Authors: DEREK THOMPSON
Every assignment was another manila envelope of expenses and timesheets, filed alongside his annual appraisal in one of Christine Gerrard’s box files. He wasn’t knocking the job itself, only the sense that he was killing time. Ajit and Geena, about to venture into nappy rash territory brought his own circumstances into focus.
The Tube station steadily sucked in the commuters it had spewed out the day before. They fell into a rhythm, trudging in step so that everyone made it to the platform without incident. He squeezed on to the next train, reading the front page of a newspaper from the seat opposite. The headline didn’t pull any punches:
Monster sentenced today
. Child murderer, Sidney Morsley, had his final day at Crown Court.
He stared at the faded photo, taken years before, of a man on a fishing trip. Hard to believe what some people were capable of. He caught his reflection in the tunnel darkness.
He
could talk — he’d shot two people: Yorgi, a psychopath for hire who had threatened Miranda; and Deborah, another nut-job — from technology developers, Engamel — who had tried to kill Karl. They’d both deserved it — no question.
His mobile trilled into life as soon as he reached daylight at Mile End.
“Ahoy, shipmate; any chance of you grabbing a couple of bacon butties on your way round to the car?”
The café smelled of stewed tea and spilt fat — he could have stayed there forever. It looked like a one-man-band, the guy nodding to him dolefully as he went up to the counter.
He gave his order and grazed a tabloid on the counter, flicking past the day’s top story to see what else was going on in the world. He’d developed a habit of checking the business pages for anything interesting in electronics and new technology. Karl reckoned that several tech companies had a keen interest in the
Shadow Europe
— the one that didn’t need overpriced buildings in Strasbourg and Brussels. He’d arrived at the sports pages when he saw the chef’s spattered outfit looming towards him.
“There you go, chief.” Two sandwiches wrapped in tin foil were presented to him.
Karl’s grunge-mobile was ready and waiting outside the newsagents, hazard lights flashing wildly.
“Come on, get in; I want to show you something.” There was a hint of glee in Karl’s voice.
Thomas put the sarnies by his feet and let Karl have his moment of intrigue. The car sped off as soon as he closed the door.
“Okay, you were on at me to nod the plod towards Ms Villers and her bruises?”
He nodded. “And?”
“I’m coming to that. Knowing you as I do, if you saw the guy and you thought you could take him, you’d probably want to give him a smack — am I right?”
He considered the proposition for about three seconds and nodded a little more enthusiastically.
“But what if,” Karl took his chances with a late turn that made the brakes shriek, “things were not quite as they seem?”
The car stopped at their previous spot, overlooking the laundry. Within five minutes, punctuated by Karl saying nothing and pointing occasionally to keep Thomas focused on the road ahead, a familiar figure crossed their line of vision. This time Ms Villers was hand-in-hand with someone special — a woman. Thomas started behind the lens and Karl leapt on it.
“So what do you think, Tommo? Could you take on a lesbian in a fight?”
He took a flurry of pictures and then lowered his camera to see the joy on Karl’s face. “Is this a problem for you?”
“Hold your heterosexual horses.” Karl failed to wipe the grin off his own face. “You’re the one who paled at the notion of two ladies together. Me? That’s some of my favourite DVDs.”
“Prick.”
“Not in those films. My point, Mr Bladen, is that we don’t always get the full story and it’s wise not to go blundering in.”
“It’s still domestic abuse.”
“Right enough, and I’ve put a word in with the boys and girls in blue.”
“How did you know she had a
partner
?” He baulked at the ‘L’ word.
“Another training exercise, last night. I like to keep my apprentice busy.”
He noticed Karl’s crumpled shirt beneath his jumper, and the grubby cuffs that looked at least a day old, but said nothing.
“So when do you need me for the next private job?”
“Will a morning suit you, later this week? Say I pick you up around four? I’ll fill you in nearer the time.”
As in: four a.m. and keep your week clear. Shit.
“I’ve been thinking about Janey’s kid.” Thomas let his camera range past the laundry in search of Victorian architecture. “It’d help if we knew what the police know.” He heard clapping.
“Bravo! Uncle Karl is already following up that line of inquiry.”
“When we see Janey tonight about the suitcase, maybe we could take a look at Jacob’s buggy?”
“Interesting. What’s your angle?”
“Not sure. It’s the only evidence — your lot have labs, don’t they?”
“That’s what I like about you, Tommo, You’ve never pressed me about my colleagues outside the SSU.”
“Like you’re always telling me, Karl — need to know. Right now, I don’t.”
“Let’s celebrate your self-control with a bacon butty — I’m famished.”
