The Minders

by John Marrs

  Charlie peered over the edge. From fifty-two storeys high, Manchester’s streets resembled a child’s play mat, painted in bright colours and littered with toy cars. Just below him, a window-cleaning gantry caught his attention. He carefully climbed inside as its metal frame swayed and clanked against the side of the building with each new gust of wind. Then he lifted himself up until he was standing on its narrow edge, one hand holding the chains that precariously moved the contraption up and down, his toes curled around the metal rim. All that separated Charlie from death was one violent blast. He closed his eyes and imagined himself falling, then taking off into the night sky and being carried away to the horizon.

  Charlie had retained his room at the La Maison du Court despite moving into a flat-share; it did no harm to retain his bolthole should the need arise for somewhere to escape to. It was all the more important now that someone had killed a Minder. In the office toilets that afternoon, he had opened the message sent to his phone and watched as Sinéad was butchered. However, it didn’t prompt him to question his own safety. Instead, as he replayed the footage, he became fixated by Sinéad’s stoic expression. How might he feel in the moment he knew he was going to die?

  Her murder was the reason Charlie had found himself hovering outside the service lift of the hotel, waiting for a member of staff to enter before he followed them inside. Once they departed at their floor, Charlie continued until he reached the roof, tiptoeing past masts and aerial towers until he reached the edge. Alongside driverless cars, death, and loneliness, heights had been the phobia that scared the old Charlie the most. Standing on a rooftop’s ledge would be the biggest test of how much of his former self remained.

  He waited patiently for a shot of adrenaline to course through his veins or for panic to rise from the pit of his stomach. But neither developed. And not even the wind’s icy tendrils could penetrate him. Charlie would have to accept that this was how it was going to be from here on in—he was a man who feared nothing because he felt nothing.

  “Mate, what are you doing?” A voice came from behind, carried by the breeze. Charlie turned his head as a figure approached.

  “Milo?”

  “Whatever it is that’s troubling you, there must be a better way to deal with it than this.” He was wheezing.

  “Why are you breathless?”

  “I just walked up fifty-two flights of stairs. You know my issues with lifts.”

  “What are you doing up here?”

  Milo held up his hand; there was something between his fingers. “You left a hotel-room swipe card at my house yesterday. I swung by to drop it off at the reception desk when I saw you take the staff elevator to the roof.”

  “I work part-time here,” said Charlie calmly.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I went into your room before I came up here. Your stuff is in there. I recognised your trainers. How can you afford to stay in a place like this?”

  “I’m standing naked on a hotel roof and that’s the question you ask?”

  “Because I don’t know what else to do.” He shrugged. “I’d like to be your friend but you keep us all at arm’s length.”

  “Us? Who else knows about the room? Who’ve you told?”

  “Nobody, honestly, you can check my phone if you don’t believe me. So, what’s going on? Why are you up here?”

  Charlie cocked his head. Milo was somebody he could talk to. He was kind, giving, thoughtful, and nonjudgemental. Perhaps he might help, even if he couldn’t know the complete story. “Have you ever just stopped . . . feeling?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has your head ever become so overloaded with details, with experiences, with bad shit, that it just won’t take any more, so it just kind of . . . shuts down?”

  “I guess we all have bad days.”

  “I’m not talking a bad day, a bad week, or even a bad month. I’m talking about a bad all-the-time and the only way you survive is to close yourself off.”

  “I guess that’s part of life, isn’t it? You just find a way to get on with it.”

  Charlie let out a laugh with no humour attached. “With respect, you have no idea what life is about, Milo. And you have no idea of what it’s like to be one of the only people who does.”

  “Why don’t you put your clothes on and we can go downstairs and talk about it?”

  “If I did talk about it, I’d probably have to kill you afterwards.”

  “Okay.” Milo smiled. “I’ll take that risk. Let’s start by stepping back onto the roof.”

  “Why, do you think I’m going to throw myself off it?”

  “Honestly? Yes. Why else would you be up here?”

  “To remind myself who I was before I gave it all away.”

  “Who you were? Who took it away from you?”

  “I was a sad, miserable man, Milo, living a lonely existence, unloved, unlovable, a nobody. But despite all those flaws, at least I wasn’t dead inside. At least I felt something. Now, I feel no more emotion than the artificial intelligence that’s going to take our jobs.”

  “Why would you want to go back to being miserable?”

  “Because at least I knew who I was then. Now I have no idea. And the worst thing is that I can’t muster up the enthusiasm to even care.”

  A sudden gust of wind shook the gantry; Charlie held on with both hands. But as he approached the gap between gantry and roof, he came close to losing his footing. Milo hurried towards him, reached for the chain, and pulled it, steadying the rocking device. It allowed Charlie to step back safely onto the roof.

  “Thank you,” he said. And without forethought, Charlie moved his face towards Milo’s, tilting his head until his lips touched those of his friend’s. Their complete attention was locked onto one another as Charlie kissed him. It was Charlie’s first same-sex kiss: born not from desire but from desperation to spark something inside him by trying anything new. Milo didn’t protest or withdraw, but he didn’t participate either. Charlie was the first to disengage.

