Page 19 of End Game
‘Breakfast Monday morning,’ said William, ‘usual place, usual time.’
The phone went dead.
23 June 2012 – 34 days to go
BERNIELONGE SAT AT HIS DESK, two henchmen perched like bookends on either side of him. He stared at the stack of ten-pound notes in front of him like soldiers on parade. A monthly consultation fee for a man who didn’t deal in cheques or credit cards, and only paid tax on his salary as the chairman of the local council’s Business Opportunities Committee.
Councillor Dawson had begun life in a council house on the Bevan Estate and ended up as its councillor. After his appointment as chairman, his council house had been exchanged for a penthouse flat in Canary Wharf. His two children were educated not in the borough, but in private schools in the West Country, and his wife preferred to shop in Harvey Nichols rather than M&S. They holidayed in the south of Spain, where they hoped to retire, along with several other past chairmen of Finance, Housing and Business Opportunities.
A knock on the door meant it must be ten o’clock, because Councillor Dawson, like the rent collector, was never late. Their monthly meeting was the only time they ever met. No phone calls, no emails, no letters that might suggest they knew each other.
‘Come,’ said Longe, which was slightly redundant, as Councillor Dawson had already entered the room.
If you had passed Dawson in the street, you might have mistaken him for a City broker, dressed in his Savile Row suit, Turnbull & Asser shirt and wearing handmade shoes from Loake. However, once he opened his mouth, the illusion was shattered, because you can’t purchase a West End accent in Jermyn Street.
Working in partnership, the local mafia boss (or respected businessman, as he preferred to be called) and the bent councillor (re-elected for a fourth term) were about to make a killing by simply being in the right place at the right time. The 2012 London Olympics had landed on their doorstep.
‘Good morning, Councillor,’ said Longe, who never addressed Dawson by his Christian name. ‘Have you earned your commission this month?’
‘More than,’ responded Dawson, as he sat down, his eyes focused on the stack of notes in front of him. ‘In fact, I may have come across our biggest opportunity yet.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Longe, as an attractive young woman in a miniskirt appeared carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of assorted biscuits. She placed the biscuits in the middle of the desk, next to the pile of notes.
Councillor Dawson took a chocolate biscuit before giving her a second look. He’d never seen her before, but then Bernie’s ‘personal assistants’ rarely lasted for more than a month, two at the most.
‘Once the Olympics are over, the stadium will be put up for sale,’ said Dawson, after placing two lumps of sugar in his coffee.
‘But where’s the profit in that?’ asked Longe. ‘Once the Games are over,’ he repeated, ‘it will be nothing more than a redundant waste of space.’
‘Which is why the government has, on this occasion, distanced itself from any involvement,’ said Dawson, ‘and left the responsibility for selling the stadium to the local council.’
‘The upkeep alone,’ came back Longe, ‘would cost millions, and the occasional pop concert and athletics meeting wouldn’t begin to cover the cost.’
‘But West Ham Football Club might,’ said Councillor Dawson, playing his trump card.
Longe put down his coffee and listened more carefully.
‘Their chairman has approached the council about renting the stadium for two and a half million a year as their new venue for West Ham United. A good deal for them.’
‘But I have to ask,’ said Longe, beginning to sound exasperated, ‘how does that become a good deal for me?’
‘As the council is in need of an injection of cash, my committee has decided to put the stadium up for sale. If you were to bid ten million before I tell anyone about West Ham’s interest, a steady income for life could be yours.’
Councillor Dawson began to transfer the piles of ten-pound notes into his Tesco bag, as if they were just another shopping item.
It didn’t take Longe more than a few moments to work out that with a guaranteed income of two and a half million a year, he could clear the ten-million-pound outlay in four years, five at the most, and consider trading his home in Hackney for a villa in the south of France.
However, there was one small problem. He didn’t have ten million. Something he didn’t want Councillor Dawson to find out.
‘What deposit would I have to put down?’ asked Longe.
‘One million as soon as possible,’ said Dawson, ‘then I’d give you a couple of months to clear the full amount, by which time the council should have sewn up the agreement with West Ham.’
‘And what would your cut be, Councillor?’
‘Betty and I have spotted a house on the Costa del Sol that would—’
‘How much?’ said Longe.
