The Murder Exchange (4 page)

'I won't go far. I just want to check things out.'

'Look, I insist...'

I stepped out of the car, ignoring his pleas. I'm
pretty good with the punters usually, to tell you the
truth, but it wasn't as if I was going to get any
repeat business from this prick, plus I already had
the money, so basically there was no need to play
along with him. Particularly when it was so
obvious that there was a lot more to this meeting
fhan he was letting on. Fucking people around was
,. aame two could play.

I stretched my legs, then walked casually
towards the door in the far corner, keeping one eye
on the boxes overhead. Eric's story had given me
the spooks a lot more than I'd ordinarily like to
admit. It seemed to have done the same to him
too because he stepped out of the car and leant back
against the bonnet, lighting another cigarette and
watching the boxes like a hawk.

I reached the door and tried it. Locked. So, who
the hell had come here and switched the lights on?
And where were they now? I turned back towards
the car.

Eric looked across at me. 'Nothing?'

I shook my head. 'Locked.' I walked across to the
open doors and stepped outside into the warm
breeze. Over on the horizon the distant lights of the
West End glowed pink. The road was quiet and I

33
listened hard for any sound of a car coming;
through the estate, but there was nothing bar the1
distant rumble of traffic. Maybe they just liked to be'
fashionably late.

It was 10.16 and I was edgy. I decided to go back
and question Fowler in a little more detail about
exactly what was in that briefcase of his, the one"
he'd been so reluctant to bring into the warehouse.

I turned round.

In the car, Roy Fowler was still fretting as he waited to
get everything over and done with. Ten more minutes, \\e\
kept telling himself. Just ten more minutes, and he'd be*;
rich man.

Tony gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. 'Look,
Mr Fowler, calm down. It's going to be OK.'

Fowler exhaled heavily and turned to Tony. His face
was taut with tension. 'I'm all right. I just wish they'd
get here, that's all.'

'I wouldn't worry about that,' said Tony encouragingly.
"They're already here.' He motioned towards the
front doors where Iversson stood with his back to them.

Fowler wriggled round in his seat and looked out of
the rear window. 'Where?'

'Here,' said Tony, and pushed the silencer hard against
Fowler's head, just in front of his ear.

Before Fowler even had a chance to react, Tony pulled
the trigger. Fowler let out a sharp sigh and the passenger
window behind him cracked as the bullet passed through
it. He slumped in the seat, and rolled round so he was
facing his killer, allowing Tony to press the weapon
against his forehead and give him one more, just for good
measure.

34
The front driver's door opened and Eric, having heard
foe noise of breaking glass, shoved his head in, completely
unaware of what had just happened. He spotted
fowler immediately, dead in his seat, blood dripping
frown his face in thin rivulets and onto his sweat-stained
shirt.

'What the fuck's going on?' he demanded.

'I shot him/ said Tony, pulling the gun up from his
Jdc and aiming it at his colleague's face. Eric's eyes
widened and his body tensed as he tried to come to terms
with the sight in front of him.

'Tony, don't do--'

Tony fired twice, both bullets striking Eric in the face.
The big man staggered backwards, and Tony leant
forward to fire two more shots into his upper body. His ,^-j buckled and went from under him, and he fell
heavily to the ground, moaning and clutching wildly at
his face and chest.

Tony, meanwhile, threw open the car door and came
out looking for the man who until two minutes ago had
been his boss.

I was still in the process of turning round as Roy
Fowler died. It took a couple of seconds to take in
the muffled noises and the movement in the back of
the Range Rover, by which time Eric was turning
round, still holding onto his cigarette, and
hurriedly pulling open the door. I took a step
forward as Eric said something to Tony, then a
series of popping sounds came from inside the car
and Eric's head snapped back and he lost his
footing, stumbling like a drunk man.
I knew immediately that he'd been shot, but still

35
not by whom. It didn't make sense. I stopped dead
in my tracks, confused by the sudden turn of
events, and fumbled in the back of my waistband
for the gun.

