No Accounting for Taste

In my experience, those who beg for mercy seldom deserve it. But then, it depends which end of the knife you're on. I was thinking that I really did deserve some unstrained-quality stuff. Begging was out of the question, since the gag in my mouth was efficient. Only people who've been gagged by an expert realise why it's called a gag. On the comfortable end of the switch-blade was a tall, skinny guy with cool blue eyes and too much gold in his mouth. Vasiliev, my partner, or at least he had been, until the previous week.

About a year before, we'd driven up to Mijas Pueblo, taken the Mercedes Van, the one with SeguroGest written on the side. It was a real company – I'd registered it myself. The mail went to a PO Box in Seville, I hadn't checked it in two years. Luckily it was a big box. As the name suggests, SeguroGest is the name of a Security Consultancy. It was a cold call. To a modest villa, but we'd done some research though and I believed the trip up from Fuengirola would be worthwhile. The owner answered the door himself. The twinkle in the eye was dulled, but the teeth were still white. I'd expected one of those famous pullovers. The accent was stronger than when he'd been the comfortable chap in the corner of British lounges forty years ago, singing songs about goats and motor cars that wouldn't go.

'Can I help you?' he said. His eyes darted to Vasiliev behind me.

'I think we can help you, Mr Callaghan.' I said.

'Oh?' The security chain on the door slackened as he narrowed the gap, 'How's that?'

'We're here to give you a total security review. FOC, gratis, no obligation. Nada.'

The door was closing still further, 'No, no thank you.'

Vasiliev gave it the full guttural Slav: 'Are you sure, Mr Kellechen?'

'Yes, yes, quite sure.'

The door closed in our faces, but that was fine. Cold calls hardly ever produced results. I jammed a SeguroGest business card between the door and its frame and Vasiliev wrote down the numbers of the two cars in the drive. No Roller, just two Lexus, the big limo and a fake off-roader. Then it was back into the van and down to Fuengirola. Vasiliev and I had someone to see.

Winter had already lasted far too long. There is nowhere in the world as miserable as the Costas in the rain. The white stucco turns grey, and the tower blocks look like Karl Marx Stadt used to in the bad old days. Vasiliev calls them the good old days, and it's a point of view, I suppose. We parked the van in one of the dedicated bays in the underground car park near the marina. The bay belonged to one of the boarded up Brit bars on the Paseo Maritimo. I'd paid for the tow-away of the Galloper 4x4 myself, six months ago. It would probably be another six months before anyone realised the bay wasn't being paid for.

Vasiliev and I headed for one of the Night Clubs near the first line. Like most of these places lining the Med, it was a brothel, more or less. Some distant relation of Vasiliev's ran this one. At about 11 in the morning it wasn't open, of course, but the Russian's face at the Judas hole was enough to get us in. During the day strip-lighting provided the illumination, showing the furniture and fittings for the cheap tat it was. Two hollow-eyed women sat at a table, smoking. My partner's distant relation was sitting at - or near – another. Kravchenko was as cartoon-fat as Vasiliev was thin and his chair was placed as near the table as his stomach would allow it to be.
In front of him was huge serving platter of grilled langoustines. He was popping them one at a time, head and all into a fleshy-lipped mouth. With his shining, shaven head he could have been anything from forty to sixty-something. He looked at Vasiliev,

'What you want, Grigor Ivanovich?'

Bits of shell exploded from his mouth on saying the patronymic. I felt a bit sick, imagining Kravchenko as some kind of manatee stranded too far from the beach.

'What would I want? To see a relative, that's all?'

Vasiliev speaks better English than I do. It's just that for business, it's sometimes convenient to play to the stereotype.

Kravchenko grunted, 'Гавно' – 'shit'. He shouted something else in Russian at one of the girls. She got up and fetched a bottle and three glasses.

'What no vodka?' I said.

'That shit for Russians, we Europeans now.'

He poured us all a Jack Daniels and I stifled a laugh.

We drank it. Kravchenko's drinking style had not changed from the traditional. I was surprised he didn't smash the glass.

'What you want?' he asked again.

'Two teams. Car boost and burglary.' I said

'Is expensive.' He grabbed four langoustines at once and bit the heads off all four.

'Use Romanians, we don't mind.' Vasiliev contributed.

'Thousand for car, two thousand for house. Scare good, yes?' Kravchenko's eyes gleamed.

'Don't be stupid,' I said, 'they're old. Do the house when they're out.'

'Message on wall, stuff like that?'

