by Shaun Hutson
There was blood everywhere.
On the bare walls, on the floor, on the bed.
And in the centre of the crimson puddles, some of which were beginning to congeal, was Sally Reese.
Exactly how she'd managed to remove the leg from the metal frame of the bed Riley didn't know.
He couldn't begin to imagine how she'd managed to put up with the pain of trying to tug the screws free. He'd noticed that her fingertips were pulped stumps.
But, more than that, he could not conceive of how she'd succeeded in killing herself with that bed leg.
Of how she had driven it into her own stomach and ripped upwards using both hands like some vile parody of a hara-kiri death.
He tried to imagine how long it had taken her to die, her blood jetting from the wound, her entrails spilling from her riven torso like the sticky tentacles of a bloodied octopus.
Tried to understand how she could have infected such an agonising end upon herself.
He gazed at the body which was in a kneeling position, his eyes fixed on the length of metal which protruded from her torn stomach like a rigid steel umbilical cord.
'Get help,' he said quietly, glancing at the warden's pale face.
The woman nodded and scurried from the cell, glad to get away from the sight and smell of death.
Riley shook his head, his eyes still riveted to the dead girl.
And, this time, he did light up a cigarette.
So much for Sally Reese, he thought. He spat a piece of tobacco out and cursed under his breath.
Twenty
The girl was barely eighteen.
She was standing beside her car sipping from a can of Coke, the breeze which whipped across the forecourt stirring her long brown hair. She wore an outfit of pure white, a perfect contrast to the unnaturally deep bronze of her tan.
The skirt barely covered her buttocks and allowed a glorious view of her long slim legs. Coaxed to hardness by the chill in the wind, her nipples strained darkly against the thin material of her T-shirt which was tied just above the navel, revealing another expanse of tanned flesh. She finished her drink and dropped the can into a nearby waste bin, running both hands through her mane of hair. Then she pulled open the door of the GTi, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
The car sped off.
'Jesus, did you see that?' murmured Damien Drake, watching the car disappear into the stream of traffic on the motorway below. 'I wouldn't mind a bird like that wringing her knickers out over my breakfast.' He sighed wistfully.
Carter, who was filling the Audi's petrol tank, chuckled.
Lou McIntire also smiled and reached for the packet of Rothmans which lay on the parcel shelf. He stuck one in his mouth and was about to light it when he smelled the petrol and remembered where they were. He contented himself with chewing on the filter.
The service station was less than thirty miles from Colchester. Since leaving London just after dawn, they had driven for over two and a half hours.
Another thirty minutes or so and they'd be there.
Then it was a matter of waiting.
Carter tapped the nozzle of the pump against the side of the tank, careful not to waste a single drop of fuel. He re-fastened the petrol cap and headed off across the forecourt to pay.
'See if that bird in white left her sister behind,' Drake shouted after him, smiling.
Carter raised two fingers at him and walked on.
The girl had been beautiful and, seeing her had made him think of Tina.
And of the bruises she sported due to Harrison's attentions. The bastard would go too far one day, thought Carter.
Unless someone killed him first.
He knew that the death of the gang boss was the only way he and Tina could ever be together.
Carter paid for the petrol and wandered back to the car, slipping behind the wheel. He started the engine and guided the vehicle down the ramp, onto the slip road and finally out onto the motorway itself.
'What time did Harrison tell us to get there?' asked McIntire from the back seat.
'He didn't say a particular time,' Drake replied. 'We've got to phone him when we arrive.'
'I reckon he's fucking mad,' Carter observed. 'If this doesn't start a gang war then I don't know what will.'
'So what?' Drake said challengingly. 'It might be a good thing. Get rid of some of the bad blood.'
'Just hope that it's not yours,' Carter told him. 'Anyway, what bad blood are you talking about? There hasn't been any aggro for years.'
'Well I'm all for banging a few heads together,' Drake said. 'If somebody's trying to kill Frank then they'll take a few of us with them too.' He looked at Carter. 'You should know. After what happened to your brother.'
'I don't need reminding,' snapped Carter.
'I still think it's weird; Drake said, picking his teeth with the nail of his little finger. 'The geezers who had a go at Frank knew exactly where to find him. Same thing when Steve and Malcolm were killed. What if they were tipped off? Frank's talking about other gangs having a crack at him, well, they might be working with one of our own blokes.' He paused for a moment, looking across at Carter who was frowning deeply. 'I reckon there could be a fucking grass in the firm.'
'That's bollocks,' McIntire said.
'Why?' Drake demanded, looking round. 'Like I said, they knew where Frank was that night. They knew where to hit Malcolm and Steve.'
'But no money was taken,' McIntire said. 'Whoever killed them wasn't after the cash. Nothing was taken.'
'I know that, you prat, that's what I'm saying. Somebody's trying to wipe out the firm, right? I reckon whoever it is could be getting tips from the inside.'
McIntire was unimpressed and went back to gazing out of the side window.
Carter sighed, turning over the possibility in his mind.
