by Michael Kerr
Ricky nodded.
Billy tucked the gun in his waistband, took his phone out and called Sean.
“What the fuck is goin’ down?” Sean asked. “I heard shots.”
“No sweat,” Billy said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Ricky knew that he could push himself out of the chair and be all over his nephew in a second, before he had chance to reach for the gun, but he didn’t move, just sat there and waited. He had no intention of being in any way responsible for Lorraine being murdered by Billy’s accomplice. At that moment his criminal empire, the money, and the life-style he enjoyed counted for nothing in the dark shadow of his daughter’s plight.
“How do I know that you’ll let Lorraine go?” Ricky said as Billy turned, about to leave.
“She’s family,” Billy said, “And doesn’t seem to take after you or me. I have no reason to harm her. All you should bear in mind is that if you come at me again, then I promise that someone will find her and kill her.”
“Face it, Billy, you’re a nutter. I don’t have to take care of you. Sooner or later the Old Bill will find you and you’ll do life.”
“That’s not your problem. I don’t leave trace, and I’ve never met the people I rob and kill.”
“You left blood at one of the scenes, Billy. I’m advised that some old guy punched you in the mouth.”
“They need a match,” Billy said. “And if they don’t have a suspect they’ve got nothing.”
“Whatever. Where’s my daughter?”
“Nearby. The phone I just used belongs to her partner, Stuart. Ten minutes after I leave here she’ll give you a bell and you can go and pick her up. Open the gates for me.”
Ricky said nothing. Just watched as his homicidal nephew turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Maybe it was in the genes, because they were both of a kind.
“Drive back to your car,” Billy said to Sean after dumping the ziplock bag and the money on the rear seat of the Insignia and climbing in the front.
“Did you whack them?” Sean asked. “I heard two shots.”
“Not my uncle. Just the dummy that worked for him.”
“Now what?” Sean said as he drove through the gates that had opened as he approached them.
“We let my cousin go and then head back home.”
“Do I get to keep the Insignia, Billy?”
Billy shrugged. “Why not. You can change the plates with your junker and torch it.”
Sean parked at the entrance to the field, and Billy walked over to the Honda, opened the boot and told Lorraine to get out. He could see that she had been crying, and was actually a little sorry that he had used her to get what he wanted from her father. But it was Ricky Lister that had started this, and like they say, all’s fair in love and war.
“You’re safe,” he said, wiping Stuart’s phone with serviettes he’d picked up at the Mac’s they’d stopped at earlier, to then hold it out for her to take as Sean swapped plates and then flooded the old Honda with petrol from a rusty can. “Just wait until we drive off, and then phone your dad to come and get you. Tell him to head for where the car will be burning. It’ll lead him to you. You’re not too far from his house. And Lorraine, don’t involve the police, or I guarantee that your boyfriend will end up dead. This never happened.”
Sean lit a cigarette and waited for Billy to give him the nod before flicking it into the Honda through the open rear door and running back to where Billy and Lorraine stood next to the Insignia.
The loud whoosh of the initial blast was followed by a blinding orange flare that lit up the night. A pillar of black smoke produced by the combustion rose unseen into the darkness.
“Let’s go,” Billy said to Sean, and they climbed into the Insignia and Sean drove off at high speed.
Lorraine ran out onto the road in the flickering glow of the conflagration. She half expected the car to blow up and didn’t want to risk being near enough to be hit by flying pieces of glass or red hot shards of metal.
Almost fifty yards from the burning wreck, she stopped and phoned her father.
“Is that you, honey?” Ricky said.
“Yes, Dad.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Come and get me. I’m near a burning car. Billy said you’d be able to see it from the house.”
“Keep well away from the fire. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Ricky picked up his car keys, ran out of the front door and climbed into his Merc. Gunning the engine, he used a remote to open the gates, and reached and went through them before they were fully open, ripping off the far side wing mirror in his haste.
Relief surged through him as the lone figure of his daughter appeared in the blaze of his headlights. He braked hard and stopped on the other side of the country lane, to almost leap out of the car in his haste to embrace her.
“I’m okay, Dad, honest,” Lorraine said as he hugged her. “I just tried to phone Stuart, but there’s no reply.” She began to cry. “Billy hit him very hard. He could have killed him.”
Ricky took his own mobile from his pocket and made a call. Phoned a man by the name of Marlon and gave him details and asked him to go to his daughter’s address in Guildford to check on the condition of the man that he would find there, and that if he was okay, let him know that Lorraine was fine, and that what had happened should not be reported to the police.
Marlon White was a professional hitman. He had been in the Paras, in the 1st Battalion–Special Forces Support, and was basically a highly-skilled and efficient killing machine. Now forty-one, he had the build and an aura of stony menace that Daniel Craig projected in his role as Bond, although Marlon was taller than Craig, and was no actor. Back on Civvie Street, he had chosen to pursue a career that was illegal and very rewarding. He was freelance, but had been given his first four contracts by Ricky Lister, and was therefore always happy to do a job for him, if he was in the UK and available. His kind of work was quite exclusive, due to his not being an employee of the gangsters that he had built up a trusted and reliable affinity with. He had never failed to carry out a contract, and hopefully never would. His background, commitment and professionalism separated him from other paid killers, whom he considered, in the main, to be little more than hoodlums with a proclivity for violence.
