Knight had been taken aback by this. He’d seen about the murders of course, but he had failed, in his naivete to associate them with Bellini’s demand for an alibi. He paused noticeably and Goodwin could have sworn that he had heard him swallow. “Yes. I’m quite sure of the times.”
“And your friend Mr. Bellini. Were you aware that he is involved in organized crime, Sir Charles? Drugs? Prostitution? Robbery? Murder?” His delivery was staccato, each world being punched out for maximum emphasis.
“He is an acquaintance, as I told you, officer, not a friend. I only know him through certain charitable functions. He gives very generously, I understand. As far as I am aware, he is a legitimate businessman.” Knight sounded flustered. Goodwin could tell that he no longer believed any of the speech he was delivering.
“You can imagine how it would look, though, to the press. They’d have a field day.” Sir Charles thought, at that moment, that his career was surely over. He was being pulled in so many different directions and he knew that, sooner or later, he would come apart, limb from limb.
“Are threatening me, officer?”
“Not at all, sir” Goodwin tried to force a laugh for effect, “I was merely commenting on how unfortunate it would be for a man of your status and position to be seen consorting with a known criminal. A man who is the prime suspect in the brutal murders of two police officers and an innocent man. Now are you sure, that Don Bellini was with you last night? Quite sure?”
Knight thought for just a moment, but still, his shock as these horrific revelations unfolded was not as great of his fear of Bellini and what he would do to him and his career. “I’m certain. And I’m not in the habit of making false statements to the police.”
“Very well. If you’re sure. I’ll need to get a written statement from you.”
“Will that be absolutely necessary, Superintendent? I’m a very busy man.”
“As am I, minister. Especially now, with three murder enquiries to run. And yes. It is necessary. Absolutely necessary. I can send somebody to your office to take the statement. Save you the embarrassment of coming to New Scotland Yard.” That would be a job for Morris, he thought and he even wondered if he would get away with sending a uniformed constable, a probationer, perhaps, instead. That would show Knight how much respect he really commanded.
“Very well. But it will have to be on Wednesday. I’m flying to Scotland tomorrow. You can come to my office at the D.T.I. number 1 Victoria Street. Shall we say nine thirty?”
“That will be fine. I’ll make sure that someone’s there. And one final thing, Sir Charles.”
“Yes?”
“Just what hold has Bellini got over you? Drugs? Sex? Blackmail? Or are you his lover?” he added as an afterthought. Goodwin thought he heard Knight say that that was outrageous as he threw down the receiver. It had been pointless – certainly; unprofessional – probably; but worth it? – definitely. He hoped that he had upset the bloody sell-out and he tried, but failed, to put it from his mind as he returned to his work.
Chapter Thirteen
Micky Johnston had been watching the developments in the press with all the concentrated single mindedness of a raptor in pursuit of its prey. When he first heard the story, he was stunned. It had come as a complete bolt of the blue. Like everyone else, he couldn’t believe that Tommy was not exactly what he had seemed to be. A nice, friendly, personable little gangster. Perhaps none too bright, But he didn’t need to be. What no-one, absolutely no-one, was aware of was that he was a consummate actor and he had played his part to perfection. He had played it so well, in fact, that it seems that even he had started to believe it. Micky was become increasingly concerned. He had been half waiting to be pulled, either by the Old Bill or by Bellini’s mob since he’d heard the news. He’d hidden his new gun and ammunition in the bottom of a cupboard. It was pretty accessible but he really believed that anyone searching the house would surely never find it there. But, in fact, nobody had come. Nobody had searched his house. In truth, as had happened so often before in his life, no-one had even given him a second thought.
Micky hadn’t planned to act this quickly. But why not? It was the ideal time. The first part of his plan was already formulated and if he waited much longer Doyle and Bellini might turn on each other, he thought. Or maybe the police would get them both first. Even they could get lucky on odd occasions. If that happened, he would never be able to rest. He would never be able to find the peace that he knew could only be afforded him by the retribution that was demanded for his mutilation. He was consumed by a ravenous, insatiable hunger for that retribution. Retribution in blood. Not until then would the debt be settled. Not until both Bellini and Doyle were dead, lying cold, rotting in the ground. That was what had kept him going. It was his only motivation. It alone had forced him to confront his most elemental fears, to face up to and to assuage his most awful terrors. It was that, and that alone, which had kept him alive.