He felt the light bulb go on in his head. “When can I have Jack Langton’s post back, so I can take it over to Natalie?”
“Soon. There’s a slight snag — nothing major. Now, where’s my brekkies?”
Ken Treavey heard the package scrape through his letterbox. By the time he got to his door and opened it to the night he was alone. He waited there a minute or so, listening to the hum of the city and feeling the chill against his bare feet. This was it then.
He felt his way back to the bedroom and put the bedside lamp on, squinting against the burst of light. He tore at the envelope and looked for treasure. Instead, he found pieces of a puzzle — a left luggage receipt and a key that presumably went with it; a map; a cash card; a note with a PIN number, a name, a time, and the words: ‘Remember to make it look amateur.’ He saved the best till last, tipping the rifle rounds on to the duvet. They clattered like brass and copper jewels under the lamplight.
First thing in the morning he’d visit the PO box across town, as arranged. Checking the map against the street guide confirmed his suspicions: the courthouse. He picked up the cash card and cradled a bullet in the other hand, parodying the scales of justice — everything had its price.
* * *
It felt strange breaking routine, travelling different roads to reach the PO box. He made it seem casual, waiting fifteen minutes after the place opened. The padded envelope was smaller than he’d expected and his curiosity almost overcame him. It was only the thought of the money that swayed him. He checked the balance afterwards, hardly daring to move as the card disappeared into the machine. He didn’t breathe again until the balance showed on-screen — £10,000. Twenty quid would do for now.
He kidded himself he could make a run for it and disappear. Not a chance. He retrieved the magic card and picked up his money, grinning. When was the last time he’d had cash to squander? The padded envelope was burning a hole in his pocket so he treated himself to a coffee. Inside, he found a lonely corner and checked his post: one key and no explanations.
* * *
After collecting the parcel from Left Luggage, he made straight for the observation point. He’d always called them that until he was set up and ready. London’s noisy chaos blurred around him, as if he were a ghost. When he’d been in uniform he never liked to eat or drink beforehand, but now he compromised and pulled out some chewing gum. A hit of mint at the back of his mouth sharpened his wits. Time to get to work.
No one paid him any attention as he approached the block of flats. He blended in, moving unhurriedly like he belonged there. The hard part would be getting out afterwards. He climbed the stairs in twos, the case held tight against his body. As he mounted the final flight of stairs on the top floor he drew out the Ingersoll key, ready.
The well-oiled lock gave without effort and he carefully closed the door behind him. There was a sound now, like the rush of wind, only he couldn’t be sure if it was real or inside his head. He breathed slowly and made the final echoing ascent.
Instinct took over, dropping him to his knees as soon as he reached the rooftop. Sounds magnified — a plane’s distant roar threatened to smother him. Traffic played like an urban symphony. He crawled to the roof edge and peered over with a pocket scope. Just as they promised, he had a clear view of the walled yard, where a security van was currently unloading its cargo. Not his target though — he was waiting for the final directive.
He slit the wrapping around the parcel carefully and slid the two sections of paper apart. They went into his bag — to be burned later. The name hadn’t come as any surprise. Who else was high profile enough to warrant a ten thousand pound price tag? Knowing the identity made it easier — an abomination against God and Man. He smiled. If only his father could see him now, following in the family tradition and doing the Lord’s work after all.
He opened the case; it was a .300 Winchester bolt-action rifle, adapted by the looks of it but similar enough to the NATO model he was used to. They’d done their research. A picture of Sidney Morsley was taped to the inside of the case, staring blankly at his executioner. He fitted the weapon together and loaded the ammunition: four bullets.
Time moved in waves, alternating fast and slow, toying with his watch. Eventually he heard the bleeps of another vehicle reversing into the yard. He hunched in and kept the rifle sight fixed on the back door of the court, waiting for Sidney Morsley’s final act. The door unlocked and then . . . Christ, he wasn’t expecting a woman in front of the target. He wavered for an instant and then committed, squeezing the trigger to drop her. She screamed and fell to the ground, a perfect distraction for everyone else. A fluid movement of the hand then the second round chambered and plunged into Sidney Morsley’s torso, swiftly followed by the third. Messy. Morsley was down now, doubled in agony — a sitting duck in a pool of blood. The final bullet struck somewhere in the vicinity of the heart, if he’d had one.
He broke up the weapon and felt the warm touch of the barrel through his gloves. He felt more alive than he had in years. He scrabbled on the ground and retrieved three spent casings but the fourth was nowhere to be seen — too late now. He crawled back to the door, pushing the case in front of him.
