The House of Killers

by Samantha Lee Howe

‘I’m locked out of my place,’ she says.

  ‘What? You live here? Haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘Just moved in. Dropped my keys down there,’ she says, pointing into the darkest part of the alley.

  ‘What were you doing out here anyway?’ asks the man.

  Neva looks sheepish.

  ‘My folks are a bit strict about me going out sometimes. I snuck out.’

  ‘Look. I’ll let you in the back way, just this once. But you can’t do this again.’

  ‘You work here?’

  The man nods. ‘Maintenance.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  At the back door of the building, the man types in his security code. Neva waits while he opens the door.

  ‘When you get inside, take the service lift to your floor. You don’t need a pass to get in it from down here. Just from the floors themselves.’

  ‘You’ve been really helpful. Can you show me where the lift is?’

  ‘Sure, it’s over—’

  His cry is choked off as cheese wire cuts into his throat. Neva twists the cord, and blood leaks over and around it. A sickening gurgle bubbles from his lips before his knees give and the maintenance man slumps. Neva holds the line taut in her leather-gloved hands until she’s certain he’s dead.

  She untangles the cable from his neck, placing it into one of her plastic wallets. Out of habit she checks his pulse. She looks into his wide, bulging eyes. She feels … something. A burst of unfamiliar emotion. He’s a casualty she hadn’t wanted. But as soon as he saw her his fate was decided.

  ‘Who lives and who dies is dependent on what they know that can affect the Network,’ her handler Tracey had said, and Neva reminds herself of this now. There’s no other logical choice; this is damage limitation.

  Once she has justified it to herself, Neva pushes the execution from her mind. She sees the man as nothing more than a problem she must now conceal. She closes the outer door and looks around for an appropriate storing place. She is in a loading-bay area. To her left is a large shutter door that can be opened to receive deliveries. To her right is the service lift and another door.

  The corpse has a security pass clipped to his coat. Neva takes it. She goes to the door and swipes the card; it opens, revealing a small room where the maintenance man stores his tools. There’s a strong smell of oil in the room and Neva notices the open can of grease that’s been knocked over by the door. She wedges the door open and then returns to the body. Taking hold of the feet, she drags the carcass over to the room. She stows it inside. She looks down at the body for a moment. A small frown forms on her forehead.

  ‘Sorry, old bean,’ she says in a perfect royal English accent before closing the door.

  She takes a breath before calling the service lift. In her gloved hand, she holds the security pass. She sees the man’s name and tries not to remember it. The lift arrives. She straightens her right arm, ready to drop down her blade if the lift isn’t empty. But when the door opens, she’s relieved to find it free. She doesn’t want any more work than she already has. This is supposed to be quick and easy. So far, things aren’t going as well as they should.

  She enters the lift and presses the button to take her up to the third floor. There, her target waits … though she doesn’t know it yet.

  As planned, the lights are out all over this floor and the corridor is in darkness as she exits the lift. Neva’s eyes adjust; she’s never minded the dark. She moves down the corridor, keeping her head down until she reaches the flat in question. Then she removes a small pouch from the pocket of her jeans. She picks the lock with barely a sound.

  With the power cut, the alarm is disconnected. This woman, Lily Devlin, lives alone and is security conscious. Neva doesn’t know why she’s been sent to erase her. Usually she doesn’t care, but as she enters the flat, closing the door behind her, she comes face to face with a large canvas photograph on the wall. Lily Devlin, holding a small baby.

  Neva staggers back as though someone has hit her. Her mind flies into a flash of memory. A woman, a baby, a man … all familiar faces but she cannot recall who they are.

  ‘Mamma…’ she hears a small voice say.

  Neva looks around but there is no one in the hallway of the flat with her. This is a voice she’s heard before. It is a unique moment of déjà vu. An echo from a past she doesn’t remember.

  She shakes away the evocation, then turns left towards her target’s bedroom. She will do the job, quickly and efficiently. That’s what she’s paid for. Nothing needs to be dragged out or thought about.