At the same time, Tony stepped almost casually
out of the car, gun in hand, and turned towards me.
He raised the weapon, that eerie little half-smile
flickering across his face, and prepared to fire. For
some reason, the first thought that crossed my
mind was how rucking annoying that look was. It
made the bastard appear really cocky, which was
something I'd never noticed before. The second
thought I had was that I'd always liked Tony.

Then my military training took over and I hit the
deck, rolling over and pulling out the Clock.
The silencer spat twice as Tony came forward,
closing in for the kill, and bullets hissed quietly
through the air, ricocheting up from the concrete,
feet from where I was rolling.

Tony came round the back of the Range Rover,
taking aim again, but this time it was his turn for a
shock. Without warning, I stopped rolling and leapt
to my feet, locating and flicking off the safety in
what was close to a reflex action. His face froze
in disbelief like he couldn't believe I'd be so cheeky
as to pull a gun on him, and then I was firing, the
bullets exploding round the enclosed space of
the warehouse in an angry cluster of noise. Tony
pulled the trigger too, and I felt a bullet whistle past
my left ear, but time was moving so fast that I
didn't even think about it, just kept firing, two
handed, concentrating on keeping the weapon
level, emptying the magazine.

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Tony stumbled back as he was hit in the shoulder
of his gun arm. A second round struck him in the
throat, then a third in the face, knocking him sideways.
The next thing I knew, he was falling to the
floor, the gun flying out of his grip and clattering
out of reach. Immediately, he tried to lift himself
up, his face registering another look of disbelief as
he realized he was dying. Blood so dark it was
almost black poured from the wounds on his face
and throat, turning his white polo shirt a deepening
horror-film colour. He held the position with his
head a foot above the floor for about three seconds,
then fell backwards with a thud, choking heavily.

I walked over to him, still gripping the Clock
hard. He rolled himself into a ball, coughing and
retching as his mouth filled with blood. Well, one
thing was for sure: I wasn't going to get any
answers out of him now. Once in Africa, a long time
back, I'd seen a man take a bullet in the throat. It
had taken him close to ten minutes to die, choking
and gasping on his own blood. There was nothing
that could have been done. As soon as the bullet
had struck him the outcome was inevitable. It was
inevitable now, but I didn't think I could just let it
happen. Like I said, I'd always liked Tony.

I ejected the magazine and checked the bullets.
There were three left. Pushing it back in, I leant
down, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger,
blowing Tony's brains across the dirty floor. The
body juddered a couple of times, then lay still.

I stopped for a moment, looking about the warehouse
and listening for any suspicious sounds.
Nothing, bar the faint sound of light breathing

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coming from Eric. I walked over to him, bolstered
the gun, and knelt down. He was lying on his back, his hands laid across his chest in full funeral style.
His face was twisted and bloody with the entry
wounds of Tony's bullets clearly visible. One was
just below his right eye, the other on his lower left
cheek, an inch above the jawline. A dark red pool
was forming on the floor beneath his head and his
eyes were shut. I felt his neck for a pulse. There was
something there but it was very faint; and, even as
I held my finger on it, it faded away until it was
gone altogether.

Eric. He'd been a good man. Reliable, professional,
all the things you wanted in business.
Not someone you could take liberties with, not
someone who was afraid of using force when it was
necessary, but nevertheless someone whose heart
was in the right place. The poor sod had even
bought me a bottle of whisky the previous
Christmas, which might have been a small gesture
but was the sort I appreciated. It made me feel
guilty that I'd only intended to pay him three
hundred quid for the night's work. It didn't seem a
lot to die for.

