David Carter had not been to bed. The adrenaline had made it impossible to unwind after the night's travails. But he had been pleasantly surprised by Wayne's savvy in disposing of his little problem. They made a good team.
David showered and dressed and headed downstairs. Felicia was still asleep and would no doubt be nursing a monstrous hangover when she did eventually surface. Maybe last night's events would seem like a bad dream. David quite honestly did not give a fuck. Today he was all about the business.
His encounter with George McMinn last night had taught him a few things, first and foremost that Max Linley's "takeover" was now in full swing. The partners would now be in the country, and their first port of call would be the stadium. They were probably in the boardroom right now, waiting for Max to greet them like the conquering hero he perceived himself to be. And George McMinn, of course, who would not be joining them. But everything was going to be alright. David was convinced of it. Like a goal in the ninetieth minute, a paradigm shift was coming, and he was all set to emerge triumphant once again. The phoenix from the ashes.
He got his driver to pick him up from the kerb outside his apartment building, and while he coasted calmly across London toward the stadium, he called Rochelle on his mobile.
"Rochelle darling, how are you?"
"I'm alright, Mr. Carter," Rochelle said, her voice as taut as piano wire, "but I think you should know that something's going on here – it's all happened very suddenly, Mr. Linley's just arrived and he's in the boardroom with a number of gentlemen..."
"Nothing to worry your pretty head about. But I want you to do something for me, if you would. Just a little favour. I'm in the car now, heading your way. Could you let them know I'll be with them in about five minutes?"
"Of course!"
"And there's something else, too. Go into my office and take a look in my desk. Third drawer down on the left-hand side. You'll find a small, velvet box. Like a ring box. But don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not proposing to you. There's something else in there."
*
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Max Linley, striding into the boardroom. He spoke and carried himself with such authority that the partners almost failed to recognise him. They had not seen him for several years, of course, but during that time he seemed to have transformed from a scruffy yes-man into a natural leader. But they did not yet know if they could trust him. David Carter – for all his faults – was a known quantity. And he had done good work for them in the past. The partners were waiting to be convinced.
Max took a seat at the head of the table. "It looks as though we're still waiting for George," he observed.
"And Mr. Carter," said Jorge Lazar, cartel leader, mass-murderer and domestic terrorist. He was on various wanted lists around the world and had been living under an assumed name for the past seven years. He was the very embodiment of "dark money." But today, in this somewhat clinical setting, dressed in a fine suit, he might have been an oil magnate, an entrepreneur, or any other species of harmless investor.
"Ah yes," said Max. "Well, I have a confession to make. You see, the fact is, I am the one who called this meeting. I was the one who brought you all here."
"You mean you did it without David Carter's knowledge?" said Hu Lin, erstwhile "pirate king" of the South China Seas. He had now found a decidedly lucrative line in organ harvesting and ran a ring of corrupt surgeons throughout Asia.
But Max Linley was not about to be intimidated. "Yes," he admitted, "and I'll tell you why. This club cannot continue the way it has been. David Carter's directorship is no longer sustainable. That's why I've brought you all here. And when George McMinn gets here, he'll agree with me."
"There's no question," said Lazar, "that David Carter has made mistakes. He's lost our money and he must repay it, or else there will be repercussions. But was this theatrical gesture really necessary?"
"Yes," Max told him, "it was. You see, David has lost whatever grip he once had on his own organisation. It has run away from him. Several lives have been lost already, and if we don't stop the rot soon then the situation will only escalate. What does one do when a limb turns gangrenous? Cut it off, before the disease spreads."
"Then David Carter had become a disease on his own enterprise? And you are the scalpel, come to slice the ruined flesh?" asked Hu Lin. He took a strange pleasure in medical analogies.
"If you like. When George McMinn gets here, I'll make my case to you. And I have a feeling that David Carter will be aware of this meeting by now, and I don't doubt he'll put in an appearance. But the financial future of this club is out of his hands. Only you gentlemen can decide what happens next. It's not a question of office politics any more. It's about survival."
The partners glanced at each other and there were a few uncertain murmurings. The football club was a perfect front, which had been yielding many millions of pounds, dollars, or whatever currency, for the last few decades. But it was only a viable enterprise as long as there was a steady hand on the wheel. All this unpredictability and violent bloodshed – the blazing car and the lost five million, for instance – did not bode well.
Rochelle sidled discreetly into the room with a pot of fresh coffee. She topped up a few waiting cups and approached Max. "Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Linley?"
"Drop of water please, Rochelle."
"Of course."
"And can you call the front desk at the De Vere Hotel? I want to know if George McMinn is on his way yet."
"Certainly."
Meanwhile, the partners were evidently getting used to the idea of Max being in charge. He had presented himself well, and it would be a simple enough matter to transition him into David's long-held role. The press would lap it up – after all, Max was widely considered to be a reliable (if dull) presence at the club. But it would be a human interest story too, what with his grief at the sudden and shocking loss of his family. His takeover would be excellent PR and would send their stocks rising.
