Dead Heat by Nick Oldham Page A

of me. People are frightened of me. I scare the shite out of people. No one gives evidence against me. I see to that personally.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜Midnight visits. Phone calls. Beatings . . . I don’t mess around and I don’t get anyone else to do my dirty work for me. No one frightens me.’
    â€˜Hm,’ murmured the Spaniard, unimpressed. Turner did not pick up on the less than wonderful reception to the news of the ways in which he dealt with people. ‘I believe you were responsible for the death of Wolfgang Meyer in Germany, about a year ago.’
    â€˜If you think I’m going to say I did that, then you’re wrong, pal. How do I know you’re not wired up?’
    â€˜You don’t . . . but I’m not, and you did, didn’t you?’
    A dangerous smile fractured on Turner’s face. He nodded and pointed to the Spaniard with his forefinger. He clicked his thumb, as though cocking a revolver. ‘Bang, bang,’ he whispered.
    â€˜So you deal harshly and effectively with wrongdoers?’
    â€˜He was causing problems . . . in fact,’ Turner began boastfully, ‘I’ve sorted a problem just today.’ His hands slid under his jacket and emerged with a set of photographs which he passed across. ‘This man was operating on my area without permission. Now he ain’t,’ he said proudly.
    The Spaniard fanned out the photographs on the table. He winced at the blood-soaked tableaux depicted in the digital images.
    â€˜Personal service,’ Turner gloated.
    The Spaniard stacked the photographs as though they were a pack of playing cards. He handed them back. ‘We cannot do business, Mr Turner.’
    â€˜I beg your fuckin’ pardon, spik?’
    The Spaniard looked impassively at Turner and licked his pale pink lips. ‘Your organization is not sophisticated enough. There are too many holes and you are far too unbalanced. You do not have respect for law enforcement . . . No, let me finish,’ he indicated to an agitated Turner. ‘Whilst our business is illegal, we treat day-to-day law enforcement with dignity, because we do not wish to fall foul of it through stupidity.’
    â€˜Stupidity, you stupid bastard! Are you calling me stupid?’
    â€˜Hot-headed, reckless.’
    â€˜You are just another shitless wonder,’ Turner blasted and shot angrily to his feet, towering over the Spaniard, who did not flinch. ‘I’ve shat people like you.’
    Suddenly, standing behind him, was the man who had driven him to this meeting. Turner saw him and snarled. He spun to the Spaniard. ‘You do business with me, or I’ll waste you, you cunt.’ He held his fist underneath his nose, so close that the hairs on the back of his hand were clearly individually visible. Again, the Spaniard did not move. His eyes rose slowly and met Turner’s.
    â€˜You are a loose cannon. You are unstable and unpredictable. My boss is not interested in you. Just be pleased I met and listened to you today. Not many people have that privilege. This meeting is now over.’
    â€˜Privilege, you twat!’ Turner’s fist shook angrily. Other people in the establishment were beginning to take an interest in proceedings. ‘Privilege? I’m gonna fuck you and your boss up good and proper, mate, you shitless wonders.’
    The driver stepped up close behind Turner. ‘That’s enough. Behave yourself.’
    There was a doom-laden pause during which Turner could have gone either way. Eventually he stood upright again, still glaring with ferocity. ‘You’ve made a mistake here, mister big-shot. I will screw your operation up, big style. You will regret this.’
    The Spaniard pursed his lips pensively. ‘Mr Verner will take you back.
Adiós
.’ He nodded at the driver, who nodded back with understanding.
    They were in no rush to return. In fact Jo Coniston did not want to go back –