by J. D. Weston
He looked around the building on the right. The lights were now off, and Shaun was likely inside, in the room at the back. His targets were usually far easier to hunt; often easy to the point of being monotonous. But this one had become very interesting. If Harvey got to his targets before the police, they would find the body in various forms. Death and torture were usually quite evident. He did that for the families of the people whose lives the target had ruined. Harvey would move on from his thankless task, knowing that, although somebody had been irreparably damaged, mentally and physically, some kind of retribution had been granted. He hoped this allowed them an easier transition back to some semblance of normality. His thirst for revenge was usually temporarily satiated in the following weeks until Harvey’s dreams became frequent, or another victim presented themselves. The media loved to announce a predator.
But Shaun was interesting, or at least his captors were. He wondered if the men had the same thing in mind as Harvey; a slow painful death. Sorrow.
The unmistakable metallic sound of a magazine being inserted into a gun, followed by another unmistakable sound of the action being slid back and released caught Harvey’s attention.
The two men had turned and stepped out into the courtyard, each of them had an MP5 sub-machine gun in their hands. Harvey noticed they had pulled white disposable gloves on, the type a forensic team would use, and would be using in this very house very soon by the looks of things. Harvey checked his position to be sure that he couldn't be seen. The two men took the guns out to the driveway and studied the weapons under the stronger outdoor light. They held them up to the firing position. Harvey saw how smoothly they handled the guns; they were practised or trained, familiar with handling weapons at least. Harvey watched as the men felt the weight of the assault rifles, they tried the action and checked the sights. Then one of them turned to face Harvey. He raised the gun to his shoulder and lowered his right cheek to the metal stock. Harvey froze.
The gun was pointing directly at him.
8
DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
Harvey sat unmoving in the darkness. He couldn't tell if he'd been seen, or if it was by chance, but he stayed. Maybe the man was testing the weight. A marksman will often hold the rifle to his shoulder, to gauge how long he can remain on target with the weapon. Harvey was not willing to make himself known. His heart thumped away like a steam train gaining momentum, but his breathing remained calm. He stayed dead still, eye to eye with the man.
The courtyard was suddenly lit by the bright lights from the office behind. The men quickly lowered the rifles and took them back to the garage. Harvey saw them banging the lid of the wooden box back on, and then hit the button for the automatic door, before hurrying across the gravel to the office.
Harvey slipped back into the shadows, and skirted around the edge of the field back to his bike.
It had been a productive evening.
The slow ride back to Theydon Bois gave Harvey time to think. Did Tyson know people that would hide him? Not many sex offenders had reliable contacts like that. Anyone bold enough to hide a criminal was usually criminally minded themselves, and criminals rarely befriended sex offenders. However heinous their crimes against society, the average con wouldn’t allow their moral compass to steer them anywhere near a nonce, let alone hide one.
It had to be a kidnapping. Maybe a friend of the victim’s family taking care of things their own way. It wouldn’t be the first time. Remove the guy from the streets and bury him in the woods somewhere. The police would probably give up looking after a few weeks. They’d realise the bloke had likely been taken care of on the outside and be happy about the paperwork it saved them. The victim’s family could begin to repair the damage that had been done much quicker than having to go to trial and testify. It was often the testifying that kept the damage alive. Trials could take months.
Harvey’s own methods were far quicker, and far more satisfying than a trial.
Harvey enjoyed the hunt. He enjoyed learning the movements of his targets. It allowed him to strike with confidence. Once he was certain that the target would be in a location at a specific time, it removed any doubt that may cloud his execution. It made for a much cleaner kill.
Harvey’s early targets had sometimes taken weeks to shadow. Finding them was the hardest part. He often came to know of their existence through the media, which meant that the general public also knew of them. So the target would either go into hiding or custody.
If they were in custody, Harvey stood little chance of ever getting them. A few potential targets had been saved that way. Once they were in the system on remand, they were saved from him, but at the mercy of the class A criminals on the remand wing. If Harvey reached a target before any hard evidence was established, they would disappear before the trial date.
John Cartwright stood at the centre unit in the middle of the large kitchen of his five-bedroom farmhouse. He was chopping onions and carrots with a practised hand; his workstation was neat and organised, a reflection of his own life and mind.
Harvey leaned on the other side of the unit. He was relaxed and sipped a glass of water.
“Fancy making yourself useful and getting your old man a brandy?”
Harvey left the room and stepped into the lounge to pour John a drink. He knew how he liked it, three ice-cubes, then a half-inch of brandy poured slowly over the top.
He sat the brandy by John’s hand and resumed his position leaning on the counter.
“Thanks, Son.”
“Is anyone else joining us?” asked Harvey.
“No, I thought we could have a night together, you know, have a little chat.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“So how’s the bike? Why don't you get yourself a car? It must be bloody freezing on that thing.”
“It’s fine, you’ll be surprised how warm the leathers are.”
