King of Cards

Escape

I held down the door close button so hard my finger hurt. I was willing the doors to close with every fibre of my being. Finally they started to do so. The gangster lunged forward in a desperate attempt to get his hand into the gap, but the doors closed with an infinitely satisfying thunk a split second before. 

I collapsed against the back wall of the lift as the relief washed over me. But I wasn’t in the clear yet. I forced myself to stand up, taking deep breaths, and by the time the lift arrived on the ground floor I was pressed up against the side of the lift, next to the doors. 

As the doors opened I peered cautiously out. But the little lobby was empty. I walked rapidly to the door leading to the dustbin area, looked out again cautiously, and then walked swiftly down the alley and out onto the street. 

Forcing myself not to look back, and to walk as casually as I could, I tried to think what to do. I couldn’t go to my parents: the thought of what might happen to them terrified me. I fought down the image of the body on the stretcher. No, that was not an option. I was on my own. 

I just wanted to get far away from Exec-Cars, so I ducked into South Kensington tube and jumped on the Piccadilly line into the city. At Green Park I changed my mind, and took the Jubilee line to Canary Wharf. Something about the skyscrapers, I suppose, felt opposite to the West End. 

Emerging from the curved steel bubble of the station, I wandered through the steel and glass canyons, finding my way to the little park that runs alongside the tube station. It was lunchtime, and all the junior bankers were out in their shiny suits, enjoying the sunshine along with their sandwiches. I felt completely alone and out of my comfort zone. 

I decided to get some lunch myself. 

Things looked a bit better in front of the sushi conveyor belt, especially with a bottle of Asahi. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the taste and texture of the sashimi. It filled my consciousness. 

Afterwards I ordered a coffee at one of the cafes next to the water, an old dock crane towering overhead. I lit a cigarette and thought it all through. 

My options were pretty limited. I couldn’t go back to my flat. But I needed a new base. I couldn’t go to my parents. I didn’t have any close mates in London— since arriving here I’d pretty much kept my head down, making as much money as possible. 

As I stared at the buildings across the waterway from me, I suddenly realised that one of them, the one which looked like some exotic Egyptian temple, was actually the Four Seasons hotel. 

Why not set up there for a few days, until I came up with a plan?

Half an hour later I was in a lovely suite with a breathtaking view of the Thames. I took a long, relaxing bath to clear my head, then put on a soft fluffy towelling robe, raided the minibar for some snacks and another Asahi, and cracked open the MacBook. 

After connecting to the complimentary wifi, I started snooping around online. First port of call was Google. There wasn’t much info on Exec-Cars. A crappy little website for online bookings, but it did at least give their physical address, a couple of blocks from my flat. It also gave me a company name, which I looked up on the Companies House website. The registered office was that of a small law firm in Wembley, and there were only two directors, one of whom was a partner at the law firm. 

The other director, Milos Papadopoulis, had directorships in about a hundred other companies, most of which were dormant. The active ones seemed to be mostly investment holding companies or property companies, although one seemed to own a laundrette chain and another a Greek takeaway in Palmers Green.