Die Twice

by Simon Kernick

  She had died only a short while before. A very short while. Ten, fifteen minutes. No longer than that. The blood hadn’t even coagulated yet. I’d been outside for about ten minutes, sitting in the car. No-one had left the building in that time. It had taken me five minutes to get up the stairs, give the flat the once-over, and come into the room where I stood now. That was fifteen minutes in total. In my estimation, she’d almost certainly been alive fifteen minutes ago.

  Which meant only one thing.

  I heard the movement behind me and whirled round at just the second the knife came flashing through the air in a great arc, still dripping with Carla’s blood. I jumped backwards and banged into the bedside table. The blade swished past perilously close to my skin, almost touching it, only an inch separating me from certain evisceration.

  My attacker was a big man, well over six feet with a build to match. He had a black baseball cap pulled low over his face, but I could make out the look of steely determination beneath it. There was no way he was going to let me live. Not now I’d seen him.

  He stumbled slightly with the momentum of his swing and I jumped forward, grabbing him by both wrists and kicking him as hard as I could in the shins. He flinched with pain but maintained his balance, and pushed me back against the table, at the same time twisting his way out of my grip.

  Now he had both hands free again, and he brought the knife up in a rapid thrust aimed at my belly, but I leaped aside, landing on my back on the bed, my head resting on Carla’s still warm corpse. I could feel the blood-drenched sheets wet against my body. I tried to kick out as he lifted the huge knife above his head but his legs were pressed up tight against mine, making movement next to impossible.

  He brought the knife down hard, but I wriggled violently and grabbed his arm with both hands, pushing it to one side and banging it against the wall with all the strength I could muster. He didn’t release his grip. Instead, with his free hand he punched me hard in the face and I felt a terrible pain shoot through my cheek. He punched me again, a triumphant look in his eyes, and my vision began to blur.

  Then, suddenly changing tactics, he stopped punching me and reached over to grab the knife from his other hand, which I had pinned against the wall. In doing so, he relaxed the pressure on my legs, and before he had a chance to stab at me again I kicked out wildly, cracking him in the knee with the heel of my new brogues. He jumped backwards out of range of my feet and his cap flew off, revealing a thick head of unkempt hair. The loss of it appeared to distract him momentarily, like Samson losing his locks, and I took the opportunity to roll across the bed, forcing myself over Carla’s slick, greasy body.

  I seemed to roll for ages before finally crashing down the other side. I could hear my attacker coming round the front of the bed, and I desperately hunted through the pockets of my coat for the gun I’d taken the previous night. I got a grip on the handle and tried to tug it out, but it snagged on the material. He was coming into full view, replacing the black cap on his head, the knife held wickedly aloft. Only feet away. I felt the material around my pocket tear. I pulled again, desperately trying to get it out, panic threatening to fuck up everything.

  Suddenly the handle came free and I whipped the gun out, pointing the barrel at my assailant. He saw it and stopped dead, then made a split-second decision turn and run for the door. I located the safety catch, flicked it round, then sat up and took aim. He was almost through the door but I managed to get off a shot. It went wide and high, hitting the upper door frame. He kept going, disappearing from view, and I jumped to my feet and started out after him.

  When I came out into the hallway he was at the front door, fiddling with the chain. He turned, saw me, gave me one last defiant look, and pulled it open. I fired again as he started down the stairs, but again the bullet went wide and high. It was no wonder the Turk hadn’t been able to hit me the previous night. The sights on this gun were so out of kilter I’d have had to aim at the ceiling to get any chance of actually putting a hole in my target.

  I could hear his heavy footfalls on the stairs, taking them two at a time. There was no way I was going to catch him now. I stopped where I was, panting with exhaustion and shock. That had been close. Far too close for comfort. That made two attempts on my life in twenty-four hours, neither of which had been that far from success. So far I’d emerged unscathed, but it was only a matter of time before my luck ran out.

  And now I was never going to get any answers from Carla Graham.

  But her killer would know them. And luckily for me I knew him. Or knew his name, anyway.

  There’s a true story that goes like this. A thirty-two-year-old man once kidnapped and repeatedly raped a ten-year-old girl. He took her back to his dingy flat, tied her to a bed and subjected her to a prolonged and sickening sexual assault. He might have killed her too, apparently he’d boasted in the past of wanting to murder young girls for a thrill, but a neighbour heard the girl’s screams and called the cops. They turned up, kicked the door down, and nicked him. Unfortunately, he later got off on a technicality and the girl’s father ended up behind bars, and later under the ground, for trying to extract his own justice. I remembered the case because an ex-colleague of mine had worked on it. It had been two years ago now.

  The rapist’s name was Alan Kover, and he was the man who’d just tried to put a knife in me.

  There were more footsteps on the stairs, this time coming up. I placed the gun back in my pocket and walked over to the front door. As I was shutting it behind me, the guy who’d let me in emerged from round the corner. He was carrying a heavy-looking torch that I think was his best effort at a weapon, and wearing a very concerned expression.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I’ve just seen a man with a knife come charging down the stairs.’

