A Reason to Kill (14 page)

He didn’t own a suit. He left the room in a pair of charcoal grey slacks; – with one leg cut off for the bulky cast – an oatmeal V-necked T-shirt and black leather jacket. He didn’t take the Beretta. It was under the plastic liner of the small waste bin in the bathroom. He’d blown his nose on a wad of toilet tissue and thrown it in the bin. It was a place were only pros would think to look. Outside the room, he pulled a single hair from his head, licked it and pressed it from door to jamb, where it stuck. He wasn’t going to be complacent. After phoning for a cab, he went down to the bar and ordered a Scotch.

“Don’t bring it back here,” Ron said.

Matt frowned and met the big man’s calculating stare. “Come again.”

“You heard. I can smell trouble. I don’t care what it is, but leave it outside my hotel.”

“It shows?”

“To me it does, Mr. Gabriel. Don’t compound whatever shit you’re in by pissing me off. I run a dump, but a quiet, decent one.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Quinn.”

Ron nodded. He sensed that his latest guest was potentially a dangerous man. He had seen the same look in the eyes of some of the guys out in the Falklands, and later in Kosova. This man was not afraid, of anything, and that was scary. He saw an attitude in those cold blue eyes. It was unequivocal and undisguised. The man had faced the fear of fear itself and come through it.

Ron watched as Matt limped away through the small foyer to the front door. He had the feeling he had seen the man before, but couldn’t place him, yet.

Matt grunted, lifted his plaster-encrusted leg out of the cab and pulled himself up by gripping the top of the door. He was going into the lion’s cage without a whip or chair to keep them off him. Strange that he felt so fired-up about it. He had phoned Tom on the way, and knew that a team was in place, watching as he struggled up the steps of Rocco’s.

DID
they think he was a retard or something? If the dago father and son double act thought they could send him on a fool’s errand and shrug it off as no big deal, then they were sadly mistaken. He had given them a chance, phoned back, and in return had been given the bum’s rush. The dumb ox of a son had said they needed more time.

It was a long night. The voices in his head were relentless, urging him to just get in the car, drive to Rocco’s and gut shoot the two greaseballs.

After a fitful sleep, he got up, took his medication and soaked in the bath for an hour until dawn had fully broken and the sun was shining through the window. He added two fresh cuts to the inside of his left wrist, being sure not to sever tendons. It was as if the bloodletting released the pressure. His rage subsided as the crimson outflow mingled with the water and tinged it a rich rose pink; the exact shade of his mother’s cheeks, he recalled. Everything was clearer in his mind. He rang the club again, spoke to Frank, and gave his final ultimatum; to come up with the address by noon, or he would assume they were holding out on him for some reason, and would take whatever retaliatory action he considered necessary.

At exactly midday he called Rocco’s from a phone box in Wandsworth. The son came to the phone.

“Put your old man on,” Gary said. “I want to talk to the organ grinder, not his dumbfuck monkey.”

“Don’t push it, arsehole,” Dom said. “I’ve got an address for you, and some advice. If you ever contact us again, we’ll find you and cut your fucking eyes out.”

“You couldn’t find your way to the bathroom without a map. Just give me the address.”

Dom read it out off the scrap of paper it was written on.

“Okay, Mussolini. If this is a set-up, you get to meet me up close, just the once, and very briefly. Your old man should have more sense than to jerk me around. He has a lot to lose. He hires me because I
always
get the job done. I know where you live, what restaurants you frequent, everything. If I even think you could be a threat, then I’ll take your whole crummy organisation apart.” He wiped the receiver as he talked, hung up before Dom could answer, and left the sweltering heat of the foul-smelling booth.

Sitting on a bench in a small public park nearby, Gary assessed the situation. Frank Santini had – until very recently – believed that his hired hit man was no threat to him. Just a guy providing a service. Now he would feel vulnerable. Whatever happened to the woman and cop would not be the end of it. If he was in Santini’s shoes he would want Gary found and got rid of, to eliminate the connection between himself and the capping of Lester Little and the others. Gary smiled. The best form of defence was always attack.

He chilled. Watched children play on the swings, slide and monkey bars. After a while he got up and walked over to where an elderly couple were feeding bread to raucous, begging ducks at the edge of a small concrete-lined pond. It was like looking through glass at ants in a formicary. He did not see people as being any more important than mindless insects. They were just bugs to him, no more significant than those that flew into his windscreen to become smears on the polished glass.

