“You bastard!”
It was a long, drawn-out yell that vented Greenfield's feelings of anger, fear and revulsion, but appeared to have no effect on Richards, who calmly shut the door behind him as he left the room. There was a noticeable tensing of the other two men, in obvious anticipation of a possible repeat of their captive's earlier attack, but there was no fight left in Greenfield now. These people had him exactly where they wanted him. He had to accept there was nothing more he could do.
The elderly gentleman, who had greeted him earlier in the room upstairs, brought him a tray of food and coffee. If he had eaten anything, he was sure he would have been ill, but, his mouth and throat very dry, Greenfield readily swallowed the hot coffee.
It took only a few minutes for the drug to take effect. When he woke up it was to find himself, with a sore head, lying on the bed in his hotel room.
Chapter Seven
Tommy Morgan hated his one-room bedsit. Undoubtedly, it had been a fine, large bedroom for someone many years before, when the house would have almost certainly have been occupied by a family of fairly substantial means, but as a living room, bedroom and kitchen rolled into one, it served poorly.
Rented as “furnished” accommodation, the furniture consisted of an old two-seater settee and armchair, which Morgan presumed to be a match, though the pattern was so faded and grimy it had passed beyond recognition, a rickety tubular-legged coffee table with grubby, Formica top and a small wardrobe set against the wall. The threadbare carpet covered only half the floor, surrendering the rest to bare floorboards. A single bed was tucked against the wall, adjacent to the wardrobe. A tatty, plywood partition cut off the kitchen, which really was nothing more than an electric cooker, old enough surely to be approaching heirloom status, and a small sink.
Morgan shuddered despite wearing a thick, woollen pullover. The early November chill easily overcame the meagre warmth thrown out by the upright paraffin heater, his only source of heating. He lived for the day he would get out of this place and that surely couldn't be much longer. There had to be contact soon.
Morgan's apartment was one of two in the upstairs of the house, the other occupied by George, a young man of questionable mental capacity, who had a regular Friday night ritual, whereby he indulged himself throughout the evening in the local pub to such a degree it became a race against time, on his return, to reach the communal lavatory at the far end of the landing before bringing most of it back again, an awful waste of good beer, Morgan always thought. To his credit, George usually made it in time, but the accompanying sound effects that echoed in the old house were something Morgan could have happily lived without.
Life in this hovel did, however, have its lighter moments, provided mainly by George's inclination to sleepwalk around the house naked. There was one memorable night when, wakened by the screams of the elderly spinsters who occupied the only ground floor apartment, Morgan had flown down the stairs expecting to find murder, rape or robbery in progress. Instead he found George, as naked as the day he was born, standing at the open door, while the two women, screaming heartily, cowered within. Morgan had carefully guided him back to his room, but was never sure whether he really was sleepwalking or not. After all, it had been a Friday night!
The electric kettle clicked off. Dropping a tea bag in a mug, Morgan poured in the hot water. As he fetched the milk bottle from the kitchen, there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?”
“Electricity Board, sir. There seems to be a fault on your meter.”
“It's downstairs, by the front door.”
“We know where the meter is, sir.” There was no attempt to hide the note of impatience in the voice. “We need to check some of the wiring in the flat.”
Morgan cursed as he put the milk bottle down on the coffee table and crossed to the door. Why did interruptions always come just when a cup of tea or a meal had been put on the table? He had opened the door barely an inch before it was shoved open with great force, sending him reeling backwards, tipping over the coffee table to crash to the floor amid a scattering of hot tea and splashing milk.
The room was spinning. He knew he had to stabilise, clear away the fog from his eyes. There was a vague image of two men as he was hauled to his feet. The breath was knocked out of him as a fist hammered into his stomach. Another fist followed up, smashing into his face. Blood flowing freely from his nose, his legs buckled and he once more crashed to the floor. As the figure loomed over him again, he lashed out with his feet, just about making contact. His attackers stepped back, but the respite lasted only a moment. They came again, skirting his lashing feet, to haul him up with a heavy thud against the wall. Bleeding, hardly able to see and gasping for breath, he was powerless to resist the fists pounding his body and face.
As if by instinct his mind continued to work while his body succumbed to the onslaught, searching for a way out. He needed a weapon of some sort if he was to have any hope of fighting back. The milk bottle; where was the milk bottle? The succession of blows taking their toll, he slid down the wall, clattering again to the floor. Through the mist clouding his eyes, he could just make out the blurred outline of the bottle lying beside the overturned coffee table, about four feet away. It was his only chance. A desperate lunge through the feet of his assailants and it was in his hand. Summoning all his remaining strength, he brought the bottle down on the edge of the coffee table, smashing the bottle in half. Sitting on the floor, he turned, clutching the milk bottle neck as he pushed the jagged, broken edge towards his attackers. The two men held back, giving Morgan the vital seconds he needed to clear his head.
