by Guy N Smith
Muliman had served his basic apprenticeship long before the Department found him. Ten years ago he had been a mercenary in Angola, had been captured and faced the death sentence, against all odds he had escaped, drifted back to England and found life exceedingly dull. Until a couple of youths had tried to mug him in a subway; one had died instantly, he had had to administer the coup de grâce to the other. The police had arrested him, charged him with murder, but the Department had stepped in. An offer, an ultimatum; he either risked a life sentence or he served the Service. Either way he lost his freedom. Muliman opted for the job, served another long apprenticeship.
Now he had proved himself and he had an assignment. Speed and efficiency were of paramount importance. He had been briefed, knew what he had to do. McNee was his target, there must be no delay. It was a rushed job.
Muliman was 5ft 10 ins tall and had short-cropped light brown hair. Powerfully built, every movement was decisive, he never wasted energy. If you looked at him carefully you saw that he was slightly bow-legged. Sunburned, he had a quick smile when the occasion demanded, but was a man of few words as the harassed receptionist at the Paradise Camp discovered that humid afternoon.
‘Mr …?’ She smiled at the man wearing a short-sleeved checked shirt and carrying a worn brown leather jacket over his arm.
‘Thompson.’ Barely audible, he was bored after his long wait in the queue.
‘Have you got your booking forms?’
‘No.’
She was bewildered, everybody had their booking forms ready, proof of payment sent by post, the only way of matching them up with their chalets. Names meant nothing. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you without …’
‘I don’t have any. I was booked in by phone. Check it.’ A curt order.
She made as if to argue, changed her mind when she saw the other’s expression, the kind you did not quarrel with. ‘You’ll have to wait a minute then.’ She slammed her till drawer, turned away. You came up against one, every day. Bloody rude!
Muliman unpacked his holdall, took a leisurely bath. Here he was just another camper, he would become one in mind and body until the job was done. Disguises weren’t about false beards and all that kind of crap, you became a nobody and didn’t get a second glance. And when you were gone they forgot all about you.
Holiday camps didn’t bore him; on the other hand they did not engender enthusiasm. This place was the setting for a job, he had to get to know it. Bathed and refreshed he began a tour of his new surroundings, had already committed the plan of the camp in the brochure to memory. He wandered in and out of the amusement arcade, played a couple of machines and lost 50p. The gunfighter was grating a challenge but he ignored the effigy; people gathered to watch those kind of games, they might remember him.
He sauntered round the indoor swimming pool, it was crowded and noisy, didn’t appeal to him. Across to the snooker hall; kids were queuing for the pool tables, a dozen or more games of table tennis in progress. Across to the boating lake. There was a large crowd lining the edge, all the boats were in use. Ghouls, some of them were even pointing across to the island; ‘that’s where that girl was murdered!’.
He bought some fish and chips, sat on the edge of the big playing field to eat them. A game of football was in progress; two teams, one in shirts of all colours, their opponents stripped to the waist. It was one way of differentiating between the sides. He stayed there until the referee blew the final whistle and the teams walked off arguing among themselves; they obviously took the game seriously, some kind of holiday competition. Then some children ran on and began kicking beach balls about. Muliman crumpled up his greasy papers, tossed them into a litter bin. It was time for business.
McNee was in the snooker hall, a dapper man with jet black hair greased right back, and a sallow face half hidden behind a large pair of dark glasses. Immaculately dressed in a striped shirt and dark trousers. He can play some, too, Muliman thought as he watched his man pot a black expertly.
A crowd of teenagers were gathered round Paul McNee, fawning on him, taking their turn to be defeated by this precise man who seldom missed a shot. Junkies, Muliman was certain of it, they paid over the odds for their fixes and suffered humiliation at the table as well. Hero worship in a masochistic sort of way.
Muliman found a cue, edged his way in among the others. Relaxed, leaning on the table; there was no hurry. He spotted an envelope changing hands under the pretence of emptying the pockets of multi-coloured balls. Two of the youths left; they had got what they had come for.
