Gun For Hire

by Thomas Waugh

  “Busy, as you can see. If I have to put up another piece of tinsel I might hang myself with it. Thankfully everything’s done now. How have you been?”

  “I’ve been busy doing nothing — working my way through the pub’s selection of guest Christmas ales,” Devlin (half) joked. The assassin had explained away his lifestyle and lack of a job by saying that he lived off some good investments he made after leaving the army.

  The sound was on mute but the news was on a small television at the end of the counter. A rosy-cheeked reporter was standing outside Martin Pound’s house in Chiswick. A flurry of scrolling captions – and pictures of a tearful family – told the story.

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Emma remarked, her face creased in sympathy.

  “I must confess I find it difficult to mourn the death of a politician.”

  “No, I meant that it’s sad for the family. Those children are now going to grow up without a father.”

  Devlin was going to reply that he had grown up without a father – and that it never did him any harm. But he refrained from saying anything. He felt somehow aggrieved that she was taking his victim’s side over him. Violet, having finished her chew, jumped up at Devlin and licked his hand – but he failed to notice or respond. Sensing his awkwardness Emma decided to change the subject.

  “Will you be popping in to the Nelson this evening?” she said, making reference to the apartment block’s local pub, The Admiral Nelson.

  “Probably. And you?”

  “Definitely. My father’s Irish. I’m beginning to think that I’ve inherited his tolerance – and addiction – to alcohol,” Emma joked.

  Devlin and Emma had met each other several times in the Nelson before. The first occasion had been on a sort of date, when he had realised that the florist was also a neighbour. They spent a long night together, over several drinks, talking about his time as a soldier, her plans for the shop and their favourite novels. Neither could remember the last time they had laughed so much. He enjoyed her company. But Devlin had made a promise to his dead wife that he would never fall in love or marry again. A sacred promise. Devlin felt guilty, feeling something for Emma. He couldn’t just sleep with the florist and creep out before dawn, never to see her again. He didn’t want to hurt her, promise something that he could never deliver on. And so they remained just friends, as much as Emma often signalled that she wanted more.

  “I’ve got your flowers ready,” Emma said, handing him the bunch of lilies.

  “Thanks.”

  As he cradled the flowers Devlin noticed the copy of the book she had been reading. He wanted to say something. But didn’t.

  Emma craned her head and stared through a gap in her festive window display in order to watch Devlin walk across the square. Her face was creased in scrutiny. He was a puzzle — and she still couldn’t put all the pieces together. Devlin sometimes told funny anecdotes about his time as a soldier, or spoke about military history, but what had he seen and done in the war? Had he killed anyone? She admired Devlin – and was attracted to him all the more – for still being devoted to his wife. He was being faithful to her, even in death. Most men are seldom faithful to their spouses when they are alive. But, even though she knew it was irrational and unkind, Emma resented Devlin’s late wife for still having a hold over him.

  Emma turned up the television in an attempt to stop thinking about him. The victim’s wife was speaking.“This was no accident. The person behind my husband’s murder will be brought to justice,” Virginia Pound was declaring. Her face was a picture of disdain and determination as she glared straight down the barrel of the camera lens – and Emma fancied that she wouldn’t have liked to be in the shoes of the killer right now.

  Chapter 5

  “That fuckin’ ponce… Stupid fuckin’ bitch… We can’t be seen to be connected with this,” George Parker spat, as he looked up at the television. The career criminal was sitting opposite his younger brother, Byron, in an Italian café they owned in Shoreditch. The café was closed whilst the owners discussed business. Two heavy set men, one white and one black, stood bouncer-like at the door, out of earshot. Jason and Leighton served as bodyguards, as well as drivers, to the Parker brothers.

  The ceiling was yellow from the eatery’s pre-smoking-ban days. Black and white photos of Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida and Anita Ekberg livened up the sepia-tinged wallpaper. A signed colour photo of Trevor Brooking took pride of place on the counter, next to the flapjacks. The smell of bacon wafted through the establishment from where George Parker had ordered the manager to make him a sandwich. “And I want a proper bacon sandwich, with brown sauce. On white bread. None of your ciabatta or panini shit.”