I couldn't understand all these questions. Kravchenko had found people to provide these services before.

'Look, they can do what they want, inside the house, okay.' I told him.

'Very good, I know who send. Money now.'

He held out a palm, pudgy yet powerful at the same time. I took out my wallet started counting out 200 Euro notes. He laughed and pointed at the yellow paper,

'Now who stupid? Fifties, Mr Chandler: why I take two hundreds? Nobody take fakes!'

He shook his head at me, and most likely it was a stupid thing to do, pay him with something he might well have had a hand in faking himself. I reached into an inside pocket and handed over a bundle of sixty fifties as grubby as the elastic band holding them together.

'Next two days,' he waved his fingers in that brushing motion that looks so gay, even if one of the Братва is doing it. We turned to leave the club, anyway.

As we were approaching the door, he bellowed something in Russian. Vasiliev didn't break stride: I turned back to look and wished I hadn't. Kravchenko was throwing langoustines toward the two 'dancers', they were trying to catch them in their open mouths, whilst slapping at each other.

Outside on the Calle Churruco, Vasiliev turned to me,

'I need a drink, let's go down to the front.'

We did and that took care of the two days.

I didn't get the call until the third day though. The number came through on the mobile display, but it didn't recognise it and nor did I. The voice was recognisable, just. It was an old man's now, with the shake and the quaver old age's loss of confidence brings,

'Se-seguro Guessed,' the unfamiliar company name Anglicised, as usually happened.

'Yes, who's calling?' I asked, although of course I knew.

'It's Mal, Mal Callaghan. I wonder...'

'Consultation? No obligation, of course.'

'Ah... It's … quite urgent,' the old man said.

'No problem, I'll come up this afternoon.'

Vasiliev was seeing to some 'private business' in Puerto Banus. My objections to his sidelines fell on the deafest of ears. He made quite a bit of money, as far as I knew, usually involving the recovery of packages from yachts in the marina. I never saw a Euro of it, although he'd asked me twice to drive him down and back. So, I was quite happy to go up to Mijas on my own.

One day, when the Mijas Costa marathon roadworks were finished, that would be the quickest route to Mijas Pueblo and Casa Callaghan. I took the coast road to the far side of Fuengirola and then the mountain road up to the Pueblo. As soon as you start climbing, the buildings – even in the rain – are somehow brighter. Of course, once you're the first hundred metres above sea-level, nothing is more than two-storeys high and the buildings themselves are as individual as their owners. It was the usual perilous drive, the switchback road being made all the more dangerous by Spanish drivers going too fast and British drivers going far too slow. I passed two yellow Seats crumpled on the mountainside, not bad – but they hadn't been there three days ago.

At Callaghan's villa the Lexus luxury saloon still stood outside. The 4x4 was absent. This time however the double gate at the front was padlocked and I hooted the horn. The front door opened, still on the security chain: I could make out a white face in the gap. Luckily, I'd driven up in the Mercedes van. Callaghan opened the door and began to shuffle towards the double gate, jangling a large key ring. I supposed he couldn't help that. It wasn't far from his front door to the gate. There had been room for little more than the two Lexus and an over-ornate water feature, a ghastly plaster fountain featuring cherubim - and frogs, for some reason. He fumbled with the keys, but got the padlock open eventually. Unwrapping the heavy link-chain proved difficult for him too. He opened the gates and I nosed the Mercedes in, knocking off one of the baby angels on the way. I saw Callaghan's wince, but he didn't say anything.

The man escorted me in to a spacious living room. I looked around. Plainly Vasiliev and I hadn't done enough research. The house was at the edge of the road, but to the rear the hillside sloped away. The building was built into the side of it. A glazed wall looked out into space over a huge terrace. In one corner of the room was a staircase leading downstairs. What looked a modest home from the roadside was actually an impressive feat of engineering. I reckoned it had cost a lot in architect's fees and I revised mine upward.

'Sit down, um... sorry I've forgotten...' he started, having flopped into a heavily upholstered chair. I noted he ignored the rocker, and took the sofa myself.

'Chandler, call me Ray,' I made a face. 'Military people aren't very imaginative, it stuck.'

'Ray... OK.' He pointed to his face, he'd put some stage make-up over a black eye.

'What can I do for you?'

'Burglars. Yesterday... no, night before last. Eileen was very upset. Especially...'

'Yes?'

'We were car-jacked! In Torremolinos, in broad daylight. The day before.'

'That's so unlucky, where were you?'

'In the underground car-pack. They had...'

