A Reason to Kill (15 page)

“First, who are you?” Gary asked.

“My name is Jacob. Jacob Goldman.”

“You a tenant, Jake?”

“No. I own the house.”

“A live-in landlord?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. I need to know the layout of the house, and whether there is a firewall in the loft that separates it from the one next door,” Gary said, inclining his head to the right, so that Jacob would know which property he meant. “And you need to know that if you tell me one single lie, I’ll core you like an apple.”

THE
doorman stepped forward and raised his hand up like a cop stopping traffic.

“Not dressed like that, sir,” he said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And it’s members only.”

Matt produced his ID. “This is my membership card. Your boss is expecting me.”

The maroon-suited bouncer gave the warrant card a hard look and dropped all trace of geniality. “Wait here,” he said, and went inside the door to pluck the receiver from a wall-mounted phone. He returned almost immediately. “Okay. Up those stairs,” and he jerked his head to the left, smirking at the implications as he pointedly looked at Matt’s full leg cast. “Someone will meet you at the top, if you make it.”

Holding the wide, lacquered banister rail, and heavily supported by the walking cane he carried, Matt made his way up the sweeping staircase. He felt like Ahab out of Moby Dick. Had to swing his stiff leg out and up to slowly negotiate every riser. He recognised the giant black who met him at the top. It was Luthor Tyrell, an ex-pro boxer who had been hard as nails, but too slow. He was now an enforcer for Santini; an emissary who kept people sweet, or chastised them for offending his master. He was over three hundred pounds of muscle that could be sicked on anyone who didn’t walk the line.

“Follow me, cop,” ordered Tiny in a deep Barry White rumble.

Matt could feel the sweat beading at his hairline, under his arms and on his back. His leg was alive with pain, and his side was rhythmically pounding with a dull, aching beat. He was led through a door marked Staff Only, which opened onto a narrow corridor. Came to a lurching stop as Tiny turned to face him.

“I need to check you out. Assume the position.”

Matt put his hands on the oak panelled wall and spread his legs as far as he was able to. The rub down search was thorough. Tiny even examined the leg cast, and the cane Matt still held in his hand.

“Happy?” Matt asked.

Tiny did not reply, just thumbed an intercom on the wall next to a door, bent down to speak into it, and moved aside to let Matt enter first as the lock mechanism clicked open.

Dom didn’t stand up to greet him, just motioned to a dark green wing back chair that was upholstered in shiny leather and faced his desk.

Matt went to it and eased himself down, using both hands to position his leg.

“Okay, Barnes. Say what’s on your mind, and then get out,” Dom said.

Matt took a flyer of the artist’s work-up out of a pocket, unfolded it and pushed it across the desktop to Santini. “That’s the hit man that you or your father hired to whack Lester Little. I doubt you’ve ever met him, but you need to know we have a lot on him. We even have his name. When he’s lifted, we’ll offer him a deal that he can’t and won’t refuse.” Matt was bluffing, but on a roll. “He probably makes tapes of all his calls. I’m sure he’ll want to cut himself some slack by selling you out.”

Dom’s bland expression did not falter. He pushed the flyer back, after first motioning for Tiny to study it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barnes,” he said. “You’re wasting my time. I’ve never seen this punk before in my life.”

“I’m talking about give and take. You don’t need to have seen him to hire him. You heard the news about Pender?”

“Who?”

“C’mon, Dom. No need to act stupid. I’m not wired. DI Vic Pender. He topped himself last night, after giving me a call and
¯”

“Whatever he said to you is hearsay. Nothing you’ve got would count for shit in a courtroom,” Dom said. He clicked his fingers and Tiny went over to the bar and fixed him a drink. “Just get to the point. Why’re you here?”

“I want this psycho off my back. Apart from the Page woman, only I could finger him. And he intends to make sure neither of us gets a chance to. I want to ensure he’s lifted or taken out. Every day he’s on the loose is a day too many. I can give you the address of where the woman is holed up. You can come through for him, and he’ll walk into a trap.”

“No deal,” Dom said. “I don’t need anything from you. I hope you get capped. I did my homework, Barnes. You’re one of those hard-nosed cops on a mission. You want revenge for what went down at the bungalow. You’re sore physically and mentally, and you intend to make someone pay for the other filth who got taken out. Even your woman walked. You’re obsessed, Barnes. Why don’t you take fair warning and keep out of it? You might even want to consider a career change.”

