A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  “Here’s the deal, Jake. You answer me a few questions, and I tie you up and leave. How does that sound?”

  “Like probably the best deal I’m going to get.”

  “It is, believe me,” Gary said. “Who’s renting the top floor next door? And remember, don’t lie to me, old man, or you’ll be joining Alma tonight.”

  “The police rent it. They pay over the top, to make sure I keep my mouth shut.”

  “Is it occupied now?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “A woman and baby.”

  “How many cops in the house?”

  “Two, I think.”

  “Do the lofts have fire walls separating them?”

  “Yes, but they don’t reach the eaves. There’s a gap.”

  “Big enough for me to get through?”

  “I suppose. Yes.”

  “I think that does it, Jake. Do you have any duct tape?”

  “In the cupboard, under the sink.”

  “Go get it,” Gary ordered. For a second he considered putting a bullet through Jacob’s head, as the man groaned as he squatted down and rummaged on crowded shelves. But, no. Let the old fart get older and thinner as his cyst grew bigger and his shaking became even more pronounced. Nature was doing just fine without his hastening the process.

  He used all the remaining silver tape on the wide roll. Jacob was trussed up like an Egyptian mummy to the chair. He also had a piece of tea towel balled in his mouth and taped over.

  Gary opened the larder door, held the back of the chair and walked it forward. There was just enough room. He closed the door to leave Jacob sat in inky blackness. And after bracing the back of another chair under the door knob, he made his way out of the flat and up the stairs to the top landing.

  It was a little awkward without a pair of stepladders. Standing on the banister rail, he managed to push the loft hatch back and pull himself up into the roof space.

  There were chinks in the felt, and gaps between the tiles above it showed that the cloud had moved farther west allowing moonlight to pierce through in dozens of places, giving him enough light to negotiate the water tanks as he stepped from rafter to rafter on the unboarded floor. He hadn’t thought to ask Jacob for a torch. A little remiss. If the cloud cover had not passed, then he would have been reduced to feeling his way on hands and knees.

  The top of the breeze block wall was well short of the roof’s apex. He removed the Balaclava and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He wanted to giggle. They would not expect anyone to even know the woman’s whereabouts; much less launch an attack from within the house itself. All being well, he would be finished up and away from the area before anyone even knew what had taken place, bar his targets.

  He pulled himself up the rough breeze block wall, eased over it and made his way toward the hatch in the other loft. Kneeling on a boarded area adjacent to it, he raised the cover just enough to have a view of the landing below. No one. He set the trapdoor aside and lowered himself down, to hang by his hands before dropping the last couple of feet to the carpeted floor. With knees bent, he landed as lightly as a stalking cat.

  The flat’s door would be locked. This part was mind-blowing. He was on a high. The next few seconds could not be one hundred percent risk free, even though he had the element of surprise on his side, and resolute purpose. He tiptoed up to the side of the door. There was a line of light escaping the gap at the bottom of it. He settled, took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He became calm, totally focused. His heart rate was low, and he was ready to face whatever the near future held.

  Two pops, not loud. The wood around the lock disintegrated. He rushed into the room as the door was blown open by the impact of the bullets. He crouched, held the gun in a practised two-handed shooter’s grip and let the muzzle follow his searching eyes.

  DC Karl Fleming had just poured himself a cupful of black coffee from the six pint pump flask that stood on the low table in front of him. When the door flew back, his hands were full. His last three seconds seemed endless. It was like slow motion as time became elastic and almost stopped. He dropped the plastic cup and tried to react, even though he knew he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of the sudden shit he was in. The figure was taking aim; was smiling at him.

  The cop’s face was a picture. Gary watched as he dropped the cup he was holding and made a futile attempt to reach for the gun that was holstered beneath his left armpit. He took in the whole scenario, to remember in detail and savour later. The cop was in his late twenties, maybe a year or two older than himself. He was blond, blue-eyed, and his mouth was forming a perfect O. He wore a white T-shirt. He was tanned. There was a tattoo – some Tribal design – on his right forearm that presented itself as his hand gripped the butt of the gun he would never draw.

