A Reason to Kill (20 page)

He smiled as the swarthy electrician opened the door and waved him inside.

Ed Parker leaned forward and looked both ways, to satisfy himself that no other vehicles were in sight, then closed and locked the door.

“Through the back,” he said to Gary, leading him across the shop to a door that opened onto a large storeroom.

The room was a jumble of electrical components, crates, cardboard boxes and reels of electrical flex. Ed went to the back wall. It was fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of old motors and assorted parts. He reached behind a carton of plugs and fuses and pressed a hidden switch. Part of the wall was a door. It swung back a couple of inches. Ed pulled it open and stepped into a small armoury; an Aladdin’s cave of weaponry that gave off a pungent smell of gun oil.

Gary surveyed the racks of rifles, shotguns and submachine guns, and the shelves that were crowded with handguns and boxes of ammunition. He had known Ed for six years, had purchased the Glock from him, and on occasion other more expensive, specialist weapons to suit a specific job. He had returned some to be sold on. None of the hardware bore serial numbers.

“You should get out of the country, Gary,” Ed said. “They never give up on a cop killer. It stays high priority, permanently.”

Gary’s eyes narrowed. “I came to buy a weapon, Ed, not advice.”

Ed smiled. “The advice is free. What do you need?”

“Something for long range.”

“A rifle?”

“Yeah. What do you recommend?”

Ed went over to a rack and ran his fingers lovingly along the rifles, as though they were the spines of favourite books. He selected an M16.

Gary shook his head.

Ed put it back, picked out another and handed it to him. “That’s a Heckler & Koch HK91. It has both long range accuracy and knock down power. It’s the ultimate .30 assault rifle. Comes as is with a stainless steel barrel fluted with a factory supplied accubrake floated in a hand laminated Kevlar/fibreglass stock with aluminium bedding plate.”

Gary liked the feel and weight of it. The balance was right. “Fit it with a decent night scope,” he said

“Anything else?”

“Some heavy duty ammo. And have you got any camo gear?”

“Through that door,” Ed said, pointing to the far end of the narrow, concealed room.

Once business was done, Gary paid in cash. For an extra hundred, Ed let him crash out in an upstairs room till dusk fell. Even changed the plates on the stolen Rover and covered it with a tarp. Ed had also tucked a Ruger pistol under the loose Hawaiian-style shirt he wore outside his pants, next to his belly with the safety off. He stayed nervous and very uneasy until Gary left. The guy had the reputation of being an ‘A list’ hitman. But now he was more than that. He had killed cops. Ed erred on the side of caution. Noon’s eyes had a manic glitter that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He believed that the young man was on the slide; basically a fucking lunatic, who was more than prepared to go out in a blaze of what he may think of as glory.

The gates swung open. Chippings crackled under hot tyres as the black Mercedes sped up the drive to the well-lit house.

Nick Marino – alias Ray Lansky – braked to a gentle stop at the front of Villa Venice, exited the car and opened the rear door for Frank to get out.

“Stay over. You can drive me back to town in the mornin’,” Frank said. “Be ready to go at seven.”

It was already one a.m.

“Okay, boss,” Nick said, waiting until Frank had been escorted into the house before garaging the Merc and making his way along a path to the long, single storey brick building that was in all but name a bunkhouse.

Nick’s loyal attitude and solid personality was now beginning to pay off. This was the first time that he had been selected to drive Frank. He was slowly being assimilated into the entity that was Santini’s organisation. Both Tiny Tyrell and Eddie Costello liked and trusted him, and so the word had been passed up.

Moths circled and intermittently head butted the light above the bunkhouse door. He knocked before entering. Inside, two of Santini’s men were on stand down, sitting in a large kitchen/living area, drinking coffee, smoking, and watching a large, flat screen TV.

“Howya doin’, Ray?” Chip Martin – a tall, rangy Texan with a deeply scarred cheek and muddy eyes – asked.

Nick raised his hand in greeting. “Doin’ good, Chip.”

The other guy, who Nick had not seen before, did not take his eyes off the World Wrestling he was watching on Satellite.

“Don’t mind Sal,” Chip said. “He ain’t a social animal.”

