Paid to Kill: A HOLIDAY CAN BE MURDER (The Dead Speak Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  Paid to Kill - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020

  All Rights Reserved

  Paid to Kill is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Chapter One

  I’m bloody knackered. Could do with sleeping for a week.

  Langham pressed his foot harder on the accelerator, wanting to arrive at their holiday destination quicker. He was still below the speed limit anyway but fought the need to break the rules—using his occupation as an excuse to speed wasn’t a good idea, even though there were no other cars on the country road or cameras to catch him. He glanced over at Oliver, his psychic aide, who dozed in the passenger seat. The poor bastard was probably knackered, too.

  Langham rubbed his temple, his earlier raging headache thankfully diminishing.

  Marsh Vines was where they were having their much-needed break. The string of cases they’d been working on recently had taken their toll, and Langham was bordering on burnout.

  Driving out of the city’s belly ten minutes ago had given him a sense of freedom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d upped sticks and buggered off somewhere without the worry of the job on his mind.

  Then again, it was still on his mind, albeit hanging around in the shadows, what with the Roulette case having been so recent. But most of his paperwork was done, and Detective Fairbrother was keeping an eye on things, so there wasn’t much Langham had to fret over. Nothing that couldn’t wait anyway.

  Langham peered over at Oliver again. The man’s psychic gift had seriously evolved. He received information dumps about crimes and was able to get inside criminals’ minds, reading their thoughts and knowing things about them. It freaked Langham the fuck out. Still, without him, crimes took a damn sight longer to solve.

  The countryside whooshed past. Fields stretched left and right, each bordered by lines of trees, a patchwork quilt of greenery.

  He checked his rearview mirror. A car was in the distance, an indistinct shape. It was going at quite a clip, and instinct kicked in, Langham estimating how fast it was going and whether he’d pull the driver over and give them what for.

  Once a copper, always a copper…

  He slowed, making a mental note of his own speed so he could better judge theirs if they sailed past. Another nose in the rearview. The car was much closer now. A brief memory of the Sugar Strands case floated through his mind and how Oliver had done this very thing, keeping an eye on a vehicle behind them. Except the man tailing them had been a lunatic. A killing lunatic.

  “Fucking world is shot away,” he mumbled, concentrating ahead for a second or two to navigate a slight bend.

  He checked behind again. That car was right on his bumper, but at least it meant they weren’t speeding now. Langham slowed a bit more, the speedometer needle flush to the little line that showed he was doing forty. The other car veered to the right, the driver intending to overtake, and Langham got ready to have a peek at whoever was inside. Just in case.

  As the vehicle drew level with his, he stared at the two men inside. The driver, about fifty, appeared hot, his cheeks ruddy, yet he was animated, as though he was telling the passenger an exciting bit of news.

  Is that Sid Mondon?

  Sid was suspected of being one that provided certain services Langham had yet to prove. The murdering kind of service. The links to Sid in past cases were tenuous at best, and no matter how hard Langham had tried to haul him in for questioning, he hadn’t been able to. Airtight alibis every time had seen to that.

  Whoever the passenger was, he was clearly bored, staring straight at Langham. Bald head, tough as fuck to look at, a man Langham wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley without backup.

  Jackson Hiscock. What the fuck are they up to out here?

  Hiscock widened his eyes a little but didn’t turn away. The car overtook and didn’t speed off as Langham had suspected it would before he’d known who was inside. Hiscock would have told Sid to keep within the limit, and it’d be in their best interests if they bloody did. Langham would love an excuse to pull them over.

  A side road appeared ahead, and Sid took it. Langham passed it, watching their progress for a second or two. He shrugged off the urge to reverse and follow them—couldn’t be doing with any harassment complaints he might get if he did. He wouldn’t put it past Sid to cite that he’d been minding his own business, out on a little country drive with a mate of his, and some bastard detective had stopped him with the accusation of speeding.

  “Fuck it.” Langham shook his head at how he just couldn’t switch off no matter how hard he tried.

  How could he switch off when what they supposedly got up to—no supposedly about it in my mind—came at him, slamming into his head and swirling around in there? Killers for hire, that was what they were. Paid to kill. Or at least Hiscock was. Mondon, well, he was apparently the mastermind behind the outfit, a man in charge of doling out hit jobs and sitting back while his employees did the dirty work. He lived well off it, too, going by his swanky address. And Hiscock, he earned a pretty penny an’ all, as well as some woman they knew as Gail and however many others Mondon had on his payroll. At one time Langham had done a stakeout at Mondon’s address, but nothing had come of it, and he’d abandoned his hunches, stifling the gut instinct that the man was behind a few unsolved murders.

  Of course, Langham had looked the pair of them up to see if they had form—and had found nothing. Sid had a front for his business—a consultant, he reckoned he was, on buying and selling houses of all things. Hiscock was ex-army and a trainee in Sid’s fake business, and Gail, she was his secretary.

  A load of old bollocks.