  Karl was blown backwards into the soft cushions of the sofa. There was no pain, just a sense of having been hit in the chest by a fist. He looked down, saw the floret of blood erupt through the cotton. He thought it looked like a Rorschach blot; maybe a flower, a red rose opening its petals to meet the sunlight. The next two shots took away any lingering ruminations.

  Gary opened the bedroom door and was met by the sight of Penny Page sitting up, facing him. He paused. There was an acceptance in her expression that unsettled him. The absence of fear was unnerving. It wasn’t natural to look into the face of death and appear to pay it no due. She wanted him to kill her, and although he would, it lessened the pleasure of the act.

  “Not the baby, please,” she said in a quiet voice. She could have been saying ‘no sugar, please’ to a waitress in a café.

  He did not reply, but inclined his head as if to allay her fears for her child. He waited until she closed her eyes and lowered her head, and then finished it. There was a beauty in the act. It was regal. He felt as the axe man who had beheaded Mary Queen of Scots might have. It was a barbaric act, but lent a certain degree of grace by the way in which it was carried out and received. He thought the baby would be fine. There were many orphans in the world. This infant was now just one more.

  Back in the loft, moving quickly, retracing his steps. Less than ninety seconds since he had shot the lock out of the door.

  He was walking on air, clear of the scene and approaching his car. He got in and headed for home. Only the woman’s approbation was niggling. She had, to a degree, used him to curtail the grief that he was responsible for. The sense of achievement was dampened by her near serene capitulation. He did not do mercy killing. And yet that was in effect what had taken place. No matter. The cop next, and then the Santinis. He smiled. Santinis. They sounded like a fucking circus act: The Amazing Santinis, or The Flying Santinis. It made him think back to a movie he’d seen on TV as a kid, and had watched again several times since. Trapeze. He had always liked Burt Lancaster. Behind the actor’s tooth-filled grin was a coldness that the camera could not mask. He made a mental list of all the Lancaster films he could remember. It was a game he played a lot. He got up to fifteen, including such notable offerings as: The Birdman of Alcatraz, Elmer Gantry, From Here to Eternity, Gunfight at OK Corral, and The Swimmer.

  Almost home. He was on a roll. What he had just accomplished would make all of the insects sit up and take notice. He was unstoppable. As deadly as a plague that has no cure. He was the pale rider.

  After stashing the gun and Balaclava in the laundry room, he went up to the flat, ate a full packet of chocolate digestive biscuits and washed them down with milk. Killing always made him hungry. He would sleep well, with brand new memories to feed off. The only person who could have identified him without reservation, no longer existed. The cop was, in reality, a minor consideration. He could not feasibly recognise him. He and Barnes had seen each other for the same instant, and he could only remember a blur of dark hair and a square-jawed face as the cop dived for cover. Trouble was, doubt would not let him rest easy. Not le
aving loose ends had kept him ahead of the game. He was not about to start being careless. He should have made sure that Barnes was dead before leaving the bungalow in Finchley, but that would have been too risky. And maybe Santini and his son were the bigger threat to him. It might be more judicious to do what the police couldn’t. He knew that he could take out the kingpins of one of the biggest firms in London.

  He sat and watched the video of himself and Marion. God! Didn’t they move well together? She was good for him. In some way she calmed his inner demons and understood him better than anyone else ever had or probably would. He didn’t love her. Love was one of the emotions he could not quite perceive. In theory, he understood the mechanics of the condition, but had no sense of how to feel it. Hate and anger were real to him. If love was the antithesis of hate, then it must be a powerful sentiment.

