by Jake Cross
I got webcam, ain’t I?
That explained the determination in the eyes: Król thought he had something on Mick and that he was going to control things from here on. But what?
‘And why would I do that?’ Mick said, buying time to think.
Król’s next words were the biggest shock of all.
‘I know that was Mr Invincible’s wife. And I saw the news. He’s dead, man. Chopped up last night, three of them. And I reckon you did it.’
Mick felt a tightening of his head, as if a steel band around his skull was shrinking. A big problem lay ahead. But it wasn’t fear of the blade in Król’s hand, and it wasn’t fear of the information in Król’s little brain.
Król said: ‘I ain’t taking your shit any more, Mick. Understand? I feed your name to the police, say you did this, and you’re fucked. Literally. I know you been missing some action since your missus, and the boys in prison will cosy up to you. I feed it to Grafton’s people, and you’re fucked there, as well. So, how about the knife, and them two books you took, and, say, two hundred a week, and you throw me some info about nice houses I can slip in to with no problem?’
Mick looked at the blade and remembered the phone, and there was a feeling akin to what you get when a tricky crossword answer clicks into place. Seabury’s lawnmower blade, and Seabury’s phone with a picture of Król on it. Talk about bloody Fate. He almost laughed aloud. But he kept his face serious and said: ‘How about you forget the two hundred and you give me ten per cent of what you make from the houses? I can talk to a guy I know and find some gems.’
As he spoke, Mick walked past Król and to a far wall, and pretended to stare at something on a shelf. Król was between him and the exit.
‘Now you’re talking my language. But I get the knife back and the books. You ain’t setting me up with them.’
‘You get the knife and the books back. And I get that nasty blade in your hand. But none of this goes down if the cops find us here. So, can we get going?’
Król picked up the box. It was overflowing, and something slid out to hit the floor. It looked like a simple plug-in air freshener, but here, in this store, was probably some kind of recording device. Mick had bought one for Tim’s room when he was twelve, just so he could eavesdrop on what his boy and his new friends were getting up to. This in mind, his anger spiked when Król kicked the item across the floor.
‘You can have that, as well.’
Mick started for the door, and, as planned, Król did the same. The damn idiot gave Mick his back as he turned and strode towards the shutter.
He got five steps before it happened, and he only got that many because Mick took two seconds to slip on a pair of vinyl gloves. And pull out his own knife. In haste, he didn’t notice his matchbox of mints slip out of his pocket.
The blade did not penetrate the neck cleanly, but caught a glancing blow that carved open one side, releasing a jet of blood. Król dropped the box and stumbled forwards, and Mick staggered back. Król sank to his knees and put a hand to his neck to stem the flow, his fingers arriving there a moment before the blade dropped again. It slid neatly between two fingers without damaging them and sank deep into the flesh beneath.
Mick ducked aside like a boxer avoiding a jab as another gout of blood erupted right at him. Król was screaming again as he face-planted the carpet.
‘That Polish for I got webcam, ain’t I?’ Mick asked, laughing.
A moment later Król got to his feet, one hand on his neck, blood washing down his torso.
‘Shit,’ Mick said. He wasn’t worried about an attack, because Król was losing blood fast; he was concerned about getting blood on his clothing if the man rushed at him.
‘That’s right, bastard,’ Król said, grinning. He sprang forward, eyes bearing deadly intent, but stumbled after only two steps. Fell onto his knees and toppled backwards.
‘Hurry up now, Król.’ Mick hurried to the shutter, bent and stared out, but the street was empty. Behind him, Król was rolling about like a man on fire, but he was gurgling now, and nobody was going to hear that.
‘Chop, chop, Król, I need some grub.’
It took eighty more seconds for Król to finally lie still. Mick took his first breath in all that time as Król expelled his last. Just before the eyes glazed over, Mick squatted by him, careful of the blood, and said: ‘No one mentions my family, remember? That was the rule. So, when you get to Hell and the Devil asks what happened, you tell him you said the wrong thing to the wrong man, okay? He’ll have heard it a billion times.’
