Which was why London John had decided to have a little word with Bobby. He'd been keeping tags on him and a pattern was emerging. He was using more heroin, the calls were more frequent and the times in between had lessened. From one score every two months, Bob had progressed in four years to one score every two weeks. But even that didn't worry London John. It's usual really, he considered after the previous evening's telephone call. The little scumbag's hooked. That's usual and that's his funeral. He knows the rules, he knows the game. The girls mean nothing, they're just dirt anyway. But I don't like to see them get roughed up. It costs me money and they're out of action for a long time. It costs me money. Bobby boy is beginning to cost
me
money, and that's just ridiculous. It's not on and I'll have to tell him. Nothing too heavy today, it's Sunday and I'm in a good mood and he's been a good client for a long time. He's stayed with me longer than most and always comes up with the money without the slightest quibble. But the little scumbag needs putting in his place. He needs to know what he's doing to my profit margins.
London John continued to read. He noticed a connecting report to the Gordon O'Brien kidnap story. It was all about a murder inquiry at the hospital where Gordon O'Brien had been born. There were accompanying photographs. One of the photographs showed two people coming down the front steps of the hospital. London John squinted at it closely.
He stared at one of the two people with particular interest, even taking the paper over to a large plate-glass window in the hotel lobby for a better look. He squinted at the photograph from about five different angles, before dropping the paper into a wastepaper bin. Do you know, thought London John to himself, if I was a betting man I'd put a grand on that being Bobby boy.
Lynch sat down beside John on the deep, expensive sofa parked in the middle of the hotel lobby. London John pretended to examine his hands, splaying his fingers out for effect.
'Nice to see you again, Bobby boy. Shall we go for lunch?'
'I'm not hungry.'
London John turned round and inspected the much smaller man sitting so quietly and still on the sofa beside him.
'You should eat, Bobby boy. You've lost weight since I saw you last. On a diet?'
'I'm just not hungry.'
London John hailed a taxi and they sat in the back, not a word exchanged. The cabbie left them at the back of Harrods and London John walked, Lynch beside, along Basil Street to Walton Street and into Lennox Gardens to his parked Saab. They drove back to Kensington Road then along Kensington High Street to Hammersmith where London John owned a two-storey over-basement redbricked terrace house. This was where he held his business meetings, stored his business goods and kept his hardware. Like many big-time criminals, London John lived well away from his office. He had an expensive luxury flat in Holland Park where he spent all his free time with whatever woman was in favour and wasn't using his main source of income, heroin and cocaine.
The Hammersmith office basement had double brick walling on each side, the bricks of a special sound-proof material where the house abutted its neighbour. These little extras had all been added after purchase and included one room with a twelve-foot long, six-foot wide and ten-foot deep sandpit, the heavy artillery room where London John tested his hardware.
And murdered his enemies.
'I've got you a Walther PPK handgun.' London John was explaining the hardware. Lynch looked on intently as London John held the weapon in the palm of his left hand. 'It's a .38 double-action automatic pistol, weighs just under two pounds, so it's reasonably light. As you can see
it's quite small, about seven inches long, ideal for carrying around. It's an old style gun, but still very reliable. It was popular among the police in the seventies but they've moved up a few gears since. I still like this type though. Small, not too heavy, easily concealed and carried about. Reliable.' His Cockney tones rolled off the gun's merits as if he was a salesman extolling the virtues of a high-tech microwave oven.
'There's one problem with it though.'
Lynch looked up sharply, eyes narrowed.
London John looked into his eyes, briefly. Headcase, he thought.
'It can jam. The bullets can stick in the magazine clip and either not get into the firing chamber or just stick there too and not discharge properly.'
He ran metal against metal, as if feeding a round into the firing chamber, then slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer hit against an empty chamber.
'The gun has to be kept clean, so do the bullets. Any small traces of dirt can interfere with the magazine spring and the bullets won't move into the chamber. Are you with me?'
Lynch nodded.
Also you've gotta look after the bullets. Don't let them get overheated or too cold. Keep them clean and never put a dropped bullet into the magazine without first cleaning it properly. Are you still with me?'
Lynch nodded again. All the time his eyes were fixed on the gun in London John's hand.
London John handed him a spare magazine and showed him how to load the bullets. They slipped in easily.
'Only ever put seven bullets in the magazine, never try and squeeze another one in, you'll overload the spring mechanism. If you want an extra round put it up the breech first.'
Lynch looked up at London John, his eyes reflecting his query.
'Okay, what that means is you load the magazine like I showed you. Then clip it into place and feed a round into
the firing chamber.' The sound of metal against metal followed the action. 'This puts one round into the breech, ready for firing, gottit? Then unclip the magazine, you've only six rounds inside it now so you can slip another one in.' His long, delicate fingers handled the gun and bullets with the ease of experience. 'Now you've got the firing power of eight rounds in quick succession instead of seven.' He smiled. 'Neat, isn't it?'
Lynch looked impressed.
'When you're using it don't try firing off rounds in quick succession like you see in some Wild West movie. Take it slowly and deliberately. Squeeze the trigger gently and give yourself at least two seconds before you shoot again. Don't try one of your cowboy shoot outs. Keep it controlled.'
Lynch scratched at his nose, his eyes flicking up to acknowledge all he had heard.
The gun was passed over and Lynch weighed it carefully first in one hand then the other, then back again, getting used to the feel and the weight. He inspected it carefully, noting the firing chamber, the cocking mechanism and the magazine-clip insert.