  In bed, he began humming a tune. It was Imagine. His mother had sung the old Lennon song to him when he was a small boy. He could imagine there was no heaven. In fact he was sure that no such place existed. And even if it did, he would not be granted admission to it. He was destined to spend eternity in a far more interesting place. The devil’s playground would no doubt be frequented by every infamous character that had ever walked the earth. He would fit in just fine.

  Sleep took him into that suspended state where his subconscious was given free rein to produce an alternative reality. His most vivid and frequent nightmare ran its course. In it, he rushed forward to the head of the stairs, stuck his arms out and felt the softness of his mother’s breasts. He fondled them, before pushing her backwards and watching her eyes widen to the size of saucers. Her mouth stretched open in a soundless scream, and she tumbled away from him, down an endless flight of stairs, to eventually vanish into a black vacuum.

  Waking slowly to the brightness of a new day, Gary knew exactly what he would do. And he needed specialist equipment to make his next kill.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GOOD or ill fortune has its part to play in almost if not every aspect of life. That had been the case when Gary had made his assault on the top floor flat where Penny Page had been ensconced.

  It was lucky for Gary or DC Andy Williams – no relation to the late crooner – or perhaps for both of them that a car in desperate need of a new tail pipe was driven by the house at precisely the time Gary struck.

  The roar of noise escaping through the rusted exhaust overlaid the sound of the silenced shots and splintering of wood.

  Andy was sitting in darkness at the side of the stairs on the ground floor, with a clear view of the front door. A street light illuminated the corrugated glass panel in it. No one could enter without him being forewarned.

  Andy was not happy with the gig. They had been drafted in from Romford, not been given any background on the case, or even the ID of the woman upstairs. All the Serious Crimes DCI told them was, to speak to no one but him. He also advised them that there was a likelihood of an attempt to kill the woman, which would be made by a professional hitman.

  “You still awake up there?” he whispered into the radio.

  No reply.

  “Karl, you okay?”

  Still silence.

  The voice of DC Craig Lodge cut in. “What’s the problem?” he asked. He was in a car up the street, on the opposite side, watching all comings and goings.

  “I can’t raise Karl,” Andy answered.

  “I’m coming over. Get up there.”

  Andy drew his Heckler & Koch USP, pushed off the safety and chambered a round. He ran to the front door, unlocked it and then turned and made his way quickly but warily up the stairs. As he reached the top landing, he saw the flat’s door open and damaged. He swallowed hard, approached the door and pressed up close to the wall, cautiously edging along. He waited, heard Craig in the house, bounding up the stairs two at a time to join him.

  One each side of the door. Andy mouthed “On three,” to Craig, and nodded twice before they both entered fast and low. Neither uttered a word until they were positive the flat was clear.

  Didn’t you hear anything?” Craig asked.

  Andy didn’t answer. He was standing, gun hung loosely in one hand, checking Karl’s neck with two fingers of the other for a pulse. There was a lot of blood.

  “You must have heard something, for fuck’s sake,” Craig insisted.

  “He had to have used a silencer,” Andy replied woodenly. “Call the DCI, Bartlett, and ruin his night.

  Craig took a deep breath as he took out his cell and phoned the contact number they had been given.

  Tom was too shocked to lose his temper. “How did he get past you?” he asked.

  “He didn’t, guv,” Craig answered. “He had to have been in the house.”

  Tom was at home. He said that he would attend, and then rang DS Pete Deakin. Told him to get the crime scene team and duty pathologist rolling, as he dressed and headed for the door.

  Andy met him on the landing, pointed out the gunshot-damaged door before leading him into the flat to see the vics. It was like a mini guided tour of a chamber of horrors.

  Tom felt a crushing sensation of guilt. Penny Page’s body was supine on the top of the bed. Her eyes were wide open. He imagined an expression of accusation in them. He had failed her, totally. With all the careful planning, the killer had still somehow found her; just walked in and blown her away. The hole in her forehead was neat, but he could see by the mess on the light blue bedspread that the shot was through and through, and had no doubt removed a large portion of her skull’s contents. He checked the cot. The baby was unharmed. The drying spots of blood on its face were spatter from Penny.