It hadn’t been fear of the blade in Król’s hand, and it hadn’t been fear of the information in Król’s little brain: the big problem had been what to do when Król was dead. But it wasn’t a problem any longer.
Pathologists were good at determining the kind of blade that caused an injury, so Mick took Król’s weapon and jabbed it deep into the two knife wounds. He tossed the bloody blade onto Król’s body. He stripped off his gloves and pocketed them, and slipped under the shutter. He held his breath again until he was in his car and didn’t start to relax until the vehicle was turning off the street. But a few moments later he was calm and smiling and breathing just fine. Yet he was disappointed. Killing Król hadn’t produced the buzz he’d expected. Not like last night. Perhaps because he hadn’t fantasised about it for months, planning it meticulously. Or maybe because it had been primarily business, not fun.
Whatever. He still had the bitch to come. He pushed Król from his head because there was more business afoot. He made a call to the airline. He’d phoned earlier to change his flight from two weeks to two days away because of the Ramirez situation. And this new development with Król necessitated a more urgent departure. Tomorrow, early. After Seabury and the bitch were over, his new life would begin.
Twenty-Nine
Dave
‘One question of momentous importance,’ Mick said.
Dave’s answer to the question was: ‘Król is your man, Mick, so he would have called you if he’d found the woman. I figured you’d call me when you knew. I’ve been waiting for you to phone.’
Silence for a few seconds, as if Mick was sniffing for bullshit. Which it was: Dave didn’t care whether or not Król had found the woman. Then he said: ‘I hear traffic, Dave, my man. Where are you?’
‘Where you sent me at Christ-knows-how-early this morning. I shouldn’t be having to do this, Mick. This lark should have been over. But I’m running around like an—’
‘Forget it. I doubt the bitch is going there.’
Mick had sent him to Grafton’s mum’s house in Kensington late last night. In case the bitch woke up this morning and decided to crawl there for sanctuary. A bit of a long shot, since Grafton would surely have arranged for a safe house. But Mick had insisted, and Dave was supposed to have sat there all night in a cold car. Sod that.
‘New job for you,’ Mick said. ‘More important. Get to Król’s flat, sharpish. Check for a camera, something like that. Take his computer and the webcam, and then sterilise the place.’
‘What’s going on? And sterilise it with what? Wet wipes?’
‘Up to you. But since the cops will be raining down on that shithole very soon, I’d try to think of a quicker way, if I were you. Let’s see if you’re a sharp tack. Plus, things have changed a lot and I would again advise you and your wife to think about getting out of this city. Even the country. I’m on a plane out of here first thing tomorrow.’
‘I’m thinking about it.’ Like hell he was. If Mick and Brad wanted to run away from their lives, so be it. He was going to do what he’d planned all along: use the money stolen from Grafton’s slush fund to buy the damn house he lived in. Ninety grand was ten feet from him, hidden in the back of his work van.
‘And what about Król? Where the hell is he? What’s he doing?’
Mick grinned. ‘Król is about to help me nail Seabury and the bitch.’ Mick repeated his order and hung up.
Dave slotted his phone away
, angry. The slaughterhouse they’d left behind was going to be a treasure trove of clues, or barren as a desert in terms of evidence. The cops would have knocked on his door by now if there was evidence to nail him. They hadn’t, so there wasn’t. He was free and clear, but that might not be the case if he got further involved in this shit. So, he wasn’t going to Król’s flat. No damn way.
He noticed his wife was looking at him with raised eyebrows.
‘Everything’s fine,’ he said.
Lucinda watched him for a long moment, as if trying to read his eyes, or even his mind. ‘Good. Grab one of those.’
‘You got a pound?’
‘Didn’t that prick Mr Invincible have any coins?’ She tossed him a pound coin. As he unlocked a shopping trolley, he watched the Tesco car park for familiar faces, or strange faces scrutinising him. He did it carefully, not wanting to be obvious.
