Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  ‘Utterly compelling from start to finish, and up there with my top reads of the year’

  – Robert Scragg, author of What Falls Between the Cracks

  ‘Thrilling . . . A right proper page turner . . . An edgy, considered and pitch perfect crime drama with great depth, some engaging twists and plenty of unexpected moments – I loved it for its fresh feel and utterly riveting plot. Bring on more is what I say. This is a series I’d like to see run and run. Highly recommended’

  – Liz Loves Books

  ‘A gritty, multi-layered, engaging cleverly constructed thriller . . . a fast, slick explosive read which will leave you breathless, with a clever and unexpected twist at the end. If like me you loved Killer Intent, then you’re in for a real treat. Cannot recommend this highly enough. This will undoubtedly be one of the reading hits of 2019’

  – AMW Books

  Praise for Killer Intent:

  ‘A twisty, action-packed conspiracy thriller. Kent knows how to bring the thrills’

  – Mason Cross, author of the Carter Blake series

  ‘A perfectly plotted blockbuster of a book with killer intent’

  – Imran Mahmood, author of You Don’t Know Me

  ‘A must-have read of 2018’

  – Sunday Express

  ‘A compelling combination of political drama and lethal action.

  There are echoes of Michael Dobbs’s House of Cards but there is more derring-do in Kent’s twisty tale, which has all the makings of a bestseller’

  – Daily Mail

  ‘An absolute knock-out debut novel’

  – Shots magazine

  ‘Let’s hear some applause from thriller fans! Yes, a new star has arrived with a humdinger that could keep you up all night. I was hooked from the start. The first chapter drips with cold sweat . . . packs a storytelling punch, rather like early Jack Higgins’

  – Peterborough Evening Telegraph

  ‘A fast-paced thriller that packs a punch’

  – Crime Fiction Lover

  ‘Wow! Wow! WOW! This book has everything . . . A #TopReadof2018 – what a superb story by an author who is well and truly on my radar!’

  – Crime Book Junkie

  For Victoria and Joseph

  You made everything complete

  ONE

  Phillip Longman was not woken by the sound of breaking glass. That would have required sleep, and sleep was something his elderly body no longer seemed to need.

  A metal rail hung from a reinforced section of the ceiling. Longman’s frail hands gripped it as tightly as they could. Using all of his strength, he pulled his body upright. The automated mattress followed, designed to support him if that strength gave out. Longman was a proud man. Too proud to be raised by a mechanical bed. Too proud for a panic alarm. But pride could not keep him vertical. The mattress was Longman’s concession to his body’s decay.

  The sound of exertion filled the room. Grunts. Groans. Heavy breaths. In his younger days Longman had been an active man. Even into his sixties his physical fitness had marked him out from his peers. But his sixties were long gone. Now he could barely climb out of bed.

  The mattress finally caught up and pressed against Longman’s back, taking the brunt of his weight. He released his grip on the metal rail and silence returned to the room.

  Longman listened carefully.

  The sound had been unmistakable. Shattering glass makes a distinctive noise that even his diminished hearing could pick up. But identifying its source was much harder. Was it the sound of a dropped ashtray? A wine glass? Or of a broken window, smashed to admit the uninvited? Not that one possibility was better or worse than any other. In the otherwise empty house of an eighty-five-year-old widower, every one of them was a concern.

  Longman strained to listen. At first there was nothing. At least nothing he could hear.

  The house was big. Much too big now that his wife had passed away and his children had moved on. But Longman had been unable to bring himself to move. To leave the family home of fifty years. He knew it inside out.

  And it was that familiarity that made the next sound an unintentional alarm. The creak of the first step on the main staircase.

  It was a feature of the house that went back decades. In the daytime – during the housekeeper’s working hours – it would be the most natural sound in the world. But when the bedside clock read 3 a.m.? At that hour it was terrifying.

  The sound of footsteps followed the first creak, but it was drowned out as Longman threw back the duvet and freed his frail legs from its weight. Crippling arthritis forced him to shift his entire body in one movement as he swung his legs from the bed and towards the floor. The pain was excruciating; he had not moved so fast in five years, back when his hips did their job. But he ignored the agony and climbed to his feet, one hand on the solid bedpost for support.

  His breathing was out of control, his heart a piston. But Longman pushed himself on, staggering to the walk-in closet in the far corner of the room. For the first time in years he made the distance without a stick or a frame for support. Exhausted, he stumbled as he reached the door. Only his adrenaline kept him upright.

  Regaining his balance, Longman gripped the closet door’s handle and then paused, holding his breath in an effort to hear. Nothing could stop the thumping pulse that filled his inner ear, nor the fear that his overworking heart would not keep the pace. Still, it was quiet enough to hear the footsteps.

  The closet opened easily. Longman transferred his weight from the handle to the frame, in order to let the door pass. Once open he moved inside. Fumbling in the dark, he found the light-switch and pressed it just as the sound of footsteps stopped outside the bedroom.

  The light was at first blinding, but Longman’s eyes adjusted quickly. The sight that greeted them, however, was not worth the effort. The hope that had been carrying him disappeared in a single breath.

