by Michael Kerr
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
Cornell Flynn was not just a nightclub owner, and had no intention of selling out to Gorchev. The crazy Ruskie had offered him less than half what the Paradise Club was worth. Then, when told to walk, had made it clear that he never took no for an answer.
Cornell was not too worried. He ran a chain of porn shops and massage parlours, and had a lot of muscle on the payroll to keep everything and everyone in line. He was sure that Gorchev was just running off at the mouth; that it was just words, and that he would not want to start a gang war. Where was the profit in that?
Cornell was not to know that with Gorchev it was principle. He could not handle anyone being seen to defy him. If they did, then they would suffer the consequences. He was without mercy. Perhaps if Cornell had known that as a teenager in Kovrov, Sergei would garrotte a man with a cheese wire, just to hack a gold tooth from his gums, or knife a pregnant woman in a dark alley to relieve her of a purse that may hold only a few roubles, or shoot someone for a hock of ham, then he would have taken the Russian far more seriously.
Four weeks after Gorchev had approached him, Cornell began to relax. There had been no follow-up. His club had not been firebombed, nor had any of his other enterprises been compromised. The gangster with a thick accent and breath that smelled of boiled cabbage had known when to quit, and had most likely found another club owner to lean on.
There had been an A4 size sheet of single-spaced type, and another photo with the banded bricks of cash. It gave Andy all the information he needed: a detailed itinerary of Flynn’s movements over the previous month, that highlighted patterns, times and locations most opportune to carry out the hit.
Andy studied the recent photograph of the man. It pictured him climbing out of a Roller. He wore a hairpiece that was lifting at the sides, and looked similar to how Gimp’s fur had once been; a little matted and in need of shampooing. His pencil-line moustache was as narrow as a whore’s plucked eyebrow, and his sagging jowls hung down over the collar of his shirt. He was sixty-nine-years-old, and looked every second of it.
Andy had three decisions to make: When, where, and how to kill Flynn. The house was out of the question. Just a drive passed The Manse confirmed that the old man had not skimped on security. High walls, CCTV cameras and electronically-operated gates were the obvious, visible deterrents. And he had no doubt that there would be sophisticated intruder alarms, dog patrols and perhaps armed guards. Flynn thought of himself as some big-time gangster. And maybe the Roller was armoured, with bullet-proof glass. Andy would assume that it was. The only area of opportunity would appear to be when he got in or exited the car at the rear of the Paradise Club. That was the venue taken care of. And he would do it on Saturday, late, when Flynn left the club. As for how; he would have to shoot the guy. Anything more elaborate would need time to plan. He was not concerned, though. Sometimes it paid to keep things simple.
Ryan pulled up outside the small mews house, switched off the ignition and wondered for the hundredth time whether this might turn out to be a very good or very bad idea. He sat for a minute and looked out through the windscreen. He could see the Post Office Tower rising up nearby into a sky that was never dark. The city’s lights cast a dirty yellow glow that pushed back the murk.
He had showered, shaved carefully, and dressed smart-casual. Even hung a new pine-scented cardboard air freshener from the rear-view mirror in the Vitari, and treated the vehicle to a much needed full valet. Plus, he had made the decision not to smoke in the vehicle and stink it up. This had all the makings of being a special evening. He felt that he and Julie had been resisting the inevitable for too long. Finding valid reasons to keep their relationship professional was a crock of shit. Sometimes you have to stick your hand in the water to see how hot it is. And sometimes, like now, you don’t need to; the steam coming off the bubbling surface is enough to tell you that it’s about to boil over.
Climbing out of the car, he ambled over to the door, lifted the brass knocker and brought it down twice.
