I Want Him Dead

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I Want Him Dead Page 11

by Anthony Masters


  When Leslie Ryland’s thoughts turned to Joe Barrington, however, even the cocaine couldn’t diminish his dislike. He had never forgiven him for taking the main chance, for disappearing so easily, for evading the Candy Man for so long. Leslie didn’t like people who got away with things. It was one of his principles. Barrington wasn’t getting away with anything. He would see to that.

  As Joe Barrington drove towards his assignation he felt increasingly unwell. The rigours of the previous night, the vast quantity of gin he had consumed, and the knowledge that he had not executed the job with much panache, made him apprehensive. What was Ryland going to ask him to do? And exactly what did Eamonn have in mind?

  He wondered how he would have felt if he had killed before in some authorized way. Like in Northern Ireland. Or the Middle East. A soldier, doing his duty, not an amateur assassin, making an unholy balls up.

  Ryland was wearing a light sports jacket, fawn trousers and brogues, and as he strolled towards Barrington he seemed invincible. His white shirt was open and there was a spruce, freshly showered look to him which made his bald dome almost distinguished. He carried a squash racket and a sports bag, looking every inch the young dad dropping into the supermarket for a few items his little lady forgot before going down to the club.

  He smelt of cologne and had a bland smile for Joe as they met at the top of the multi-storey car park, overlooking the sprawl of the supermarket below.

  The day was blustery and an icy wind shuffled refuse.

  “Play squash?” asked Ryland.

  “I used to.”

  “We must have a game some time. Builds the aggression.” He paused. “So why did you fuck up last night?”

  Joe shrugged, trying to keep calm. “He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s what I had to do.”

  “It was a mess.”

  “The Magnum jammed. I couldn’t hang around.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I chucked it away.”

  Ryland swore. “I told you to bring it back.”

  “I wiped the prints off.”

  “You can never be sure.” For once, he was agitated.

  “I am sure.” Joe was emphatic.

  “Did he bleed over you?”

  “I washed, didn’t I?”

  “Where?”

  Joe was determined not to mention Ruth. “Another toilet.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you have been recognized?”

  Joe realized that he had not seen the newspapers and panic swept him. “There isn’t anything in the —”

  “Not so far.” Leslie wasn’t reassuring.

  “I could claim expenses on my overcoat.” Joe tried unsuccessfully to play it cool but failed miserably.

  “You dumped that, too?” He gazed at him contemptuously. “You fucking idiot!”

  “McMarn and I are quits now. I did the job. So that’s it.” Even in his own ears the bravado sounded hollow.

  Leslie smiled. “Rock-a-bye, baby.” He grinned wolfishly as he stared down at the hard tarmac below. “Spread it thin or thick — that always does the trick.”

  Suddenly Joe lost what little control he had. “Listen, you sycophantic little arse-wiper. If you threaten my child again you’ll be the jam and you’re only spreadable on shit.”

  Leslie Ryland’s hand was on his wrist. “Don’t insult me, Joe.”

  “How you can work for that filthy pervert beats me. I suppose it’s his money that greases your arsehole, but then you’re up to the same little game yourself, aren’t you? Time’s running out, isn’t it? You won’t be waving your squash racket for much longer.”

  Leslie Ryland grabbed Joe’s balls and began to squeeze them. The pain was incredible, flowing inside him like hot liquid steel. Then he let go.

  “One day I’ll kill you,” said Leslie, as Joe, his eyes blinded by painful tears, leant against the scarred concrete of a pillar. “Don’t go anywhere, will you?” He picked up his bag and squash racket, walking briskly towards the exit.

  But Joe’s anger was greater than his caution. “Is it genetic? Did your daddy jump on your back? Your mummy suck your prick? You just passing it on? How many boy scouts you screwed this week?” Joe knew he was courting disaster but felt compelled to continue.

  Leslie paused, came back, took Joe by the throat and slammed him up against the pillar. Then he grabbed his balls again.

  “If you ever touch my son I’ll use that penknife on your dick. Do I make myself clear?” Joe gasped.