  What did I think I’d find? Longman asked himself. What bloody weapon would have been of use anyway?

  Longman had not heard the door open, but that sixth sense that humans possess – that feeling that tells us when we are not alone – had not diminished with age. The bedroom was no longer empty. Longman knew that before he turned to see who had joined him.

  ‘You?’ Longman’s exclamation was more an accusation than an expression of shock.

  It was the eyes. The most soulless Longman had ever seen. He would recognise them anywhere.

  ‘You remember me.’

  The reply was a statement, as sinister as the speaker. A predator born and bred.

  ‘Some things one never forgets.’ Everything about the man was as Longman remembered. ‘And some people.’

  A smile formed on the predator’s lips, but his pale eyes remained cold. It was a smile of triumph, not happiness.

  ‘True.’

  The man moved closer. His pace was slow. Deliberate. A viper finding its range.

  ‘It’s good you’ve kept that mind of yours,’ he said. ‘Even at your age.’

  ‘What does that matter?’

  The old man spoke with defiance. Those pale, merciless eyes had told him his fate. But he would not face it on his knees.

  ‘Oh, it matters.’

  For the first time there was life in the voice. A reaction to Longman’s own fire. It did not add warmth.

  Only inches now separated their bodies as Longman felt a vice-like grip constrict his wrist.

  ‘Because it means you’ll feel every second of what’s coming.’

  TWO

  Michael Devlin wiped through the condensation that clung to the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him. Stripped to the waist, a collection of scars dotted his torso. They were remnants of injuries that were rare for men of h
is so-called ‘civilised’ profession. Permanent reminders of a life more eventful than he had ever intended.

  Michael plunged his hands under the running hot water and threw the pool that grew between them onto his already dripping face. The sting of the heat bit into the scar tissue under his left eyebrow. It was a familiar feeling. Another old wound.

  Minutes later he was clean-shaven. A full-head plunge into a basin of ice-cold water ended the process. It was an important morning ritual, shocking him to full consciousness ahead of the day.

  With his morning fog shifted, he dried himself and quickly finished getting ready, pulling on a bespoke pin-striped three-piece suit that highlighted his tall, triangular frame.

  Michael was not a vain man but he understood the importance of appearance. First impressions matter.

  Finally ready, he headed downstairs.

  The master bedroom and the main bathroom of his Chelsea townhouse were on the building’s second floor. A staircase led upwards to three spare bedrooms and Michael’s home office, and down to a large first-floor bedroom suite. At its bottom was a ground-floor reception, a showroom-standard lounge that was hardly ever used, and a large extended kitchen that was the reason for its neglect.

  The kitchen was a whirl of activity. Barely through the door, Michael was ambushed by the cloud of smoke that streamed in all directions from the range cooker at the far end of the room.

  Michael stepped back out of the room with a smile and a shake of the head, unfastened the buttons on his suit jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He hung it up in the hallway, where it would be safe from the cooking fumes.

  ‘I know you’re out there, Michael Devlin!’

  Sarah Truman’s American accent cut through the British voices that were emanating from the kitchen radio.

  ‘Get your butt in here and get your breakfast.’

  Michael strode back through the door, his grin growing wider as he surveyed the chaos of the kitchen. Smoke was still billowing from a thick-bottomed pan containing what had probably once been bacon. Less dramatic were the scrambled eggs that were already on a plate. And as for the sizzle he could hear from a pot of baked beans?

  Best not to ask about that one, Michael thought.

  ‘Effortless as always, sweetheart?’ he asked playfully, stepping behind Sarah and wrapping an arm around her waist.

  ‘I don’t have time for silly games this morning, Michael.’

  Sarah spoke without turning. She ignored Michael as he kissed the back of her neck. Instead she reached out for the plate with the eggs to add the rest of his breakfast.

  ‘Now sit at the table.’

  ‘How could I do that?’ Michael took the plate from Sarah’s grasp with one hand as he spoke. He held it high, out of her reach. With his other arm already around her waist, he pulled her into him.

  ‘When I’ve got the most beautiful woman in London standing right in front of me?’

  ‘I’m going to drop the pan!’ Sarah laughed as Michael pulled her close, pinning her back against him. He buried his freshly shaved skin into her hair as he kissed her neck again. This time he got the reaction he wanted; Sarah turned her head and met his lips with her own.

  ‘Happy now?’ she asked as she pulled her face away, at least as far as she could manage.

  ‘As happy as any man in a burning building could be,’ Michael replied, laughing as he released his grip on Sarah’s waist.

  ‘Screw you, Devlin!’ Sarah’s mock outrage was well acted, but Michael did not buy it for an instant. ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘Not that bad?!’ Michael laughed as he reached over her shoulder and switched the cooker’s extractor fan to maximum. ‘I almost went looking for our fire blanket.’

  ‘Do you want your breakfast or not?’

  Honest answer? Michael thought. One look into Sarah’s startling green eyes stopped him from saying the words aloud.

  ‘Yes, yes please,’ he said instead. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’ Sarah sounded disappointed at her own impatience. ‘Cooking’s just not my forte and it’s frustrating.’