  Neva opens the bedroom door; the hinges creak. She pauses, waiting to see if her kill has been alerted, but no sound comes from within the room. She pushes the door further open. There is a shape outlined in the bed, but to launch in and kill, without being certain who it is, is not her way. She will look her victim in the eyes when she implements the contract. She’ll make sure she’s dead.

  She comes into the room, aware of every sound, every movement. The woman isn’t breathing loudly; silence comes from the bed. Behind her there is a movement in the air. Neva ducks down as something swings towards her head. She falls forward into a roll, launching herself back to her feet in one slick movement. She is facing someone now. A tall figure, taller than herself, and she is five-eight. The knife is released from the holster as she throws herself forward, knocking the person to the ground.

  There is a groan as the person crashes to the floor. Light fills the room as the power comes back on; Neva sees the woman at her feet. It is the intended mark but she had not expected any resistance.

  ‘Who are you?’ the mark says.

  ‘I’m here to kill you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  Lily Devlin struggles to sit, pressing her back against the wall near the door. Neva makes no move to finish the job. She merely looks at her.

  ‘Don’t you ever ask why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re her,’ Devlin says.

  Neva frowns. Someone else has said those words before, showing a recognition that they shouldn’t have had.

  ‘I never thought this day would come. Though I should have known. Especially after Ansell,’ Devlin continues. ‘But we all think ourselves immortal. We all believe we are indispensable.’

  Neva never asks questions, but at the mention of the assassin, she is curious about Devlin.

  ‘How did you know Ansell?’ she asks.

  Devlin pulls her knees up to her chest; it is an unconsciously defensive position. Neva knows that this woman doesn’t want to die. But what Devlin wants will have no bearing on what will have to happen in the end.

  ‘I used to be her handler.’

  ‘Handler?’ says Neva.

  ‘Yes. You have one. Tracey.’

  ‘You mean the person who pays me?’

  ‘If you like…’

  ‘You gave Ansell her assignments?’ Neva says.

  Devlin nods.

  ‘And now you are mine—’

  ‘Aren’t you curious? Even a little?’

  Neva thinks of Ansell. She remembers Ansell’s grave. She hasn’t returned since she saw the forensic van parked there. That day, they almost caught her taking flowers, which she’d done whenever she passed through the Lincolnshire Wolds. She didn’t know why, but it was somehow important to her. Ansell’s grave had become a symbol of what the future held. A surety that Neva had above all else. One day, she’d be disposed of, too.

  She sits down on the bed and looks at Devlin but doesn’t ask anything more. Instead, she waits for Devlin’s desperate and hopeful chatter, knowing that the woman thinks her revelations will save her. It won’t. It never does.

  ‘They retire us all in the end. It’s an ironic reward for our loyalty. You always believe you won’t be next. Then, some psych evaluation you fail, or some small indiscretion, a display of inquisitiveness, a split second when you question the whole thing. They know. I don’t know how, but they always
know. I questioned. It was such a small thing. I asked whether we’d be able to retrieve Ansell’s body from the mortuary. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘Ansell’s body?’

  ‘It was found. I know you buried her.’

  ‘If you know, so must the Network,’ Neva says. ‘Yet it’s me who’s visiting you.’

  ‘I covered for you. I excused your lack of knowledge in disposal and blamed it on the suddenness of them telling you to do it. It’s not usual for the operative to clean up.’

  ‘I know,’ says Neva.

  ‘Then someone is on standby to clean me away?’

  ‘I haven’t asked.’

  ‘Didn’t you even ask why they told you to clean up Ansell?’ Devlin says.

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘You’re well trained,’ she says. ‘I bet no one has ever mentioned his name around you, have they? The one who gives all the orders.’

  Neva continues to watch Devlin. Her face is passive, devoid of all emotion, but her eyes never move from Devlin’s face.

  ‘So, how will you do it? You favour the blade, don’t you? May I choose?’

  Neva nods.