I stood up, wondering what the fuck had gone
wrong and how we could have been betrayed so
completely. Eric had three kids, all grown up, and
four grandkids too. But he was also long since
divorced. This meant that it was unlikely anyone
close to him would know where he was that night. I
was in a difficult position. If I went to the law and
told them what had happened, I'd be leaving myself
open to all kinds of questions, particularly regarding

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the shooting of Tony, and the unlicensed firearm I'd
been carrying. I could end up going down for years
if my story wasn't believed, and, to be honest, who
would believe it? The alternatives, it has to be said,
were almost as bad. Drive out of there in a damaged
vehicle registered in my own name and leave behind
three bodies in the hope that no-one would ever
connect them to me. Or hide the bodies somewhere
and deprive Eric of a proper burial. That was, of
course, on the basis that they remained hidden.

It was at times like this that I needed a cigarette.
It wouldn't have done a blind bit of good but somehow
smoking had always helped me think straight.
I tried to fathom out what Tony's plan had been.
Kill us all and get rid of the corpses, I assumed.
Then what? Joe knew that he'd been there with us
so he could hardly just walk around as if nothing
had happened. Perhaps he'd had plans to disappear.
But that still didn't help to supply any sort
of motive.

One thing, however, was certain. This wasn't
something he could have put together on his own,
and whoever else was involved might well be in the
vicinity. I decided that by hanging around I was
putting myself in needless danger.

I went round to the rear passenger side of the
Range Rover and opened the door. Fowler's
crumpled body tumbled out, landing in an
ungainly heap on the floor. He was very definitely
dead, and, if he hadn't been, I'd have killed the
bastard myself. Whatever else might have been a
mystery, I was pretty damned sure that Fowler had
been the architect of his own demise. A slimy

39
bastard like that was always going to make
enemies.

I thought about moving the body somewhere less
conspicuous, but without gloves it wasn't an
option. I was just going to have to leave all three of
them there and front it out. It was the only thing I
could do, at least for the moment. Maybe Joe would
have some ideas.

The damage to the car was superficial: two small
holes in the window, surrounded by spider-web
cracks. I could knock the whole thing out and
replace it easily enough. Fowler had bled inside a
little bit but not as badly as might have been
expected.

I shut the door, went round switching off all the
lights, then walked back round to the driver's side.
The keys were still in the ignition so I got in and
backed out of the warehouse, before dragging the
two doors shut and hoping above hope that no-one
opened them again for a long, long time.

Now there was only one thing left to do. I
jumped back in the car and drove slowly down the
road, following the route we'd come in on, until I
got to the bush in front of Canley Electronics where
Fowler had hidden the briefcase. I stopped the car
and, leaving the engine running, jumped out. This
was one mystery I could at least solve. I paused for
a moment and listened. Still no sound, bar the continued
hum of city traffic and the odd call of a night
bird. High in the sky a three-quarter moon stared
impassively down, unmoved by the events below.

I jogged up to the bush and knelt down where
Fowler had been only minutes earlier, then reached

40

i
into the foliage and felt about, knowing that I was
in the right place because I'd been careful to watch
him earlier.

My hand touched something solid. A handle.
Bingo. I pulled it out, feeling an irrational excitement.
I had to know what was so important that
men I knew, men I liked, had had to die for it. I
stood up, located the two catches on either side of
tin.- handle, and went to press them.

Which was when I heard the sound: a scrape of a
shoe on gravel behind one of the two parked cars in
front of the Canley Electronics building, only ten
yards away. I thought I saw something move. I
looked more closely, feeling myself tense. And then
I saw him, a man in dark clothing and a baseball
cap, face obscured by a scarf, moving about in the
shadows. Those were the only details I can remember.
I was too busy looking at the rifle nestled
against his shoulder, the rifle that was now pointing straight at my head.

There was a hiss as a bullet flew above me,
almost parting my hair, and struck something
behind with a metallic clang. Immediately, I ducked
down behind the hedge and ran, crouching, round
to the driver's side of the car as more rounds spat
through the air. As I pulled open the door, I
chucked the briefcase into the passenger seat,
accidentally biting my tongue as a bullet passed
right through the car and out the open driver's-side
window before ricocheting off the wing mirror. I
ripped the Clock out of my waistband and cracked
off my last two shots at him as he came round the
front of the hedge and into view.