by J M Gregson
Oliver said nothing out of place, as befitted a new member. He offered no opinions on politics or religion, even when the talk turned to the challenge of Militant Muslimism, a hot topic in a town where a quarter of the population was now Asian. He smiled when any of his companions said anything humorous, but the small movement of the lips on the square, expressionless face scarcely constituted mirth. There was certainly no sign of amusement in the very pale blue of eyes, which seemed too small for that large face.
Just before he left the club, he asked the captain about his chosen charity. ‘It’s the Brunton Hospice,’ the captain said. ‘They do wonderful work and they’re always short of funds. But you don’t owe anything: you won our match.’
Ketley’s thin lips tightened again into his small, humourless grin. He produced his cheque book. He said nothing as he wrote, then stared at the cheque for a moment before he signed with a flourish. ‘I agree that it’s a wonderful cause. Please add this to your gift fund. I’d rather the source remained anonymous.’ He handed over a cheque for two thousand pounds, waved aside the effusive reaction, and prepared to leave the club. News of his generosity would get out, despite his request. In his experience, people could never keep completely quiet about gifts, if they were large enough.
From a much noisier table on the other side of the busy golf-club lounge, Oliver Ketley’s every movement and reaction were carefully noted. Beneath the bald head with its fringe of black hair, the darkly glittering eyes of Percy Peach were studying his man.
Oliver Ketley’s greatest rival did not play golf. In the office behind his Manchester casino, Jack Burgess sat with Geoffrey Day and awaited the arrival of a third man. Whilst Ketley was taking his exercise, the workaholic Burgess was furthering his interests. Jack liked that idea. He liked the thought that it was his industry which had taken him ahead of his rivals, which would presently enable him to overtake Ketley.
Saturday was a busy day in the new casino, which stretched across the extensive floor of a converted mill. In a few hours’ time, garish neon lighting outside would be beckoning the punters inside and roulette wheels would be spinning to make money for the owner, as cotton looms had once done in this city they had called Cottonopolis. But at the moment all was quiet. There was the faint sound of vacuum cleaners at work on the carpets of the big room where the public squandered its money, but no other activity.
Burgess looked at his watch. ‘Better get down to the back door, Geoff. Bring the man straight up here.’
Day nodded. They had offered to meet him at his own place, but he hadn’t wanted them there, hadn’t wanted any visitors which might give watching eyes a clue about the work he did. He would come to the back door of the casino at the time he had arranged. Crowded cities were a much better cover for him. He felt happier with crowds around. If you wanted to survive in his trade, you took every possible precaution.
He was beside Geoff Day before Day saw him, even though he was watching for him at the back door of the casino. The man was fit and wiry, without a surplus ounce of fat on him. His eyes were set deep in his gaunt face, making him seem at first glance ill, almost as if he might be suffering from some terminal disease. He would have attended to that if he’d known it, as he would have anything which made him other than ordinary. Anonymity was his cloak and he had become almost paranoid in his search for it. He looked up and down the narrow street behind the casino, then followed Day into the building.
‘Mr French to see you, sir,’ said Day. He shut the door carefully behind the visitor and moved away from the room. You accorded a contract killer the respect of a ‘Mr’ and a private audience. You moved away whilst the boss negotiated the hire of his services. George French wasn’t alone in thinking that the fewer people who knew about his business the better. If things went wrong, which of course they wouldn’t, it was much better that you knew nothing about whatever sinister bargain had been concluded.
In the small, very warm room Day had left, hirer and the putative hired sat down opposite each other. French slid his anorak off his shoulders and on to the back of his chair and Burgess nodded and smiled. It was almost two years since he had last seen French, but he didn’t shake his hand. He ignored the man’s sallow cheeks and the dark patches beneath his eyes. ‘You’re looking well, George. And prosperous, I trust.’
‘Well enough.’ The speed with which his answering smile appeared and disappeared showed how awkward he felt with such pleasantries. ‘You want a job done, or I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You’re right. I do.’
‘Twenty thou in advance. Twenty thou on completion.’
Some people shied away when they heard the price. The fair-haired man on the other side of the desk wouldn’t do that, but it was as well to agree the terms from the outset. Jack Burgess smiled, eased himself back in his chair for a moment; even with a job like this, he liked to pretend that as the employer he was in charge. He thought of producing the bottle of malt whisky from the cupboard behind him, then decided against it. French would certainly refuse and those who turned down expensive spirits always seemed to him to be asserting some subtle moral superiority. But moral wasn’t a word you should apply to this man’s trade.
‘This will be a big one, George.’
French was immediately wary. ‘Not a politician is it? I don’t do politicians or policemen. Backlash is too big.’
Burgess nodded. He approved of that. The attention the authorities would accord to such killings, with huge teams assembled and the search continuing for years if necessary, made murder the wrong solution. There were other methods of dealing with political enemies; you found their weaknesses, which were usually sexual, and then set them up for lurid exposure in the tabloids. Burgess appreciated the realism and the diligent preparation which made French the best in his trade. ‘This man isn’t a politician or a policeman, George.’