Matt didn’t bite. “Why did you see me if you believe that?”

“Curiosity. It pays to keep up with the opposition. You don’t have anything solid or you would have come in here mob-handed and bust me. And the last thing you would do is ask the people you believe to be responsible for what happened at Finchley to help you out. If I thought for a second you’d walked in here without backup, I’d have Tiny rip that crocked leg off and beat you to death with it.”

The meeting was over. Tiny gripped Matt by the collar of his jacket and lifted him roughly to his feet.

Matt reacted. He snatched at the huge hand that held him, peeled the middle finger back and jerked with all his strength. There was a dry twig crack as the digit snapped.

Tiny screamed. Was forced down onto his knees, and silenced as Matt scythed him across the temple with the brass handle of the heavy cane. The giant made a faltering attempt to come up off the floor, so Matt swung the cane again and Tiny toppled sideways and stayed down. Blood sprayed onto the carpet from a deep scalp wound.

Dom reached for the top drawer of his desk.

“If you open that, I’ll put the end of this stick through your eye and poke out whatever crap is inside your skull masquerading as brains,” Matt hissed.

Dom put his hands palm down on the desktop. “You’ll pay for this, Barnes. That’s a promise. If the hitter doesn’t get you, then we will.”

“Don’t bank on it, Santini. You got it right when you said I was a loner on a mission. You and your no-good father have got the police, a deranged shooter and me on your case. One way or another you’re going down. And don’t expect me to play by the rules, or wait for you to make the moves. From the second I walk out of here, you’re on borrowed time. And if anyone even looks at me sideways on my way out, I’ll have this dump raided, and guarantee they’ll find enough dope to close you down.”

“You don’t act like a cop, Barnes.”

“I’ve always been a loose cannon, junior. I use what works to deal with scum like you.”

“I’ll be sure to make time to drop by and piss on your grave, cop,” Dom said. “Because as the Yanks would say, you’re a dead man walking.”

“Everybody dies, Santini. Just take a look at the photos on these walls. Then remember what happened to all the lowlife gangsters in them.”

“Talk’s cheap, Barnes. You know that we’re like fucking Teflon, nothing sticks to us. We’re connected. It’s you that’s going down, and soon.”

The car pulled up next to him as he limped along the pavement a hundred yards from Rocco’s.

Tom leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said.

Matt manoeuvred himself into the car and lit a cigarette as Tom drove off.

“Anything?”

Matt hiked his shoulders. “He didn’t bite. But he took in every word. I don’t think I made any new friends.”

“Meaning?”

“The big black, Tyrell, manhandled me. I couldn’t sit back and let him abuse an invalid.”

“You got in a tussle with that freak? He’s the best part of seven feet tall, and built like a fucking battleship.”

“He didn’t look that big when I left him curled up and bleeding on Santini’s carpet.”

“Jesus, Matt. Apart from beating the shit out of the help, did you learn anything?”

“Yeah, that we may have another rat on the inside. I offered to give the spaghetti-sucker the address where Penny is holed-up. He wasn’t interested. That tells me he knows where she is.”

“That’s Impossible.”

“Is it, Tom?”

“Yes. Apart from you, me and McClane, no one knows where we moved her to. And the cops guarding her are all outsiders.”

“Do they expect to be hit?”

“Yeah. I briefed them. They know the background. I told them it was almost a given that there would be a further attempt on her life. But I don’t believe it.”

“I wish I was that confident.”

“She’s safe, Matt.”

“I daresay that’s what the Secret Service thought, right up until JFK got his brains blown out. Unless it was them that had him capped.”

“I’m releasing the artist’s impression of the hitter to the media in the morning. With any luck, someone will recognise him and call it in.”

Matt didn’t argue. They needed to use all they had, now. Events dictated the direction of an investigation. It might flush him out.

“You want dropped off somewhere?” Tom asked.

“Here will do.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me to know where you’re staying?”

“It means we could have a tail, Tom. No good me dropping out of sight, only to lead them straight to my door. You’ve got my mobile number.”

Tom signalled and pulled into the kerb. “Don’t do anything without checking with me first, Matt. I’ve got the feeling you’re starting a one man war, and that’s bang out of order.”