'Guns was it?' I didn't think he could say it.

'They even took our money... said they needed it for the ticket.'

'Police?'

'For the car?' He looked puzzled.

'Both,' I said.

'They came eventually. 112. Emergencies.' He laughed bitterly. 'It took half an hour to get an English speaker.' He hesitated, 'Eileen's gone. Home... Ireland.'

I knew from the internet he'd been living here fifteen years.

'Well... Can I call you Mal?' He looked out of the glazed wall. 'This is what we do, Mal.'

I explained the service we offered. Alarm with remote connection to our 24 hour monitored desk, for the house and any cars. The motor vehicle unit included a transponder which we could use to track a stolen vehicle. There was also had a panic button in the domestic and mobile units, which would also show up at our base unit. Normally, we offered a monthly visit from our representative to review security, and to collect the monthly service charge. I didn't mention this. Mr Callaghan wouldn't be getting that kind of service. It was going to be a one-shot deal, for me.

Callaghan took me round the current system: a poor CCTV coverage, two cameras at the front, nothing at the back; basic electronic door and window alarms. It was quite old, perhaps he'd put it in with the house. The Romanians had probably found it very easy to get past.

'I can slave our domestic unit off the current system, it will raise an alarm at our monitoring centre if anyone tries to disable the main alarm.'

'Where is the centre? How soon can help get here?'

'You'll never need it, people see SeguroGest on the gate and they pick another property.'

And he wouldn't need it, people knew our firm, all along the coast. We spread the word in the right quarters too, but that was just insurance, really.

He looked a little taken aback when I named the figure. I told him €10,000 wasn't a lot for peace of mind, especially if it brought his wife back from Ireland. I put the box up on the wall beside his alarm system, even reconnected the cut wires and tested it. Then I attached a smaller box to the underside of the Lexus. They wouldn't do any harm, they were only filled with polystyrene, after all. I gave him a thingamajig with a big button to plug into the cigar lighter.

'You don't smoke, do you?'

He shook his head.

'Just leave it plugged in then.'

I looked in the back of the van, we were out of signs. He looked relieved when I told him I'd drop one off in a few days. He looked pathetically grateful as I drove away. I was thinking about where to invest ten grand.

Some things slip through the cracks. Your eye is on the gap in the traffic in front and you don't see the guy until he's blind-sided you. Or you don't quite forget something and for a few weeks you wake up at night wondering what it is you can't quite remember. You tell yourself it can't be that important or you would remember. Eventually, there's something else to think about.

About a year later, Vasiliev and I were sitting in one of the WIN sports bars that had sprung up all along the coast. People were able to bet on sports and drink at the same time. I didn't care for it, but Vasiliev liked it. The TV's were showing some English Premier League fixture between two of the sixteen also-rans. I supposed it beat betting on raindrops on a window pane, but not by much. We were at the bar, the game finished to groans and cheers depending on which drop of water the punters had bet on. The barman wafted the remote and clicked on Sky News. I was ignoring it, until Vasiliev elbowed me:

'Look.'

'What?' but I looked. The pictures showed the dramatic rear elevation of the house. The buzz bar mentioned the name and a disturbed burglary. The picture cut to an old publicity still; jumper, rocking chair and all.

'Should have taken our offer, shouldn't he?' Vasiliev laughed.

'Yeah, he should,' I felt sick, knowing that I'd forgotten the sign, and the 'insurance'.

'Ah well, should be good for business though, hey?'

I finished my beer, although it had been barely touched up to that point. Then I asked for another.

A few days later, Vasiliev dissolved the partnership by text message. I looked for him at Kravchenko's place. The fat Russian wasn't there either, at least according to the goon who turned me away from the door with the Judas hole.

So, a week later, there I was; gagged, tied to a chair, with Vasiliev pointing a switch-blade at me in some basement that stank of piss. I didn't see any cats. Vasiliev lunged at me with the knife. I kept myself very still, any flinch would have resulted in a cut for me, instead of the gag.

'Look, I'll give you the money.' My voice was only a few octaves higher than normal.

Vasiliev laughed, 'Money! I got more from Kravchenko.'

'What, what's he got to do with it?'

'He remembers the good old days too, London posting.'

He was waving the knife in front of my eyes.

'What are you talking about?' It was a mouthful with one as dry as mine.

Vasiliev smiled and pushed my shoulder,

'Kravchenko used to watch him on TV.'

I felt sick, but it wasn't the motion of the chair rocking backward and forward.