  ‘I’d prefer a bullet. Right in the back of the head. It would ultimately be the swiftest and most painless.’

  Neva pushes the knife back into the holster. She pulls out the gun tucked into the back of her jeans. From her pocket she removes a silencer. It is a Glock 20, 10mm suppressed. A reliable weapon. It will do the job with minimal noise. It will also be clear to law enforcement that this was a hit, not a random robbery or accidental death. It’s likely that a clean-up will be needed.

  ‘You want an obvious death,’ Neva says.

  ‘Yes,’ Devlin’s answer is breathy. She sounds less scared, more excited. As though she feels her end will mean something more than her life has. ‘I hope someone does the same for you when the time comes.’

  Neva doesn’t answer. She is happy to oblige and give Devlin the execution she deserves.

  ‘Stand,’ she says.

  Devlin does as she’s told. ‘His name is Beech,’ she says. ‘Mr Beech. He’ll be the one who makes the order for you one day, too.’

  ‘Turn,’ Neva says.

  Devlin turns, and then she is running, making a break for the door in a last-ditch attempt to save herself. Neva expects her action. The gun goes off and Devlin collapses on the threshold of the bedroom door. Her head is turned. Neva stands over her. The bullet has penetrated the back of Devlin’s skull. Neva cannot see the exit wound. She fires two more shots into Devlin’s head. Then she takes a photograph and sends it to her employer with the words:

  CLEAN-UP REQUIRED?

  She receives confirmation of payment, and a short response:

  NO

  Neva finds herself wondering why. She’s about to reply, but stops herself. Devlin’s words ring inside her head.

  I hope someone does the same for you when the time comes.

  She finds herself wondering how it feels to be shot in the head.

  Chapter Five

  MICHAEL

  ‘It doesn’t make sense. Normally this sort of hit would become a disappearance,’ I explain. ‘But the body was left there.’

  ‘What do we know about our victim?’ asks Beth.

  ‘She’s the PA for Lib Dem backbencher Sylvester Engelman. She’s worked for him for the past eleven years. Divorced. One child. A daughter, currently at university. She’s clean. Not even a speeding ticket. No hint of scandal,’ I explain.

  ‘What about her university years? Caught smoking something?’ asks Ray.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Leon says. ‘There’s not one hint of her being associated with anything scandalous. No drug abuse, no politically charged friends. By all accounts she was a homey, hard-working student. Political views are straight down the middle. Perfect for a politician’s PA. Too perfect.’

  I change the picture on the screen. It now shows an image of Lily Devlin on graduation day. She looks like an average student. Normal. Forgettable, even.

  ‘She’s not what she seems,’ I say. ‘She can’t be. Let’s talk to her ex-husband.’

  Anton Devlin’s law firm in Surbiton is in a small building. There are several offices and three different solicitors working there. Though the practice is reasonably successful, Devlin is not a high-flyer. He is the senior partner, having branched out on his own after the divorce from Lily Devlin, ten years earlier. I already know that Devlin left a much more successful practice than his own current one will ever be because it is outside central London. He’d been earning a lot more money as one of the lesser partners in the previous firm than he was now. Devlin isn’t in debt, but he isn’t rolling in spare money either. The firm ticks over, he can pay his bills and have some extravaganzas, but he isn’t living it up. Nor has he remarried. All of this has raised questions and Beth and I arrive at his office looking for answers.

  I show my badge to the receptionist and ask to see Devlin. She raises her eyebrows, then tries to make her face expressionless.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ she says.

  ‘Let’s get this straight. You don’t think the ex is involved?’ Beth whispers as we sit in the waiting area.

  ‘No. I really don’t.’

  ‘Then why are we in his office waiting to speak to him?’

  ‘Because I think he may be able to shed some light on her life. He lived with her for ten years. He must know something about her.’

  ‘Mr Devlin will see you now,’ the receptionist says. ‘Down the hall, second door on the left.’