‘Game?’ McNee acted as though he had only just noticed the other, a man whose sole interest right now was in the snooker table.
‘If you like.’ Muliman smiled, seemed ill-at-ease. An introvert who had almost given up hope of finding a partner to play with.
McNee was determined to win, Muliman could see that from the outset, a suave over-confidence. He resisted the temptation to compete, he was playing for bigger stakes. Muffing easy shots, feigning a clumsiness that went against the grain. The audience had drifted away, they had no interest in a one-sided contest.
‘My game!’ There was a smug satisfaction, a boast in McNee’s voice as he dropped his cue on to the table. ‘Next time we’ll play for a quid. These tables need re-covering badly.’
‘I’m used to playing games on grass,’ Muliman spoke softly, meaningfully.
‘Grass, eh?’ McNee did not look up.
‘I heard you can get it?’
‘Maybe.’ Cautious. There was always the danger of a trap. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Alan Jay.’
The other’s mouth tightened. ‘You knew him, eh?’
‘Sure, I came up to meet him, only heard the news this afternoon. When he phoned me a few days ago he mentioned your name. So I brought some cash.’
Muliman saw that his long shot had scored a direct hit. McNee knew Jay, had been supplying him. The Department had done their homework well, a combination of guesswork and hearsay. But when you were on a time limit you took a chance.
‘All right. Later. It doesn’t come cheap, though.’
‘I didn’t expect it to.’
‘Good, we’ll meet up after dark. You know the camp?’
‘A little.’
‘See you in the menagerie about eleven. Officially, it’s closed but they don’t lock the gates. The warden sees to that when he comes back from the pub which is often around midnight. It’s not fully lighted, you don’t often find anybody in there. What’s your name?’
‘Brown. I have an affinity with pigs, we used to keep them when I was a boy. See you by the pig pen.’
‘Doubtless you’ll be in your element,’ McNee sneered, he seldom disguised his contempt for addicts. ‘Cannabis is all I do.’
‘That’s all I want.’
‘Good. Enjoy your conversation with the porkers, Mr Brown.’ The other sauntered over towards the booth to return his cue. Muliman watched him and those wide shoulders shrugged slightly. Pigs were ideal, he was looking forward to the meeting.
It was fully dark when Muliman arrived at the entrance to the menagerie. Situated on the coastal side of the camp, the twenty or so acres was fenced off with 10-metre high steel mesh, the top adorned with a length of barbed wire. An experiment, one which would expand if it was successful, it would be closed down if it wasn’t. He had read up its short history in the official brochure.
The aim was to provide a cross-section of domestic and ornamental animals and birdlife, nothing too exotic. A pair of peafowl were the most colourful inmates, the birds strutting across the lawn area outside the cafeteria by day and roosting on the roof of the goat shed at night. A small pool, maybe half an acre, incorporated semi-tame mallard, a pair of Indian black ducks and a solitary white call duck which quacked incessantly.
In the furthest corner stood a line of brick-built animal houses with adjoining enclosures. The goats occupied the end building, if you rose early enough you could watch them being milked, w
hite Saanens who always did their utmost to kick the milking buckets over. Next door was a Jacob’s sheep, a lonely ram still waiting for a mate. A couple of calves that would go back to the farm in the autumn because they had outgrown their appeal. And then the pigsty.
Muliman heard them grunting as he approached; they probably relied on sightseers for scraps and their keen hearing had detected his soft footfalls. He glanced around him in the gloom; there was no sign of McNee. In all probability he would be late, that was predictable. Addicts were jumpy, their nerves shot through addiction. Let them shit their trousers, they’d pay up all the more readily when the pusher finally arrived. Muliman tensed, forced himself to relax. This had to be an impersonal meeting, you learned not to be influenced by your own feelings. Hate the bastards afterwards if it helped any.
