The fact that his granddaughter had just turned sixteen was only tangentially relevant to Freddie Clarke’s latest dinner party. Of the roughly two dozen guests in attendance, most of them were adults—friends and associates of Clarke’s, here for the free food and the company of their illustrious peers. The birthday girl herself had put in a token appearance at the start of the evening, taken a few photos for her burgeoning online following, then disappeared into her room with her phone.
Pre-dinner drinks were had in Clarke’s parlour, a spacious 70s deco-luxe lounge decorated in shades of cream and gold. The murmur of multiple conversations filled the space, an occasional laugh or exclamation breaking through the incoherent babble.
Derek Chapman was having an awful evening. He’d won a few seconds of the host’s time upon his arrival, but that had ended quickly as Clarke turned his attention toward the next guest to arrive. Now Chapman wandered the parlour, wine glass in hand, hovering at the edge of one conversation for a few minutes before moving on to the next. The other guests barely noticed him.
There was a bright moment of hope when he spotted Clarke apparently alone, standing in the high, arched doorway between the parlour and the foyer. It was only as Chapman got closer that he noticed Clarke was talking to someone standing just outside the room: a younger man, wearing a light grey suit.
“She’s humouring me, of course,” Clarke was saying, as Chapman moved close enough to hear. “The proper party with all her friends is this weekend. I just wanted something special on the actual day.”
“Thank you for fitting me in on such short notice,” the other man replied. He had a lean, fierce look to him—a sense of coiled energy, quietly held in check.
“Oh, I was delighted to hear from you—I haven’t seen your mother in ages. How is she?”
The stranger looked up and met Chapman’s eyes over Clarke’s shoulder. He cleared his throat.
Turning slightly, Clarke said, “Ah, Derek.” To the stranger, he said, “Sebastian, this is Derek Chapman, my new neighbour. Derek, this is Captain Sebastian Moran.”
Moran’s handshake was warm and enthusiastic, his eyes bright. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Chapman.”
“Likewise,” Chapman replied stiffly.
Clarke’s attention had already drifted back to Moran, as if he’d forgotten Chapman was there. “As I was saying, your mother—”
“Freddie,” Moran interrupted smoothly, “didn’t you say you needed to check with the caterers about the cake?”
Clarke blinked. “I did, didn’t I? You don’t mind if I—”
“No, no, go on,” Sebastian said, gesturing toward the kitchen with his glass.
With a grateful nod, Clarke hurried away down the hall.
Moran, meanwhile, turned back to Chapman. There was something unnerving about being the sole focus of his attention; as he raised his glass to his lips, Chapman eyes were drawn to Moran’s antique silver cufflinks. Probably a family heirloom.
Anyone could get their hands on a nice suit, these days. The real thing to look out for was a good pair of cufflinks.
“Chapman,” Moran said, as if recalling the name. “You’re the one handling that new development in North Kensington, aren’t you?”
Standing up a little straighter, Chapman said, “That’s my company, yes.”
“Excellent work clearing out that old council block. Bit of an eyesore, I always thought.” Moran idly swirled the contents of his glass. “Although I hear the residents kicked up a fuss.”
“They had more than enough time to find other accommodations,” Chapman replied, repeating the usual line. Then, sensing a receptive audience, he went on: “Scroungers, the lot of them. Never built anything themselves.”
“Unlike you,” Moran pointed out.
“Exactly! Me, I never accepted a handout in my life. Built my business up from nothing, all by myself. You get what you earn, in this life—and if you don’t work for anything, you can’t complain when you lose out to those who do.”
Moran hummed in response, but didn’t offer anything further.
Desperate to fill the silence that followed, Chapman said, “So, er … what business are you in?”
With a shrug, as if it were dreadfully boring, Moran said, “Exotic animals.”
It was, perhaps, the last thing Chapman had expected him to say. “You’re serious?”