Julie had been ready for over an hour, after changing her outfit three times, not sure what to wear. She was rusty at the dating game. Found most men a pain in the arse, with too many hang-ups. It was true that the best of them had been snapped-up and were married with kids. They were not available. She had found that any single men in her age bracket carried a lot of baggage, or were sad bastards with nothing going for them. Ryan was different, or appeared to be, being a bachelor by choice. She was afraid that he would shy away from any long-term relationship. Maybe he was totally unsuited to waking up with someone next to him; someone who was not going to get dressed, say good-bye and walk out of his life without giving him any grief. Truth was, she did not know him. Not the little things that mattered about a person. She couldn’t help but think she might be heading for a hard fall. She still had time to back off, before her attraction to him became more. She was frightened of falling in love. Believed that love weakened you in some way. Thought that it made you care for someone else more than you cared for yourself. Some part of her shied away from the vulnerability of needing another person. But the alternative was bleak. She was almost sodding forty! How could that have happened? It did not seem possible that time could have raced by so quickly. It only seemed the other day that she had been celebrating her twenty-first and thought that all her life was way up the road, like a distant village. But now she had driven through it and it was behind her, receding at a great rate of knots. Time just kept marching on, eating up everything in its path.
Shit! The black shift was riding up and was uncomfortable. She would wear the cerise long sleeved blouse and a pencil skirt. She wanted to feel younger, and sexy, so would shed the clinging tights and wear a suspender belt and stockings and shoes with enough heel to tighten her calves. Being a cop was not who she was. She was determined to relish being a woman tonight. Would she sleep with Ryan? The thought just popped into her mind. Not true. It had been lurking there since before he’d asked her to go out with him.
Ready. Again. She descended the spiral staircase, went into the kitchen and built herself a vodka tonic to try to settle her nerves. Took a too-large mouthful and almost choked. Stupid Cow. Get a grip, It’s just a date. But it was more than that, and she knew it. This was something that neither she nor Ryan did regularly. Everything in life had consequences, and she knew intuitively that what was about to happen could lead her in a new direction.
He was due to arrive in less than five minutes. She took another slug of the vodka. There was not a lot of tonic in it. What if he didn’t show? Would he phone and cry off with some excuse? She drained the glass, and almost dropped it as the two loud knocks spiked the house with sound. Deep breath. Stay cool, girl. Composure.
She looked through the peephole, slipped the chain off, opened the door and could not think of a word to say. Her brain was taking time out.
“Ask me in, or grab your coat and we’ll go,” Ryan said.
“Uh, sorry, come in. Would you like a drink? Have we got time?” she said, feeling as maladroit as Bambi on ice. What would he think? Her nerves were jumping. She needed another hit of Smirnoff.
“You look great,” Ryan said, stepping inside and leaning into her to brush her cheek with his lips. “Have you got scotch?”
“Sure. You going to drink and drive?”
“Why, are you a cop?”
“Yes. But I’m off-duty, so I’ll try not to worry about it.”
“If I drink too much at the club, I’ll leave the car there and we can get a cab.”
Was he implying that he had taken it for granted he could stay the night?
He saw the half frown. “It can drop you off here, then take me home.” he added.
Julie poured him a large Grouse, herself another vodka, and added ice to both. She put plenty of tonic in her own this time.
He looked good and smelled great. She did not recognise the cologne. It suited him. It was masculine and subtle. And he had traded his beat-u
p leather jerkin, T-shirt and jeans for a stone-coloured lounge suit, open neck black shirt and taupe Ben Sherman Tie shoes.
“It’s a nice little hideaway you’ve got here,” Ryan said.
“It’s somewhere to recharge,” she said. “I’d rather live out in the sticks.”
“Far away from the maddening crowd, eh?”
“You got it. Preferably the coast. Maybe Devon. It would be nice to look out through a picture window and see the sky and sea meet at the horizon, with only the odd ship passing by to give it perspective.”
“Will you ever do it?”
“Who knows? I like to think I might.”
The club was below street level. The blue neon sign depicted a saxophone and the loose rounded words: Ella’s Place. The sign buzzed as they walked down the steps and passed beneath it.
After being shown to a table, Julie gave the place the once over, while Ryan ordered drinks.