‘Stop looking for people coming after you,’ Lucinda said as she hauled the trolley out of the shelter and shoved it at him. ‘Everything’s fine, right? That was why that Mick guy just called: to say all was fine. And he knows everything. So, no one will be after you, because that wouldn’t be fine, would it? But fine it is. He said so, so it must be. All fine and dandy.’
That was why he’d tried to hide his scrutiny of the car park: Lucinda hated his paranoia. He wished he could be like her. She hadn’t worried about a single thing since he’d told her they were hitting Grafton. Not even when she’d seen the papers earlier and discovered that a simple robbery had turned into a bloodbath. Then again, she had her own reasons for it –Grafton had almost cost her her dream house a couple of years ago.
They started walking towards the shop. He could hear her breathing getting harsher – she was getting worked up about something. He said nothing.
‘Strange that he’d call you just to say everything is fine,’ she said a few seconds later. He heard the suspicion in her tone. ‘I mean, every other time he’s called, there’s been a problem and he’s called you to sort it out. But not this time, oh no. This time, when none of you know what the next problem could be, he just takes time out to say all is good, when you clearly already believed everything’s fine because that was what you said to me last night.’
He still said nothing A few steps later, though, and somewhat sheepishly: ‘Mick wanted me to do something for him. I guess we shouldn’t risk problems coming along. Perhaps I should do it. To be safe.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘Something important, probably, yet here you still stand.’
He continued to push the trolley. Then she slapped his hands off and started walking away with it.
‘Get your head on straight,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Go do this thing before we both get in trouble. Don’t come back until everything’s fine and it’s actually true.’
As he watched her heading towards the supermarket, he vowed this would be the last time he helped Mick. After Król’s flat, he was out. He didn’t care about the woman running about out there, and he hadn’t gone after Grafton for revenge. Water under the bridge as far as he was concerned. He was in this for the money, and what was the point of robbing Grafton if he couldn’t enjoy the rewards?
Thirty
Karl
They walked on in silence. Liz stayed five or six feet behind. At one point Karl tripped over the right-hand track, grazing his ankle, realising that the tunnel was curving to his left. The going was a little slower after that. The next problem announced itself a few minutes later – the sound of rushing water overhead. They didn’t see it until they were just a few feet away, where water was leaking from the roof of the tunnel in a great curtain. Liz stopped, refusing to go any further, and he understood her reticence. The waterfall could go on for a whole mile, or the tunnel could slope downwards and be flooded. The roof could be so weak that it fell in on them. What was above them? A sewage pipe, or some rich guy’s al fresco swimming pool?
Karl pushed aside his worries and forced his way through the curtain. The water was cold and drenched him in a second, but a second was all that it took to pass through.
Liz darted through after him and stood before him, soaked.
They moved on. Karl kept his eyes and hands ahead, his steps high so he didn’t trip on the rail again. His feet were cold and numb. Periodically Liz made a noise at him, and he had to stop and wait. He wanted to tell her not to dawdle, but figured it was probably his own haste that was creating distance between them. So, he said nothing, just waited for her shape to appear by him before he moved on again.
Minutes later, every muscle tensed as he tried to plant a foot on rocky ground. It sank into nothing, and his body started to pitch forward. He let out a shout, unable to stop it as he toppled. But before he could worry about falling into a bottomless hole, he landed on his hands, his arms buckled, and his chest hit hard ground. He scrambled to his feet and to one side, banging hard into brick.
Liz called out, asking him what was wrong. A damn depression, he told her, angry more than hurt.
Then, it was her turn to fall. He cursed, knowing that this was wasting time. He fumbled for her, helped her to her feet. She grabbed his arm, and her hand was wet with warm blood. He rubbed her hands, seeking a gash, but she corrected him: her knee. He bent and wiped her knee with his used-to-be-white shirt, and she thanked him. He grunted an okay and moved on. But she grabbed the back of his shirt, wanting to be led. So, he helped her along.
