A Reason to Kill (32 page)

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Gary asked. “You look as if you’re about to throw up or pass out.”

Panic closed her throat and threatened to suffocate her. Somehow, she took a breath. “I’m just a little scared, that’s all, Gary.”

“No need to be, darlin’. We’ll soon be finished up here and on our way. Just keep focused on us, what we have, and the future we’ll enjoy together. Nothing else matters.”

She nodded and forced a smile.

Gary went to her and kissed her on the lips. “Why don’t you go and make some coffee while the good doctor makes her phone call?”

Marion appreciated the excuse to leave the room. Beth’s ice-cold stare was too much to bear. In it was a melange of hatred, accusation, disappointment, and above all, abject fear.

Once by herself in the kitchen, a small seed of anger germinated in her mind and grew into a controlled rage to consume much of her own state of trepidation. If possible, she would intercede on Beth’s and the cop’s behalf to prevent another atrocity from taking place. Her dreams of a new life with Gary were now in disarray. It was as if she were recovering from a debilitating fever, to finally regain her senses. How could she have been so easily taken in by him? She filled and switched on the kettle, found mugs and instant coffee, and opened the top drawer of a floor unit to view the contents as potential weapons. Let her fingers play over several knives, but ignoring them, selected and withdrew a crosshatched, metal steak hammer, which she tucked into the back of her jeans, pulling the thick sweater she wore down over it.

Gary tapped in the number and held the phone to Beth’s ear so that she could hear the ringing tone. She mentally rehearsed what she would say to Matt. She had to warn him without alarming Noon.

“Barnes.”

“It’s Elizabeth, Matt,” she said. “I’ve got a visitor who you need to speak with.”

There was a pause.

“Where are you?” Matt asked.

“At home. Marion Peterson is with me. She didn’t tell us everything. She thinks she knows were Noon might be holed-up.”

“Put her on.”

“No can do. She won’t talk over the phone in case my calls are being monitored. She doesn’t want to be officially involved. Thinks it would put her at risk. Can you come to my place, by yourself?”

“Why is she acting like Mata Hari?”

“In case you don’t catch him. She’s terrified of the man. Can you blame her?”

“Okay. I’ll try to slip my minders. I may be a while.”

“Make it soon. She may change her mind if she has too long to think about it.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Good. I’ll open a bottle of your favourite white wine.”

“Sounds good.” Matt hung up. His mental early warning system went to red alert. He knew that Beth was in danger and had been forced to make the call, which led him to believe that Noon was with her. Was there an alternative? No. She had said: ‘It’s Elizabeth’. He had never heard her use her full Christian name before. And he didn’t have a favourite
white
wine. She knew he preferred red. He remained standing as still as a statue for a few seconds, brain racing, considering his options. By the book, he should report to Tom. But Beth’s life was on the line. He was not prepared to put her at greater risk by having control of the situation taken away from him. Noon would not respond favourably to any attempt at negotiation, or the threat of armed incursion. If he felt vulnerable, he would not hesitate to kill Beth and the Peterson woman, if the nurse was even at the flat.

He had to improvise. The ball was in his hands, and he intended to run with it. An image of Noon harming Beth sprang into his mind. She would be terrified, hoping against hope. But she would remain outwardly calm. She was trained to communicate with disturbed individuals. She knew what Noon was capable of; what triggers to pull to placate him. Black fury and a sense of unfettered outrage chilled his heart. If Noon had touched a hair of Beth’s head, he would allow the violence brimming within him to overflow. Hate had its place. It was a powerful fuel if channelled properly. He was now prepared and eager to shoot Noon dead on sight. Part of his heart was as cold and hard as stone. All that he now cared about was in danger of being lost to him. If Beth did not survive, then he was finished. This was literally do or die, with no ambiguity. He drew his Beretta as he schemed. Ejected the magazine and once again satisfied that it was fully loaded, relocated the clip into the butt, smacked it home with the heel of his hand, jacked a round into the chamber and slipped the gun back into the holster. He found some comfort in the power that the weapon gave him. All he needed was the chance to use it. The time for inaction was behind him. If he was to have any hope of saving Beth, then he would have to suppress the swelling madness that threatened to overflow and diminish logical thought. He and Beth had already shared experiences to produce good, sweet memories. But he wanted many more. He could not properly imagine the world now without her in it. Fuck! Sentimentality would not get the job done. He bit soft flesh on the inside of his cheek, hard, and sustained the pressure and let the pain centre him. He needed to be in full cop mode.

