Final Target

by E. V. Seymour

  ‘I travel a great deal,’ she began. ‘I often fly into Heathrow. Five years ago, I sat next to a girl on a flight from Jamaica. She was a mule.’

  I frowned as though I had no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘A mule carries drugs within her body. She swallows it, usually cocaine, in pellets contained in supposedly leak-proof latex.’

  I nodded for her to continue.

  ‘While on the flight I thought she seemed nervous, frightened really. She was perspiring a great deal and kept asking for water. Mid-flight, she became ill and told me that she was carrying eight packets of cocaine inside her.’ Simone took a deep swallow of brandy. I could see that it was not an easy tale to tell.

  ‘I told the cabin crew and, as she collapsed, they did all they could to save her, but she died,’ Simone continued, her voice suddenly small and grave. ‘She was nineteen years old and the best job she could get back home was the one that killed her.’

  Simone took another drink. ‘Since then, I’ve been on the lookout. I see it as my, how do you say,’ she frowned, ‘my personal duty, my crusade to seek out these women and persuade them to turn themselves in. These are women who have no other choices,’ she said, impassioned. ‘They are poor and desperate. Have you any idea how many women fly into London like this?’ She said it as a challenge – as though I, a mere man, had no idea of the suffering of women.

  I shook my head, sorry I’d asked. Someone like China Hayes would simply view this woman’s death as theft of merchandise, to hell with where the drugs finally fetched up, even if it was down a municipal toilet (because that’s how Customs ‘extract’ the drugs from mules) only to be then impounded by the police.

  ‘Does this answer your question?’

  Simone the Good Samaritan? I wasn’t so sure, but nodded with conviction.

  ‘So, Joe Nathan, my turn to ask. Who is China Hayes and what is your involvement?’

  As a man with plenty to hide, I could hardly tell her that I had ‘assassin’ on my CV, that I’d been asked to kill her, that I’d committed myself to a life of violence and had decided to go straight, only my past was dragging me back. Neither did I want her running away with the idea that I was an associate of a guy like China Hayes.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ I said.

  ‘What? You force your way into my room –’

  ‘You let me in,’ I protested with a cool smile.

  ‘… make these ridiculous allegations based on lies –’

  ‘Based on truth.’

  ‘And you don’t owe me an explanation?’ She drained her glass, got up and did that thing that women often do when they are mad. She put as much distance between us as humanly possible without venturing out onto the terrace, rested her back against the furthest wall, crossed her arms across her chest and glowered. Indignation personified.

  I got up and followed her. ‘Simone, darling.’

  ‘I am not your cherie.’

  I glanced away as if weighing up how much to disclose.

  Her foot gave an angry little stamp on the carpet. ‘You do not trust me.’

  No, I didn’t. I didn’t trust anyone.

  ‘I work in intelligence.’ Impossible for her to check, I thought it my best snap cover.

  Her mouth dropped open a little. Her shoulders relaxed. ‘You are not a dealer, a bad man?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ I took off my coat and jacket, pulled out my shirt and, undoing the buttons, slipped it off. She took a step forward and examined my freshly bandaged arm, my wounded status lending credence to the lie.

  ‘You are a spy?’ She broke into the broadest smile imaginable. ‘Like James Bond?’

  ‘Like James Bond,’ I grinned back.

  ‘In that case,’ she said, her fingers slowly tip-toeing across my chest. ‘You can take me to bed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I left before she woke up. I felt both used and abuser. Having sex with Simone felt plain wrong when I knew that McCallen was out there alone somewhere. As long as I stayed alive, dodged the bullet with my name on it, I stood a chance of finding her. I had less than twenty-four hours before I hooked up with Titus. I needed to give him something if I was to keep him off my back and I needed him off my case if I were to find McCallen.

