The Drop

loyalty. It was an absurd notion but I got a little surge of panic anyway. The heat in the steam room was making me feel weak and I wanted to get out of there.
    ‘The Drop. I need to make good on the Drop. I want you to deliver it and I want you to take Finney, just in case.’
    Just in case someone tries to kill me or just in case I try and run off with it, I wondered, probably both.
    ‘When we realised it hadn’t reached him I managed to buy us some time but it did not go down well,’ he continued, ‘so I’ve put some extra in there to sugar the pill. Northam will let you have it when you turn up with Finney. Make sure you hand it over to Amrein personally and whatever you do make sure he understands we are back in control.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said. He was teaching me to suck eggs but I understood. He was stressing out, making sure no detail was left to chance. I’d have done the same in his shoes. ‘I’ll get it there, no problem.’
    ‘Good, make sure you do.’
    I spent Monday morning at our restaurant in the Quayside. I knew I’d get some peace there. I sat at a table before it opened to the public, making calls, sending members of our crew out on errands, following up leads and leaning on people, anybody I could think of who might know anything about Cartwright, however trivial. My meeting with Bobby had bought me some time but I knew I couldn’t relax, not until I’d got his money back, every penny.
    The sun came out, shining through the big open windows, bathing the place. It was a lovely spot and Bobby hadn’t skimped on the décor; bright white linen tablecloths topped with outsized wine glasses and expensive flower arrangements, welcomed the diners, who could sink into soft leather banquette seating and chose from a wine list that had more pages than the phone book. This was about as classy as we got.
    The place opened up around me and people started to wander in. It was quite busy for the beginning of the week; mostly business lunches by the look of it, but there were one or two well-heeled couples and some ladies who lunched.
    I took calls from our guys as they reported back to me. Nobody had come up with anything new. No one knew anything about this mysterious Russian. One of the waitresses brought me a plate of halloumi and chorizo, some foccaccia and hummus and a glass of Sauvignon. She was a pretty little thing, neat in her crisp, white blouse, short black skirt and dark stockings, with her honey coloured hair tied back, not much make-up, natural looking, the way I like them.
    ‘Chef thought you might fancy a plate of something, Mister Blake?’ she said, then she smiled, ‘the wine was my idea.’
    ‘Tell the chef he’s a mind reader,’ I told her, ‘and you’re a darling.’
    She gave me a big smile before she walked away. It was a nice little spread but I made sure I got through it quick before any of our crew caught me eating ‘poncy foreign food’. Most of our lads thought lasagne was exotic. Me? I’m different. I’m interested in good food and decent wine. One day, I’ll have enough money to open a restaurant like this myself, somewhere classy with a good chef and a respectable wine list, that you wouldn’t be ashamed to take your other half to on her birthday. Until that day though, well, as they say, this beats working for a living. Well, usually. Today was a bit different of course.
    I was just finishing my lunch when in walked DS Sharp followed by a man I’d never seen before. He was a short, rotund guy in a long, black overcoat with a cheap grey suit beneath it, the collar of his white shirt slightly frayed. He was obviously one of those men who never looked entirely comfortable in a suit - that fact alone would probably prevent further promotion.
    Sharp pointed me out. The shorter man walked up to me determinedly.
    ‘David Blake?’ he asked me, ‘Detective Inspector Clifford,’ he added sternly, with the unmistakeable accent of East London. He made sure he showed me his warrant card, holding it high enough for the other diners to satisfy their curiosity. It was a form of harassment I was used to and I was hardly going to be embarrassed by it, ‘you’ve probably heard, I’m the new kid on the block,’ I thought that was an odd description for a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a straggly little moustache that contained a greasy fragment of his breakfast. What was it with these two and their ‘taches?
    ‘No,’ I said, as if his arrival