A grass. But who? He glanced across at Drake and then into the rear view mirror to watch McIntire. Could it be one of the two men with whom he shared the car? Or Pat Mendham, or Billy Stripes? They may have been promised money, maybe a cut of the takings from Harrison's concerns once the boss was removed.
Carter had learned at an early age not to trust anyone and that philosophy looked like being well-founded.
The thought suddenly struck him like a thunderbolt.
There was one person who had more reason than most for wanting Harrison dead.
Could it possibly be true?
Twenty-One
Paxton had left the house in Whitechapel over two hours ago. Now he stood gazing out over the cars parked before the massive edifice of Waterloo Station, his eyes noting number plates but, more importantly, makes of vehicle.
The car he was going to steal would have to be one which would blend in easily with London's traffic. No point stealing the bright red Manta parked close to him or the brand new silver Porsche which he was leaning against. Cars like that would be too easy to spot.
Besides, the Porsche was too small for his needs.
He continued browsing, as if he were in a vast car showroom.
Paxton smiled as he saw what he sought.
The Range Rover was five or six years old, the paintwork scratched over one wheel arch, the tyres worn and muddy. The exhaust looked rusty but, from where he stood, Paxton could see that it was intact. He moved unhurriedly towards the vehicle, glancing briefly around him and, smiling politely at a woman who was struggling from the station with a suitcase. He finally reached the Range Rover and walked slowly past it, glancing at the driver's door. The owner could be inside the station either bidding farewell to someone or waiting for someone to arrive. Perhaps a loved one, Paxton mused. He would need to work fast.
There were quite a few people milling about around the station entrance but they paid little heed to the spotty-faced youth who leant against the side of the Range Rover. No one saw him slip the thin piece of bent metal from his jacket pocket and wedge it between the door and its frame.
One quick twist of his wrist and t
he lock gave way.
He pulled the door open and clambered in, ducking down beneath the steering column, his fingers quickly but calmly prying and searching.
It took him less than a minute to strip the two wires, twist them together and start the engine. The Range Rover purred into life. Paxton let the hand brake off and reversed out of the space.
No one came running after him shouting 'Thief'. He smiled and drove on, guiding the car out into traffic, heading for Waterloo Bridge. Providing the traffic wasn't too heavy he should be back in Whitechapel in less than two hours.
Paxton glanced down at the clock on the dashboard.
3.56 p.m.
The machete felt heavy in his hand as he hefted it before him but Phillip Walton smiled as he ran one thumb along the razor-sharp cutting edge. He suddenly raised the lethal weapon, bringing it down in a wide arc, the whoosh of parting air filling the dank room.
Maria Chalfont turned as she heard the sound, gripping the sheath knife which she held firmly. It had been sharpened on both edges to inflict maximum damage. She felt excitement building up within her as she held the knife and watched Walton slashing wildly at thin air with the machete.
Paul Gardner also carried a knife. The type carried by divers, one edge wickedly sharp and curving up slightly at the end, the back edge serrated.
Jennifer Thomas carried a carving fork, the twin prongs rusty but still needle-sharp. She stood pressing the points gently against her skin, watching the indentations which they made, trying to imagine the effect on human skin and muscle when the fork was applied with force.
Crouching in one corner of the room was Michael Grant, apparently deep in thought. He held a small hatchet in his left hand and there was a long chisel jammed into his belt.
'I'm sick of waiting around here,' said Walton impatiently. 'Let's get going.' He held the machete close to his face, catching a brief glimpse of his own distorted reflection in the steel.
'We can't all leave together,' Grant told him. 'Paxton will pick us up from different places. You all know your own pick-up point?' He glanced around the room, looking at each of his companions in turn. All nodded in affirmation.
'What if he didn't manage to get a car?' asked Gardner.
'Stop worrying, will you?' Grant told him. 'Just go to your pick-up point and wait. He'll be there.'
'He'd better be or I'll take his fucking head off,' Walton threatened.
Grant didn't answer.
'You know,' Walton continued, grinning, 'I never thought that Sally would have had the guts to kill herself like that.'
'A long stretch in prison would have killed her anyway,' Grant said quietly.
'Just as well then. She might have talked.'
'She wouldn't have talked,' said Grant angrily. 'She was as involved in what Jonathan believed as any of us. She knew the risks from the beginning.'
'What do you think they'll do to Jonathan now they've got him locked up?' asked Maria Chalfont.
'What can they do to him?' said Gardner. 'They can't wipe out what he's done or what he stands for no matter how long they keep him in prison.'
'I'm sure that'd be a great comfort to him as he counts off the thirty years,' said Walton, swinging the machete once more.
'Walton, you leave first,' Grant said. 'You've got the furthest to go.'
Walton nodded and disappeared into another room. He returned wearing a worn leather coat, badly scuffed on the elbows. However, once buttoned, it hid the machete from view.
`Then you, Maria,' Grant continued, until each of the occupants of the room knew when and how they were supposed to leave the house, attracting the minimum of attention in the process. Luckily the overgrown garden at the rear of the crumbling property led to a rotting wooden fence through which they could leave unseen.
Outside, the gathering clouds hastened the onset of evening and the five young people inside the decaying house welcomed its arrival.
