Paid to Kill: A HOLIDAY CAN BE MURDER (The Dead Speak Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  “No, but I understand where you’re coming from. And do you cook all day, or are there specific times?”

  “All day,” she said, “just like it was before. We have a party in the dining room at the moment, thirty people who are nearly done, so if you want to wait”—she glanced at her watch—“say, twenty minutes, it’ll be quieter in there then.”

  “Thanks very much.” Langham pocketed the new set of keys. “We’ll just nip back to the pub then.”

  Back out in the car park, Langham let out a huge sigh of relief.

  “Want me to go in and get our things?” Oliver asked as they walked down the road. “Wouldn’t want the old dear to turn nasty on you, scare you.”

  Langham laughed. “Cheeky bastard. Like she’d scare me. It isn’t her as such, it’s the building.”

  Oliver nodded. “Once we’re back in Simmons’, I’ll tell you what happened in The Running Hare, if you like.”

  “What, about the dead people?”

  “Yeah. Something to natter about over dinner, isn’t it?”

  If Oliver wanted to chat shit about dead people, so be it.

  “So long as it isn’t gruesome and puts me off my food,” Langham said.

  “You’ve seen and heard worse and still managed to eat a curry.”

  Langham’s attention was snagged by movement behind the hedge the bike was leaning against. A uniformed officer came out to stand on the pavement, nudging the bike with his leg then scrabbling to grab it before it fell over. The poor man looked sick to his stomach, face pale.

  “I’d say that’s his first death,” Langham said.

  “It was. Some old dear.”

  Langham shook his head. “Broad daylight… I shouldn’t be surprised, but I always am. It’s like the whole world’s turned to shit.” He stared ahead at the pub. “And the sooner we get out of there the better.”

  Inside The Running Hare, the old man still sat in the corner nursing his Guinness. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Quickly, Langham led the way to the stairs then bolted up them, making his way to their room as though someone watched him on hidden cameras. He slid the key into the lock, going in with the idea of grabbing their bags and hoofing it back to Simmons’ without being spotted.

  The old woman was sitting on Oliver’s bed.

  Langham stared at her, his mouth dropping open, his heart rate soaring, and a knot of anger forming in his stomach. “What the f—? What are you doing in here?”

  She looked up slowly, her pleasant features from before replaced with those of spite. “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” She jerked her head to the side. “Going down there to them.”

  “We are, yes,” Oliver said. “No offence, like.”

  “Lots taken.” She eyed him up and down, stood and advanced towards them. “Get your bags then. Go on, pick them up. You’re not welcome here anyway. Woolly bloody woofters, aren’t you. Should have known when you booked. Did you think I’d have given you a double bed?”

  What?

  Oliver took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Langham fought the urge to give her a good talking to about disparaging people’s sexual choices, but Oliver appeared to want to deal with this. Langham gathered some clothing and stuffed it into his bag.

  “It’s no wonder people don’t want to stay here.” Oliver disappeared into the bathroom. The sounds of him picking up his toiletries filtered through. “I mean, not only is it filthy, but you’re filthy inside, spiteful, saying shit like that.” He came back out and dumped his things in his bag, then added his clothes.

  “Well I never!” She lifted one hand to cover her chest, fingers fluttering over what looked like a couple of dots of blood on her skin.

  Langham peered at it, telling himself she’d maybe picked spots and they’d bled. She flattened her hand over it when she copped on to his scrutiny and glared at him with suspicion.

  Oliver moved to stand by the door. Langham finished packing and tossed the keys onto the bed. They left the room and strode down the landing then the stairs, and it wasn’t until they got to the bottom and in the pub that Langham chuckled.

  “Don’t,” Oliver said, strutting to the pub door, one hand held high. “You know that shit isn’t funny. It pisses me the hell off. And what was she doing in the room? Nosing about or just waiting for us like she was our mother or something? Christ.” He lurched outside.

  Langham caught up with him. “The car, Oliver. We need to take the car.”

  “Fuck it.”

  “Come on. Let her get on with it. She’s old, she’s not living on the same planet, in the same time we are. Think of it that way.”

  They got in and belted up. A burst of wind smacked against the windscreen, and the ominous creak of the sign swinging set Langham’s teeth on edge. He shoved the key into the ignition and fired the engine.

  “We’re getting the hell away from here.” He reversed and gazed up at that hare. “I never want to see anything that resembles a damn rabbit again.” He swung the car around then glanced back up.

  The old woman stared down at them from their room window, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.

  She looked as evil as the hare.

  Chapter Seven

  That big bald man was in Randall’s office, and Colin the butler didn’t like it.

  Jackson. What kind of silly name is that?

  Colin had tried to stop Randall from hiring anyone to help him, but of course, things had escalated, and Randall had felt they needed protection. The problem was, Randall had no idea who he really needed protecting from.

  Me.

  Colin paced his room, asking himself how things had come to this. He was supposed to have sorted things out a long time ago but hadn’t managed it. Besides, Randall hadn’t completed his project, and Colin, when he’d gone snooping, hadn’t found enough information on it to be of any use. What good was Randall’s invention if it wasn’t finished? Colin’s boss, the man who wanted the software, had said he knew people who could take over from where Randall had got to in the programming, but Colin didn’t think any of them had Randall’s genius mind.