When he reached the top floor the sirens kicked in and so did the panic. The first flat along the landing was boarded up and grilled with a shiny new lock. He tried his key and almost collapsed in relief as it turned, releasing the door. There was little light inside, only a dusty haze. It felt safe there although he knew it wasn’t. He found a back room and forced the case in behind a hot water tank, taking a moment to calm himself. He left soon after, keeping his head down, moving once again through a world where he didn’t belong. He felt his guts twist, but it wasn’t conscience — he needed a drink.
Thomas gave Janey’s bell two short rings. When the door opened she smiled a little and led him in. He heard Karl’s footsteps behind him as he went indoors and imagined her smile evaporating.
“So, how’s Jacob?” He thought he’d start with the easy questions.
“Ah, getting there. They reckon he can probably come home in a couple of days. I really miss him.”
Her voice was rising in pitch the closer they got to the living room. He nudged the door to find Greg sprawled across the settee like he owned the place, a can of lager by his feet. He clipped Greg’s foot and he took the hint, sitting up and lifting his can out of the way. Pausing in the middle of the room to make a point, Thomas leaned towards him. Karl seemed to instinctively block the exit.
“I need to ask you about the suitcase Janey had on top of her wardrobe.” He felt like an idiot, spelling it out, but Greg must have been a moron to think no one would notice something was missing.
Greg’s face contorted, as if he were weighing up his options. So Thomas upped the ante.
“Jack Langton’s wife spotted the case was light and Jack won’t be pleased if she has to tell him. It’s better for everyone if you hand it over.”
Greg folded. “I was nosing round the flat when Janey was out and there it was. I just did it, spur of the moment.”
“So where is the bag now?”
“I sold it.”
“You did what?” Janey piped up, shrill as a cry of pain.
Greg turned towards her. “You know I got debts. It seemed like a golden opportunity — a lucky break, yeah?”
“And what if Jack thinks I did it?” She gripped the sofa.
“I was gonna take care of it. Once I had a buyer for the rest, I was gonna make it look like a burglary while you and me was at the hospital. Ain’t no one gonna report a missing stash, are they?”
Thomas was halfway impressed; Greg had a few brain cells after all. “Who did you sell it to?”
“I can’t tell you; I gave my word. Don’t look at me like that, Janey — I did it for us. We can get away and start over.”
“Are you mental, Greg? Jack’ll come after us. He knows my family.” Her voice could have scratched glass.
Thomas waited, trying to stare it out of him. “It’s this simple, Greg. You tell me now and we’ll try and sort this, or Natalie tells Jack and he sorts things out his own way. What’s it to be?”
Janey started crying. Thomas squeezed his hands together:
we’ll try and sort this
. Jesus, he could feel Karl’s disappointment emanating from the door.
“Charlie Stokes — I sold it to Mr Stokes.”
Thomas heard a bell go off in his head. Karl cleared his throat and mimicked pushing a buggy.
“Yeah.” Thomas’s brain clicked into gear. “Janey, we want to take Jacob’s buggy away for a closer look — we’ll have it back to you before he needs it.”
She did as asked, muttering that the police had already checked it.
He stood right over Greg. “How much did you get for it?”
“Five grand, minus what I owed.”
Thomas shot a glance to Karl, who shook his head and flashed up enough hands for Thomas to feel sick. Greg was indeed a moron; they’d never be able to buy it back for five thousand.
He let out a sigh that could wake the dead. “Right, we are out of here.”
“What about the missing bag?” Janey’s voice wavered.
He didn’t have the heart to tell her they were both fucked now, thanks to Greg, so he sold her a lie until he could think of something better. “We’ll work on it.”
Karl stayed tight-lipped until they were back on the road.
“Go on, say it.”
“Do I need to? You’re getting us involved in a shit storm that’s nothing to do with us, Tommy Boy. Unless you have a five figure sum stashed away — always assuming this Charlie Stokes hasn’t already moved the stuff on — we’ve got nothing.”
He wondered where the drop-off would be for the buggy. Going on past experience, Karl’s clandestines favoured supermarket car parks. He played the counting game, watching the seconds tick by until Karl broke the silence.
“You can’t save Greg from his own stupidity, and to be frank with you I don’t hold with drugs. I’ve told you before, they’re one of the ways the European cartel funds its operations.” Karl looked pensive. “There’s something else we haven’t considered — the drugs might not be Jack’s at all.”
“You know something, don’t you?” It was a moment before he realised his knuckles were whitening as he crushed them together.
Karl had spotted it too. “Tell you what, how about we grab ourselves a drink and go do our thinking somewhere else? I know the perfect place.”