Each Man Kills

by David Barry

  An image flew into his head suddenly: an omnipotent, giant Lottery finger pointing down accusingly at a pathetic cowering figure and blowing out his brains.

  Evans blinked hard, chasing away the sudden urge to close his eyes and drift into sleep. He checked his watch, got up off the sofa and stood the Armalite against the wall in the far corner of the room.

  It was down to business again.

  He moved quickly back to the sofa, picked up the phone and dialled the number of the First Direct Bank. As soon as his security code had been cleared, he gave his instructions in a clear, businesslike manner.

  ‘I’d like to transfer fifteen thousand pounds from my account.’

  ***

  Keeping low behind a row of parked cars, DC Maynard moved stealthily back up the street to where Lambert stood waiting with the uniformed chief superintendent.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Lambert.

  She nodded seriously. ‘This has got to be it. Wing mirror’s broken off on the driver’s side. And the car’s covered in a film of chalky dust.’

  Lambert turned towards the chief super at his side. ‘It’s our man all right.’

  Chief Superintendent Phillips checked his watch. ‘Less than an hour till it’s light. I’ll give it another forty-five minutes. We’ll hit our target just before dawn.’

  Lambert smiled to himself. He knew Phillips loved all the Hollywood-style hard man talk. He made eye contact with DC Maynard and could see she was thinking the same.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Phillips muttered, thinking aloud, ‘there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t get it over and done with.’

  ‘I quite agree, sir,’ Lambert agreed. ‘Now’s a good a time as any.’

  With an extravagant gesture, Phillips checked his watch again and spoke in a clipped, efficient tone. ‘Let’s say five minutes from now. We hit him good and hard. I’ll go and tell the men.’

  Abruptly, Phillips wheeled about in a military fashion and marched towards some unmarked police vehicles.

  ‘D’you think he’ll put up any resistance, sir?’ DC Maynard asked Lambert.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate,’ he replied non-committally. ‘But we know he’s armed and we can’t take that chance.’

  DC Maynard smiled warmly, looking him straight in the eye. It was, he realised, manipulative. He was aware that she was using her sex, but for what purpose he was uncertain. Perhaps she fancied him. Or she could have been fishing for some well-deserved compliments. He sensed that she was ambitious, so maybe that was it. He returned her smile and caught himself saying,

  ‘Well done, Carol. Good work tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered, dropping her eyes demurely, deliberately letting him see the softer side of her character.

  With any other woman, Lambert would have made his move now. But his golden rule was not with anyone in the service. Only civilians. It was bad enough having a reputation as a middle-aged lothario without shitting on your own doorstep. He was relieved when Ellis came tearing back from retreating a little distance to use his mobile phone because he just might have been tempted.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ Ellis announced. ‘They eventually let me speak to Evans’s old commanding officer. He was none too pleased at being woken at the crack.’

  ‘Tough shit. What did he say?’

  Ellis looked up towards Evans’s first floor flat, an expression of deep concern spread across his face. ‘This is one hell of a dangerous bloke. Trained to kill. No longer in the SAS. He now sells his services to anyone who needs a freelance soldier.’

  ‘Christ! An armed mercenary from the SAS. What are we getting into here?’

  Phillips arrived back and overheard Lambert’s last remark. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded. Lambert told him about Ellis’s phone call to SAS Headquarters at Hereford, and he said, ‘This is fucking armed combat. The SAS should do their own dirty work.’

  Ellis laughed ironically. ‘I got the impression they’d like to disown him, sir.’

  Phillips gritted his teeth and tugged at his leather gloves. ‘I bet they would,’ he said. ‘Right! Let’s go for it.’

  ***

  Evans poured himself another slug of whiskey and looked at his watch. Not long now until daylight. If they were going to come it would be any minute now. He knew that the optimum time for a raid was just before dawn, when the target is probably fast asleep and at his lowest ebb, especially if he’s had a bad night and just dropped off to sleep.

  The only light coming into the living room was through the open door leading to the kitchen. He got up from the sofa, switched it off, then walked over to the window. Slowly and carefully he eased the curtain back a fraction. The street looked quiet and empty, the incandescent light from the street lamps shaping it into a uniformly unreal and sepia-tinted scene. The before-dawn-quiet buzzed in his head. He kept watching but there seemed to be no one out there. Perhaps he had overestimated their capabilities. Supposing no one came. What then?

  A dark shape moved between two parked cars. Had he imagined it? He kept staring at the cars, concentrating. Then he saw the shadow emerge from its hiding place, solid and real, and unmistakably wearing a blue uniform. They were here all right. Any second now. He let the curtain fall back into place, switched the light on again in the kitchen and returned to the sofa. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, took another gulp of Jack Daniel’s and waited.

  ***

  ‘Shit!’ hissed Phillips as the static of his walkie-talkie crackled. He fiddled with the volume control and commanded, ‘OK. This is it. Don’t take any chances. No heroes. Understood? OK. Go! Go!’

