Absolute Proof

by Peter James

  Albeit a somewhat warped hand. First, he was hired to kill the man he was listening to on the phone, Ross Hunter, some kind of journalist scumbag. Everything agreed, the cash safely banked, payment in full. Then he’d been asked to kill the two men at the top of the company – Wesley Wenceslas Ministries – which had hired him to kill Hunter. His employees had of course tried to keep their identity secret, but not many clients succeeded in keeping secrets from him for very long.

  Professional morality had prevented him from personally carrying out the executions of Wenceslas and Pope, but not enough for him to want to lose the business, so he had made a rare exception to his rule of never trusting anyone and engaged an associate for the task.

  A reliable source in Bucharest. For less than ten per cent of the $5m fee he’d demanded, his Bucharest fixer had sent someone to England who had done the deed and was out of the country the next morning. On his share of the deal, the assassin could live like a king in his own country for the next decade. And it would be a decade before the fixer sent him to England again.

  You could almost believe there was a God!

  The shenanigans over the Wesley Wenceslas Ministries had left him wondering whether his professional services were still actually required. But if not, that meant he would have to return the money. So, he decided to continue as instructed.

  He rattled the ice cubes in his glass and sipped some more. Shame he couldn’t have the same happen to loathsome Julius Helmsley aka ‘Mr Brown’. But hey, that was something to stick in his back pocket, maybe for the future. At this moment, he had his fish to fry. His mark, Ross Hunter.

  Hunter was negotiating an allowance for this trip to LA. Sounded like the lady on the other end had agreed, if a bit reluctantly. The trip was on. Big Tony was happy about that. LA was a familiar hunting ground.

  Besides, he rather liked the idea of a visit back to America. He might be living in a kind of exile but he still remained an American citizen, through and through, although Monte Carlo was his home now. He was comfortable here. Rich beyond his wildest dreams as a kid.

  With just one problem: he had nothing he really needed or wanted to spend his money on.

  Hunting down folk and killing them. That was what he liked doing best, however much he had tried denying it to himself.

  It was the buzz. Each hit was a fresh challenge, fresh adrenalin rush. The moments in his life, on the hunt, the chase, when he truly felt alive.

  The laptop on the table in front of him displayed dozens of mugshots of Ross Hunter. There was a particularly nice one on the journo’s byline on the Sunday Times columns he wrote. Lean, smiling face. Short hair. Penetrating eyes.

  He’d memorized the face. With sunglasses, without. Baseball cap, no hat. Stubble, no stubble. Beard, moustache, clean shaven.

  LA would be nice.

  Might be fun to travel there together, catch the same flight. Although, from the sound of the conversation, Hunter looked like he was doomed to a Coach seat. Hey, maybe he’d ask the stewardess in First Class to take the guy slumming it in the ghetto back there a glass of vintage champagne.

  But maybe he wouldn’t.

  He picked up his phone and dialled a contact in Syracuse, New York, who owed him a favour. The guy ran a confidential service monitoring airline bookings. He could tell you what flight anyone was booked on, and if they were in the air, at what time they would land. Big Tony fed him the name Ross Hunter and asked him to let him know the moment Hunter booked on a flight from the UK to Los Angeles.

  113

  Friday, 17 March

  ‘Take a card! Any card, don’t let me see it, just take a card!’

  Friday night on St Patrick’s Day in the half-full Fairfax Lounge. It was a tired room, old-fashioned but not in any fancy, retro way – just plain old. The smell of stale beer was ingrained in the fabric of the place. A long, shiny bar ran the length of one side, and a row of curved leather banquettes down the other. Dim green lampshades hung low, giving the feel of a 1930s speakeasy. A television on the wall behind the bar showed a ball game that a handful of guys and a couple of women, hunched on stools, were watching. At the far end of the room was a small stage on which stood microphone stands, various musical instruments, a tangle of wires and two speakers the size of fridges. The green-and-white flags dotted around the place, brought out annually, were limp and dusty.

  The musicians had taken a break, the guitarist, drummer and saxophonist, along with the superannuated platinum-blonde singer who’d had so much facial work it looked like the surgeon was now pretty much down to bare bone.

  ‘Any card, sir! That’s right, any card!’

  Mike Delaney, a gaunt man with a booze-veined face, stood in the one suit he possessed, light grey with some of the stitching gone and the elbows frayed, a sharp black shirt and badly scuffed desert boots. A lock of his overly long, threadbare grey hair hung over his forehead, partially obscuring his right eye.

  He fanned out the full deck of cards, face down, with trembling hands. A group of four people sat at a banquette in front of him, one man drinking a Bud, the other with a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks, the ladies drinking cocktails from Martini glasses. One of the men, with a shaven head, wearing a singlet, had a belligerent expression. Looking reluctant to have this intrusion from the house magician, he reached forward with a tattooed arm on which he sported a large Breitling watch, and tugged out a card.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’

  ‘Billy.’

  Delaney’s voice was reedy and urgent. ‘Take a look at it, Billy, don’t let me see it. Show it to the others but don’t let me see it!’

  The man obliged. It was the eight of hearts.

