Kill Clock (8 page)

"No? Take a look out the window."

Pearce's stomach sank like he was on a plane in a storm. Jesus, no.

"You ought to take more care of it. Might have another accident. Losing one leg's bad enough."

Pearce took a step forward, reached a hand out towards the curtain.

"I did hear you're very fond of it. Don't understand the appeal myself. It's a vile-looking thing. And it stinks of vomit."

Pearce pulled back the curtain and looked outside.

Julie's car was gone, an empty space where he'd left it.

"You touch him, Banksy, I'll rip your throat out."

"Oh, such passion." Banksy blew a kiss down the line. Then it went dead.

"Thanks for picking me up."

Ailsa repositioned her hand on the steering wheel. "I could hardly say no."

"Now you're making me feel bad."

She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I'm sure you'll get over it."

He leaned back, breathed in the lemony scent of the air freshener. Definitely beat the smell of Julie's car. "You see Joe-Bob?"

"Yeah, he's all set. Just needs to know when and where you want to meet." She held out her mobile. "Want to speak to him?"

"Not really."

"Take the damn phone."

"Better if you call him."

She laughed. "You can't be civil to him for just a few seconds?"

"The mood I'm in? Don't want to risk it."

She shook her head. "He's not a bad guy, you know."

"He used to sell drugs."

"Let it go, Pearce. You can't carry that baggage around with you forever."

"Is that right?" His head buzzed like he was running clippers over his skull. "I had enough counselling in prison, thanks."

"I'd just like to see you happy."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"If you say so." She tapped her hand against the steering wheel. "How would I know?"

"Ailsa, this is hard enough." He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Can you please speak to Joe-Bob for me?"

"OK." She shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell him 11:30. Foot of King's Road. There are some benches that look out across the Firth of Forth. I'll be sitting on one of them." Just along from where he'd wrecked that slaphead's car. Seemed like days ago but it was only a few hours.

"Anything else?" She was looking up the number on her phone.

"Did he mention the cost?"

"He's not a plumber. Doesn't normally do emergency call-outs. And he's no fonder of you than you are of him, by the way."

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend."

She turned her head towards him, shadows across her face like old bruises. "He wants three grand."

"Christ. So he
does
want to fuck me."

"You want something powerful, you have to pay for it."

"Forget it."

"You can't afford it?"

"Not even close."

"You could rent instead of buy."

"I can do that?"

"I'll try asking. Nicely." She put the phone to her ear.

He stared out the window at the city lights in the distance as they drove through Holyrood Park, a tingling in his brain as if it was an overworked muscle.

"It's not going to work," Ailsa was saying on the phone. "He's looking for a bargain basement price." She took her hand off the wheel. "I know." Balled her fist. "Can he borrow it?" She smiled, her fingers relaxing. "Five hundred?" Her hand returned to the wheel. She looked at Pearce. "Twenty-four hours long enough?"

"Plenty." So he was going to get a gun after all. He'd have to be ready to use it, then. And that didn't mean firing a bullet into the ground like one of Banksy's crew. No, he had to be prepared to shoot someone. Risk jail time. Once again. "One way or the other, I won't need it after tonight."

"Maybe I'll see you again."

"Sure." He pushed the car door open a few inches. "If I don't get shot."

She didn't smile. "I don't understand, Pearce. I didn't back then. And I don't now."

He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again. Some things were nobody else's business.

"I have to go, Ailsa." He climbed out, clicked the door shut. Didn't look behind him.

The wind bit into his arms and it felt good.

Pearce grabbed a tool-bag from the top of the wardrobe. It was covered in dust and cobwebs. He wiped the muck off with a wet cloth. Maybe he should get some magazines and newspapers and do what they did in movies: cut strips of paper and band them together to look like bricks of cash.

But he couldn't see the point. It wouldn't take a genius to see that it wasn't real money. Even if he put a couple of genuine tenners on top, Banksy was bound to flip through a stack and notice something odd about it.

Apart from which, he didn't have time to waste cutting up newspaper. He had to get some money out of the nearest cash machine. Withdraw as much as he could with his bank card, then use his credit card to make up the five hundred for Joe-Bob. Well, strictly speaking the credit card belonged to Hilda but Pearce looked after it.

He put on a black jumper, slipped on a pair of leather gloves, grabbed the bag.

He looked around for Hilda, and then remembered the wee fella wasn't there.

There was no sign of the car, but glass from the smashed windscreen still lay on the road, sparkling in the light of a streetlamp.

