A Reason to Kill

A REASON TO KILL

A DI Matt Barnes Thriller

-1-

By

Michael Kerr

Smashwords Edition

Published by Head Nook Books

Copyright © 2013 Michael Kerr

Discover other Titles by Michael Kerr at
MichaelKerr.org

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Prologue

About The Author

Other Books by Michael Kerr

Deadly Reprisal - Sample

UNDER
normal circumstances the quiet, tree-lined street in Finchley was not a location that would be associated with sudden and violent death.

It was 6.00 a.m., and this bright June morning heralded a short, final day for several of the police officers on duty both outside and within the innocuous looking detached bungalow with pebble dashed walls and a bright, red-tiled roof.

Detective Inspector Matt Barnes got up from an easy chair, groaned, stretched his arms and grimaced, rolling his neck to loosen knotted muscles. Going into the kitchen, he switched on the coffeemaker.

“Black, one sugar,” Detective Sergeant Donny Campbell said through a yawn, tossing the paperback he’d been reading onto a chair as he walked past the kitchen door, heading in the direction of the loo.

“What did your last skivvy die of?” Matt asked; a tired smile momentarily softening his craggy features as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

Donny just grinned, adjusted the semiautomatic pistol that hung from a shoulder rig below his left armpit, and vanished.

The end of this gig was finally in sight, and that suited Donny just fine. The witness, Lester Little, was taking the stand in No 3 court at the Old Bailey the following day, and his evidence would be the clincher to putting Frank Santini away for the rest of his natural.

Matt heard the toilet flush, placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the pine tabletop, and when Donny returned, zipping up his pants, Matt went to relieve his own pounding bladder. Too much java.

It had been a pain in the arse, Matt thought. This was the third location in six weeks. But every angle was covered. He, Donny, and DC Bernie Mellors – who was on stand down, grabbing some shuteye – were inside with Little. Outside were two more officers in an unmarked Transit van. All of them were armed, and considered this a straightforward baby-sit.

As he sighed with relief and jettisoned what seemed like a gallon of filtered coffee, Matt looked at his reflection in the brown-stained mirrored-door of the medicine cabinet that was screwed to the wall. He acknowledged that he was completely knackered, felt crap, and looked like shit. The weeks’ of nocturnal vigilance had turned him into a zombie. Christ, he was only thirty-four, and yet the face in the mirror could have belonged to a man of forty, plus VAT. His eyes were red-rimmed, with lines radiating out from the corners. The wrinkles seemed to be deeper these days, like fissures in a rock face. And his skin had what he termed prison pallor. There were even a few grey hairs showing at his temples, highlighted by the otherwise blue-black thatch. For a second, he could see his father looking back at him from the dull square of amalgam-coated glass.

Thank fuck this gig was almost a wrap. He needed some down time. A few days off to regroup; to sleep a lot and spend some quality time with Linda. He hadn’t seen her for days, and chose not to get on the phone when he was working. Their relationship was on shaky ground, stretched as tight as a rope that was beginning to fray and come apart. They were in danger of splitting up. He knew it, but couldn’t work out how to share his self between her and the work.

He sighed, shrugged, shook off and hit the lever, unwittingly drowning out the sound of death in progress, as the water swirled noisily around the toilet bowl.

HE
had been given the address and all relevant details twelve days ago, and had made meticulous plans to kill his intended mark. He was now in the house next door to the bungalow, holding a young couple and their baby prisoners as he made ready to launch what would be a lethal attack.

Waiting was all part of the game; a hiatus before the planning and preparation came together. He liked to think of it as a military operation, himself a Chris Ryan/SAS type, setting out on a life or death mission. At this stage it was as though he was in the eye of a hurricane; an eerie place of absolute calm where he could find equanimity, before the serenity was broken to culminate in a shitstorm of his own design. He would soon be the instrument that would once again bring about the bloody death of fellow human beings. He mused. What was it Hemingway had said? ‘There is no hunting like the hunting of man’. Now
there
was a guy he had a lot of time for. He’d read all about him. Decided that he was a restless, brawling, drinking, womanising adventurer, who had also written about life in such a visceral way, that it was like a hand reaching into your guts and tearing them every which way but loose. And when Hemingway had had his fill of all on offer, the great man went out explosively on his own terms; a bullet his entry fee to the hereafter.