Everything drifted back into focus as he managed to lift himself shakily to his feet. The blows he had taken to his stomach made him feel sick. Blood pouring from his mouth and nose dripped off the end of his chin. He could actually feel his left eye swelling. But he was ready for them now. The element of surprise was gone and his makeshift weapon levelled the odds somewhat. Brandishing the broken bottle in his right hand, he beckoned the two men forward with his left.
“Come on, then,” he challenged. “Let's see how brave you are now.”
“I think we've had enough for now, Mr. Morgan.”
Another man had entered the room, older than the other two, with hardly a hair on his head, but a thick, bushy beard, as though all his hair was growing in the wrong place.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Morgan. “Who the hell are any of you?”
“Most people call me 'the Beard' for rather obvious reasons,” said the new arrival. “Now do put down the bottle, please.”
“Only if you call off Pinky and Perky here.”
The two men reacted to the taunt, but as they moved forward Morgan lashed out with the broken bottle, drawing the jagged edge across the wrist of the one nearest to him. There was a startled cry as blood oozed from the severed skin.
“I said that's enough,” shouted the Beard.
Morgan was unsure whether it was he who was being admonished or the two muscle men. To the latter the Beard added, in calmer tone, “Leave us. Get that wrist fixed. You're bleeding all over the man's floorboards.”
The two men hesitated.
“Go on,” insisted the Beard. “I'll be all right.”
Seemingly satisfied, they departed through the open door, leaving a trail of blood spots across the floor. Shutting the door behind them, the Beard made a quick survey of the cheerless room that passed for an apartment.
“God, do you really live in this dump?”
“It's all I can afford.”
“Or the Social Security can afford.”
“That's none of your bloody business.”
“Put down the bottle, Mr. Morgan.” When he made no move to do so, the Beard added, “You're being very foolish. I am armed.”
He opened his unbuttoned overcoat and jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol poking out from under his armpit, secured in a holster clipped to a strap tightened around his shoulder.
“I need a towel or something for my face.”
“Okay, but don't do anything silly,” agreed the Beard, wondering about the slight, yet unmistakeable, hint of an Irish accent in Tommy Morgan's speech.
In the kitchen Morgan soaked a towel in cold water. Returning to sit on the edge of the bed, resting his painful, battered face in the wet towel, he asked, “Now what's this all about?”
“You've been asking questions, my friend. Too many questions in the wrong places.”
“I don't consider us to be friends and it would seem I've been asking them in the right places.”
“Don't try to be too smart, Mr. Morgan.” The Beard dropped into the well-worn armchair. “Your position is not a very healthy one. The people I represent don't much care for someone poking around asking questions. It draws attention to them and they get a little edgy.”
“I had to find a firm big enough to handle the deal we're offering.” The towel was now stained red, but the cold water had stemmed the bleeding completely. The eye felt as though it was still swelling.
“Who are we?”
Morgan hesitated. Spotting the electric kettle, dented and upside-down on the floor, he found himself wondering if it would still work. Why couldn't they have waited until he had drunk his cup of tea?
“We are an army at war. We fight to remove the shackles of British oppression that has blighted our country for centuries.”
“The I.R.A.?” The Beard raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I'll say no more. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Well, well, well.” The Beard stood up to examine the curtains, once a bright yellow, but dulled by years of accumulated dirt. “Christ, don't you ever wash these?”
“I didn't come all the way from Ireland to wash curtains.”
“Suppose you tell me what you did come for.”
“To make a deal. We need money urgently for weapons and ammunition.”
“Yes, you've had a bad time lately, haven't you?” The Beard detached himself from the grimy curtains with a gesture of disgust. “Quite a few of your men killed or caught, your secret weapon hideaways uncovered. Lost a few rifles too many, eh?”
“We're talking much more than a few rifles. We have spectacular plans to intensify the fight against oppression. We can win this war, but it costs a lot of money. I put myself at considerable risk coming over here. I am not exactly unknown to the police and security forces. I am not taking that chance for a few rifles.”
“All right, Mr Morgan, just what is it that you are offering for sale?”
“Heroin.” Morgan looked for a reaction from the Beard, but there was none. “Top grade stuff, you'll never be offered better.”
“Street value?”
“Around four million.”
This time there was a reaction in the form of an audible gasp. For a few seconds there was silence as the Beard stared hard at Morgan. Then he said, “Are you telling me you have four million pounds' worth of heroin tucked away?”
“Yes and it's here in the country. Within an hour of agreeing a price it could be in your hands. Cash on delivery, of course.”
“How the hell did you get your hands on that?”
“That's my business.”
“If you want to deal, mister, you had better make it my business.” A note of menace had crept into the Beard's voice that made Morgan feel a little uneasy. “Now where does a bunch of toy soldiers like you lay its dirty, little hands on four million pounds' worth of heroin?”
Now it was Morgan's turn to react. Standing up angrily, he stabbed a threatening finger in the direction of the Beard and cried, “That's enough of the insults. I'll not stand by and let you belittle the brave men who fight for the freedom of my country.”