  We stand and walk down the corridor as instructed. The receptionist gives us a curious glance. I know it’s the first time MI5 have ever visited their humble offices. Devlin is not on our radar. Neither had his former wife been.

  Beth knocks on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Devlin says.

  We enter and I close the door behind us.

  Devlin stands. He remains behind his huge table as we shake hands and make our introductions.

  ‘I must admit, I don’t understand why you would pay me a visit. Is it about a client? Only, I must remind you, client confidentiality is—’

  ‘It’s about your ex-wife,’ I say.

  ‘Lily?’ The blush seeps ever so slightly from Devlin’s cheeks. ‘Look, we’ve been divorced for a long time. I don’t see her and—’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s dead, Mr Devlin,’ Beth says.

  Devlin sinks down into his chair. ‘Dead? What happened?’

  ‘She was shot,’ I explain.

  ‘My God! But how? Why?’

  ‘That’s what we want to ask you,’ says Beth.

  I sit down opposite Devlin; all colour has drained from the lawyer’s face now. He is shocked and his hand trembles as he wipes it across his sweat-covered brow.

  ‘You know what she was involved with, don’t you?’ I say.

  Devlin appears to shrink in size, but he shakes his head in denial.

  ‘I don’t … have any idea who would do this. How would I?’

  ‘When did you last see Lily?’ Beth asks.

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s been a while. Not since my daughter turned eighteen. We had no reason to talk or see each other much once Shellie was no longer a minor.’

  ‘Think back to the past then. Where did you first meet Lily?’ Beth asks.

  ‘At university. She was studying economics.’

  ‘Tell us about her. Hobbies? Any radical views?’ Beth presses.

  ‘Lily? God no. She was just an ordinary girl…’

  ‘That’s the official view, but what was she really like?’ I say.

  ‘I have to tell our daughter,’ Devlin says. He’s shaking. ‘Oh my God. This is so awful.’

  ‘I know this is a shock but we need you to focus. Your ex-wife wasn’t just shot. It was a hit. An execution. Do you know what that means?’ I say.

  ‘No,’ Devlin says. ‘That’s just—’

  ‘It means she upset someone very d
angerous. She might have been involved with something illegal. Someone made an example of her. We need to know everything you can tell us about your life with her,’ I continue. ‘Anything you can tell us may help.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. It was normal—’

  ‘Normal doesn’t usually get you shot in the skull three times,’ I say.

  ‘Please. I can’t get my head round this.’

  ‘Look … Anton, if you know anything then it’s best you tell us now,’ says Beth, her voice softer than my hard tones.

  Devlin is too far gone to notice the good-cop/bad-cop routine.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ he repeats. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Why did you break up?’ asks Beth.

  ‘We … grew apart. Lily was… I thought she was having an affair. It was hard to understand as she had never been that … sexual.’

  ‘What made you think there was someone else?’ Beth asks.

  ‘She was being very weird about her phone. It always had a lock on it, and then I found this other one in the house. A basic Nokia. She was texting someone on it, but she erased the messages each time so I couldn’t see who it was, or what they said. When I questioned her about it, she said I’d better not ask as the answers she could give wouldn’t satisfy me.’

  ‘What about drugs?’ I ask. ‘Could she have been an addict? Maybe she couldn’t pay her dealer.’

  ‘Drugs? Lily? Never. She didn’t even smoke and barely drank. The occasional glass of wine at Christmas and birthdays. She just wasn’t into anything radical.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who she was texting?’ Beth says.

  ‘No. And it drove a wedge between us. I told her if she didn’t tell me the truth then I was done. She said that was probably for the best. It was uncharacteristically cruel. It was cold. And then it dawned on me that Lily was unemotional about most things. The only person she ever really showed any real affection for was our daughter.’

  Michael considers this. ‘Yet you married her?’

  ‘I liked her. There was never any drama with her. We had a good life; she didn’t mind if I worked late. After Shellie was born, we sort of did our own things. It was like I’d given her the thing she wanted – a child – and she didn’t need anything else.’