Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Twenty Seven

The shock of what had just happened was still stiff in my muscles.

I stood and watched the car bearing the man who had threatened me, threatened Martha, drive away. I felt unable to move; rooted in place by the swiftness of it all. I clenched and unclenched my fists at my sides, my mouth opened and closed like a goldfish removed from its bowl and my mind was locked in a vice, imagining Martha crying and hurt whilst Sharp wielded that knife.

Ty knocked me out of this trance my putting a hand on my shoulder. "... Satchmo, your phone," he repeated. I hadn't heard him the first time.

"Pardon?" I turned to look at him, his face sharpening into focus.

"Come on Satch, we don't have time for this. Give me your phone," he held a palm out towards me. I dug in my pocket and gave it to him.

"Yes..." I said absently "...yes, we must call the police."

"Sorry Satchmo, not this time. They can't help Martha now, or us for that matter," Ty replied.

"Are you mad?" I asked, incredulous.

"No. The second he thinks the cops are involved he will kill her. I'm quite sure of that. I have dealt with his kind before; life to them is like that of an insect they step on when it annoys them. You can see it in his eyes. We have to deal with this ourselves."

"Then we must find the votive sword and shield, and do it quickly," I murmured, still not convinced that we shouldn't get the authorities involved immediately.

"It's not our priority here, Just try to think for a moment; Sharp has killed, possibly both my uncle and the professor, and definitely Jonah. He will kill again." Ty looked at me earnestly.

"How do you know he murdered Jonah?" I asked, confused.

"He's left-handed. The knife he waved at us fitted the marks left on Jonah's throat, and the clincher was the bruises on his arms where those two guys held him. Sharp killed him, and do you imagine that if we give him the votives he will vanish into the sunset?"
I stared blankly.

"We have seen him, we know he has kidnapped Martha, he will have extorted priceless historical treasures from us. No, he can't leave us alive." Ty concluded with a shake of his head.

"Jesus!"

"He's a killer, Satchmo, and those two guys he had with him are not the same class of simple-minded hulk that Michaels employs. Sharp's men are ex-military, it's written all over them. They won't be easy to negate. Now, I need to make a call to a friend of mine, we need some gear. Go and jump in the Land Rover I just need to let him know we are coming." Ty pointed at the car as he began entering a number into my phone.

"Let him know we are coming?" I asked.

"Yes, turning up at Dexter's unannounced will get us shot quicker than this Sharp character can manage," he winked, pushing the dial button and turning his back on me.

I stumbled towards the Rover like a zombie, my mind unable to keep up with the pace of events.

*

The gym was a squat red brick building which nestled between rusting industrial workshops, foundries and coal yards on the banks of a canal. So much of the Black Country looks like this now that I could have been standing in any of three dozen areas across a conurbation forty miles wide. Corrugated iron roofs had rusted, skeletal machinery lay untouched in the poise of operation as if its operators had been mysteriously spirited away in the midst of a day's work and simply not returned for fifty years.

A century and a half ago this area was engineering the Empire, one tooled screw at a time. Fifty years after that it was at the forefront of emerging technology, pushing the boundaries of manufacturing science. Sixty years ago, it was providing the country with the weapons to defeat one of history's evillest regimes.
Now? Now it lies largely derelict, forgotten and ignored. It is a wasteland of graffiti, used drug paraphernalia and a monument to a sea change in Britain's priorities in terms of economic driving forces.

The humidity combined with my all-pervading sense of anxiety to leave my shirt stuck to my back when I climbed from the Land Rover. I was unhappy that Ty had forbidden the involvement of the police, I had a little more faith in them than he did.

Must be my upbringing.

We parked outside the gym and disembarked. The building itself was dark and forbidding. A large sign was bolted above the door showing a pair of crossed boxing gloves, one black, one white, and the words Duck and Dive Community Club stencilled in graffiti-style letters.

"What is this place?" I asked Ty.

"It's a martial arts club run by an old acquaintance of mine called Dexter, he puts every spare pound he gets into running this place; training kids from the estates in the sweet science, and the odd bit of Taekwondo," he grasped the handle of the door then paused to explain.

"Is that wise? I'd rather the little buggers weren't able to mug me with a working knowledge of Taekwondo," I replied.