He was steadier on his new leg now. The jerky stutter that he walked with at first had gradually become more of a rolling gate and even that was now not much worse than a heavily pronounced limp. The crutches had long since been repossessed by the hospital and he was even becoming increasingly less reliant on the battered walking stick that had once belonged to his grandfather. The dull ache in the stump of his lost limb remained and, God knows, the new leg still rubbed and chafed like hell on a bad day, but he had learned to live with that without complaining too much. It still felt as though his leg was still there, that hadn’t faded either and on more than one occasion he had fallen over when rising from his bed, believing that he still had both his limbs to use. But the world was gradually returning to normal for Micky Johnston. At least his interactions with the world outside of his head were. Carole had not spoken about him moving out of the house for some while now and he was even thinking about looking for a job. It would be the first real job he had ever had but it would have to wait until he had concluded his business. Maybe after that, he could settle down to a life of some normality with Carole. A normality that they had never known before. His wasn’t quite the dream of a little cottage with blooming red roses encircling the door. It was a sort of inner city, urbanized, council flat version, but it was as close to the ideal as Johnston could imagine.
He’d told Carole that he was going to stay with his cousin Charlie in Southend on Sea. Just for a few days. She said that she thought it would do him good. She wished that she could go with him but she couldn’t afford the time off work at the moment. He promised that he would send her a postcard. His small overnight case was packed and he was ready. Among his change of clothes, he had carefully secreted the gun. He had told Tommy that he didn’t mind what sort it was, but he hadn’t let him down. Tommy had produced an old Brocock cartridge revolver and now it was fully loaded with six bullets. Effective, reliable and very easy to use. It reminded Micky of the sort that British officers had carried in the old war films he had seen when he was a kid, although the barrel was a little shorter, a bit more snub nosed. It didn’t stop him from acting out the part while Carole was at the factory. Playing with it, like a little boy with his toy cap gun. He lost himself in his fantasies and became David Niven, with his upper lip so stiff that it was rapidly reaching the point where it was bound to crack at any moment. Or was it Trevor Howard? He couldn’t remember. His case also contained a few more, prosaic items; a hammer, a carving knife, some thin nylon rope and a few reels of strong black duct tape. There was also the pre pay mobile phone that he had bought with blessed anonymity the day before. He had handset and the little instruction booklet for half an hour before he had been able to programme its S.I.M. card but now, safely stored was the number of Doyle’s personal mobile phone and the direct line to Bellini’s desk at the Mount of Venus. He had wanted Bellini’s mobile number, too, but he had never been given it and now it was too late to discretely ask Tommy for it. These were, he thought, the tools of his new trade. They would be enough. Plenty – more than
enough. He might never have made the grade as a gangster. He’d always been more Nationwide Division Three than the Premiership. But psycho killer? He weighed up the term he had heard in an old song on the radio. That was a different matter. That he could handle.
Carole, living blissfully unaware of the tormented plan that had formed in her husband’s tortured head, had walked him to the bus stop on her way to work that morning. It looked like the weather was holding up. Don’t forget the postcard, she reminded him. She’d helped him onto the bus. Steps could still be a bit of a problem, although he could manage on his own well enough if no-one tried to rush him. He sat near the driver with his case next to him as the bus made its way towards the West End. He kept his hand tightly gripped around its handle, more for comfort than for security. The address was etched into his memory. He knew that he wouldn’t forget it. It hadn’t been difficult to find it. Not once he had got the name and that had been easy enough in itself. People still remembered her, even after all these years. After that, it had just taken a trip to the local library. There was a listing in the phone book. Why wouldn’t there have been? They had no reason to be ex-directory. No reason to fear. No reason to hide. It had been as simple as that. It took a change of buses to get to Victoria Coach Station. Then he had to wait for his connection. It wasn’t due for the best part of an hour but that didn’t matter. He didn’t mind at all. It gave him a chance to make a good inroad into the four cans of Special Brew lager he had bought at the station’s off licence kiosk. He felt that he had always operated better with a drink inside him. It wouldn’t take long from here and he took comfort in the fact that by tomorrow morning, Francis Doyle would be dead. Then he could turn his attention to Don Bellini.
