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13th March 2014
Nicks entered the India Building from the Water Street entrance and strolled along the ornate shopping arcade admiring its coffered barrel-vaulted ceiling, pendant lights and shops with their decorative bronze fronts. It was one of Liverpool’s hidden gems.
He stopped now and then to look into one or two of the shop windows: he had time to spare before heading for his appointment at the safety deposit bank.
He’d just turned from the sweet shop when he saw them. Four suits entering the Brunswick Street entrance. Two looked like ‘bosses’, one in particular, he felt he’d seen before. The third, with slightly dishevelled elegance, was Rupert Sackville. But it was the fourth who’d caught his attention most. He’d worked with him briefly on a couple of firearms jobs. The last Nicks heard he’d done a bodyguard course.
They’d stopped at the entrance to the alcove where the lifts were situated, discussing something. The bodyguard wasn’t interested. He was too busy eyeballing his immediate surroundings, standing passively with his hands crossed over each other at trouser belt level. The position of his hands told Nicks he was right-handed.
Too far away to register as a threat, a couple of paces took him further as he feigned interest in something in the window. Another glance, this time through the glass entrance doors behind them; a people carrier, another suit, younger, sunglasses, left-hander.
They moved into the alcove; he knew where they were going. Walking back towards the Water Street entrance, he took his phone out, pressed the speed dial and after a few seconds said: “Hi, I’ve got an appointment for ten-thirty this morning. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel. Certainly, my name’s Ian Hughes. Yes, would the day after tomorrow be ok? Eleven o’clock? That’ll be great. Have a nice day.”