  Leslie Ryland simply squeezed harder.

  Anne wished she could light a real coal fire as she switched on the gas imitation in the living room, watching the artificial flames leap to their regulation height.

  In the holidays she had often sat in front of her parents’ fire mid-morning when her sisters had gone out and her father was at work, but Anne knew that her mother, bustling about the kitchen, would soon drive her out into the fresh air with the usual admonishments of “No good slouching around”, or “I don’t want you under my feet”.

  Sometimes Anne had feigned homework, occasionally she just sat, staring into the crackling flames, trying to get away with her introspection.

  Unlike her older sisters she detested shopping expeditions and meeting friends. As discos came and went, Anne read voraciously. She did well at her lessons, but when it came to team games, as one Amazonian hockey coach had written cryptically on her report, “Anne does not participate.”

  She didn’t care. She had Dad. He loved her unconditionally — until his sudden and inexplicable betrayal.

  Some lines from Blake filtered into her head.

  To see a World in a grain of sand,

  And a Heaven in a wild flower,

  Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

  And Eternity in an hour.

  Life was transitory. Flowers, wild or otherwise, died so quickly. An hour was such a short time. Two men had deserted her and she had not been forewarned and forearmed. They had stopped loving her so quickly that she had been taken unawares.

  Studland and Spindrift had given her such central cores of happiness, but they had been so abruptly terminated. Perhaps that was her real resentment, that contentment had been so brief, that her life had been so largely arid. Of course, some people experienced no happiness at all. A strident rendition of “Count Your Blessings One by One” began to resound in her mind and Anne almost smiled.

  Now she was about to revenge herself on the takers, the despoilers, those who had taken away her security. They owe me. Paul owes me. He doesn’t deserve to live. But surely she was being ingenuous? Surely she couldn’t hope to get away with it?

  Eamonn Coyd put up the CLOSED sign, went to the fridge in the downstairs kitchen and produced sardine sandwiches.

  “I’d rather have a drink,” said Joe. He was grey with pain and exhaustion.

  “You’ve got to eat.”

  “Why?” he asked, grabbing a beer.

  “You’ll need the strength to tell me what happened last night.”

  When Joe had finished the appalling explanation, only leaving out the unbearable, unrepeatable description of Weston’s death throes, Eamonn could only say, “McMarn could have you killing like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Joe was silent.

  “You’re fixed up at the garage in Australia,” said Eamonn slowly.

  “What about the money?” asked Joe woodenly.

  “She’s transferring it to the account. So are you on? Or not?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Eamonn looked relieved but began to speak rapidly, as if he was afraid that Joe might change his mind at any moment. “Lucas goes jogging on Friday evenings, and after his run he goes to this pub, The Lord of the Manor. There’s a car park at the front. All you need to do is to nick a motor and knock him over. I’ll fix a safe house, the work permit and the flight. You could be away in ten days from completion.”

  “What about McMarn?”

  “Tha
t’s why we have to move fast.” Eamonn’s nerves were screaming. Joe was already in a bad state and this wasn’t the moment. Except it had to be.

  When the idea had come to him last night, Eamonn had been convinced that he had a long-term solution, but now, in the face of his brother’s battle fatigue, his additional proposition seemed doomed.

  “It’s your long-term future I’m concerned about.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s why I think you should lean on Anne Lucas.”

  Joe gazed at his brother as if he was demented.

  “You’re out of your mind,” he said, wondering if he could have misunderstood.

  “You might think so,” Eamonn admitted, “but there’s a good reason.”

  “I can’t think of one.”

  “You could tell her that you were her husband’s assassin, that she hired you and there’s evidence to prove it. So she has to pay you some more.”

  Joe laughed.

  Eamonn frowned, determined not to give up. If only Joe could be made to understand that the final risk was worth taking. “The thirty grand won’t go far enough.”

  “It’ll have to.”