  Tonight was such a pointless task.

  Anything Colin had suggested hadn’t gone down too well. Neither had Colin diving in to stop the last attacker from killing Randall. Colin was supposed to have stayed in his room, claiming to the police, after the deed had been done, that he hadn’t heard a thing, had been dead to the world in bed. But Randall’s project was near useless at that point, and Colin had gone with his instincts—to get rid of the man who’d come to kill Randall so it bought more time.

  That Jackson fellow, though, he was going to prove difficult to get out of the way. Although Colin was old, he knew a thing or two about bringing a man to his knees. Knew a thing or two about killing. But despite that, he didn’t think he’d be able to handle the bald man. No, he was too big, too brawny, too young, and from what Colin had gathered when Randall had told him help was on the way, this Jackson was a trained killer who had no boundaries. An assassin who wouldn’t stop until he’d done what he’d been paid to do.

  Colin swallowed down a pinch of fear. Things were going to go wrong again, and it was all his fault. If he’d just killed Randall a long time ago like his boss had suggested, he’d be in a hot country sunning himself on a beach by now. And he’d still have both his eyes. But no, he’d been adamant about letting Randall get as close to finishing his project as he could. Stopping the last killer had not just cost him half his sight but also a wedge of his pride. He’d had such a tongue-lashing from his boss that he’d wondered at the time whether he’d ever recover. Now, tonight, he would step in again, out of line, letting Jackson kill the killer. Colin risked his boss getting incredibly angry with him again, but wasn’t it better that the software was closer to being ready?

  He rubbed his pointer finger back and forth over his bottom lip, the nail long, the feel of it exciting. It was so sharp it could do someone a bit of damage. He loved that nail, the only one he didn�
�t cut and, as was usual when he was alone and pondering, he raised it to the skin over his missing eye and poked. It hurt. The pain had him feeling better, more in control. The skin gave way under his touch, bowing inwards into the empty space beneath. Sometimes he thought he felt his eye in there, a resistance that stopped him prodding too deeply, but then he remembered what someone had told him once and realised that it was just his imagination. People who lost limbs swore they were still attached. His thoughts about his eye were no different.

  His secret telephone vibrated, jolting him out of his musings. He dashed across the room to answer it, tripping on the rug in his haste. He lurched forward, thankfully landing on his bed, then reached under it to pull the phone out. His breath juddered out of him, and he took a moment to compose himself. If the phone enabled him to ring out, his boss would know what was going on as soon as it happened. As it didn’t, Colin had suffered with nerves ever since Jackson had arrived. Waiting, waiting.

  He answered. “Yes, sir?”

  “What is the latest?”

  “Someone is here.”

  “What? What do you mean someone is there? No one ever visits. Well, no one other than his girlfriends.” Pause. “Dirty boy.”

  “It’s someone we don’t want here.” Colin took a deep breath. “I rather think we should abandon tonight’s affair, sir. Things could get tricky. And I know I said it before, but it would be better if you had a finished product.”

  “Yes, you’ve made your thoughts on the matter quite clear, but really, you don’t need to think about it.” He paused, then, “If it’s just some fuck buddy of his visiting, put something in her drink that will make her ill so you can get rid of her.”

  “No, no, it isn’t as simple as that, sir. It isn’t just a casual visitor.”

  His boss sighed. “Explain.”

  Colin closed his eye and willed himself to continue, knowing he’d probably get his head bitten off for his trouble. “Randall has hired a trained assassin to deal with our guest who is due later. The gentleman—for want of a better word—is at present in Randall’s office.” He opened his eye.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What do you propose?”

  The question startled Colin. He’d never been invited to give his opinion before, had always just taken orders or said his piece quickly and, for the most part, done as he’d been told. Except that one time.

  “Oh, well,” he said, stalling. He wasn’t sure how to put it. He cleared his throat. “I thought you might want to call your guest off for a little while until I can deal with the gentleman.”

  His boss chuckled. Then laughed. Heartily. Far too heartily for Colin’s liking.

  “You? Deal with a trained assassin? After what happened before?”

  “That was an accident. He got the better of me. I was in an intolerable position. As I explained, having Randall killed at that time would have been pointless for you.” But not for me. I would have been out of this mess. So why am I insistent on hanging around to make sure the software is closer to being complete? What does it matter to me if it isn’t? He wasn’t sure of the answer to that. “The software was in its infancy last time. But you wouldn’t listen, so I took matters into my own hands. And now you know I was right to do so. Now, Randall’s so close to finishing that your technicians might be able to complete it, but what if there’s some small bit of information they need—something that is vital and means the software won’t work without it?”

  “Has he been discussing his project with you?”

  “No, he never does, but there are ways and means of finding out information, as you well know. I also decided to take other matters into my own hands. He thinks I can’t get into his special room, but he’s quite wrong. If you called more often, you’d know I managed to get in there last week when he was…otherwise indisposed with one of his women in that horrid sex dungeon of his.”

  “Sex dungeon?”

