One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  She sat back in her chair, feeling deflated. Or was she just feeling sluggish? Looking at the clock on her screen, she realized it was time for coffee so she headed to the coffee machine, the one that always caused Jack so much consternation. As she waited for her cup to fill, she was deep in thought. Caffeine was no different than other drugs in a craving and uplifting context. So why wasn’t caffeine banned and thrown in with other stimulants? A triple espresso would shoot her into oblivion, yet could it feel the same as a hit from something outlawed? It was a sobering thought.

  Amanda took her fix back to her desk and carried on with research.

  Chapter Forty

  Duncan had driven to work that morning in a mixed mood of thankfulness and utmost surprise at finding Sam up sipping tea in the kitchen. But what had doubly surprised him was she’d then showered and made him breakfast, all with a smile on her face. Maybe he hadn’t been too hard on her after all; maybe she’d turned a corner and was starting to sort herself out. He certainly hoped so. A red light up ahead slowed him to a stop and he absentmindedly looked across to the car that had pulled alongside him at the traffic lights. There was no mistaking whose car it was, though the windows were tinted so dark there was no way of confirming who was driving. A top-of-the-range custom-coloured metallic tan Bentley – there was only one person with a car like that.

  Wilfred Day.

  The driver was probably looking straight at him, but there was no way he could tell for sure. So Duncan smiled like an idiot anyway and wiggled his fingers in a casual wave just to be the friendly cop he was – and annoy the hell out of whoever was at the wheel. The passenger window of the Bentley rolled down smoothly, and the driver leaned across the empty seat in an effort to talk to Duncan.

  It was the man himself.

  “Pleasant morning, isn’t it? A slight nip in the air, but at least the rain has gone.” Wilfred Day smiled broadly. His face wasn’t so much handsome as striking. His jaw was strong, his eyes as blue as could be, and he had a perfect set of teeth that were currently being displayed in all their chemically whitened glory. Maybe GQ had finished their photo shoot with him early.

  “Morning, Wilfred. What gets you up so early on a school day? Or are you just going home?”

  “Early bird and all. Early bird.” He flashed a smile again and revved his engine, yelling “Have a fantastic day!” as the lights changed and he drove off. Duncan watched as Wilfred accelerated out in front of him. A car tooted behind him so Duncan pulled away too. Day’s rear lights were already pinpricks of red in the distance.

  “And the second mouse gets the cheese, my friend. Second mouse,” he mumbled. “Fantastic day,” with its play on his surname, was something the man said to amuse himself, and it always grated on Duncan. The fact that Wilfred Day had managed to stay out of jail stuck in the craw of the GMP in general, and many had taken him on in an attempt to be the local hero in law enforcement, but the egg continued to slip around the fry pan.

  “One day, Day. It won’t be so fantastic, then. Well, not for you at any rate,” he mumbled. Duncan had fantasized about what he’d say to the man when the law finally caught up with him and he was sent down, because he did believe it was only a matter of time. As his mental scenario went, he’d walk up to him in the courtroom before he was led away and tell him ‘The day is done.’ It was so poetic, so eloquent in its simplicity. All Duncan needed now was the occasion. The right day.

  He turned into Grindlow Street; the station was just in front of him. The area was still quiet, with only a handful of people out walking dogs. Rochelle’s bike wasn’t parked in its usual corner, but Rick’s BMW was in his usual spot. Duncan pulled into a space himself, then headed indoors. Rick was talking to a uniform in the doorway.

  “Hello, early bird.” Rick gave him a friendly slap on his back as he spoke.

  “Morning, Rick. You’re extra exuberant this morning, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, just good to see you back, and glad your little family is all safe and sound, too. A bit of a stressful day, I’d imagine.”

  “You could say that, yeah.”

  They both headed into the building and towards the canteen. Coffee first. Always. They placed their orders and then grabbed a seat to wait.

  “I popped back last night when the girls had gone to bed, caught up with Rochelle. Still no news on the two missing children, I hear. That’s not good.”

