by Mark Eklid
Wesley leaned forward to secure the gun down the back of his jeans waistband and looked towards the café again. The target was on his way to the usual table, cup in one hand and laptop tucked under the other arm.
The pale yellow of the streetlights showed no signs of any other person on the road as he twisted in his car seat to check all around him. The plan was set. It was twenty metres to the café. He would burst through the door, deliver the killer shot from close range – a second should not be necessary from that distance – walk behind the counter to grab the blue bag with the cash, so that the raid would look like a robbery, switch off the lights and leave, closing the door behind him. As long as no one heard the shot, or heard it and did nothing about it, it could be hours until the body was discovered and, by then, he would be long gone.
Job done.
He climbed out of the car and pulled on his dark cap, glancing up and down the street one more time. He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and started walking, up the pavement on the opposite side from the café.
Suddenly, there she was.
From the side road just above the café emerged a woman, walking purposefully, her long, auburn hair flowing like a flame behind her in the cold breeze of the evening. She headed down the street, past the row of four shops.
Wesley cursed under his breath and walked on, burying his chin into his chest to conceal his face from this potential witness, walking beyond where he had intended to cross.
It was an unwanted complication but might not be a problem. He stepped on, towards the sound of the cars on the main road, and calculated the point at which he would turn around and check, making sure the woman had carried jauntily along her way past the shops and out of his way. Then he could cross and go back to the café.
He stepped back into the shadows between streetlights and turned to look. The woman had not walked past the shops. She was at the café door. She was knocking on it. Shit!
Wesley felt his heart pounding. Calm. Stay calm.
If I walk away, complete a small circuit of side streets, by the time I get back in sight of the café again, she’ll be gone. She’ll realise that she’s too late for her cappuccino, apologise to the target and leave. It’s still on.
He cursed silently again and moved. Best not to loiter. Don’t attract attention, stay in the shadows. But he was angry at this inconvenience. He was way beyond prepared for what lay ahead, he was positively looking forward to it, relishing the moment he could squeeze the trigger and take the life, and now this woman had put herself in the way. All he wanted now was to do the job and get out. She had reduced it to a chore. She had spoiled his moment.
As the café came back into view, he glanced up anxiously. Not only was the woman still there, she had moved inside and was talking to the target. For a brief, spiteful moment he contemplated taking them both, but reason re-emerged to suppress this rash instinct. It would be too messy. That was not the job. It was not what a professional would do. A professional would cut his losses and try again when the odds are back in his favour.
And so Wesley turned and walked, head down, back to his car.
28
Martin looked up from his screen when he heard the knock on the door, expecting it to be one of his regulars tapping to wave hello on their walk home, but he did not recognise the middle-aged, long-haired woman who was gazing at him through the glass, her expression stern and serious.
‘I’m sorry, my love, we’re closed,’ he called, spelling out the words with exaggerated mouth movements in case she could not hear him properly, pointing to direct her to the sign on the door just beneath her eye line.
But she either did not understand what he was trying to tell her or already knew. She stood at the door, waiting, shoulders hunched and shivering, staring towards him.
Martin closed the laptop lid. She was far too well dressed to be one of the homeless people who occasionally came by late in the day in hope of being given food that might otherwise be binned, and she was clearly not going to leave without him telling her she should to her face.
He opened the door and felt the growing cold of the evening burst through.
‘We’re closed, I’m afraid,’ he repeated firmly but politely. She was unmoved.
‘Mr Bestwick. I want to talk.’
Martin looked deeply into her green eyes in case they held any clue that would remind him of when he might have met this woman before, but he saw none. He felt he had no choice but to open the door wider and allow her in so that she could explain herself.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather stand,’ she replied coldly. ‘I’ll not stay long.’
‘OK.’ He instinctively backed away, suspicious. Something about her made him feel uneasy.
‘How can I help you?’
She paused, glaring at him as if she knew he was setting a trap for her.
‘Let’s not be coy, Mr Bestwick. I think you know why I’m here.’
He was thrown by the abruptness of her tone. He had no idea who she was or what she might want.
‘I’m sorry, but I…’
‘Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, I’ll spell it out. My name is Helena Morrison. I’m the Head of Planning and Regeneration for Sheffield City Council, or at least I was until a few hours ago.’
Now Martin had an idea of the broad ballpark of why this woman might be here, though he was still struggling to think precisely why she should have called on him. Perhaps she felt compelled to give him a piece of her mind.
‘I don’t want to argue with you, Ms Morrison, I simply did what I had to do.’
‘Don’t give me that pious bullshit, I’m not here to enter into a debate. I’ve come to strike a deal.’
‘A deal?’ His curiosity was engaged.
