by Michael Kerr
“I think I love you,” he said, unable to bite back the words.
Beth put her hands on his shoulders, raised her head and looked into his eyes.
“So soon?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And you only think you do?”
“Okay. I know I do.”
“It’s scary.”
“What, my loving you?”
“No. That I love you, too.”
“Why?”
“Because it means I now have something I couldn’t bear to lose.”
“Does that mean you think I’m a bad risk?”
“The worst. People want you dead, Matt. Your job puts you in the firing line. And the law of averages says you can’t beat the bank.”
“I don’t believe in averages. Every spin of the wheel is a whole new game. I can’t accept that what has gone before is somehow added up against you.”
“You deal with very violent people. Look what happened at the bungalow. You were lucky to survive it.”
“You shouldn’t believe in luck, Beth. You make your own.”
“That’s right. But you pit yourself against danger every day. You invite disaster by doing what you do. Your occupation dictates the odds. Most people don’t spend all their time chasing down gangsters and murderers.”
“I wouldn’t be happy sat behind a desk pushing a pen and getting as fat and lazy as a well fed cat. Or working in any other profession I can think of. My dad was a cop. I think it’s in the blood. I knew from being a kid that I’d be one. I’m front-line material, Beth. If you love me, it’s because of who I am. The whole package.”
“I don’t want temporary, Matt. However good it could be.”
“Everything is temporary, Beth. I can’t think of one thing that doesn’t have a beginning, middle and ending. It’s all about now. You either take what you can from life, or stay on the sidelines, get old and look back with regrets, wishing you’d done things when you had the chance.”
“You sound more like a therapist than a cop.”
“Cops see a lot of grief and untimely death. It concentrates the mind. Nobody should feel too secure, or believe that they somehow have right of passage for even another day. It can all end in a heartbeat.”
“That’s fatalistic.”
“Another of my dubious qualities.”
“I know that you’re right. Maybe that’s why I don’t collect stuff and clutter up my life with material things. Everyone’s life ends up being the sum of what they have amassed, to be shared out, sold, bagged up for charity or the dump. Or burned.”
“And you have the cheek to call me fatalistic.”
They laughed, made love again, and dozed in each other’s arms. It crossed Matt’s mind that he might have died and gone to heaven. That’s how good he felt.
He left on the grey side of dawn. Refused a lift from Beth.
As the cab headed back across the river, he luxuriated in the knowledge that he and Beth were at the beginning of what he hoped would be an incredible journey together. It had happened so fast, overwhelming them like a fever. Perhaps not love at first sight, but a mutual attraction that had been too strong to deny. It was as if they had both been panning for gold and struck the motherlode. There was a sense of awe at finding something incredibly valuable, which he had not thought existed, or even known he had needed or wanted. Now, he was consumed by the magnitude of being more than merely the sum of his own individuality.
Preoccupied with the impact of what had transpired, Matt hardly glanced out of the cab’s rear window. Had he been more vigilant, he may have noticed the blue Laguna that kept well back, following the cab back to the city.
As he let himself into the Kenton Court Hotel, the car sped past into what remained of the night. Matt’s location was no longer a secret. Unbeknown to him, a net was closing in on both himself and Beth.
Dean Harper had a wide grin on his face as he drove past the small hotel, to pull into a side street and make a phone call that he believed would guarantee quick promotion. It was all hush-hush. He reported to one man only. Nobody else knew what he was working on. Barnes was good, but not as good as rumour had it. Dean had followed him from the Yard to a cafe, waited, then stayed with him until he got back to the hotel. He had reported in, and been told to stay put. It had paid off. The DI left by the back door, late. He changed cabs, but Dean was not shaken off. After Barnes had entered a swish apartment building in Roehampton, Dean risked approaching the door and making a note of the residents’ names from the panel next to it. It was several hours before Barnes left and made his way back to the hotel.
The phone was picked up after two rings. “Yes?”
“It’s Harper, sir. I followed the subject to an apartment block at Roehampton. He stayed most of the night, but is now back at the hotel.”
“Who did he visit?”
“I got a list of the residents. One of them is that psychologist, Dr. Beth Holder.”
“Good work, Harper. Remember, this is highly sensitive. I don’t want anything in writing, yet. You can back off, now that we know where he’s staying.”
“Okay, sir.”
“And say nothing to anyone, Dean. We believe others are involved.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Dean waited until the line went dead, then closed the phone and pocketed it. He was part of a very important internal investigation. He had been told that the survival of Barnes may not have been just good fortune. It was known that the hit on Lester Little was made with the aid of inside information. They needed to know if Barnes was tied to Santini. But Dean was a little disappointed and perplexed. Why was he being told to back off? Surely they would want the DI watched until he made contact with the gangster. That would seal it. No matter. His was not to reason why. He had done his bit. When it all came out, he would be acclaimed for his part in it. Should be made Detective sergeant at the very least.
“It’s six in the fucking morning,” Carlo Falco hissed into the phone.
“I don’t give a fuck what time it is. Just put Frank on. This is important.”