“I’ll call by the office in the morning,” Matt said. “I want to run through the autopsy reports on all the vics again.”

Climbing out of the car, Matt walked away, leaning more heavily than ever on the cane. He felt as weak as a kitten. When his injuries healed up, he would have to get in the gym and work out. His muscles were going soft. He hadn’t been so out of condition in his life. He was a little frail, and didn’t like the feeling.

I thought that you’d forgotten,” Beth said. She had fallen asleep in front of the television. The late movie was finished, and Jools Holland was now on, tinkling the ivories to produce a jazzed-up version of an old standard. She had hit the standby button on the remote and picked up the phone.

“I just got back to my new digs,” Matt said. He was stretched out on top of the bed wearing nothing but his cast and a film of sweat. The air in the room was stuffy and hot, even with the window open. But he felt safe. The hair on the door had not been displaced, and his gun in exactly the position he had left it.

“Did you meet with Santini?”

“Yeah, he’s a poser. Diamond in his ear like the rock of Gibralter, wears his hair in a ponytail like Francis Rossi used to, and has a bad attitude.”

“Francis who?”

“You can’t be a Quo fan.”

“Oh, him. I take it you didn’t hit it off with Santini.”

“I ruffled his feathers. Only time will tell if it was worth it. He isn’t stupid. He acted dumb, but hung onto every word I said. I could almost see his brain racing.”

“At least you got out in one piece.”

“He would’ve loved to break my other leg, but held off. He didn’t buy that I was operating on my own. He’s not a very trusting soul.”

“So it was uneventful?”

“Yeah. Very civilised,” Matt said, not mentioning the altercation with Tiny.

“Where are you staying?”

“I told you, in a small hotel off Tottenham Court Road. There’s no room service, TV, or air conditioning. But it has a bar, and the rates are cheap.”

“Are you allowed room guests?”

“Only the roaches.”

“Is that a polite way of telling me I’m not welcome?”

“Absolutely. I’ve got at least two parties who would use any leverage or anyone close to me to ruin my day, if not cancel it altogether. Just being seen with me could put you in real danger. You can meet me for coffee in Tom’s office in the morning, though. I plan to go through all the crime scene stuff again.”

“Why? Nothing was recovered apart from a few bullets and casings that led nowhere.”

“We might have missed something. And I haven’t even seen the reports on the nurse and patient who were shot at the clinic.”

“Four eyes are better than two. I’ll look through it with you.”

“Good. Bring some doughnuts.”

“Doesn’t your hotel serve breakfast?”

“No. It makes the ‘Y’ look like the Savoy.”

“
I
need a cigarette. Can I get one?” Jacob asked.

Gary shrugged. “Go ahead.”

They were sitting at a Formica-topped table in the kitchen. Jacob was trembling. He had Parkinson’s disease. His head shook from side to side as though he was perpetually denying something, and his fingers trembled like tree branches in a high wind. He fumbled a cigarette out of the pack, located it between his lips and then chased the end of it with the flame of his Bic lighter until the two met briefly and he was able to suck the cigarette alight. Simple tasks were becoming problematical. A large blister on the back of his hand was the result of pouring boiling water from kettle to teapot. Such was life.

Jacob faced the masked man who was pointing a gun at his chest. It wasn’t lost on him that the gloved hand holding the pistol was rock steady. And all he could see of his assailant’s face were unblinking eyes. They were as black as the Balaclava he wore.

“So talk to me, Jake. Is next door the same layout as this shithole?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I own it, and two others in the street.”

“You must be raking it in. Why do you live in this poxy flat? Surely you can afford something upmarket.”

“I’ve got everything I want here. I used to live out in the sticks in a big house with a swimming pool. Then, five years ago my wife, Alma, died. I sold the place and moved back here. I was born in this street. I thought I might as well die in it.”

Gary nodded. He could relate to that. The little guy was older than he had first thought. Mid-seventies at a guess. He was bony. Looked how a live chicken felt when you picked one up. The string vest and boxer shorts he wore were old, grey, over washed, not dirty. His eyes were rheumy with deep purple pockets beneath them. And there was a bristly cyst the size of a golf ball under his chin, stretching the pale skin. Why wouldn’t he have it removed? Because he didn’t care.