Behind him, the bar was already closed. Bit early. Or maybe not. He wasn't sure what time pubs normally closed during the week. He rarely set foot in them. Didn't drink much. When he did, it was at home. He didn't like pubs. They tended to be full of drunks and he found drunks hard work, always wanting to pick fights with him, prove what big men they were.

He sat down on one of the metal benches overlooking the beach, the cold hitting the backs of his thighs through his jeans. To the west, clusters of lights twinkled on the coast. Closer, on an island in the Forth, a lighthouse flashed every few seconds. In the distance the lights of an oilrig glowed.

He closed his eyes, one fist clutching the wad of cash in his pocket, and listened to the waves churn up a background of restful white noise.

"Pearce?"

He opened his eyes. Joe-Bob was thinner than Pearce remembered. You still wouldn't describe him as slim, but he was in better shape than he'd been six years ago. Still had the Mohican haircut, although Pearce couldn't tell if he continued to dye it red. The streetlight stained everything orange.

Joe-Bob slid off his backpack, placed it next to Pearce on the bench. He held out his hand.

Pearce ignored it.

Joe-Bob shook his head. "Still a rude bastard, eh?"

"Still a fat wanker?" That'd hurt, especially with the obvious weight loss. But Pearce saw no reason to be nice to this guy. He was an ex-drug dealer and Pearce's sister had died of an overdose, supplied by someone just like Joe-Bob. That particular someone was dead. Stabbed to death with a sharpened screwdriver. Pearce remembered every blow like it was yesterday.

"You shouldn't talk to people that way, Pearce. Not when they're armed."

"Just give me the gun."

"Only trying to be polite."

"Give me the gun."

"What's your problem?" Joe-Bob looked at him, a sneer on his face.

Pearce stared back at him.

Joe-Bob smiled, then started to laugh.

"Gun." Pearce held out his hand.

"OK." Joe-Bob unzipped his bag. "Powerful enough for you?"

Pearce didn't know the first thing about firearms, but it looked like a small machine gun. "What is it?"

"Mini Uzi."

"And that's powerful, is it?"

Joe-Bob gave him that sneer again. Made Pearce want to smack him.

"Sixteen rounds per second."

"Right." Pearce wasn't sure whether that was good or not. "Is it loaded?"

"Thirty-two round mag."

He thought for a moment. "Two seconds? That all I've got?"

Joe-Bob sucked in his bottom lip. Then let it go. "You want to shoot in little bursts. You don't want to hold the trigger down for two whole seconds. That'll totally knacker the gun."

Pearce nodded, put his hand in Joe-Bob's bag.

Joe-Bob clamped his fingers round Pearce's wrist. "Money first."

Pearce arrived at the industrial estate later than he'd have liked. No time to scope the place out.

The gate was open, and a massive padlock lay in the grass. Couple of seconds work with a bolt cutter.

Banksy was already here.

Well, Pearce was prepared. He'd got the fire-power he was after. In the bag, ready in case he needed it.

He walked through the gate and into the estate. It was a mess right now.

The staircase in front of him was like the moveable sort you find at airports to get passengers on and off the planes. Only this one wasn't going anywhere. The staircase had once led to a walkway that joined onto the top floor of a huge, multi-storey warehouse thirty feet away on the other side of the road. But the warehouse was being demolished. Its guts spilled out, the near side of it flattened. He'd been watching the builders' progress from his sitting room window. Saw them destroy the walkway. But they'd left the staircase, so now the stairs led nowhere, just stopped in mid-air, and hung there, useless. Unless you had a death wish and wanted somewhere to jump from.

He walked on past the staircase, following the road around the side of the warehouse. He looked for any sign of movement but saw nothing other than the heavy equipment dotted around. If you fancied hot-wiring a digger, or nabbing yourself a free cement mixer, this was the place to be.

He strolled on, his breathing loud, the tendons in his neck tight.

Beyond the warehouse, the road led to a clutch of empty parking spaces in front of a group of industrial units. There were other units opposite, a line of small brick buildings, vague shapes in the dark. Between the two sets of units lay an area of open ground on a gentle slope. It was pitch black down there.

He approached the first of the brick buildings and stopped when he got there. This was far enough. "Banksy!"

Lights came on. Dazzled him. He screwed his eyes up, shaded them with his hand.

Car headlights. Close. Only twenty feet or so down the slope. Then Banksy's voice: "Glad you could make it."