“The boss is asleep.”
“So wake him up, dickhead, or you’ll be back on a scooter in Rome, snatching women’s handbags for a living.”
“Wait,” Carlo seethed.
“Who?” Frank said, turning on the bedside lamp as he levered himself up on one elbow and glared at Carlo, who was standing at the open bedroom door.
“The cop, boss. He says it’s important. I couldn’t get rid of him.”
Frank yawned. “Put it through.”
Carlo backed up, shut the door and went back downstairs to transfer the call. When Frank picked up the bedroom extension, he hung up.
Frank said. “What the fuck is so important that you have to phone at this time of day?”
“I know where Barnes is hiding. You can contact the shooter and give him up. Then make sure that when it goes down, nobody walks away. And Barnes has the hots for the profiler who is consulting on the case. That might prove useful.”
“That’s good news. Leave it with me.”
“Oh I will, Frank. But let’s move fast on this. The sooner Barnes and this guy Noon are taken out, the happier I’ll be. I don’t need you going down and taking me with you.”
“You get well paid. Big bucks come with a risk. Just think of what you can do when you retire to the Cayman Islands with a fat bank account.”
“That day can’t come soon enough.”
“So keep the faith and live to see it.”
Frank took down the details and hung up. He would sleep for another hour, then call the answering service that Noon used, leave a message and hope that the killer was still checking in. There was no other way to contact him. With any luck it would all be smoothed out soon. Frank had stayed on top by always negating any potential threat, however tenuous. And he would feel a lot better when the hitter and Barnes were both out of the picture
, permanently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HE awoke in an instant, opened his eyes, but did not move. Something was wrong. The heaviness he could feel on his leg shifted.
The rat’s hindquarters were bunched, its whole body tensed, quivering as it readied itself to leap off him.
He could have ignored it. It would have scurried away to its lair. Instead, he shot his hand out as he rose up, grabbed the rat by the throat and squeezed unmercifully.
The muscular rodent squirmed in his grasp; raked ineffectually at his sleeve with its back legs, and emitted a high-pitched squeak of surprise, shock and fear. Even as he attempted to crush the life from it, it twisted its head and sank razor-sharp incisors into the soft tissue of his hand between index finger and thumb. He smiled and swung the bristling dark-grey vermin against the timbered wall with all the force he could muster. There was a sharp crack as its backbone snapped.
Letting go, Gary watched as the mortally injured rat slowly dragged itself across the rough floorboards. It had drawn blood, so could suffer a lingering death in some dark corner. Self-mutilation was one thing. Being bitten by a fucking rat was another. The pain was of no concern to him. But rats were disease-ridden creatures.
He poured water over his hand, sucked the puncture wounds and spat out blood. Dismissing the incident, he looked at his watch. Almost six a.m. Moving to the end of the low loft, he squinted through a crack between two planks of the wall. He could see most of the front of the house between gaps in the trees.
Curtains at an upstairs window were drawn back. Frank must be an early riser. But he would not whack him in daylight. That would be simple enough to do, but would make the prospect of a clean getaway extremely unlikely. He would stay put and tend to business when Santini returned from the club that evening. Or from wherever he chose to spend his last few hours on earth.
Frank showered and shaved, then went back into the bedroom, lifted his toupee off the poly head on the credenza and took several minutes to carefully position and affix it to his scalp with double-sided tape. He slipped a robe on, picked up his cell phone and went out onto the small balcony, to stand in the cool morning air, hands on the rail-topped balustrade. He took several deep breaths and surveyed the landscaped frontage of his estate, before punching in the contact number of the killer. He left a message: “Barnes is stayin’ at the Kenton Court Hotel off Tottenham Court Road. Not even his team know his location. He’s out on his own. And he’s fuckin’ a piece of skirt that lives on the top floor of Hawksworth House at Roehampton. Her name is Beth Holder. I trust this information squares things between us.” He ended the call. If Noon didn’t get the message, then he would send Tiny and Eddie to deal with Barnes. Or better still, have them go and hurt the woman. Let the cop know that no one was out of reach. He would make a decision over the next twenty-four hours. If Noon got back to him and gave any clue as to when he would hit Barnes, then Tiny could make sure that the killer didn’t walk away. He would have the hotel staked out.
Frank felt more relaxed as he dressed and went down for breakfast. Within a couple of days he would be able to forget all about this affair and concentrate wholly on other more profitable business.
Carlo phoned the bunkhouse and told Ray to have the Merc outside the front door in two minutes.
Nearby, Gary used the Spyderco knife he carried to widen the crack in the timber. His present location was ideal to take the shot from. He watched as the black Mercedes pulled out of the garage block and parked at the bottom of steps that led up to a covered porch at the front of the house. Seconds later, Santini came out. The driver exited the car and opened the rear door for him. The wop acted like fucking royalty, or a celebrity. It would be a pleasure to splash his brains all over the drive when he returned that evening.