  One day, Langham would have those fuckers bang to rights—and he’d get a shitload of pleasure when he collared them, too.

  “Too bloody right,” he muttered.

  The village of Marsh Vines was a few metres ahead, the landscape dotted with cottages, some of their chimneys leaning, roofs bowed from the weight of thatch. Others were more modern, the owners undoubtedly scrapping the old-fashioned for the newer, safer tiles. The road narrowed a bit, and he approached at a slower speed. The street was flanked with those cottages, a house or two, and a shop that seemed out of place in such a sleepy, out-of-the-way place—too new.

  A pub, the one they’d be staying in, sat next to the shop like an old man beside a young, vibrant woman. The contrast was so odd Langham was surprised planning permission had been given for the shop to be built. It ruined the quaintness of the area.

  He turned right into the pub car park and drew up beside a weather-beaten wooden post that held a swinging sign proclaiming the watering hole to be The Running Hare. He left the engine idling and stared at the sign, at the image of a hare on its haunches, front paws hanging loose in front of it, teeth bared. It was a bit of an alarming picture that had a sinister air about it. The hare, sitting on the grass with countryside behind it, seemed on the lookout for someone to bite.


  Langham shrugged then switched off the engine. He turned to Oliver, who was rubbing his eyes, clearly struggling to wake up.

  “Have a nice kip, did you?” Langham asked.

  Oliver lowered his hands to his lap. “Didn’t even know I’d dozed off. Must have needed it.”

  “Must have. This place is giving me the creeps, by the way. Should have had a look at it online before I rang them up.”

  Oliver leant forward and studied the pub through the windscreen. “It would give you the creeps. A lot of people died here.”

  “Fuck’s sake. Right, we’ll book in, get settled, then maybe have a nose around. Take a walk or something. We’ve got two weeks of doing jack shit except resting and boozing, so we’d best make the most of it. Before we know it, we’ll be back at the station, and you’ll be listening to voices, I’ll be chasing up leads, and we’ll be knackered and wishing we were back here.” Langham looked at the hare again and shuddered. “Well, wishing we were on holiday somewhere anyway. Not necessarily here.”

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t so much the drone of the car engine that was getting on Jackson Hiscock’s nerves, more the drone of Sid Mondon’s voice. The man had a habit of not getting to the point, going around the houses, so the saying went.

  “Get on with it.” Jackson rubbed his temples, his fingertips rasping over dark stubble.

  “You just need to go and keep an eye on this bloke, that’s all. Look after him for the night. Kill an intruder. Then, when I give you the all clear in the morning, you can go back to your normal little life until I need you again.” Sid poked one finger between his neck and shirt collar, tugging to let air get to his pasty skin.

  It wasn’t any wonder he’d made that move several times during the heated journey to Marsh Vines. The fat hanging off his chin joined his body just above the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. Jowls weren’t the word. Couple that with a three-piece black suit in a temperature too high, and Sid was doomed to sweat it out for the duration.

  Jackson ran a hand over his hairless head. “I like the way you referred to it as a ‘little life’. Funny that, because if it wasn’t for my ‘little life’, you’d have no fucker to do some of your dirty work for you.”

  “Now, now.” Sid gave Jackson a sideways glance. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

  “How the fuck did you know I wear knickers?” If Jackson didn’t make light of things, Sid would get all serious.

  Sid swerved the car down a right-hand track, slowing his speed over the bumpy surface. A dribble of sweat fell from his floppy dark hair and down his fleshy, spot-riddled temple.

  “Christ, is that the place up ahead?” Jackson patted for the gun in his waistband to make sure it was there. “You expect me to be able to protect a man who lives in a house that big?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “With fuck knows how many entrances and windows?”

  “Like I said, uh, yes.”

  “Jesus. You’re something else, you are.”

  Sid nodded, speeding up. The track crossed with another main road, which he sped across without checking for other traffic, onto a smooth tarmac drive. “Yep, I am. Something fucking else. That’s why you like working for me.”

  Jackson sighed. “You think whatever you like if it makes you feel better.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you let me drive here myself? Why the need to drop me off?”

  “Because there’s a method to what appears to be my madness, Jackson. This fella has money, and if you do your job right, more work might come from this quarter, know what I mean?”

  Yeah, Jackson knew what he meant all right. Greedy bastard.

  Outside the mansion—because that was what the damn place was—Sid stopped and cut the engine of his old-fashioned gold Merc. “Now then, be on your best behaviour.”

  Jackson got out of the car, drew his long black leather jacket tighter around him, and walked towards the mansion, giving the surroundings a quick once-over. The place stood on grounds with no trees, a home in the middle of nowhere, an instant attraction for burglars. With no fencing around the property, no gated entrance, the owner was a bloody sitting duck. Anyone could park on the track and leg it up the drive or across the grass, break a window, and climb inside, providing they had the balls to do it knowing an alarm would undoubtedly go off. He sighed at the lack of care for security and, knowing that tonight someone planned to off the owner while he slept, Jackson made a mental note to have a word and explain why perimeter fencing ought to be put up—and high iron gates. Maybe even a booth with a security guard sitting in it.

