12

      Tuesday nights at Papa Zemba’s could, generally speaking, be relied on to be quiet. They were playing Gregory Isaacs’ ‘Mr Cop’. On the elevated runway that ran down the central aisle within the U-shaped bar two women were gyrating around vertical poles, their skin glistening with oil and glitter. Behind the bar Zazie stood out like a shining beacon amongst all that darkness. She was standing in for her father. Usually she was a guarantee of a mellow mood. Her father came in early when the strippers were usually on, or later when trouble showed up. Tonight, however, Drake was surprised to find that things were a little more rowdy than normal.

      ‘Private party.’ As she spoke, Zazie rolled her eyes towards the far corner.

      A group of about eight men were drinking hard. On the table at the centre of their booth they had a private dancer, who was doing her best to look as though she was enjoying herself while waving her behind at the men who were clapping and whistling like teenagers. They were young, in their twenties and thirties. One of the men stood up, took a swig of champagne from his glass and spat it all over the dancer. The woman didn’t look too thrilled about this, but the men whooped, stamped their feet and showered her with twenty pound notes, which must have gone some way to easing her annoyance. The man holding the bottle of champagne took a bow.

      ‘Who is that?’ Drake asked.

      ‘Zephyr. His friends call him Zef. He’s Donny Apostolis’ nephew.’

      ‘I’m tempted to say he’s grown up, but I’m not sure that’s true.’ Drake had a vague recollection of a spotty teenager from a few years back. ‘Now he’s partying with the big boys.’

      ‘That one gets around.’ Zazie leaned on the counter. ‘One night it’s the Russians, the next it’s the Albanians. He’s all over the place. I keep telling Papa he needs to get rid of these clowns and go for a better class of client. But what can you do? Money talks, right?’

      ‘Talking your dad out of money would be like trying to persuade a leopard to change its spots.’

      That brought him a laugh. Drake had a feeling that so long as Papa was calling the shots this was about as classy as it was ever going to get. He had been hoping for a quiet drink but the noise was a distraction so he drained his glass and was getting up to leave when somebody thumped into him from behind. He swung round to see a pale man swaying on his feet. He was in his early twenties. Dark hair, cut long at the front and combed back, the sides shaved to a bristle. A poster boy for the Hitler Youth, like something from another age.

      ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, before staggering away.

      Drake didn’t react. The man was clearly drunk. He watched him cut an unsteady path back towards the group in the corner.

      ‘Who was that?’ he asked Zazie. She had no idea. She looked over his shoulder and he turned to see Grayson Brodie walking towards him.

      Brodie was small, compact and silent. His prematurely grey hair was shaved down to the length of metal filings. He walked casually, head down, hands hanging loosely by his sides. He gave the impression he wasn’t paying attention, but Drake knew that he was registering every person in that room with every step that he took, evaluating the risk they posed.

      ‘Cal.’

      ‘How’s it hanging, Brodie?’

      ‘You know me, can’t complain.’ The two men shook hands. Brodie slipped onto the bar stool alongside Drake and ordered drinks for both of them.

      ‘Are you babysitting tonight?’

      ‘You could say that.’ Brodie glanced over at the party and gave a weary shake of the head. ‘Either they’re getting younger or I’m getting older.’

      ‘Who’s the one in the middle, big feller?’

      Brodie glanced across, turning his gaze on the large man who was wearing an open-necked black shirt that was tight around massive biceps.

      ‘Khan.’ Brodie sucked his teeth. ‘Used to be a heavy for the Karachi mob, working for Hamid Balushi. As nasty as they come. Now I hear he’s a free agent.’

      ‘Is he working for Donny’s family now?’

      Brodie spread his hands wide. ‘You know me, Cal. I don’t ask questions.’

      Which was true. The one thing Brodie was known for was his discretion. You could tell him anything and he would take it to the grave with him, so long as you had his loyalty. That was something that counted for him. Brodie would be loyal until the moment he wasn’t; the moment he felt his trust had been betrayed.

      Drake took another long look at Khan. His thick straight hair was cut into a foppish fringe that hung down over his face. The sides of his head were shaved clean. He was busy throwing money at the girl, who was bending over and shaking her hips at him. Drake knew he’d seen him before but couldn’t remember the context. On his neck there was a dark tattoo of slashes and curves that looked like Arabic calligraphy, or in this case probably Urdu. Drake studied it, filing it away in his memory.

      It was certainly an odd group of misfits. Difficult to say what they were doing together.

      ‘So, how’s the private eye thing working out for you?’

      ‘Too early to say.’

      Brodie was grinning. ‘I’ll give you six months, then you’ll be begging to be reinstated.’

      ‘You don’t think I’ll last.’

      ‘Once a copper, always a copper.’

      You might mistake Brodie for being slight, but it was all muscle and sinew. And he was a fast mover. Drake had known him since his days in the army, but since then Brodie had carved a career for himself as a hard man, a problem solver. You wanted something done and no questions asked, Brodie was your man.

      ‘I guess it means I don’t have to worry about having to take you in any more.’

      Brodie lifted his glass in salute. ‘Ah, you’d never have done it.’

      ‘Now we’ll never know.’

      When he had first arrived in Iraq all those years ago, a complete rookie, trying to understand what he was doing patrolling a foreign country carrying an assault rifle, it was Brodie who had helped Drake to keep it together. ‘There are moments in life, kid,’ he told him, ‘when the bigger picture can kill you. Focus on the details. The small things are what’s going to save your life. Every time. The small things. Everything else is a distraction.’

      How many times had Brodie saved his life? Hard to say. Directly, indirectly. His words would come back when you were under stress and they made you think it through, one more time. Often that meant the difference between life and death. Keep your eyes wide. Trust nobody. Double check everything. Sergeant Grayson Brodie, as he was then, was easily the most experienced man in the unit. None of the officers, with their Sandhurst training and their public school education, dared to make a move without his blessing. Brodie knew the terrain, but more than that he knew people. Didn’t matter which side they were on or where they came from. It was an instinct for human nature. He knew who to trust and who to be wary of. Drake had seen him drinking with the men like there was no tomorrow, and going from that to stone cold sober in a matter of seconds when mortar shells started coming over the perimeter.

      Like many others, Drake included, Brodie had lost his faith. He’d gone out there believing in the mission, in the existence of weapons of mass destruction and the moral duty to put an end to Saddam’s reign of terror. What he saw told him there was a lot more at stake, things he could barely comprehend. He came back a broken man. It was only a matter of time before he drifted out of his marriage, his home, wandering from one job to another until he wound up living in the streets. After that there was a stint abroad, working as a military contractor.

      The two men had finally come