Leaving his flat in Hornsey, Marlon drove his pearl-grey BMW out to the address at Guildford, where he found a young man conscious but dazed, suffering from head wounds.
“Are you okay?” Marlon said to Stuart as he helped him to his feet and guided him to a chair.
“No. Who are you?” Stuart muttered, drawing away from him.
“A friend, so relax, you’re safe. Mr. Lister sent me to check on you. Lorraine is with him, and she’s fine.”
“I need to phone the police,” Stuart said before jerking forward and throwing up on the carpet.
Marlon stepped to the side quickly to avoid being splashed by the vomit, and then went into the kitchen, to return with a wad of kitchen towel and a glass of water. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said as Stuart wiped his mouth and drank some of the water. “I’m going to take you to see a doctor I know and have you checked out, and then I’ll drive you over to Mr. Lister’s house. We need to treat what happened as a private matter. I’m going to make sure that the man that did this is suitably chastised for the fear and pain he has caused Lorraine and you. Understand?”
Stuart nodded and immediately wished that he hadn’t as the movement made him feel sick again.
Aiden Abbott had been one of eight GPs at a large practise in Walworth, but was struck off by the GMC in oh-seven for repeated substantiated sexual assaults on female patients. He now practised illegally, and was known to many factions of the underworld as a competent doctor who, for the right payment in cash, would clandestinely treat gunshot, knife and any other injuries that were within his capabilities. Abortions were also a good little earner for Aiden, who was still called Doc by everyone that knew him.
“Park on the hard standing at the rear of the house,” Aiden said and rang off.
Stuart had no choice but to go along with what the friend of Lorraine’s dad said. He would much rather have reported what had happened to the police and attended a hospital to have the wounds to his head treated, but felt under pressure to do what he was told.
“A reliable friend of mine is on his way to your house,” Ricky said to Lorraine. “He’ll give me a call as soon as he gets there and let me know what condition Stuart is in. If he’s okay, he’ll be bringing him here.”
“What are you going to do about Billy?” Lorraine said.
“What do you want me to do about him?” Ricky said as he drove through the gates to the house and thumbed the remote to close them, to soon after park at the bottom of the steps that led up to the front door.
Lorraine felt no blood ties to her cousin. He had invaded her life with violence, to hurt and terrify her and Stuart. A side of her nature wanted him to suffer for what he had done. She had never thought of herself as being a sadistic person, but now wanted some measure of revenge. “I don’t know,” she said. “He said that if I contacted the police, someone would kill me, and Stuart.”
“Just put him out of your mind. I’ll deal with it.”
“You mean you’ll kill him?”
“He’s out of control,” Ricky said as they entered the house and he led Lorraine by the hand through to the kitchen. “That’s what he did to Henry, who was my driver. He was unarmed, but Billy just shot him dead. He has also murdered two of my other employees.”
Lorraine turned away from the scene of the dead man lying on the floor, but the half second glimpse was burned into her mind. She would never forget the wide, sightless eyes, the hole in the forehead, the globs of glistening matter on the tiles, and the pool of poppy-red blood that had spread out around the corpse’s head like a Rorschach blot that she would have – if asked to – said reminded her of a starfish with many arms stretching out from the centre.
“Why would he be doing all these terrible things?” Lorraine said, backing out of the kitchen and then walking along the hall to the lounge on trembling legs.
“He’s a serial killer, honey. He―”
“He had the phone on speaker, Dad. I heard everything. He said that he’d got his money back, but that he wanted the gun and silencer. Tell me what it’s all about.”
“No, honey. You know the world that I live in, but I don’t want you to be a part of it.”
“Whatever you’ve done has made Stuart and me a fucking part of it,” Lorraine said through tears of pent-up emotion.
“Sit down and I’ll get you a drink and tell you what I can,” Ricky said, and went over to the corner bar, to go behind it and press first one and then a second crystal tumbler up to an optic that held a bottle of malt whisky.
“Billy was always a strange kid,” Ricky said after sitting down in an easy chair facing Lorraine and waiting for her to take a sip of the scotch before continuing. “His dad was an abusive alcoholic. He treated my sister and Billy badly. Whether he knows it or not, Billy has lost the ability to be concerned about anyone but himself. He’s consumed by hate, and doesn’t seem to care where he directs it.”
“You said that he was a serial killer,” Lorraine said.
“He is. Your Auntie Gwen was a housekeeper. Billy’s victims of choice appear to be housekeepers and their employers. And don’t ask me why because I don’t know. He stole a gun from me a long time ago, and has been using it to shoot people. I had one of my men get the weapon back from him, but as you found out first-hand, he wasn’t prepared to accept that.”
“So call the police, Dad. Tell them―”
“I don’t work like that, honey. The police could link the gun to me. I need to know for absolute certain that he won’t ever harm you or Stuart again.”
