Faceless

by Martina Cole

  She didn’t feel that she had done a good thing; now in fact she knew she had done a bad thing. Even worse than the first two murders because at least then she’d had the excuse of drugs.

  But tonight would never leave her and she knew it. She would remember everything in vivid detail all her days. She didn’t feel she had righted any wrongs. If anything she felt that all she had done was come down to Patrick Connor’s level.

  She should have let the police take care of him. Why had she been so adamant that she wanted to do it herself ?

  But she knew why: because she couldn’t be sure they would have put him away. He was slippery, always had been, and she knew better than anyone that you could buy justice in this country. She had spoken to enough people while in prison who had done just that.

  But it still didn’t justify what she had done. She didn’t feel that she had avenged Tiffany, she felt that she had used her daughter’s death as an excuse to do something she had wanted to do for years.

  And she had wanted to. Patrick should have been locked up, not her. He had made her into the person she had become. He had fed her heroin until she would do anything for it, even kill by the looks of it.

  She closed her eyes as she saw him again, covered in blood and trying to crawl away from her. If only he hadn’t laughed at her . . . it was his laughing that had sent her over the edge. Because when she had confronted him she wasn’t sure she had the nerve to kill him.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and waited for the police to come and take her away once more. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, but it wasn’t to God she was praying but to her dead daughter. She was apologising for what she had done and for the fact that now she had fulfilled her task she had in effect lost her son and grand-daughter as well.

  Every time she closed her eyes she saw Patrick laughing at her again, with that arrogant way he had, and the anger boiled up inside all over again.

  Her mother had been right all along.

  She really was bad. Inside and out, she was bad.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Alan watched the sun come up from the Portakabin window. He had not slept all night, was far too wired. Sleep could not have claimed him even if he had taken fifty downers. He had drunk a litre of Scotch and that had not made any difference. He wasn’t even drunk.

  Today was the day he had longed for and dreaded in equal measure. But whatever else it brought, it was the end of it all and for that he would be forever thankful.

  He sipped at his coffee and savoured the last of the Scotch. He still needed something to take the sting out of the morning. He glanced at his Rolex and sighed. He had another hour before it all went off.

  His mind wandered to Marie and her predicament. He hoped she would still be a friend after this was all over. But he doubted it. He doubted it very much. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man with a gun and felt fear once more. Mikey would be mad at him for this double-cross, but what choice did he really have? He had to get out of this mess and he was going to get out of it with the least trouble to himself. That was what he had decided and that was what he was going to do.

  His kids needed him and he needed them. Wanted to be around for them, not banged up. When this was all over he was going straight. He was never going to do one thing wrong again in his life, it had brought him nothing but trouble. He was also going to give up on the horses and the dogs. It was his gambling debts, plus the extravagant lifestyle of his ex-wife, that had brought him to this impasse in the first place.

  He had been lonely when Beverley had gone. He would not admit that to anyone else, but he had been so desperately lonely. Missed his girls in the morning jumping all over him. Missed the smell of tea and toast and the girlish banter of his daughters as they got ready for school. Even missed his ex-wife’s inane chatter, though at the time he could have murdered her, especially when he had one of his marathon hangovers. She had always known when he had been at it with another woman and her eyes would betray her hurt. Why had he done it? What had been so wrong with his life really?

  They’d had the big house, the nice cars, and his and hers Rolexes. All the things that people like them aspired to. Yet it was then that the rot set in.

  With money in your pocket other women were willing to climb into your lap without a second’s thought. A nice meal, a few quid, and Bob was your proverbial uncle. You had some sort getting her tits out without an argument about the kids or wanting to know who you were with or what you were doing. It was mindless sex, something that was no longer possible at home once you had a houseful of children.

  But the closeness was not there, the lying together afterwards and talking about mutual acquaintances or family. That was gone, to be replaced by chatter about fuck all because you didn’t actually have anything in common. Not really. It was just a bartering system. The girl had to have a reasonable boatrace and big tits, and you had to have the means to give them a night out up West and cab fare home.

  What was it his old dad used to say? Fair exchange is no robbery. That was it, but Alan never got a fair exchange. Most of the women he wouldn’t want to see in daylight, and he certainly wouldn’t want to be seen with them unless he was drunk, drugged or both.

  He had seen one girl three times. She had seemed OK at the time, nice little bird with a baby. She had been a laugh, a crack. Nothing serious until she had turned up on his doorstep one morning and caused the Third World War and now here he was, a grown man, pretending he liked his divorced status and hated his ex-wife. A man who was lusting after a convicted killer and just about to tuck up one of the most dangerous villains in the South East, who was incidentally also lusting after the same convicted killer. Except he was trumping her and by the look on her face she was enjoying it immensely.

  Alan Jarvis had certainly come up in the world, no doubt about that. All he needed now was to fall out with fucking Saddam Hussein and he could get to keep the fucking match ball. He glanced at his watch again. The minutes were ticking by so slowly he feared he might have a heart attack with the strain.