  I crossed town in the pouring rain, wondering if she was wet and cold, if she was hungry and beaten, and how Lars Pallenberg fitted into the picture, if he’d been used as bait. I was looking at one story when there was another rotting narrative beneath. I had strands and events. It was clear to me now that China Hayes was working his own agenda while trying to stay alive, but nothing quite gelled in my mind. I needed McCallen. Our shared history with Billy Squeeze meant we were inextricably linked. We bled the same. She was the key and today I had to find her.

  I passed the watchmaker’s and turned as usual to greet him. He looked up, laid aside the timepiece he was working on, took the magnifier from his eye, climbed to his feet and tapped once on the window. I met his eye, nodded thanks, didn’t break stride.

  Cutting down a side street, I entered the back alley, walking on the balls of my feet past rear entrances and garages until I reached the back of my own house. The only way to get inside without a key was to vault the gate. Easy for a ten-stone burglar, not so easy for a fifteen-stone assassin. A scrap of cloth attached to the top spike told me that my intruder was heavy, athletic and determined.

  I unlocked the gate and slipped inside. The Z4 was parked in the carport where I’d last left it. It was pretty filthy, and any handprints would be easy to distinguish. There were none. Taking no chances, I stayed back, looked for tripwires, booby-traps, cables protruding from somewhere that couldn’t be explained. I moved in closer, dropped down on my haunches and checked each wheel for pressure switches – all clean. Next, I examined the underside. It was still possible that unlocking the car would trigger an explosion, that hidden trigger wires were secreted inside the doorframes or an electrical circuit trigger had been inserted into the steering column. I wasn’t going to open the car. Not yet. What had happened to Daragh Dwyer was not going to happen to me.

  Odds-on, my intruder banked on me coming home in the usual fashion, through the front entrance. If I were he, I’d be sitting at the rear, away from the window, in the living room, gun cocked, eye on the door. I had no idea how long he’d been there. He could have been waiting a couple of hours, all night, or a couple of days. I hoped he’d been there a long time. Boredom makes people restless, then lazy.

  Staying down low, I moved like a crab across the patch of grass that passed for a lawn. Rain had softened the edges, muffling my tread. The back door was double-locked, but as I’d anticipated, he’d shot through the bolts and shattered the wood and stupidly left spent cartridges as evidence of his crime. Not a pro then. I picked one up, sniffed it. Large calibre, recently ejected, it had travelled from something heavy, like a Smith and Wesson Magnum, and as Dirty Harry said probably the most powerful handgun in the world. Gunfire in Cheltenham is as rare as witches’ brew, the blare of sirens commonplace. A smart man would have timed his entry. I didn’t think he was that clever. This was no heavy-duty visit from the security services. More likely, a call from organised crime.

  I had two weapons at my disposal: surprise and knowledge, not much of a defence against a man armed with one of the most formidable revolvers there is.

  Undeterred, I sneaked in through the broken door, took a saucepan from the drainer, crossed the floor and moved up the two steps to the hall corridor and waited. It could have been my imagination, yet I was as sure as I could be that my contract killer was sitting on the other side of the wall in my best easy chair, feet apart, locked and loaded.

  I threw the pan high and hard. It soared through the air, smashing against the front door and dropped with a tremendous clatter. A figure shot out in front of me, his entire being focused on the entrance, his back to me. I launched myself at him, my right arm around and across his throat, my left hand clasping my righ
t to apply maximum pressure. Thin, penetrating pain in my left arm seared through my body, yet I hung on. I needed him alive and co-operative to find out who his paymaster was.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I shouted in his ear.

  His answer was to shift his weight and attempt to curve his body forward. I tightened my grip, repeated the question. Still he bucked and writhed, his strength convincing me that, at any moment, he would break my hold and I’d be finished.

  ‘Tell me!’ I yelled. A shot exploded from the gun and into the wall. The recoil was so strong it powered through his hand and up my left arm, the pain excruciating. ‘Was it one of Billy’s mates?’ I gasped.

  He smashed the barrel of the gun against my right arm to weaken my grasp. Still I clung on. My desire to talk did me no favours. His reluctance to oblige made me weak. Ironic that by trying to be good I made myself more vulnerable.

