Just Kill Them

by Michael Leese

  He’d bought it through a shell company that couldn’t be traced back to him and he’d offered the seller, a taciturn Welsh sheep farmer, the option of taking the price in cash. This was the only time he had seen the man smile, albeit briefly.

  It had cost him the same as buying a conventional property with all services, but he hadn’t cared about that. He was paying for security – and in the farmer he recognised that he had found a man who could put a price on discretion.

  The other advantage of the property was that it wasn’t far from Holyhead and the regular ferry services to Ireland. This was the second part of his escape plan, but something only to be triggered in the worst case. If the worst came to the worst, he would catch a ferry to Eire and disappear into an isolated spot in County Kerry. It offered the same deal as Wales but with the added sense of security that came with being further away from London.

  He’d put his plan into action the moment he had found out what had happened to Palmer and his wife. Cross had been invited for afternoon drinks and arrived to discover stunned neighbours and the still smoking hole in the ground.

  He didn’t waste a moment, jumping straight back in his car and heading for his warehouse where he collected a small leather bag. It was filled with cash, including both Euros and US dollars, and a selection of identity cards, credit cards, and passports.

  In his line of work, he’d learned about the finest forgers and carefully cultivated them over the years. Today he intended to take advantage of his foresight. The only other things in the bag were toothpaste, brush and deodorant – the three ingredients he couldn’t cope without.

  As for his wife of twenty years and his two teenage children, he barely spared a thought beyond the idea that they could already be dead, or at the very least being held hostage by the same people who’d killed Palmer and his wife. Besides, he figured he owed them nothing. All three had enjoyed the benefits of the money he brought in; no-one had thought to question where it came from, and now it was a case of every man for themselves. That was just the way of the world.

  Cross drove carefully, not wanting to draw police attention. It was only as he arrived in the vicinity of the farmhouse that his sense of caution kicked in, causing him to park up in the shelter of a glade of trees near the top of a hill. From here he had a clear line of sight to his property. He spent the remaining hours of daylight watching carefully to make sure it was deserted.

  With the light fading fast, he approached the cottage and let himself in. Even though it was late spring the place felt abandoned and was bitingly cold. He was glad that he had, on his last visit more than a year ago, laid in supplies. Soon, he had the wood burner blazing away.

  Electricity came from his own generator, and that was well-stocked with fuel. He knew he could do nothing about the smoke from the chimney and the light in the windows – but he was willing to bank on the isolation to keep him safe.

  He had bought several bottles of whiskey and half-a-dozen packets of sandwiches from a service station almost half a day ago now. Suddenly famished, he bolted down a rubbery cheese and tomato, followed by a stale ham and mustard. He didn’t dwell on the poor quality. It filled a hole and gave him a lining for the whisky, which he drank straight from the bottle as he couldn’t be bothered to switch on the pump that brought water to the property and would have let him clean a glass.

  The strong drink did little to calm his nerves, but he was past being sensible. He drank on regardless, eventually falling into an alcoholic stupor as his head slumped forward and the wood burner died out.

  He didn't hear the front door being opened just fifteen minutes after he had fallen into drunken oblivion. He didn’t see the two men come in, each wearing a balaclava, and step silently toward him on their rubber-soled shoes.

  Cross was a dead man the moment he walked into the cottage. He was picked up on the carefully hidden camera with a powerful transmitter that alerted the two men of his arrival. They watched him pass out and made their move. Once inside the property they grabbed their target, hauling him to his feet, and holding him in a painful grip. At first the effects of the booze made him think he was dreaming. Then, an animal sense kicked in. He looked into two pairs of merciless eyes and was suddenly horribly sober. He had no doubts about what was about to happen.

  Cross was neither proud nor brave. “Please don’t kill me. I’ve got money, plenty of it. I can pay you far more than you have already received.”

  He would have dropped to his knees and begged but they were holding his arms in a vice-like grip. He was hopelessly overmatched and wouldn’t stand a chance once things got physical.

  A wave of self-pity swept over him and he burst into tears. Even now a tiny part of him was hoping this display would soften their resolve.

  Not a chance.

  His pleading didn’t have any impact. Even through the balaclavas, he could see by their grim expressions that there would be no mercy here. This was his secret hiding place and it had been invaded.

  The man holding his right arm let go with one hand and produced a pistol from a holster under his armpit. The gun was placed in Cross’ hand and lifted until the barrel was resting under his chin.

  He made no effort to resist. All he could feel was a sense of immense loss. Cross was so terrified he wet himself and a large stain spread around his trousers. Yet, with death hovering so close, shame was the last of his worries. He thought of pleading again, but fatalistic calm came over him and he slumped in the grip of his assailants.

  As the man squeezed his finger against the trigger, he could only hope that the sensation would not be too painful. He knew it would only last for a moment.

  Then it was all over.

  He never heard the gun firing, nor felt the bullet lance into his brain.