  The phone rang and he grabbed it with a mixture of relief and trepidation.

  ‘Hello? Is that you, Alan?’

  It was an Irishman called Tommy the Pig, on account of the fact he was a pig farmer in Devon. It was a few seconds before Alan placed him because he was so nervous.

  ‘All right, Tommy. What can I do you for?’

  He was trying to act as normal as possible.

  ‘I have some scrap coming in the end of next month. From Yugoslavia. A good few quid for the man who can get rid of it.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A lot, Alan. It’s tanks.’

  He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘No, thanks, Tommy. I am out of that business from today.’

  He replaced the receiver gently and felt an urge to cry. How had all this happened to him? Where was that young man who’d been going to set the world on fire?

  You got the life you deserved. How many times had his father said that to him? And why had the old fucker always been right?

  He drank the last of his coffee and continued his vigil at the window. His life was going to change drastically after today. He only hoped it was all worth it. He saw that the men outside were getting impatient and hoped it all went off without too much hassle.

  But the way things were going for him lately, that was too much to hope for.

  The knock she had been expecting finally came on Marie’s bedroom door at six o’clock in the morning. She was ready for it; she was up, dressed and ready to go. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

  ‘Phone for you, Marie.’

  She stared at Amanda for long seconds before forcing a smile.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Amanda smiled, her eyes still full of sleep.

  ‘Some woman. She didn’t give her name.’

  Marie didn’t answer her, just walked down to the hallway and picked up the communal phone.
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  It was Maisie.

  ‘How are you, Marie?’

  ‘OK.’ She was so aware of Amanda hovering in the background her words sounded stilted and false even to herself.

  ‘Has this line got a hook on it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Amanda was miming drinking a cup of tea and Marie was nodding now furiously, indicating that she was dying for one.

  ‘Well, I’m ringing about last night. You know, when we went to the Bluehouse Club together? You had a disagreement with Candice, the little black girl from behind the bar? Well, her sister is here and said to tell you Candice was sorry, she was out of order. Are you OK about that? Only Lizzy Waite who owns the club was upset about it. The last thing she needs is the bar staff giving the customers grief, ain’t it?’

  Marie nodded, forgetting that Maisie couldn’t see her. But she was so nervous she would be hard pushed to write her own name.

  ‘OK, Marie?’ Maisie’s voice was more insistent now.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. Tell her to forget about it and lay off the vodka.’

  Maisie laughed, as she knew she was required to if there was a hook on the phone.

  ‘Did you charge the mobile like I showed you?’

  ‘Yes, ’course I did.’

  ‘Good. Well, turn the bloody thing back on! I’ll ring you later then. ’Bye.’

  The phone went dead and Marie had to hold on to the grubby wall to keep herself upright. Amanda called her into the rec room for her tea and she walked as normally as she could get to it. But it felt like she was walking underwater. The lying and scheming had already started, but how could she hope to get away with what she had done?

  And, more to the point, why was Maisie doing this for her?

  She sipped the tea gratefully, its hot sweetness reviving her flagging spirits. An old con she was once locked up with used to do the tea round for the other prisoners. She had been a gofer, which in prison terms meant ‘go for this’ or ‘go for that’, but she had loved it. Said it gave her something to do with her days. ‘The cup that cheers’ she had called it. She had died in her cell one night and the whole prison seemed to go into mourning for a nice old lady who had once made a terrible mistake. Was that how people would think of Marie one day?

  ‘She sounded OK.’

  Marie smiled. She wasn’t going to tell Amanda anything. She was a lovely woman but she was also part of the prison service, even if she didn’t see herself in quite that light. At the moment she was the enemy.

  Marie was amazed at how quickly her prison ways had come back to her. A natural distrust of anyone was a must in that environment, especially anyone in the pay of the Home Office. She sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure she could live like that again for years on end. At least before she’d had the knowledge that whatever she had done it was while under the influence of drugs, so even though that didn’t make it right, at least it wasn’t premeditated. Now it was a different kettle of fish altogether. Though thanks to Maisie she had an alibi at least.

  So she was going to try and walk away from this; she had made that decision, or she wouldn’t be thinking like she was. She wondered how the alibi had been concocted and whether the women referred to would be willing to commit perjury when the time came. Because that time would come, she was sure of it. Once Patrick’s body was found the police would come knocking on her door.

  As Amanda chattered on Marie was still contemplating her own predicament, and wondering if it all came on top how she would cope with life inside once more. As a three-times killer she could not expect to get out for a very long time. And rightly so.

  As her mind raced from one thought to the next Amanda stared at her curiously. There was something going on here, she knew that much. All her years in this place had given her a shit detector and it was working overtime at the moment. She hoped there wasn’t going to be any more trouble for Marie; the poor woman had had quite enough to contend with in life already.

  Mikey and his cronies pulled into the scrapyard at twenty-past seven. They were late and they were all quiet. Last night’s events had subdued them all. As Mikey listened to the morning news they all made a point of looking out of the car windows as if they found the scenery fascinating.

