by Shaun Hutson
'You been in this game long?' Carter asked finally, tiring of the silence.
'Long enough,' Mitchell told him, non-committally.
'You're not from around here, are you?'
'Very astute,' the hit man answered, the merest hint of sarcasm in his voice.
Carter glanced at him again in the rear view mirror. There was something about this man which made him feel uneasy. It wasn't just his offhand manner. There was something else which was indefinable. A coldness, an indifference which Carter presumed went with the job. Maybe all hit men were like this. He didn't know. He didn't really want to know.
'Do you carry a gun?' Mitchell asked.
'Yes, a 9mm automatic Smith,' the driver replied, both surprised and relieved that his passenger was finally making some attempts at conversation, perfunctory or not.
'It's a good weapon. I prefer a Browning myself. It takes a thirteen shot clip and it's powerful.'
'What about up close?'
'I rarely get close.'
Carter swung the car around a corner, narrowly avoiding the back of a van which had braked sharply.
'Stop here,' snapped Mitchell.
But we're in the middle of the bloody road,' Carter protested.
Mitchell was unimpressed by the cars and other vehicles that drove around them, some sounding their hooters.
'Give me a number where I can reach you,' the hit man said sharply. 'I'll get in touch with you. Tell you where to pick me up and when.'
Carter scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to his passenger. Mitchell was out of the car immediately, sprinting across the busy street before disappearing down the entrance to an underground station. Carter watched the dark-suited man descend the stairs out of sight before he put the car in gear and drove on. What the hell was he going to tell Harrison now?
Thirty-Eight
'That's him. The one in the middle.'
Carter nodded in the direction of the three men who had just emerged from the pub called 'The Galleon'.
David Mitchell looked on impassively, his eyes never leaving the overweight, swarthy man Carter had indicated.
Lou Barbieri walked to the edge of the pavement and turned, looking back at the pub.
From where they sat, Mitchell and Carter could see him pointing at various things on the building, occasionally looking at one of his companions. 'The Galleon' was one of several pubs owned by Barbieri in and around the Finsbury Park area and he was considering having it re-decorated. Neither he or the men with him paid any attention to the Volvo Estate parked about thirty yards further up the street, or to its occupants who watched them so intently.
Carter glanced back at his companion.
'You ready?' he said quietly.
Mitchell didn't answer. He merely pulled a black case on to his lap and unsnapped the two clasps. He pulled out the HK33 and the Spas. Within the confines of the car the shotgun in particular looked huge, the muzzle yawning ominously at Carter.
'When I tell you,' said Mitchell, slamming a forty round magazine into the HK33. 'Drive past them slowly.'
'Slowly?' the driver said.
'Just do it,' Mitchell told him. He took four shells from his jacket pocket and pushed them into the Spas, working the pump action to chamber a round. Then, as Carter watched, the hit man pulled a final piece of equipment from his pocket.
The driver looked aghast as he saw Mitchell snap on the headphones of a Walkman. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a tape which he pushed into the machine, pushing the volume up to maximum.
'Music while you work,' murmured Carter.
The second the scream of guitars began to fill Mitchell's ears he smiled broadly and nodded at Carter.
'Go,' he bellowed.
The car moved off, building up speed gradually, drawing nearer to the three men who stood on the pavement.
'Welcome to the Jungle,' roared the singer, the second reverberating inside Mitchell's head. 'We've got fun and games...'
The car drew nearer.
'We got everything you want, honey we know the names ...'
Mitchell wound down the rear window and steadied the HK33 against his shoulder.
'We are the people that can find, whatever you may need ...'
Barbieri turned and saw the Volvo bearing down on them.
'If you got the money, honey, we got your disease ...'
Carter saw the look of horror and surprise on the gang leader's face as he caught sight of the rifle aimed at him.
The three men seemed to freeze, not sure whether to throw themselves to the ground or dash back into the pub.