The coach journey took longer than he had expected and it was nearly dusk when he arrived in Southend. He did know the town well so he picked up a fold out map at the bus station and examined it intently. There was about a mile to go and he didn’t fancy making the journey on foot. No problem, he could see two or three taxis queuing patiently at the rank adjacent to the bus station. It wasn’t ideal but it would have to do. Looking at the map again he picked out his destination once more, this time noting the name of the next road, running parallel to it. A security precaution, he thought, and was pleased with himself for coming up with it despite the fact that it was so basic a child would have invented better. He gave the name of the street to the driver of the first cab at the rank and told him to go to number twenty three, he thought a specific number sounded more genuine, and climbed carefully into the back. The taxi smelled vaguely of stale disinfectant and even staler vomit. But Johnston, his excitement rising by the moment, hardly noticed it. After London’s, the traffic seemed very light to him and it was only a few minutes before they arrived. Johnston paid the driver and gave him a decent tip. Not too much, but enough. He didn’t want to be noticed or for anything to appear to be out of the ordinary.
He felt tense now, nervous, as he waited for the taxi to fade into the distance and he started to walk slowly down the street. There were no second thoughts. If he were to turn back now, that would be the end of him, he might as well lie down and die. He might as well turn the gun on himself. And he had no intention of doing that.
Within five minutes he was there. He paused for moment and delved into his case to prepare himself.
The door bell rang. That’s all I need, Scott Wheeler thought, as he pulled himself up from the comfort of his favourite armchair. He had not long finished his shift at the printing works and he was waiting for Mel to cook his dinner. She was running late and, by this time, he was starving.
“Can I help you?” The man facing him at the door was a stranger. He had never seen him before in his life. He knew he would have remembered him, he was very distinctive; he was short, quite fat and, although Scott felt mean for thinking so, he was bloody ugly, too. At first the gun didn’t register. It was not the sort of thing an ordinary man expects when he responds to the blind, annoying banality of the summons of his front door bell. It had certainly never happened to Scott Wheeler before and when the gun was raised to his face, at first he thought it was joke. A bad one, yes. But a joke nonetheless. The safe comfort of that assumption soon deserted him, he could tell that it was no joke as soon as he looked deep into the stranger’s eyes. They were harsh and cold; bloody and lifeless. They told a cruel story of hate, hurt and violence. It was the story of Micky Johnston’s life.
“Get in the fucking house.” Johnston didn’t want to wait on the street a moment longer than he had to. Scott complied, silently, as if in a trance. He didn’t try to speak. He didn’t know if he could. He didn’t know what to say anyway. The gun’s mesmerizing dominion over him silently forced him backwards from the small reception hall and into the dining room. “Don’t try anything. Or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” There was a manic tone to the words he had no need to say. Scott was a good man but he was no hero. Few of us would be when actually faced with the barrel of a loaded gun, held no more than six inches from our face. More than that, he could see in his eyes that he meant it.
“Who was it, love?” Mel’s soft voice came from the kitchen.
“Tell her to get in here.” Johnston’s voice was imperative. Scott tried but no words came out. “Tell her” he snarled again.
“Come…..” was all he could weakly manage, the word cracked in his throat and faded instantly as it left his lips. Mel couldn’t make it out but in her curiosity she was already on her way.
As soon as she reached the door, she knew what was happening. She didn’t know the details of course, but they weren’t of any importance. Like her husband she too had never seen this strange little man before. But she knew, with no shadow of a doubt, she knew instantly, that the spectre of Francis Doyle had returned to persecute her once more. Tears welled up in her eyes and she gave vent to them. She howled as she with a dreadful, throbbing intensity that she had not known for many years.
