Numb: A Dark Thriller (8 page)

Carter tidied his notes and placed them to one side. Now for the tricky part.

“Thank you for listening,” he said. “Now, I’m happy to open the floor to questions.”

Dozens of hands instantly shot up and Carter suppressed a smile as he took another drink of water.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to answer most of them.

9

The phrase ‘hit-man’ often conjures up images of a professional killer. An assassin. Someone trained in the art of weapons or poisons or hand-to-hand combat. A person steeped in mystery, called upon to take out a target for an extremely large sum in a quick and effective manner before disappearing back into non-existence, leaving no trail, no clue as to their identity. But, in actual fact, the vast majority of contract killings that happen annually throughout the world are carried out by amateurs willing to do anything for money - like Brian Wilcox and Marlon Tennant, who, by nine o’clock, were parked in the side street around the corner to Twilight Nightclub.

They kept an eye on the passing traffic and the people on the streets hurrying through the drizzle to the next wine-bar or public house. Surprisingly, they hadn’t seen any police yet. They were always out on force on Friday nights, and although Twilight Nightclub was a few streets from the main strip of bars and restaurants, the filth often patrolled the alleyways and side streets here looking for any minor crime to add to their arrest tallies. The sight of the two of them sitting in a stationary vehicle might arouse their suspicions. Even though the car wasn’t registered as stolen, a nosey copper might still knock on the window and want to see some identification and spoil everything.

Still, they’d deal with that situation if it arose. For now, they were sitting pretty, just a few minutes away from earning the second half of a nice five grand.

Everything had gone smoothly so far. Picking up the Corsa from the multi-storey and driving it to the ferry landing hadn’t been a problem. No one had seen them leave it there nor had they been seen at the steelworks when they climbed in the Peugeot a short walk later. When they returned to the multi-storey in the Corsa later they’d make sure the same guard who’d seen them leave noticed them again. It would be handy having a witness see them in that car. The Peugeot would be underwater soon.

Wilcox was sat behind the wheel and he checked his watch as he inhaled a long drag from his cigarette.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said.

“I know,” Tennant replied.

“Not nervous?”

“For five grand I’d kill my old man.”

“He’s already dead, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. His liver packed in.”

Wilcox nodded and flicked his cigarette out the window. “You can kill my dad then – if I ever find out who he is.”

“If you do, let me know. I’ll not miss with this baby.” Tennant tapped the Uzi submachine gun that lay on his lap, hidden under his coat. Rodgers or one of his men had placed it in the car’s boot earlier, fully loaded and ready for use. It was a good weapon, costly and imported, but worth it. You didn’t have to aim as well with a weapon like this. You just sprayed the scene. Tennant had never handled one before but wasn’t unnerved by it. A gun was a gun, wasn’t it? He’d shot birds with an air rifle a few times as a kid, fired a shotgun at some empty beer cans when he and his mates were stoned out in the woods one night, and he’d fired a handgun once when he was fifteen, emptying all six bullets into the back of a kid from a rival estate who had stolen his brother’s bike. Unbelievably, the kid survived but couldn’t identify Tennant as the culprit. There would be no near misses tonight though.

Tonight, his target wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Just remember to brace yourself for the recoil,” Wilcox said. “You don’t want to lose control and be firing all over the place.”

“Chill out,” Tennant said. “I know what I’m doing.” He laughed a little, like something funny had just struck him. “Taking out Mike Nash – not many people have the balls for that.”

“What if we get caught, though?” Wilcox said. “Are we gonna grass and tell the truth? Say we were paid to do it? And who paid us?”

“We’ll not get caught. Chill – the – fuck - out. Here, have another smoke.”

Wilcox nodded and took the cigarette Tennant offered. He lit up and stared ahead through the rain-spattered windscreen. Time seemed to be standing still.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said.

“I know,” replied Tennant.

10

Thirnbridge city centre has well over fifty pubs and wine bars and ten choices of nightclub, the majority of which are to be found on the south side of the river. Come the weekend thousands pack the drinking dens out, thousands who, despite their age, race or sex, can be separated into two groups – those out to have fun and enjoy themselves, and the trouble makers.

It was the trouble makers who Riley often had to deal with. Like young lad’s not long out of school who thought they could take on the world because they’d downed a few pints, or idiots high on drugs who would kick off for no reason because they didn’t know what planet they were on, or nutcases who would stick a glass in someone’s face just because they thought they were staring at their girlfriend’s tits – foolish people out to spoil the night for others. But luckily, none of them were in Twilight Nightclub tonight. It was closed to the public and just a select two hundred were inside to celebrate Nash’s son’s birthday.