Down here it was easy to be lulled into a vision of time standing still. But that was not the case. Time was passing, and with each expired minute they had no idea of the safety of the people they loved. He tried not to think about Katie and his unborn son, about how much she might be worrying about him, because down here he could do nothing about it and it would only stop him from focusing on their escape. He told himself she was driving to her father’s, and then shut her out.
Liz, of course, would be thinking about her husband. Did she believe he was tied up in the cottage, or did she think he was out there on the streets with an army, looking for her?
And then he tried to put himself in the mind of the gunman and his cohorts. What would be their next move? How many were there, and what sort of connections did they— He stopped. Liz bumped into him. They both became aware of a low rumbling noise.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘A train.’
Thirty-One
Mick
Mick missed the days when CCTV cameras were giant boxes on poles and a doddle to avoid. These days minuscule cameras were embedded everywhere, and the police could put together a cinematic series of cuts to show a bad guy strolling around town. So, a high street phone box was out of the question. The only one he knew of without a single camera nearby, which he’d learned about when he visited the nearby charity shop where Tim worked, had already been used to call in the cavalry to Grafton’s hideaway cottage, and he couldn’t very well use that again. He had a burner phone, already charged, and a pre-paid sim collecting dust, saved for a rainy day. It was time to use it.
He drove a mile southwest from Sunrise Electronics, changed clothing in the driver’s seat, turned off the radio, and made the call. He watched the house. It was a semi-detached property halfway down a residential street. Invisible, inert, just a regular house. Just like the owners. But not for long.
‘Hey, is this Bexleyheath Police Station?’ he asked in a disguised voice so bad it almost made him laugh. ‘Okay, I’m not giving my name, okay, so don’t ask. There’s a guy called Aleksy, bit of a scumbag. I just saw him enter a shop, a mean look on his face. You got a detective based there called McDevitt, right? Murder squad boss or something.’
As he watched the house, the front door opened and he perked up. A tall woman in a bathrobe exited with a bag of rubbish and walked down the path. He hadn’t expected this and scrabbled for his keys.
‘I don’t need to speak to him. I’m one of his informants, and so’s this Aleksy guy. That guy, that Aleksy, he went into some
shop on Beverley Drive, in Old Ford. Called Sunrise or something. And – what?’
Mick drove quickly down the street. The woman opened the wheelie bin at the end of the drive and tossed the bag in. Mick’s car got within range too late, though, and she turned away, heading back to the house, before he could see her face.
‘I saw the guy as I drove past. Think I saw a weapon. You might want to tell McDevitt because I heard he wanted to speak to this Aleksy guy. Been looking for him. That’s it.’
He slowed to almost nothing. Knowing it would cause a problem later, Mick lay on his horn. The woman stopped, and turned, and looked. Mick hid his face with the phone, but managed to stare right at her. She watched his car cruise slowly by without any real concern.
‘Call me Superman, if you like.’
He hung up. The woman returned to her house and shut the door behind her.
Mick pulled into the kerb 160 feet past the house. The new burner got busted in half and the pieces lobbed down a drain, along with the snapped sim card. Job done. He switched the radio on and drove by the house again, but didn’t spot her at any of the windows.
‘See you soon, Mrs Seabury.’
Thirty-Two
Brad
Three hundred feet southwest of West Ham Station, Brad’s satnav voice told him he’d arrived at the location. He drove slowly along Banker Avenue, watching his target approach and worrying over new developments. The plan had sounded so good: nail Grafton, blame Ramirez, watch the two crime lords wage war on the streets, then six months down the line he’d elope with Ian. A new country and a new life.
Then Mick had gone too far and killed Grafton, and they’d discovered that his house hadn’t contained quite the war chest they’d hoped. Brad remembered a time when Grafton carted at least a million around with him, but the secret stash under the bath had contained only enough to give each man ninety grand.