  Pumped up, he went for my left and wounded arm just as my survival instinct kicked in. No way was he going to utter a single word. Desolation swept over me as I realised that I had no choice.

  With one chance left, I had to be as accurate as powerful. Clamping my gloved hands both side of his neck, I exerted maximum force and twisted hard, heard the crack and thunder. As I let go, doubled over and retching, he tumbled to the floor.

  Adrenalin spiked my system. Nausea, in sickening waves, forced burning bile up and into the back of my throat. I hadn’t wanted to kill, but there’d been no alternative.

  Toeing the dead man over with my shoe revealed China Hayes’s attack dog, the goon who’d frisked me and punched me hard.

  It made no sense to me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I didn’t get it. Why send a man to do a job and, before he’s carried it out, send another to kill him?

  Unless China Hayes had lied about the threat to his life. I scratched my ear. Why would he do that? Then, like a clear view on a sunny day, it hit me between the eyes. China was coldly and cynically wiping out his competitors. Maybe he was also fabricating a Billy revenge story. No sooner than I thought it, my sunny view abruptly vanished. China knew nothing of McCallen’s existence, let alone her involvement in Billy’s death and, if he’d wanted to kill me, why didn’t he do it when he had the chance?

  Parking the why of it for now, I studied the goon lying dead on my relatively new hall carpet. Whatever his motivation, he lacked subtlety. This was no sophisticated contract killer. As hitmen went, he ranked in the Z list. Not that this made any difference to my situation. He’d left me with a monumental problem. How was I going to dispose of him?

  On top of that I was running out of time.

  When I bought the Z4 I had not factored in that I’d be transporting dead men in the boot. With a 180-litre luggage capacity, the car was effectively useless for this purpose. Renting a van would not work. Paperwork left a trail. I didn’t have time to steal one. Body disposal was not part of my local friendly builder’s repertoire but, I realised as inspiration struck, he had the right kind of vehicle.

  Crossing into the living room, I glanced out of the window. It was still sheeting with rain, which was good. It meant that Greg might have a van to spare. I slid out my phone and called him.

  ‘Yep?’ he said after ten rings.

  Against competing noise from a television or radio, I explained that I needed to borrow a van.

  ‘What for?’ he said.

  ‘Got to move a bed and other bits of furniture for a mate.’

  Greg sucked in air through his teeth, already framing a ‘no’ answer.

  ‘While you’re on,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a cracking little job for you and it’s inside work. Remember the student house in St Pauls? I want to put in a new bathroom and turn the cupboard downstairs into a cloakroom. Can you give me your best price?’

  ‘Erm … yeah, right you are. Do you want me to pop round?’

  ‘No rush. I’ll have to let the lads know first. Now, about the van?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, right. Today you said?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of business to attend to, but I can collect from yours in about an hour.’

  * * *

  The ‘bit of business’ took longer than intended. I arrived at Greg’s on foot, soaked through, and sweaty. Dead men weigh heavy. Heavy dead men are back breaking. It took me over half an hour to find enough thick polythene from a stash in the garden shed and wrap and roll him in it. I was right about the gun and, though it felt tempting to keep it, I decided to break it up and dispose of the pieces separately. Most likely it had a dirty history attached and I didn’t want to face the prospect of going down for a crime I hadn’t committed. For a moment I closed my eyes. Echoes from the past reverberated through the present.

  I collected the van, drove it around the back, opened both rear doors and manhandled my human cargo inside, sending up a cloud of cement dust. Looking around and checking I was alone, I closed the doors, jumped into the van and set off for Leckhampton Hill and the aptly named Deadman’s Quarry. I had never deliberately left a body out in the open before unless instructed to do so. (Some clients like to leave their calling cards as a warning.) I wasn’t delusional or seeking self-justification; taking a life was never a good idea. But now, it made me irritable and angry with myself. I wished I’d persuaded China’s man to talk. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.

