Dead Man's Grip

on the large number of Hispanic gangs prevalent on the streets of LA and in the prisons, giving guidance on how to recognize and interpret their slang, the symbols on their clothing and in their tattoos, and their hand signals, all of which were copied by the less organized but equally nasty UK street gangs.
    ‘Popping?’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘What’s popping is that I want you to take this evening’s briefing. ’ Grace grinned, clocking Branson’s even sharper than usual suit
– grey with purple chalk stripes. ‘That’s if you haven’t got an appointment with your tailor.’
    ‘Yep, well, I need to make you one, get you some new summer gear.’
    ‘Thanks, you did that last year and cost me two grand.’
    ‘You’ve got a beautiful young fiancée. You don’t want to take her out dressed like an old git.’
    ‘Actually, that’s why I need you to take over from me this evening. I’m taking her out tonight. Got tickets for a concert at the O 2 in London.’
    Branson’s eyes widened. ‘Cool. What concert?’
    ‘The Eagles.’
    Branson gave him a sad bastard stare and shook his head. ‘Get real! The Eagles? That’s old git’s music! She’s an Eagles fan?’
    Grace tapped his chest. ‘No, I am.’
    ‘I know that, old-timer. Seen them in your house. Can’t believe how many of their albums you have.’
    ‘“Lyin’ Eyes” and “Take It Easy” are two of the best singles of all time.’
    Branson shook his head. ‘You’ve probably got Vera Lynn on your iPod, as well.’
    Grace blushed. ‘Actually I still haven’t got an iPod.’
    ‘That figures.’ Branson sat down, put his elbows on Grace’s desk and stared him hard in the eyes. ‘She’s just come out of hospital and you’re going to inflict the Eagles on her? I can’t believe it!’
    ‘I bought the tickets ages ago, for a fortune. Anyhow, it’s a quid pro quo.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’
    ‘In exchange, I’ve promised to take Cleo to a musical.’ He gave Glenn a helpless look. ‘I don’t like musicals. Give and take, right?’
    Branson’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me. The Sound of Music ?’
    Grace grinned. ‘Don’t even go there.’

44
    Tooth drove from the Avis section of the car park, made a circuit of the airport and drove in through the entrance marked Long Term Car Park. Instead of following the directions to Today’s Parking Area, he headed off, steadily driving up and down the lanes of cars already parked there, looking for other Toyota Yaris models that were of the same year and colour as his own.
    Within twenty minutes he had identified five. Three of them were parked in deserted areas, out of sight of any CCTV cameras. Working quickly, he removed each of their front and rear licence plates and put them in the boot of his car. Then, paying the minimum fee, he drove back out of the car park and headed towards the Premier Inn, one of the hotels close to the airport perimeter.
    There he requested a second-floor room, one with a view of the hotel parking area and the main entrance. He favoured second-floor rooms. No one outside could see in and should he need to leave in a hurry, via the window, that was a survivable jump, for him. He also told the woman receptionist he was expecting delivery of a FedEx package.
    He locked the door, placed his bag on the bed, opened it and took out the brown envelope Ricky Giordino had given him. Then he moved the wooden desk in front of the window, climbed on to it and taped over the smoke detector on the ceiling, before sitting in the purple chair and staring out and down. The hotel had taken trouble over the parking area. Well-trimmed bushes, low ornamental hedges, round wooden tables, a covered smoking shelter. Seventy-two cars, including his small dark grey Toyota, were parked in neat rows. He remembered the make, colour and position of them all. That was something he had learned from his days in the military. You remembered what you could see. When some detail, however small, changed, that was the time to be concerned.
    Beyond the far end of the lot was a tall red crane and beyond
that the dark hulk of a building rising in the distance with the words GATWICK NORTH TERMINAL near the roofline in large white letters.
    He made himself an instant coffee and then studied once more the contents of the envelope.
    Three photographs. Three names.
    Stuart Ferguson. A stocky man of forty-five with a shaven head and a triple chin, wearing a green polo shirt with the words ABERDEEN OCEAN