Dark Market

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

The sun outside beat more harshly through the glass domed mall entrance than in the Middle East. They said it was the hole in the ozone layer shifting south over the UK for the summer.

Shops lined the subterranean tunnels that joined all the towers of Canary Wharf one floor below street level, interwoven like the roots of the monumental trees of glass and steel above.

Following one of the tunnels Savage swept down and into a larger section of the mall. The chatter of English voices deafened, the toffs and totty of the faded empire chewed their vowels in matching uniforms. His and hers pinstripes, varying shades of grey, blue and black. They talked of deals and politics and what Ralph did at the country house last weekend.

The bulls boasted about their bear markets. They haw-hawed in coffee shops and threw down heavy London grunts of trader machismo.

The occasional twang of American English broke through the scrubbed up anglo-accents of rich Arabs without their dishdashes.

All around brown faces and the harried servility of the Eastern Europeans fronted electronic outlets, high fashion boutiques and food chains. Jeremy and Jemima Public didn't notice.

The stench of money had always been overwhelming on the Wharf, but since the bank walkouts it was tainted with bile. The money left behind was older, cleverer, more powerful than those that had fallen to their knees with the latest crash. These were the blessed few who had picked up the pieces.

And the stench was overwhelming.

Savage took the next shining glass escalator up, walked past the window cleaners at the public entrance, and out into the harsh sun.

Canary Wharf was built as an island of commerce. Imagine Wall Street as its own little fiefdom. The wharf was it.

At its heart, where Savage stood, neck breaking towers in the American style looked down on the echoing canyons for streets. A dual design, to make the best use of real estate and, like the arches of old cathedrals, to lord it over the minions below and tell them: you are unworthy.

Savage shut his eyes to the cold reality and let the warmth seep into his skin. Renewing him. He listened to the subdued background noises of the Wharf. With controlled entrances, security scanners and bomb detection the norm after 9/11 and 7/7, passing traffic was rare.

He wondered why the suits congregated in the air-conditioned gloom below. Was the whole place just a fiendish design to keep the rats running the maze – earn your money upstairs then spend it in the Hades like mall below?

Something tickled at the back of his mind. He opened his eyes.

The Wharf didn't only have offices. The big hitters also had apartments. One in particular had been in his imagination almost every night for three years.

He stepped out into the road in front of him, slowed the pissed off drivers of a Bentley and a Porsche. Were Porsche even exclusive any more? He crossed to the opposite corner.

There was a café there now. He sat at the table nearest the kerb.

He'd been five feet away, standing next to his car. His eyes found the penthouse. He'd known Michael was there, apartment hunting.

He plugged the USB stick into his phone and navigated to the unheard audio recordings he'd backed up before his walk-off. He pressed play on the correct date.

Dial tone, the phone rang, then:

'What do you want?' Michael said. Savage looked up, as he'd done that day.