  I started down towards him. ‘Call the police,’ I said.

  ‘But I thought you were the police.’

  ‘Not any more I’m not.’

  ‘Then who the hell are you?’

  I pushed past him without stopping. ‘Someone who hopes good luck comes in threes.’

  34

  ‘Mehmet Illan. Forty-five years old. Turkish national, he’s been resident in this country for the last sixteen years. He’s supposedly just a businessman, but apparently he’s got previous convictions in Turkey and Germany for drugs offences, though no record here. He’s got a number of companies on the go doing all sorts: import/export – mainly foodstuffs and carpets; a chain of pizza parlours; a PC wholesalers; a textile factory. You name it, he’s got an interest in it somewhere down the line. But the word is that a lot of his companies are just fronts for money laundering, and that his real profits come from elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Where?’

  ‘Apparently he used to import a lot of heroin overland from Turkey and Afghanistan, although no-one’s got any hard evidence of that, but now he’s in the people-smuggling business. You know, asylum seekers.’

  ‘I hear there’s big money to be made in that sort of thing.’

  ‘Very big. These people come from all over the place and they’ll sell everything they’ve got to get the money to pay the smugglers. The going rate can be as much as five grand per person, so one lorryload of twenty people can be worth a hundred K to the people doing the smuggling. If they only shift a hundred a week, they’re still clearing half a million, and chances are they’ll be shifting a lot more than that. It could be thousands.’

  ‘And you think this guy Illan’s involved in that?’

  ‘That’s what I’m hearing. My information says he’s a major player, but he’s done a good job of keeping himself as far away from the action as possible, so no-one’s got anything concrete on him. What’s your interest in him anyway?’

  ‘I might have got something on him. You’ll hear about it before the end of the week. You’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Whatever it is, be careful, Dennis. This guy is not to be messed with. You know those three blokes shot dead the ot
her week – the customs men and the accountant…?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The accountant was something to do with one of his front companies, and the talk is that Illan was the guy behind the murders, although proving it’s another matter. So, he doesn’t fuck about. You piss him off, you die. If he’s prepared to commit triple murder, he’s prepared to kill a copper.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything stupid.’

  ‘So if you didn’t know anything about this guy – and I assume you didn’t otherwise you wouldn’t have been phoning me – what is it exactly you’ve got on him?’

  ‘Be patient, Roy.’

  ‘Patience doesn’t sell newspapers, you know that.’

  I put some more money in the phone, knowing that I was going to have to give him something.

  ‘I think I can prove a link between him, some other criminals, and the deaths of those three blokes.’

  I could hear his breathing change at the other end. He was excited, but nervous at the same time in case I was bullshitting.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘So, why are you telling me? Why aren’t you arresting these people?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Roy, but basically you’re going to have to trust me.’

  He sighed. ‘I knew it was too good to be true.’

  ‘I’ve resigned from the Force,’ I told him. ‘There were a couple of minor irregularities. It was with immediate effect. That’s why I haven’t arrested anyone yet.’

  ‘Christ, Dennis. Really? What did you do?’

  ‘Suffice to say I’ve had some involvement with people who know Mehmet Illan. Not major involvement, but enough to get me sacked. And enough for me to know a few things about them.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Not now. I need you to do something else for me. It shouldn’t take five minutes.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Alan Kover. Remember him?’

  ‘The name rings a bell.’

  ‘He was that child rapist who got off on a technicality. The girl’s father got arrested trying to burn his flat down and ended up committing suicide. It was about two years back, over in Hackney.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I remember.’

  ‘Kover’s still walking the streets and I need to find him. Urgently.’

  ‘Is he involved in this?’

  I decided to lie. It was easier. ‘He might be, I’m not sure. Can you get me his current address?’

  ‘Dennis, you’re asking me to do a lot here. This sort of stuff could get me in one fuck of a lot of trouble. What the hell are you going to do to him, anyway?’

  Again, I lied. ‘Nothing. I just need to speak to him. You do this for me, I promise no-one’ll ever know it was you, and you’ll get the exclusive on this story. After this, the whole of Fleet Street’ll be beating a path to your door. I promise.’

  ‘It might not be that easy. He might have changed his name.’

  ‘He had previous convictions so it’s unlikely he’ll have been able to change his name. He should be on the Sex Offenders Register.’

  Roy sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘It’s important, and I’m going to need the information quick.’

  ‘Give me more of a snifter on this story. Something to really whet my appetite.’

  ‘Get me Kover’s current address by tonight and I’ll tell you a bit more then.’

  ‘This’d better be fucking good, Dennis.’

  ‘I’ll call you on this number at five tonight.’

  ‘I’ve got a meeting. Make it six.’

  ‘Six it is. And same thing applies. Don’t tell anyone you’ve heard from me.’

  The beeps went as he started to say something else, and I hung up without saying goodbye.

  I stepped out of the phone box into the morning rush hour and made my way slowly back towards the hotel.