  “You’re no good at starting at the bottom. You should know that by now. Anne Lucas is loaded.” Eamonn paused, but Joe didn’t reply. “Why don’t you think about Carla for a change?” he added quickly, trying another tack. “She’s bummed along for years with no questions asked and it’s time she had some security. You owe it to her.”

  Joe thought fast. A car was different. He’d be behind the wheel, detached, maybe only feel the bump. But that had to be the end of it. He didn’t want to risk anything else.

  “For Christ’s sake, why can’t you have some vision?” Eamonn demanded.

  “Because I’m not a fantasy merchant like you.” Joe knew he was hurting him but he had to put a stop to this crap. Now.

  “What’s wrong with bleeding Lucas?”

  “Because it wouldn’t work.”

  “Of course it’ll bloody work. She’ll be up shit creek. She’ll pay.”

  “She’s already doing that —”

  “She’ll pay some more,” Eamonn persisted. Was he detecting a slight note of hesitation in Joe’s voice?

  A long silence followed.

  “Suppose Lucas changes her mind?”

  “She won’t. She wants him dead. I know she’s finally made up her mind.” Eamonn tried to be even-handed, not wanting to rush him. He might have him nibbling, but there was still line to run. “You could just take the first payment, but you’d be a loser.” He could only risk a hint of devil’s advocacy. Was it enough?

  “I don’t want to meet her.”

  “If you want to make a worthwhile investment, then you’d be a fool to pass up the opportunity.”

  “Why are you doing all this for me?” Was Joe simply changing the subject?

  “Because I owe you.”

  “Do you want to go on living with Freda for the rest of your life?”

  “She suits me.”

  “Will you come out to Australia — if we ever get there?”

  “You know I won’t.”

  Their eyes met and Joe put down the beer can. He had just had a singularly unpleasant thought. “You can’t stay with Freda. You know damn well you can’t. Whatever happens, however things turn out, the Candy Man will come looking for you.”

  “I’m prepared for that. I can deal with him.”

  “He’ll know we’ve talked.”

  “I’ll lay some false trails. Stop worrying. No one can hurt me any longer.” Eamonn paused and then plunged on. “Why don’t you take Lucas for everything she’s got? What is there to lose?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’ve got to take the risk.”

  Joe gazed back at him and suddenly Eamonn knew his brother was going to unwillingly grasp the opportunity.

  For Anne Lucas, the arrangements had proceeded with unsettling efficiency, as if she were simply restructuring her finances rather than playing her part in the contract killing of her husband.

  The bank manager had been full of praise for her initiative.

  “Your Spanish project sounds like a good investment, Mrs Lucas.”

  “You must come out,” she had suggested. “Take in some sun.”

  They had murmured platitudes for some time until she had managed to get away and phone Coyd.

  “You still want to go ahead?” he had asked her. “No second thoughts?”

  “The money’s in the account,” she had replied, and replaced the receiver, still wondering if Coyd was no more than a cheap little con-man. Would he take her money and run? He might, Anne told herself, and then wondered if she was really hoping that he would. In the end, detachment came to her aid, effectively screening reality, and she resolved to go home and get drunk.

  Fortunately Peter was playing badminton that night and tomorrow he had extra maths with a home tutor. The next day, Friday, he would have a music lesson. Peter was busy. She would keep drinking. Then Paul would be dead. Death was nothing at all.

  Joe drove down to King’s Cross, unable to suppress an overpowering urge to see Ruth. She was his anaesthetic, and the more he thought about her as a tarnished angel of mercy, the more he was able to accept Eamonn’s martyrdom and Carla’s frightened discretion. What he couldn’t get out of his mind was Weston’s bubbling death, and Joe knew he never would.

  What was more, he had agreed to the second phase of his brother’s strategy and he didn’t know whether he was a complete fool — or was taking a calculated risk. Joe desperately hoped he was doing the latter, but at the same time he had a strong feeling that everything was running out of control.

  He parked the car a couple of hundred yards away from the sidings and walked slowly and casually down the road, glancing at his watch. It was just coming up to nine. Would she be there, he wondered, or would Ed have turned up again? And what was he going to do if he had?