“I made some contacts abroad while I was deployed,” Moran explained. “Very helpful when it comes to fulfilling requests. Especially at the rates my clients are willing to pay.”
Chapman turned the idea over in his head. “So there’s money in it.”
Moran grinned around the rim of his glass. “Oh, yes.” He finished off his drink and set it on a nearby table. “Freddie’s been after me to find him a Bengal tiger.”
The thought stalled Chapman’s brain in its tracks. “A tiger?”
“Wanted one for ages,” Moran said, obviously considering this adorable and quaint. “Commissioned an architect to design the enclosure and everything.”
“And you can really get one for him?”
“More easily than you’d think.” Moran cast his gaze around the room, checking for eavesdroppers; when he looked back to Chapman, there was a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Look, since you’re so interested … maybe we should speak privately.”
A thrill ran through Chapman at the words. He’d had his worries about this party; it had taken no end of fawning and wheedling just to get an invitation, and a few minutes ago it seemed like all that work was for nothing. But in just a few minutes he’d impressed one of Freddie Clarke’s peers enough to be offered a glimpse behind the curtain.
Chapman got what he earned. And he’d earned this.
“I suppose I could spare the time,” he said, as casually as he could manage.
Moran produced a business card from his pocket and scrawled an address on the back before handing it to Chapman. “Meet me here, tomorrow afternoon.”
The address on the card turned out to be a private club in Marylebone.
Rather than suffer the frustration of parking in London or the indignity of a cab, Chapman called Toby Wright to come and pick him up. By the time they arrived at the club, Chapman had explained the events of the previous evening.
“Something’s off.” Wright peered through the window at the looming neoclassical edifice of the club. “One conversation, and now this toff you’ve never met before wants to make a big secret deal?”
Chapman flipped the sun visor down and adjusted his tie in the mirror. “It’s called networking. And I’m fucking good at it.” Last night’s encounter with Sebastian Moran already felt like a half-remembered dream. But it was real. It had to be real.
“At least let me come in with you,” Wright insisted.
Irritated, Chapman flicked the visor back into place. “Really? You think they’d let you into a place like this?”
Wright glared at him, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “You owe me more fucking respect than that.”
“You get exactly as much respect as you deserve from me,” Chapman fired back. “If you don’t like it, find another job. I hear there are plenty of opportunities for ex-offenders in this city.”
With that, Chapman levered himself out of the car and made for the club entrance.
He shortly found himself in a vast, austere reception area; the click of his shoes on the polished floors echoed through the otherwise silent space, heralding his arrival. Behind a curved desk topped in black glass sat a severely-dressed young woman. She watched him expectantly, but didn’t say a word.
“I’m here to meet Sebastian Moran,” Chapman said, and revelled a little in saying it.
The receptionist nodded. “Captain Moran is expecting you. He’s in the Scarlet Room.”
With a quick gesture, she summoned a porter who led Chapman past the reception area into the narrow, labyrinthine halls of the club. The decor was minimalist, all in shades of black and white, interrupted by the occasional bloom of vivid red. Most of the doors he passed were closed, but a few sat slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of the sumptuous yet oddly dungeon-like rooms beyond. A few of the club’s patrons crossed his path as they moved from room to room; many were dressed in leather, or latex.
Before long, Chapman had come to a definite conclusion as to what kind of club this was.
His odyssey ended in a cavernous room somewhere at the rear of the building, although Chapman had lost any sense of direction shortly after he entered the club’s halls. A circular bar occupied the centre of the space; the rest of the room was filled with blocky, abstract lounge furniture, all in same vivid shade of red. Dark, heavy curtains covered the room’s windows, and for good reason: its occupants were in various states of undress and a wide variety of close embraces.
The porter brought Chapman to where Moran sat in a languorous sprawl across a cylindrical armchair. He’d shed his jacket at some point, and his collar was unbuttoned down to the neck of his vest, his sleeves rolled up. A near-empty tumbler dangled from his fingers.
