Cold Kill

by Rennie Airth

  He had just completed a lengthy, difficult but ultimately satisfactory conversation with an old woman in a black coat and a woollen muffler who had seated herself at his table. Without invitation, to be sure, but since that seemed to be the custom of the place, Kimura had raised no objection.

  For a while she had watched as he studied the guidebook – London A–Z, it was called – which he had purchased at a bookseller’s in Frankfurt. Kimura knew where he wanted to go – he had found the address on the map – but he didn’t know where he was, and consequently had no idea how to get there. A taxi was the obvious solution, but he had seen none passing and had no intention of going outside into the snowy street to look for one: not so long as the black car remained parked on the other side of the road.

  He had been aware of it following him some way before he reached the intersection, but had given no sign, and on reaching the main road had crossed it without pausing and gone straight into the café without a backward glance. Here he was safe, for the moment at least, as long as they believed he had not seen them. Because if they bided their time they would certainly find a better place to take him than in a crowded café, surrounded by witnesses.

  There were four of them in the car – impossible odds, given that Kimura knew who they were. Not their names, of course, or even their faces, but he knew who had sent them, and their purpose.

  So he had waited in his temporary haven and studied his map until suddenly, without warning, the old woman spoke.

  ‘Lost, are you, dearie?’

  Kimura knew the meaning of lost, and since conversation had been broached, he had nodded politely and set out to explain in carefully phrased English sentences precisely what his problem was.

  The woman had waited until he had finished and then, speaking very slowly, had explained to him what route he should follow to reach his destination, what train he should catch on the Underground, and where he should change lines. Kimura had listened gratefully, baffled only by the way she kept addressing him as ‘love’, which was even more puzzling than ‘dearie’.

  ‘But first we’ve got to get you to Kennington station,’ she said.

  Having weighed the problem, she rose to her feet and went to consult the man behind the counter, the one dispensing the buffalo’s urine. A brief exchange followed, after which she turned to a nearby table where a bald-headed man sat drinking a cup of tea and scanning a newspaper. He had looked up when she spoke to him, nodded, and then turned to glance at Kimura.

  The old woman returned to the table.

  ‘That bloke’s a taxi driver,’ she said. ‘He’ll take you where you want to go. That’s provided you’ve got the dosh … money, I should say?’

  By way of reply Kimura brought out a handful of banknotes from his pocket, a mixture of currencies, and laid them on the table between them. Having studied the hoard, the old woman selected a twenty-pound note from the pile.

  ‘That should do it,’ she said, and then returned to the other table where the bald-headed man received her offering with a brisk nod. Turning to look at Kimura a second time, he lifted a thumb in the air.

  ‘All set then, love.’ The old woman was back. She looked pleased with herself. ‘He’s ready when you are.’

  Kimura gestured at the notes on the table. He looked enquiringly at her, but she shook her head.

  ‘No, love, that’s all right. You’d best be on your way.’

  Leaving his tea unfinished, he rose, pocketing his money, and having bowed his thanks to her, he followed the taxi driver out. Together they walked to his empty cab which was parked a short distance away. Without so much as a glance at the black car, Kimura climbed into the back.

  The driver spoke to him through the connecting window. ‘Kennington, is it, guv?’

  Kimura stood watching as the passengers entered the carriage and when the doors shut and the train pulled out of Leicester Square station he was satisfied that none of his pursuers was aboard: not in this carriage at any rate.

  He had thought of asking the taxi driver to take him all the way to his destination, but knowing that his pursuers would simply follow him in their car he had decided to try and lose them in the Underground and thus far had not spotted them. But the platform at Kennington where he’d stood waiting had been crowded and he couldn’t be sure that one or more of the pack hunting him had not boarded the same train he was on.

  In spite of the proximity of danger, he felt calm, almost relaxed. The anger that had fuelled his actions for so long, enveloping him in a red cloud of fury, threatening to unhinge him, had settled into an iron resolve. He could feel it inside him now, compressed like a cold lump in the pit of his stomach, and knew it would remain there until his quest had reached its fated end, whatever that might be.

  Meanwhile the train was pulling into another station – Green Park, the sign said – and when the doors opened Kimura saw a group of his fellow countrymen boarding at the far end of the carriage. There were seven of them, five men and two women, tourists by the look of them. The two women were talking to each other, while three of the men were busy with their phones. What about the other two? Kimura studied the pair. One wore a black leather coat, while the other had a moustache that curved around his lips, giving him a walrus-like look. Something about their bearing made Kimura uneasy. They didn’t look like tourists. They didn’t look like businessmen. As the carriage filled up, he lost sight of them in the press of bodies.

  When they reached the next station – it was Hyde Park Corner – Kimura kept his place by the door. The crowd in the carriage had thinned a little and he caught sight of the pair again: Walrus and Leather-coat. They weren’t looking his way, but that meant nothing. If they were who he thought they were, if they were still on his trail, then matters would be coming quickly to a head. They couldn’t risk losing track of him in the crowded Underground. As far as they knew, he remained unaware of them. But once he made his move, the hunt would be on: a hunt to the death.