Michael junior was Nash’s pride and joy, his only child from his one previous marriage that had ended in a mess almost fifteen years ago. Nash had gotten custody of Michael without having to fight for him in court after his coke-snorting, free-spending wife disappeared abroad after a blazing row over her behaviour. She hadn’t been heard from since and whispered rumours still circulated about Nash having her ‘taken care of’ after she’d threatened to go to the police with evidence of his dodgy dealings if he didn’t give her a hell of a good divorce settlement. Some people said he’d paid her off to save going to court and she’d eventually overdosed out in the Costa del Sol nearly a decade ago. Others suggested that she was still out there, still snorting the white powder and guzzling the vodka and riddled with STDs. Most people, however, didn’t talk about Michael’s mother and instead focussed on how good a father Nash was and how much he doted on his son, and as Riley looked across the room to where they sat side by side surrounded by friends and family, he had to agree. It was obvious Nash loved his boy more than anything in the world. The only downside was that everyone else was a distant second, including Sandra and Wendy.

Riley ordered a mineral water at the bar and looked around at the party that was in full swing. Several guests had been lured onto the dance-floor, people were mingling well and the sound of conversation and laughter was a constant rumble behind the music. But there was always a chance of trouble. It was always lurking behind every sip of lager, every stare and every loose word uttered, and it could rear its ugly head at short notice.

He phoned down to the doormen to check in whilst he waited for his drink. Even though the club was closed two men had been employed to turn away anyone who might try and gain entry not knowing a private party was underway. That was another good way for trouble to start. Try telling twenty pissed-up lads on a stag night that they couldn’t come in and you’d soon find out.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Quiet as a mouse,” Harry Knight replied. Despite the little incident with the dealer last night, Knight and Devlin had escaped with only a verbal warning from Riley and hadn’t been relieved of any shifts. “No one’s tried to get in. Everyone must know the place is closed. It’s gonna be an easy night for us.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“A couple of pints would be nice.”

“When your shift’s finished.”

“You’re too strict, boss.”

“So you keep telling me.”

Riley pocketed his phone and collected his drink from the bar. Then he headed to the back of the room, past the crowded tables full of happy, smiling faces to where Purvis was sat alone, looking like he wanted to be somewhere else.

“Cheer up. It might never happen,” he said, sitting down.

Purvis forced a smile.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just enjoying the party.”

“You’re a poor liar.”

Purvis was staring at the dance-floor, his eyes focussed on Wendy who was dancing on the toes of an elderly man who Riley guessed to be a relative of Nash. He didn’t recognise half the people here. Hadn’t seen them before in his life.

“She looks lovely, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” Riley replied. He sipped his mineral water and scanned the room again, his eyes finally settling on Sandra standing by the buffet table who was watching Wendy also. He hadn’t seen her with Nash all night – which was probably best. Over the last few months they couldn’t talk for more than a minute without an argument erupting. “She seems to be putting on a brave face tonight.”

“She has to.” Purvis downed his drink. Riley noticed it was whisky - straight. Purvis usually drank it with coke. No doubt having to watch both the woman he loved and his secret daughter from afar was getting to him more than usual tonight and he needed to feel the burn. Times of celebration could be hard if you had nothing to celebrate.

“You better put a brave face on, too,” Riley told him. “It’s obvious something’s on your mind. You don’t want anyone asking questions.”

Purvis obviously wasn’t listening. He looked up and said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out soon.”

Riley nodded but found it hard to agree. Usually if you were having an affair with your boss’s partner and it came out in the open then all you would fear is a black-eye and receiving your P45 in the post. If the woman in question was in a relationship with Mike Nash, however, things were very different.
He
ended relationships, not the other way around and if you were a close friend of his you didn’t touch his girlfriend, no matter how strong your feelings. If either of those rules were broken he’d deal with you in his own brutal way. Even though Nash must have slept with dozens of women behind Sandra’s back and probably couldn’t tell you the date of Wendy’s birthday, they were both his and his to get rid of if he so desired. No one took anything from him. He was the sort of man who would hunt someone down if they stole rubbish from his wheelie bin. Not because he wanted what had been taken, but out for payback because someone had the nerve to take from him.

“So when
are
the three of you planning to leave?” Riley asked.

“Soon.”

“How soon is soon?”

“A month or so.”

“That is soon,” Riley said. “You got enough money to set up somewhere else?”

“When I sell the house I will have. It’s going up for auction in a few weeks.” Purvis, like Nash, had seen the potential money to be made in property developing and had bought and sold half a dozen houses in the last five years, each earning him a decent profit. Three years ago, just before Sandra had fallen pregnant, he’d bought a dilapidated shell five miles outside the city that had gone to auction after no buyer had met the asking price of £150,000. Back in the sixties and seventies the place had been used as a kind of community hall, a meeting place for dance-classes and boy scout meetings and such like, and it had stood empty since the late eighties. It had large overgrown gardens to the front and rear, was two storeys tall, boasted ten rooms and with a lot of love and attention could be transformed into a luxury home. Purvis had won the bidding at a mere £92,000 and now, three years later, and close to fifty thousand spent on renovations, it had been turned into a four bedroom cottage with two acres of private land with a potential selling price of three-hundred thousand. No one but Riley and Sandra knew about the house; Riley because he could be trusted to keep a secret, and Sandra because she and Purvis had used the house to meet up privately whenever they could. It was probably that fact which had delayed Purvis selling the place. Riley knew his friend’s ideal use for the property would be as a family home for the family he could never have. He’d invested a lot of time and money into the place. Had spent many hours there decorating it to his own taste. He’d probably made love to Sandra there a hundred times and strolled with Wendy around the large gardens when she was a baby. Selling it would hurt him despite the massive profit.

