A Reason to Kill (24 page)

MARION
caved in under the pressure. She couldn’t handle it. Waiting for the truth to out – as in her experience it inevitably did, sooner or later – made her feel ill. She had even lost almost a stone in weight. Unbearable stress had achieved what dozens of diets had failed to. She set off to work with her resignation written out, ready to hand to Dr. Stephen Barlow, who was in overall charge of the community mental health centre.

For over a week she had been living on frayed nerves. Her relationship with Gary would be revealed at some point, and she could not wait any longer for the resulting humiliating facts to become public knowledge.

Another shed. This time of the standard garden variety, with the expected smells of sacking, stale soil, petrol from the mower, and creosote.

He moved a stack of empty seed trays, crawled under a table that had been utilised as a bench, and pulled the tower of wooden trays back to shield him from view. Sitting with his knees up and feet against rows of terracotta plant pots, Gary cradled his injured, throbbing arm and made short-term plans as he waited. Apart from being bitten by a fucking rat, and then a dog, the mission had been a complete success. The police would no doubt soon be swarming all over Santini’s Little Italy. And Dominic would be scared shitless. His father had enjoyed more protection than the bloody Queen, but had been taken out in his own house. It was obvious that Dom would adopt a siege mentality and be out of circulation for the foreseeable future. Good. Let the scumbag sweat. He would be dealt with at a later date. Gary felt that there had to be a footnote to Frank’s passing. He found the piece of paper on which he had jotted down a few phone numbers, risked switching the torch on for a second, and phoned the gangster’s stronghold.

Tiny answered the phone.

Gary said, “Put Dom the new Don on.”

“Who wants him?” Tiny asked.

“You know who, you dumb nigger. Just do as you’re told, boy.”

“You got no respect, you mad motherfucker. We’ll find you, and when we do, I’ll teach you some manners before I tear your lungs out with my bare hands.”

“Dream on, you sad bastard. Now put pizza-face on the line, or I’ll hang up.”

Tiny turned to where Dom was talking animatedly to Carlo and Eddie. “Boss, I got the piece of shit who hit your father on the phone.”

Dom snatched the phone from Tiny. “You stupid fuck, Noon. Do you really think you can get away with this?”

“I
did
get away with it, Dom. And that makes you top dog, now. I did you a favour. Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Dom screamed down the phone. “THANK YOU! I’m gonna find you and skin you alive, Noon. That’s what I’m gonna do. You know all about contracts. Well now there’s an open one on you. I’m gonna pay a million in cash to anybody who serves you up, alive. You’re the mark, now. But what you got coming won’t be quick or painless.”

“I’m too good, Santini. Your late and not lamented father now knows that. And you need to know that you’re going down. You can’t move without me knowing where you are. I might get to you at the old man’s funeral, or in a year’s time. Just be aware that I never, ever fail. If I were you, I’d be very scared.”

“You don’t frigh
¯”

Gary ended the call. What a fine time he was having. This was as good as a day at the circus. Christ, what had brought that to mind. His mother had once taken him to one. He’d sat on a wooden bench, high up, looking down on the sawdust-covered ring. He’d been seven or eight years old, and the few hours spent under the big top had been the most thrilling time of his life, at that time. The colours, smells, and the roar of the crowd. And the clowns, animals, trapeze artists. And...And just everything had kept him on the edge of his seat, awestruck, wide-eyed, and with his mouth hanging open like a retard’s. His clearest memories were those of a lion tamer putting his head in one of the big cats’ mouths, of an elephant taking a dump, and of a woman in a sequinned leotard, who was pinioned to a spinning wooden wheel, that a blindfolded man was throwing knives at. How did they do that? He still didn’t know. Funny how past events can grip your heart and squeeze it. He’d loved his mum, then, back before he knew what she was, and what he was. Aw, well, enough reminiscing. It was always now that counted. The present situation was that everybody wanted him. He had generated such animosity that he could almost feel and taste the hatred thick and sweet in the air around him.