Despite the debauchery around them, Moran looked for all the world as if he were having a quiet drink at the Ritz.
“Mr. Chapman.” Moran didn’t bother to stand, instead motioning for Chapman to sit in the chair across from him. “Glad you could make it.”
The porter departed, and Chapman sank stiffly into the offered seat.
A waitress appeared and gestured to Moran’s glass. “Care for a refill, Captain?”
Moran drained the glass and handed it over. “If Thea’s still got that bottle of Suntory Toki stashed away, I’ll have a double of that.” He glanced at Chapman. “What about you?”
Chapman turned his head, shunting Moran firmly out of sight and focusing on the waitress instead. She was dressed just as severely as the receptionist, but her wide hips and substantial arse filled out the apparently-uniform pencil skirt much better. The accompanying blouse didn’t quite fit; the buttons gaped slightly over her breasts, offering glimpses of skin and lace beneath. A wisp of her hair had fallen free from the tight bun she wore it in.
“Whiskey, neat,” he said, and concentrated on the thought of tugging her hair out of that bun.
The waitress nodded and left. Chapman watched her go, then took a breath and turned his gaze back to Moran.
“Lovely arse on her,” he remarked, with a leering smirk.
Moran’s only response was a flinty stare, as though Chapman had been tested and found wanting. Then he blinked, and the expression was gone.
Chapman shifted in his seat and—eager to change the subject—said, “Interesting venue.”
“Only place you can really have a private conversation, these days.” Moran waved vaguely around the room. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who’d even admit they were here, much less what they may have overheard.” With a wink, he added, “Don’t worry, old boy. All the real depravity happens behind closed doors.”
To Chapman’s relief, that was the moment the waitress returned. Moran thanked her as she handed over their drinks, and then she was gone again.
Chapman devoted a great deal of attention to the glass in his hand. “So, er … why are we having such a private conversation?”
Moran rolled his head to one side with a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Well, it’s about Freddie’s tiger.”
Chapman’s eyebrows went up. “You found one, then.”
Moran hummed in agreement, bringing his glass to his lips. “There’s an issue of funding, though. And time.”
“Time?”
“I have some school chums in government,” Moran explained. “They’re about to crack down on exotic animal imports. It’s going to make my work a bit difficult, but—” he leaned forward in his seat, “—once the crackdown starts, the value of any animals already in the country will skyrocket. If we sneak this tiger in under the wire, I guarantee Freddie will pay through the nose for it.”
Once again, Chapman found himself the full focus of Moran’s attention. Despite the man’s charisma and aristocratic nonchalance, Chapman couldn’t help but feel as though he were alone in a dark wood—with something sleek and hungry prowling just out of sight.
He took a long swallow of his drink. “And how much do you need to get it here?”
“Three and a half million.”
Chapman nearly dropped his glass. “Pounds?”
“Ideally, yes.” Moran drew closer, speaking quietly. “Bengal tigers are endangered, remember. And this one was caught in the wild. Most of that money goes toward transportation, forged papers, bribes—”
“So this is—” Chapman suppressed the urge to glance around. “This is illegal, what we’d be doing.”
“Oh, yes.” Moran smiled, and for a moment it seemed odd that he didn’t have fangs. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
There was such flat, haughty disdain in his voice that Chapman couldn’t help but reply, “No, no, of course not.” He cleared his throat and gulped down more whiskey. “When you say Clarke will pay through the nose—”
“Twelve million, easy,” Moran said. “Less the initial cost, that’s four and change for each of us. You’ll double your money, and then some.”
It was a compelling proposal, and not just in financial terms. Chapman could, if he played this right, be the man who granted Freddie Clarke his heart’s desire. And once he’d done that, there was nowhere to go but up.
“I’ll do it,” he said, “on one condition.”
“He what?”
Moran paced the modest length of his living room, raking both hands through his hair. “He wants to hand the tiger over to Clarke personally.”
Jay found it necessary to state the obvious: “We don’t have a tiger.”