  “Get hold of child services or whoever the hell it is we need to look after the baby,” he said. It was heartbreaking. The little feller was still asleep. He would never know his mother or father. Life was capricious. It was as if every event was part of an unstable, ongoing chain reaction. One domino pushed over to topple millions of others that had been set up in a complex pattern. Either that or just fickle fate. Once informed, the baby’s grandparents would in all probability take the child and raise it.

  Tom phoned Matt and then Beth as he waited for the techies and the pathologist to arrive. His DI and the psychologist would want to walk the crime scene. They may see more than was immediately evident.

  Craig Lawson had been investigating. He knocked on the jamb next to the open flat door before entering, not wanting to startle his partner. The situation was tense, and he knew that Andy was wired. He was not about to risk looking down the barrel of a hair-triggered cannon.

  “He came in from next door,” Craig said to Tom. “I found a kitchen window forced and the back door unlocked. Inside, there was a larder door wedged shut with a chair. There was an old guy bound and gagged inside it. He’s the landlord, who also owns this place. He said the shooter wore a Balaclava, and that the gun he had was fitted with a silencer.”

  “How did he get in here?” Tom asked.

  “Loft to loft. He came at us through the roof, guv.”

  “Shit!” Tom’s brain produced the picture of a man in black dropping down on a line like a fucking spider.

  “I called an ambulance for the guy. He looks crap. In shock.”

  Tom nodded. “Go and stay with him until it arrives. See what else he can tell you.”

  Beth arrived before Matt. She studied the scene, absorbing the residue of the double murder. Felt sadness for the cop, and something akin to devastation at the loss of the young mother, who had survived one murderous attack, but lost her husband, and had been targeted again and murdered in cold blood.

  Tom left Beth to it, stepped outside onto the landing away from the door and lit a cigarette. He thought of the attack as a Special Forces-style assault on a hostile position. The hitter had executed a perfect operation, disposed of the cop and his prime target, and made egress without further confrontation. A lot of questions begged answering. He’d had the intel and the adva
ntage of surprise to make the kill. The officer and Penny had proved easy prey.

  Matt needed to climb three flights of stairs about as much as he needed a malignant tumour. Even with the cane, he only made it up to the top with the help of Pete Deakin.

  Tom told him how it appeared to have gone down as Matt studied the dead cop, then Penny.

  “He’s good,” Tom said.

  “He’s a lot better than just good,” Matt observed. “We’ve got an expert shot who doesn’t seem to know what fear is, or if he does, thrives on it. He plans, prepares, and carries out his hits like an iceman.”

  “He doesn’t necessarily have to be an expert shot,” Beth said.

  “Yes, he does,” Matt replied sharply. “The cop’s hand is still on the butt of his gun. When the door was blown open, he will have reacted immediately. That means the perp fired from at least eight feet away and without hesitation as he entered the room. And a silencer greatly reduces accuracy.”

  “He may have got closer than that. He had the element of surprise going for him.”

  “No, Beth. Look at the wound. Tell me what you see.”

  Beth approached the corpse of the young cop and examined the hole above his left eyebrow, not the body shots. The wounds to the chest were all but invisible due to the amount of blood that saturated the T-shirt.

  “It’s a clean, round bullet hole,” she said, surprising herself by being able to view the dead man with such detachment: remembering how a decade earlier she had almost freaked out when viewing the body of her grandfather in his coffin. It’s always harder with someone that was close to you, that you loved, she mused.

  Matt nodded. “Right. If it had been from close up there would be a contact wound. There’s no tearing of the skin from the initial explosion of gas. No burning. No soot. No particles of gunpowder. The shooter had to be at least four to six feet away, and I believe double that because of the absence of gunshot residue. He would have entered the room, searched out his target and fired from a stationary position. As cool as a fucking cucumber.”