  Two mugs of steaming coffee arrived and they each sipped in silence for a moment or two. Children who went missing were rarely found alive so many hours after their disappearance. It was one of the hardest things for officers to deal with, one of the worst parts of the job. They both knew that some point, probably soon, their task would turn from rescue recovery, and the grief of informing next of kin. A hateful task, but one that had to be done nonetheless.

  “No, absolutely it’s not, but with such a lack of leads to go on, I’m doubtful we’ll bring them home anytime soon. Though I’m praying for the opposite, just like you are.” Changing the subject, Rick asked, “Are you still out tactical training next week, or has that been postponed?”

  “No. As far as I’m aware, it’s still on. I’m actually looking forward to seeing the fake town they’ve built. From what I’ve seen the riot set-up is pretty realistic, and the rent-a-mobs are pretty realistic too. Why do you ask?”

  “Remember DS Amanda Lacey from Croydon?”

  The blonde one, yes. She put away that woman who collected human hunting trophies. Quite a tough cookie, I remember. Why?”

  “I spoke to her yesterday while you were out. Seems they might have a prescription opioid issue developing. She found evidence, little packets that tested for codeine and oxy, by a mobile food truck down there, and guess whose name came up with a bit of a dig?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Wilfred Day. Loosely on a company trace, but still, here he is popping up yet again.”

  “I saw him on the drive in, all bright and breezy,” said Duncan. “The guy will get his day, and I’ll get my day to say told you so. One day.” He smiled at his own weak joke. “Poetic, don’t you think? I can’t wait to deliver it to the arrogant git.”

  “Well, if Lacey has something going on down there, you never know your luck – Day might slip up. So, my point is this: why don’t you pop in while you’re passing on your way down to training? It might be worth an hour’s detour; buy her dinner or something.” Duncan thought for a moment. If Day was moving his operation south into new unchartered territory, he might indeed slip up somehow. And either he or Lacey could be the one to catch him if he fell.

  “I’ll give her a buzz now.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Jack was looking expectantly at the coffee machine once again, and Amanda was trying not to notice and smirk. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had the practice; he’d had plenty, but for some reason unknown to humanity, he struggled with the concept of water, capsule and milk. And the relevant buttons. One day, he’d grasp it, she was sure, but until that distant day, it was invariably quicker and less painful all round to make him a mug when she made her own. Shaking her head, she quietly made her way across and picked up a clean mug.

  “Great idea, Jack. I think I’ll have another.”

  With a thankful sideways glance, he allowed her in, pretending to be gallant with a wave of his hand for her to go first. She took the hint and the machine fizzed and spluttered into life, dark liquid filling her mug.

  “What can I make you, Jack?” She held out her hand for his mug while hers finished brewing.

  “I’ll have a trim macchiato with sprinkles, please,” he teased.

  “Coffee with milk coming right up.”

  He had the same every day, every time.

  “Just had a call from Manchester, from DS Duncan Riley,” she said as Jack’s coffee brewed. “He’s coming down our way for tactical training, so he said he’d drop in. He’s quite clued up on Wilfred Day by all accounts, so I said we’d take him out for dinner, a curry
or something. You up for that? He seemed a decent sort. And it would be good to pick his brains on what’s happening up his way.”

  “Always up for a curry, you know me. Or Chinese. I don’t mind. It’s a shame Wong’s don’t have seating. We could treat him to crispy pork balls. Or we could take it back to your place?”

  “Probably not while the house is in decorating turmoil. I’ll organize a table some place. He won’t be in a flash hotel, so he’ll welcome the dinner date rather than a garage sandwich in his room, I should imagine.”

  “How much is there to know about Wilfred Day – any idea?” Jack asked as they headed back to their desks. Jack’s was a mass of manila files and paperwork, with barely enough space to put his mug down freely. Amanda’s, in contrast, was exactly the opposite. They say opposites attract, and that’s why they worked together so well. He was the milk for her cereal; she was the mug for his coffee – metaphorically speaking. His seat groaned again as he sat, letting it swivel slightly to one side and back again as he sipped from his mug. He looked deep in thought, miles away.