“Well, we need to get one.”
“You told me—” Jay groaned and rolled his neck in a slow circle; he’d spent the day on Moran’s sofa, hunched over his laptop, and now his spine felt like it was full of aquarium gravel. “You told me you’d have no trouble with Chapman. You said you had him figured out.”
Moran stopped pacing and glared at Jay. “I did convince him to give me nearly four million pounds over the course of a single meeting.”
“On the condition that we produce a live tiger,” Jay fired back. “By the end of this week. I doubt even the old boys’ network can help with that.”
Moran opened his mouth, then closed it again; he seemed to be thinking.
“Fuck off.” Jay stared at him in giddy disbelief. “You can’t get a tiger.”
Moran, however was already on his phone and scrolling through his contacts. He glanced up at Jay with a sly, impish smile, and Jay found himself smiling in turn.
A few taps and Moran’s phone was ringing, pressed to his ear as he settled into an armchair at the other end of the room. His smile widened into an adoring grin. “Anika!”
Jay’s face fell. Something furious and ugly sank its teeth into the pit of his stomach.
After a few words from whoever was on the other end of the call, Moran went on: “Yeah, I’m all right. Meant to text you, but things got complicated. Listen—do you want to meet for dinner or something?”
“Everything you just said sounds insanely illegal.”
Anika had suggested the venue: a closet-sized ramen bar at the end of what could only be described as a “murder alley,” which she insisted made the best noodles in London. She’d been waiting when they arrived and immediately jumped to her feet to drag Moran into a fierce hug. And Moran hadn’t just let her do it—he’d hugged her back, arms tight around her waist, and she’d shrieked in delight when he lifted her off the ground.
When the public display of affection was finally over, Moran had introduced Jay. Anika greeted him with easygoing cheer, and Jay hated her instantly.
Then, after they’d eaten, Moran casually broached the subject of acquiring a live tiger—and when Anika asked why he needed one, he’d fucking told her.
“Oh, it’s illegal,” Moran admitted, without a moment’s hesitation. They sat at one of the restaurant’s tiny tables: Anika on one side, Moran across from her with Jay at his side. Moran reached across the table and bumped Anika’s fingers with his; in a soft voice, he went on: “I wouldn’t ask you to get involved if it weren’t important. If you weren’t the only person who could help.”
It wasn’t the voice Moran used when he was playing a role. It was the voice Jay had heard that night outside the pub, right before Moran kissed him.
Jay clenched his teeth and considered the practicalities of murdering someone with a chopstick.
Anika’s lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes fixed on her hands as she fidgeted with a bubble in the aged Formica surface of the table. Moran didn’t push, simply waited patiently as she mulled it over.
With a decisive sigh, Anika said, “I’ve got a friend in customs. They caught someone trying to smuggle a Bengal tiger on a private cargo flight. It’s been impounded.”
“All right.” Jay turned the idea over in his mind. “So, we steal the tiger—”
“Borrow.” Anika jabbed a finger in Jay’s face. “You borrow the tiger, and the moment you’ve got Chapman’s money, I call animal control and tell them where to get it back.”
Moran reached out and gently pushed Anika’s hand back down to the table. “Deal.”
“And I want to handle the animal myself. I don’t trust either of you to do it properly.” Anika gave Moran an apologetic look. “No offence, love.”
Moran shrugged, obviously unhurt, but Jay didn’t care for where this was going. “That would mean bringing you in on the insanely illegal enterprise you’re so worried about.”
“Yeah,” Anika said, resigned, then brightened. “I want to do a voice.”
“Under no circumstances,” Moran replied immediately, “should you do a voice.”
“Oh, please?” It was as if he’d just told her she couldn’t have ice cream for dinner. “I’ve been doing impressions of my mum for years. Everyone loves it.”
Before the conversation could degenerate further, Jay broke in. “Where exactly,” he said, “are they keeping this impounded tiger?”
Leave a Reply