why does Julie care about me so much?’

  ‘Eh? How do you mean?’

  ‘She, back in Cannes, when I went off, she was so upset. She –’

  ‘She’s just a nice person. A good soul. That’s all.’

  Vanessa stared at Susan. Her dark brown eyes – piercing and intelligent.

  Susan sighed and dropped the blouse she was folding. ‘Look,’ she said, coming round and sitting on the edge of the bed facing Vanessa. ‘You can’t tell her I told you this. It’s something that happened a long time ago. Something she never, ever talks about. Promise?’

  Vanessa sat up and pulled her knees up under her chin. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well, when she was, ooh, not much older than you are now really, she had a baby. A little girl. It … she was born prematurely and only lived for a few days. It was something to do with her heart,’ Susan said, surprised at how easily it was all coming out, this thing she hadn’t spoken of in so long. ‘Congenital heart defect. The kind of thing they’d have fixed now, but this was back in the seventies.’

  ‘Oh, Julie …’ Vanessa said.

  ‘I sometimes think she thinks about her every day, you know. She’d have been over forty by now, Julie’s daughter. With kids of her own … Well. Who knows? Anyway, there were some other complications with the birth and Julie had to have an operation shortly after that. A hysterectomy. So she couldn’t ever, you know? She ran pretty wild when she was younger. I think she sees a lot of herself in you. As well as the daughter thing, so …’

  ‘It’s so sad,’ Vanessa said, tears not far from her eyes.

  Suddenly they heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway, then the scratching of a key in the lock. Vanessa wiped her eyes, Susan stood up and tucked that last blouse onto the top of her open suitcase as the door swung open and Julie came in, carrying four pizza boxes stacked on top of each other and a plastic bag bulging with Cokes and beers.

  ‘And that’s how you pack lightly!’ Susan said to Vanessa, patting the top of her case.

  ‘Here we go!’ Julie was saying. ‘Plain Margherita for Jill, big spicy one with extra chillies and jalapeños for Ethel – honestly, I don’t know why she doesn’t just hold a lighter under her bum – a Fiorentina for me and Susan to share and one double pepperoni with extra cheese for madam here. I don’t know how you keep that complexion of yours, Vanessa, I really don’t. Honestly, all this sugar and cheese …’ She set the pizzas down on the chest of drawers and handed Vanessa a Coke. ‘Here you go …’ She noticed Vanessa’s damp cheeks. ‘Hey! What’s happened? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Just …’ Vanessa gestured at the TV. ‘Sad movie.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Julie said, joining her on the bed. ‘Bunch up then!’

  Susan smiled as she and Vanessa exchanged a glance. I’d want you on my poker team, Vanessa, Susan thought to herself as she watched the two of them snuggle up on the bed, munching pizza.

  FIFTY-SIX

  ALEXEI TAMALOV MOVED briskly through
the warren of rooms above Le Punisher – the ramshackle office complex he ran his many diverse businesses from.

  Nodding a hello here and there he strolled on down the narrow hallway, glancing through a doorway into the phone room, where two of his employees – armed only with unlisted phone lines and an unlimited supply of coffee – worked the markets: buying and selling in the cracks of currency between various Eastern European countries. Across the hall from that was his import/export business, selling mostly automobiles and automatic weapons to China and the former Soviet Union. There was his main office with its bank of CCTV cameras covering the whole of the nightclub below, as well as the various other offices in the building (as anyone who ran a largely cash-based business knew, the system was prone to ‘leakage’) and, tucked away at the end, there was a room Tamalov liked to think of as ‘Special Projects’.

  This was reserved for the occasional jobs that came his way, that lay outside his daily business, and which required the drafting in of independent contractors. Like Franco, the Italian forger he had installed there to take care of this passport business.

  Tamalov was still amazed that the two old women had agreed so quickly to his astronomical price. Still, as his grandfather Sergei used to say back in Minsk, ‘A fool and his money were lucky to ever meet.’ God knows what this pair were running from but it was a nice, quick score. He already had a buyer willing to go to fifty thousand for their Porsche and he was paying Franco ten thousand plus expenses for twenty-four hours of intensive labour: close to a hundred grand net profit for a couple of phone calls. If these hags had known anything about the forging business they could have got the job done for a fraction of the price. Ah, but as in so many of his lines of work, if people knew the business he’d be out of business.