  George Parker’s flat, triangular face was shaped like an iron. He was a monster of a man, standing over six foot tall. An alloy of muscle and fat. His upper body was all shoulders and no neck. His nose had been broken on numerous occasions and zig-zagged across his face like a bolt of lightning. The fifty year old gangster’s left eye was permanently bloodshot. Chubby, scarred fingers dripped with jewellery. A chunky, bejewelled Rolex jangled on his wrist. He was the eldest son of the notorious gangster, Ivan (“The Terrible”) Parker, and was part Irish, part Jewish and part Cockney. George Parker had had blood on his hands from an early age. He had broken his first jaw at fifteen and first kneecap at seventeen. At least nobody could accuse the gnarled-faced enforcer of breaking hearts. He liked to dominate women in and out of bed. Sex was an animalistic act for the Viagra-taking ex-boxer. Romance for George Parker was giving his wife or mistress his credit card and telling them to go out and buy something pretty. He demanded his wife remain faithful, whilst she turned a blind eye to his own infidelities – which included bedding his sister-in-law.

  George Parker enjoyed having a good time. He called himself a larger than life figure and claimed that the crime writer Martina Cole had based a number of her main characters on him. He wore loud, shiny suits like those of talentless chat show hosts and overpaid footballers. He owned a yellow Rolls Royce, metallic blue Porsche Cayenne and white Jaguar XF. Not to be outdone by any Russian oligarch in Hampstead he had recently added several subterranean floors to his main house in Chislehurst. The property now possessed a snooker room, cinema and space dedicated to various pieces of West Ham memorabilia. George Parker had more money than sense – or taste.

  George Parker had stood trial on two charges for murder, but had been acquitted. His first wife had been the bottle blonde actress, Shirley Dobbs, who the Radio Times once described as being like ‘Barbara Windsor – but without the talent’. He had been shot three separate times over the years, but had survived. The last shooting incident involved his third wife firing a gun at him – but she only shot him in the leg. “God or my old man must be looking after me, bless his wicked soul,” George had explained to the cameras outside Old Brompton Road hospital, after the shooting.

  George and Byron Parker had business interests in central, east and south-east London. They had inherited a criminal empire from their father which revolved around drugs, prostitution, extortion and racketeering. Intimidation and violence were standard business practises. George Parker longed for the good old days, when he had driven around London with his father in his silver Bentley. There was no high like the adrenalin kick of power and violence – of drawing blood. George could scarce recall a year in his life when he hadn’t killed a man, either with his bare hands or with the pearl-handled Browning pistol he carried with him at all times.

  George still regularly frequented the clubs and restaurants of his youth (which he now co-owned with his brother). He had any new girl his escort agency hired sent to him first. He liked to test drive them. Drink lubricated his life and the former heavyweight champion of south-east London could never quite deliver a knock-out blow to his cocaine and gambling habits.

  Byron Parker on the other hand, felt he needed double the patience and prudence of ordinary mortals to compensate for his elder sibling’s foolhardine
ss. Few would have picked the two men sitting around the table as brothers. They were like chalk and cheese in dress, manner and build. Byron Parker looked like an accountant. His build was slight. His head was narrow, coffin-shaped. An often plaintive expression hung beneath a crop of thick black hair, flecked with grey. His suit was tailored, his nails manicured. He wore an elegant, antique Patek Philippe watch. Oliver Porter thought that his wire-framed glasses made him look like Heinrich Himmler.

