Page 66 of Savage Reckoning

We observe the night in companionable silence for the next few minutes, until… Whoosh!

“There goes Ilford,” Rome mutters.

The plume of dark-grey smoke ascends vertically in the still night air.

“Barking. Dagenham,” Rome murmurs as more towers of smoke appear.

I have to bow to his superior knowledge of London geography. One burning betting shop looks much like another to me. Already the sound of sirens is carrying on the light night-time breeze. We wait and watch.

One by one, the plumes of smoke grow and multiply. I count them, only giving up when I reach seventeen and they have become so thick and fast that I can no longer reliably differentiate one from another. The acrid smell of smoke hangs in the air, and the wail of sirens is near deafening by the time I decide I’ve seen enough.

“We leave at four-minute intervals,” I order. “Take it steady. The city will be swarming with police, and we don’t want any unwelcome attention. Oh, and nice work.”

Rome and I are the last to be on our way. Our progress towards the M25 is slowed by the throngs of emergency vehicles filling the streets, but they all seem much too intent upon reaching the scene of the latest apparently indiscriminate arson attacks to be interested in a humble baker’s van delivering early morning crusty loaves.

“We’ve located Archer.” Tony makes the announcement as we munch on bacon sandwiches acquired from the butty van a couple of streets away. “That was Casey,” he adds, with a nod towards his phone.

“Where?” I growl.

“Stevenage nick. He was hauled in for questioning over the fires. Suspected insurance fraud.”

That makes sense. Jerome Archer wouldn’t be the first to torch his own premises with a view to claiming a hefty pay-out.

“They won’t be able to prove anything, though,” Tony goes on. “So, we just need to be ready and waiting when they let him out.”

I’m not so sure. “Didn’t we agree that Casey would mess with his finances? If the cops inspect his books and think his companies are in trouble, that would be a motive for arson.”

“Well, that’s a possibility,” Tony agrees.

“What Archer needs is a shit-hot lawyer,” I suggest. “Who do you know?”

“Do I look like someone who hangs around with shit-hot lawyers?” Tony reaches for his phone again. “I’ll call Jed.”

Less than two hours later, we’re reliably informed that Mr Maurice Walkyngton-James QC has successfully sprung our man from jail, bailed to reside at his home in the Hertfordshire village of Nether Halton, having surrendered his passport.

“He won’t need documentation where he’s going,” Tony observes. “Let’s go pay him a visit.”

Archer’s Hertfordshire estate is ample proof, if that were needed, that crime pays. And pays handsomely. The lofty wrought-iron gates are barred and bolted when we arrive, but nothing that a set of bolt cutters can’t handle. We let ourselves onto the grounds and cruise in a convoy up the gravelled drive.

The place is three storeys high, fronted by a glorious Georgian facade. An ornamental fountain splashes gaily at the foot of the front steps, carved Grecian-style cherubs spewing water from their mouths. I suppose this must be the sort of thing the British aristocracy appreciate. To my uncultured colonial eye, it just seems tacky.

The lawns are nice, though. But I could take or leave the rose garden and the topiary.

We are greeted at the door by a middle-aged gentleman in butler’s livery. He regards us down his long nose and politely enquires as to what he can do for us. He might carry the superior attitude off, too, but for the beads of sweat erupting on his brow.

“You can fuck off nice and quietly,” I suggest, since it’s clear his heart’s not in it.

“Sir? If you would just—”

“We’ve no quarrel with you,” I snarl. “Take the day off. Same goes for anyone else who works here.”

The pompous little man sees sense. He turns and scuttles away, back into the house, leaving the door swinging open behind him. We take that as an invitation. Guns drawn, we start our search. Rome and I check the rooms on the right side of the spacious entry vestibule while Tony and Aaron cover those on the left. It’s Tony who runs the fox to earth.

“In here,” he calls.

We leave the bulk of our soldiers to guard our backs. So far, we’ve encountered nothing in the way of armed resistance, but you never know. Rome and I join Tony and Aaron in the study where Archer is seated at his massive desk, a laptop open before him and a tumbler half full of amber-coloured whisky in his hand. He glares at us.

“Who the fuck are you?” He reaches for the servant’s bell set into the wall behind him.

---