  “Duncan is very familiar with him by all accounts,” Amanda said. “Day sounds like a special sort of character from what I know of him already, a real charmer. Seems he’s a new breed of gangster, a new generation, less thug and more brains and a good technological fit for twenty-first-century crime. Like we talked about, even prostitutes have moved more online now, away from the drafty doorways, so it follows that pimps and drug lords have done the same. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the prozzies are GPS tracked by their pimps now, maybe even timed. Check the customer in and check them back out again, like some sort of productivity tool almost. If they’re holed up in a flat, say, how many paying customers could you get through in one night if they don’t have to stand on street corners and the client comes to them in their room? That could be big money for some – pimps and solos.”

  “You reckon there is such a thing?” Jack asked. “Is nothing exempt from the clock? Not even getting your leg over?”

  “It’s business. No matter what the service, it’s a business and time is money. And technology comes to us all eventually, Jack, even you.”

  “Having a dig, are we, Lacey? I didn’t do too bad when I was ailing in hospital and you wanted me to delve into the dark web. I found what we were looking for, didn’t I?” Jack mock-buffed his nails, looking chuffed with himself. His nails were looking neater, Amanda noticed, since Mrs. Stewart had taken him under her wing.

  “I’ll give you that one, and I’ll be sure and hit you up when we need more dark web research done. You’ll be the man,” she said with gusto and a smile. “If only we could get you to master the coffee machine…”

  “Cheeky – watch it,” admonished Jack. “Well, with that in mind, maybe I should take another snoop around, do a bit more on prescription meds and see how they are being traded, see where I end up. I’ve still got that old laptop Ruth gave me, too.” He looked thoughtful as he added, “In fact, that’s a great idea, Jack. I’ll do it later.” He slapped himself on the back and swung his seat round to face his desk, conversation over.

  “Good plan, Jack,’ Amanda said. “Meanwhile, while you’re playing Inspector Clouseau with a piece of apple pie on your side table and Bake Off on the TV, remember me hard at it decorating, will you? I know which I’d rather be doing.” Amanda groaned inwardly at the thought of physical hard work after a day of mentally tough work. She wasn’t meant for physical work; her body didn’t appreciate it. A slice of pie and the TV sounded more than appealing. “Right, then. I’ll book us a table at Chat House. Will that do for you?” But Jack was engrossed in something on his screen so Amanda carried on talking to herself, her words falling on distracted ears. “Yes, okay, Amanda, you do that. Seven p.m. work for you?” she mocked. Since she was having both sides of the conversation, she turned her head to the other side to await the reply. “Perfect, Jack. Got to love a good Jalfrezi.” She turned her head again in reply. “That you do.”

  Amanda picked up the phone and booked them a table. Seven o’clock it was, then.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It couldn’t be that hard to do, could it?

  Luke had built web pages before, but he’d never had to host them on a secret server – a server on the dark web. From his quick search, he’d found there were plenty of tutorials, YouTube videos even, informing newbies how easy it was to host a page anonymously. It didn’t seem to be much more than using hidden ports and directories. While Luke wasn’t a tech whizz in this space, he knew enough to put together what he needed without having to ask for help. Asking someone for help would set alarm bells off.

  He got to work creating, making the simple site look businesslike without being sinister, and three hours later he was ready to launch their temporary business venture into what felt like outer space, the big black unknown, another world. His finger hovered over the return key. When he pressed it, the site would be launched and there would be no turning back. Once it was out there, they were in business.

  He pulled his finger away from the key without pressing it and sat back in the chair, thinking. Really? Was he really willing to kill for a few thousand pounds? Would he really be able to snuff out someone’s life because he’d been paid for the task? Who the hell was he?

  A hired assassin, that’s who.