"It's not like that!" Ty laughed. "If any of these youths stray from the straight-and-narrow they have Dexter to deal with, and believe you-me, they don't want that. Now, Dexter can be a little twitchy so don't say anything funny and don't touch anything."

I didn't like the sound of a twitchy martial arts instructor. "Gotcha. Soul of discretion, but what are we doing here?" I quizzed.

"You are about to discover that the Council does not sufficiently fund worthwhile community projects. Dexter has a little side-line that keeps this place going," he said cryptically.

The interior was dark and the air stale; the walls were lined with racks of weights and a mix of heavy and speed bags hung menacingly, their battered bodies patched here and there with duct tape crosses. Against the rear wall was a scaled-down boxing ring which was lit from above by a dim bulb swinging forlornly in a cracked shade. Two youths in tatty head guards circled each other, sparring enthusiastically, the thumping of their gloves resonating throughout the gym.

In front of the ring was an area covered in martial arts mats, upon which stood a black man in his early thirties. He had his back to us and his hands on his hips, his bald head glistened with sweat, and he was barking instructions at the young boxers.

We waited just inside the doorway while my eyes adjusted to the gloom and my nose to the smell. Ty coughed to attract the man's attention. He turned slowly to face us and looked us briefly up and down. He was a good head shorter than either of us and was wearing an off-white judogi jacket and pants, tied at his waist with an ominously black belt. There wasn't an ounce of fat on the man, the muscles beneath his robes bulged, and he looked as if he had been rejected from the casting call for the cover of a men's health magazine on the basis of the crazed gleam in his eye.

"Well, fuck me! If it isn't the Ghost himself," he said to Ty. "We all thought you were dead."

"Dexter..." Ty issued a jaunty wave. "How's business?"

"Peachy. Who's the civvy twat?" Dexter jabbed a finger at me. I wasn't sure whether to be offended.

"An associate of mine," Edge replied. Dexter nodded thoughtfully, looking me up and down with an appraising stare. It was clear that he didn't much rate what he saw.

"Are you carrying?" he asked Ty who shook his head. "Don't mind if I check, do you mate? Just business," Dexter's voice was jovial but his eyes betrayed a hardness as he flowed over the mats towards us like mercury across a science lab bench.

Ty held his arms out and spread his legs whilst Dexter frisked him swiftly and expertly. He found nothing and tapped Edge on the shoulder as you might a friend who just bought you a pint.

"Your turn now, twat," he turned to me. "Make any sudden moves and I'll snap your fucking neck," he smiled but didn't sound like he was joking. I adopted a similar pose to Ty while Dexter patted me down with firm hands. Finally, he stood up and held out a hand.

"Dexter," he said. I took it and instantly regretted it, the man had a grip that would dent lead.

"Satchmo," I said, trying not to squeal at the pain in my hand.

"You're having me on!" he exclaimed, beaming.

"No, my name is Satchmo. My mum loved jazz," I sighed. This was a well-trodden path for me, as you might imagine. Dexter laughed showing a mouth full of snow-bright teeth.

"OK white boy, anyone with jazz in their blood is good by me," he said, turning back to Ty.

"Now, Ghost, what the fuck is going on here? You go AWOL on us for what? Three years? Now I get a phone call from you, on a number I do not know, asking for a meeting," Dexter smiled without it reaching his eyes.

"I need to buy some merchandise," Edge stated, deadpan.

"Shit, I've always got gear for you, man. Count Bassie here got you into trouble, huh?" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

"No, he's helping me out with a little problem," Ty replied. Dexter looked at me in stark disbelief.

"Him? This boy ain't no good for wet work!" Dexter laughed, a deep-throated rumble.

"He's operating more in an intel capacity," Edge winked conspiratorially.

"Hmm, J3 eh? All pussies. Well, let's hope you don't need him to do more than that, you get me?" Dexter replied.

"When have you ever known me to need anyone else?" Ty joked, returning Dexter's stare with equal intensity. If these guys met out in the woods, I imagined that this was the point that they would start rutting.

"Good point, brother," Dexter flashed his brilliant white teeth and relaxed. "Tell me what you need."

"I'll need two semis. One lightweight and forgiving; I'm thinking Glock. You have anything in 10 mm?" Ty began, speaking gibberish.

