by Michael Kerr
“First floor, second on the left,” Sidney Marks said as he scratched at one of the purple blemishes, causing it to suppurate and leak a brownish trickle of pus, which dribbled down into a bushy white eyebrow.
“Thanks,” Marlon said, turning on his heel and walking back to the stairs.
Sean was ready to leave. He had a large holdall over his left shoulder and was carrying his cue case in his right hand.
As Marlon reached the door, it opened. He drew his silenced Browning Hi-Power and pointed it at the young man that appeared in front of him.
Sean pissed himself. Felt the warmth spread as he dropped his cue case and just stood in place, unable to move a muscle.
“Back up and sit down on the bed,” Marlon said, reaching behind him with his left hand to close the door.
Sean felt as though he was wearing heavy old-fashioned diving boots made of leather and with brass toecaps. He found it almost impossible to lift his feet to comply.
“You’re shit-scared, son, and with good reason to be,” Marlon said. “Just try to relax and do what you’re told. It’s Billy that I’m interested in.”
As if through treacle, Sean made it to the bed and sat down. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun that was pointed at him. He knew that he was going to die, but couldn’t fathom how he had been identified and found so quickly.
“Where is he, now?” Marlon said.
“I dropped him off at home last night,” Sean said. “I reckon he’ll still be there.”
“Describe the layout of the house to me.”
Sean did.
“Who is he close to, apart from you?”
“Just his bird, Suzy.”
“Full name and address.”
“Suzy Beale. She lives in a council flat with her mother. It’s on Duke Street, but I don’t know the number.”
“I’ll find it. Did Billy pay you to be a fucking idiot and help him abduct Mr. Lister’s daughter?”
Sean nodded. “Some of the money is in my holdall.”
“Take it out and put it on the bed. Slowly.”
Sean wanted to live. He was not going to just sit there and be shot. He shucked the strap off his shoulder, unzipped the bag and reached in, under a rolled-up pair of jeans and some shirts, socks and underwear, to grasp hold of the large envelope that he had put the money in. He withdrew it slowly, tipped some of the banknotes out onto the bedspread and, knowing that for a fraction of a second the gunman would look at the money, threw the still half full envelope at his face, lunging forward as he did it.
Marlon smiled and pulled the trigger. The soft blat of the bullet leaving the end of the silencer was no louder than the smack of a fist into the palm of another hand.
The slug punched through the Queen’s face on a fluttering twenty pound note, to enter the top of Sean’s head and drop him like a felled ox. He was dead before his body hit the floor. He had got out easy, whereas Billy Foster would wish that he was dead for a prolonged period before being given the freedom of death.
Marlon unscrewed the silencer from the pistol and slipped it into a side pocket of his jacket, and the Browning into the other, before collecting up the money and squaring it up on top of a bedside cabinet to put back in the envelope. He determined to keep it as a bonus. Every job has its perks.
He found the keys to the Insignia in a pocket of the dead man’s jeans. He would move the vehicle away from the immediate area, park it where it would not be clamped or towed away, and let Ricky know its location.
Fifteen minutes later he was walking back to his car, having paid a scruffy guy of mid-European origin twenty quid to park the big Vauxhall in a car park that was no more than a large yard full of potholes. One of Lister’s crew could pick it up later.
Billy slept fitfully and rose early. He had niggling doubts. Sean was solid and wouldn’t say a word to anyone about what had happened. But running through the events of the previous evening he became increasingly perturbed. He had called Sean by name, and if Lorraine had heard him, then she would tell her father. If they found Sean and dealt with him, then he would have no leverage. His uncle would know that the threat to have Lorraine hurt would then die with him. He had the urge to get the hell away from Hounslow and keep his head down. But first he would phone Sean.
There was no answer. That was unusual to say the least. Sean never went anywhere without his mobile.
The bad vibes he was feeling were intuition that he knew should not be ignored. The distraction of going through the house and straightening every photo and picture frame on the walls helped him to think more clearly. He then sprayed the kitchen counters with an anti-bacterial surface cleaner and wiped them down with paper towel, before making sure that everything in the wall units was positioned exactly. It was reassuring to know that everything was perfectly placed and extremely clean. He made up his mind. Went down to the cellar and removed the money from the box. Due to his injured hand it took him quite a while to gather everything together that he needed on the kitchen table; guns, money, his passport and a small lightweight trolley suitcase full of clothing and bathroom items. He would leave the country. His only problem was dumping the guns. He wiped the Beretta, the Glock and the silencer, placed them in a plastic shopping bag and decided to weight it and throw it in the nearby canal. Even if the weapons were retrieved they could not be connected to him. He relaxed a little. He was feeling up again. He would soon be free and clear. He decided to get the first flight out of Heathrow to Miami, or maybe Las Vegas. But that would be a little difficult. He would need ESTA, the visa waiver to enter the States. But he could fly to anywhere in Europe, sort out the bookwork there and then go to America. Shame about Suzy, but taking her with him was too risky…or was it? A young couple travelling together were low profile. And she was the only person on the planet who really cared for him. He made a decision and phoned her.
“Hi, Billy,” Suzy said.
