Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  Quinnell remembered Heck saying that McDougall started out as a Millwall football hooligan before graduating into organised crime – no doubt the Bushwhackers hadn’t had it all their own way on Saturday afternoons.

  The newcomers found two spare seats on the second-from-the-front row, both located on the right side, with Quinnell sitting next to the aisle, as he’d be the one who’d soon need to get up. No sooner had they settled than a voice sounded.

  ‘OK, gents … you know the rules.’

  Lance Frith perambulated into view. His accent was almost neutral but carried a vague hint of the North Midlands.

  ‘You’ve all been searched on the way in,’ he said, stopping in front of the television. ‘But it’s the usual thing … if any of you have managed to smuggle any kind of recording device into here, there will be an awful lot of trouble. Sorry to say it in such bald terms, gents – but that’s the way it is. We can’t afford any of these movies to end up on the internet. I’m sure you understand why. But aside from that, you’re all paid up, you’re all now present and correct, the outside doors are locked, and we’re ready to go.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘We’ve got approximately three hours of films for you tonight. I think you’re going to enjoy all of them. We’ll take our first refreshment break in approx. one hour’s time. As always, beer and wine will be served at the usual West End prices.’

  He grinned – like his wife, showing a row of no doubt very expensive pearlers.

  On cue, the swing-doors at the back banged as Alfie Adamson came through carrying several crates of beer.

  In front, meanwhile, Lance Frith switched the television on and sauntered back across the cinema to its left corner, where he hit the lights.

  Without fanfare, the show began.

  Chapter 26

  That evening’s entertainment was every bit as horrendous as Gary Quinnell had anticipated. Gone were the days, it seemed, when cellar cinemas like this restricted themselves to showing straightforward sex between willing adults.

  Mercifully there was no soundtrack on the first film, but the visuals were bad enough. In it, two young people, a male and a female, both Orientals, fought and kicked furiously as they were hanged upside down, naked, in a derelict room, and whipped by their masked captors for minutes on end with bamboo rods, an exercise which was less like a gentle BDSM paddling and more like a Roman scourging. Gradually, as the blood and flesh flew, Quinnell felt his gorge rise and had to fight hard to keep his eyes on the screen – it would not do for him to be seen avoiding looking. Especially when he glanced sideways and saw the rest of the row of viewers, Tim Cleghorn included, rapt.

  When the film ended, with the two mangled bodies left hanging there, he already felt that he’d seen enough to call in the heavy mob, but there were one or two lingering doubts. When the original movie, Snuff, had first appeared in 1976, it had purported to show a real murder, but in fact it had been a hoax. It was not impossible, Quinnell told himself, that he was seeing something similar here.

  What followed, however, undoubtedly was real.

  It was a compilation of video footage, almost certainly taken by police officers for the purpose of crime scene analysis. How it had ended up in the hands of private collectors was anyone’s guess, but Quinnell had the dismaying notion that, most likely, these snippets had been sold on by coppers. He was more familiar with this kind of material, of course, but never when it was being offered up as a form of entertainment.

  In the first movie, the camera tracked along a disordered passage in what looked like a small apartment. Everything of any value there seemed to have been smashed and scattered. The camera then veered left into a bedroom, where the bed had been turned upside down and the mattress tossed against a wall, both of them now arced with drying bloodstains. The camera panned slowly around, finally locating an adult female spread-eagled on the carpet. She wore only a short nightie, which was soaked red and plastered to her body thanks to what looked like multiple stab wounds. Her face had been covered by a pillowcase, this too drenched through with blood. When the camera panned further around, it found a man in a pair of pyjama trousers huddled, foetus-like, against the far wall. His head had all but disintegrated, as if from a shotgun blast, his blood and brains splurged in a fountain up and across the wallpaper.

  The film lasted eight minutes, the crime scene tech catching the grotesque parodies of humanity from every conceivable angle in order to snag all the forensic data he could.

