Crooks - A London Gangsters Tale | COMPLETED

Chapter Twenty Three

Some days, it's just your lucky day. Some days, everything falls into place. That's what David Carter was thinking as he climbed out of bed the following morning. He had slept alone – Felicia was away wherever it was she went – and he'd welcomed the opportunity to get a little peace. A little room to breathe. Maybe once this whole mess was over with – well and truly over with – he'd take a break somewhere by the sea. Somewhere hot. All work and no play, as they say.

He was usually smart and well turned-out, but today he took extra special pains to look his best. He spent a little longer combing his hair in the bathroom mirror and added an ornamental, diamond encrusted tie clip, plus a monogrammed pocket square to his double-breasted Savile Row suit. He couldn't afford to let his standards drop – not today of all days.

The apartment buzzer sounded at around eight-thirty; it was David's driver. The limo was waiting for him at the kerb. David took a deep breath, and one last look at himself in the floor-length mirror, before heading down.

Wasn't it always the way, he thought as the elevator descended, that the answer was usually in plain sight all along? That Russian money could put an end to the club's worries – once it had been filtered through a number of shell companies, of course. And their friends in high places might even be able to get the Silvertown deal back on track. This would enable David to play the conquering hero, pleasing the fans and the partners in the Silvertown deal. Of course it meant handing over a pound of flesh to the Russians, but that was a worthwhile sacrifice. And after all, Mikhail Popov wasn't a bad ally to have.

Really, it was the perfect solution.

*

Wayne had spent a bit of time wondering what the best method would be. A gun? He didn't own one and didn't know where he could get hold of one at such short notice without arousing suspicion. So, a knife? He went into the kitchen and grabbed the largest, sharpest kitchen knife he could find. He gripped the handle and practiced a few stabbing motions. It was no good. The knife was too big, it would be easily spotted. His plan would be over before it had even started. Replacing the kitchen knife, he grabbed another, shorter, thinner, mean-looking serrated steak knife. That was just what he needed. He tightened his grip around the handle and swung it out a few times. It made a satisfying swishing sound as the blade sliced the air. This was the one.

He headed outside, pausing as he took in that first lungful of fresh, morning air. Some days, he thought, it's just your lucky day.

*

David Carter arrived at the stadium early for the meeting, but of course the Russians were already there. He would not have expected anything less. Mikhail Popov sat in the luxury corporate suite foyer, sipping black coffee from a tiny cup. He was flanked by his sons, Yuri and Stanislaw, who greeted David politely. It might have been just another ordinary tete-a-tete between corporate bigwigs.

"David," said Mikhail, when he had finished his coffee, "there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Excellent. That's what we're here for."

"I don't think you understand me, David. Something I'd like to discuss with you now."

David glanced at Yuri and Stanislaw, both of whom stood stony-faced. They weren't giving anything away. "Alright," David relented. "Whatever you say. Rochelle, bring us some more coffee, would you?"

*

"Morning Rochelle."

"Wayne! Long time no see. You're looking well."

"Thanks. So are you." Wayne was indeed looking well, and he knew it. He was clean-shaven for the first time in a while, and his hair was slick and professional-looking. Like his father, he had decided to make an effort for this special occasion. "Where are the others?"