'In the jungle, welcome to the jungle ...'
One of the men pulled a revolver from his jacket.
'Watch it bring you to your knees ...'
The gesture was a futile one.
Barbieri shouted something which Carter couldn't hear.
'I wanna watch you bleed...'
Mitchell opened fire.
The staccato rattle of the automatic rifle tore through the relative peacefulness of the street. Bullets that missed the three men struck the pub, a couple blasting in a window, another ripping the sign which hung above the door.
Barbieri was hit in the chest and throat.
The first bullet caught him just above the pharynx exploding through his neck with such ferocity that it ripped away a portion of his spinal chord and almost decapitated him.
Blood burst from the wound with the force of a high pressure hose, some of it spattering the side of the Volvo. The other shots shredded his chest, splintering ribs and ripping through his lungs, bursting them like fleshy balloons before tearing from his back leaving exit wounds large enough for a man to put his head in. Confetti of pulverized bone, blood and lung tissue sprayed the pavement as the Italian went down.
His companions fared little better. The one with the revolver was hit in the stomach, the bullet bursting his abdomen and macerating most of his large intestine. He dropped to his knees in time to catch another shot in the forehead.
So great was the impact that the top of his head was transformed into liquid. Even bone disintegrated under the terrifying force. Grey brain-matter flew into the air like thick dust.
The third man managed to turn and run for the pub.
Two shots hit him in the back, the blast lifting him off his feet. He was thrown several feet, slamming into the pub doors, blood spurting madly from his wounds. He slid to the floor, his body twitching spasmodically.
There were screams from inside the pub and two women across the street bolted away from the car, fearing for their own lives. But Mitchell was only concerned with the three men lying before him.
He emptied the magazine into them, raking it back and forth across their bullet-stitched bodies, watching as each corpse jerked and jumped when the shells hit it. Lumps of clothing, matted with blood, flew into the air, propelled by the impacts.
The hit-man dropped the HK33 and picked up the Spas, taking aim at Barbieri's body.
He fired twice.
The massive discharges were perfectly aimed.
The first blasted a hole the size of a football between the dead man's legs.
The second tore off most of the left side of his head.
'Go, get out of here,' roared Mitchell and the Volvo sped off.
'It's gonna bring you down...'
Thirty-Nine
The room looked as if it contained a heavy fog. A bluish haze eddied around the occupants like noxious mist. Detective Sergeant Vic Riley added to the nicotine-stained clouds by lighting up a Dunhill. He blew a stream of smoke and looked towards the head of the table at which Chief Commissioner Frederick Harvey sat.
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner was an imposing sight in his dark suit. A large man with hands like ham hocks and heavy jowls more suited to a bloodhound. He was chewing on the stem of an unlit pipe.
Laid out before him and the eight men who sat around the table were a dozen black and white photos.
Riley glanced at the nearest of them, glad that he hadn't eaten a heavy lunch.
Beside him Detective Inspector Thorpe was picking his teeth with a broken match, gazing through the haze of smoke at the large picture window which looked out towards Westminster although from the fifth floor of New Scotland Yard little was visible apart from the grime-encrusted sides of other buildings.
Harvey finally coughed and rose to his feet. Satisfied that he had the attention of his detectives, he took the pipe from his mouth and laid it on the table-top. He reached, instead, for two of the photos spread out on the large oval table.
`Maureen Lawson and Paul Hughes,' he announced. 'I'm sure I don't need to remind you. She's a presenter on Thames Television or should I say, she was. She's lived with Hughes for the last fourteen months. He's an editor, or rather was, worked in films and TV. Rich, both of them. Rich and dead, as you can see. Very dead.' Harvey turned towards a small, balding figure on his right who nodded and got to his feet.
Alan Daniels had worked as chief medical examiner at New Scotland Yard for over twenty years. He wiped a hand over his shiny pate.
