‘Let’s cut the jokes.’ Jill drops her elbows to the table and drills a glare straight into Main’s eyes. ‘What’s the deal? I’m not one of your dumbos trying to settle debts or matrimony. We both know why we’re here, so let’s have it.’
Main lowers his eyes. Scans the bar and its surrounds. ‘I want you to persuade a client to complete a business transaction. Your customer service and negotiation skills have been recommended.’
Jill continues the sounding board. ‘I have a full client list. I don’t know that I could accept new contracts.’
‘This would be worth your while, you know, for a mutual friend.’
‘No names. I don’t have friends, and name-dropping will serve no purpose. If I could find time, what sort of service do you want?’
‘It’s all in here.’ Main folds back his jacket lapel to display an envelope. ‘Simply put, a motivational session. The guy’s a little laxed in his administration skills and is delaying a contract my client wants finalised.’
‘And how do I contact this guy?’
Main removes the envelope and slides it across the table. Jill squeezes open the top. Peers at a sheet of typed instructions, a map, a business card and block of £20 notes. Jams it into her own jacket pocket. ‘I’ll have a look when I’ve got time. I’ll get back to you.’
Main hands her a business card.
Jill brushes it aside. ‘Don’t need two. I know how to contact you. If I didn’t I’d hardly be any good at my job, would I?’
They exit the Knight’s Arms, Jill with the envelope comforted inside her jacket, Main trailing like a lost lamb. He shuns pandering to the likes of McMaster, but simultaneously applauds him for recommending Jill. He momentarily considers offering a larger incentive to recruit her to his own advantage, and thereby eliminating two problems. Main knows the form: Jill wouldn’t give a damn about the hit’s identity – provided the money is right. A job’s a job.
* * *
Gillian hunkers behind the bar, browsing the dozen shots she’s snapped with her mobile phone. She attaches the snaps of Main and his Trojan warrior to an email, jabs in a pre-dial number and presses ‘send’.
Thornton replies: Message received.
McMaster makes the call.
‘Yeah, Angelo here.’
‘Phil.’
A short silence. ‘Hello.’
‘What’s the go with my contracts?’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Your mother tells me she’s left it to you.’
‘Ah, that. Yeah. Word is that it’s held up with your solicitors. Something to do with extending the settlement to fix an anomaly. Far as I know we don’t have anomalies. You made your offer. Live with it.’
‘Listen good, right. I got no problem living with my offer. Truth is, you’re keeping your mother in the dark so she doesn’t find out you’re ripping her off. She’s got confidence in you handling it – not that you’re not doing much of a job. Might be time for me to pay her a visit, right, and put her in the picture.’
Angelo forces his words: ‘It’s none of your business, man. That’s what solicitors are for. If you don’t like it, too bad. Mum doesn’t need you lobbing on her doorstep dropping accusations she’ll never believe. I’m sure she’s not busting to sell, but since she’s gone this far, I suggest you regard me as a friendly neighbour and let this matter take its course, otherwise mum might just decide that we’re not interested in your offer.’
‘Listen you little fucker! There is no “we”. You’ve not heard the end of this.’ McMaster jabs the ‘end call’ button. Clenches his fists. Thrusts them against his thighs. Ashton Hill shakes. The parquetry floor splinters.
He is finished with Angelo Caruso.
And he is finished with Jeff Main.
* * *
Never trust a copper. Rose replays the words as McMaster swaggers into the bottle shop. Evidence of alcoholic overdose. ‘Hello Rose. You all right? I’ve been thinking how lucky I am to have met someone like you. Reckon you could spare another couple of those Dewies?’
No, not again. Rose flushes. Blurts: ‘Just take them and go,’ preferring to be rid of him and resolve the matter under ‘breakages’ on her daily stock count rather than endure further conflict.