“Oh, and what are you going to do about it then?” taunted the Beard, moving a couple of paces closer to the Irishman. “Do you need to look in a mirror to see what a mess your face is? Believe me, it wouldn't take much arranging for it to be made more of a mess. One of the reasons for this little demonstration here today was to show you the sort of forces you are dealing with, but I have to wonder if the message has got home. If you don't want a repeat performance, I suggest you tell me where this heroin has come from.”
Morgan had little choice. The deal had to be made.
“Libya.”
The Beard grunted in disbelief. “Gift-wrapped by Colonel Gaddafi, you're going to tell me next.”
The Irishman was becoming frustrated. “What the hell's the matter with you? We have a lot of friends out there. Our men train there for active duty. It's Pakistan heroin obtained for us by our friends in Libya. I'm offering your organisation a five-star deal and you treat me like shit.”
“You are shit, Mr Morgan,” snapped the Beard, “but that doesn't necessarily mean we won't deal with you. What sort of price are you looking for?”
“Three million.”
“That's a lot of money.”
“And a lot of profit.”
“There are certain overheads to be met.”
“Bullshit!” Morgan was adamant. “The price is not for haggling. Three million, not a penny less.”
After brief consideration, the Beard replied, “It's too big for me to make a decision on, I'll have to report back. This one will have to be decided at the highest level.”
“Then that's who I'll deal with,” said Morgan. “I want to see your top man.”
“Impossible. You'll deal through me.”
“Then it's no deal. I want to deal with the man who can make the decision. I should wait and see how impossible he thinks it is after he has heard what's on offer.”
“We shall need a few days to consider what you say, Mr Morgan. Do you know the Mole with Two Heads not far from here?” The Irishman nodded. “Be there a week today about eight. We will, of course, require sample of the goods.”
“You shall have it,” agreed Morgan. “A week today.”
The Beard paused at the door. With one last sweeping look at the apartment, he said, “You live in a pigsty, Mr. Morgan. It's disgusting.”
Ten minutes later Morgan also left the building and made a short walk to the nearest phone box. When the number he dialled was answered, he said simply, “It looks as though we're on.”
It hurt too much to smile.
Chapter Eight
Howard Greenfield tried hard to carry on with life as normal, but it was proving impossible. Although it was nearly eight weeks since Barcelona, he had heard nothing. The whole ghastly episode had now become a great burden to him, which every day's waiting only added to. It was a nightmare from which there seemed no awakening. He had become moody, edgy, speaking little at home, contributing nothing to the family life that now seemed so precious to him.
Many times over the past two months he had reflected on what he saw as one of life's greatest ironies in that you never really appreciate the worth of the things closest to you, the everyday things you take unthinkingly for granted, until you stand on the brink of losing them. The presence of his wife and daughter with the joy and contentment they brought him, the comfort and security of his home, the position he had attained at work, all figured in a new awareness of the importance of facets of his life that had become an accepted part of his daily routine. Now the future of a life he had strived for more than twenty years to achieve swung on whether he could kill in cold blood someone who would be a complete stranger. Failure to do so, when the time came, would see everything wiped out in a mere fraction of the time it had taken to build it up.
Greenfield was in no doubt that these people, whoever they were, would carry out their threat. What filled him with revulsion more than anything was the thought of his daughter seeing the film of him and Julie. Obviously, it would be a great shock to his wife and there was every c
hance she would never want to lay eyes on him again, yet she was mature enough, in time, to come to terms with it. But what effect would it have on a fourteen-year-old girl? It would probably scar her mentally for the rest of her life.
Even so, Greenfield was not one hundred per cent sure he could actually pull the trigger that would keep the lives of him and those around him intact. To calculatedly wipe out the life of another human being was something he found it difficult even to contemplate. There persisted a strange aura of unreality about his having to think on such a subject, yet the reality of his predicament was inescapable. Would it come easily when the moment came? Or would his finger freeze on the trigger, unable to carry through the act that would be his salvation.
These thoughts had kept his mind in turmoil since returning from Spain. One day he would feel he could kill, hold on to life as he knew it. The next day there would be doubts. He saw himself holding the gun out in front of him in both hands, his brain willing to fire, but his fingers not responding, as though they were no longer part of his body. Which road would he go down when the moment of truth finally arrived? The scales were finally poised. What was going to tip them one way or the other?
Despite his personal problems, the trip to Barcelona had been a huge success from a work point of view. Jason Henderson, his managing director, had showered praise on him. There had even been a memo of congratulations from the chairman of Ibex Holdings, the group of companies to which Impact Publicity Services belonged. At the office, Greenfield was riding the crest of a wave, never being held in higher esteem.
At home it had been so different. The lump on the back of his head was almost gone now, but it had been badly discoloured and open across the top, occasionally seeping blood.
Pauline appeared to have accepted, reluctantly, his explanation that he had slipped on a flight of stone steps at the office of a client. What she failed to understand was his vehement resistance to her pleas for him to see the family doctor. For Greenfield it was too risky. An expert eye may have recognised it as a result of a blow from a pistol barrel or a similar blunt instrument. There would inevitably have been heavy pressure to report it to the police and he was in no position to explain to anybody why that was impossible.
The Hit-and-Run Man Page 5