  Whereas George Parker liked to reminisce and yearned for a lost past Byron Parker focused upon the present and future. He had transformed his father’s empire. Bettered it. The old revenue streams were drying up (and the Chinese and Eastern Europeans had cornered some markets due to the use of slave labour). It was now more profitable to rent out rooms in Soho to start-up tech companies than to use the spaces as brothels. Shoreditch had become similarly gentrified. The once grotty corner of London was now filled with Mummy- and Daddy-funded graduates who spent their working day – and leisure time – on Facebook and twitter. Pubs had turned into coffee shops or, equally hideously, gastro pubs. The new residents lauded the diversity of the area. Even after they moved out of London so that they could send their children to schools containing other nice, white, middle-class children they still spoke about their time living in East London as though it were a badge of honour or virtue. George Parker lamented some of the things the area had lost but he was compensated by the rise in rents and house prices. Various nightclubs and restaurants they owned in Shoreditch were proving worthwhile assets, and not just because they could be used to launder money. The Parker brothers made more money, legally, through their investments in the London property market than they did selling drugs nowadays. Their greatest enemy was the taxman and the rise in interest rates.

  As Byron Parker grew ever more ‘legitimate’ his ambition grew to move in different, rarefied, circles. He had contacted Oliver Porter not just to resolve the problem of the loose-lipped politician. Porter could introduce him to the right people, facilitate memberships to the right clubs. He wanted his children to attend the best schools. His son would be a banker, not a criminal. Money could buy the finer things in life. Better food. Better clothes. Better friends. A good life was a prosperous life. He was fiercely loyal to his business partner, but Byron had out-grown the grunts and curses which served as conversation for his brother.

  Byron Parker sat with a double espresso, a piece of biscotti and copy of The Financial Times in front of him. He obsessively straightened the cutlery on his side of the table. “Let’s find out what is happening first, before we react in earnest. We have the necessary contacts with the police in the area to find out what the wife knows or doesn’t know.”

  “We should have never have used that spiv of yours to get rid of Pound. We should have used our own people. I could have fuckin’ put a knife in his chest for nothing. Why couldn’t he just pay up? Silly bastard thought he was something special, threatening to blackmail us if we didn’t write off his debts. Fucking politicians. Whores are more trustworthy. I’m not sure I trust this Porter friend of yours, either. He can use what he knows as leverage over us. And what do we know about the doer he used to take out Pound? Can we trust him? I don’t want some bastard crawling out of the woodwork in a week’s time, looking to exploit a situation.”

  Byron Parker subtly moved his plate away from the flecks of spittle which had shot out of his brother’s mouth and landed on the table. His expression was pinched. He disapproved of his brother’s ignorance and base manner – and he also felt that, behind his criticism of Porter, his business partner was criticising the way he had dealt with things.

  “Porter’s not to blame. And the job was carried out professionally. If it looks like we might be exposed in any way then we’ll cross, or burn, that bridge when we come to it. Let’s just find out what the wife knows first.”

  George Parker grunted in reply. Come what may he would take care of business.

  Chapter 6

  The cold numbed Devlin’s face. He wished that it could numb his thoughts as well. Some of the newer recruits in Helmand had described the paratrooper as having ice in his veins, such was his coolness under fire and lack of remorse in killing the Taliban. But Devlin aspired to have nothing running through him, ice or fire. He envied the marble statues populating the cemetery. They didn’t do harm to anyone and no harm came to them.

  Low, leaden clouds besmirched the sky. Before him was a sea of grey and black headstones, occasionally pockmarked by the odd bouquet of flowers. Devlin walked quickly along one of the gravel paths in Garrett Lane cemetery, towards his late wife’s grave. The army encouraged speed, efficiency – to be better than the enemy and civilians. Devlin had shaved that morning and polished his shoes as if he were attending a parade ground inspection.

  Devlin bent down and pulled up the weeds upon the patch of grass around his wife’s grave before placing the lilies next to the headstone. He used a handkerchief to wipe away the tiny flecks of mud on the classically-designed black, marble stone. Devlin read again the lines from Coleridge. Love and sorrow welled up in his chest.

  “To be beloved is all I need

  And whom I love I love indeed.”

  His loneliness seared, piercing his numbness. He wanted to tilt his head up to heaven and roar, have his body crack and crumble like a statue. The injustice of her death eclipsed any crime he may have committed, he believed. I’m more sinned against than sinning. Devlin’s heart felt so heavy that he could have sunk into the sodden turf beneath his feet.