  Delaney handed him a marker pen. ‘Would you write your name on the back of it, please, Billy.’

  Billy obliged, scrawled his name in black ink on the card then returned the pen, which the elderly magician pocketed.

  ‘Now put the card back in the pack – anywhere you like!’

  The man slipped it back in, giving his companions a sceptical shrug.

  Delaney closed the deck. Then, as he fanned the cards out again, he fumbled and dropped the entire deck on the floor, all the cards falling face up.

  ‘Shit, man, you’re a goddam cheat!’ Billy said, loudly.

  Both couples were leaning over the table looking down at the floor. All the cards were identical. Each one was an eight of hearts.

  Hastily, Mike Delaney knelt and scooped the cards up, clumsily. ‘Which was the card you chose, Billy?’

  ‘Goddammit, you know which card, asshole.’

  Delaney handed him the pack. ‘Show me it, would you, sir.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘Show me the card, please, Billy.’

  The man turned the pack over. To his surprise the bottom card was the queen of clubs and not an eight of hearts. He frowned and slid the card onto the low table in front of him. The next card in the pack was a two of spades. Frowning again, he continued through the pack. Each card was different. And now his other three companions were looking on with interest.

  ‘Do you see your card, Billy?’

  ‘Goddammit.’ Silently the man worked his way through the entire deck. Then when he had finished and they all lay face up on the table he said, ‘Ain’t there.’

  Delaney looked surprised. ‘Well, OK, let’s try something different. How about instead of you telling me which card you chose, I tell you where it is?’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Delaney produced a small spoon from thin air. ‘Would you mind passing me your glass, Billy. If I spill any I’ll get you another, fair dues?’

  The man reluctantly handed him his tumbler.

  Delaney spooned out a cube of ice and placed it on the table. He then produced, again from seemingly thin air, a small, silver hammer. Holding the ice cube with one hand, he struck it with the hammer, shattering it open. Inside lay a folded-up playing card. ‘Could that be the one you chose, Billy?’

 
The man leaned forward, picked it up and unfolded it. Then he raised it, dumbfounded, showing it to his friends.

  ‘That your card, Billy?’

  ‘Well, it’s the eight of hearts.’

  ‘Turn it over.’

  He did. On the back, in his handwriting in black, was the name ‘Billy’.

  ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘How the heck did you do that?’

  His companions looked amazed.

  Delaney smiled. ‘Guess I’d better be going, it’s getting late, leave you guys to your party.’ Then he hesitated. ‘Oh, Billy, could you tell me the time?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said and glanced at his watch. Or rather, where his watch had been. He was staring at his bare wrist.

  Delaney dug his hand into his inside breast pocket and pulled out the man’s Breitling. He held it up by the strap. ‘This what you’re looking for, Billy?’

  114

  Saturday, 18 March

  Ross sat opposite Imogen in their favourite vegetarian restaurant, Terre à Terre. At home neither of them drank at lunchtime, but Imogen said she fancied a glass of wine, and he certainly fancied one also.

  He’d ended up ordering a bottle of Albarino.

  ‘Cheers!’ he said, after an awkward silence waiting for the waiter to return with the bottle and pour it. It felt strange sitting here with her.

  Imogen raised her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she replied, with a total absence of cheer. She sipped some of the wine. ‘Very minerally,’ she said, flatly.

  ‘You like minerally, normally.’

  ‘Is anything normal right now, Ross?’

  ‘Listen, I know things have been difficult. What would you say if I told you Jesus Christ was back on earth and I might have found him?’

  ‘That you should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act?’

  ‘I’m serious, Imo. I know you’ve been through hell – don’t think I haven’t either. But what I’ve got is pure dynamite. I have a story that could blow the human race’s mind. I just need you to cut me some slack and trust my instincts, OK? This story is going to make us rich – richer than we could ever have imagined. We’ll clear all our debts and have masses to spare.’

  She tilted her head and sipped some wine. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Of course!’ He raised his glass and clinked it against hers. Then he told her everything that had happened in the past two days.

  ‘So, you fly to LA tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where are you going to start looking? It’s a vast city, and you’ve got compass coordinates for a part of it, nothing more.’

  ‘I have some contacts there – an old friend of mine is now on the LA Times, and I know a guy in the LAPD who helped me a lot on that piece I wrote on celebrity stalking a couple of years back. I’ve emailed both of them.’

  She nodded. ‘What time are you flying?’

  ‘Midday.’

  ‘What are you going to do with Monty?’

  ‘I’ve had to book him into kennels and I’ve found one I’m happy with – that one we see each time we drive past Lewes.’

  ‘So, you’re flying to LA to meet Jesus Christ?’

  ‘That’s my hope.’

  ‘What if he’s out?’

  He smiled. ‘Come on, stop being so cynical.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ross, you ought to try dictating all this into a machine and then playing it back to yourself, and seeing how ridiculous it sounds.’

  ‘Did Jesus not originally die on the cross because a lot of people didn’t believe him – or were scared of him? You’re a believer, Imo. Your entire faith is founded on belief in the Resurrection, so what’s your problem?’