They would need the night to hide them.
Twenty-Two
The inside of the car smelt like a sewer.
There were three of them in the Cortina, all dressed in dark coats, each one with his face shielded.
The car was parked across the street from Harrison's club and the three men inside watched as people came and went.
The taller of the three men reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He stuck it between the flaps of skin which passed for lips and sucked hard. As he removed it a small fragment of liquescent flesh came away on the filter. The odour of tobacco smoke began to mingle with the stench of dead flesh.
'Two years,' said the tall man, his voice low and husky, as if every syllable was torn from his vocal chords. 'While we waited, Harrison thrived. Bastard.'
'He tricked us,' said the driver, the words coming with even more difficulty. His larynx had suffered more damage than that of his former boss. There was a large hole beneath it which, as he spoke, was weeping a thick clear fluid onto his jacket.
The third man did not, could not, speak. He merely sat gazing at the club across the street, eyes which had once carried the spark of life now glaring with dull ferocity at the symbol of their enemy. For these eyes now were no more than festering holes, each one bulging and overflowing with purulent matter that trickled down his cheeks like reeking tears. The remnants of one eyeball had withered and shrunk in the socket.
He shuffled in his seat, gloved hand almost unconsciously touching the butt of the .45 automatic which was jammed in his belt.
The tall man turned and glanced at him, shaking his head gently.
'Not yet,' he croaked. 'Harrison is still too powerful.'
'When, then?' the driver said, mouth opening and closing slowly, just as the hole in his throat did. More of the clear
mucus dripped on to his jacket.
'When we are ready,' said the tall man, scratching absentmindedly at his temple with one index finger.
A small sliver of flesh came off and stuck to his glove.
He considered it for a second then pushed it into his mouth, swallowing the fragment of skin.
More people went into the club.
The Cortina remained parked.
The three men inside continued to watch.
And wait.
Twenty-Three
The first of the huge Scanias rumbled past, flanked on either side by jeeps which buzzed back and forth along the short convoy like soldier ants protecting their lumbering queen.
There were six lorries in the procession, all moving at less than thirty miles an hour on the narrow road. The ground shook beneath the massive wheels of the juggernauts.
'Big bastards aren't they?' murmured Carter, watching the convoy through the thick haze of blue smoke which belched from their exhausts. The smell of diesel fumes was almost overpowering and the young driver wound his window up as the trucks lumbered past. The Audi shook, vibrating as the convoy rolled by.
Residents of Colchester continued on their way with scarcely a second glance at the trucks and their escort. The town had been an army base for as long as most of the locals could remember and the sight of military vehicles rolling through the streets was hardly a cause for astonishment. The base itself was about twenty miles outside the town. Carter looked down and checked the map which was spread out over his lap.
Beside him, Drake took another drag on his cigarette, swallowing the smoke.
In the back seat, McIntire was finishing the last few mouthfuls of a hamburger. He finally tossed the carton and the wrapping out of the window, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He belched loudly and rubbed his stomach.
Above them, the sky was beginning to darken and Carter had to squint to see his watch in the growing gloom.
'Half-past seven,' he announced. 'We'll give them another fifteen minutes and then follow.'
The three men watched as the last of the trucks rounded a comer and disappeared out of sight. Only the low rumble of the Scania engines echoed through the stillnes
s of the evening.
'I hope to Christ Frank knows what he's doing,' said McIntire nervously.
'It'll be fine; Drake said.
'Yeah, fine for him. If anything goes wrong, we're the ones who get banged up, not Harrison.'
'You worry too much, Lou. You'll have a heart attack by the time you're thirty-five.'
'I'll have one before the end of the evening if this goes wrong,' McIntire told him.
The three men sat in silence for a moment. Then Drake looked at Carter and smiled thinly.
'How do you get on with Frank's bird? Tina, isn't it?' he wanted to know.
'Why?' asked Carter, a little too sharply.
Drake frowned.
'Just wondered,' he said, catching the look on his companion's face. 'She's a good looker isn't she?'
Carter nodded.
He wondered if Drake suspected anything but then reasoned that there was no way he could know about their relationship. Something would have been said before now. Nevertheless, the driver shifted slightly in his seat.
'You got the money?' Carter asked, anxious to change the subject.
'In the boot,' Drake told him. 'I checked it with Frank before we left this morning.'
McIntire glanced out of the back window and saw a policeman heading towards the car.
'Old Bill,' he said nervously.
'So what,' said Carter, catching sight of the uniformed man in the wing mirror. 'We're not breaking any laws.'
'Yet,' chuckled Drake.
The policeman came within six feet of the car, bending low to look at the men inside.
Carter saw McIntire's hand go to his inside pocket.
'What the fuck are you doing?' the Carter said.
'He's coming over,' McIntire blurted, hand already closed around the butt of his Walther PPK.
'Get your hand off the shooter,' snarled Carter as the policeman drew nearer.
He was within two strides of the vehicle now.
'Relax, will you,' Carter said.
The constable bent low and smiled at the three occupants of the Audi.