At nine a.m. he made his move. The narrow back garden was screened from its neighbours’ on both sides by a high panel fence and trees and bushes. The privacy protected him from being seen.

Using a rusted claw hammer – that he had found in the shed – he prised open a kitchen window, crawled in over the sill and sink and dropped to the floor. With the window pushed back to appear untouched (if not examined too closely), he searched the house, gun drawn, just in case she was at home. The house was empty. He went back to the kitchen, searched the units and found a first aid box. He stripped to the waist, washed and dried off, then poured iodine into the bite wounds before bandaging them. He was suddenly exhausted. The act of murder was a satisfying but draining experience. The fulfilment after each hit left him strangely calm and listless. Each kill was a rebellion against the society he was trapped within. All the insects out there were brainwashed into believing that life was precious and full of meaning, whereas he considered it to be a totally meaningless state, without the possibility of any redemption. Nobody was going to be delivered from sin and damnation as a result of Christ’s atonement. Humanity was cheap and worthless. It was a producer of stinking waste; a polluter and enemy of the environment. All that mattered was the gratification in satisfying his personal desires by culling the population for personal and uncomplicated stimulation. The law was merely a perfunctory institution that was beneath his consideration. The stupid and enslaved masses plodded mindlessly through life, following senseless rules of a game that politicians and moguls made up to further their personal ambitions. He was above all that. Killing liberated his spirit. The ability to end life without compunction was his power, which he exercised at will and was invigorated by.

He closed his eyes and let his inner radar reach out. He felt safe. Marion did not warrant heavy protection. Maybe there was a cop out front. If so, then good. Who would ever think he was inside a house that was being guarded? The problem now was that he could not trust Marion. She knew him for who he was, and would undoubtedly summon help if given the opportunity. He would force her to phone work and report herself sick, and then spend a couple of days here, before killing her and moving on.

Upstairs. He undressed and stretched out on her bed. He could smell her on the pillow. The scent reminded him of their abandoned lovemaking. He sighed. Heaven; a real bed again. Comfort could so easily be taken for granted, until it was absent.

As he rested, he ran through his options. The cop who had survived and claimed to have killed Simon was his new priority. It was a matter of principal. The pig had a bad attitude. Needed to be annihilated. He knew where Barnes was hiding. But also accepted that the cop was far from stupid. It would be a trap, which he had no intention of walking into. The woman was the way to go. Beth Holder would be the pawn in this game. If she was placed in jeopardy, then her knight in shining armour would rush to her rescue. And the bitch deserved his attention. She was taking pieces of silver as she helped his enemies by compiling a profile on him. Not that anything she came up with would help them. She had no way of predicting what he may or may not do next. He was not some flake pattern killer, limited and obsessive like most ritual murderers seemed to be. In contrast, he was versatile, adaptable, and could not be outthought or pigeonholed. Knowing his identity and the details of his background and state of mental health were of no practical value to the inquisitive criminalist. His selection of victims was catholic, his modus operandi varied. Truth was, they were dealing with a hunter whose superiority left them behind like some kind of evolutionary missing link. Maybe Dr. Beth Holder should be graced by his presence, to meet the subject of her pen-picture face to face. The conversation they would have might prove interesting, especially for her. She would no doubt attempt to use her knowledge of him to save her worthless skin. And yet surely she must know that you could not talk a person out of his fundamental nature. Nothing she could say would help her. There was no negotiation technique that would sway him from whatever he chose to do. Although he would enjoy listening to any creative argument she might employ in a vain attempt to prolong the inevitable. He may even give her a glimmer of hope; let her think he was gullible and open to being dissuaded from his path. For a while. It would be fitting to leave her for Barnes to find. Perhaps he’d let him live, to be consumed by grief, guilt and hate. Perhaps cut her eyes out and disembowel her. That would be a suitably shocking scenario for the cop to find. Better still, do it in front of him. Make him watch his slut being dismantled.

He fell asleep with another small sigh of contentment. The world was like a giant playground or theme park, built solely for his personal recreation: Gary World; a mind resort where the sun never sets and the fun never stops.