  “Look, mate, I’m not denying there’s . . . something . . . between us,” said Milo. “But all I want to be is your friend today. Is that all right?”

  Charlie nodded. “Understood. Can I have my room key, please?”

  Milo removed it from his pocket and passed it to him. With one hand, Charlie took it and, for a second, hesitated, as if weighing up the pros and cons of what was to come next. Then with the other hand, he used all his strength to shove his unsuspecting friend as hard as he could, and watched him fall over the edge, fifty-two storeys down to the road below.

  CHAPTER 56

  BRUNO, OUNDLE, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

  Bruno paused to turn his head when he reached the porch.

  The Echoes were trailing him from his house to Watson’s but were far from subtle in their endeavours; he’d heard whispers and faint footsteps the entire journey. He could just about make out a gathering in a neighbouring garden. And he chuckled at the absurdity of being stalked by his own imagination.

  He clutched a bottle of Italian white wine he’d purchased at an off-licence, pressed the doorbell, and heard it chime from inside. He recalled the moment days earlier when he’d lost all control and, armed with a hammer, intended to attack Karen Watson in her car. She was two metres away from death when he overheard mother and daughter singing along to show tunes on the stereo. What he would have given for that to have been him with Louie.

  He took a figurative and literal step back as his rational side took control. Killing Watson would only offer him temporary satisfaction. And even his ever-diminishing sense of decency drew the line at murdering a parent in front of her child. Bruno was going to return to Plan B, and tonight he would take everything away from Watson that she had stolen from him.

  A camera whirred as it changed p
osition and pointed towards him. “Hold on,” she said via the intercom.

  Through the frosted panes of glass, her shadow grew before the door opened. “Hello,” she said, flustered. She wore no makeup, her hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail, and her clothes were crumpled. Her naturalness gave him butterflies.

  “Is everything all right?” Bruno asked. “Dinner is tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but not for another couple of hours.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry. When Nora said come for five o’clock, I thought it was a bit early. I must have misheard.”

  “Yes, it was seven,” Watson said apologetically, even though it hadn’t been her mistake. “Nora is still at Saturday school; I’m picking her up in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, look, no worries, I’ll just walk home and come back later.”

  “Didn’t you drive?”

  “No, it’s such a beautiful afternoon that I thought I’d come on foot. It only took half an hour. I’ll go and have a pint at the Ship and come back for seven.”

  “No, no, I can’t let you do that. Besides, your wine will get warm.” Watson stood to one side and beckoned him in. Closing the door behind him, he followed her into a large open-plan kitchen. Bifold doors stretched the length of a flat, landscaped garden. It was every bit as beautiful inside as it was from the outside.

  “I’ll have to leave you on your own while I get Nora, though.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help out with dinner?”

  “No, it’s all prepared. The lounge is to the right; make yourself at home or help yourself to a drink from the fridge.”

  Bruno watched Watson hang her apron on the wall. “Once I steal everything, I’ll be gone by the time you return.”

  “Okay, well, I keep the gold bullion in the cellar and the diamonds are in the safe behind the Picasso. I’ll be back in about half an hour.”

  Bruno made his way into the lounge as the front door closed, and he absorbed his surroundings. Despite its size, the room’s decoration was warm and cosy and reminded him of his former family home: the home he had been forced to leave because of people like Watson. Shelves creaked under the weight of her books, two large plump sofas surrounded an open fire, and a huge television screen was attached to the wall. It wasn’t hard to imagine Louie and him living happily there.

  He peered from behind the window shutters, waiting until Watson’s car reversed off the driveway. He’d deliberately arrived early, knowing Nora was schooled on Saturday afternoons, and counted on Watson’s inherent trust to leave him alone there. She saw the good in people, but she had misread him.

  Bruno moved swiftly from room to room, searching for a tablet or computer. Eventually he found a tablet, a paper-thin device stuck to the fridge. Then, using techniques and hacks he had learned from his implanted data, he bypassed Watson’s iris and biometric scans to access the gadget and its apps. First he located her online banking accounts, as easy to break into as the device. There were three in her name: one for savings, one for bills, and one also in her daughter’s name. He totted up the funds at her disposal—there was close to £2 million.

  This was his money that she had stolen.

  It was Watson and lawyers including O’Sullivan and Graph—Bruno’s first two victims—who ensured he would not receive a payout following Zoe’s death. Zoe’s employer had, however, paid large sums in compensation to the two men who had accused her of sexual harassment after her death to keep it from being made public. As one of the top five firms in the country for its commitment to staff welfare, it was desperate to protect its reputation.

  His breaking the morality code by having an affair with Zoe meant that Watson’s husband’s dependents wouldn’t receive a payout either. She had jumped on the bandwagon of Zoe’s other two accusers and claimed Mark had also been coerced into having sexual relations with Zoe, that he had told her on several occasions he feared for his job if he didn’t give her something. Bruno didn’t understand why the company had not refuted this. They had all witnessed the footage of the two having sex and it was obvious that he was a more-than-willing partner. Yet they still readily accepted Watson’s word that it was harassment and paid her to keep quiet too.