It was as Julie imagined the Cavern Club of Liverpool and Beatles fame had been in the late fifties and early sixties. There was a series of brick arches, and a raised stage at one end of the large room. The lighting was subdued, and as Ryan had said, there were candles on the tables. Monochrome poster-size prints on the walls featured, in the main, long-gone jazz legends. Ella Fitzgerald took pride of place in a central position. Julie also recognised Benny Goodman, but none of the others.
The music was laid-back and intimate. The quartet on stage producing it comprised a pianist who could have been the late Ray Charles, a guy on sax, one on bass, and a drummer.
“What do you think of it so far?” Ryan said.
“I like it a lot,” Julie said. “Jazz isn’t something I’ve ever really listened to. Are you a buff?”
“You mean like a Jazz-anorak?”
“Yes.”
“No. My mother used to have a lot of Erroll Garner and stuff. Even Acker Bilk. But I don’t know Dizzy Gillespie from Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker. I just like the sound. It’s unobtrusive. You can be absorbed without having to concentrate. They have a guy, Buddy Jordan, who plays clarinet like Kenny G. He’ll be doing a set later.”
They enjoyed the music, a few drinks, a steak and salad, and got a cab back to Julie’s in the wee small hours, as...
...Andy waited, knowing that Flynn would be leaving the Paradise Club within the next fifteen minutes. He had been on the flat roof of the club’s kitchen since nine p.m. He’d sneaked up the fire escape of the building next to it and jumped across, to sit behind a parapet and wait. He was wrapped up against the cold that October nights brought. When the activities were winding down, and the kitchen staff had left, he went down into the combined yard and car park, opened the lid of a skip and climbed in, placing a small block of wood between the lid and the rim of the large steel container, affording him a letter-box wide view of the club’s rear entrance. He was only ten yards from the mark’s Roller. The stink of the garbage nauseated him. He was sitting among it, earning every penny that Gorchev was paying him.
The door creaked open. A wedge of light spilled out to illuminate the three figures that strolled into view. They were laughing and talking. Flynn was flanked by two guys who looked about them as they approached the Roller.
Andy had the advantage of total surprise on his side. He waited until one of the men unlocked the car and opened the rear door for Flynn to get in, then threw back the heavy lid, took aim and opened-up with the silenced S & W as the three men jerked their heads in his direction.
Jay Cochrane was fast. He dropped to one knee as he drew his pistol from the shoulder holster and aimed at the skip. Even managed to loose one off. It struck metal and whined away to chip brick from the yard’s wall.
Andy put two bullets in his chest, swung the heavy barrel to line up on the second body guard and triggered another two slugs. One took the top half of Ed Fallon’s ear off. The other punched through his front teeth, to blow him back against the car and soil the gleaming bodywork with his blood as he slid down to the ground.
Cornell Flynn ran back towards the door of the club. He did not carry a gun, relying wholly on paid muscle to protect him. He had a grimace on his face as he waited for a bullet that he knew would come. He now realised that he had made a big mistake in thinking that Gorchev had given up on taking over his club. This was a hit.
Andy put a slug through the back of the old man’s thigh to drop him. Flynn went down on his knees and tried to crawl, just following his instincts, trying to evade his inescapable fate. Another shot brought him to a stop. He fell heavily on to his side and huddled on the damp concrete, gasping against the pain.
Andy vaulted out of the skip, ran over to Flynn and stood over him. The black maw of the silencer spat again, and a bullet tore into the wounded man’s right kidney.
Flynn felt white fire burn through his side and back. The sensation was excruciating.
“Nod your head if you want it to be over with,” Andy said to him.
Flynn looked up into the expressionless, yellow-eyed face of death and nodded.
Andy touched the hot metal to the man’s temple and pulled the trigger. Job done! Give that scout another merit badge.