  “Oh, yes.” Colin warmed to the conversation, proud that he knew things his boss didn’t. “There are whips and chains, all manner of things that would make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.”

  His boss breathed heavily.

  “So,” Colin went on, “as I was saying, I went into the room where he keeps the software. There was a pad on the desk with a list written down. It was in code, and all but one of the points he’d made had been ticked off.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s a list to do with the project.”

  “Yes, it does. It was Morse code. You forget I can read that.”

  “So it definitely isn’t finished.”

  “No. I don’t believe we even need your guest to come here. I’ll deal with this assassin, then with Randall. Maybe the software is at the point where your people can figure out the last bit.” And if they can’t… I need to get away from here. Start my new life.

  His boss spluttered.

  Colin continued, “Like you said, I could put something in their drinks.”

  “I’m possibly being a fool here, but very well. How long will you need?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “They’re yours. When I call back, I expect both jobs to have been done. Then I’ll send my men to collect the software and the bodies. If you don’t answer the phone, I’ll take it you’ve been overpowered and our original plan will go ahead.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t make me regret this, Colin.”

  “Oh, you won’t.”

  The call was cut from the other end, leaving Colin a little bereft that he hadn’t been wished luck or to break a leg. Then again, the latter comment might well have given him a sense of foreboding, and he couldn’t have that.

  No, because at the moment, he puffed his chest out, full of pride and purpose. He was useful again, like he’d been in the war. And that was something he’d wanted for longer than he cared to admit.

  His good eye prickled then filled, and he dashed the dampness away. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t cry. His eye was just watering, that was all.

  He stowed the phone back under the bed and left his room. Quietly, he walked towards Randall’s office. Pressed his ear to the door.

  “It’s rather an expensive racket your boss is running,” Randall said.

  “It has to be. We’re risk-takers, people who do what the majority wouldn’t. We have the threat of being caught to deal with.”

  “Yes, I understand the cost, and I certainly don’t mind paying it, but what I was implying was, why don’t you go out on your own? Why don’t you take the full price instead of a cut?”

  The bald man coughed. “Because this way I don’t have to dump bodies or do anything much except kill. If I had to do what Sid does and make the plans beforehand, set up the meetings with clients, do the job and then the clean-up, well, it’s quite a bit of work. I might not be as sharp as I should be by the time the kill comes around.”

  “I see. So starting over somewhere else with your kind of job isn’t something you’d contemplate then?”

  Why is Randall asking such a question? Or is he just making polite conversation?

  Suspicion sent Colin antsy, and he shifted from foot to foot. The floor creaked. He held his breath. The conversation in the room had stopped. Thinking it better that he disappear rather than risk getting caught listening, he stepped back, away from the noisy floorboard, and went to his room.

  He wanted to sit and think about what he’d heard. Something told him there was more to that conversation. Something he ought to know about.

  Chapter Eight

  Jackson left Randall’s office and headed to the foyer to send Sid the agreed text about the money transfer. He received a reply almost immediately, saying things were on the move. He slid his phone into his back pocket.

  He stared at a chandelier, the dangling, tear-shaped glass droplets catching the fading sunlight streaming through a row of large windows above the front door. The foyer had to be about half the s
ize of Jackson’s penthouse apartment. He wondered what Randall’s family had done over the years to enable them to afford such a luxurious place—or whether the mansion hadn’t been handed down to him from a long line of ancestors at all. Maybe he’d just bought it. The estimated cost of the place, and of running it, was enough to boggle Jackson’s mind. And he’d thought he was rich. What the hell did Randall do for a living, if anything? Jackson suddenly found himself wishing that he’d asked for more background.

  He thought about why he did this job. Why he had to keep his mind busy.

  Jackson had been away with the army, had come home on unexpected leave to find Christine enjoying someone else’s attention. Jackson had stood shocked in the bedroom doorway. He’d never forget that smug smile of hers, the exaggerated groan as she’d stared into Jackson’s eyes. Would never forget the young bloke in his bed, lifting his head to find Jackson there and not even flinching.

  Don’t think about it.

  Seemed it was too bloody late. The floodgates had opened, and everything from that day came roaring back on a wave of gut-twisting pain. Their languid rise from the bed, the pair of them casually dressing as though Jackson didn’t exist. The long, slow kiss in front of the bedroom window, the sunlight rendering them silhouettes. Light touches using hands that had clearly already been to those places several times before. Jackson rooted, unable to move, the big, tough army man who couldn’t speak a fucking word. His throat had tightened, his eyes had stung, and he’d watched it all, blinking, blinking, and wishing he was still on duty in the dirt, rifle raised, him ready to shoot the first motherfucker who came out of hiding. Him stupidly thinking Christine had waited for him at home, as faithful as her letters had said she was.

  Hadn’t fucking happened like that, though, had it?

  After dressing, Christine’s lover had swept past, giving a taunting finger-waggle of a wave, leaving their flat with an uncharitable slam of the front door. That noise had woken Jackson up, had forced him to step into the bedroom and gather his belongings. He’d stuffed them into a suitcase without a word, without looking at Christine, who’d flopped back onto the bed, body on show, a final taunt as to what was no longer his.