‘This morning, I resigned my position with the council. I also supplied the Monitoring Officer with all the information I had and gave a statement under caution to police fraud squad officers. I’ve done what you wanted me to do, Mr Bestwick. I named Cranford Hardstaff and Yuvraj Patel as the main protagonists in the conspiracy and, for the record, I’d like you to know that I was very much the junior partner of the gang of three in the deal on the council side of things. Hardstaff recruited Yuvraj and Yuvraj recruited me but neither of them trusted me enough to tell me anything more than they felt I needed to know. You’ll just have to take my word for that. I should add that none of this is public knowledge yet and so I would respectfully ask that you hold back from putting any of this information into the public domain until the police have had the chance to do their jobs. This is between you and me for now.’
She waited, wanting his acknowledgement.
Martin was so taken aback by the barrage of unsolicited information that it took him a moment to mutter, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I’ve come clean, Mr Bestwick. The Swarbrook Hill project has proved to be a disaster, a monumental waste of public money and council time, but it will never be revisited, not until such a time as the land on the site can be declared safe and I can’t see that happening at any stage, can you? I’ve done all I can, Mr Bestwick, and now I want your word that you’ll leave us alone.’
‘Meaning what, precisely?’
He was trying hard not to make it obvious that he had no idea what she was talking about.
She glared again, irritated that he was making her do this the hard way.
‘No more visits, no more threats. You stay away from me and you stay away from Darrell.’
Darrell? Morrison? Wasn’t that the name of…? Oh, god!
Panic gripped him. This was what he had feared – his stupid, stupid actions on that awful night catching up with him – but how could she have traced it back to him? She had been the one who had come to make all the concessions so far when, really, he was the one totally at her mercy.
‘I didn’t mean to shoot him. It was an accident,’ he pleaded.
‘And I suppose you didn’t
mean to send the wreath either.’
A wreath?
‘Don’t play me for a fool, Mr Bestwick. I’ve had enough of being treated like an idiot by people. All that matters to me is that we draw a line under this whole business between us now.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
Martin was not yet reassured. He was on the hook and could not believe she was willing to let him go. Surely, she should want revenge.
‘If you know it was me, why didn’t you go to the police?’
For the first time in their exchange, Helena smiled. She had considered doing just that.
‘Let’s just say I wish you hadn’t shot a hole in my husband’s foot, but I appreciate your spirit. You were prepared to make a stand and act on an issue you felt passionate about and so, while I don’t like your methods, I admire your principles. Too many of us stand idly by and wait for someone else to get things done but you took on the responsibility and, well, you’ve succeeded. Without you and your group, the planning application for Swarbrook Hill might well have been passed by the council next week and who knows how much damage could have followed, to people’s health and to the environment? You’ve helped avert a crisis, Mr Bestwick, and you’ve also done me a great favour on the long term by preventing me from becoming even more deeply entangled in a deceit that, had I known exactly what was at stake, I would have regarded as utterly vile. You might also have saved my marriage, by the way.’
She wandered to the counter and idly picked up a leaflet advertising the café’s takeaway service. She pushed it into her coat pocket.
‘So, to answer your question, I decided that if I were to hand your name to the police and stop you from doing more good work in the future that would be nothing more than vindictive and selfish on my part. If you promise that you’re finished with us and if you promise that you won’t resort to terrorising anyone else in the future, I’ll promise to keep our secret. Do we have a deal?’
Helena held out her hand. Martin moved forward and gripped it.
‘Certainly. It’s a deal. Thank you.’
‘Could I just ask,’ she added, ‘how did you find out about us? As far as we were concerned, all this was contained within a tight circle, so who let you know the real story behind Swarbrook Hill?’
Martin backed away again.
‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly… It was information given under strictest confidence.’
There was no way he would allow Brian Gibbs’ name to be dragged into the open.
‘Hmm. Fair enough,’ she said. ‘I was just interested. There must have been a point at which you finally had enough knowledge to go public but, before then, you must have had an inkling or else you wouldn’t have tried to scare myself and Yuvraj into blowing our cover. I was curious as to how you were put on to us in the first place and whether one of the others had cracked and given the game away.’
He stared blankly back, impassive.
‘No matter, I was interested, that’s all.’
She remained still, offering a final opportunity for him to tell her more, but he gave her nothing.
‘Well, I’ve said all I came to say, so I’ll leave you alone.’
‘How is he?’ Martin had wanted to check on his victim’s recovery but there had been nothing in the news lately. ‘Your husband, I mean. How is he?’
She appeared touched by his interest. ‘He’s fine. No long-term damage done. Thank you for asking.’
Helena half-turned to go but stopped.
‘Just a friendly word of warning. Hardstaff really has it in for you. The last time I saw him he mentioned that he wanted to do you harm. I think we all understand that Cranford is a bit of a loudmouth who likes to throw his weight around, but he’s also got a nasty streak and I wouldn’t put it past him to try something once this thing blows up. I’m sure the police will come looking for him soon but, in the meantime, you might just want to take extra care.’
With that, she turned the doorknob and braced herself to face the cold again. Martin followed her to the door and clicked over the lock.