  Lambert, Ellis and Maynard prepared to follow close behind Phillips. Across the street, immediately opposite the target’s flat, a man in a baseball cap and a backpack over one shoulder prepared to leave for work. He stopped in his tracks as the tearing sound of splintering wood disturbed the early morning calm. He watched open-mouthed the sledge-hammering of the door and saw the first wave of police officers breaking into the house.

  ‘Get him out of the immediate area, Carol,’ Lambert shouted over the din. ‘Quick as you can.’

  Disappointed she would no longer be part of the raid, DC Maynard hesitated, ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘Now!’ yelled Lambert, then turned his back on her and followed Ellis and Phillips into the house. He stepped over the broken door, following closely behind Ellis, who was about to take the stairs two at a time when the door of the ground floor flat opened a fraction and a pale frightened face stared out through the crack.

  ‘Sergeant!’ Lambert yelled.

  Ellis didn’t need to be told twice. He turned at the stairs, took his ID out of his back pocket, and ran towards the ground floor flat, saying, ‘It’s OK, sir. Police officers. Everything’s under control. Get back inside.’

  Lambert heard the crash of Evans’s door being forced open as he raced up the stairs. He arrived on the landing as three armed officers leapt inside, brandishing their rifles, screaming and shouting, ‘Freeze! Hold it! Don’t move! I’ve got him. I’ve got him.’

  Lambert followed Phillips through the door. He held his breath against the clouds of dust and smell of fear. The three armed officers were frozen like statues, their rifles trained on Evans, just the right pressure on the trigger, hardly daring to breathe. A deathly silence. They eased their fingers off the triggers and one of them looked towards the chief superintendent, as if he needed some sort of reassurance or explanation. Phillips and Lambert stared at the professional killer for what seemed like an eternity. Evans smiled confidently at them and sipped his whiskey.

  ‘You only had to ring the doorbell,’ he said, ‘and I’d have let you in.’

  Chapter 10

  Lambert knew Evans was about to confess. He could sense it. He had seen so many s
uspects in similar situations. They either dug in their heels and denied it, in which case you were in for a long-drawn-out battle of wits, or else they confessed almost immediately, glad that it was all over.

  Evans took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Yes, I shot him. But that’s all I’m saying. I killed him, an’ that’s that.’

  Brief looks were exchanged between Lambert, Ellis and Maynard. The solicitor, who appeared to be present merely as a formality, studied his fingernails and remained silent.

  ‘What was your motive, Mr Evans?’ Lambert asked, his voice subdued and low, like a priest in the confessional, not wanting to disturb the mood of the confessor.

  Evans stared straight ahead, his eyes distant.

  ‘I repeat: What was your motive, Mr Evans?’

  Evans’s eyes didn’t flicker. He continued staring into the distance.

  Lambert’s voice took on a sharper edge. ‘How did you know Ted Wilson?’

  ‘Did you have a reason to kill him?’ Ellis asked. ‘Why, Mr Evans? Why? What was the reason? We have to know.’

  Silence. The silence stretched to breaking point. DC Maynard watched Evans intently, staring hard into his eyes, watching for any signs that he might be faking the trance-like state into which he seemed to have retreated. Outwardly, Lambert gave the appearance of being in control. No one could guess how frustrated he felt. It was an easy confession; too easy. Something told him that this was all they would get out of Evans. Instinct told him that Evans meant it about not saying another word. But he decided to give it one last try.

  ‘No rational person kills without reason, Mr Evans. Was this a contract killing? Did someone pay you to kill Ted Wilson?’

  Evans continued to stare lifelessly into space. Lambert looked questioningly at the solicitor, who shrugged then shook his head.

  ‘Right. Interview suspended at 10.05 hours.’ Lambert clicked the tape off and got up from the table. He studied Evans carefully before he spoke. ‘I think I’ll take a trip to Hereford and have a word with your old CO.’

  Evans’s eyes flickered slightly.

  ‘Oh?’ said Lambert. ‘You’re hearing’s not impaired then?’

  He turned and strode out of the interview room.

  ***

  After the cell door clanged shut, Evans thought he was probably being observed through the aperture, so he continued staring into space for a long time. As soon as he sensed the custody officer had gone, he glanced round at the door, and sure enough the hole was now covered up, although he guessed the tiny nodule in a corner above the door was a camera with an angle wide enough to take in every inch of the cell. Not that he cared. He would just relax and think things through. What he had done had to be done and that was that. There was no other way. He was following orders, and the orders inside his head gave him no other options.

  He was sitting on the edge of the narrow bed and he leant back against the wall, which was comfortingly cool. He began to relax. He was extremely tired now and his eyelids felt heavy. After a while, he closed his eyes.

  He knows where the bastards are who car bombed the two off-duty soldiers in Londonderry. They’ve probably crossed south of the border by now. Fuck it. He’ll go after them. Take the bastards on his own. For all he knows, he might already have crossed the border into the Republic. Which means the stakes have been raised and it’s a highly dangerous game he’s playing. Not just because he could end up in a ditch somewhere with a Provo bullet in the back of his head, but once he crosses over into the Republic, they know they have more to gain, more political mileage, by handing him over to the Garda. Then Dublin demands answers. What are British soldiers doing in the Republic of Ireland? And before you know it there’s a political row between the British government and the opposition and the papers are screaming blue murder. Bang goes his army career. One of the elite. But that’s assuming they take him alive. No fucking way.