Moving as fast as his lameness would allow, Matt went through to the kitchen, unlocked the door to the integral garage and, without switching on the overhead light, found a rusted, web-shrouded hacksaw that hung among other hand tools on nails he had hammered into the timber uprights on first moving into the house.

Back in the kitchen, he lifted his left leg up and placed it on a chair, as if it was an object separate from him, not his own plaster-encased limb.

As he sawed, the effort caused sweat to pop on his scalp and forehead. Beads broke free from his hair to run into his eyes and down his unshaven cheeks. More dripped through his eyebrows. Squeezing his eyelids shut to expel the stinging, briny rivulets, he slowly, carefully sawed around the hard cast, level with his knee. The teeth bit through the tough mould of bandage and plaster of Paris, and as he laboured, the seat of the chair and the floor around it became covered in a fine, white layer of gypsum. Gingerly, he bent his leg for the first time in several weeks. His knee complained with a loud, defiant crack, but soon settled as he gently eased the joint back and forth. Given time, he would have removed the bottom half of the cast, but time was now in short supply. Instead, he went back into the garage, found a pair of pincers and used them to nibble chunks from the cast at the back of his knee, to allow his leg more flexibility.

Ten minutes later he was dressed and ready to go. He edged along the narrow space in the garage between the wall and the Discovery, with only the dim light from the open kitchen door to see by. After climbing into the 4x4, he sat behind the wheel, readied himself, and then turned the cold engine over and waited for it to warm. He could not risk stalling, or his Heath Robinson plan would be in tatters before it was implemented.

The thick plaster sole of the cast made him feel as though he had a club foot. He likened the prospect of using it, to a surgeon trying to perform a delicate operation wearing oven gloves.

Taking deep breaths, Matt concentrated, staring at his own gaunt reflection in the windscreen, which was illuminated by the weak light radiating through from the kitchen. He pressed the remote to activate the up-and-over door, and flooring the accelerator, left the garage like a bat out of hell. The bottom edge of the rising door scraped along the roof of the vehicle with the squeal of fingernails on a blackboard as the tyres laid down rubber on the concrete floor.

Into second gear, over steering, he hit a wheelie bin which went down like a ninepin, spewing its bagged contents out to split open and litter the pavement. He almost lost control, shooting out of the drive to fishtail across the road and come within an inch of sideswiping a neighbour’s Rover. He somehow straightened out of the skid, gunned the engine and was in third gear doing fifty, praying that nobody stepped out into the road between parked cars.

“Yeesss!” he hissed, using side streets to make a clean getaway, heading east from Harrow to throw fellow police off the scent.

Ten minutes later, he was cruising on the speed limit, headlights now on as he sped west in the general direction of Richmond Park.

The officers watching his house would have been caught cold. They were geared-up to expect an assault on it by a lone gunman, not a Steve McQueen, Bullitt-style escape by the cop they were safeguarding.

Matt knew that by the time his registration was put out, after the team leader had first contacted Tom for new orders, he would be at Beth’s place in Roehampton. It had now come down to one-on-one. At some point, very soon, a split-second of action would determine who lived and who died.

It was a warm, muggy night, and yet Matt felt chilled to the marrow as he switched off the ignition key and the engine noise was replaced by a cloying silence. He waited a minute to settle and gather his wits, before climbing out of the Discovery and walking across the car park to the bright yellow rectangle of Hawksworth House’s entrance, praying that he was up to the task. Any worthwhile future depended on him being able to function efficiently to his limit, and beyond. If there was a God, then he needed His company now, to give him the courage to be strong, and the ability to prevail over the evil that was waiting for him, manifested as Gary Noon.

