by A P Bateman
“McCullum is dead. Died just before Christmas. But you’ll already know about that,” Stewart said. “He slipped in the bathroom and hit his head.”
“Shame.”
“Isn’t it? Trouble with bathrooms is everything around you is hard.”
“And wet floors. Deathtraps.”
“Corner of the tiled shower step,” said Stewart. “What are the chances of that?”
“He drunk a lot…”
“Make yourself a hammer out of mosaic tiles and a rubber mallet, did you?” Stewart shrugged. “Get behind him and smashed his head in? I didn’t think it was worth mentioning at the time, but I’d seen the MO before…”
King kept the pistol aimed at him. “It’s important to have a hobby…”
Stewart shrugged. “And Andrews in August? The glorious twelfth! First day of the Scottish grouse season. He went every year, apparently. But you’d know that too. I must say, that was a new one on me. Double pressure misfire on his Holland and Holland. Blew his right hand and most of his face off. Poorly loaded shotgun cartridges, apparently. All powder and shot, no wad. Nearly seven times the powder of a heavy game load in fact. Like little bombs in the breach, the coroner said. Gave those poor grouse a sporting chance, I suppose…”
“Dangerous sport. Accidents happen…”
“So just me and that little prick Marcus Arnott left then?”
“That’s not what they’ll read in tomorrow’s papers.”
“How did he get it?”
King lowered the pistol a little but it was still aimed firmly on Stewart’s chest. “He had a deviant sexual nature.”
Stewart laughed. “Come on Alex, tell me! If there’s one thing I’d like to know, it’s how that little prick went down! ”
“At the flat he kept in Mayfair. Naked and hanging from the back of his bedroom door,” King paused. “His iPad in one hand and his pecker in the other.”
“Some porn and a bad case of auto-erotic asphyxiation,” Steward said, laughing. “The Sun will love that story!” Stewart stopped laughing, his mood changing in an instant. He stared at King blankly. “So I don’t get a horrible accident? Why the gun?”
“Professional curtesy.”
“Doesn’t seem so courteous from this side.”
“It never does.”
Stewart shrugged. “It all catches up with you in the end Son,” he paused. “You’ll get yours too, Alex. Some twenty-something ex-SAS shining star all bollocks, cock and muscles will catch up with you one day. He’ll be fresh and tough and sharp. He’ll be wanting to make a name for himself. He’ll make you tremble and beg…”
“Sometime, I’m sure.”
“I did what I had to do! I didn’t want to betray you!” Stewart looked down at the ground, his shoulders sagging. “Please…”
“Don’t beg, Peter. We’re better than that…”
Stewart shook his head, then stuck out his chin belligerently. “You’re not going to do it, Alex! Even you won’t bring yourself to do it! We were friends!”
“There are no friends in the espionage game,” he paused. “Your words, Peter, not mine.”
Stewart shook his head in disbelief. He looked at King, but he couldn’t see the expression in the man’s eyes. The light had gone completely now and he couldn’t see the pistol anymore. He struggled to see the man’s features, squinting in the darkness. “What’s the point of it all? What purpose would it serve, beyond a moment’s satisfaction?”
“Because of the way the firm uses people. Good people like the Faisal brothers. Use them, then silence them. Again and again. We treat people like commodities. I gave those brave men the chance to die in battle. But I was sent out there to kill them in cold blood and what good would that have done anyone? Because they were loose ends. It’s as simple as that. You can never afford to leave loose ends, it’s what trips you up later.” King tightened his finger on the trigger. He brushed the single trickling tear away from his damp cheek, and aimed the weapon at his old friend’s heart. “Sorry Peter, it’s not for satisfaction. It’s the loose ends, you see. It’s how I’ve been trained. I’m an assassin. It’s what I do.”