Lorraine took another much bigger sip of the malt. She could not condone what her father intended to have done, but accepted that Billy was a killer, and that he had proven that even family members were not safe from him. This was part of a world that she did not want to have any knowledge of or anything to do with, and so she said no more: her silence being enough for Ricky to feel free to deal with the situation in his own way.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Matt phoned Tom. Told him his approximate location and that John Gibson was now in custody.
“That’s good to hear,” Tom said. “Did he see the light and give up without a fight?”
“No, he attempted to kill Pete. I had to shoot him, but I think he’ll live.”
“Okay, Matt. Stay where you are. The cavalry will be with you soon.”
Matt ended the call and then phoned Marci to let her and Tam know what had happened, and that it was over, before pocketing his phone and holstering his gun. He was suddenly very tired. He wanted to be with Beth, have a couple of large scotches and hit the sack for a few hours. The rush that he’d felt had suddenly deserted him. Pete had been a split second from being killed, but was fine. It was over.
John watched through eyes closed to slits as the cop standing in front of him opened his windbreaker and drew a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on his belt. He couldn’t let it end like this. He was flooded with the realisation that there could be no ambiguity with regard to all that he had done. The extreme pain of his wounds brought a clarity that had been dulled for a lengthy period. He had somehow become a depraved rapist and murderer, feeding a lust that was at first born of selfish need, and then blossomed into something evil and unforgivable. He knew that his wife, parents, other family members, friends and work colleagues would all abhor and distance themselves from him. He was beyond any salvation in this life, and doubtless would be in any hereafter that he hoped did not exist. Most heartbreaking of all was the knowledge that he would never see his daughter grow up, or have her in his life again.
Consumed with self-loathing and fuelled with desperation charged with adrenaline that quashed the pain of his wounds, John rolled over, back down the incline to the stream, where he could see the sickle lying in two-inch deep water. Retrieving it with his left hand, he turned to face the man that had shot him, carving the air with the blade and waiting, hoping that the impassive-looking cop would draw his gun again and finish him off.
Matt stared in morbid fascination at Gibson. It amazed him how someone with three bullets in him could find the fortitude to still fight against the inevitable. He walked towards his quarry, stopped just out of reach and waited, listening to the high-pitched keening sound that was emitted from the open mouth of what he considered to be no more than a wild, injured, yet still dangerous animal.
John was no longer a person who would be regarded by any average onlooker as being sane. He had reached a point in time that he wanted to be the endgame. The cop did not draw his gun or say anything; just remained standing with his arms hung loosely at his sides, seemingly relaxed, smiling down at him with a certain amount of satisfaction.
It was an insufferable position to be in. But even in such dire circumstances options could be found. Becoming as still as the moss-coated tree stump next to him, John took several deep breaths and then smiled back at Matt as he straightened his uninjured arm out, to turn the sickle on himself and whip the curved blade inwards towards his neck.
Matt rushed forward. He had been unprepared for a suicide attempt. And as Gibson once more drew back the tool that he had already employed as a deadly weapon, Matt lashed out with his foot, to make heavy contact with Gibson’s wrist, causing the sickle to be released and spin sideways, for the blade to slash through slender stems of weeds before coming to a sudden quivering stop as the point sank into the trunk of a tree.
Matt kicked Gibson over onto his stomach. Cuffed his wrists behind his back as tightly as possible and said, “John Gi
bson, I'm arresting you for rape and murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention, when questioned, something which you may later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Gibson was seemingly in too much pain or anguish to reply, or was just ignoring him, but Matt took a measure of what was perverse pleasure in seeing how much physical and mental torment the killer was visibly enduring. That the law afforded scum like Gibson rights was lost on him. He personally believed that people who chose to commit serious crime had no rights, if the evidence against them was failsafe. Most cases were fiascos, in which the outcome relied on a jury: twelve members of the public, fickle and clueless for the most part, being led by silk-tongued and garbed barristers whom he believed were more interested in getting a result than serving justice.
Pete was cold and wet and his throat hurt from the force of the grip that Gibson had applied while attempting to throttle him. But he was okay, and clambered to his feet and watched as Matt disarmed, cuffed and cautioned the serial killer. The drama was over with, and so he turned his attention to the stream, and was relieved to see his handgun resting half submerged on river pebbles that were coated with slimy green algae. Recovering his pistol, Pete shook the water off it and returned it to his shoulder holster.
“You think he’s bleeding out, boss?” Pete said.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Do I look like a doctor?”
Pete grinned. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”
“And you look like a drowned rat,” Matt said, allowing a half smile to fleetingly appear on his face.
Several minutes later, Matt and Pete heard Marci calling their names. Matt shouted, “We’re here,” and by shouting back and forth to each other, Marci and Tam soon arrived at the scene.
“What happened to the WPC?” Matt asked.
“She’s fine, boss,” Marci said. “Gibson made her stop a car, and she dived in the back seat and told the driver to take off. He got a few pellets in his shoulder but wasn’t seriously injured.”