Max sensed the shift in the atmosphere. He knew he was winning them over. He smiled to himself as Rochelle reappeared with a glass water bottle and twisted off the cap. She poured its contents into a tumbler at his side and he thanked her.
"McMinn," he reminded her. "I want an update."
"Yes, of course," she answered. He had never spoken to her like this before. He had always been a sort of benign, fatherly figure in the past. But now he wore a suit and spoke with curt authority; it was almost as if he were turning into David Carter. She went out of the room and made the call.
Max raised his tumbler of water and said: "Before we commence, gentlemen, I'd like to propose a toast."
One by one they raised their steaming coffee cups.
"Sorry I'm late," said a voice from the doorway, "traffic was a nightmare."
David Carter beamed as he strode into the room. He began making his way around the conference table, shaking hands with each of the partners in turn. They greeted him politely, if a little frostily, while Max frowned. Here was David, stealing his thunder once again.
"Nice of you to join us, David," he said, "but you needn't have bothered. I'm afraid it's out of your hands now."
"That may be the case, Max, but you're forgetting that I've been running this club successfully for decades now. Don't you think it's common courtesy to keep me in the loop?"
"Frankly, no," said Max, getting to his feet. "You've become increasingly secretive and unreliable. And you're running this club into the ground."
"I appreciate your honesty.”
"Look here," said Hu Lin, "if I wanted a cabaret I'd go to Soho. I didn't come here to watch two men bicker. I came to discuss the future of my investment in Mile End."
"Right you are," said David. "Why don't we get this show on the road, Max?"
Max's feathers were decidedly ruffled. His face grew red, and he looked on the verge of cardiac arrest. Rochelle reappeared briefly and said: "I spoke to the receptionist at the De Vere Hotel, sir. He says that George McMinn checked out last night."
Max narrowed his eyes at her. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"He's gone, sir. And they don't have a forwarding address for him."
"This is ridiculous," said Jorge Lazar, getting to his feet. "Mr. Linley, you're wasting our time."
Meanwhile, David took a seat at the other end of the table – the space reserved for George McMinn. "Gentlemen, it's a pleasure to see you all face-to-face again. To be honest, I never thought this day would come. I'm sorry it's under such awkward circumstances. What you're witnessing here is, I believe, what's known as a hostile takeover."
Max sensed that he was losing them. And what the fuck had happened to McMinn? His throat felt dry. He took a sip of water and got to his feet. "Gentlemen, George McMinn's absence is unfortunate. But I think it's fair to say that we are quorate, and therefore in a position to decide the future of Mile End Athletic here and now."
"Right you are," said David with a smile. "Right you are. Now, I think you were about to propose a toast, is that right?”
Max just stared at him.
“Well,” David continued, “don’t let me interrupt. What would you like to drink to? To Mile End?”
As though in an act of juvenile defiance, Max downed the glass of water. “You shouldn’t have come here, David. The club doesn’t want you any more.” No sooner had he spoken these cutting words than an unpleasant expression crossed his face. His eyes became pinkish globes and his skin paled. He swallowed noisily. His jaw flapped open and he tried unsuccessfully to draw another breath.
None of the other men seated around that table said a single word. They simply watched.
Max Linley stared at them all as the realisation dawned on him. Lastly, his gaze settled on David Carter at the other end of the conference table. The director was looking back at him with that same old smile and a chilly blackness in his eyes.
After an eternity that was in fact just three minutes, Max Linley kicked out spasmodically, the sole of his right foot connecting with the table and sending him keeling – chair and all – onto the floor. He lay there, bucking and arching his aged body in a sequence of grotesque convulsions, froth fizzing from his mouth.
It took him a full five minutes to die.
When it was finally over, his body seemed to cave in on itself. Every muscle slackened and he became as limp as a sock puppet. Then his limbs began twitching once again, but he was now beyond saving.
At last, David Carter got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sorry you had to witness this. But it was necessary. For a long time now Max Linley has been undermining my authority in the club and elsewhere. He was obsessed with taking control of both Mile End and the distribution enterprise, and he was willing to do anything to facilitate that goal – including orchestrating the murder of his own family. I have reason to believe he deliberately caused the collapse of the Silvertown deal that cost all of us so much collateral. This has been a long time coming, but now that it’s over we can finally begin to rebuild.”
“What,” Hu Lin commenced slowly, “about our money?”
“You’ll have your money by the end of the month, gentlemen,” David assured them. He was bullshitting, of course, but his confidence was considerably boosted by the death of Max Linley. With the body still twitching on the carpet at the other end of the room, it felt like some kind of ancient sacrificial ritual – an offering to the gods for their appeasement.
Whether the partners bought David’s version of events, he was in no position to tell. But he didn’t care. He was David Carter, after all, and he was on top once again.
“I’m sorry you were brought here under false pretences,” he went on. “It wasn’t my doing. But I think you’ll agree that the matter has been dealt with in the most efficient manner possible.” He beamed at them all as Max Linley’s spasms finally began to subside. “Meeting adjourned.”