“Here’s the deal, Jake. You answer me a few questions, and I tie you up and leave. How does that sound?”

“Like probably the best deal I’m going to get.”

“It is, believe me,” Gary said. “Who’s renting the top floor next door? And remember, don’t lie to me, old man, or you’ll be joining Alma tonight.”

“The police rent it. They pay over the top, to make sure I keep my mouth shut.”

“Is it occupied now?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“A woman and baby.”

“How many cops in the house?”

“Two, I think.”

“Do the lofts have fire walls separating them?”

“Yes, but they don’t reach the eaves. There’s a gap.”

“Big enough for me to get through?”

“I suppose. Yes.”

“I think that does it, Jake. Do you have any duct tape?”

“In the cupboard, under the sink.”

“Go get it,” Gary ordered. For a second he considered putting a bullet through Jacob’s head, as the man groaned as he squatted down and rummaged on crowded shelves. But, no. Let the old fart get older and thinner as his cyst grew bigger and his shaking became even more pronounced. Nature was doing just fine without his hastening the process.

He used all the remaining silver tape on the wide roll. Jacob was trussed up like an Egyptian mummy to the chair. He also had a piece of tea towel balled in his mouth and taped over.

Gary opened the larder door, held the back of the chair and walked it forward. There was just enough room. He closed the door to leave Jacob sat in inky blackness. And after bracing the back of another chair under the door knob, he made his way out of the flat and up the stairs to the top landing.

It was a little awkward without a pair of stepladders. Standing on the banister rail, he managed to push the loft hatch back and pull himself up into the roof space.

There were chinks in the felt, and gaps between the tiles above it showed that the cloud had moved farther west allowing moonlight to pierce through in dozens of places, giving him enough light to negotiate the water tanks as he stepped from rafter to rafter on the unboarded floor. He hadn’t thought to ask Jacob for a torch. A little remiss. If the cloud cover had not passed, then he would have been reduced to feeling his way on hands and knees.

The top of the breeze block wall was well short of the roof’s apex. He removed the Balaclava and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He wanted to giggle. They would not expect anyone to even know the woman’s whereabouts; much less launch an attack from within the house itself. All being well, he would be finished up and away from the area before anyone even knew what had taken place, bar his targets.

He pulled himself up the rough breeze block wall, eased over it and made his way toward the hatch in the other loft. Kneeling on a boarded area adjacent to it, he raised the cover just enough to have a view of the landing below. No one. He set the trapdoor aside and lowered himself down, to hang by his hands before dropping the last couple of feet to the carpeted floor. With knees bent, he landed as lightly as a stalking cat.

The flat’s door would be locked. This part was mind-blowing. He was on a high. The next few seconds could not be one hundred percent risk free, even though he had the element of surprise on his side, and resolute purpose. He tiptoed up to the side of the door. There was a line of light escaping the gap at the bottom of it. He settled, took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He became calm, totally focused. His heart rate was low, and he was ready to face whatever the near future held.

Two pops, not loud. The wood around the lock disintegrated. He rushed into the room as the door was blown open by the impact of the bullets. He crouched, held the gun in a practised two-handed shooter’s grip and let the muzzle follow his searching eyes.

DC Karl Fleming had just poured himself a cupful of black coffee from the six pint pump flask that stood on the low table in front of him. When the door flew back, his hands were full. His last three seconds seemed endless. It was like slow motion as time became elastic and almost stopped. He dropped the plastic cup and tried to react, even though he knew he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of the sudden shit he was in. The figure was taking aim; was smiling at him.

The cop’s face was a picture. Gary watched as he dropped the cup he was holding and made a futile attempt to reach for the gun that was holstered beneath his left armpit. He took in the whole scenario, to remember in detail and savour later. The cop was in his late twenties, maybe a year or two older than himself. He was blond, blue-eyed, and his mouth was forming a perfect O. He wore a white T-shirt. He was tanned. There was a tattoo – some Tribal design – on his right forearm that presented itself as his hand gripped the butt of the gun he would never draw.

Karl was blown backwards into the soft cushions of the sofa. There was no pain, just a sense of having been hit in the chest by a fist. He looked down, saw the floret of blood erupt through the cotton. He thought it looked like a Rorschach blot; maybe a flower, a red rose opening its petals to meet the sunlight. The next two shots took away any lingering ruminations.