“Hi back at ya, babe. I need for you to come away with me for a few weeks. Can you get someone to look after your mum?”
“I…I don’t know. Where are you planning on taking me?”
“It’s a surprise. Somewhere far away. You’ll need your passport.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. I’ll call round for you in an hour. That should give you time to pack a case.”
He was almost ready to go. He checked that all the windows and the back door were locked, and turned off the gas and water, but left the electricity on so that he could leave lamps on timers to give the impression of occupancy.
Last but not least, he removed the now slightly soiled bandage from his hand and gently swabbed his still heavily bruised fingers with antiseptic lotion, before drying them with cotton wool and applying a fresh, sterile bandage. He would take the dirty bandage and the used cotton wool with him and dump them in a waste bin. He had no intention of leaving anything in the house that may generate harmful bacteria. The thought of them reproducing and spreading unchecked made him shudder.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Suzy phoned Auntie June, her mother’s sister, who lived a short bus ride away in Feltham. She made small talk for a couple of minutes, and then told her that Shirley Evans, an old school friend now living in the midlands, was dying of bone cancer in a hospice, and that Suzy had received a call from Shirley’s husband, who’d said that her friend was asking for her.
“Just why are you telling me all this?” June said.
“Because mum will need looking after while I’m away.”
“That would be awkward, Suzy.”
“Who else can I ask?” Suzy said. “We’re family. I take care of her almost all of the time.”
“How long will you be away?” June said, sighing heavily to signify her displeasure. She would rather sit in front of her own telly and watch soaps and game shows. Looking after Sandra was not on her list of things to do. Her elder sister was, to her way of thinking, a waste of space, having drunk and smoked her way into a wheelchair
. She did not have the willpower to lead a better lifestyle, and so she was a lost cause.
“Three days at the most,” Suzy lied, having decided that she would not spend another day being at the beck and call of her mother. Everyone owed it to themselves to make the most of life, and caring for a woman who was basically too selfish to make an effort to improve her own quality of life was a thankless task.
“Okay, but don’t make it any longer,” June said. “I have commitments.”
“Thanks, Auntie,” Suzy said and ended the call. Wicked! She smiled broadly. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. She wished that Billy was taking her away forever, not for just a few weeks. She would be happy to never set eyes on Hounslow or the poxy council flat or her mother again. Her future suddenly looked a much brighter prospect.
“Who was that?” Sandra said, wheeling herself into the kitchen, to stare at the kettle with the unspoken implication that she was ready for a cup of tea.
“Just a friend,” Suzy said as she switched on the kettle and popped a teabag into her mother’s mug, to add the usual two heaped spoonfuls of sugar and also three strong sleeping pills, which the addition of boiling water would dissolve in seconds.
Leaving her mum in the living room in front of the TV, Suzy went through to her bedroom and packed a case. The moment of truth was fast approaching. When Billy knocked at the door she determined to just walk through it and never return.
Marci and Tam were sitting in a dirty Navy-blue Ford Mondeo with tinted windows. The pool car was parked near the end of Wilton Street between a Kia and an Astra, and blended.
“It would be nice to take him down if he makes an appearance,” Marci said.
“But would be well out of order,” Tam said. “The boss said to watch and wait, and to call it in and follow him if he leaves the house.”
“He may not be in. If he walks past us we could wrap it up in seconds.”
“And he could pull a gun and start shooting. If a stray bullet went through a window and injured or killed someone, we’d be toast.”
Matt was still in the squad room. He had briefed the team on how they would wait Foster out and take him when he left or entered the house, preferably that evening, or if not in the morning. There was absolutely no way that the man could have any idea that they knew his identity. He would feel safe, and would not expect the surprise that awaited him.
“I want you all wearing Kevlar vests,” Tom said to Matt. “This psycho is trigger-happy.”
Matt wasn’t going to argue. Wearing a bulky, heavy and uncomfortable garment under his windbreaker was preferable to taking a bullet. If he had been wearing body armour back at the bungalow in Finchley, then there would be a better than even chance that he would still be in possession of two kidneys instead of one.
Back on Wilton Street, Marci was in need of a cup of coffee. There was a shop nearby. “Are you thirsty?” she asked Tam.
“Yeah, I’m parched.”
“I’ll pop in that shop and get coffee, or cold drinks if they aren’t civilised enough to sell Java.”
Tam wasn’t going to argue. He usually filled a thermos flask if he knew that he was going to be doing surveillance, but on this occasion had forgotten to.
Marci entered the mini-mart and walked along the centre aisle to the counter, smiling as she first caught the aroma of coffee, then saw the machine to her left, lit up in a shadow-filled corner.
Back on the street and carrying two large and lidded Polystyrene cups full of black coffee, Marci caught sight of a man leaving the house they had been watching. He looked both ways and then angled across the street, pulling a trolley case behind him.
The passenger door opened as she reached the Mondeo.
“That’s him,” Tam said. “And judging by the suitcase, he doesn’t plan on coming back in a hurry.”
As Tam started the car and Marci placed the cups in holders, their quarry made a right into a narrow alley.
“Park the car up just before the entrance,” Marci said. “I’ll follow him on foot. You drive around to see where he comes out.”