"M-hmm," Dexter nodded.

"Good, and I'll need something with a little more poke. I'll see what you have downstairs. Three mags apiece."

"No problem," Dexter snapped his fingers. Just another morning in the Duck and Dive gym.

"Also, I'll need something more conspicuous, in case it jumps off."

"I've got a beautiful little lady from the kraut Special Forces. Modified," Dexter said.

"OK. I'll check it out," Ty smiled as if the men had shared a joke. I didn't get any of it.

"You know the drill," Dexter said, removing a small bunch of keys from within his robe and tossing them to Edge. Dexter stepped off the mat and pulled it back to reveal a sunken trapdoor. "Help yourself," he said.

Ty lifted the trapdoor and descended a steep wooden staircase into the gloom of a basement. I started to follow but Dexter clamped a hand on my upper arm.

"Not you, Duke Ellington," he said firmly, leaving no room for discussion. "Ghost! You have fifteen minutes," he called down to Ty. "Let's sit and have a little chat, shall we Satchmo?"

*

Dexter and I sat on metal folding chairs alongside the ring. The two boys continued to spar, oblivious to us and what had happened. Dexter's gaze flitted from me to them, checking both of our form.

"So... How do you know Ghost?" he asked at length.

"I was hired to find Tyrone. I'm a Private Investigator. His uncle died and left him some property..." I began.

"Morgan is dead?" Dexter snapped. I had his attention now alright.

"Yes," I nodded.

"Natural causes?" he asked, trying for casual and missing.

"We are not sure..."

"... Which is why Ghost is here..." Dexter gazed off into the distance. "OK. You must be good to find Ghost. Maybe I have misjudged you, Satchmo," he said.

I took the use of my given name to be an acceptance of sorts and decided not to mention the precise details of my first meeting with Ty.

"Why do you call him Ghost?" I asked. He looked at me with a faint smile on his lips.

"You don't know much about your new friend, do you?" he smirked.

"No," I had to concede.

"I'm not having a go! No one knows the whole history of that guy. I'll let you in on what I reckon; how I met him," Dexter sighed, leaned back in his chain and stretched his legs out as if getting comfortable for a bedtime story.

It wasn't one I would relate to my kids.

"You've heard of the SAS. Civvie twats like you are always obsessed with them. Across the Army, Navy and Royal Marines there are plenty of other groups that can collectively be referred to as Special Forces: the SBS, Pathfinders, bootneck sniper teams and various other collections of serious nutters.

These guys train to operate anywhere, anytime. They can do just about anything after being dropped out of a plane, kicked off a boat or pretty much any other fucking thing they can lay their hands on," Dexter paused for breath.

"So, Ty was in one of these Special Forces groups?" I asked.

"No!" he chortled. "Taking orders is really not Ghost's strong suit. He was more attached to them as a sort of consultant.

"I was in the Paras. A Pathfinder," he stiffened a little and mimed placing a beret snugly onto his bald head.
"We were the first from the Regiment flung into the shit. Recon, intelligence, that kind of thing. We had to find out what was what, where the baddies were, how many of them needed a good killing and if they had anything that might cause problems.

We had to be able to track, you know? We would read sign left by an individual travelling across any terrain and can follow it like the fucking yellow brick road. I needed to see shit that other people don't know exists; a broken twig, a bent clump of grass, a stone in the wrong place or a rustling leaf.

About ten years ago, I was applying to join the Pathfinders and touring a series of small, shared training bases all over Europe. The test is a six-month course, and the final exam is a two-part evade and escape exercise that includes all the Special Forces recruits. One day you have to run, the next you have to track. I was just a punk kid at the time, cocky and mouthy..." he smiled, reminiscing.

I had to resist the powerful urge to ask him what had changed. Luckily, he continued unabated. I suspected that sarcasm would not be appreciated.

"I had done a couple of tours with my regular unit and fancied something with a little more action. There were twenty kids on the course trying out. Ghost was a fucking legend across the forces at the time, no one called him anything else, no rank, just Ghost. He was one of the instructors on the course and took part in the final E&E," Dexter paused, twitching and bobbing his head as he watched the two sparring boxers in the ring.