'The wounds on both bodies were made with a selection of weapons,' he began, a slight lisp tainting his voice. 'I found thirty-seven separate stab wounds on Miss Lawson's body, mostly around the face, neck and chest. Her nipples had been cut off, so had her ears. Mr Hughes' body bore twenty-nine separate wounds, his genitals had been removed and stuck in his mouth.' He held up a photo. 'As you can see.'
Harvey nodded to his companion and the coroner sat down.
'There's no doubt that the murders were committed by the same group of people who killed the Kenning family. There was excrement and blood smeared on the walls of the flat, and some of the slogans were the same as those found at the Kenning place.' Harvey dropped the photos, his mood changing from relaxed detachment to irritation. 'Five murders in a fortnight and we still haven't got a bloody suspect in custody. What the hell is happening out there?'
No one had an answer.
'And if that isn't enough, there's this,' he picked up more of the photos. They showed the bullet-riddled bodies of Lou Barbieri and his two bodyguards. 'Yesterday, in broad daylight, this happened.' He looked at Thorpe. 'What is it, a gang war?'
The DI shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and opened his mouth to speak but Harvey merely pressed on.
'Car chases through the West End, gun fights. Somebody's been watching too many gangster films,' the commissioner said irritably. 'And we've no leads on who painted the pavement with Barbieri either, have we?'
'Not yet, sir,' said Thorpe. 'Presumably it was one of the other gangs.'
'Brilliant,' exclaimed Harvey. 'I didn't really think the Salvation Army sanctioned the hit.'
Some of the other men around the table chuckled but a withering glance from their superior soon banished any humour.
'Whoever did it was very good,' Daniels interjected.
'Very professional too. In most of the hits we've had to deal with, the killer has used a handgun of some description. This hit man obviously didn't intend there to be any survivors; hence his use of automatic weapons.'
'So we can probably expect reprisals,' Riley said.
'Definitely,' Harvey said flatly. He looked at the photos of Barbieri and shook his head wearily. 'One thing we haven't considered is a possible link between the two sets of murders.
I want to know if any of the victims of these so-called "rich killers" had underworld contacts.'
'But John Kenning was a respectable business man,' said DS Chris Morrison, a young, slightly-built officer seated across the table from Thorpe. 'And the Donaldson kids were killed, not the old man. I can't see how there could be a link, sir.'
'First thing, son, no one is respectable. I've never met a business man yet who hadn't been involved in a fiddle of one kind or another. Christ, it's second nature to most of them,' Harvey insisted. 'Wasn't it Balzac who said behind every fortune there's a crime? Well look into it. Check out their contacts.'
Riley raised his hand.
'But surely, sir, if the "rich" victims had been crooked why not just use a hit man to get rid of them? Why butcher their families too?'
'Riley, as I get older I like to indulge in that wonderful pastime known as clutching at straws. Don't deny me that pleasure,' Harvey said wearily and once again a ripple of laughter filled the room. The commissioner sighed and looked at the photos of the dead presenter and the bullet-riddled gang boss.
`We've got a bunch of lunatics running around chopping up everyone with more than twenty pence in the bank and gangland is about to explode. I don't think it would be an understatement to say we had a few problems.'
Forty
The grave was almost joyously ostentatious.
A celebration of manic bad taste.
Two huge marble angels stood on either side, each one with an arm raised aloft supporting a plaque which bore the legend 'MUM'. They looked down on a black stone emblazoned with gold letters and a photo of the deceased. The size and outlandishness of the grave made it all the more incongruous amongst the older and overgrown testing places in Hammersmith Cemetery but it was there to be seen, to be marvelled at.
As far as Eugene Hayes was concerned, nothing was to good for his mother.
He stood by the graveside, his long leather coat flapping in the gentle breeze, the overpowering scent of roses filling his nostrils.
He held before him a massive cross shaped from brilliant red blooms. Pausing for a moment he stooped and laid it across the plinth in front of the stone.