Knowing how the law operated was the key to game, set and match. They were overconfident of their capabilities, too smug by far, which was a potentially fatal flaw. He was within yards of them, and yet they were oblivious to the danger they were in. Unbeknown to them, they were on the clock. The countdown had begun, and their time was rapidly running out.

The couple were totally compliant to his demands, abetting him without question. They both knew that he was their worst nightmare, and were treating him with the due respect that one would afford a suicide bomber, all primed-up and ready for supposed martyrdom. Hallelujah!

After parking the car half a mile distant, he had approached the house from the rear, entered through a conveniently unlocked kitchen window – left open an inch to presumably allow in fresh air – and made his way to the bedroom. A night light illuminated the cot. Perfect. He pointed the silenced Glock at the slumbering infant’s head, and then prodded the sleeping man in the bed next to it.

Jerry Page blinked his eyes and made to sit up as he saw the figure standing next to him. “Uh...what the
¯”

“Move a fucking inch and I’ll blow your kid’s brains out. Do you understand?” he asked.

Jerry was too shocked to even think of disobeying the stranger. He took in the thin, smiling face. Even in the soft yellow glow of the 25 watt bulb, he could see the madness that danced in eyes that were devoid of all compassion or humanity; bright and black, like those of a murderous crow.

“Don’t hurt Michael, please,” Jerry whispered.

“Then don’t give me the slightest reason to. Wake your wife up. We need to talk.”

“Penny, Penny,” Jerry said, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up, love.”

Penny took a few seconds to digest the situation. She then reacted against the threat to her baby, throwing herself across the bed, arms outstretched, and with a guttural noise escaping her open mouth.

He swept the pistol through the air in a lazy arc, to connect with the lunging woman’s right temple, knocking her sideways, to where she collapsed unconscious over her husband’s legs.

“Women!” he said, shaking his head at Jerry as he pointed the muzzle of the gun back at the infant. “Aren’t they all just too fucking highly strung and unpredictable? God love ‘em.”

“What the hell do you want?” Jerry asked, cradling Penny’s head and fighting back tears of fear, frustration and rage.

“Rule one. I ask the questions. What’s your name?”

“Jerry Page.”

“Okay, Jer, old son. I need for you to know exactly what’s going down here. When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, we’ll all go to the kitchen, have ourselves a cup of coffee and talk it through in a civilised manner. Just be sure to impress wifey that if she becomes irrational again, it’s the kid I’ll hit next time.”

Twenty minutes later, with the Pages seated at the kitchen table, – Jerry holding the baby, and Penny fighting nausea as she held a tea towel packed with ice cubes to the swelling on her head, – he explained the situation to them.

“My business is with a piece of shit being kept under armed police protection in the bungalow next door. When I’m ready to go and deal with him, I’ll tie you both up and leave. If you behave, you’ll get through this. But you need to know that if you describe me to the police, I’ll come back and kill the rug rat. I don’t make idle threats. Until I go, your job is to act as though everything is normal, and do nothing that might seem suspicious.”

“Whatever you want.” Jerry mumbled.

“Music to my ears,” he said, reaching down with his free hand to stroke the mongrel pup that yelped for attention. “Your mutt fussed me when I broke in. You should trade it in for a Doberman with attitude, and keep the windows locked in future. What do you call him?”

“Becks,” Jerry said.

“What does that mean?”

“We...I named him after Beckham, the footballer. You know.”

He frowned. “I don’t watch football, or any sport. I think that life’s too short to be a couch potato. There are more meaningful pursuits. Do you take Becks out for walks at specific times?”

“First thing in the morning, and in the evening, just before we go to bed. Penny lets him out in the back garden during the day.”

“Good, we’ll keep to that, Jer. What we need is the illusion of continuity; normality. And you need to be on my team. Anything worth having has to be worked for, and in this instance, you have the incentive of wanting to survive. To realise that goal, you have to believe beyond all doubt that you don’t get a second chance in this game. If either of you fuck up, just the once, then it’s over, and little Mikey here gets whacked.”

Penny stammered, “We’ll d...do anything y...you want.”

He tried to smile, but it didn’t come easy and never felt convincing. “Good girl,” he said. “Just don’t mistake my wholesome charm and good manners for weakness. I kill people for a living. It’s not personal, so don’t do anything that would result in any or all of you being collateral damage. We can all walk away from this and get to play another day. Does that sound good to you?”

Jerry and Penny both vigorously nodded their heads.

“Excellent. Now be a love, Penny, and make me another coffee, and a sandwich. I want you to treat me as a friend and house guest till I leave.”