He leaned on the wall of the pig enclosure and a snout came up to greet him. The boar was a big one, a Tamworth, a Sandyback. The sow was trying to nuzzle her mate out of the way. With a rush the litter came out of the house, he counted them. Five. Well-grown, early spring weaners who were already half the size of their parents. A cacophony of snorting and snuffling, pushing one another in a near-desperation to obtain an audience with their nocturnal human visitor. They were hungry. Muliman smiled to himself in the darkness.
Still there was no sign of McNee. He tried to listen but there was too much noise coming from the fairground and the amusement arcade. The pigs gave up, wandered away to their sleeping quarters. He continued to lean on the wall.
Muliman sensed the drug pusher before he heard or saw him. An instinct which he had cultivated long ago in foreign lands. Vibes on the night air, an awareness that he was no longer alone. But he gave no sign, even feigned a start when a voice close by asked, ‘Enjoying yourself with the pigs, Mr Brown?’
‘Oh, yeah. Sure.’ He fidgeted with his feet. ‘I just been talking to them.’
‘Enlightening, I’m sure. For you.’ Heavy contempt, the usual mode of approach. ‘I presume it is them I can smell, Mr Brown?’
Muliman had his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket, still leaned his body against the wall. ‘They’re pedigree Sandybacks, you know. That boar’s worth a good three hundred.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ the other answered. ‘How much cash have you brought with you?’
Muliman was searching his pockets, some paper rustled. Then his strong fingers closed over a short length of Bristol steel wire rope and he played with it lovingly. A fox snare, the free-running variety, they could be purchased from ironmongers or suppliers of gamekeeping requisites for £1.50. They came with a length of chain attached but Muliman had removed that. All he needed was the wire noose.
‘Hey, just look at that old boar. Randy sod!’
There was a grunting and squealing from within the enclosure. McNee jerked his head round, clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘I’m really not interested in whether …’
Muliman moved in one perfectly co-ordinated synchronisation of mind and body. The hand came out of the pocket, the fingers running the noose to full stretch as it did so. A kind of lasso which dropped neatly over McNee’s head, settled around the neck and was pulled tight. Very tight.
One strangled cry that died away as Muliman jerked the loop downwards, his victim’s head coming back with it. Arms flailed wildly as McNee attempted to locate the wire which bit deeply into his neck but the flesh had already covered it. A gurgle, Muliman thought that the other was vomiting and that could only be good. Holding on, using his knee as a lever to bend the other back, impervious to threshing limbs because in a few seconds they would drop and twitch, hang feebly against the limp body. They did.
Muliman lowered the dead man gently to the ground, pushed against the swivel and felt the noose slacken. Deftly he retrieved the snare, pushed it back into his pocket; doubtless he would have need of it again on future assignments.
He worked quickly, demonstrated all the skills of a long-suffering wife accustomed to undressing her drunken husband at bedtime when he returned from the pub. He removed the corpse’s jacket and trousers, folded them expertly into a small neat pile. Shirt, tie, vest, underpants, socks and shoes followed. Again he delved into his pockets, withdrew a folded plastic sack, smoothed it out and began to load the clothing into it. Meticulous with every garment, utilising space, filling the bag and then folding the neck over.
He bent down and with an apparently effortless movement, lifted the dead man up, laid him on top of the pigsty wall. The pigs were back again, grunting loudly, ravenously, as though they understood. They probably did, Muliman smiled to himself in the darkness, for already they scented food.
He released his hold, heard McNee fall on the other side with a dull thump. A scurrying of animal feet, squealing and snorting, the pigs were fighting over their unexpected late-night repast.
Muliman resisted the temptation to stay and watch. He was a professional and his assignment was not yet finished. Lifting up the sack of clothing, he walked quickly, keeping to the shadows, his trained senses alert, only his breathing a trifle faster than usual. But that was only to be expected.
Muliman left the door of his chalet unlatched because he knew that the man who called himself Sanderson would arrive soon. Knocking was a formality that both of them could do without. Waiting, relaxed, making coffee and leaving a second mug on the table in case his expected visitor accepted his hospitality.