Ray (as he tried to think of himself at all times) just hiked his shoulders. “I’m cream-crackered,” he said. “Where do I crash out? Its been a long day.”

“Door at the end,” Chip said, inclining his head.

Nick went into a room with six beds either side of a centre aisle. There was a locker next to each bed. He could have been in a school dormitory or a hospital ward. At the far end of the sleeping quarters was a bathroom with two stalls, two wall-mounted urinals, two wash hand basins and a shower cubicle. It wasn’t the Hilton, but as accommodation goes, it was better than a lot of places he’d had to lay his head.

He took a leak, rinsed his hands and face, went back into the dorm, undressed and climbed into bed. This was acceptance. Only the most trusted employees were allowed this close to the hub of Santini’s empire.

Nick slept like a baby, unaware that outside, less than two hundred yards from the house, a sniper lay patiently in wait. Everyone at Villa Venice was potentially in mortal danger.

“
IS
that a gun, or are you just pleased to see me?” Ron Quinn said as Matt walked up to the bar.

“That’s a much overused line,” Matt replied.

“And that’s no answer.”

“Does it show?” Matt asked.

“Not really, Mr Gabriel. Or should I call you Detective Inspector Barnes?”

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. I thought I recognised you when you first booked in. Its been bothering me. Then I remembered. You’re the cop who got shot-up a few weeks ago. The leg cast gave me it.”

“And you want me to pack my toothbrush and settle the bill, right?”

“Hell, no. I’m just curious as to why you’re in my humble hostelry.”

Matt propped a buttock on one of the red vinyl-topped stools, half sitting on it, sideways, with his leg straight out, sweating and itching inside the plaster of Paris.

“Pour me a large Scotch and I’ll tell you what I can,” he said.

There was nobody else in the bar. Ron pressed first one, then a second glass up to the optic that held a bottle of Glenmorangie. He filled each with three shots of the ten year old single malt.

“On the house,” he said, coming out from behind the bar and handing Matt the glass.

At five-eleven, Matt felt a little vertically challenged as he looked up into the big man’s eyes. He liked Ron. Maybe because the hotelier reminded him of Pat Roach, the ex-wrestler, now dead, who had played the part of Bomber in the TV series
Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.
Ron had the same quiet, strong, dependable demeanour.

“I was heading up a team babysitting a CPS witness,” Matt said. The safe house was hit and everyone died, apart from me and the hired gun.”

“I read about it,” Ron said. “But that doesn’t tell me why you’re staying here incognito, unless...”

“You got it, Ron. I saw the perp. I’m a loose end. Not even my DCI knows where I’m at.”

“You think the killer will be on the lookout for you?”

“It’s on the cards. He’s a psycho. If you’d rather I moved out, I will.”

Ron shook his head. “No. Stay as long as you need to. I doubt he’ll be able to find you here.”

“Thanks. But don’t bank on it being without risk. Among other things, he’s a hunter/killer. It’s what he does. Finds people and kills them.”

“How do you plan on catching him and getting your life back?”

“We just keep digging and hoping he makes a mistake. We know who he is. Someone might hand him to us. Did you see his mug shot on TV?”

“Yeah. If he walks in here, I’ll smile, put a bottle across his head, and give you a shout.”

“No, Ron. It’s not your problem. He’s a pro. Best not to tangle with him. He would shoot you as soon as look at you, if he thought you’d recognised him.”

“I was a Para for twelve years, Inspector
¯
”

“Stick with Mr Gabriel, or John, okay?”

“Sorry...John. Let’s just hope he gets picked up before he homes in on you.”

“Chances are, he won’t be able to pick up my trail.”

“When I fought for Queen and country, we always used to examine the worst case scenario, and plan for it. Don’t you work on that premise?”

“Maybe not enough. I’ll be sure to look at it that way.”

“Good. I haven’t lost a paying guest yet to enemy action. One old guy had a heart attack in the room next to yours. But that was natural causes.”

“He died?”

“Yeah. And his bill never got settled. You win some, you lose some. But I can live without you getting wasted on the premises. It would keep me out of the good hotel guide.”