  The train was moving again. Kimura kept his eyes on the pair, and as they approached Knightsbridge and began slowing, the man in the leather coat turned his head and looked down the carriage towards him. In that moment Kimura made his decision: he met the man’s glance. And then, because the adrenalin was starting to pump in his veins and there was no point in further subterfuge, he nodded. Here I am, take me if you can. The man acknowledged the gesture with a faint smile.

  As they drew to a halt, Kimura readied himself and when the doors opened he sprang out, forcing a path through the passengers waiting to board, heading for the Exit sign at the end of the platform. First at the escalator, he went bounding up, two steps at a time, pausing only for a moment to look back. Walrus and Leather-coat were at the bottom, just starting to climb the moving stairs. Further back two other men were barging their way through the crowd. Kimura saw a woman knocked off her feet.

  The exit was crowded; small queues had formed while people keyed their cards to the machines. Without pausing Kimura ran past them, vaulting over the barrier and continuing along a wide passageway towards some steps he had seen with the shouts of the Underground staff echoing behind him. Racing up the steps he came out on to the snow-covered sidewalk. To his right was a broad thoroughfare clogged with traffic, difficult to cross in a hurry. He turned left and ran down the side street. On the other side of the road was a big department store with brightly lit windows. Without pausing he crossed the street and hurried through a pair of swinging glassed doors.

  Better … much better … all around him there were milling crowds of Christmas shoppers. He could lose his pursuers here, leave by another door and be on his way before they realized what had happened. There was no sign of them when he glanced back and he went on without stopping, passing through another set of doors into a room filled with perfume counters. The battery of scents made his head swim; it brought on a sudden attack of fatigue. How long was it since he had slept? But he kept forging ahead and found himself passing through a succession of ma
rble-floored halls where food of all kinds was on display: shelves packed with cheeses, pastries, mousses, an array of cold meats. His head reeled; he was hungry, so hungry.

  But he pressed on, changing direction, zigzagging through the seemingly endless store, past counters selling jewellery into another room where silver gleamed in glass-fronted cabinets, and he knew it was taking too long, much too long, but the press of shoppers around him hindered swift movement.

  And then he saw it ahead of him: yet another set of swinging doors. An exit.

  Kimura burst out on to the street. Which way now? Yes, he remembered – it was to the right. He turned to go that way, and then stopped dead. Coming down the sidewalk from the corner ahead, trotting, and then breaking into a run when they saw him were Leather-coat and another man.

  Kimura turned and plunged back into the store. At least there was no sign of Walrus and the fourth man inside, but he knew one or both must be close on his heels and when he spotted an escalator to his right he ran to it and swiftly ascended to the floor above. But just as he reached the top, he glanced back and saw Leather-coat enter the door from outside. The two men’s eyes met.

  There was a second escalator nearby and Kimura bounded up it, cursing himself. Of course they would seek to cover the building from the outside once they had seen him enter it. He was thinking too slowly. Hunger, fatigue and the accumulated stresses of the past few days were dulling his perceptions, blunting the razor edge of awareness he would surely need if he were to remain alive. He continued to climb, running up a further escalator until he had reached the third floor where he paused for a second, trying to bring some order to his scattered thoughts.

  Be calm, he told himself. Consider the options – behind him the moving stairway he had just come up was blocked by a crowd of shoppers – the two from the street must be following him upstairs. What about the others? They would still be on the ground floor, searching for him there. He would make his way to the opposite end of the store, descend to street level and then leave the building by the same door he had entered. What if they had left a man to guard it? In his mind, Kimura shrugged. In that case it would be just too bad – for one of them.

  As he glanced over his shoulder his heart gave a lurch. Leather-coat! The man was close behind him. He was forcing a path through the crowd on the escalator, thrusting people aside, and as their eyes met for a third time Kimura knew it would end here. It was likely the man was armed: he was ready to finish things now and take his chances of escaping in the crowd.

  There was a doorway in front of him and instinctively he took it, plunging into the department beyond, which was filled wall-to-wall with beds of all sizes. Turning, he saw Leather-coat lunge towards the doorway he had just come through and go sprawling as he tripped over someone’s foot. Kimura raced on, passing through the room in only a few seconds, quitting it by another door that led into a room just as large as the first and like it was also filled with beds. But these were of a more elaborate kind, and away in a corner he saw a four-poster hung with drapes and with a pair of painted screens placed on either side of it framing the whole display. A further glance behind told him he was out of his pursuer’s sight. Precious moments!

  Not wasting a second, he hurried to the corner and without pausing to see whether he was observed he slipped behind the nearest screen and then watched through a narrow gap between the screen and the bed as Leather-coat came running into the room. After only a few steps he stopped and stood still. His gaze swept the room, and with a sudden tightening of his chest, Kimura realized what the man already knew: that there hadn’t been enough time for him to have passed through it and escaped. That he must be here, hiding somewhere.

  As Leather-coat scanned the room – there were only a handful of shoppers around, together with a single attendant who was busy with a customer – the second man appeared, and after they had conferred briefly he left the way he had come. On his own now, Leather-coat walked to the centre of the room and halted there. Remaining in the same spot he began to turn round and round slowly, like a lighthouse projecting its beam, keeping the whole room under observation.