Wiping clammy hands on the sides of his pants, he reached out to press the button that would connect him to Beth’s intercom. His tremulous finger stopped a hairsbreadth from its destination.

“Do it!” he whispered, and depressed it with a hard jab.

“
HE
did what?” Tom shouted into his phone.

“He did a runner, guv,” DS Dick Shaw repeated, wincing against the volume of the DCI’s voice and jerking the cell away from his ear.

“How?” Tom asked.

“Came out of his garage like a champagne cork and was gone in seconds.”

“His leg’s in fucking plaster, for Christ’s sake. Are you sure it was Barnes driving?”

“Yeah, we eyeballed him. No doubt. And there was no one else in the vehicle, unless they were in the rear and keeping well down, which is impossible, because no one but Barnes was in the house.”

“Check the house anyway, and have any incoming calls he’s received traced. He must have been contacted.”

“What do you think he’s up to, guv?”

“Mystic Meg, I’m not,” Tom said caustically before ending the call. He slammed the mug he was holding down onto the tabletop with such force that the handle snapped off. Punched up Matt’s mobile number. Not available. This was a totally unacceptable fuck-up of a situation. There were loose cannons in the shape of Noon, the Yank shooter, and now Matt, all trigger-happy and looking to blow the living shit out of each other. Tom kept arriving at scenes after the event, with only bodies to greet him. Not true! He had Luther Tyrell. And Nick Marino had survived.

Tom turned his attention to the granite-faced Goliath. “We need to contact Noon or the imported hitter, Luther,” he said.

Tiny appreciated being called by his proper name. It made him feel like a real person, not a goon with an infantile nickname. “Not possible,” he said, frowning. “Dom didn’t know how to run Noon down, or he would’ve had him taken out. And the Yank’s a phantom.”

“How did Santini contact him, then?”

“Through a New York mobster. Benny Andretti.”

“You got this Andretti guy’s number?”

“It’ll be on the computer. Carlo dealt with all the technical stuff.”

Tom sighed. It was something. Luther led him upstairs to where Carlo had the hardware set up. Tom wasn’t going to mess with it. He rang Computer Crime Section and was pleased to find Kenny Ruskin still on duty.

“I’m standing in front of Santini’s computer,” he said to the ace programmer. “There’s a shitload of disks. Can you get over here and dig out some info for me?”

“On my way, Tom. And don’t let anyone who doesn’t know what they’re doing mess with anything. It could have traps laid to wipe data.”

“That’s why I called you, Kenny.”

All Tom could do was wait. There was a chance that a lot of incriminating evidence was stored on the scores of disks that filled the dozen or so cryptically labelled storage boxes, though he doubted that there would be any leads to help them find the players he was after. Even approaching Andretti would be a total waste of time. The gangster would deny any claim of having put Santini together with a shooter. But he had to play with what he’d got. Follow the trail back, as Matt would put it.

On a whim, Tom looked up Beth Holder’s number and rang it.

“Yes?”

“Beth?”

“Yes, Tom. What can I do for you?”

“Have you heard from Matt, tonight?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s flown the nest.”

“What do you mean?”

“He ran, or should I say, drove out from under the noses of the team that were covering his stubborn arse.”

“With a plaster cast on his leg?”

“Tell me about it. I think he must have taken it off.”

“But why would he do that? What could possibly motivate him to go off by himself?”

“God knows, Beth. I was hoping you’d have an idea. If he gets in touch, let me know. We can’t protect him if we don’t know where he is.”

“I’ll do that, Tom. And you let me know if you find him.”

He heard the catch in her voice. He had unwittingly worried her. “He’ll be fine, Beth. He knows what he’s doing, even if we don’t. When he surfaces, I’ll get him to give you a bell.”

Beth thanked him and then ended the call.

“Very good,” Gary said. He had been sitting cheek to cheek with Beth, listening to both sides of the conversation. “Your boyfriend is resourceful. I’m really looking forward to meeting up with him.”