“Are you’re still thinking of going abroad?” Riley asked.

Purvis nodded and when he next spoke his voice was almost a whisper despite no one being close enough to hear him even if he decided to holler his biggest secrets.

“It’s safer than staying in England. I’ve been in touch with someone based up north - someone Nash doesn’t know - who can get us three passports, three new identities so we can’t be traced. I’m going to arrange a meeting with him and set things in motion. He needs half the money and some photographs up front. Then we get them a week or so after and we disappear somewhere Nash can’t find us.”

Riley smiled. It all sounded good. It sounded like it might actually work out.

“So if everything’s going to plan, why do you look so miserable?”

Purvis looked back at Wendy. Then he stared across at Sandra.

“Because I want to have them now.” Purvis then winked and reached for his drink. “Heads up...”

Riley looked up and saw the three men crossing the dance-floor. Pete Turner, Eddie McCabe and Jimmy Howden were heading towards their table. Obviously they thought that Riley and Purvis needed some company.

Turner was Nash’s right-hand man. He’d first met Nash when both men were nothing more than petty crooks who enjoyed at bit of violence at the football on Saturday afternoons and over the years he’d helped shape the Nash Empire by being a loyal foot-solider and a man of zero tolerance. He never got personally involved in the messy side of the business but he was the first to order others to do so. However, on the outside at least, he appeared not to revel in the violence. Instead, he seemed to treat it as an occupational hazard; certain things had to be done whether he liked it or not because this was the life he’d chosen to live.

McCabe on the other hand, was the other extreme. He was ex-army, a real tough bastard. Every gang needs a resident psycho and he was it - a regular Joe Pesci character straight out of a Scorsese movie, only taller and more muscular and not in any way Italian-American. He was originally from South London but had moved up to Thirnbridge after making a few enemies and soon found work on Nash’s payroll. McCabe specialised in some of the more extreme measures that sometimes needed to be employed in the underworld. He could keep someone alive for days in the worst pain imaginable as he worked on them with pliers and hammers and hacksaws (
“Tools are more fun,”
he’d once said.
“I like it up close and personal.”
) Information was paramount in this game and McCabe never failed to extract that information and appeared to love his work. He’d been welcomed back into the fold last year after serving five years for GBH (nothing to do with work – just a drunken fight over football where he’d thumbed a bloke’s eye out) and his little stretch inside hadn’t appeared to have changed him at all, despite whatever dangers he’d faced. He’d been incarcerated in the same place as a few old enemies, including one of Lenny Dainton’s top men. No doubt everyday had been spent looking over his shoulder expecting a shank in his back and wondering if he’d even make it to the end of his sentence alive. But make it he did, and prison hadn’t changed him in the least.

Howden, now dressed in a suit rather than his leather jacket and jeans from before, was stuffing a party sandwich into his mouth and chewed it almost three times before washing it down with a swig of lager. Lock picking and safe cracking were his talents. Eating and drinking and beating people up were his pleasures. If he could do all three at once followed by a quick blow-job off some young slapper then he’d be in heaven, and Riley wasn’t surprised that Howden, being the only one out of the five of them who had a child, hadn’t bothered to bring his wife and daughter along tonight in case he got lucky.

And that was the five of them, the circle of friends just outside of Nash’s centre; Turner, the deputy who ran things when Nash wasn’t around; McCabe, the murderer who was called upon to make people disappear; Howden, the brain-dead thug who would beat people to a pulp without second thought; Purvis, the computer whizz who controlled all the security systems and fiddled evidence if the need be; and Riley, head of security who controlled an army of doormen which no other gang in the city could match in size or strength.

“Thought we’d mingle a bit,” McCabe said, taking a seat. “Plus I’m bored listening to Howden talking about which bird’s gonna be lucky enough to shag him tonight.”

“I told you,” Howden said, “that blonde with the big tits. A few more drinks down her neck and I’ll be in there.”

“She’s married,” said Turner. “She’s one of Michael junior’s friend’s mam.”

“So where’s her husband?”

“I don’t know,” shrugged Turner. “Maybe he works away.”

Howden clapped his hands together in triumph.

“She’s mine tonight, then.”

Riley smiled sardonically and shook his head. It was amazing how soon into a conversation Howden could remind you that he was a complete dick.

“You look serious,” Turner said, looking at Purvis. “Why you sitting all the way back here?”

“Just enjoying the party,” Purvis replied, forcing a smile. “Watching the happy faces and listening to the music.”

“What, this shit?” McCabe cocked an ear and then shook his head. “Can’t stand this dance stuff. Give me Iron Maiden any day.”

              “I couldn’t give a fuck about the music,” Howden said. “I’m here for the drink.” He finished off his pint and followed it with a whisky chaser. Then, wincing as the drink burned its way to his stomach, he looked at Riley’s glass and asked, “Water?”