  He moves forward on his hands and knees, crawling through a ditch at the edge of a field. Everything looks normal. Ordinary countryside. But it feels hostile. He tries not to let that spook him. Keep calm; think clearly. Listen. Don’t make any false moves.

  He creeps slowly, covering hardly any ground. He has learnt to distinguish all the sounds he can ignore: the gentle rustle of foliage stirred by the breeze; the startled movements of rabbits and small animals. He stops to listen for a tell-tale human cough or muffled voice. Nothing. All clear. He crawls a little quicker now, across some rocks and into a small clump of trees. Just the other side of this copse, down a hill, is the derelict house. He watches the windows of the house, working out his best approach. Suddenly, a cough. Not a sheep nor any animal. A human cough. He peers through the foliage to his right, and less than a metre from his face, a man’s legs; wearing khaki combat trousers. He lets his breath out slowly, wondering why the sentry hasn’t heard him crawling through the copse. Then he hears a faint hissing noise, not unlike distant rain. What the hell is it? Through the fuzzy sound he can just make out a human voice, high pitched, excited. Then it falls into place. A personal stereo. It’s Saturday afternoon. The sentry’s listening to the racing on his personal stereo.

  Slipping the long knife from his belt, he smiles grimly. It couldn’t be easier. Do it quickly, before the race ends. If the poor bastard’s horse romps home, he’ll never collect. Ah well, the bookie always wins. He catches a glimpse of the man’s startled face, sheer terror with the brief realisation that death is on him.

  He slits his throat.

  Evans opened his eyes suddenly. Disorientated, he sat up and looked around the small cell. He stared into space for a few minutes, trying to recall the recent events, as if this was something which had happened to someone else in a dream. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down where it was sticking up at the back. Then he got up from the bed and began exercising, doing at least thirty press-ups to begin with.

  Chapter 11

  Major Denton stepped forward from behind his desk and offered Lambert his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Inspector Lambert.’

  It was a bone-crushing handshake. Lambert took it with as much sangfroid as he could muster, staring coolly at the SAS officer.

  Major Denton gestured towards a chair. ‘Take a pew. I’m not sure how much help I can be. However, I shall do my utmost.’

  As Lambert sat, he realised he had to get a grip on himself. Things had not gone well on the journey from Swansea. He had been stuck in traffic because a lorry had jack-knifed in the centre lane on the M4, so that by the time he arrived at the SAS base in Hereford, he was in a terrible mood. Then he was kept waiting for half an hour before the major could see him. By now he was on a short fuse, and he hated Major Denton on sight. He hated the major’s public school confidence and cut-glass accent, his conventional good looks and the self-satisfied smile simmering in his dark-brown eyes; and he despised the officer’s careful grooming, the way his wavy, pepper-and-salt hair looked as if it was pampered each morning with a gentleman’s hair lotion from somewhere suitably exclusive in London. Lambert realised his antipathy was irrational. He liked to think he treated everyone alike, whatever their race or background; but there was something about Major Denton that offended his sense of morality. Lambert felt he was in the company of cold-blooded, ambition. Here was a lawful killer who would one day, perhaps, become powerful enough to make life-and-death decisions from the comfortable distance of his Pall Mall club.

  The major’s head tilted back slightly before he spoke, fixing Lambert in his sights.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’

  It was said without a trace of hospitality, making it seem like an imposition. Lambert toyed with the idea of inconveniencing him, then thought the better of it.

  ‘No thanks.’ Lambert glanced at his watch pointedly. ‘I don’t have a great deal of time.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sorry to have kept yo
u, but I had some pressing business. Matters of state security. I’m sure you understand.’

  His expression deadpan, Lambert stared across the desk at the major and got straight to the point. ‘Just before we apprehended Evans, you warned my sergeant that he could be dangerous. But he gave himself up without so much as a harsh word.’

  Major Denton smiled confidently. ‘One can’t be too careful.’

  ‘What sort of soldier was Evans?’

  Without speaking, Denton turned towards the computer monitor on the side of his desk and tapped into the keyboard. Lambert knew he would have already gone through Evans’s records with a fine toothcomb. So why this bullshit?

  ‘Exemplary record, it seems,’ said Denton. ‘Distinguished himself in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  Denton gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Official secrets, Inspector. You’ll just have to use your imagination.’

  ‘I think I get the picture. He was one of your licensed killers.’

  ‘He was a soldier, Inspector. Highly disciplined, highly trained, fighting a dirty war.’

  ‘One of Nietzsche’s gentlemen?’

  As soon as he said it, Lambert regretted it. Allowing his prejudices to show was not conducive to conducting a good investigation. But the major didn’t seem put out by the remark. He shook his head with a weary smile.

  ‘Evans killed a farmer,’ said Lambert. ‘A seemingly motiveless, pointless murder, with all the hallmarks of a professional assassination. Could Evans have gone over to the other side?’