Hearts of Stone Read Free Page B

and bumper boots. He was the one with the nail-biting habit.
    â€˜Got a warrant?’ I said.
    Ponytail shrugged. ‘Shit no,’ he said. ‘I knew we forgot something in our enthusiasm to get here.’
    â€˜Who are you ?’ I asked.
    â€˜Brady. Detective Sergeant,’ replied Ponytail.
    â€˜No ID?’ I said.
    â€˜I must have forgotten that too.’ He shrugged.
    â€˜Take his word for it,’ said Chiltern.
    I had no choice.
    â€˜What do you want?’ I asked for the third time. Maybe, some day, one of them would answer me.
    â€˜You,’ said Chiltern. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
    â€˜Go where?’ I said.
    â€˜On a magical mystery tour,’ said Brady. ‘We’re off on the yellow brick road to see the Wizard of Oz.’ He giggled and grinned a mad grin, and it occurred to me that there was something badly wrong with him.
    â€˜I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.
    Chiltern sighed. ‘Why do people always say that?’ he asked no one in particular. ‘Listen, Sharman, you’re claimed. For the foreseeable future you’re the property of the drug squad.’
    I looked into Brady’s eyes. They stared back as if from another planet. Just what I needed: a couple of undercover cops from the drug squad calling at 4 am. And at least one of them sampling the goods, from the look of him.
    â€˜No,’ I said.
    â€˜Brady,’ said Chiltern.
    Brady pulled out a set of handcuffs. ‘It’s this way or the friendly way,’ he said. ‘Voice your choice.’
    The two policemen were both tough-looking individuals. I was well out of condition. Too much booze and rich food. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But where are we going? I’d like to inform my solicitor.’
    â€˜Solicitor. Listen to him,’ said Brady. ‘You’re out of the world, son.’ He was at least ten years younger than me. ‘Incommunicado. Lost in space. No solicitor. You’ll be asking for the number of the local Citizens Advice Bureau next. Now, come on and don’t fuck about.’
    So I went.
    There was a Seven Series BMW parked outside the house, with its sidelights on. I was put in the back along with Brady. Chiltern sat in the front, next to the driver. He was another leather-jacketed character who looked like he worked out a lot.
    â€˜Nice wheels,’ I said.
    â€˜They suffice,’ said Chiltern.
    â€˜Since when has the Met been laying on motors like this for the squad?’ I had a horrible feeling I was being taken for a ride in more ways than one.
    Chiltern picked up the thought. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’re kosher. It’s a perk of the job. Drive on, Ollie.’
    The driver nodded and started the engine and put on the main beams. He indicated, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled the car into the deserted street.
    We headed north through Herne Hill, Camberwell, and the Elephant. I thought that we were going to cross the river, but instead we turned towards Bermondsey. Then into the back streets around London Bridge. The BMW turned into a service road between two buildings, and the reflection of the headlights splashed painfully back into my eyes from a set of mirrored windows. The driver stopped the car in front of a metal door, then pushed a button on a box on top of the dash. The door rattled upward and we drove in.
    No one had said a word during the journey. The only sound inside the car had been Joan Armatrading’s greatest hits playing at a very low volume on the in-car CD. There was no police radio in the BMW.
    The car bumped over the slight hump where the door joined the pavement, and through the entrance and up a ramp. Behind us the shutter rattled down again.
    We were in what appeared to be half a warehouse and half a parking garage. There were boxes and cartons piled up the walls, and lots of cars, some covered with dust sheets or tarpaulins and some not. The