They both laughed. Ron took Matt’s glass and refilled it. They had bonded.

Beth was giving far more time to the case than she could warrant. Knowing that Matt was back on light duties and working alongside Tom and the team, drew her to the Yard every morning, to be a part of the briefings and keep up to speed with developments. Plus, Noon was a challenge. She now knew so much about the man; his background, illness, and the specifics of the crimes he had committed. And yet she was unable to forecast his actions or ascertain his whereabouts. There was no pattern to examine, and that was pissing her off.

They watched a videotape that had been found at Noon’s flat. Pete Deakin had been fast forwarding through the collection they’d lifted, and was more than pleasantly surprised to come across Noon and the psychiatric nurse fooling around.

Tom had set up a prehistoric combined TV/VCR on the top of a filing cabinet, and then lowered the blind at the window to cut out glare.

Beth tried to stay detached; an observer. It was impossible. She felt aroused, not only by the graphic, abandoned sexual acts played out by Noon and Marion Peterson, but also because Matt was sitting next to her. Thank God the blind was down and the light out. She was unable to help but imagine herself and Matt in the copulating couples’ place. Being intimate with Matt was like Christmas...it was coming. They were on a collision course, and she found herself actually looking forward to the impact of it. She felt damp, hardly able to keep still in her chair, as Marion moaned and thrashed about enthusiastically on top of the bed.

When fizzing snow replaced what was nothing short of pornography on the tape, Tom turned off the machine and raised the blind, momentarily blinding them with sunlight.

“I don’t know whether I need a cold shower or a coffee,” Tom said. “Did watching that porn give you any pointers?”

“It helped to see Noon,” Matt said, not mentioning the fact that the strongest pointer it had given him was of the kind that strained against the material of his jeans.

“In what way?” Beth asked.

“I know what he really looks like, now. And how he moves. Just walking when he got off the bed; the roll of his shoulders and bearing. It was natural. Something that defines him as an individual. No two people move the same.”

“And we can have a close-up of his face taken from this and put out,” Tom said. “He looks subtly different to the generated image we used.”

Seven days after the raid on Noon’s flat, they were no further on, until Pete Deakin interrupted another coffee and doughnut session.

“Looks as if he might have surfaced,” Pete said to Tom. “A couple were found shot to death in bed at an address in Longford, out near the airport. Their car was taken.”

“You got details?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, boss. The car is a dark green Rover 1-6i. Only a couple of years old. I’ll put the registration out, but he’ll have changed the plates, or even ditched the motor already.”

Beth said. “Maybe he’s been staying at the house since he vanished.”

“And now he’s on the move again,” Matt said, “and we have no idea what warped plan he might be working to.”

“At least we know for a fact that he didn’t skip the country,” Tom said. “He chose not to run.”

“Taking it that it was him, before we have a positive match of the bullets used, then it’s a good sign,” Matt said. “If he didn’t have an agenda, he would have done a vanishing act. We need to work out how to lead him in.”

“With you as the bait?” Beth asked.

Matt nodded. “I’m one of the main reasons he hasn’t just stayed in hiding. He’ll be trying to find me.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s too risky, Matt.”

“So is mountain climbing and a thousand other things. It’s the only way to nail him. Better we orchestrate proceedings and try to call the shots than sit back and give him free reign.”

He hid the car half a mile away. Had found a rutted lane leading into a wood, parked the Rover in high bracken off the beaten track and covered it with the tarp – that Ed had let him keep – and a few leaf-laden branches and vegetation. From only a few feet away the vehicle was almost invisible. That it was green, helped.

He felt like a backpacker as he made his way along deer trails to the edge of the woods that bordered the west side of Santini’s estate. He was prepared for any eventuality, but expected that he would have to make a long shot from outside the fence. His plan was modified as he saw how close the trees were to the alarmed and electrified barrier. The world was full of idiots going through the motions, not properly primed. Complacency was alive and well and flourishing in the Essex countryside. Fortress Santini was a piggy bank waiting to be broken into.