  More films followed in the same vein, all ghastly beyond belief and yet none, to Quinnell’s mind at least, qualifying as snuff – not to any certain degree.

  As the eighth or ninth of these murder-scene movies rolled, he risked another glance left. Tim Cleghorn sat as rigid as before. He might have been nervous to be here – scared out of his wits even – but he was still goggle-eyed, his mouth agape. Further along the row, other men had loosened collars or were mopping sweat from their foreheads with grubby handkerchiefs. A couple of hands had stolen to crotches and were kneading the increasingly obvious bulges there.

  You’re a stranger in this kingdom of shadows, boy, Quinnell told himself. But don’t you worry … it’ll all be over soon. Please, Lord … bloody soon.

  As the last police video came to a halt, freeze-framed on the rictus face of an elderly woman who’d been strangled in her own bed with a hoover flex, Lance Frith called down from the back of the room again.

  ‘OK … fight club time, gents.’

  There were mumbled cheers; this decadent crowd might have been too shamefaced to look each other in the eye when they’d first got here, but they were relaxing now.

  ‘Yeah … we know these have been popular of late,’ Frith said. ‘We’ve been getting more and more of them recently, and we’ve got more to come. But this first one tonight should blow your fucking socks off.’

  When the black-and-white footage commenced playing, it was near enough identical to the one depicting the last fight of Eddie Creeley. However, on this occasion, the guy in the underpants put up more resistance, engaging his would-be slayers with something like a heavy, two-handed mallet. He even managed to put one of them down, though the huge advantage his assailant enjoyed – being armoured – was more than enough to save his life. And soon, predictably, as Underpants was subjected to cuts and slashes and bone-crunching blows, he weakened, staggering and stumbling between his heavy-clad opponents.

  It was around this stage, when Quinnell got a proper look at the victim’s face. Despite everything, he almost shouted out loud.

  It was another of their missing fugitives, if he wasn’t mistaken, Ronald Ricketson, who was wanted by North Wales Police in connection with the murder of his girlfriend and her two baby daughters.

  Quinnell’s hands, currently resting on his legs, hooked into claws, knotting themselves into the flesh and bone of his kneecaps.

  The moment had arrived. This was literally it.

  He took a couple of deep breaths, before drawing down the zip at his crotch. He didn’t feel conspicuous doing this, as it was now going on all over the so-called cinema. Shoving his hand inside, he felt around his scrotum, finally locating the strip of tape and the micro-sized transmitter. He ripped it out, just managing to avoid yelping in pain.

  On screen, Ricketson weltered in his own gore as a succession of blows from a baseball bat in one hand and a spring-loaded cosh in another felled him first to his knees and then to the metal floor. Quinnell ignored it further, getting to his feet, stepping away from his chair and walking to the front of the room, crossing past the television. As the film had abruptly ended, plunging them all into a brief Stygian gloom, no one initially objected.

  Quinnell strode to the light switches in the corner, flicked them all on and turned to face the audience. Rows of blank white faces regarded him. Lance Frith was one of them, leaning out of his recess in puzzlement.

  Less puzzled and more aggressive was Wade McDougall, who, though he hadn’t yet removed his shades, was alread
y lumbering warily down the side aisle. Adamson did the same from the opposite corner.

  ‘All right, gents,’ Quinnell announced loudly, holding the transmitter close to his mouth to ensure there was no mistake, ‘I must inform you that I am a police officer, and that you are all under arrest for aiding and abetting the disclosure of indecent and distressing images. That’s just to start with, by the way. Oh yeah, and you don’t have to say anything …’

  Before he’d completed the caution, the room exploded.

  Chairs flew as shocked and terrified men leapt to their feet. Cleghorn was among them, but he ran to the front of the cinema and scampered across it so that he could cower behind Quinnell’s back, which reminded the big cop that one of his key jobs here was to protect their informant.