Her final words had chilled him. Much of what she had said before that had astonished him.
So, Hardstaff was implicated in the scandal. Martin felt vindicated for going against his natural inclination to look for the best in people because he had always thought there was something intrinsically bad about the council leader. He did not understand why there was so much venom directed back his way, but it looked as if Hardstaff was going to get his comeuppance and that was good.
He wandered back to his table but had no will to re-open his laptop and finish the day’s business. It could wait until he was home. He picked up the computer and his cup and emptied away the cold coffee in the sink.
Martin thought again about Helena Morrison. Their paths had crossed because Mrs Dawes had been momentarily confused and had given him the wrong address. What were the odds that it would be her address and that their paths would cross again because she was caught up in the scandal he had played a part in uncovering?
It could have gone so terribly wrong for him if she had told the police he shot her husband, but Helena sounded almost grateful for the way events had unfolded.
How on earth had he helped save their marriage?
It was weird how things worked out sometimes.
He grabbed the blue cash bag to lock in the safe and walked into the back room to get ready to leave.
29
The house was in total darkness with the curtains undrawn when Wesley pulled up on to the driveway. Beth was clearly not home. He was grateful for that. He was in a foul mood.
The drive home had been spent wishing the woman at the café a wide scope of dreadful ills. She had frustrated him. She had cheated him. He almost wished he had taken a shot at her before he left, just to make her aware how angry she had made him. The only way he had been able to calm his rising temper was to remind himself that he would be able to return the following day and get the job done properly, without interference. The plan was still sound.
Maybe it would be even more pleasurable next time. Nothing worthwhile ever came easy, right?
But all he wanted for now was to take his frustration out on a bottle of whisky and to be left alone. Beth could stay away for good if she wanted. Perhaps she had got the message at last.
He lit up a cigarette as he locked the car door and drew deeply on it, fishing in his pocket for the house keys. The alarm had been activated. Wesley took that as a sign that Beth had not yet been back after work. Her failure on a regular basis to bother setting the alarm when she left the house was one of the many ways her behaviour irritated him.
There were three letters on the mat, and he picked them up after switching on the hall light. All junk. He tossed them back on to the floor. Even throwing them away was too much of an effort right now.
Wesley sucked on the cigarette again and felt for the gun tucked into the back of his jeans but changed his mind and left it there. He would have his first tumbler measure of whisky first and then go to put it away in the safe, ready for tomorrow.
But as he reached around the corner in the front room to turn on the light there was a knock on the door.
He swore and stopped. He was not expecting anything to be delivered or for anyone to call. Ignoring it was the most appealing option, but he decided to answer it instead. If it were someone offering to power-jet clean his driveway or give him a quote for new windows he would give them an almighty mouthful. Perhaps that would make him feel better.
He did not recognise the man in the dark overcoat with a pulled-up collar and a sneering, superior expression but Wesley saw the two uniformed policemen behind him and figured out the rest.
Fucking great.
‘Hello Wesley,’ he said, pulling out a warrant card to flash far too quickly for anyone to possibly study its authenticity, even subliminally.
‘DS Mitchell. We want a word.’
‘I can give you two.’
&
nbsp; Wesley poured all the contempt he could muster into staring the officer straight back in the eye and casually flicked the cigarette out through the open door, just missing the three of them.
‘Hilarious,’ replied the policeman, mirthlessly. ‘Don’t bother taking your coat off, you’re coming with us.’
‘No fucking chance.’ The gun. Wesley felt the gun pressing against his lower back. There was no way he could let them take him in with an illegal firearm down the back of his jeans.
‘We can do the arrest here if you like,’ said Mitchell.
‘You’re going to have to.’ Wesley was out of options. This was his final bluff.
The officer gave a resigned sigh. ‘OK. Wesley Hughes, I’m…’
Desperately, Wesley grabbed the edge of the open door and swung it violently in an attempt to slam it shut, but the policeman reacted far more quickly than he had reckoned on, fending it with an elbow. The blow made him yelp but he pushed back against the door to barge through in pursuit of his man.
Wesley had backed away only a couple of metres down the hallway and, realising his gamble to buy a few valuable seconds to conceal the gun had failed, he reached for it anyway. He did not know if he intended to use it to hurt the three policemen or just to keep them at bay. He had not been given the time to think it through. He drew it from behind his back and pointed it towards them, his finger tightening around the trigger.
Mitchell did see the gun. Had he been presented with the same situation in a theoretical scenario he might have opted for a different response but, in the heat of the moment and with the momentum of his lunge through the doorway behind him, he hurled himself forward, seeing nothing but the outstretched arm holding the gun and wanting only to grasp it.
As his left hand caught the underside of Wesley’s wrist and deflected it up, the trigger finger pulled beyond the point of harmless resistance and the gun fired, sending a bullet over the policeman’s shoulder to lodge in the wall.