'Happy Birthday, Mum,' he said cheerfully, touching the brim of his grey fedora.
He always wore a hat, mainly to cover his balding head. Hayes was not a vain man but he felt that baldness was somewhat undignified, that it made him look older than his forty-three years. Even though he'd read that it was a sign of virility he had not been persuaded to forsake the sanctuary of headgear. He glanced round to check that the three men who stood with him had removed their hats. He didn't want any disrespect around his mum's grave. She'd brought him up well, struggling to support him through his school years after his father had run off with another woman. Hayes had never forgiven the bastard for that. It was one of the reasons he'd had his father traced eight months earlier and why he'd personally put a bullet through the man's head. It had upset his mum so much when his father had run off and he didn't like to see her upset. She'd died just over a year ago and Eugene had thought it only courteous to wait until she passed on before killing his father. The bastard.
Still, he thought wistfully, what was done was done. At least he'd been able to repay his mum for all her hard work. He'd bought her a three-bedroomed flat in Chelsea and paid all the bills. Anything she'd wanted he'd taken care of. She'd been happy there but, as she'd said to him, she'd have been happy anywhere. As long as her Eugene was doing well. Eugene Hayes was doing very well. With an annual income in excess of five million, Hayes was reckoned to be one of the richest of London's gang bosses. But there were more important things to him than money. He was in love.
He looked at his lover now, smiling across the grave.
Clive Robson smiled back.
They had been together for almost three years since their first meeting in one of Hayes' clubs. Robson had been a barman. He was twenty-three, smooth shaven and powerfully built. The opposite of Hayes who was short. But the difference in height was unimportant. Love was blind to such inconsequential details.
David Mitchell told Carter to wait for him about twenty yards down the street and then swung himself out of the Fiesta and walked towards the cemetery gates. As he walked slowly up the narrow path he glanced across towards the gathering around Louise Hayes' grave.
He spotted Eugene immediately.
Walking slowly, his professional eye taking in the little tableau, Mitchell noted the positions of the men who accompanied the gang leader. The one who stood opposite him and the two who were standing beside an old
stone tomb about twenty yards behind.
The church was about a hundred yards to their right.
Mitchell looked up at the ancient building and watched as its weather vane turned briskly in the breeze. As he watched he saw the priest emerge from the small church. The man looked across at Mitchell, nodded a greeting which the hit man returned, and then disappeared back inside the building.
Mitchell cut across the grass towards Hayes and his men, stepping around tombstones, apologising inwardly when he stepped on unmarked graves. His quarry was less than fifty yards away now and still hadn't noticed his approach. Mitchell slowed down, pausing beside one grave to pull a fresh flower from the wreath which adorned it. He held the rose to his nose, enjoying the scent. Looping the stem through his buttonhole, he walked on.
Thirty yards away from his quarry he paused again, slipping the Walkman's headphones on to his ears. The tape was already in the machine. He pressed the 'Play' button.
The sound of guitars filled his head.
He walked on towards Hayes, one. hand now slipping inside his jacket, closing around the butt of the Ingram M-10.
The first of Hayes' bodyguards saw Mitchell approaching and nudged his companion, nodding in the direction of the newcomer.
The second bodyguard, a swarthy individual called Tucker, stepped forward to block Mitchell's path.
Hayes seemed oblivious to the intruder and was contentedly gazing down at his mother's grave, occasionally looking across at his lover.
Hayes reached into his pocket and pushed up the volume of the tape. The music became deafening.
'Hey, hey, it's coming your way...'
Tucker stepped in front of the hit man and shook his head - a gesture designed to dissuade the newcomer from advancing any further.
'Dare you to spit on my grave...'
Mitchell pulled the Ingram free of his jacket and gripped it tightly, the barrel lowered at Tucker.
The bodyguard opened his mouth to say something but whatever it was disappeared beneath the staccato rattle of automatic fire as Mitchell opened up.