  35

  ‘With you in a minute,’ came a voice from the back of the shop as I shut the door. I pushed the bolt across and switched the sign round from OPEN to CLOSED – not that I expected to be disturbed. Len Runnion’s shop is hardly a mecca for retail activity. Still, always easier to err on the side of caution.

  He appeared behind the counter wiping what looked like a Chinese ornamental vase with a cloth, presumably to get rid of fingerprints. When he saw me, he attempted a smile, but it wasn’t a very good effort and his eyes started darting around alarmingly, always coming back to the vase in his hand.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Milne,’ he said as jovially as possible. He put the vase down under the counter. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Guns,’ I said, approaching him. ‘I want some guns.’

  His eyes seemed to go into overdrive, and he took a step back. I think there was a look on my face that scared him. ‘I don’t know where you’d get them sort of things from,’ he said nervously. ‘Sorry, I can’t help on that one. I make it a point never to go near any sort of weapon.’

  I stopped on the other side of the counter and eyed him carefully. ‘I’m no longer a police officer,’ I told him, ‘so I’m not interested in nicking you for anything. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.’

  ‘Look, Mr Milne, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about so I think you’d better leave if that’s the sort of thing you’ve come for.’ He was more confident now that I’d told him I was no longer with the Force.

  However, the confidence was shortlived. I pulled out the gun I’d taken from Illan’s man and pointed it directly at his chest. ‘I’m not fucking about, Leonard. I need at least two firearms other than the one I’m pointing at you, preferably ones that are magazine loading. Plus a reasonable quantiity of ammunition.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on here, Mr Milne?’ he asked unsteadily, his eyes for once very much focused as they stared at the gun. ‘Is that thing real?’

  ‘Very much so. Now, I know you deal in illegal firearms, everyone knows that.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about—’

  ‘Yes you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re going to supply me the two weapons I’ve just asked for now – today – or I’m going to kill you. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘I’ve got no guns. I promise.’

  ‘You know something, Runnion, I’ve always disliked you. And I’ll bet you shifted those tax discs from that Holloway robbery as well.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’m serious—’

  ‘But you know what? That’s nothing to do with me any more so I’m not even going to pursue it. I’ll leave that to other people. But what I will tell you is this: if you don’t get me these two guns this afternoon, you are a dead man. It’s as simple as that.’

  I moved the gun upwards so it was pointed directly between his eyes. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and onto his nose. He blinked rapidly, but remained stock still. I think I’d convinced him I was serious.

  ‘Please stop pointing that thing at me.’

  ‘Are you going to get me what I want?’

  ‘It’s going to take some time.’

  ‘Have you got the ones I want in stock?’

  ‘I don’t carry stock. Not of that—’

  ‘Stop lying. I repeat: have you got the ones I want in stock?’

  ‘I can get you two guns like that, yes.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I’ve got some gear over in a lock-up in Shoreditch. Guns. I should have what you’re looking for. Now, please stop pointing that thing at me. It might go off.’

  I doubted I’d have hit him if it had, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I lowered the gun and smiled. ‘Let’s go over there now. Have you got transport, or shall we go in my car?’

  ‘I can’t go now, Mr Milne. I’ve got things I’ve got to do.’

  I laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘We’re going now,’ I told him. ‘My car or yours?’

  He sighed, then looked at me
as if he still couldn’t quite believe I was doing this. I looked back at him in a way that convinced him I was.

  ‘We’ll take mine, then,’ he said. ‘It’s out the back.’

  He went and locked up the front of the shop properly, then the two of us exited the rear door, fighting our way through the boxes of crap, unsafe electrical goods, and stolen property that made up the vast bulk of his inventory. The back door emerged into a tiny potholed car park containing two cars that looked like they were just about ready for the knacker’s yard. We got into the slightly more respectable of the two – a rusty red Nissan which had probably looked quite flash and sporty back in the mid-1980’s – and drove slowly out into the street.

  The mid-afternoon traffic was heavier than usual due to an accident on Commercial Road backing things up and it took three quarters of an hour to make a journey that wasn’t much the wrong side of a mile. We didn’t speak a lot on the way. Runnion did ask a few probing questions about who it was who’d provoked my ire and whether I was going to kill or simply wound them, but I told him to keep his mouth shut and his eyes on the road, and after a while he got the message. I felt strangely detached from the whole thing. I was doing everything instinctively without any real thought as to the possible consequences. Nothing really seemed to matter. I had a plan, and if it succeeded I would be pleased, but if it failed, then so be it. I might even end up dead, yet, sitting there in the choking traffic, even that thought held no fear. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t such a bad feeling to have. It felt almost liberating to know that this world, so often wrought with pressures and tensions, was no longer of real importance. Life for me had come down to a set of tasks that I would either complete or not complete. It was as simple as that.

  The lock-up was one of a row on a narrow back road off Great Eastern Street. Runnion parked up on the pavement directly outside, and we got out together. There weren’t many people about- a few City types taking shortcuts, the odd courier – and you wouldn’t have thought you were only a couple of hundred yards from one of the largest financial districts in the world.