  Around three in the afternoon, I got caught up in the school run and high-maintenance mothers in 4 x 4s taking over the roads like tank commanders. As I sat in a queue, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, my phone rang. I glanced at it. Simone. Not keen on getting picked up for a minor offence, I let it go to voicemail.

  Thirty minutes later I passed a distinctive architect-designed house and arrived at Salterley car park. Beyond this lay a farm. Other than these two buildings, it was remote, muddy and deserted. Rain continued to fall in large heavy drops from a sky fast turned to indigo. Only a fool would be out in weather like this. Or a killer.

  I waited another half an hour until it was fully dark before setting out on my grisly mission, the body hoisted fireman-style over my shoulder.

  Crouching on the left of the entrance to the car park there was a public footpath, more quagmire than path, which I followed. A walk, that in normal conditions would take fifteen minutes, was a test of endurance tonight.

  Wind whipped up from the north. My trousers flapped and my boots slipped and squelched in the sucking mud. Rain slammed into me, stinging my eyes and drenching my hair. My bad arm was on fire with pain. Trudging uphill along the Cotswold Way, my breath came in short, hard bursts. No moon, no stars, only dense, crushing cloud.

  A signpost marked ‘The Devil’s Chimney’ loomed out of the night. I took this path and turned right to the quarry, felt the earth beneath my boots turn to scree. Wind battered the land and at any and at any second I expected to be lifted off my feet and the two of us to be plunged down the one hundred and twenty foot cliff face.

  Eventually at a place I deemed suitable, I squatted down, dumped my load, and separated it from the plastic. Dragging the body as near as I dared to the vertiginously high ridge, I kicked the fully clothed corpse over the edge. A brief rush of air was followed by the dull thunk of flesh and bone meeting limestone. Perhaps a keen geologist examining the Jurassic formation of rock would find the man who slipped or, possibly, committed suicide. By the time an eagle-eyed pathologist established a murder had taken place, I’d have covered my tracks. By then I hoped to have solved the mystery of McCallen’s disappearance. I hoped to have found her.

  Dead or alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ Simone said simply.

  ‘Hey,’ I said.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m good. It’s been a busy day.’ An understatement. I’d returned the van and slipped the gun parts into the lake at Pittville Park, disturbing a family of water rats.

  ‘Want to hook up?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  She dropped her
voice to a sexy growl. ‘You don’t want to chill?’

  Sex with Simone was never a matter of relaxation, more like armed conflict. Was I tempted? Yes. Did I give in? No.

  I muttered an apology, regret in my voice.

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘A pity.’ She paused. I could almost hear her thinking out her next move. ‘There’s another party.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two days’ time.’

  ‘Am I invited?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Simone, I’m sorry. I really can’t make it tonight.

  ‘I know,’ she said simply. ‘It’s okay. I will call you. Promise.’

  And that was that. Ten seconds later, my phone rang. An unknown number. I picked up. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s …’

  ‘Who?’ His voice was so low I had to strain to hear.

  ‘Darren.’

  ‘You’ve got information?’

  ‘There’s a guy who has a real hard-on for you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A Russian.’

  I choked off a curse. Russians, by and large, had been the bane of my life. Fantastic drinking partners, funny and entertaining, the particular breed with which I’d had dealings made Mafiosi look like pussies. ‘Be more specific?’

  ‘His name is Konstantin. Used to work with a guy called Yuri, his cousin or something, for another big Russian.’

  They were all called Yuri, but I didn’t trouble to say this. Events of twelve months previously flashed through my brain in Blu-ray. One such Yuri had worked for a Russian who occasionally engaged my services.

  I had a bad feeling that I knew exactly where this was going and I didn’t like the destination.

  ‘His boss disappeared,’ Darren said.

  I remembered and it wasn’t me playing magicians. Yuri had wiped out his own Russian paymaster to get into bed with an American who’d been in partnership with Billy Squeeze.

  ‘Then Yuri was murdered,’ Darren continued.