“Shut the fuck up.” Johnston had no sympathy. Who had shed tears for him? With his gun still raised he crossed the room to Mel and pushed her roughly at Scott. They clutched at each other, each trying to draw strength from the other and each failing. Johnston slammed the door shut and limped across to the small dining table, carefully pushed away into the corner of the room. The chairs, cheap moulded black plastic, circling around looked as though they had been bought from Argos many years ago. There were more than a few scratches on them and there was the odd little rip or tear, here and there, in the fabric of the dissimilar cushions that were tied to them, which Mel had neatly mended. But they had arms and straight backs. They were ideal for his purposes. He moved two of them, one at a time, to the centre of the room, all the time keeping the gun focused on one or other of them, before stopping suddenly in his tracks. Shit! The curtains were still open and the room looked out directly onto the street. Anyone could be watching. He hurried across as fast as he could and drew them, taking care not to turn his back on still panic stricken couple. It was dark enough outside, it wouldn’t look odd. As he pulled then to, he turned away from Mel and Scott. Just for a moment. But they were frozen to the spot. Neither could move.
“You. Sit down.” He was addressing Scott and he gestured to the chairs with his revolver. Scott was reluctant to let go of Mel but he understood that he had no choice but to comply passively. Johnston had abandoned his case on the table and now he moved back to it and released its single catch. Feeling inside it with his free hand, ferreting deep under his clothes, he located a reel of the thick black duct tape. He kept his eyes on the pair of them all the while. He had realized his mistake of a moment ago as soon as he made it. He knew that he must not lose concentration and turn his back on them again, not until they were safely secured. He’d been lucky that time, they had failed to react, but he might not be so lucky again. He knew he had to be more careful and silently resolved to make no more mistakes as he threw the reel of tape across the room to Mel. She made no movement to catch it and i
t bounced off her chest and fell to the floor.
“Pick it up, you silly cow.” Despite this epithet, he was becoming more calm now. Everything was going according to plan. His tone became more persuasive than demanding, coaxing even, as Mel fumbled on the floor and took hold of the tape. “That’s it. Good girl. Now tape him to the chair. Around the chest. Good. Good. No, do it tight. Tighter. That’s better. Once more round. OK, break it off. Use your teeth – that’s it. Now his arms. That’s good. Yeah, to the arms of the chair. Well done. And the legs.” The whole procedure took no more than a couple of minutes or so and had used up most of the reel. He produced another from the case. “Now its your turn. On the chair.” She sat passively as he went to work. The duct tape bit tightly into he flesh but she could not feel the pain. Fear had number her sensibilities. When he was sure that she was secure he turned his attention back to Scott and went over all his bindings with a third reel of tape. He was sure now neither of them could move.
“Where’s your key?” Scott looked up at him but said nothing. He was now nonplussed as well as petrified. A rare combination. “To the front door” he clarified.
Scott was breathing heavily. He was as close to abject panic as any man should ever get. But he felt that he had to try to be strong, for Mel’s sake as well as his own.
“On a hook. By the door.” He screwed up his courage and managed to shakily ask “Who are you? What the hell do you want from us?” His voice was weak, bare audible and a good two octaves higher than its normal register.
“Think of me as an old friend of the family. And I really don’t want anything from either of you. Believe me, I’m sorry that I’ve had to trouble you.” Johnston made it sound as though he had done no more than dial a wrong number on the phone. “But it’s best not to talk now. You two try and rest. If keep calm, you’ll be OK.” He took a good length of the tape and placed it firmly over each of their mouths. “All you have to do is to sit quietly. Don’t do a thing and don’t cause me any trouble. That’s all. And I promise that you’ll both get out of this in one piece.” As he spoke, he placed yet another strip of tape over their eyes and reduced their world to the blackness that was all he felt in his heart. Johnston knew that neither one of them would ever leave that house again. They had seen his face. They could identify him. Perhaps he should have worn a mask after all. He had seriously considered it back in London but he would have had to put it on while he was still out on the street and that would have been just a bit too risky. Besides, there was his voice and his leg. He couldn’t disguise them to any great degree. It was unfortunate, he thought, trying to persuade himself that he cared more than he really did, but Mel and Scott had to be casualties of his war. It wasn’t his fault, he’d never accept the blame. It was Frankie Doyle’s and if things went according to plan, it would look like it was he who had killed them. He smiled as he saw the damp patch spreading from the crotch of Scott’s trousers. “If you need to go to the toilet” he said, “just go. It doesn’t matter. It won’t bother me” he added considerately.
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