  This would be a problem, because he also had to seize the evidence. But it might not be a problem for long, because, unless his ears deceived him, he could already hear the cavalry hammering at the outer doors on the upper floor. Even so, he craned his neck to look over the scene of chaos and spied the Friths – Margot had appeared alongside her husband – sliding the laptop into a satchel and cramming handfuls of pen drives in after it.

  They were only thirty yards away, but it wouldn’t be as simple as blundering over there; already, the cinema’s security staff were closing in.

  Even as the shouting clientele hurried back and forth, tripping over each other and their fallen chairs, Adamson and McDougall advanced from left and right respectively. The latter was less certain about this – he slowed to a near halt, as if unsure what the best course now was. But Adamson was brutal as he knocked men out of his way.

  He was the one Quinnell turned to first, but not quickly enough to prevent the doorman’s two hands clamping the lapels of his jacket.

  What surprised the big Welshman from this point was that no head flew in, there was no gouging, no biting. The doorman merely drove him backward against the wall – squashing the fearful Cleghorn in the process – and tried to pin him there, his shaven head pink and gleaming with sweat, his brutish face set in a rigid mask.

  Doesn’t want to assault you, boy. He’s not so stupid … just wants his bosses to get away.

  Quinnell retaliated, grabbing the left side of Adamson’s bull neck, sinking his fingers into the taut muscle. He slammed his right forearm into the hoodlum’s jaw, and when that didn’t work, into the right side of his throat.

  Adamson rode it out, teeth clenched, saliva frothing through them.

  They cavorted round as though dancing, banging Cleghorn against the wall again, eliciting a massive squawk from him, and then tottering the other way, crashing into the television, which fell from its chair and struck the floor with a flash of sparks. Still in Adamson’s clutches, Quinnell had to spin them both to look across the room again. It was a bedlam of staggering, panicking men, though most were now cramming through the swing-doors, possibly not realising that the steel doors beyond those would still be locked.

  A thunderous BANG! then sounded from that direction, along with a tremor-inducing SCRUNCH of twisting, warping metal.

  They wouldn’t be locked any more. Quinnell knew a hydraulic ram when he heard it.

  Immediately, the frightened mob began flooding back into the cinema, armoured and helmeted cops pouring after them, carrying batons and shortened riot shields.

  ‘You fucking Taffy bastard!’ Adamson snarled.

  ‘You fucking Saesneg!’ Quinnell retorted, driving two massive body shots under the hoodlum’s extended arms.

  Ribs cracked with each impact. As Adamson staggered backward, Quinnell caught him under the jaw with a bone-slammer; the besuited figure all but launched from his feet. The cop spun around, again to scan the room. Arrests were being made everywhere. Inspector Takuma stood in the middle with visor raised, looking on in satisfaction as the punters were manhandled to the floor and bound with plasticuffs. The only real problem was that Lance and Margot Frith were now nowhere to be seen.

  Quinnell swore, focusing on the recess. Could it be that the fire door stood at the back of it? He glanced at Cleghorn, now cowering behind the wrecked TV.

  ‘Stay over here, all right?’

  Cleghorn’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Look out!’

  Quinnell twirled, but it was too late.

  The chair that had been swung up and over the top of Wade McDougall’s head crashed down on him with jackhammer force.

  Chapter 27

  Lance and Margot Frith were already halfway up the back stairs. It was a simple fire exit and, in truth, Lance, who was at the front, had never fully expected that, in the event of a raid, the police wouldn’t have this portal covered too – but on the off-chance they hadn’t done their homework properly, he’d always kept his innocuous-looking but souped-up Passat W8 in the small rear yard it gave access to.

  Inevitably, though, as they climbed the stairs, the door at the top erupted inward and police officers piled through. Most were uniformed and armoured, but the one at the front was in plain clothes; he wore jeans and a sweatshirt with its sleeves rolled back and a black bulletproof vest. He descended quickly, discarding the Halligan bar with which he’d busted the entrance. He was tallish, just over six feet, with a lean but strong build. He had a mop of black hair, rugged features and a plaster on his left eyebrow, and as he descended the final few stairs to their level, the most intense, steel-blue gaze that Lance Frith had ever seen. He also wore what might be described as a shit-eating grin.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello,’ Heck said. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be under arrest?’