He went over to the Roller and satisfied himself that the two inadequate bodyguards were dead, and took mobile phones from their pockets before slipping out of the yard and walking back to where he had parked his car. The episode had not even increased his heart rate. He felt no surge of elation. It had been a straightforward hit, as easy as dropping metal ducks in a fairground’s shooting gallery. That he had given one of Flynn’s dolts the chance to get off a shot was slipshod of him. He had not expected such quick reactions; a lesson was learned. Never underestimate the opposition.
Before driving off, he phoned his mother’s number. Knew that her line would be tapped, and that all calls would be traced. It didn’t matter. He would dump the phone as soon as he had talked to her.
“Who is it?” Ruby Tyler said, expecting it to be the press again, but answering because the police expected Andy to contact her.
“Why?” Andy said.
Ruby nodded to DC Angie Duke.
“Because of the schoolgirls, Andy. You need help. Why don’t you give yourself up, son?”
“Don’t call me son, you ungrateful, dumb cow. I called because I thought you might have some half-baked excuse for turning against me. It’s obvious that you’ve chosen sides. How does it feel to know that somewhere down the road, maybe in a year’s time, you are going to get the same treatment as Barbara Coombes?”
“Who?”
“Ask DCI Brannigan or DI Ryan to show you the crime scene photographs. Take a long, hard look at what I do to women who piss me off.”
“Andy, you―”
“Shut up, you piece of shit. It’s all your fault. If you’d left that stinking no-good bastard when I was born, then neither of us would have had to suffer at his hands. I had to grow old enough to be able to take care of him myself. I should have seen to you at the same time. But you’re going to get yours.”
He ended the call and threw the Nokia out of the window. Reversed up and ran over it. Headed for home. He needed to get the smell of garbage off himself, and had to eat. Killing always gave him an appetite.
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
Ryan leaned sideways into the dim interior of the cab. Kissed Julie on the side of the face, up high on her cheekbone, just below her right eye.
“I’ve really enjoyed this evening,” she said. “The clarinettist was awesome. What he did with Autumn Leaves gave me goose bumps.”
“I’ve got one of his CDs at home. I’ll get someone to run off a copy for you. I don’t know my way around computers well enough to do it myself.”
The cabby had got out and was opening her door for her. It was now or never. She wanted Ryan to stay the night, or what was left of it. But couldn’t find the courage to ask him. “You want to come in for a nightcap?” she blurted, and was glad of the gloom that hid her blush.
“You sure you want to
do this?” Ryan said. “You don’t have to.”
“I don’t do anything I don’t have to, Ryan. You can go or stay. I can run you back to pick up your car in the morning on the way in to work, if you want to sleep on my settee.”
“How much, pal,” Ryan said to the cabby, by way of answer to Julie, as he slid out the same side of the vehicle.
Ryan slipped off his jacket and, glass in hand, made himself comfortable on the settee that he was sure he would not be sleeping the next few hours on.
Julie put an Eva Cassidy disc on: Songbird. Sting’s Fields of Gold was the first track. It still saddened Julie that someone as talented as Eva, with such a haunting and sweet voice, had been consumed by cancer at the age of thirty-three. Another reason to stop being emotionally constipated.
“Who’s that?” Ryan said, beguiled by the voice.
“Eva Cassidy,” Julie said, sitting down next to him. “She bloomed like an exotic orchid, then all too quickly wilted and died.”
“At least she left something lasting to be remembered by.”
“I still get a little bitter over how life can be so unjust.”
“Don’t look for equity in life. There isn’t any. You step on an ant without knowing you’ve just crushed it out of existence; a bird on its way back to the nest to feed its chicks gets snatched out of the air by a sparrow hawk. It’s all arbitrary. It doesn’t do to dwell on it.”
“You seem to be centred and have a grip on it, Ryan.”
“I wish. I learned not to waste time on stuff that was beyond me, that’s all.”
They let Eva’s voice pervade them. They were comfortable without having to make small talk for the sake of it. Julie rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Just let herself drift free and float. This was one of those moments that she would always cherish. Ryan let his hand settle on her thigh. Felt the fasteners beneath the material of her skirt and realised that she was wearing stockings.