‘Okay?’ Sanderson was tall and rangy, wore the grubby overalls of a camp maintenance engineer. Grimed and bespectacled, he was probably on stand-by.
‘Sure.’ Muliman opened the lower kitchen unit cupboard, dragged out the sack. ‘All yours. Coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ the other shook his head. ‘Just got a call-out, there’s a burst boiler on Green Camp. Got to go.’ He picked up the sack, swung it to twist the neck. ‘Our friend?’
‘He likes pigs,’ Muliman laughed, ‘or, should I say, the pigs like him!’
‘Neat. Disappeared without trace. Take a breather, my son, you’ve earned it.’
‘Maybe I will,’ Muliman stretched himself, ‘for a day or two anyway, just to play the average camper. Then I’ll take myself off back down to the metropolis.’
‘No.’ Sanderson paused at the door, swung the bag of clothing up on to his back. ‘You’re posted here until further notice, friend. I got it official. There might be another job coming up.’
Muliman shrugged. It was all the same to him.
Chapter Fourteen
Ann Stackhouse had awoken with a headache that morning. She wondered if it might be the forerunner of a migraine; she had only had a migraine once in her life, when she was fourteen, the time she had gone into a supermarket with her mother and a section of strip lighting had been faulty, flickering. The pain had lasted a day and a night, she would never forget it.
She groaned, wished that she did not have to get up. She thought about going sick. If she didn’t turn up at the office Tony Morton would send someone to find out why. He wouldn’t come himself, not after yesterday. No, it wouldn’t work, he would see through her right away. ‘You stay in bed until you feel better, Ann. We’ll get somebody else to fix Beebee. No problem.’
If Jeff had to be drugged she preferred to do it herself. Treachery, but it was best that way. She’d see it through, she had no choice, keep an eye on him. She slid out of bed, felt dizzy, but dressed and after a cup of strong coffee let herself out of her chalet.
The professor wasn’t in his office. It was unusual for him to be late. There was still no sign of him by lunchtime when she donned her white overall and went across to the restaurant. In her pocket was the small grey tablet, it seemed to burn through the material and scorch her flesh.
She was apprehensive, kept watching the entrance door. Her headache was worse. Oh, Jeff, hurry up and let’s get it over!
By 2.30 when the waitresses began clearing the tables there was still no Beebee. Mixed relief troubled her; a kind of postponement, tonight he would surely d
ine here. That meant that she had to undergo this mental agony for another five or six hours.
Perhaps he had taken her earlier advice and checked out. Escaped. More anguish, but she knew it was not true. He would not leave without contacting her. The day passed slowly.
Shortly before seven she saw him. At first she scarcely recognised him, gone was the casual attire and in their place he wore a light blue summer suit. No tie, thank God, she hated ties, they were so damned starchy. He had obviously had his beard trimmed. Some kind of special occasion? Oh, Christ!
‘I hardly recognized you.’ She tried to make it appear that her winding course among the other diners had taken her to his table, she had paused for a brief word.
‘My birthday,’ he winked. ‘A closely guarded secret.’
‘You should have told me!’ Because I’ve got a dirty trick to play on you.
‘I wanted it to be a surprise. If you don’t want to be seen out with me in the camp, suppose we go into town tonight, do something different for a change?’
Her heart seemed to flip. ‘All right.’
‘Don’t sound so bloody enthusiastic!’ He looked at her in surprise.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve had a bad day.’ It sounded feeble. ‘Excuse me, there’s somebody over there I have to talk to. I’ll be right back.’
There was definitely something funny going on, Jeff thought. Ann was nearly frantic inside herself, he had to get to the bottom of it.
‘Would you like to order, sir?’ A young waitress interrupted his musings, made him start.
‘Oh, sure,’ glancing half-heartedly at the menu. He wasn’t hungry, it was too hot anyway. ‘Oh, I’ll have a fruit juice, grapefruit. And the chicken salad.’