“Why are you so obsessed with Matt Barnes, Gary?” Beth asked.

Gary moved away from her and reached out to accept the mug of coffee that Marion held out to him. He said nothing.

Beth observed that Marion was more together. Now even able to make eye contact with her. Something significant had happened. Beth sensed the change of mood and dynamics. It was as if Marion had found some inner well of strength. She was more composed and in control of her emotions. It had not been lost on Beth that the ex-nurse was ill at ease with Noon. Knowing what he had done previously was one thing. They were detached events, without substance. Being present and having to watch him murder in cold blood was, potentially, a whole new deal. If Beth’s ability to analyse characters was near the mark (and it usually was), then there was a possibility that she might have a reluctant ally. Marion was basically law-abiding, having spent the greater part of her life counselling, involved in talk therapy, attempting to help patients rebuild their lives and become well again. She was programmed to promote the well-being, not the destruction of individuals. Noon’s power over her might not be as potent as he believed. The impending blood bath may have brought about the realisation that her infatuation was, to say the least, foolhardy.

Gary turned his attention back to Beth, looking her up and down as though she was a side-show freak, or an unidentifiable exhibit suspended in a jar of formaldehyde.

“I am not obsessed with Barnes, Doctor,” he said, his words clipped. “My mind is far from being preoccupied to an unreasonable extent by him. He’s just a detail. It’s Barnes who has the obsession, and is intent on bringing me to so-called justice for grievously wounding him and dispatching a number of his incompetent comrades in arms. He presents a small risk, which makes it prudent on my part to eradicate him. Also, the fucker killed Simon, which made it personal.”

“Simon was your tarantula, right?”

“He was a mygalomorph. There is a difference, but I won’t bore either of us by going into it. Barnes boasted that he’d squished him; an act that in itself earned him a bullet.”

“He was winding you up,” Beth said. “Simon is alive and well.”

“That’s nice to know. I hope it’s true. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“It should. Unless you have a death wish.”

“I don’t. Truth is, I’m basically bad, not mad.”

“Then why don’t you just take off and start afresh somewhere with a new identity.”

“You disappoint me,” Gary said, fixing Beth with a look that a teacher might give to a child who he expected much more of. “I thought you were a hotshot profiler. It’s fundamental to my nature to kill. I consider it both a vocation and the ultimate game, Doctor. And the higher the risk, the greater the emotional and intellectual reward.”

“You call killing a game?”

“Of course. The same as any other, but for bigger stakes. I don’t do it for the money alone. Do you imagine that any vastly rich sportsman or woman continues to compete for the monitory recompense? They do it because it’s what they do; what they are. Take away their reason to exist and they have nothing.”

“I find that a poor metaphor. You’re trying to say that you were born to kill, and that it’s as natural as playing football or tennis. Is that what you think you are, a natural born killer? Do you see that as somehow significant and worthwhile?”

“I don’t have to see it as anything. I believe in achieving personal fulfilment in whatever way I see fit. And your views, principles and beliefs are irrelevant. I’m totally self-contained, Beth Holder. You’re not a person to me, just a very insignificant detail of a very big picture, no more or less important than a ripe apple I might pluck from a tree to temporarily sate my appetite. Or an ant to crush underfoot, rather than step around.”

Beth now saw him for what he truly was; a creature as repugnant to humanity as the fictional monster in the Alien movies. He could not be reasoned with, or even communicated with on any meaningful level. Even though he spoke the same language and bore a deceptive resemblance to the species he dwelt among, he was not, in essence, one of them. This was a genetically malformed being, a faulty product pressed out on an assembly line which should not have passed inspection, but been rejected, returned to the mix and melted down.

