Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Eleven

Predictably, Rob Linley was one of the first to hear about the immediate injunction preventing any further operation on the Silvertown site. The news reached him via phone; a frantic call from one of the contractors. For an hour or so, Rob wondered what to do with the information. Of course he knew what he should do with the information – he should call David Carter immediately to discuss damage limitation. But, though he hated to admit it to himself, he was scared. David Carter had a nasty habit of shooting the messenger – sometimes literally – and Rob didn't feel like being on the receiving end of his temperamental boss's wrath. But in reality he knew he was just postponing the inevitable. Sitting at his desk, sweating profusely, he grabbed the phone and dialled.

David was eerily calm when he heard the news. He spoke in a flat monotone, thanked Rob for letting him know, and reassured him that it would be okay. They would sort it out. In a way, Rob found this more disturbing than one of David's meltdowns. When the call was over, Rob sat back in his chair and sighed. He had known it would be something like this, but all along he had been hoping he would be able to worm his way out of it somehow. That he might be able to achieve the best of both worlds, with neither party knowing that he was really playing for both teams. He looked down at the little finger of his right hand, which was still bound to a splint. He was taking painkillers regularly, as the finger still hurt a lot, and the drugs were making him drowsy. In spite of that, he was only too aware that the collapse of the Silvertown development was irrevocable. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

*

When David Carter heard that the deal which had cost him months of his life and most of his sanity had hit another roadblock – at what seemed like the last possible moment – his whole body coursed with a fury that enveloped him like a plume of white flame. He had bitten his tongue while he was talking to Rob on the phone, but even while he heard himself spout idle platitudes, the rage was building. He didn't know what to do with himself. As soon as he hung up on Rob, he hurled the telephone against the wall and watched it splinter into several pieces that clattered pathetically to the floor. Then he put his fist through the glass door of his office, which caused a spurt of blood, but he felt no pain. The adrenaline rush was too powerful. Rochelle did her best to calm him; she swathed his bloodied hand in a tea towel and told him she would do whatever she could to help. He just told her to fuck off, that she was fired and he never wanted to see her face again. She merely raised her eyebrows at him and left his office. She'd put up with enough of his tantrums.

After about fifteen minutes – fifteen of the darkest minutes of his life – David Carter finally managed to regain control of himself. He knew it was bad to let the anger take him over like that. It was important to remain in control at all times. He could not let the mask slip. That would put him on the road to ruin.

Breathing in and out deeply, he assessed the situation. The deal which had cost himself and his associates a grand total of five billion pounds had still not yielded anything. It was falling away from him. Now he was lumbered with a five billion pound insect reserve, packed with drug addicts and derelict buildings. There might be a way to save this, but he didn't know what that was.

But there was an aspect of the situation which he had not yet considered. The news had not yet been made public. That was something, at least.

The phone at Rochelle's desk rang, and after a moment, the intercom in his office blared. "It's a Mr. McMinn for you, sir," she said, her cool professional demeanour uncracked.

"Put him through," David said, a little brusquely. Then he paused. "And why don't you bunk off early? Get yourself a spa day? On the company card of course. My way of apology for... you know."

"Thank you, sir," she said, and he was satisfied to hear a note of pleasure in her voice.

Before David picked up the line, he gritted his teeth. George "The Fucker" McMinn. One of the money men who had sunk several million into Silvertown. Bad news travels fast.