  Kimura understood at once what his enemy’s plan was. Leather-coat was waiting until he had a team assembled. Only then would he proceed to search the room. He himself had minutes at most to make up his mind. What should he do – make a run for it? There were only two doorways out of the room, and Leather-coat could reach either of them before he did. Tackle him face to face? All things being equal, that would have been Kimura’s choice. But he was sure now that the other man had a gun. What reason would he have not to be armed? The conclusion was obvious, and even as Kimura reached it, Walrus and one of the other two men came hurrying in, and then it was too late for choices. Now it was just a matter of time.

  He watched as Leather-coat dispersed his forces – one man to each of the exits – and then began a systematic search of the room, starting along the wall away on the other side, peering behind the beds that were lined up, pulling drapes that hung from the wall aside with his left hand, while his right stayed in the pocket of his coat.

  Watching him, Kimura came to a decision. He would wait until Leather-coat’s back was turned and then run to the nearest exit where Walrus was posted. He was standing to one side of the door with his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes sweeping the room. Kimura held out little hope for himself. No matter how swift his attack, the man would have time to draw his weapon and shoot, after which there would be screaming and chaos, people running this way and that, while the three of them quietly departed, each one going a different way, and who would be there to stop them? He knew that death was near, but he felt no fear, only shame – shame, and a regret so deep it pierced him to the marrow. He had failed. It was over.

  He was readying himself to move when his view of Walrus was blocked by a party of Arab women in black, ankle-length robes who had entered the room a few minutes earlier and were busy now examining a bed a little way away from where Kimura was hidden. They stood in a group, talking quietly among themselves. Kimura waited for them to move: he wanted a clear path to the door. Presently one of them wandered away from the others and came towards him. An anonymous, featureless figure – the sequinned robe she wore covered her head and her face was hidden behind a veil and a black mask. She stood a few feet away from Kimura, fingering the drape hanging from the four-poster’s frame, and then came closer to examine the screen behind which he was hiding. Now she was only inches away from him: through his narrow peephole Kimura saw a faint sprinkling of pockmarks on her pale brow. The scent of patchouli reached him.

  It was now or never.

  Pulling the screen aside, he put an arm around her neck and yanked her into the corner with him and then quickly used his other hand to pull the screen shut. Too shocked for a moment to cry out, the woman made no sound, and in the seconds he gained by her silence Kimura shifted his grip. Spinning her around, he clapped his left hand over her mouth and then pinned her arms to her sides, holding her body tightly against his. Meanwhile he listened for sounds from outside – shouts, screams – any sign that they had been observed. He heard nothing.

  He already knew what he had to do and he felt pity for this woman of the desert. Strong and wiry, she had begun to fight against his grip and he knew that if he altered it for even an instant to search for the nerve in her neck – a few seconds pressure there would render her immobile – her flailing arms might dislodge the screen in front of them. There was nothing for it. Increasing the pressure of his left hand, he dug his fingers into her cheekbones until he had a firm hold on her jaw. Then, with a sudden wrenching jerk and twist, he broke her neck.

  The woman slumped in his arms. He lowered her gently to the floor. With deft fingers he stripped the body. Beneath the black robe was a white shift and under that loose, knee-length drawers which he left untouched. Undressing to his underpants, he donned the shift and the black billowing robe. The shift was tight about his shoulders and chest, but they
were much the same height and the garments reached down to his ankles.

  He had trouble with the veil – he had to unpin it, and after drawing the robe over his head, pin it again on either side, all the time working only by feel. Last of all he settled the mask and then ran his hands lightly over his body, checking everything. Shoes! Kimura had on a pair of white, rubber-soled trainers. He bent down and felt for the woman’s feet. She was wearing light sandals over a pair of thick woollen socks. He took off his trainers and slipped his feet into the sandals. They barely fitted – the straps bit into his heels – but they would have to do.

  He peered through the narrow gap he had used before. The Arab women had noticed the absence of their companion. They were looking around the room, murmuring to one another. One of them pointed towards the door where Walrus stood guard, and after a moment they moved off in that direction and went out.

  Kimura checked the rest of the room. Leather-coat was much closer now. He had covered more than half the area and was starting along the wall towards him. Kimura waited until his back was turned. Then he slipped quickly between the screens and walked towards the door where Walrus stood guard. With eyes downcast, he could see only the bottom half of his enemy’s body, but he noted that his hands were still buried in his pockets and he felt the man’s gaze on him. Although his heart was thudding and every nerve in his body crying out for release – how he longed to leap at his foe, see terror flare in his eyes as he struck the death blow – he walked steadily through the doorway past him, unchecked and unnoticed.

  Within minutes, he was outside again and hurrying along the sidewalk in the still-falling snow.

  EIGHT

  Addy hadn’t been in the house ten minutes when the bat showed up.

  She was busy switching on lights downstairs, checking the heating (it was on), getting a sense of the place – Rose’s house was exactly as she’d imagined it, small, tastefully furnished but with the feel of a real home – when the doorbell rang.