Gary opened the bedroom door and was met by the sight of Penny Page sitting up, facing him. He paused. There was an acceptance in her expression that unsettled him. The absence of fear was unnerving. It wasn’t natural to look into the face of death and appear to pay it no due. She
wanted
him to kill her, and although he would, it lessened the pleasure of the act.

“Not the baby, please,” she said in a quiet voice. She could have been saying ‘no sugar, please’ to a waitress in a café.

He did not reply, but inclined his head as if to allay her fears for her child. He waited until she closed her eyes and lowered her head, and then finished it. There was a beauty in the act. It was regal. He felt as the axe man who had beheaded Mary Queen of Scots might have. It was a barbaric act, but lent a certain degree of grace by the way in which it was carried out and received. He thought the baby would be fine. There were many orphans in the world. This infant was now just one more.

Back in the loft, moving quickly, retracing his steps. Less than ninety seconds since he had shot the lock out of the door.

He was walking on air, clear of the scene and approaching his car. He got in and headed for home. Only the woman’s approbation was niggling. She had, to a degree, used him to curtail the grief that he was responsible for. The sense of achievement was dampened by her near serene capitulation. He did not do mercy killing. And yet that was in effect what had taken place. No matter. The cop next, and then the Santinis. He smiled. Santinis. They sounded like a fucking circus act:
The Amazing Santinis
, or
The Flying Santinis
. It made him think back to a movie he’d seen on TV as a kid, and had watched again several times since.
Trapeze
. He had always liked Burt Lancaster. Behind the actor’s tooth-filled grin was a coldness that the camera could not mask. He made a mental list of all the Lancaster films he could remember. It was a game he played a lot. He got up to fifteen, including such notable offerings as:
The Birdman of Alcatraz
,
Elmer Gantry
,
From Here to Eternity
,
Gunfight at OK Corral,
and
The Swimmer
.

Almost home. He was on a roll. What he had just accomplished would make all of the insects sit up and take notice. He was unstoppable. As deadly as a plague that has no cure. He was the pale rider.

After stashing the gun and Balaclava in the laundry room, he went up to the flat, ate a full packet of chocolate digestive biscuits and washed them down with milk. Killing always made him hungry. He would sleep well, with brand new memories to feed off. The only person who could have identified him without reservation, no longer existed. The cop was, in reality, a minor consideration. He could not feasibly recognise him. He and Barnes had seen each other for the same instant, and he could only remember a blur of dark hair and a square-jawed face as the cop dived for cover. Trouble was, doubt would not let him rest easy. Not leaving loose ends had kept him ahead of the game. He was not about to start being careless. He should have made sure that Barnes was dead before leaving the bungalow in Finchley, but that would have been too risky. And maybe Santini and his son were the bigger threat to him. It might be more judicious to do what the police couldn’t. He knew that he could take out the kingpins of one of the biggest firms in London.

He sat and watched the video of himself and Marion. God! Didn’t they move well together? She was good for him. In some way she calmed his inner demons and understood him better than anyone else ever had or probably would. He didn’t love her. Love was one of the emotions he could not quite perceive. In theory, he understood the mechanics of the condition, but had no sense of how to feel it. Hate and anger were real to him. If love was the antithesis of hate, then it must be a powerful sentiment.

In bed, he began humming a tune. It was
Imagine
. His mother had sung the old Lennon song to him when he was a small boy. He
could
imagine there was no heaven. In fact he was sure that no such place existed. And even if it did, he would not be granted admission to it. He was destined to spend eternity in a far more interesting place. The devil’s playground would no doubt be frequented by every infamous character that had ever walked the earth. He would fit in just fine.

Sleep took him into that suspended state where his subconscious was given free rein to produce an alternative reality. His most vivid and frequent nightmare ran its course. In it, he rushed forward to the head of the stairs, stuck his arms out and felt the softness of his mother’s breasts. He fondled them, before pushing her backwards and watching her eyes widen to the size of saucers. Her mouth stretched open in a soundless scream, and she tumbled away from him, down an endless flight of stairs, to eventually vanish into a black vacuum.

Waking slowly to the brightness of a new day, Gary knew exactly what he would do. And he needed specialist equipment to make his next kill.