  Before Frith could respond, Heck grabbed him by the tie knot and slammed him face-first into the opposite wall, goose-necking his left wrist behind his back. For all that the ex-porn star was a mass of bronzed, gym-toned muscle, he went as easily as polystyrene.

  ‘Lay one undue finger on me, copper, and my lawyers’ll have you,’ he warned.

  ‘It’s you who’s going to be had,’ Heck hissed into his ear. ‘Every time you go for a shower.’

  He pushed him into the custody of the uniforms behind and continued down.

  On seeing her husband apprehended, the beautiful Margot had retreated back down towards the internal door, only to find that also filled with police officers, watching her. The next thing she knew, Heck had grabbed the satchel she was carrying. At first, she resisted, clutching it to her body.

  ‘Don’t give me an excuse to break those lovely fingernails,’ he said. ‘You’re another one, Miss Whiplash … you’re gonna need a set of claws where you’re going.’

  She released the bag, and he passed it to the officers behind, before taking the woman’s elbow and steering her into their custody too.

  With the main targets wrapped up, Heck hurried on down the stairs, entering the cinema proper. The place was a mess of kicked-over chairs and struggling bodies, most now in cuffs as the uniforms hustled them out via a set of swing-doors at the other side of the room. Jack Reed was there too; standing by the doors, supervising.

  Then Heck’s eyes fell on Gary Quinnell.

  The big guy was lying prone, Inspector Takuma and a female sergeant kneeling alongside him. A few yards away, Tim Cleghorn hovered nervously.

  Heck scrambled over and dropped to one knee.

  Quinnell had taken a tremendous smack to the head, just above his hairline in fact, leaving blood all down his face. The sergeant had produced a first-aid kit and was applying a compress. When she removed it briefly, Heck saw that the casualty’s scalp was not just lacerated, but swollen like a cricket ball.

  ‘My own fault,’ Quinnell mumbled.

  ‘No arguments there,’ Heck said. ‘You’ve been asking for this for years.’

  ‘Bloody chair …’ Quinnell groaned in pain, though at least he seemed fully compos.

  ‘I think he’s OK, but he needs to go to A&E,’ the sergeant said. ‘At the very least, he’s going to have severe concussion.’

  Heck nodded. ‘I’ll sor
t it.’

  ‘I’ve already called an ambulance,’ Inspector Takuma said.

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ Quinnell grunted, struggling to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir … I’m not a cripple yet.’

  He then turned dizzy, and Heck had to pull up a chair for him, which he plonked himself down onto. Takuma arched an eyebrow.

  ‘We’ll wait for the ambulance,’ Heck agreed.

  ‘Hold that there,’ the sergeant said, placing Quinnell’s own hand on top of the dressing.

  Satisfied, Takuma turned away.

  ‘Oh, sir …’ Heck said, ‘are you heading up to Finchley Road?’

  ‘That’s where all the prisoners are bound, I understand,’ Takuma said. ‘And where the debriefing will be held … so, yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Heck beckoned Cleghorn forward. ‘Can our CI ride with you?’

  Takuma eyed Cleghorn with visible distaste.

  ‘If we’re off to hospital …’ Heck said.

  Takuma sighed. ‘I suppose if he must.’

  The uniforms walked away, and Heck signalled Cleghorn to follow them, which he did on hurried, nervous feet. Heck swung back to Quinnell. They were now alone.

  ‘OK … who was it?’

  The Welshman shook his head. ‘Barely saw him … but, pretty sure it was McDougall.’

  That came as no surprise to Heck. It was also what he’d wanted to hear. ‘Did anyone else see him?’

  ‘Cleghorn, probably …’

  Heck nodded. ‘That works. Any uniforms?’

  ‘Two uniforms locked him up … but that was when he was trying to fight his way out. Don’t think they saw his attack on me.’