Marion felt faint. The blood seemed to be withdrawing from her brain and extremities to leave her feeling light-headed and numbingly cold. She could feel a rash of gooseflesh erupt on her arms. The fear was palpable. She wanted to run from the flat, but her legs were fixed, as if thick roots had sprouted from the soles of her feet and taken hold, to grow down into the floor. ‘
I am a tree
’, a small voice whispered in some dark recess of her mind. She remembered primary school days, when the teacher, Mrs. Walker – who had always dressed in a red, tight-fitting two-piece suit – had have them play charades. The children would pretend to be anything their imagination could create. She, Marion, had always opted to be a tree, crooking her arms out and clawing her fingers, to picture herself as one of the terrifying trees in the forest that Snow White had fled through. Now, it was she who felt the clutching branches of dread that she had been snagged by in countless childhood nightmares that the fairy tale induced.

If there had been any grain of doubt as to Gary’s mental state, it was now resolved. His remarks to Beth satisfied Marion that he was incapable of caring for anyone or anything but himself. She would have to somehow gather her wits, pick the moment and end this. How she could have envisaged being party to murder, she could not now imagine. It was as if Gary had possessed her in the way a mind-altering drug or a hypnotist would. She had been under his control; knew at heart that it would be the end of her, but had not cared. Love – or the power of that indefinable but all-conquering emotion – had lulled her into a state far removed from her true nature. It was as if she had been spinning around a sun, being slowly drawn into the waiting conflagration by its gravitational pull, but too beguiled by its warmth and brightness to draw back and break free. She had in some way wanted to be consumed, to suffer both the agony and the ecstasy. But the spell was now broken, and the paralysis of both her mind and body was unlocked. She was returned to being wholly the person she had been before falling under Noon’s tenebrous enchantment.

Lighting a cigarette, Marion took deep, calming drags from it, and waited. The next time Gary engaged Beth in conversation and had his back to her, she fully intended to pull the steak hammer from her jeans and club him to death, not relenting until his skull was broken like an egg; his brains mashed to a pulp.

“You would contaminate a sewer, Noon,” Beth said. “Even the rats would be repulsed and sickened by you. I hope that
¯”

Gary lashed out again with the gun, and watched as she fell back with blood erupting to mist the air as her scalp split open.

“You’re pushing me, you stupid cunt,” he said. “I want Barnes to watch you die, slowly, before he gets his. So be a good girl and don’t say another word till he shows up. If you insult me again, I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Beth struggled back up into a sitting position. Her thick hair had absorbed some of the blow’s impact, and although dazed, she met his stare and remained defiant. Fuck sucking up to him and acting like a victim. She wanted to rattle him and see if there were any cracks in his shell. But decided to use a little tact.

As Beth made to again question his motives, without being so disparaging, Marion moved with a speed that her stocky, overweight body did not appear capable of. She tugged the hammer free as she closed on Gary, raised it two-handed, high into the air, and aimed a mighty blow at the crown of his head.

DS Dick Shaw, who had been tagged ‘Rickshaw’ for twenty-three of his twenty-nine years, braced himself as he waited for the DCI to pick up.

“Bartlett.”

“It’s Shaw, guv. I’m in Barnes’s house.”

“And?”

“There’s a hacksaw, chunks of plaster, and some ripped-up bandage on his kitchen table and the floor. Looks like he sawed through the leg cast so that he could drive.”

“What else?”

“Nada. The last incoming call on his land line was from the Yard.”

“So check his mobile number. Someone had to have contacted him. There’ll be a record of the call. You’ll be able to find out what area it was made from.”

“I’ve got a guy on it.”

“Get back to me when you know something. And make it fast.”

“Ignorant bastard!” Dick said, once certain that his superior officer had terminated the call. Barnes had made them look like fucking idiots by doing a runner. They owed him one, if he didn’t get his ticket punched.

Tom was getting angry. The frustration was building up like shit in a blocked drain. He could feel his cheeks heating up, and knew that bright red patches would be signalling his choler. His recently acquired ulcer was burning in his gut. And his chest hurt. He searched his pockets for antacid tablets, but had chewed his way through them all.

“Get me a glass of milk, would you?” he said to Pete Deakin. “Then have Luther taken in and processed.”

Luther looked up from the spots of blood on his black loafers, which he had been gazing fixedly at. He didn’t know if it was from the wounded cop, or Dom, and wasn’t in the least concerned. “I thought
¯”