“What about the place, you know, France?” It was a typical conversation with John, the topic changed from one minute to the next; never seeming to delve into details, unless John wanted to hear the details, then there was no escaping it.
“I’m getting there, no rush.”
“Well, there’s a job coming up, you could earn big if you want it.”
“I told you, I don’t want to get involved in all that, I like the little jobs that Julios and I do, it’s enough for me.”
“Yeah, but they’re not frequent, you need a regular income, you need more so you can make plans and go and buy that little French farm you always wanted.”
“The farmhouse will happen. Can we leave it there?”
“Alright alright, just trying to make sure you’ve got enough, making sure you’re sorted, that’s all.”
“I know. Where’s Donny skiving off to these days? I haven't seen him creeping around for a while.”
“Your brother? He’s off somewhere, said he’d be back tomorrow, and he needs to be too, I need him on this northern thing.”
“What’s the job?” asked Harvey.
“Thought you didn’t want in?”
Harvey didn’t reply. John smiled.
“There’s a job up north next month, and we’ll need firepower, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” John sipped his brandy and smacked his lips, a habit that Harvey thought he was unaware he did. “I’ll need you and Julios to go pick something up for me. The less you know, the better, Harv. I’ll give you details nearer the time, but needless to say that you won’t fit a crate of automatic rifles on that bike of yours, so you’ll have a van, and Julios will be with you. Sergio will make the arrangements.”
Harvey took a breath at the mention of Sergio’s name. Putting his life on the line for a job that Sergio had arranged was a risk.
“Sergio?”
“Leave Sergio to me, Son.”
“Aren’t you concerned at all about the repercussions? Bradley Thomson was a major player in the Thomson empire.”
“No, leave it to me,” replied John. That w
as enough for Harvey. It was another one of John’s unspoken commands.
“A crate of rifles? I can handle that on my own, why send Julios?”
“In case the job goes south, Harvey, I don’t want you there on your own. Sergio will make the arrangements, it’s his contacts.” Harvey frowned at Sergio’s name again.
“What’s going to happen? Cash in a bag, guns in the van? I check, they check, we both leave, what can go south?”
“It’s the Thomsons, Harvey.”
“You’re buying guns from the Thomsons? Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Julios and I just off one of their main men and string him up?”
“You did, Harvey, and remember yourself, don’t question me.” John often reminded people who he was, regardless of who they were. “Have a little faith in your old man. Think about it, Sergio’s faux pas may just work in our favour,” John tapped his temple with his index finger. “Right now Terry Thomson is sitting there trying to work out who killed his boy. He probably thinks that whoever did it wanted the Thomsons out of the way for the northern job, right? This gun deal has been lined for a while now, why on earth would I put a hit on his son so close to a deal? He knows we don’t have the men to go up against him.”
“So who’s he going to think it was?”
“Who else has the men to go do the northern job, and also happens to like diamonds? A lot.”
“The Stimsons? This gets worse,” said Harvey, “what we did to Bradley Thomson isn’t their style-”
“Yeah, but, the Stimsons are the biggest jewel thieves in the country, if anybody is going to go after the northern job, it’ll be Adam Stimson or Terry Thomson, we aren’t even players.” John took a swig of his brandy and pucked his lips. “If I’m right, which I normally am, Thomson will come to the same conclusion and go after Stimson.”
“Right.”
“Which means that we get the Thomsons and the Stimsons out of the way, and we get the guns. The job’s ours for the taking, Son.”
“So the job is jewels? You’re going to start a war and then nick a load of diamonds? What happened to us running bars and doing over cash vans?”
“Slight correction, Harvey. I believe Sergio has already started the war, I’m just making the best of a bad situation.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
John tipped the carrots into a saucepan and banged the chopping board with the knife.
“You hungry, Harv? This’ll be ready in about five minutes.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“Harvey, what are you up to? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine, I want to ask you something.”
“Anything for you, Son, take a seat, ask away. I’d offer you a drink, but you’d only refuse.”
Harvey didn’t respond and allowed John to go and pour himself another brandy before he brought the topic up.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind, Harvey. What’s up?”
“Tell me again how you found us.”
“How what? How I found you? Oh, Harvey, I told you before, you need to drop it mate.”
“I need to hear it again, small details.”
“There are no small details, Harvey. You were both left on a seat in my bar, in East Ham.”
“And my parents? I mean my real parents?”
“Harvey, come on, we’ve been over this how many times?”
“I know, but something doesn’t add up. None of it adds up, it never has done.”
“You were found with a note from your mum. I’m sorry, Harvey, I’ve always hated saying this part, but they both killed themselves. I don’t know why. I wish I still had the note, I didn't know them, I just happened to own the bar nearby I guess. I was well-known, Harvey, maybe they knew we’d take care of you.” John had used that phrase countless times in response to the countless times Harvey had raised the topic. It was verbatim.
“Barb wanted to keep you both,” he continued. He spoke slowly, as if savouring the memory, “We couldn’t have any more kids, you know, complications. We finished up in the bar one night, the staff had all gone home, and we were cleaning up. We did it all ourselves back then, and we found you in a little hamper, and your sister sitting by your side.”