Before Tam even pulled out from where they were parked, a BMW passed them and stopped next to the kerb near the alley. A tall man wearing a dark gabardine duster coat climbed out and disappeared from view.
“You think he’s following Foster?” Marci said.
“Looks like it,” Tam said.
“So, move. Same plan. We’ll see what develops. And do a check on the Bimmer’s reg. We need to know who the guy wearing the duster is.”
Tam stopped behind the BMW and was on his phone to the squad room to get one of the team to check the details from the national database as Marci got out and stepped into the alley.
Billy didn’t have to worry about standing on cracks. The cobblestone surface was well-worn after perhaps a hundred and fifty years of foot traffic.
He paused to drop the extending handle of the case and lift it up off the uneven ground, and heard footsteps behind him. A gut feeling and a certain amount of paranoia combined to put him on full alert. His uncle was good at what he did, and may have already had someone locate Sean and take him out. Without looking back he proceeded to where the alleyway led out to a towpath next to the canal. He turned to his left and then stopped, concealed by a crumbling brick wall from whoever was following him. There was no time to unzip the case and retrieve one of the pistols, and so he just waited and listened to the sound of leather on stone getting louder as his pursuer’s footsteps quickened.
Marlon drew his Browning from one pocket of his ankle-length coat and the silencer from another, fitting the lethal combo together as he walked. This was going to be easy. Foster had no idea that he was scant seconds away from being hit. If there was no one about to witness the act, he would put a couple of slugs in his gut, tell him what a fucking loser he was, and then finish him off with a head shot.
The case hit Marlon full in the face as he exited the alley, knocking him back off his feet. Even as he attempted to react and lift up the gun and find a target, the weapon was kicked out of his hand. By the time he had got to his knees he was faced by the man he had been about to kill, who was standing just out of reach and pointing his own gun at him.
“Who the fuck are you?” Billy said.
Marlon shrugged. “Just a guy sent to do a job.”
“Are you the best that my uncle could find?”
“You’re history, but don’t seem to know it yet,” Marlon said.
Billy grinned. “Get to your feet and jump in the canal,” he said.
Marlon felt a surge of relief. Having his gun taken and being made to jump in a canal was better than being whacked any day of the week. Begrudgingly, he got up and walked over to the edge and looked down at the stinking surface four feet below him.
Billy stepped up behind Marlon and jabbed the end of the silencer hard into his spine, causing him to fall forward, headfirst into the muddy, weed-filled water. When the hitman surfaced, coughing and doggy-paddling as he struggled to keep his head above the surface, due mainly to the weight of the heavy coat he wore, Billy took careful aim and loosed off two shots. One slug hit Marlon in his mouth, disintegrating his two front teeth before erupting from the back of his neck. The second took out his left eye, and he sank without making a sound.
Marci heard what sounded like a person coughing twice as she reached the end of the alley. But it was a metallic cough that she had heard before; the unmistakable resonance of bullets being fired through the baffles of a silencer.
Drawing her gun, Marci held it two-handed and edged slowly forward to the opening.
Billy waited. Stuffed the pistol into his waistband and made ready. He had seen a figure in the alley as he turned away from where the gunman had sunk from sight. As the second pursuer appeared, holding a handgun, he grasped the barrel and jerked Marci forward, spinning her round and keeping hold of the gun as she lost her grip on it and was propelled back under her own volition, out and o
ver the edge of the canal bank with her arms and legs flailing as she fell.
Billy threw the gun into the canal, lifted his suitcase and made off at a jog under a road bridge that spanned the waterway. He climbed up steps at the other side of the bridge, crossed the road and turned right into Rosemont Street, walking quickly to the next junction and turning left onto the street where Suzy lived.
Tam saw Foster cross the road thirty yards in front of him. But there was no sign of the man that had been following him, or of Marci. He noted the street that Foster entered and carried on, to brake hard and exit the car. He was on the bridge, looking over the chest-high railings, down into a canal.
Marci heard the squeal of brakes and looked up from where she was now hanging on to a rusted steel piling. “I’m fine, Tam,” she shouted. “Don’t lose him.”
“Where’s the other guy?” Tam said, cupping his hands to his mouth to be heard over the traffic that was passing by.
“No sign of him,” Marci replied, unaware that Marlon White’s corpse was only three feet away from her, weighted down in the mud by his heavy coat, shoes and other waterlogged clothing.
Tam considered the situation and ran back to the car, to reverse ten yards and swing the Mondeo’s rear into the open gateway at the side of a furniture store, to then head for the street that Foster had entered. Slowing, he drove past the next street and saw the man with the suitcase.
Stopping out of sight at the kerb, hidden from view by houses, Tam got out and peeked around the corner of a wall, to see Foster open a gate and walk up a short path to a door and knock on it. He waited, saw the door open and then close after the wanted man had gone inside. Got him, Tam thought as he reached for his phone to call the squad room for backup, and to let them know where Marci was.
Suzy opened the door to Billy, expecting to leave the flat, but he pushed past her and closed the door behind him. “What’s happening, Billy?” she asked. “I thought we were leaving.”
