Kill Clock (4 page)

He leaned against the bonnet. "Mike got one of these … kill clocks?"

"Yeah." She crossed her arms. "There's a guy Banksy wanted out of the way."

"Why couldn't he get rid of this guy himself?"

Her voice cracked. "No idea. Didn't want to get his hands dirty, I suppose. Anyway, he gave Mike twenty-four hours to kill this guy."

"Twenty grand for a hit? Good pay." He didn't know if that was true, just wanted to see how Julie responded.

"Banksy wasn't going to let Mike off the hook that lightly. But it was going to be a start. Pay off a big chunk. Leave an amount we could manage."

Pearce smiled. She was fast on her feet. "Did he do it?"

She stared up the road. There wasn't much to stare at. A few squat bungalows with neat gardens and, in the driveways, cars basking in the last of the evening sunlight.

Julie looked back at him. "He tried," she said. "Mike's dead, Pearce."

The story was getting more and more elaborate. And she even had a tear in her eye as she spoke.

He felt like clapping.

"That right? How did he die?"

She looked at the ground. "The guy Mike was supposed to kill? Seems he killed Mike instead."

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Pearce cleared his throat. "You've been to the police?"

"Yeah."

"And what did they say?"

"Didn't believe me."

"Why not?"

"They think Mike's done a runner."

"What about the body?"

"There isn't one." She looked up again, eyes wet. "The guy Mike was supposed to kill sent Mike's … he sent Mike's head back to Banksy."

Pearce was silent for a moment. "Did you see it?"

"Banksy got rid of it."

"Well, maybe Mike
has
done a runner?"

She shook her head. "He showed me a picture … It was … "

"I can imagine. When did this happen?"

"Day before yesterday."

"You're taking it well."

"You think?"

She looked genuinely upset. Teary-eyed, bottom lip quivering.

It was all fake, he knew that, but somehow he still wanted to give her a hug. "Why come to me?"

"'Cos I need help."

"Did you tell the police what you just told me?"

"Yeah." She grabbed a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. "They think I'm making it up."

"It's a hell of a story, right enough."

"Doesn't help that I've spent time in psychiatric care."

"Why should that make any difference?"

"I was committed, Pearce. I'm a nutjob."

"Ah."

"My head was all over the place when I was a teenager. Didn't used to have my shit together like I have now."

Pearce hadn't known about her being a loophead, but if anything she'd told him this evening had the ring of truth about it, that did. "It's done, now." He crossed his arms. The air was chillier now but the rain looked as if it was gone for good. "Mike's dead. The debt's written off. End of story. No?"

"Wish it was." She looked at him. "Banksy still wants his money. Says that with Mike gone, it's all down to me. Gave me twenty-four hours to pay it back."

"Heart of stone, Kevin Banks. That much hasn't changed. When's your time up?"

She looked at her watch. "Fifty minutes ago."

Pearce pushed himself off the bonnet. "So where is he? Shouldn't he be coming after you by now?"

"I've been careful. He'll have to find me."

"Still don't see how I can help, Julie."

"I just want you to talk to him for me. You know him."

"Not really."

"But you worked with him."

"Nope. Heard plenty about him. But the only guy I worked with apart from Cooper was Joe Hope."

"But you know people Banksy knows. You can talk to him. You have to, Pearce." She grabbed his arm. "Get him to let me pay him back in instalments. I'll pay it all back. I will. Honest. I just can't do it all at once. I don't have the money."

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"He won't listen to me." She squeezed his wrist. "Says me and Mike already had too many chances."

"I really don't think I can help."

She took a step back and folded her arms. "And you think Banksy has a heart of stone?"

Pearce watched a car approach and drive slowly past and when he faced Julie again, she was still staring at him. "Julie, last time I saw you, you made a complete tit out of me." She opened her mouth to say something but he carried on. "You don't get in touch for years. Then you swing by as if we're best friends, with some bollocks story about your dead boyfriend and a loan shark." She tried to speak once more and again he cut her off. "You know what? I'm not falling for it this time."

She waited. "You finished?"

He said nothing.

She looked him in the eye. "So you don't believe me either?"

"Too right, I don’t."