On the drive back to the flat, he decided that as well as the woman and cop, the Santinis’ would have to go. There was nothing better than a clean slate. He would be like a teacher, wiping the blackboard at the end of the last lesson of the day. It would be like an artist starting with a blank canvas; fresh tubes of paint and new brushes.

Shit! Marion’s Honda was outside the flat, and the Blob herself was standing next to it, patting at her forehead with a handkerchief. Even from fifty yards away he could see the dark patch at her armpit on the pale lemon material of the loose top she wore.

He pulled up next to her and got out.

“Hi, Marion,” he said, manufacturing a ‘so pleased to see you’ expression on his face. “I didn’t know we had an appointment.”

“I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d pop in for a cuppa. Is that a problem?”

“Of course not. It’s a nice surprise,” he lied, walking across to the entrance door and swiping his key card to unlock it.

He ushered her in and followed her up the stairs. Her massive thighs were bare, slick with sweat and slipping against each other under her skirt. She was gross, so why did he feel aroused?

As they entered the flat, she was all over him like a rash. The garlic hit him and he pulled away.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I’m just feeling a little on edge,” he said. “I’ve not been sleeping, and the medication has made me irritable.”

“Poor baby. You sit down. I’ll make us a cup of tea while you relax.”

“Thanks, Marion,” he said, somehow repressing the urge to just kill her. He had enough to keep him busy for a few days. He didn’t need the extra unrelated complication. He had to remind himself that she was worth much more to him alive. And in any case, it was broad daylight and her car was at the door. No doubt the scheming, inquisitive neighbours had watched them enter the building together.

“You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow, have you?” Marion asked him as she poured boiling water into the teapot and left the brew to infuse for a minute.

He looked up and frowned.

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, Gary. You’re coming to stay at my place for the weekend. Remember?”

“I can’t make it this weekend, Marion. We’ll have to do it another time.”

She fisted her pudgy hands on the approximate place her hips were located under rolls of fat. Stared at him with undisguised frustration and displeasure.
Couldn’t make it! Had he suddenly got a fucking life?
“I don’t understand, Gary. I thought after what we did, and how we felt about each other, that you were looking forward to it.”

“I was, Marion, but something has come up that I have to take care of. Let’s do it next weekend. Okay?”

“What exactly has come up? You don’t work, don’t have any friends. I think I deserve an explanation for your suddenly cancelling our arrangements.”

Typical woman. She just wouldn’t leave it be. Had to push. He leapt to his feet and backhanded her across the face, hard. Her head flew to the side, and her doughy cheek was emblazoned with a glowing hand print as she stutter-stepped along the units.

“You deserve fuck all, you stupid bitch. It’s time you realised that I’m not some pathetic lame-brain patient who you can manipulate to suit your own needs.”

Marion’s face purpled. “You bastard,” she hissed, steadying herself, cupping her smarting cheek with a trembling hand.

“Yes, I am, in every sense of the word,” he said, stepping forward, gripping her wrist and dragging her through to the lounge, where he pushed her down on to the sofa.

She didn’t move as he turned on the TV, rammed a videocam cassette into a VHS adapter, and slotted it into the VCR.

“Watch,” he said, sitting next to her.

Her mouth dropped open as the sight of her own nude body appeared on the screen. What followed was as graphic as any hard-core porn movie. Every action, moan, grunt and scream was faithfully reproduced in living colour and Dolby sound. The light could have been a little better, but there was no mistaking who the two writhing figures were. And it was clear that she was voluntarily and energetically taking part in the proceedings. Had the implications not been so serious, she would have been stimulated at the sight of their antics.

“Why did you do that?” she asked in a whisper that was almost drowned by the outcry of relief that the recorded version of herself emitted.

“Because I’m not a chess piece to be moved around at someone else’s whim, or sacrificed if push comes to shove.”

“What do you plan on doing with it?”

“That depends entirely on you, Marion. I’m happy for us to have a personal relationship. But on the understanding that you don’t choreograph it, or my life. I expect you to write me up as a model patient and keep the system off my back. I want to be treated with respect. I’m not a headcase who you can jump in and out of the sack with until you get bored.”

“I had no intention of causing you any problems, Gary. I care for you. It isn’t just the sex.”