After Santini left, Gary settled back down to wait. He felt safe. Not one other person in the world knew where he was. And the last place anybody would expect him to be was at the very heart of the gangster’s stronghold. Should any groundsman enter the shed and come upstairs for anything, then the serrated blade of the knife would be employed to ensure his continued concealment.
By midmorning, after keeping watch on the house and feasting on a packet of biscuits, he turned on his cell and phoned his answer service number, not expecting to have any messages, but for something to do.
Santini’s recorded voice spoke, giving him Barnes’s location, and more, the address of some tart who the cop was tight with. What a result. He gave the unexpected information some thought, and with time as well as people to kill, he phoned Rocco’s.
“Put Frank on.”
“Who’s speaking?” Eddie Costello asked.
“Noon.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you goons read the papers or watch the news?”
No answer. Three seconds later, Frank’s voice. “You got my message?”
“Yeah, Frank. I just thought I’d give you a bell and thank you for the information.”
“So you and me don’t have a problem, right?”
“Right. No hard feelings. I’ll take care of Barnes tonight, and then leave the country for a while. Things are getting a little hot.”
“You need any help?”
“No. A pilot I know will fly me across the channel. And I have new ID.”
“Keep in touch. Maybe we can do business again, if you come back.”
“Okay, Frank. See you around,” Gary said, then pressed END. He smiled for a long time. The lies slid off his tongue like a silk scarf from a woman’s freshly waxed leg. No doubt Frank’s goons would be waiting at the cop’s hotel to make sure that neither of them survived the night. Trust no one, remember? He hadn’t gotten this far by taking anybody’s word for anything. The best you could expect from anyone was half truths. As a rule, if somebody told him it was night, he would believe it to be day. The only way he could operate was by assuming nothing and questioning everything.
“Get Tiny in here,” Frank said.
Eddie phoned down to the casino, while Frank poured himself a large JD. When Tiny came into the office, Frank spelled out what he wanted done.
“Repeat it, Tiny,” Frank ordered.
“You want us to be at the hotel. When the psycho has capped Barnes, we do him, then make it look as if they shot each other.”
“Exactly,” Frank said. “Nice and neat. This Noon character gets whacked by Barnes, but manages to get off a lucky shot. It needs to look as though they blew each other away, with no other party involved.”
* * *
Matt spent most of the day with Tom, Beth and the team. They had nothing new, although Beth’s psych profile on Noon gave more insight than the information they had got from Marion Peterson, or the report submitted to them by the consultant psychiatrist who headed up the care team that had supervised him. Noon had conned everyone into believing he was being managed. He had the ability to suppress his symptoms and hide the homicidal urge that drove him.
“What else can we do, Beth?” Tom asked.
“Use his vulnerabilities against him. He believes he is far more superior to everyone else, and is disdainful of other people’s capabilities. Being outsmarted or caught will not be a part of his mindset. He recognises his shortcomings, knows that he is paranoid, and has come to understand his illness. I have no doubt that he can keep a tight rein on his delusions and hallucinations. Overall, he is of above average intelligence. I would surmise he has studied his condition and knows as much about it as so-called experts.”
“So-called?” Matt said.
“Yes. Scientists don’t even know what causes schizophrenia, if that is what he really suffers from. All they have is a bucketful of theories. Some believe that the illness is primarily a product of traits such as contradictory expectations and covert rejection. There are many hypotheses. The overview is that it is not an inherited disease; rather a composite one which may have a variety of triggers.”
“What do
you mean by triggers?” Tom asked.
“That symptoms begin to show in many people after they have suffered a particularly distressing or stressful incident. If Gary Noon did push his mother down the stairs, then that single traumatic experience could have been the trigger to set the process in motion. It gets very complex. The brain has certain types of cells called inhibitory interneurons. They’re like dampers that prevent other nerve cells from being overwhelmed with sensory input from the environment. Whatever the cause, the symptoms are varied.
“We know from what Penny Page told us that Noon talks to himself, ergo, he hears voices. And self-mutilation and murder is obviously inappropriate behaviour. Other people’s feelings are of no consequence to him, and I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of him having paranoid delusions. He may even believe he has special powers.”
“How can he keep his shit together if he’s so scrambled?” Tom asked.
“I could only guess,” Beth replied.
Tom and Matt said nothing, just waited for her to continue.
“Okay,” she said. “I believe he can use detachment to be able to think outside the box. He understands his own particular psychosis. If it gets too oppressive, he no doubt takes the prescribed antipsychotic drugs he is on. This is an individual who can adapt and is able to cloak his true personality.”
“You really think that’s possible?” Matt asked.
“He fooled Marion, and she is a highly experienced community psychiatric nurse who thought she knew him. I know of cases that involve patients who have no capacity to feel emotions, but can learn to produce appropriate facial expressions and body language. It’s hard to socialise without being able to respond and react to others. I liken it to an actor learning his lines. Noon has to memorize them and adopt the correct physical responses. But his ability to feel the full gamut of normal emotions is restricted. He will not be able to...to care for anyone. One of my colleagues at the hospital says that Noon’s type have no soul. That a part of them is missing or so impaired or diminished that they can’t properly relate to it.”