"Oh, God. I never thought … I swear, Pearce, it's all true." She opened the car door, said something to the kids, took out her bag. Rummaged around in it and fished out her mobile. "Call Banksy. Ask him."

"I'm not calling anyone."

She thrust her mobile at him. "Please."

"Is he in on the scam too?"

"I'm begging you."

The car that passed earlier was headed back their way. Pearce watched it inching towards them. Then it stopped. Sat there with the engine running.

For a moment, he expected the window to roll down and someone to pop their head out and ask for directions. But then he noticed the driver was wearing a ski mask.

Julie turned to see what he was looking at.

Car doors clicked open and two guys got out of the back. They were wearing ski masks too.

Julie dropped her phone. Didn't even glance at where it had fallen.

Nice touch. Pearce crossed his arms, fingers wedged under his armpits, all set to watch the drama unfold.

One of the guys grabbed Julie.

She screamed, "Help me, Pearce! For Christ's sake, help me!"

Well, she was taking things a bit far now.

Devon banged on the window with her headless doll. He heard her faint wee voice. "Leave my mummy alone."

Pearce couldn't believe Julie'd put her kids through this. Poor wee buggers didn't know it was all pretend.

"Stop this shite now." He took a step forward. One of the masked men pointed a gun at him. It was fitted with a silencer.

The other man had Julie in a bear hug, arms pinned to her sides. He lifted her off the ground. She stopped screaming, grunted instead while she tried to kick him. He half-dragged, half-carried her towards their car.

"Julie, come on, you're scaring the kids."

"Don't let them touch my babies!" She lashed out with her foot as her actor pal pretended to shove her in the rear of his car.

"Give it a rest, Julie." Pearce had just about had enough now. "Takes more than a balaclava and a fancy water pistol to fool me."

The gunman waved his weapon at Pearce. "Will you shut your gob?"

The other bloke was still trying to stuff Julie in the car. She'd lost a shoe in the struggle, but was swiping at him with her bare foot.

"I'm thinking of the kids, here," Pearce said to the gunman.

"You should learn to listen." The gunman switched his aim and pulled the trigger.

There was a dull sound, then something ricocheted off the road beside Pearce's boot, leaving a ragged hole in the tarmac. He shuffled backwards. Couldn't help himself. He'd been shot twice and didn't fancy it again.

Shit, maybe this
was
for real.

Julie wouldn't have OK'd the use of live ammo. Not with her kids around. She wasn't that heartless. Was she?

She was in their car now, the other masked man sitting next to her, hand clamped over her mouth.

The gunman spoke to Pearce. "You listening now?"

He fought to keep his voice steady. "You got something worth saying?"

"What's your name, Smartarse?"

Pearce looked at man's eyes through the holes in the mask. Olive-brown. Hilda once rolled in some horseshit that was the exact same colour. "Pearce."

"Here's the deal, Pearce. Go to the police and your girlfriend's dead."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"She'll still be dead. Got it?"

Pearce breathed in through his nose. Nodded.

"But if you bring Banksy twenty grand by midnight, she can go free."

"I don't have twenty grand."

"Then she's dead."

"I said I don't have twenty grand."

"Bright guy like you, I'm sure you can find it."

Pearce said nothing.

"Twenty grand. By midnight." The gunman kicked Julie's mobile phone across the tarmac towards Pearce. "We'll be in touch."

Julie's strappy shoe lay on its side, looking like week-old roadkill in the fading light. Pearce walked over to it, picked it up.

He turned to see Kirk and Devon staring out the car window at him. Explaining what had just happened to their mother was going to be fun.

He walked back to the car and got in the driver's side. Still stank of sick and smoke. He squeezed into the seat, fiddled around till he found the lever to adjust it and gave himself some leg room.

"Where's Mummy gone?"

"She's had to go away, Kirk."

Hilda poked through the gap between the seats, jumped onto Pearce's lap.

"That man had a gun."

Pearce rolled down the window. Breathed in some fresh air. Better. "Yeah, he did."

"My heart was beating. Faster and faster."

"Faster!"

"Shut up, you poof."

"Kirk!" Pearce put on his 'bad dog' voice. It worked on Hilda. Sometimes. "Be nice, now."

"They had woolly faces."

Pearce smiled, covered his mouth with his hand. "Those were masks, Devon."