that any warmth they show you is purely procedural. Don’t let them get too close and, above all, whatever you do, don’t get too close to them.
Why? Because at some point you might have to kill them.
CHAPTER 18
IN A DIMLY lit room in the bowels of a private members’ club in Soho, the key members of The Quarry Company were meeting: the company’s head of security, Tremain, and the two owners, Curtis and Boyd.
Curtis and Boyd liked to refer to themselves as ‘administrators’, since there was nothing of The Quarry Company to own, not in the conventional sense. What they had was more precious than bricks and mortar, brand-name recognition, copyrights, trademarks and patents. They had information. And information, as they and their clients knew, was power.
They were both in their early forties and wore jeans, polo shirts and sweaters. If it looked as though life had been good to them, then that’s because it had. They were both the recipients of expensive educations and favours that had sped them up the career ladder in multinational investment banks.
With such an effortless ascent came boredom, and the two Chelsea housemates compensated the usual way: hookers, drugs and, in the down time between hookers and drugs, watching videos on YouTube.
One night they were watching videos of homeless men being paid by film-makers to fight. Not long after that, Boyd and Curtis staged their own ‘bum-fights’ for their friends, and what they quickly noticed was that their friends rarely talked of them, and even then only in the most guarded terms. Other illicit activities were fair game for a good laugh in the pub, but not the bum-fights.
One of the participants was killed, and for months Curtis and Boyd were terrified the death would be investigated. As it turned out, neither of them needed to work their contacts in the police force; there was no investigation. And that gave them the idea for The Quarry Company.
The rest, as they say, is history. It turned out that the omertà they’d noticed in their days organising bum-fights was multiplied a hundredfold when it came to the activities of The Quarry Company. They soon had a respectable client base who knew the rules; who even saw the activities of The QC as an act of insurrection against the political-correctness lobby, the do-gooders.
Whatever their reasons, whatever inspired them, the clients looked to The QC to provide them with something the outside world could not. And Curtis and Boyd were happy to provide it.
Over the course of three hunts, so far they had made around £120 million profit, but more importantly they had accrued undreamed-of influence. It was no exaggeration to say that they had the Establishment in their pocket, and as far as Curtis and Boyd were concerned, there was no reason it shouldn’t stay there.
‘How is the quarry?’ asked Curtis.
Tremain replied, ‘Claire reports excellent progress. He’s adapting well to life at reform school.’
‘Good. Will he be ready for this weekend?’
‘Oh, he was ready before we met him; according to Claire, he’s an excellent physical specimen.’
‘Good. Well done. Pleased to hear it.’
Boyd leaned forward to where his briefcase rested on a low table. He opened it, momentarily fiddled with the laptop inside, then closed it again.
‘I hope you don’t keep details of hunts on that thing,’ said Tremain.
‘The bare minimum, and it’s all encrypted,’ replied Boyd. ‘Our main archive is safe in a deposit box.’
‘That where your bodies are buried, is it?’
‘It’s biometrically protected. Basically you need to be me or Boyd to see it. Everything else is up here.’ Curtis tapped the side of his head. ‘Why do you ask? What’s the interest?’
‘You have to be able to drop everything and walk away, if needs be. Nothing incriminating. No paper trail.’
‘Of course. But why bring that up now?’
‘Well, it could be something, could be nothing, but we have an issue.’ The
Why? Because at some point you might have to kill them.
CHAPTER 18
IN A DIMLY lit room in the bowels of a private members’ club in Soho, the key members of The Quarry Company were meeting: the company’s head of security, Tremain, and the two owners, Curtis and Boyd.
Curtis and Boyd liked to refer to themselves as ‘administrators’, since there was nothing of The Quarry Company to own, not in the conventional sense. What they had was more precious than bricks and mortar, brand-name recognition, copyrights, trademarks and patents. They had information. And information, as they and their clients knew, was power.
They were both in their early forties and wore jeans, polo shirts and sweaters. If it looked as though life had been good to them, then that’s because it had. They were both the recipients of expensive educations and favours that had sped them up the career ladder in multinational investment banks.
With such an effortless ascent came boredom, and the two Chelsea housemates compensated the usual way: hookers, drugs and, in the down time between hookers and drugs, watching videos on YouTube.
One night they were watching videos of homeless men being paid by film-makers to fight. Not long after that, Boyd and Curtis staged their own ‘bum-fights’ for their friends, and what they quickly noticed was that their friends rarely talked of them, and even then only in the most guarded terms. Other illicit activities were fair game for a good laugh in the pub, but not the bum-fights.
One of the participants was killed, and for months Curtis and Boyd were terrified the death would be investigated. As it turned out, neither of them needed to work their contacts in the police force; there was no investigation. And that gave them the idea for The Quarry Company.
The rest, as they say, is history. It turned out that the omertà they’d noticed in their days organising bum-fights was multiplied a hundredfold when it came to the activities of The Quarry Company. They soon had a respectable client base who knew the rules; who even saw the activities of The QC as an act of insurrection against the political-correctness lobby, the do-gooders.
Whatever their reasons, whatever inspired them, the clients looked to The QC to provide them with something the outside world could not. And Curtis and Boyd were happy to provide it.
Over the course of three hunts, so far they had made around £120 million profit, but more importantly they had accrued undreamed-of influence. It was no exaggeration to say that they had the Establishment in their pocket, and as far as Curtis and Boyd were concerned, there was no reason it shouldn’t stay there.
‘How is the quarry?’ asked Curtis.
Tremain replied, ‘Claire reports excellent progress. He’s adapting well to life at reform school.’
‘Good. Will he be ready for this weekend?’
‘Oh, he was ready before we met him; according to Claire, he’s an excellent physical specimen.’
‘Good. Well done. Pleased to hear it.’
Boyd leaned forward to where his briefcase rested on a low table. He opened it, momentarily fiddled with the laptop inside, then closed it again.
‘I hope you don’t keep details of hunts on that thing,’ said Tremain.
‘The bare minimum, and it’s all encrypted,’ replied Boyd. ‘Our main archive is safe in a deposit box.’
‘That where your bodies are buried, is it?’
‘It’s biometrically protected. Basically you need to be me or Boyd to see it. Everything else is up here.’ Curtis tapped the side of his head. ‘Why do you ask? What’s the interest?’
‘You have to be able to drop everything and walk away, if needs be. Nothing incriminating. No paper trail.’
‘Of course. But why bring that up now?’
‘Well, it could be something, could be nothing, but we have an issue.’ The
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