A noise brought him awake from a dream in which he was being savaged by humpbacked rats and giant red-eyed hell hounds. He instinctively knew that it had been the front door closing that curtailed his ethereal dismemberment. Most people awaken with a jolt if nightmares threaten to engulf them with more pain or fear than can be borne. Gary did not usually escape the fate his subconscious mind conjured up. Trapped in sleep, he had suffered death by burning and drowning and a hundred other fearful ends. He had felt the pain, experienced the mind-numbing fear, and then the release. He had been into the abyss and returned. Faced death, gone through the veil. It was no big deal.

Sitting up, he looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty a.m. Why was she home so early in the day?

Marion felt a great sense of relief. She had not gone into detail, at first, but told her boss that her relationship with a patient might prove embarrassing.

“I’m sure we can work round it, Marion,” Stephen Barlow had said. “There’s no need for it to become common knowledge. It can’t be that bad.”

“I fucked Gary Noon, Stephen. Do you really think you can work round that when the papers get hold of the story? ‘Mental health nurse in sex romps with patient/killer’. How does that sound for a headline?”

Her resignation was accepted with immediate effect. Barlow obviously wanted to employ damage limitation; disassociate himself and the centre from any revelations of Marion’s unprofessional and decidedly unethical conduct.

It was over. She could start afresh. Thank God the house was paid for, and that she had a healthy savings account. She determined to go away somewhere exotic for a few weeks. Maybe try a cruise. And in time she would look for work, but not in psychiatric nursing.

She stopped halfway up the stairs; that strange location which is in neither one place nor another. What was that smell? Antiseptic? She shrugged and carried on up to the landing, only to stop again as her bedroom door opened and Gary appeared. She could not move. He was smiling at her, and holding a gun in his hand, which he raised to point at her face.

When Dom, Tiny and Eddie got to the house, Frank’s body was already lying on the back seat of the Merc. Carlo and Sal had dressed him in the same clothes he had worn earlier. The assassin’s rifle had been recovered from where it had been left at the perimeter fence with the rope still attached to it, and Carlo had used it to put a bullet through the rear side window. The round had exited the opposite window and travelled over four hundred yards before drilling its way over nine inches into the trunk of a tree.

Dom opened the car door, bobbed inside and kissed his father’s cold, bloody cheek. Realigned the rug, which had been carelessly replaced on Frank’s head at an angle that made him look like a redheaded drunk, not a corpse.

“We’ll get the fucker, Papa,” he said, before going over to Eddie and Carlo to give them instructions, while Sal got into the driving seat and started the engine.

Carlo followed in a Jeep Cherokee. Eddie sat next to Sal in the Merc, navigating. They took back roads, and satisfied themselves that no one was tailing them. After several miles they passed a sign that read: DANGER QUARRY.

“Stop and turn back,” Eddie ordered.

“Back?” queried Sal.

“Yeah. Its gotta look like the car was heading towards the house, not away from it. I want you to turn round, get some speed up, then brake hard, swerve off the road and leave some rubber. Then park up against the fence. We need to make it appear that when the boss got hit, the car went off the road, broke through the fence and took a header into the quarry.”

Sal grinned and followed Eddie’s instructions to the letter. He was doing over sixty when he hit the brakes and laid down two black telltale trails.

As the Merc was still braking, bouncing up the high grassy verge, Eddie drew his Ruger pistol and struck Sal full force across the temple.

Sal lost control. His muscles went to mush as his senses reeled. His foot slipped off the brake pedal, and both of his hands dropped from the steering wheel. The car began to slide sideways like Bambi on ice.

Eddie threw himself out of the passenger door and rolled across the grass, coming to a sudden stop against the galvanised netting that ringed the deep, manmade pit.

The Merc crashed into the fence, ploughed through it, and began to topple down the precipitously steep gradient.

Sal’s head cleared as the safety belt bit into his chest. He tried to scream, but could not draw breath. Fear and confusion paralysed him. He had no recollection of the last few seconds, or of Eddie striking him.