“That’s good to hear, Marion. But with my paranoia, you of all people should be able to understand my need to feel safe. Let’s just call the video insurance. Consider it as being my security blanket. There’s no reason for anyone else to ever see it. I need for you to know that no one pulls my strings. That’s all. I don’t think your colleagues and employers would understand or forgive you for taking advantage of a patient. It would cost you your job, and effectively stop you applying for another position in mental health work.”

Marion nodded. She did understand that his illness incorporated paranoid delusions. On one level his actions were no real surprise to her. He thought she was trying to control his thoughts, feelings and actions. And in a sense, she had been.

“So let’s go and have that cup of tea,” she said. “Then if you’re in the mood we can fool around. You can film it again if you want. It’s a turn on.”

He was astonished “You mean it? You’re not angry with me?”

“I’m a little disappointed, and my cheek smarts. But I know how you must feel, Gary. Just don’t hit me again. And the truth is I don’t really give a shit about my job. It would be no big deal to lose it. I want us to be long term. But I don’t like pain. Let’s just forget about the last few minutes and start over.”

They skipped the tea, and after performing with the video camera repositioned on its tripod at the foot of the bed, they showered, made fresh tea and watched the new footage, to enjoy the sight of their efforts from an unusual and highly intimate point of view.

“God, my arse looks huge,” Marion said.

“It looks gorgeous,” Gary opined. “I love you just the way you are, with only one small reservation.”

“What? Tell me,” she said.

“The garlic. I can smell it on your breath and in your sweat, sweetheart. It reminds me of my mother. And that upsets me.”

“My poor baby. I’m so sorry. I’ll never touch the stuff again, I promise,” Marion said as she cradled his head to her breasts and rocked him. She knew all about his mother, or thought she did. She had been a whore, who fell down the stairs in a drunken stupor one night many years ago, and Gary had watched it happen. No wonder he had emotional problems.

After they had drained the teapot, Gary walked her down to her car.

“I’ll call by on Wednesday afternoon...if that’s all right,” Marion said after fastening her seat belt and winding the window down.

Gary smiled. “Look forward to it. And next weekend I’ll definitely stay at your place.”

“Bring the camera,” she said, blowing him a kiss before driving out to the main road.

He waved until she was out of sight, and then went back up to his flat, to wait.

It was midnight. Humid. He drove through Paddington, turned into a narrow street, not pausing as he passed the house where Penny Page was no doubt under armed guard. The cops would be alert and trigger happy after recent events. Couldn’t blame them. The parked cars on both sides of the street were unoccupied, and yet he felt at risk. Maybe the woman wasn’t here. Santini could have set a trap. Might have his men waiting, ready to shoot him on sight.

He drove to the end of the street, made a left and didn’t stop until he felt far enough away from whatever threat may exist. He put his head back on the rest, closed his eyes and thought it through. Commonsense told him to back off and take heed of his gut feeling. But he needed to investigate. Decision time. With the silenced Glock tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, he made his way back to an alley that was at the rear of the row of terrace. He climbed over a wood panel fence into a garden four up from his intended destination and quickly made his way over dividing fences until he was at the kitchen door of the house next to where he would overcome any adversity.

High cloud cover abetted him. The moon’s light was reflected back from it to afford him the cloak of invisibility needed to strike unseen.

The house was in darkness. Slipping the catch of a window with the blade of his knife, he gained entry. The kitchen led through to a short hallway. There were three open doors. Gary checked them. A living room, bedroom and bathroom. He was in a flat. A single occupant was asleep in the bedroom; a grey-haired old man, curled up on his side, snoring, his mouth hanging open.

Gary wore latex gloves. He removed a woollen Balaclava from his jerkin pocket and pulled it over his head, drew the pistol and shook the old man by the shoulder to wake him up.

Jacob Goldman snorted and narrowed his eyes to slits as Gary switched on the bedside lamp.

“Uh! What?” he exclaimed, and sat bolt upright as he saw the hooded figure sitting next to him.

“Nice and easy, old man,” Gary whispered. “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t live to regret.”

“What d...do you want?” Jacob asked. He felt dizzy and his heart was aching, hammering against his narrow ribcage. “Money? You are here to rob me?”

“No. I’m not a thief. I want information. If you co-operate, I won’t harm you.”

“What is it you think an old man who hardly ever goes out can tell you?”