  Suddenly he spoke.

  ‘He was a cunt and cunts need to be sorted out. Trying to fucking lie to me! To me of all fucking people!’

  Old Billy nodded his head in agreement.

  But he didn’t speak. He was still seeing that bloodied body as it jerked into the air from the cattle prod. Could still hear the screams of the man as his eyes popped out of their rightful place in his skull. He closed his eyes to assuage the sickness rising up inside him. Mikey had gone over the top, there was no doubt about it. Even the hardened criminals who worked for him had been disgusted and frightened by the ferocity of the attack. Considering the man had been half dead already from the beating he had been given it had seemed unnecessarily cruel to make him suffer as long as he had.

  And all that blood . . . It had taken place in one of their garages. They would have to go there often and the blood stains would be a permanent reminder of what had occurred. They would also be evidence if the filth ever poked their noses in.

  Billy understood Mikey and the way his mind worked. His anger had had to be unleashed at some point, and better it was unleashed on a piece of shit than on someone far less deserving. But they were supposed to be the new breed of criminal who used the minimum of violence, and then only in a work-related capacity. It was one thing killing a man because he had crossed the line inside your manor; quite another killing someone painfully and with relish over something that in fact had no direct connection to you, no matter how sickened it might make you feel.

  What Mikey had done last night would result in a capture, Old Billy was convinced. The victim should by rights have been taken well away from the smoke and disposed of quietly and with the minimum of fuss. Perhaps he was getting too old for all this. That thought had occurred to him more than once of late.

  As they all got out of the car they saw Alan watching them from the window. Mikey was still covered in blood and gore and looked eerie in the bright morning light. His men could not understand why he had not showered and changed. He was fucking crazy to drive about looking like he did. It was as if he had gone mad or something.

  But then, he had sniffed a huge amount of coke the night before. They wondered if he had needed it to make him do what he felt needed to be done. But it was still fucking mad. Like a nightmare.

  One of the younger men had thrown up and that had made Mikey laugh even more, though how anyone could have laughed at what was going on was beyond any of the rest of them.

  It seemed that Mikey’s good boy mode was a thing of the past and he was back to being the violent psycho that had made him the rich man he was. If that murderer bird had done anything, she had at least calmed him down. Without her around it seemed he’d reverted back to his old self. But who in their right mind would go to pick up three million pounds’ worth of cocaine with the blood of their latest murder victim still on their hands?

  Old Billy shook his head sadly as he contemplated what the upshot of all this was going to be.

  ‘All right, Billy?’

  ‘’Course I am, Mikey. Are you?’

  He laughed good-naturedly.

  ‘Better than I’ve ever been.’

  As he said the words the whole place seemed to go mad. There were men coming out of every nook and cranny and they were armed and they were also Lily Law. As they all reached for their weapons Mikey’s men knew they were already defeated. Two police cars and a meat wagon now blocked the only exit and trained marksmen covered their every move.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Old Billy’s voice was annoyed, but he dropped his weapon and put his hands behind his head. The younger men followed suit. It was a capture and a half and they all knew that Alan had been behind it. As they were bundled towards a meat wagon Mikey looked at his men and
said calmly, ‘It’s a fair cop, guv’nor.’ And started to laugh like a drain.

  No one answered him; there really was nothing to say.

  Then Mikey pulled a small gun from the waistband of his trousers and spun quickly round to shoot at the first person he could get his sights on.

  He was shot down in a second. A high-velocity rifle bullet hit him square in the chest. And as the birds sang and the flies buzzed around he lay on the dirty ground and felt his life’s blood drain from his body.

  He was smiling still.

  Old Billy knelt beside him and took his hand. Whatever he was, he had always looked out for his old mate and Billy had been grateful for that over the years. He had tears in his eyes as he saw his friend die.

  Then there was pandemonium once more. They were all rounded up and searched properly, roughly treated by the masked men. All the time Old Billy gave out to them, his voice getting on everyone’s nerves as he insinuated that none of them had any fathers and that their mothers were women of dubious sexual character.

  Finally they were herded once more towards the meat wagon. This time they were all subdued. Inside it was sweltering hot from being parked in the sun so long. As they stepped inside they knew they were all going away for long sentences, at least twenty years apiece.

  They were gutted.

  That a capture was always on the cards they were constantly aware of on some level. When it did finally happen it was still a big shock, though. Even living with the possibility every day of their lives they still didn’t quite believe it would happen to them. It was like car crashes and your house burning down - it happened to other people, not you.

  But it had to happen to someone and they realised it was their turn as they were cuffed and read their rights.

  One of the younger men, Willie Forrester, had just got married and his wife was pregnant with their first child. He was only two years out after completing an eight-year sentence for armed robbery. Even in their own misery they all felt sorry for him. His new wife was a foxy piece and had a wandering eye as well. His marriage would be over by Christmas and he would have to face the next ten years on his tod.