McMaster grabs three bottles, hands them to Rose, helps her bag them, and with a coarse sneer slurs, ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Rose spends the rest of the day flooded with distress. She has no one from whom to seek help. On leaving home in her seventeenth year, she severed family contact after being told: ‘You’ll not make it on your own. Once you walk out that door there’ll be no coming back’ – the words of her father. There was no reason behind his attitude other than to respect the Spanish culture of conserving the family unit. José Hernandez took his daughter’s intention to leave home as an insult.
To Rose, it was part of growing up. Leaving the nest. Spreading her wings. There was no suitable employment in Jesmond, her home town near Newcastle. Her successful application to Heavenly Spirits promised a regular income with incremental increases, enabling her to take on a nice bed-sit in leafy Cheltenham.
There is no going back. Despite Rose’s deep affection for her family, she cannot, and will not, ever forgive her father for exorcising her from the home. Too proud to forgive, and too fearful of further rejection, Rose elects to wade in her own shallow pool of resources.
She shares her fear of McMaster with the fear of losing her job. No one knows about the theft she’d omitted from her job application. Who would volunteer that? But now, over the space of a fortnight, she’s stolen seven bottles of expensive liquor from her employer.
And it isn’t over.
XIV
From the rear of his mother’s property, Angelo scans Ashton Hill’s panorama. Rolls a joint to contemplate McMaster’s insistence on purchasing his parents’ farm.
Why ‘intensive agriculture’ when he’s farmed nothing over the past six years? And what of the newfound desire to ‘maximise’ the land’s potential? Why this sudden interest in working the land? And why a whopping £٣٦٠,٠٠٠ gesture to ‘help’ his mother? McMaster had insisted their respective solicitors execute the contract with haste. They’d exchanged blows over the issue, albeit of Angelo’s own doing. And most recently, McMaster had countered with the abusive and threatening phone call.
Angelo wonders if McMaster might have inside information about spiralling prices of small property holdings, or advance notice of revised planning guidelines. If so, his neighbour could then slice Blackshaw’s Mill into small farmlets and reap instant riches. Should that be tabled, Angelo vows it will be he, not his neighbour, who will benefit.
The euphoric influence of marijuana has blunted his senses. Too late he reacts to the crackle of dried lucerne. The black glove flashes through the air and pummels into his stomach. He buckles and drops to the ground. Turns to identify the attacker. Adrenalin fuels natural defence mechanisms as he rises to the crunch of a sharp kick into his stomach.
An oversized black lace-up boot compresses his chest. He grimaces submission. The assailant towers like Gulliver over the Lilliputians. Black balaclava. Black jacket. Thick shoulders. Heavy-set. Wispy voice: ‘I see I’ve got your attention farm-boy. Listen up.’
Angelo glares. He cannot determine whether his pain emanates from his chest, his abdomen, or the embarrassment of being floored by the surprise mugger. ‘And who the fuck are you? Black Samurai? You got a problem with me, sort it out face to face, no mask. Bet you haven’t got the bollocks to show yourself instead of attacking from behind like a back-stabbing moron.’
‘Nice analogy, farm-boy. You’re good with insults. I have a message. Complete the paperwork. Comprendo? You’d better, because if not, I may be called upon to return, and who would I be to refuse?’
‘Yeah, right. And who pulls you
r strings?’
Angelo wheezes as the boot exerts 100 kilograms of Bulgarian muscle onto his ribs. ‘Need to know basis. And you don’t need to know.’ The boot sinks into Angelo’s chest. Ribs snap like popped bubble wrap. ‘Think you’ll need a few strings yourself.’
Angelo protests, wincing with each breath: ‘Hang on. Hang on, what the fuck are you doing? Who put you up to this? I’ve got nothing to do with paperwork; it’s with the lawyers. I’ve got more to worry about than acting as a middleman for a contract that’s got zip to do with me. It’s between the neighbour and my mother!’