  “Fucking weather. Damn heat messes with my hairstyle, know what I mean?” Sid said, coming up beside him.

  Jackson gave him a hard stare. “You taking the piss?”

  Sid smiled. “Yeah, baldy. You ready then?”

  “Yep. A house this big, got to belong to some old bastard, hasn’t it?”

  Sid lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm, assuming much?”

  Jackson shrugged. “Come on, let’s get this over and done with so I can carry on with my little life tomorrow.” He strode up the red stone steps that spanned the entire front of the building and lifted the brass knocker. He let it go, and it bounced off the backplate several times.

  “Careful,” Sid said. “That might look like brass but—”

  “What, are you telling me that’s gold?”

  Sid tilted his head. “Could well be. Who knows what these snobs are prepared to spend their money on.”

  “And who knows what the local thieves are prepared to do, coming up here and unscrewing the knocker and flogging it.”

  “There is that.” Sid leant forward to stare through one of the opaque glass panes on the front door. “Ay up, someone’s coming.” He straightened and patted his tie, then tugged the hem of his jacket. “Look smart, Jackson.”

  Jackson gazed down at himself and grinned.

  Smart in jeans, a T-shirt, and an old leather coat? What the fuck is he on?

  The door swung wide, and a thin, late- to middle-aged, greying man stood on the threshold, his hair slicked back, the movie-typical butler, a hackneyed suit to match. He stared at them through one watery eye. The other appeared as though it had been sewn shut at some point, the skin around it puckered and decorated with scars.

  What the fuck happened to him?

  “Yes? May I help you?” the man asked.

  “Sid Mondon at your service, sir, with Jackson Hiscock. We’re here to see a Mr Randall Whiteling.”

  “Ah, yes.” The butler blinked, the skin of his manky eye twitching. “Do you have some identification, please?”

  Jackson reached into his back pocket for his wallet. If Randall Whiteling thought this butler here would be able to stop someone with wicked intent from coming into the house, he had another think coming. One shove to his chest and he’d land on his fleshless arse. Jackson flashed open his wallet and produced his fake PI card. Sid showed his passport.

  “That’s lovely,” the butler said. “Very good. If you would please follow me.”

  They entered. Jackson narrowed his eyes at Sid to silently tell him he wasn’t happy with this setup. Sid usually let Jackson meet with the client before he agreed to do the job, but this time it seemed the vast amount of money had ensured he hadn’t stuck to their normal agreement.

  “It’ll be fine,” Sid mouthed.

  They followed the suited spindle-figure across a foyer. Ahead, a red-carpeted central staircase was bracketed by verandas either side at the top. Several closed doors up there led to God only knew what parts of the mansion—a couple of corridors with more doors, Jackson suspected—and between each door hung portraits of austere-looking men who appeared to have corks stuck up their arses. That was all well and good if they enjoyed that kind of thing, but going by their expressions, they didn’t.

  Jackson returned his attention to where they were going, their footsteps ringing out on the harlequin-tiled floor. The butler stopped outside a set of double door
s and rapped smartly. He pressed his ear to the wood then nodded, lifting one hand to point an oddly gnarled finger at the ceiling. Jackson glanced at Sid beside him. Sid shrugged and stared at the butler’s back.

  “He doesn’t appear to have heard my knock, sirs,” the man said. “Please wait here while I go in and see if he’s ready.” He pushed the door open just enough so he could slide through the gap and disappear inside.

  “I swear to fucking God, Sid, if I have to spend the night playing cards with some old duffer, I’m going to bloody—”

  The doors yawned open, and the butler stood to one side. “Please, do come in.”

  Jackson trailed Sid into the room and did a quick study. Large area, most probably a drawing room at some point in the past, now a modern lounge that stretched on for around fifty metres. Black leather sofas were dotted about, creating several somewhat private spaces should people wish to sit in huddles with like-minded friends when they came here. It reminded Jackson of a hotel reception. A cinema-sized TV hung on the wall, and he could well imagine guests congregating to watch the latest film while sipping Pimms and wincing at the lemons.

  How the other half fucking live.

  Sid strode to the far end towards a figure dressed in beige calf-length cargo pants and a black polo shirt. Jackson squinted to see better. The man they approached was about thirty, with long black hair and a frosting of stubble.

  Sid extended a hand. The slighter man grasped it and shook.

  “Sid Mondon, sir, and this here is the man for the job, Jackson Hiscock.” Sid turned to wave a hand at Jackson.

  “Randall Whiteling. Good of you to come.” He released Sid’s podgy hand and tilted his head to study Jackson.

  Jackson stepped forward. “Nice to meet you, mate.”

  “It’s Randall.” He held out his hand, a faint smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

  Their host indicated two sofas positioned around an oak coffee table laden with cupcakes on a three-tiered stand. A circle of crystal tumblers enclosed a large glass jug of some iced drink or other.