  But he knew flipping burgers or scrubbing floors was not going to get them where they wanted to be. No, he couldn’t see another way. Luke pressed return and waited for a confirmation message on his screen. When it eventually came, he sat and stared at it. He’d actually done it. His stall was set up and ready to go. Now it was a case of waiting and finding the next item on the list for the plan to take shape – the weapon. He texted Clinton, just one line to tell him they were now live. Then he closed his laptop and headed for the bathroom to mull over what he’d done in a hot bath. It was the next best thing to going down the pub with no money in his pocket.

  The soak had in fact been fruitful. While he’d lain there steaming and thinking, his old friend Tommy had popped into his head. He’d been at school with Luke, but he’d lived on the other side of the tracks in North Kensington, a rougher part of town and nowhere near the Kensington that was famously fashionable. Trendy, suburban, movie-worthy Notting Hill, where Luke currently lived with his parents, was the meat in the town sandwich, slap bang in the middle. North Kensington was mainly mid- to high-rise blocks of estate flats where the tough kids at school lived, a place he’d only ever been once before, and a place he hadn’t had the desire to go back to, either. His father had joked that the dogs went out in twos for safety, it had been that bad. No, his friends were not the same crowd, apart from Tommy, that was. Luke had grown up in greenery, among three-story houses, each with a reasonable car out front and white-collar parents inside, though his own parents had fought to keep up appearances. They’d struggled at times to give him the education and life they wanted for him, and while he appreciated it now, as a young, independent man, he’d no clue. Until that day that Tommy had taken him to his home on the Lancaster estate.

  Tommy had been a bit of an oddball friend, and Luke had been drawn to him even though he was so different from all his other mates. He had a real mischief about him, though he rarely got in any real trouble because his cheeky personality found him a way out. It seemed everyone liked Tommy. With blue NHS-issued plastic glasses, he was the butt of many jokes, but he brushed them off like the cat hair on his T-shirt. He had a toughness about him that wasn’t sharp like the thugs that lived by him. He’d meant no harm to anyone, but loved the attention his personality afforded him.

  Looking back now, Luke realized Tommy was probably starved of guidance and attention and could well have morphed into a rich life of poor crime without support. Their paths had separated when Tommy’s mother had died suddenly and he was sent away to live with an aunt up north; his father was already in prison. Whatever had happened to Tommy after that Luke had no idea. Neither boy had been big on wr
iting letters, and there were no mobile phones back then. Luke wondered if Tommy was in prison himself now, like father like son, or if he was thriving somewhere, with a family of his own maybe, successful in a business of his own.

  He thought back to a pub they had tried to get into; North Pole it had been called back then. They’d both sneaked in pretending to be part of a group of four men that had entered at the same time, hiding behind them in a vain attempt to gain their first taste of beer. They’d been rumbled almost immediately but one of the men, the youngest, Luke remembered, had bought them a half pint between them, admiring the two lads for their ingenuity and guffawing that it wouldn’t hurt to try it. In a place such as the Pole, the landlord had turned a blind eye; two boys sipping half a pint between them in the corner were no big deal compared to the other activities that went on in the place. The police busted the dingy premises on a regular basis; fighting with broken bottles was the norm and whatever substance a desperate man desired was available in the toilets. Other desperate people took part in even more desperate acts in those same toilets.

  Blind eyes indeed, Luke thought. Nobody had known anything about anything.

  Luke wondered about Tommy. There was always Facebook to find him.

  As for the pub? There was one way to find out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  It was cold and clear as Luke stepped outside. Pulling his collar up high and his hat down low, he rammed his gloved hands into his coat pockets and set off towards the bus stop, destination North Kensington and the Pole. It all seemed a bit surreal, knowing what he was trying to accomplish on his own with no experience in the line of work he’d volunteered himself for. It could all go terribly wrong, sure, but if he thought it through, planned it meticulously and practiced privately, he was educated and smart enough to pull it off. Criminals got caught because they didn’t plan enough or were a bit thick, he reasoned. That’s why they were criminals – it was their fall-back career. The successful ones were the men and women at the top, the drug lords, the modern-day gangsters, high-rolling madams. They played a different game, a game of strategy like inflated Monopoly, with huge stakes and obscene amounts of money.