  The kill team didn’t waste time studying the body; they’d had plenty of experience of death and took no pleasure from its finer details. Instead they walked out, leaving the door ajar to encourage animals, and kept their balaclavas on until they reached the motorway heading for Manchester.

  The traffic on the M6 was still busy, despite the rush hour being long past – but the two men were unbothered and settled in for the drive home.

  “I’m glad to be rid of that thing,” said the passenger. “The material makes my head itch like the devil. I have to stop myself scratching at it - I don’t want to be known as the ‘itchy killer’.”

  The driver gave a harsh laugh, which came out as almost a bark. He glanced across at the passenger and said, ‘That went well. I prefer it when they don't scream too much. But why do they always think that money can buy them out of it? It's not like some guardian angel is going to appear.”

  The passenger was silent for a moment. “I wonder who he pissed off to have us come to visit? And how old do you think he was? I’d say about mid-50s – but he could have been a lot younger. He didn’t take care of himself.”

  They drove on for a little while before the driver asked, “Why are you asking about his age?”

  The passenger kept his eyes on the road. “In our line of work, you need to know when it’s time to get out. If you make it through your twenties, that is.”

  The silence went on for a while longer – until the driver could resist no longer.

  “So… what’s the answer then? How long is too long in this business?”

  The driver shrugged. He wasn’t a man much given to introspection. “When someone like us turns up, I suppose.”

  Chapter 29

  Hooley was expounding on what he liked to call his “boots on the ground time out” and was explaining it to Susan Brooker.

  “When I first started working with Jonathan, I was so impressed with the way he makes these intuitive leaps that I forgot to back things up with more formal police work. Gathering evidence, talking to witnesses and liaising with different agencies. So, when I say, “boots on the ground”, I’m reminding myself to make sure all the bases are covered. When Jonathan talks about the father of Emily
Wong, I need to make sure that the right people MI5 and MI6 know what we think and can follow it up specifically.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, do you want to take charge of that? Given you know Sam Tyler, you can cover the US end as well as the UK end. If you have any worries that you’re not getting through to people, come back to me and we can make sure they do listen.

  “I also need to get some more of our people talking to all the serving staff from Diamonds and Pearls and I want the accountancy specialists warned that they need to look very carefully at that business. To be quite honest it would be a great help if you took that under your wing as well.”

  Brooker smiled. “I’d be delighted. I thought you might keep me on the sidelines until you were more used to me.”

  “There was never a chance of that,” said Hooley. “Once Jonathan said yes you were always going to be involved. Essentially there’s just the three of us, plus the detectives in the “Research Room” whom I have managed to borrow for the time being.”

  He carried on talking to Susan for a few more minutes until he was happy he had things back under control. “It doesn’t matter how smart your detective work is, without evidence that stands up in court you can’t win.”

  It was at this moment that Roper put in an appearance.

  “I've been thinking. We’re not going to get very much free time now so we need to take advantage when we can.”

  Statement apparently concluded; Roper fell silent.

  It was one of the problems you sometimes faced with Roper. His thought processes were so intense that he often forgot to share all the details. People who didn’t know him thought he was doing it for effect, an attempt to look enigmatic, but in fact he was just telling the story as he saw it at that moment.

  The DCI went for the direct approach. “And your point is?”

  For just a moment it looked as though Roper was fighting to keep some sort of expression off his face. Was he trying to conceal something? thought Hooley. Surely not.

  Before he could pursue this thought, Roper said, “I have booked us in for another gym session. If we leave now, we will make it back long before we hear anything new from the investigation teams and it will be a day, at least, before the French talk to us.”

  Hooley couldn’t help the hiss of irritation that emerged. Being relentless was what made Roper such a fine investigator, but it also made him hard work to be around when he got the bit between his teeth.

  Hooley held up an admonishing finger. “What makes you think that I’m going to get up from this desk, walk to the gym, get hot and sweaty, and walk back here?”

  Roper had a range of shrugs that conveyed his thoughts very accurately. Right now, he produced the “that’s exactly what I think” version. “I think you are in serious danger of becoming very unwell unless you take exercise. I wouldn't be suggesting it unless I had thought about it. I have been researching this and am sorry to tell you that you are in the ‘at risk’ category.”

  Hooley’s father had suffered a severe heart attack in his fifties so the same thing happening to him was one of his private dreads. He felt, as his mother might say, someone “walking over his grave”.

  A slight wooziness came over him and, realizing that he had been standing up as he admonished Roper, he sat back down, being very careful to disguise what had just happened.

  “If you like,” said Roper, “I can go through what’s making me think that you have to get fitter, but I know you don't like me doing that so I thought I would just present you with the basic conclusions. That really is all you need to know.”

  Hooley was now feeling hot and sweaty – and without having gone to the gym at all. He took a deep breath. Tiny black spots had started dancing around in front of his eyes. He looked around for a drink of water, but when he reached out, his hands found only an empty cup.

  Was this a panic attack? he wondered. Or… maybe it was more?

  “What are the symptoms of a heart attack?” he uttered. “I feel very thirsty, suddenly.”