‘Then who is it?’ French didn’t like the use of his first name, which always made him feel patronized. But he wasn’t going to object to it, with a lucrative commission in the offing. He forced a wan smile. ‘You’d better tell me who you want to disappear.’ He always put it like that. Even the blackened souls who employed him sometimes shied away from words like murder.
‘Oliver Ketley.’
The bombshell was dropped quietly. French did not flinch, still less whistle, as the name sounded in his ears. Nevertheless, both men knew that it was a bombshell. A few seconds passed before French said. ‘Ketley’s different. I’m not saying impossible, I’m saying difficult. An extra ten k difficult.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘More danger for me. More preparation. Ketley has his own muscle – men who aren’t just enforcers but personal bodyguards. It wouldn’t be easy to get near you with Geoff Day and his buddies around you.’
Jack Burgess smiled again, ran a hand quickly through his rather untidy blond hair. What French said was true enough, but it was never mentioned. The comment from this cold, impersonal man he was about to employ was a reminder to him that even he was vulnerable, if someone should have the will and the resources to attack him. He said, ‘All right. I see the difficulty. Fifty k altogether, then; half in advance and half on delivery. When?’
‘You must leave that to me. This will need a lot of planning. I’ll need full detail of his movements, but I can get that. Have you got a deadline for this?’
‘No, but I don’t want it to drag on indefinitely.’
Or until Ketley decides you’re too dangerous, and hires me or someone like me to dispose of you, thought French. The thought amused him, but he allowed no trace of that to appear on his cadaverous features. ‘It won’t do that, but I’ll need the right opportunity. You don’t want a failure.’
‘And you want one even less.’ Burgess did allow himself a grim smile at that. Failure would mean death for the man sitting opposite him.
‘Exactly. That’s why I can’t give you a deadline. There are no near-misses allowed in this game; the only two res
ults are complete failure or complete success. I’ll need the opportunity and you can’t make that. But I’ll deliver, sooner rather than later. Hopefully within a month, but no promises.’
‘Fair enough. You’ll have twenty-five k within the next few days.’
‘In used notes.’
‘That’s no problem. This place takes in as much as that, on a good night.’
‘No further contact beyond that. The job will be done as soon as possible. Maybe days, more likely weeks.’
Now, at the last possible moment, they rose and shook hands, sealing their grim bargain. Geoffrey Day could not have been far away, for he appeared immediately when Burgess summoned him. George French left as swiftly and unobtrusively as he had arrived.
Jack Burgess sat very still in his office for a long time after he had gone. It was a big decision to take out Ketley. But once you had made the decision, it was good to have the money to employ the very best in the trade.
SIX
Luke Gannon was a year older than Eddie Barton. Eddie realized in retrospect that that was why he seized on Luke’s offer. Gannon had been a year ahead of him at the comp. He’d seemed big and strong then, the leader of his gang. Eddie had held him in awe at school, and it was some hangover from those days which made him go along with the scheme.
Luke wasn’t a close mate of Eddie’s, but he came over to him in the pub and asked how he was getting on with his recovery. They didn’t discuss how he’d got his injuries; from the effective local grapevine of the small-crime world, Gannon would know all about how he’d been damaged. Indeed, Eddie found that his wholly unsuccessful attempt to burgle Thorley Grange had marginally increased his standing. After all, it had been an audacious effort, and gunshot wounds always carried more kudos than a routine beating.
Luke Gannon discussed the patient’s state of recovery as if he were an anxious aunt. Then he said, ‘You won’t be climbing any drainpipes or clambering over any high walls for a while then, Eddie.’
The way he delivered this made it clear that it was something he had prepared in advance, so Eddie just grinned ruefully and waited for what would follow. Sure enough, Gannon, after a glance round the pub, said quietly, ‘I might be able to put an easy thing your way, if you’re interested. For old times’ sake, like.’
In all truth, there hadn’t been many old times, thought Eddie. He’d been too young to be in Luke’s gang at school and they hadn’t done any jobs together since then. He should have rejected the offer at the outset, because Luke wasn’t a good bet. He didn’t operate in the areas where Eddie had built up his expertise, and he’d already got a couple of convictions. To put it at its bluntest, Luke was thick. He wasn’t bright enough to foresee the difficulties in a job which Eddie would have seen immediately. That meant in turn that he didn’t do the careful preparations which had kept Eddie clear of the courts. But the hangover from school was stronger than Eddie realized at the time.
It was a simple enough proposition. They borrowed a van from Luke’s cousin. Then they drove it to the local golf club. They dressed in sweaters and respectable trousers – definitely not jeans, Luke said twice. This was because jeans were banned in golf clubs and they were going to pass themselves off as members. ‘But aren’t we too young for that?’ asked Eddie, who had never in his life set foot in such a place.
‘No. They have young ’uns like us. They even have lots of kids, nowadays. And they have so many members that no one knows ’em all.’
‘But they’ll have locks on the doors. We can’t just walk into the place.’
Luke smiled his most patronizing smile. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, mate! That’s just what we’re going to do. They have a security code system on the doors and you have to know the number to get in. The members have cards. But all we do is hang about by the door until someone comes out, then thank him and take the door from him. They just assume you’re another member – especially if they’re rushing out to get on the course.’