Jill swipes an envelope of documents across Angelo’s face. ‘See this? It’s a reminder of the contract you dudded. Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to do with this because I know better. Understand? I have sources. I have up-to-date information. Now get this. You’re going to go to your mother’s solicitor’s office and you’ll instruct them, on your mother’s behalf, to effect settlement forthwith. Your reward is that I will ensure this dud contract doesn’t go to the police, and for your troubles, you’ll get to keep ten grand of the ninety. The other eighty will go to your neighbour as compensation for the hiding you gave him. By my reckoning, that’ll make everything even. You’ve got twenty-four hours. Should I learn that you’ve failed to do so, I would truly look forward to receiving further instructions. One more thing: you’d better get those ribs checked.’
Angelo twists down to the envelope and moves just in time to dodge a swinging kick to his head. He fumes at being beaten by a professional – his snapped ribs merely a warning. He opens the envelope. Tips it on end. Glances at the contracts. Instant recognition. Handwriting. All capitals: ‘Remember me. Remember your instructions. I know enough about your little operation to put you inside for a long time.’ He rips it to pieces and hurls it into the air.
He salvages his elephant-hide mentality. I do what I want when I want. I won’t be intimidated by anyone. Next time you won’t catch me with my guard down. Typical. How many display the tough, impenetrable bravado, only after the threat has passed?
He limps back to his mother’s home. Crashes through the kitchen door. Heaves for breath.
‘Angelo. What’s happen to you?’
‘Tripped over the bloody long weeds. We should do something about this farm.’
‘We can’t. I tell you I’m sell it to Mister Mac. It’s too much for me and you no come to help. I don’t want the worry. With your papa gone there’s nothing here for me.’
‘Tell you what, mama. I’ll buy it and develop it. I will surprise you.’
‘Angelo. Ever since you little boy you have the dreams. Nothing but dreams. Never do we see any good from them. You no have achieved nothing; just hang around with the friends. You no visit much your mama. And papa? You visit his grave? No, Angelo. You won’t have this and destroy it too. You destroy too much of us already.’
Maria wipes a tear. She’s erased the hurt of police bringing him home as a ten-year-old for stealing from shops, and she concealed from his father the Chief Constable’s warning. She’s cried over his petty thieving, gambling and stand-over tactics which began in his early teens – at least – earning him his first stint in Ashfield young offenders’ institution just three days shy of his sixteenth birthday. The Children’s Court magistrate expressed regret at having to incarcerate the young Angelo ‘for his own good’. He would be disappointed to learn that no ‘good’ came of his pronouncement, for the name Angelo Caruso made regular appearances on court lists.
Refusing to accept his mother’s berating, Angelo storms out of the house and returns to his flat. Too proud to seek medical help, he cuts the shoulder straps from an old gym singlet and pulls the remainder over his head until it compresses his chest like his sisters’ ‘boob tubes’ of old. A half roll of silver duct tape secures the binding, leaving him like a statuesque knight in armour.
That done, he swirls a glass of beer into a frothy eddy of the week’s events. The television blares an afternoon chat show: Jeremy Kyle satirising a couple – after outing them in front of 20 million viewers – who need help with marital problems. Banter between the recently wed pair fuels Angelo’s rage. Why do partners opt for public airing instead of engaging professional resources to help restore matrimonial harmony? He pulls his mind from the screen and plans revenge against McMaster. Or eradication.
Angelo knows that to achieve his objective, he must leave no clues. Hours of planning and preparation do not guarantee the perfect murder – only the fortunes of fate reward the lucky few.
He considers various means, many of which are better performed under night’s silence. Creeping through an open door and emptying a cyanide-filled syringe into McMaster’s arm is one option. However, opportunity would be scarce, and forensic examination would discover the needle puncture. Sure, he could mask poison by mixing it with food or alcohol, but again, forensic analysis would identify toxins. He turns his mind to conceiving something new, using his own resources, as had the fictional ‘MacGyver’, renowned for fabricating weaponry from on-hand scraps.
As a rite of passage into maturity, thirteen-year-old Angelo had learnt to fire a rifle. Blackshaw’s Mill had little need for armoury, other than to abate the threat of foxes against livestock. Giuseppe Caruso endorsed the long-standing custom of raising his son to early manhood by evading twentieth century pampering, political correctness, gay bars and soft sports. ‘This will make you a man,’ said Giuseppe as he handed young Angelo the gleaming Remington 700.