“Wrapped in blankets,” finished Harvey.
“Wrapped in blankets,” said John in confirmation.
“Are we done, Harvey? I need a favour.”
“I guess we are.”
“I need you to shadow Donny.”
9
THE SHADOW OF THE BEAST
The fields and trees thinned out, eventually giving way to the urban sprawl that chewed its way across the country like a cancer. Harvey followed the motorway down and joined the North Circular Road until he reached the A13, where he turned off. He rode past Beckton and into East Ham. It was an old part of east London that had been on the edge of the city itself. It mostly housed dockers back in the day when the River Thames was the source of most lower class wages.
Harvey wound his way along the back streets and cruised by the Shine bar that the family owned. It had been John’s first bar.
Tucked into the alleyway down the side of the detached brick building he saw Donny’s car parked up. Harvey stopped his bike and parked up. He wandered into the cafe opposite the bar and ordered a tea, taking a seat by the window with his back to the wall. He picked up a random newspaper that someone had left on a table as he passed.
John hadn’t issued a specific reason for tailing his foster brother, he only said that he should keep him in sight and report back with anything he deemed out of the ordinary.
His view of the bar’s entrance from the window was skewed slightly by a car and van that were parked in front of the cafe. But he had a clear view of Donny’s car, and Harvey figured that eventually the van would move; he’d seen the driver was inside making a call.
He drank his tea slowly and watched as the contracted cleaning firm entered the bar; three of them armed with buckets and mops and bags of cleaning products. He was still surveying two hours later when the cleaning firm left in their small van. Nobody else walked in, and nobody else walked out.
“Are you going to order something sweetheart?” A shrill voice came from beside him, “It’ll be lunchtime soon, and the crowds will come in.” As she spoke the door opened, and two tradesmen dressed in grubby jeans walked in. “Morning boys,” the woman said, apparently familiar with the two men.
“Alright, Rose, couple of bacon rolls please, love,” said the larger of the two men.
“No problem, darling, take a seat, I’ll be right with you,” she replied, before turning to look back at Harvey, who was staring out the window. He felt her stare and turned to face her.
“What takes the most time to cook? I’m waiting for someone. He’s late,” said Harvey.
“The all-day breakfast,” said Rose.
“I’ll take one of them then,” replied Harvey, who was already looking back out the window.
“Please?” said Rose, like he was a child asking for a sweet and needed to learn the values of good manners. Harvey turned to face her again, he didn’t say anything. “One all-day coming up.” She walked off with a huff and a swish of her apron.
Harvey had a way of communicating with people without using words. Often a mere expression would tell people exactly where they stood, and that they should act accordingly. It was a skill he had never been taught, but one that he learned from Julios, and one that came naturally. It was, of course, a reflection of Julios’ own techniques.
Harvey had been home-schooled in John’s large house with various tutors stopping by for weekly lessons in mathematics, English and the sciences. John wanted Harvey to have the best education, but taking him out of school was also safer for the other children, especially while Harvey was grieving.
John had taken Harvey out of public schools when his older sister, Hannah, had killed herself. Harvey had become different, subdued and distant. He’d taken his aggression out on the
other children at school and had landed John with several visits to the head’s office. It didn’t matter that the victims of Harvey’s attacks were themselves bullies and that he only stepped in to stop another poor kid being beaten up or humiliated. Unfortunately, once Harvey had begun to defend the boy and punish the bully, he couldn’t stop his rage. He had put three of the bullies in the hospital with broken arms, noses and one with a severe concussion from when Harvey had stamped on his head. It was during this period that he began to learn how to communicate without words.
John had asked Julios to take him under his wing, to teach him how to channel his aggression, how to remain composed and act appropriately. Julios had agreed to undertake the training, and so, over time, Harvey had followed Julios’ instructions and learned the values of composure, planning, and emotional intelligence. “Above all,’ Julios would say with his romantic Portuguese twang, “you must remain composed. If somebody comes at you, if they’re angry and wanting to fight, you will continue to maintain composure. They will make mistakes. You will not strike until you intend to strike. You will plan. You will wait patiently, and then you will execute your plan promptly and precisely. Do you understand?”
Harvey had been patient, had planned and had executed more times than he could remember. It was those words that shaped his life. It was Julios who had served as his mentor; over the years, Harvey began to look up to him, even more so than his foster father, John, whom Harvey had lost much of his faith in with his blatant lies about his parents.
John had refused to hear talk of Harvey’s sister, Hannah. Even at her funeral, he spoke only a few words. John, of course, played the emotional card and preferred to keep face in front of the small gathering, so had stepped down from the podium after a very brief eulogy, with his head held high and full of apparent bravado. But Harvey had seen the shame within him as John sat back down on the pew. It was a shame that was not born of John’s own actions but of knowledge and guilt. He knew more than he ever let on; there were dark secrets buried inside that shame.