  “You look terrible. Do you really think you are having a heart attack now?”

  The DCI was starting to wonder. “I don’t know. Just tell me what the symptoms are.”

  “I’m not a doctor. We need a doctor for that.”

  “Jonathan don’t go wobbly on me now! I know you, you read about stuff like this for your bedtime relaxation. Now, what can you recall from what you’ve seen?”

  “I need to warn you that I may get something wrong…”

  Hooley cut him off. “Just do it now or ring for an ambulance! I can’t wait.”

  “OK. Are you having chest pains at all, especially in the middle of your chest?”

  For a bizarre moment the DCI couldn’t decide. Then, finally, he answered:

  “No.”

  “What about pains in your arms?”

  “No.”

  “Anything in the rest of your body? Around your jaw, neck or maybe your abdomen?”

  “No.”

  “Are you having trouble breathing?”

  “I sort of was but that’s gone away.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes!” Hooley finally snapped. “I’m in an office with you and I’m beginning to think you’ve given me a heart attack by telling me I’m at risk. You gave me a hell of a fright just now!”

  “I suppose that might explain why you suddenly looked all sweaty,” said Roper, reluctant to totally abandon his new role as health overseer. “Getting hot and sweaty is one of the signs that I read about. There’s a few more symptoms I could go through.”

  Hooley grumbled, “No thanks. I think I’ve had quite enough of Dr. Roper for now.”

  Roper’s face screwed up with consternation. “I’m certainly no doctor. I hope I haven’t given you the impression I’ve been studying medical matters.”

  His face was such a picture of misery that it made Hooley laugh. But at least the room was coming back into focus around him. At least all those tiny black dots in his eyes had danced away.

  “I think it’s a good job you’re not a doctor. Your bedside manner would be the stuff of legend, and not in a good way. If you’re determined to tell people about their health, you need to be kind and gentle. A little empathy goes a long way.”

  Roper looked indignant. Empathy was something he’d seen written in a book, not something he took much notice of. “I don’t understand. If there is a problem then surely you would want to know about it, not have someone keeping things from you? Actually, I’ve just thought of the perfect example. Do you remember a couple of weeks ago, I saved you from being killed by that bus?”

  Hooley did. “You yelled ‘BUS’ right in my ear. You gave me a terrible fright. It was just after we’d eaten, and I was nearly sick in the street.”

  “You keep going on about that, but you can’t deny that, if I hadn’t stopped you stepping out, you’d have been crushed. I saved your life by letting you know there was a problem, not pretending it would go away.”

  There were times when Hooley recognised he wasn’t going to win. If he got into this fight, Roper would refuse to give up until he had worn the DCI down. He gathered his dignity.

  “I suppose now might be as good a time as any for us to take a break. So long as it doesn’t take longer than forty-five minutes.”

  Roper didn’t bother replying. He moved back to his desk, picked up his kitbag and led the way.

  Hooley had cheered up by the time they reached the gym. As he walked out of the changing rooms, an instructor smiled at him kindly and then pointed at the Spin Cycles.

  “We’re going to do the same as before, no more and no less.”

  To his secret delight, Hooley enjoyed the warm up session – it gave him a real boost, his confidence rising as he set off.

  He threw himself into the first exercise at a rapid pace and, within minutes, was starting to worry he’d overstretched himself, so he slowed down a little and managed to keep going.

  Ten minutes late
r, his session was over, and he headed off for a quick shower before the walk back to the office. He had to wait briefly for Roper – who remained behind to speak to the fitness instructor.

  The walk back to the office seemed to last longer than expected and the stairs made Hooley’s legs ache, which he put down to the cycling. Downing a glass of water, he decided a couple of pain killers might not go amiss.

  About half-an-hour later, he could feel the paracetamol start to kick in, bringing some welcome relief. He told himself that exercise was bound to be tough at first, but it would get easier.

  At that point he got the strongest sense that Roper was looking at him. Glancing over, he realised that Roper was alternating between studying him intently and staring at something he had on his screen. This went on for several seconds.

  Feeling worried, but wanting to sound authoritative, Hooley asked, “What on earth are you doing? This is the second time today you’ve put the wind up me. I can tell you now that it’s not funny.”

  The answer rocked him.

  “This is my fault,” said Roper, “but I'm wondering if we should have gone to the gym at all. I'm not sure it's doing you any good at the moment, certainly not to look at you. You went a bit purple back then.” Roper paused. Then he looked at Hooley with rising alarm. “There is no doubt about it. You need to see a cardiologist as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 30

  Roper never delayed once he had decided to act.

  “I’ve made the appointment,” he declared. “And I’ve already paid for it.”

  Hooley looked up in amazement. “You don’t need to do that. Anyway, I’m sure the union medical care will take care of it...”

  “Yes, but what if they need time to process your claim?” said Roper. “And they might not pay all of it. With me paying you don’t need to worry, and it gets it done faster. You know I can afford it, and you know I wouldn’t offer unless that was the case.”