'Now, Bobby boy, if you're gonna use it you better try it out a few times. There's no point in you deciding to get positive and not knowing the first thing about shooting, is there?'
Lynch looked up, still passing the gun from one hand to the other.
London John went over to a cupboard and took out two sets of ear protectors, slipping one on himself, handing the other to Lynch. In his right hand he carried a small box of live ammunition. He slowly went through the motions again of slipping the bullets into the magazine and then clipping it onto the gun. Lynch watched on with an intensity that was almost palpable.
'Now, Bobby boy. If you're gonna be positive, do it properly. When you're gonna shoot stand like you see them do in the movies. Both feet splayed apart, two hands on the gun. One hand for the trigger, the other to steady.'
London John adopted the correct pose. 'This is what is known as the "cup-and-saucer" hand position. The cup hand holds the gun handle with the index finger on the trigger. The saucer hand sits underneath the magazine feed, holding and steadying. Gottit?' The gun seemed smothered inside London John's larger, more delicate hands. 'Aim at the chest. Don't try going for head shots. Heads can duck quickly. It's harder to get your body out of the way.'
Dean Lynch was the model of attention.
London John adopted the shooter's pose again, talking to his student out of the corner of his mouth. They had both shed overcoats and jackets, now dressed for business.
The business of killing.
'If your target has his back to you, hit him there and then. If he's facing you keep the gun down by your side up to the last minute. Always shout, real loud, to distract him. He's wondering so much what's going on he won't have time to duck when he sees Bobby boy taking positive action.'
Lynch didn't move, his eyes never left the gun.
'Squeeze the trigger, don't snatch at it. Squeeze it slowly and firmly. That might sound daft to you, Bobby boy, but you'll be surprised how quickly these things go off. Don't try rushing it. It'll do the business. But don't rush at it. You'll only lose your aim. If you have time to get your target in the sights, then use them. They're at the front and back of the barrel. Don't anticipate the noise, that'll only put you off and make you fire down and sideways.'
For the first time Lynch looked up. He'd put away his see-through lenses and London John could see his eyes clearly, even in the gloom of the basement. For the first time he began to feel uneasy.
'Put your ear muffs on.'
London John aimed the gun at the sandpit and gently squeezed the trigger. The basement echoed to the deafening sound and he looked to see Lynch's reaction. There wasn't any. He just stared at the gun and then at the dimple in the sandpit.
'Watch again,' London John mouthed at Lynch.
London John adopted the shooter's pose again and fired off three more rounds in quick succession. The padded walls couldn't dull the noise and Lynch felt his ears ring.
'Try it yourself.'
Lynch loaded, showing London John each move. He adopted the shooter's stance, one hand holding the gun with the other supporting. His index finger was poised over the trigger.
'Okay,' London John mouthed.
Lynch squeezed and the gun jumped in his hands.
London John smiled and placed both his hands over Lynch's to show him how to steady.
'Go.'
Lynch squeezed and both their hands felt the power but this time the gun didn't jump as much.
'On your own.'
Lynch slowly fired off another four rounds, balancing the recoil and adjusting for the pull after each discharge.
London John slipped the muffs off his ears and Lynch followed suit.
'Okay. Load it up again. No ear muffs for you this time.' London John slipped his muffs on, noticing how easily Lynch loaded the magazine and fed a round into the firing chamber. He was a fast learner.
Lynch turned to the sandpit again, took aim and squeezed. He fired off two more without the muffs and then stopped, mouthing he wanted the protectors again. The muffs went back on and four more dimples formed, the sand dancing with each round.
'You look good, Bobby boy. Look real good indeed. You look the part.' London John was real pleased with his student.
'I got you a special case to take it back with you, Bobby boy.' London John went to the back of the room and opened a press, returning with a brown leather Samsonite briefcase.
He clicked the lock and opened the top. Inside, the case was filled with standard businessman type material, a business card in the name Andrew Kelly at an address in
Hammersmith and an accompanying false telephone and fax number. The card declared Andrew Kelly to be a computer software salesman for a non-existent company based in Southampton. There was a false fax and telephone number for Southampton as well. There were some glossy brochures on computer software with lots of Microsoft Windows '95 material. An A4 notebook, ballpoint pens, three thick red, green and black magic markers filled more space. Paperwork had been stuck in the filing space of the upper lid, with pen scribblings clearly seen. The bottom of the case looked straightforward, a cloth cover firmly stuck down.
'The lower space comes away in one piece. You see the little tabs on each corner?'
Lynch inspected and nodded, watching intently again.
'These peel off.' London John peeled. Underneath the tabs were four small screws. 'The screws hold the unit in place.' He handed Lynch a small screwdriver.
The screws came away easily and Lynch lifted the unit. It stuck slightly and he had to rock the case. Suddenly the bottom came away in one piece revealing a recessed space with moulding in the shape of the Walther. There was more moulding to take a box of ammunition. The design was perfect, ensuring that no amount of heavy handling would discharge one.
'What do you think, Bobby boy? Neat, isn't it?'
Lynch nodded his agreement. Without speaking he placed the gun into the mould, then gently slipped the box of ammunition into its moulding. It stayed firm. A velcro strap could be pulled across to ensure a steady fit.
London John watched. 'Whatever you do don't take that on board as hand luggage. The scanners'll pick it up. Let them put it in the hold and only pick it up from baggage collection. There's a combination lock. The combination's written on the corner of that brochure.' He pointed and Lynch squinted closely, noting the number.
He closed the case and flipped the combination numbers randomly, then tried to open but the lock held. He clicked the exact combination sequence and the lock snapped open.