  To recoup their losses, they’d sued Zoe’s estate and won, picking at what remained of Bruno’s life like a wake of vultures stripping a carcass bare. He was plunged into bankruptcy.

  Today, Watson was clueless that the man she had left inside her house was about to strip her of her ill-gotten gains and transfer her savings into one of his old accounts. Later that evening, the money would be buried in new foreign accounts scattered around the globe that Watson was unlikely to ever find. Soon she would learn how it felt to be broke and helpless.

  CHAPTER 57

  FLICK, ALDEBURGH, SUFFOLK

  Flick sat bolt upright in bed, the room spinning like a disorientating fairground ride. She gripped the bunched-up bedsheets, waiting for the image of a bloody Sinéad to pass.

  A sudden feeling of nausea meant she had taken to Elijah’s bed late that afternoon. She had slept for an hour or so before the dreams began in earnest and she woke herself up in a panic. She pressed the back of her head against the headboard until the bedroom came to a standstill.

  There were still so many questions hanging in midair following Sinéad’s murder. Who had killed her? Why did the killer want the remaining Minders to know he’d located one of them? Had he hoped her death might panic them into making mistakes? Had Sinéad made errors that Flick could learn from? And why had Karczewski’s death been removed from online news sites?

  Taking her phone from under the pillow, Flick was unsteady on her feet as she made her way to the bathroom. She closed the door softly so that Elijah couldn’t hear her from his studio, and sank to the floor to vomit as quietly as she could. She dabbed a damp flannel against her burning forehead, but when it failed to cool her down, she stripped off her T-shirt and knickers and sat in the shower under a jet of lukewarm water.

  The days and nights after Sinéad’s death were spent trying to continue as if everything was perfectly normal in Flick’s abnormal world. If she wasn’t spending time with Grace or working behind the bar at the pub, then she was at Elijah’s house. Her daily runs and unaccompanied time watching the sunrise from the beach were a thing of the past. Her new routine might have been keeping her captive but it was also keeping her safe.

  Turning off the shower, Flick patted herself dry with a towel and made her way downstairs into the kitchen, grabbing a cranberry juice from the fridge.

  While the dizziness had dulled, the nausea remained, and soon she was rushing to the kitchen sink to be sick again. She rinsed her mouth with water when an awareness hit her with the force of a lightning bolt.

  “Oh, no,” she gasped. “Oh Christ, no.”

  CHAPTER 58

  BRUNO, OUNDLE, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

  Bruno estimated he had approximately twenty minutes left until Karen Watson returned home. But as he was about to press the transfer button that would drain her of her finances, a photo-album icon on her home screen labelled Family caught his attention. Curious, he skimmed through its contents. Amongst the photographs was a video clip of a very young Nora in her first motorised wheelchair. Her body had been more flexible back then and she giggled as she spun in circles. He could hear out-of-shot warnings coming from her parents, advising her to be careful.

  Another clip was more recent and featured Watson guiding her daughter around their new home, explaining the extensive renovation work being carried out to ensure it was wheelchair friendly. A camera lingered on Watson for a moment. She was clearly emotional as she regarded Nora and their dog, Luna, exploring the garden together. Bruno recognised pride when he saw it. He too would take time out of his day to watch his son doing nothing in particular. It made him miss Louie with an intensity that for a moment threatened to swallow him.
>
  A photograph of Watson’s husband caught him unawares. Bruno purposely avoided images of the man Zoe had slept and died with; he’d only seen overhead video footage of the two having sex. Mark was not as Bruno had imagined—not a devilishly handsome Mr. Darcy type, swooping in and sweeping unhappily married women off their feet. Instead, he was quite short in stature, of average looks, and with a slight stomach paunch.

  “You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” The ensemble of Echoes had made their way from Watson’s neighbour’s garden into her kitchen. A young man stepped forward, dressed in a blue Royal Navy uniform. Both sleeves and a trouser leg were scorched by fire and the skin on his arms was either blackened or burned raw. “There’s no shame in admitting this feels wrong.”

  Bruno shook his head, but he was conflicted. “If I don’t do it, then what’s been the purpose of all of this?”

  “Have the people you killed brought you any closer to getting your wife or son back?”

  “No.”

  “The satisfaction you found from their murders—how long did it last?”

  “Not long.”

  “What will you achieve by taking away everything Watson and Nora have?”

  “I’ll get justice for Louie.”

  “Destroying this family won’t give you that. Two people made a very stupid mistake, and you, Louie, Watson, and Nora have all been made to pay the price. Zoe hurt you in ways she could never have anticipated. But what you’re doing is purposeful. You need to let go of that life and build a new one.”

  “How, when I can’t have the two people I want to do it with me?”

  He returned to the home screen and scanned other folders, opening one titled Legal. It contained Watson’s historic correspondence with her lawyers. Their team of private investigators had discovered emails and text conversations between Zoe and Mark, messages that Bruno had never seen.