  ‘I get that,’ Michael replied, placing two glasses of fresh orange juice on the kitchen table and taking a seat. ‘But no one’s good at everything. Sometimes you’ve got to accept your own limitations.’

  ‘Says the most competitive man on the planet,’ Sarah laughed at her own response as she plated the food, set the plates down on the table and took her seat.

  All the while Michael watched, marvelling that his life had turned out this way. That he had found his perfect woman. And that she had found him.

  They had met less than two years ago, in the most extreme of circumstances. They had made a connection then that had only grown stronger. What could have been a crush had become something much more. And so here he was. Thirty-nine years of age, with the twenty-eight-year-old fiancée he adored.

  It was more than Michael could have ever hoped for.

  ‘So what’s today?’ Sarah asked. She dashed some Tabasco sauce onto her meal as she spoke.

  ‘Wandsworth Prison,’ Michael replied, taking the same hot sauce and adding it to his own petrified bacon. ‘First meet with Simon Kash.’

  ‘The boy in the murder trial?’

  ‘Yep.’ Michael drained half of his orange juice. ‘Bad business. What about you? What time are you out?’

  ‘Not until ten, back early evening. Will you deal with dinner tonight?’

  ‘Could do. I’m out of the prison by midday, then chambers, but I shouldn’t be late home. I’ll have to check with Anne, though. I think she said she wanted to cook tonight.’

  Neither spoke for a few moments while they finished their breakfast, with Michael surreptitiously discarding the worst of the charred edges and Sarah pretending not to notice.

  ‘Will you make sure Anne’s out of bed before you go?’ Michael asked once both plates were empty, gesturing upwards with his eyes.

  ‘I’ll head up to her as soon as you’re gone,’ Sarah replied.

  ‘Thanks. And look, I’m sorry to put that on you. I—’

  ‘She’s family,’ Sarah interrupted. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  Michael reached out and gently gripped Sarah’s hand. She meant what she said. He knew that. It made the answer more welcome.

  ‘But thanks anyway.’

  The moment lasted for a few seconds, only ended by Michael’s glance towards his watch. What it told him made him stand and kiss Sarah on her forehead.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said as he pushed his chair beneath the kitchen table. ‘Can’t be late for young Mister Kash, now, can I?’

  THREE

  Kathy Gray counted herself lucky for many things. Her husband of thirty years was one of them. They had enjoyed a long, happy and comfortable marriage. Never rich, they were also never less than comfortable. Together they had done much more than keep the wolf from the door.

  Then there were her children. Four of them, all very different from each other. The eldest – John – was a carpenter, like his father. A strong, moral man with a growing family of his own. Next came Eric, another manual worker. No wife. No children. But happy, and with a thriving business. Katie was third. She had married young and had dedicated herself to her five children. Which left Chris. Last but by no means least: the baby who grew up to be the surgeon. His mother’s pride and joy.

  And of course there was Kathy’s job. Her other life. For almost four decades she had been with the Longman family. She had watched with pride as Phillip Longman soared in his chosen career, basking in his reflected glory whenever his name appeared in the press. He was an important man – a great man – and yet he had always taken the time to make his housekeeper feel needed.

  Kathy had the same affection for the rest of the Longman family. For Phillip’s wife, Carol. A wonderful woman, kind-hearted and generous. She had passed at the age of eighty and yet it still seemed she was taken too soon. And for their children; Matthew, Russell a
nd Peter. All of them had been near grown by the time Kathy’s employment had begun, but each had still shown her enough respect and kindness that she cared for them almost like her own.

  It had been with great sadness that she had watched the three boys drift from their father in the years since their mother’s death. She had sometimes thought to speak to them on the subject. To give them a piece of her mind. It had never happened. No matter how close she felt to them all, Kathy was not family.

  Sadder still had been Longman’s decline over the past five years. Kathy had seen the strength of spirit that had once filled him evaporate as he mourned his late wife. It had been painful to witness yet not once did Kathy think to quit, despite her own advancing years. She had made a commitment to the Longman family that was as solemn to her as the commitment she had made before God on her wedding day. She would see her job to the end.

  Her morning routine had changed little over the years. The house was quieter now, with just its single occupant, but that made little difference. As she had on most days for over three decades, Kathy closed the heavy front door behind her, walked to the kitchen, filled a kettle and placed it on the stove. Phillip’s refusal to upgrade to an electric appliance might be amusing but, deep down, Kathy preferred the old ways too.

  She turned the stove’s gas knob and clicked for a flame.

  Nothing.

  Kathy tried again. And again. Still nothing.

  She reached out to check for the sensation of expelled gas and immediately felt the problem; a current of air rushing past her outstretched hand. Kathy had not noticed it until now. It had been cold outside as she travelled to work, and she was not yet warmed enough to easily feel the chill breeze that had been sweeping past her.

  Kathy turned and followed the stream of cold air back to its source. It brought her to the open pantry door. A door that should have been closed. Feeling her heart beginning to beat a little faster, she looked inside the small room. There was broken glass on the floor, from a small hole in the window. No larger than would be caused by a cricket ball, the hole could easily have been the result of an accident. At least it could have, if the window itself had not been left open.