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The only thing in the room other than him was the coat stand from which his jacket hung. Grey hair pulled back in a pony tail, the colour matched beard made him look like a cross between Richard Gere and an Eastern European violin player. The waistcoat and collarless striped shirt did nothing to dispel the impression.
Dexter Garrett-Wilson wiped the smeared window and peered through mini binoculars, his point of interest the figure sat alone at a table outside the cafe opposite, several floors below him. He checked the mobile and pressed dial.
Outside the Costa on the corner of Tithebarn, Nicks waited for Simon. He stopped tapping his foot on the dirt ingrained pavement and pulled his phone from the leg pocket of his pants. “Yeah.” He sipped his caramel latte and contemplated his raspberry almond slice.
“Hello, Nicks. May I call you Nicks, by the way?”
He put the coffee down. “Who’s this?”
A smile he couldn’t see. “It’s of no consequence. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Don. He was a good man but he should’ve quit while he was ahead. I did try to tell him but he wouldn’t listen. I told him he’d solve nothing. It’s too big.”
“What is?”
“Parasitic worms burrowed deep into the guts of everything, fed by greed and corruption, Nicks. Do you think mushrooms in a wood are individual? Under the surface, they’re all connected, you know. The ‘Establishment’, the Church, political parties, you name it. It’s all a deception.” The voice was calm, steady and definitely ‘middle England’, not the result of a comprehensive school or northern university education.
“However, I digress.”
“So, what do you want me to do with this information?” Nicks lifted the cup to his lips then changed his mind and flipped the cigarette packet open.
“Make the right choice, my friend,” the voice continued, harder-edged. “You could walk away. But that’s not your thing though is it? Don said you could be somewhat truculent. Just satiate your need for vengeance on Don’s killers, when you find them, then get on with your life. If you stumble down the wrong road you won’t be forgiven and there’ll be nowhere on Earth you can hide. You’re no John McClane, Nicks. This isn’t Hollywood.”
“How do I recognise the wrong road?” He pulled a cigarette out with his lips, lit it and blew a stream of smoke into the air. He was trying hard to feign indifference.
“Unfortunately, only by the result. I can tell you the first two options are safe. It’s the least I could do, in the circumstances. Do what needs to be done and move on. Otherwise ... I’ll light a candle for you... and Anca.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You’re just a mosquito, Nicks, small, insignificant yet annoying. Become too annoying and I’ll squash you and everything you hold dear. I just thought I’d give you a heads up. Enjoy your coffee and you really should give up smoking.” The phone went dead.
He rapidly scanned the street and nearby offices. The imposing Exchange Buildings, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in Chicago, seemed favourite but, none the wiser, he glanced back at his cigarette then stubbed it out.
The buzz told him he had a text. MMS. He opened it. A short video of Anca receiving a parcel. “See you again soon,” the delivery man said as the camera turned from her smiling face to mount the driving seat.
Pulse racing, he looked at his hand. It was trembling. Panic rose from the depths. Several deep breaths later, he had it under control.
He dialled her number. “Anca. You need to listen to me very carefully, sweetheart.”