Shucking a coil of rope from his shoulder, Gary unslung the covered rifle and removed his backpack before hunkering down among the tall ferns to wait. He had everything to sustain him for days if necessary, including a large water bottle, dry rations and a sleeping bag.

After darkness fell, he used the night vision scope to survey the target area. He could see the house and several outbuildings glowing green through the infra-red transmission coating. There was little sign of movement. Almost an hour went by before a guard strolled leisurely past just forty feet from him, along the concrete path on the inside of the fence. A burst of static disclosed that he was carrying a two-way radio. A German shepherd was at his heel, sniffing at the ground and no doubt visualising animal species by the scents they had left. The guard was smoking. He had a submachine gun hung from his shoulder, which Gary thought might be an Israeli Uzi.

Two hours later, a dark-coloured Mercedes swept up the drive and stopped at the front of the house. The driver got out, opened the offside rear door, and Frank Santini stepped from the car into the moonlight.

Gary’s heart pounded. A part of him wanted to try and snatch a quick shot, but he contained the impulse. There was neither the time nor certainty of making a clean kill. No sweat. There was no pressure to hurry. At regular intervals he pushed back the olive drab cuff of the camo jacket and checked his watch. Waited until almost four o’clock. Dawn was already breaking, and a layer of knee-high fog hugged the ground. The distant house appeared to float on a cloud. He made the decision to make his move.

The hourly patrol ambled past. He let another five minutes tick by before going to the foot of a lofty spruce. Climbed it to a point higher than the top of the adjacent fence and sat astride a waist-thick branch and shunted himself out along it, over the razor wire that was only scant inches below his dangling combat-booted feet.

With the rope over the branch and hanging to the ground from either side of it, Gary lowered himself down, pulled the rope free and rewound it.

The house was set in a large, shallow basin of land. As he jogged towards it, the fog deepened and totally hid him from sight. Only a hundred yards from the house was a copse of trees. At its centre in a clearing stood a large timber-built shed. He approached cautiously, the silenced Glock (fitted with new baffles) drawn, a bullet chambered. He did not want a war. This was to be an incisive, clinical strike, followed by a judicious and swift withdrawal. Though if it came to it, he would engage with the enemy, overcome them, and turn the property into a killing field.

Cupping his hand to a begrimed window at the rear of the shed, he saw that it was a groundsman’s store. There were tools hanging from nails on the walls, two ride-on lawnmowers, and all the paraphernalia associated with the maintenance of a large estate.

Edging around to the front, he tried the door. It was not locked. Inside, he saw rough wooden stairs at one end of the long building. At the top was a boarded roof space that was not high enough to stand up straight in, but perfect as a place to wait.

Unrolling his sleeping bag behind a row of large plastic sacks labelled fertiliser, he stretched out on his back. As always, this was the most exhilarating part. It was a period of anticipation. A time to fine-tune plans and play them out in his mind a dozen ways, taking into account the variables that could change everything in an instant. The best laid plans could go pear-shaped. Mentally acting out the many possible scenarios would enable him to switch and adapt without having to think. When the time came – probably that evening – he would be ready for anything. The objective was simple: blow Santini’s head up like the melon that the character played by Edward Fox had shot in
The Day of the Jackal
, as he prepared to assassinate De Gaulle. He envisaged the confusion and panic that would ensue after the hit. Maybe he would take out one or two of Santini’s men as they rushed to their boss’s aid. That would pin others down for a few seconds as he slipped away in the darkness. The gangster’s paid help were not in his league. They were armed, but had almost certainly never had to protect Santini against anyone like him. They would mill about like blind skaters on an ice rink, not even sure where the attack had come from, or what force they were up against. He would be clear of the area while they took cover and tried to consolidate. And with any luck the night sky would be full of cloud to obscure the light of the moon.

He dozed, his subconscious on red alert for any noise that could signal danger. The voices in his head were just an unintelligible buzz. He was too preoccupied to be bothered by them. When in killing mode, all other considerations were consigned to a back burner. His nerves were singing like harp strings; his awareness heightened to such a level that he could hardly contain himself. The expectation was almost too much to contain. Waiting to strike was an amalgam of pleasure and pain; a delicious torment that clawed at his very soul.