That frightening day of eleven years’ past spawned in Angelo a lifetime hobby of collecting firearms with the enthusiasm of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fan seizing every Turtle, sword, shield, dagger, and nunchaku he could afford. His 1960 Browning .32 is a favourite for concealing in an ankle holster, while a Smith & Wesson Model 29 Magnum, made famous by Harry Callaghan in the iconic ‘Dirty Harry’ movies is his preferred frightener. Angelo knows the menace of death reaps more productive results than mere execution, although execution is the favoured means of convincing others that a threat is real. The administration of threat renders anything negotiable. On the down side, vengeance and retribution posed by others means that Angelo must heed his own self-preservation – a matter he neglected in the field attack. He had settled in a comfort zone, but should have known better, because renegades circle Angelo like crows above a carcass.
Redirecting his thoughts to McMaster, he has confidence in picking him off with one shot. Perhaps, as he arrives home from work. Darkness would befriend him as he shrinks alongside Ashton Hill’s tree-lined driveway. He also considers a ploy such as a workplace accident or auto mishap, but concedes the element of risk as too great. While Angelo’s DNA is cloned from creative crooks, he reverts to the tried and true: a gunshot to the head. Quick. Clean. And no trace evidence (he believes) awaiting investigators’ evidence bags. A formidable plan – in principle. Angelo oils his Magnum, sights his image in the bedroom mirror, and then jams the hardware behind his back.
* * *
He downs two cans of Beck’s Lager as he hides in the same spot as was Gillian the previous evening; far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to monitor all peripheral goings-on. His disadvantage is not knowing when McMaster will arrive. A practiced killer would know his (or her) target’s movements to the half-minute: when and where they eat; the time and method of commuting to and from work; time spent visiting acquaintances; locations and duration of shopping trips; right down to monitoring light switchings within the home.
He’s prepared. The closed driveway gate will catch McMaster off guard and allow Angelo to empty the six-round chamber into his rival’s head. One shot will do. An extra two or three to be sure. Damn it, why don’t I maximise the satisfaction?
That scenario compels Angelo to abort the mission. For now. He has no silencer. The shots would attract attention. A local resident, possibly his mother, would call police. Sirens and flashing lights
would rush the scene like fire engines to an epic blaze. Angelo is known to police. Easy pickings.
When planning a murder, many variables must be considered. One must forecast a range of outcomes to safeguard both the operation’s success and the killer’s anonymity. Preparation is akin to a screenwriter stitching together plots and scenes, establishing time-lines, and illuminating the manner by which the killer will escape prosecution. Later, the movie buff will tense before the huge screen – double-bass thumping through his ears – engrossed in an experience so convincing and far beyond the realms of fiction.
I can do that, murmurs Angelo.
XV
Too fearful to answer the phone, Rose flicks it to answering machine. McMaster’s words: ‘I’ll be in touch’ shake through her fingertips.
She’s had an extra deadlock fitted to her front door, and a security door fixed to the rear. Every mile travelled, whether by car, train or foot, is now inched with trepidation, neck swivelling 180 degrees, peering along lanes, behind trees, and at shop window reflections. The strain follows her to bed, for Rose has not enjoyed one night of unbroken sleep since McMaster’s impromptu visit to her shop.
She shuns television news bulletins warning women about stalkers targeting anyone from royalty to screen star. A profile of a deranged male posing as a normal member of the public would jump from the screen. Horrific Crimewatch re-enactments and college warnings urge students (taken to mean girls but not openly stated for fear of abusing political correctness) to use floodlit walkways from evening tutorials, and to avoid walking unaccompanied within, and beyond, the campus grounds. Like most women, Rose had once defied warnings with the clichéd: ‘It’ll never happen to me’ – a reasonable notion for those living in safe, rural, Gloucestershire. Now, she is a target.
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