  ‘My problem is, Ross, in my faith we believe that before Jesus Christ returns – the Second Coming – we’ll know about it, loud and clear. What you are doing is potentially giving air time to a nutter – with consequences that could damage the Christian faith badly.’

  He looked at her. ‘I can’t believe you’re not supporting me now. You’re my wife, we’re a unit. A supposedly inseparable unit. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’ He gave her a hard, knowing stare and she had the grace to blush.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘To rake up the past? The glowing embers that never quite die out for you, right?’

  ‘Imo, I’ve potentially got the biggest story of my life.’

  ‘I can’t support you any more, Ross, because your story means more to you than me and our baby do. I fell in love with a man I thought would put me above everything else in his life. But no, I was wrong. I understood early in our marriage that your work – your stories – would always come first. Over everything. Does nothing else ever matter to you?’

  He glared at her. ‘You know what? I’ll tell you what matters more to me than anything, and that is that our child has a future, and in the world’s current fucked-up state I’m not sure he does. This isn’t just any old story, Imo, I’m talking about potentially changing and saving the world here.’

  ‘You really believe that? The ramblings of a mad old man? Did you ever read the author E. M. Forster?’

  ‘A Room with a View? A Passage to India?’

  ‘Yes. “If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.”’

  ‘You’d rather I betrayed the world, just to make you feel a little better?’ He picked up his glass. ‘What does that say about your faith?’

  ‘My faith?’

  ‘You’re saying that I should dismiss the chance to prove God’s existence to the world, in order to not upset my family?’

  ‘It’s not about upsetting your family. It’s about caring whether the baby and I live or die. About putting us before your story.’

  ‘It’s also about supporting your partner, Imo.’

  ‘So, we agree to differ.’

  He shook his head, anger rising inside him. ‘No, Imo, we don’t agree on anything.’

  115

  Saturday, 18 March

  As soon as Ross arrived home after his lunch with Imogen he went into his bedroom to pack. Monty followed him and stood beside him, tail down, as it always was when he saw suitcases.

  ‘It’s OK, boy, you’re going to go to kennels, but only for a few days, I promise.’

  It was strange, he thought, that he really didn’t care if he’d upset Imogen. He should, but he didn’t. Instead his mind turned to his packing. Thinking about speed and mobility, he wondered if he should try to cram everything into a carry-on, rather than taking the check-in suitcase he’d laid on the floor.

  As he was pondering, his phone rang. He answered and heard a voice, with a broad Midlands accent, he did not recognize.

  ‘Mr Hunter? I apologize for this intrusion, sir. My name is Detective Inspector Simon Cludes, from Leicestershire Police Major Crimes Branch.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sir, you may be aware of the double murder of Pastor Wesley Wenceslas and Mr Lancelot Pope.’

  ‘Yes, I could hardly miss it – it’s been all over the news.’

  ‘May I ask if you were acquainted with either of these gentlemen, sir?’

  ‘Not at all, no. Well, I tried to talk to Wenceslas once, but never got past a minder. I did subsequently refer to him, fairly scathingly, in a piece I wrote – about five years ago – on the world’s richest evangelist preachers.’

  ‘Might you have upset them, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Yes, they threatened legal action against myself and the paper. Then I think they thought better of it.’

  ‘Might you have upset them enough for them to want to kill you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I upset a lot of people in my work,’ he replied. ‘But that was a good five years ago, maybe six. I think if I’d pissed them off enough to want to kill me, they’d have done it by now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not the information I have, Mr Hunter. From what our digital f
orensics team has been able to recover from their computers, so far, we believe your safety may be threatened.’

  ‘What information do you have?’

  ‘I’m afraid no more than that, at this stage, sir. You’ve not had any recent contact with the pastor or the Wesley Wenceslas Ministries which might have rekindled their anger against you?’

  ‘No, none. So presumably now Wenceslas is dead, that threat is over?’

  ‘We would hope so, sir, but we don’t know. We will require you to give a statement, and I’m arranging for Sussex Police to send two detectives to see you.’

  ‘Yes – I – I could see them, but I’m flying to America tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll give you my number, Mr Hunter, if you could call me when you are back in the country.’

  ‘Sure. Can you tell me – are you saying there is a contract out on me? What do you know about it?’

  ‘Nothing more than I’ve told you, sir. It is alluded to, but the digital forensics team have not recovered any details. I don’t want to worry you unduly, but I would be failing if I did not warn you. I suggest you be extra vigilant until we have been able to find out if there is anything more. I will of course notify you the moment we find any further information. Will you be contactable on this number in America, sir?’

  ‘Twenty-four-seven.’

  Ross ended the call. Pastor Wesley Wenceslas had put a contract on his life? Five years after his article on phoney, profiteering evangelists? Revenge might be a dish best eaten cold, but five years was far too long for this to be connected to that story. Everything was telling him it must be related to what he was doing now.

  He looked at the pastor’s Facebook page and saw an outpouring of grief. Post after post expressing shock, disbelief and sadness. Then he went to Wenceslas’s website. A link took him to the pastor’s YouTube channel. There was a prayer service at his London church being conducted by one of his minions, the camera panning across a sea of weeping faces.