‘It can’t be as easy as that.’
‘It is, mate. Believe me. I’ve done three jobs like this before. Piece of piss, mate.’
This was where Eddie didn’t ask the right question. He should have suggested that people would be more ready for them, more aware of the danger, if Luke had pulled the stunt three times before. But Eddie had never attempted this sort of brazen, broad-daylight crime before. So all he did was ask lamely, ‘What happens when we get inside the place?’
‘We’re in the dressing rooms then. If there are people there, we nip into the bogs, come out when we can hear that everything’s quiet. You whip through their trousers then. You’ll be surprised how many of the daft buggers leave twenty or thirty pounds in there – even more, if you’re lucky. And there’s wallets and credit cards and the odd decent watch.’
‘Sounds a bit hit and miss.’
‘Nailed on piece of piss, mate.’ Luke Gannon wasn’t sensitive to mixed metaphors. ‘I agree that what you get from the trousers can vary, but what we’re really after is the sets of golf clubs. Thousand pounds new, some sets are.’
‘But we don’t get that for them.’
‘No mate, we don’t. But that’s where we’re well placed, see.’ Gannon looked round the pub again, leaned towards Eddie, then tapped the side of his nose with immense relish. He didn’t often get the chance to enlarge on the subtlety of his plans. ‘I’ve got this contact. We pass on all the golf gear fast as shit sliding off a shovel. You don’t get a big price, but you move the hot gear on fast.’
‘And how do we get these sets of clubs?’
Again the crafty, confidential grin. At this moment, Luke himself could hardly believe how clever he was. There’s wooden lockers all along the walls. Each with a set of clubs in. They’re locked, but I’ve got keys that will open most of them. If they don’t, you’ll find a ten-year-old could force them.’
He was so enthusiastic that Eddie had to force himself to ask the obvious question. ‘And what are the members doing while we’re pinching their gear?’
‘Out on the course enjoying their daft game, most of ’em, if we choose our time right. Course, the ones whose gear we pinch from the lockers aren’t there at all.’ He watched whilst Barton nodded dubiously. ‘You in, then?’
Eddie’s mind was screaming a no, telling him that it couldn’t be as easy as this and that Luke Gannon was far too confident for his own good. But he was grateful for the offer, even a little flattered to be considered.
So his lips said, ‘Go on then. I need the cash, don’t I?’
Greta Ketley conducted the affair with the utmost caution from the start. That was made easier by the fact that no one seemed to consider it possible that anyone would attempt to stray from the bed of Oliver Ketley. She rather enjoyed that thought, just as she enjoyed the enormity of her treachery. Greta was a woman who had discovered many years ago that she enjoyed danger. That was what had induced her to marry the strangely menacing Oliver Ketley, when both her friends and her saner instincts had told her that marriage to a man like him would be at best a foolish and perilous adventure.
It had proved in time to be just that. Greta had been thirty when she married Ketley twelve years ago. She had thought of herself as experienced and worldly-wise; in most senses she had been both of those. But she had retained one naivety which is common in most of her sex: she thought she could change the character of a man through love. Oliver might be a harsh and, from what she had heard, brutal man. But he would surely respond to her devotion and her loving kindness. Every man had a feminine side, they said; she believed that every man had at least a softer side, which would find free expression when a loving woman committed herself to him for the long term.
It had not proved so. Oliver kept her resolutely out of his affairs. She had learned after one or two fierce humiliations that she should not try to interfere with the way he made his money or the way he treated people. The last thing you wanted to be was an enemy of Oliver Ketley’s. She knew now that even a wif
e could become an enemy, if she tried to be more than bed-mate, ornament and hostess.
She could have jewellery and expensive holidays and all the clothes she wanted, so long as she expected not love but lust from him and chose not to see his frequent bedding of other women. She could furnish the big new house and what was left of the old one exactly as she wished, with expense no problem. Oliver would afford her a good life, with all the luxuries she fancied. But it would be strictly on his terms.
All of this Greta now understood. You learned more about yourself as well as others through experience, even when that experience was unpleasant. She knew that it would be highly dangerous to take a lover when you were married to Oliver Ketley. But she now knew also that she loved that very danger. What she missed in her comfortable, affluent life was the element of risk. She had failed to make a decent human being out of Oliver. The sex had been good, in the early days, until she realized that any supple female body would do for him and that she could not love an automaton, even a dangerous one. She would look for love and for danger somewhere else.
There were a number of glamorous young men who swam in and out of her orbit, because Ketley’s various business ventures involved a wide range of men. But most of them were far too careful of Ketley to risk a pass at his wife, or even to react to encouragements from her. Men were a foolish sex, but they were more realistic than women. When they measured the possible delights of secret meetings with Oliver’s indisputably bed-worthy wife against the retribution from Ketley, they decided against both. And Greta had her pride: she didn’t want a coward in her bed. What she really needed was a man who would appreciate danger as she did, a man for whom danger would add a unique element to lovemaking, as it did for her.
