To Kill For (31 page)

‘Yeah. My revenge.'

I slept for a while. When I woke up, Browne was sitting on the sofa staring at me. It was dusk, or maybe dawn He got up and closed the curtains and turned on the light.

I said, ‘What's wrong?'

He reached down and picked up Brenda's box and handed it to me.

‘You never looked properly,' he said. ‘I'll go make some tea.'

I opened the box. There were Brenda's bottles of lotions and tubes of creams all laid out in their cardboard slots. Underneath was a cotton dress and, beneath that, an envelope. On the front, in Brenda's handwriting, was written, ‘Joe'. I ripped the envelope open. My hands shook. ‘Dear Joe', the letter said, and something cracked inside me.

Dear Joe,

I suppose if you've found this box it means I'm dead. I thought I would be. I'm glad, though, in a way. I know you'll know what to do with this, what it means.

We've just got back from the Winston Churchill. I'm a little drunk, but I keep thinking of the day we had today, up London, looking in all them fine shops. You brought me this gift set in Liberty's. Thank you.

I suppose you'll know by now that I used you. You asked me what I wanted, remember? You didn't believe that I could just want to be with you. Well, you were right. To begin with. I was scared, because of what I was doing and who I was doing it to. I was scared and I needed someone strong. I needed you.

Like I say, that was to begin with. The truth is, I did love you, Joe. I do love you. And I'm using you and it tears me up inside. But I do love you.

Don't hate me, Joe. Please. What I did, I did for the children. Someone had to and I was in the best position to do it. I took my chances, I knew what I was doing. Don't hate me.

There's one more thing I want to say, Joe. Don't destroy yourself for me. Whenever I think of you, I think of that old ship, that warhorse, The Fighting Temeraire. Remember you told me about it? About how, in that picture, it was being tugged in to be broken up? I don't want to think of you like that. I don't want you to go seeking revenge for what's happened to me. Please don't.

Well, that's about all I've got to say.

Goodbye, Joe.

Love, always,

Brenda.

I heard a noise and looked up. Browne was at the doorway, a mug in each hand. He looked at me and nodded, once.

‘Tea's up,' he said.

I folded the letter in half and put it down.

‘I thought you were leaving,' I said. ‘Going to your sister's.'

He came in, handed me the mug of tea.

‘Eh? Oh, well, I'll have to stay awhile. I've got the violet in the garden,' he said. ‘Have to make sure that's alright. Can't leave it to you, can I? You'd probably kill it.'

 

 

 

 

 

We hope you enjoyed this book.

The next thrilling book in the
The Killing Machine
series will be released in Winter 2015.

If you missed the first book in the series, you can read a preview of it here:

To Die For

For more information, click one of the links below:

Phillip Hunter

About
The Killing Machine

An invitation from the publisher

Read on for a preview of

A BROKEN MAN

Joe was a British soldier, then a bare-knuckle boxer.

Now he's a gangster in London's East End.

Once, long ago, he fell in love.

But people like him don't have happy endings.

A BROKEN CITY

Hackney's most vicious gang is hunting

Joe down. He doesn't know why.

All he knows is that until he kills them,

he's a dead man walking.

A RAY OF HOPE

A twelve-year-old runaway, Kid, needs Joe's protection.

Life has made Joe a machine.

Can this little girl make him human again?

I grabbed him and threw him into the wall. He crashed to the floor, tried to stand, tried to speak. His face was white, his eyes wide and wet. I hoisted him up and slapped him a couple of times. He focused on me and his head jerked back in horror. He tried to pull free, tried stupidly to bat away my arms. His breathing was wheezy and beneath that there was a squeaky whine. He landed a couple of punches on my face, but they bounced off and I had to slap him again, harder this time, to shut him up. The slap knocked his head sideways.

Beckett stepped forward, out of the dark part of the living room. He said, ‘That'll do.'

I dropped the man. I remembered his name then. He was called Paul Warren. He was thirty-three, but looked older. He was short and pale-faced, freckles on his nose and puffy hands. He was slumping into middle age. He coughed for a while and gulped air and shook with shock. Then he did the smart thing and collapsed backwards against the wall, where he stayed, trying to work out what was happening. His grey suit jacket was twisted about him, and his shirt front was ripped. The fear had gone and left him limp, and now he looked scared and alone. That was good.

‘Calm down,' Beckett told him. ‘You'll be all right.'

Beckett seemed cool enough, but I saw the sweat on the back of his neck, and I heard the tightness in his voice. He nodded to me and I moved aside. Warren looked up at us. We wore dark suits, white shirts, thin leather gloves. We wore stockings over our heads. That was deliberate. We could've worn balaclavas. Warren doubled over and retched. Nothing came out but spittle. He retched again. After that, he breathed more deeply.

‘My wife,' he said.

Beckett turned and nodded to the darkness behind him. A shadow moved and a table lamp flared.

She was younger than her husband, and pregnant. We'd taped her to a wooden kitchen chair. She'd spent an hour fighting the tapes, and now her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her dark-blond hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat. More tape kept a cloth gag in place. A line of spit ran from the corner of her mouth.

The thing standing beside her was called Simpson. He was a squat man, with small eyes, dressed the same as me and Beckett. He touched the woman on her cheek and his hand drifted down to the neck of her sweater. He stretched the cloth back and looked down. She tried to pull away, but there was no give in the bindings. Beneath the stocking, Simpson's face leered. He looked like a gargoyle. He looked like that without the stocking. I suppose I looked worse. He put a hand inside her sweater, groped and squeezed.