  Joe quickened his pace, making it look as if he was late for an appointment, eventually arriving at the sheet metal fence and searching for the gap. But there wasn’t one. Instead a placard read THIS SITE IS PRIVATE PROPERTY AND REGULARLY PATROLLED BY GUARD DOGS.

  Joe read the sign over and over again, not able to believe his bad luck. Where would Ruth have gone? Could she still be around? If not, he knew it would be impossible to find her. With a growing sense of loss, he began to search.

  The next two days passed with agonizing slowness, not only for Anne Lucas, but also for Michael McMarn, Eamonn Coyd and Joe Barrington.

  Joe had found no trace of Ruth and had returned home, spending his time waiting for Leslie Ryland to call. Fortunately he didn’t, although Eamonn did, several times, checking on detail.

  Joe was unable to rid himself of the mental images that not only haunted his dreams but his waking hours as well. The wet and blubbering red thing, crawling on the floor of the toilet, and Ruth, like an angel of mercy, appearing at the gap in the steel fence, offering shelter. Then there was Eamonn and his stubborn bravery, and his determination that Joe had to take the risk of blackmailing Anne Lucas.

  He sat around the flat, becoming increasingly irritable with Carla, playing with Timothy, holding him aloft like an icon. The thought that he was about to kill another man was appalling, but it was fast becoming a reality, the only survival plan he had.

  Somehow he passed the long hours watching daytime television and, when Carla was out, masturbating, his misery deepening. Could Eamonn really bluff Ryland? He seemed confident. Too confident. One anxiety replaced another, and in the back of his mind Joe could hear Mam saying, “He’s only the runt of the litter, Joe. Don’t mind about him. Don’t mind about him at all.”

  He made himself endless cups of strong tea, not daring to walk the King’s Cross streets again in a fruitless attempt to find Ruth, but hoping against hope that she would be there at the appointed time to receive the money that, in his frantic state, Joe saw as his atonement.

 
McMarn was all too conscious that he was going to give Stanton a belly laugh. “You’ll be in a safe house next.” The words rang mockingly in his ears, but he had definitely decided to leave Islington for the hopefully more obscure sanctuary of Esher, in Surrey. There was no doubt in his mind that Sears was organizing the beginnings of a new campaign against him, that he would have recognized the butchery at King’s Cross as a bungled attempt to show muscle, and would employ every method at his disposal to force McMarn into running for cover.

  In fact Sears had already begun his opening moves. The phone had been ringing day and night, but when McMarn picked up the receiver the silence was like a wall slowly growing up around him.

  Through a renting agent, he had found a small, mock-Tudor house in Esher, which had a chiming doorbell and a large, ornate sideboard clock with a loud and menacing tick, like a metronome, measuring time. He decided to put the remainder of his precious furniture in store and live amongst the old lady’s possessions. Mrs Govern had recently entered a nursing home, but McMarn gloomily recognized her presence amongst the solid, ugly furniture just as he had felt Fergus Quinton’s presence amongst his exquisite objets d’art.

  While he moved house he wondered yet again if he should risk everything and send Barrington to Glasgow. McMarn had a tentative contact in the Sears camp, someone who might wish to put a toe in the pederast mire, someone who, as far as he knew, had not yet aroused suspicion. It might be possible to work on him, to open up the labyrinth that protected Sears, to get Barrington near enough to him. In his heart, however, the Candy Man was building a dangerous fantasy and one that definitely wouldn’t appeal to Ryland.

  Leslie had been naggingly persistent in his attempts to put an end to McMarn’s show of strength and today was no exception. “We’ve got to get to Algiers. It’s our only chance and you fucking know it. Do you think Sears will take us seriously after King’s Cross?”

  “Weston’s dead,” snapped McMarn.

  “A blunt penknife isn’t much of a weapon. Doesn’t exactly promise well for the future, does it?”

  “Maybe the gun did jam.”

  “Jam,” sniggered Ryland. “Are you making a connection?”

  “You’re very negative, Leslie. Anyone ever tell you that?”

 

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