  The sound of footsteps on the gravel attracted his attention. An old man shuffled by. His hair was snow-white, his expression glum and sunken. His skin seemed so powdery that Devlin feared a strong gust of wind might blow his features away. Both men nodded to one another and forced a perfunctory smile. The old man had put on his best suit too (which was now several sizes too big). Time and life had diminished him. No doubt he was a widower as well. Both men shared a similar haunted gaze, their eyes and souls hollowed out. Devlin experienced a strange presentiment of his future self. The hunched-over old man, wounded by the loss of his wife, was not long for the world. The young widower envied his elder. The thought of death brought a sense of consolation to the soldier. Devlin’s face broke out in a sprained smile as he remembered a quote from Walt Whitman: “To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”

  *

  Oliver Porter allowed his wife to sleep in. He made breakfast for his children and drove them to school in his recently bought Range Rover. Porter cherished his time with his children. Although not immune to bouts of selfishness and spite they were on the whole good-natured and contented. He was not making the same mistakes his father had made with him (which was not to say he wasn’t making his own mistakes). During the thirty minute drive to their ferociously expensive school he asked them about their homework and what they would like to buy their mum and grandparents for Christmas. Porter was relieved – and enthused – to be back home. To be back to some kind of normality. A home cooked dinner by his wife and evening spent playing Risk or chess with his children was worth a hundred dinners at The Ivy. The routines of domestic life gave the ex-Guards officer structure. The mundane and familiar enriched his soul.

  On his way home Porter stopped off at the village to order the goose and gammon for Christmas, from his local butcher. He also popped into the art shop and picked up two watercolours he had ordered, painted by a young local artist (the daughter of his postman). Porter’s final visit was to the parish church, where he made a generous donation to the Christmas fund which provided food parcels for the elderly over the holidays. As much as the fixer liked to make money he also enjoyed spending it – and not necessarily on himself. Wealth is a great enabler of generosity.

  The Range Rover crunched across the drive. The vision of his six bedroom Georgian house — its russet brickwork glowing in the pale sunlight — was a sight for sore eyes. The property was one of the most sought afte
r in the area. On more than one occasion Porter had turned down exorbitant sums of money (from agents acting for football players, stand-up comedians and disc jockeys alike – the veritable royalty of the age) in offers to buy the house. They had moved in just over a decade ago. His wife had transformed the garden all by herself — and she, far more than him, was responsible for the much admired décor of the property. A large “shed” at the bottom of the garden served as Porter’s office. The wooden outbuilding had its own specially adapted internet and phone connection, and a keypad lock prevented him from being disturbed. The domain was out of bounds to his children and even his wife. Work and family life needed to be kept separate, for various reasons.

  A cup of tea and a bacon sandwich were waiting for him in the kitchen, as was his wife, when Porter got back home. Victoria was seven years younger than her husband. She was blonde, statuesque and well-bred but owned a healthy, broad sense of humour which allowed her to laugh at most things, including herself. She enjoyed the finer things in life but had enough character not to be a slave to them. Her family and interests (gardening, painting, charity work, shopping) kept her engaged and contented. Victoria was patient and understanding about Oliver’s frequent periods away from home. She rarely asked about his work because, deep down, she didn’t want to know the answers. Oliver had first met Victoria at a function for his regiment. She was the daughter of a brigadier. Both believed they had found themselves a catch and, within a year, they were married. Although some fellow officers called their barracks home Porter chose to take early retirement because he wanted to make a real home, with Victoria and his children.

  Victoria switched on the news. The breaking story, that Virginia Pound had possible evidence proving that her husband’s death was not the result of a mugging which had gone wrong, dominated the headlines. Victoria saw her husband’s eyes harden and nostrils flare in what was, for Oliver, a disquieting expression. He pursed his lips — clamping his mouth shut for fear of betraying his raw anger and frustration.