Warren leaped to his feet, a kind of wild fear on his fat, flushed face.

‘Fuck's sake,' Beckett muttered.

I moved an arm out and wrenched Warren back and flung him to the floor. Beckett shot a look at Simpson. Simpson's greasy smile faded. He took his hand off the woman.

I'd never met Beckett or his men before this job. I'd heard of them, of course. From what I'd seen, they seemed okay. Walsh and Jenson and Beckett went back, but Simpson was new to the firm. I had the feeling he was trying to prove himself to me, show how hard he was. He acted like he was trying to prove something, anyway. That act with Warren's wife was all show.

I didn't know why I was there. Simpson was stupid, but he was good muscle and it should've been an easy four-man job. I didn't think they needed me, but Kendall had told me Beckett asked for me specially.

‘He wants someone frightening, Joe,' Kendall had said.

Warren made another half-arsed attempt to scramble to his wife and I had to push him over with my foot.

‘I told you to fucking calm down,' Beckett said.

The smoothness had gone from his voice. He was snarling now, his lips drawn back.

Warren put a shaking hand to his face. I moved back a step, gave him some room. He stood slowly. His face was grim and waxy, but he'd finally got the message.

‘All right,' Beckett said.

We had to be careful with Warren. We couldn't hurt him because we needed him later. Even signs of a struggle would be bad. But we also needed to scare the shit out of him. A pregnant wife was good leverage, but we couldn't touch her. In her state, anything heavy might have bad results and then Warren would be useless, too angry or too scared or whatever.

We could've used guns – Beckett and Simpson were tooled up – but guns sometimes scared people too much, turned them into wrecks. Besides, few things shocked a man as much as a quick, effective beating. So, Beckett had needed someone violent, someone massive, someone cold. Anyway, that's how Kendall had explained it to me, and I'd believed him.

‘What do you want?' Warren said.

‘The casino,' Beckett said.

Warren shook his head.

‘But... don't you know –?'

‘I know. Is the schedule for tonight the same?'

‘My wife – ‘

‘Shut the fuck up and listen.'

Warren seemed dazed again, shocked. That was one of the dangers; he was in an impossible situation. He sagged and staggered, backing up until he hit the wall. He kept staring at his wife, and every now and then he shook his head. I'd seen this before. I reached out and grabbed him. He flinched, lifted his hands to protect his face. I hauled him upright and Beckett walked forwards, blocking his view of his wife. Beckett leaned in close to Warren. He talked quietly, but his voice rumbled.

‘Listen to me. Your wife's fine. But I'm leaving this man here. Look at him. Look at him.'

Warren looked up at me. I looked back. It was all I had to do; he could see what I was. Beckett touched Warren on the shoulder.

‘If he doesn't get a call from me before seven, he'll hurt your wife. He'll fuck her up and then he'll leave. You understand?' Warren nodded. ‘Good. Now, is the schedule for tonight the same?'

Warren nodded again. It was like someone had hit a switch and put him on automatic.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘I want you to tell me the procedure and times for moving the money to the armoured car,' Beckett said, the smoothness back.

Warren told him. Beckett made notes and read back what he'd written.

‘The casino closes at five. The money is collected by two security guards inside the casino and taken to the counting room.'

‘The auditing room.'

‘Right. Where you and the manager supervise the count and log it. The armoured van arrives at the back door at six forty-five. There are cameras over the back door and a keypad. When the correct number is entered by the guards from the van, they open the door and are given the money by the casino's own security. Is that right?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's good. You're doing okay. Now, here's what you're going to do: you drive back to the casino – we'll be following you all the way – and you tell them the reason you went home was because your wife thought she was going into labour, but she's all right now. Got that?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're going to call up the security firm and tell them there's a half-hour delay. That's built into their contingency, so there won't be a problem. Make the call from your mobile and make sure no one's hanging around when you do it. Then go straight into the office.'

‘They'll phone the casino to confirm.'

‘Make sure you answer it. Nobody else at the casino must know you've contacted the security firm. Do it when the office is clear, if you can. There's only one person there most of the time, right? You should get a chance.'

‘If I can't be alone?'

‘Just make sure your manager isn't there. You and your manager are the only two who can confirm the change of times, so even if someone else is in the office, you answer the phone. The security company won't need to speak to anyone else. If you're overheard, keep your talk to a minimum.'

‘Yes.'

Beckett handed Warren a pad and pen.

‘Write down the security code for the back door.'

Warren's hands shook too much to write. He took a breath and got a grip and then wrote a number on the pad. Beckett took the pad and pen from him, looked at the number and made him repeat it back.

‘That's good. Now get yourself tidied up, put on a clean shirt. Then you, me and Mr Smith over there are going to leave, get in our cars and go back to the casino. Got it?'

‘Can I talk to my wife?'

‘Sure.'

Simpson pulled the tape off the woman's mouth. She spat the cloth out.

Beckett took a phone from his jacket and called Walsh, who was in the car with Jenson, cruising the area, avoiding main roads and CCTVs. Their route had been checked, but in a suburban neighbourhood like this it was easy.

‘Five minutes,' Beckett told Walsh.

Warren walked stiffly towards his wife. He stopped a few feet from her, straightened his clothing. She looked up at him.

‘Just do what they want,' she said.

‘I will. Are you okay?'