Chosen To Kill (DI Matt Barnes Book 4)

by Michael Kerr

  “Billy who?” Ricky said.

  “Foster. Remember him, he’s your nephew?”

  Ricky shrugged. “I don’t have anything to do with him. He has issues.”

  “Wrong tense,” Pete chipped in. “He had issues.”

  Ricky wanted to smile, but didn’t. They were evidently here to give him what they probably believed he would think of as bad news. Marlon had obviously got the job done. “How did you know that he was my nephew?” he asked.

  “DNA,” Matt said. “The sample from a crime scene threw up a connection to you. They could identify that it was a nephew. It’s amazing what they can do these days.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He was all set to leave the country. We attempted to arrest him at Heathrow but he gave us the slip. Long story short, he ran out in front of a vehicle and didn’t survive the impact.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No Ricky, we have the gun that was used by your crew in that robbery. I want to know how your nephew came to be in possession of it.”

  “I knew nothing about the robbery, and don’t know anything about the gun. Anything else you need to ask before you leave?”

  “What did you mean, he had issues?” Pete said.

  Ricky got up and went over to the coffeemaker to pour himself a drink. He thought it through and decided that talking about Billy was no big deal. “Billy’s father was a fucking headcase,” he said. “He used to beat the shit out of the kid and lock him in the cellar. He was an alcoholic with a mean streak. He wound up being…having a fatal accident.”

  “What about Billy’s mother?” Matt asked.

  “My sister Gwen had a heart of gold, Barnes. But she was shit-scared of her husband, Stephen. And the abuse that Billy suffered affected him. He grew up a loner with a chip on his shoulder. And he was Mr. Clean. Had a disorder. He was a tidiness freak.”

  “He was also the guy that the press tagged as the Housekeeper Killer,” Pete said.

  Ricky feigned a look of surprise and said, “Not my problem. But you plods seem to have had a couple of good results. I hear that you caught that serial rapist. I’m tempted to make a donation to the Yard, to help fund your annual dinner dance.”

  “Don’t bother. Your money is as dirty as you are,” Matt said.

  Ricky chuckled. “Not true, Barnes, money has no memory; it just makes the world go round.”

  Matt had the sudden impulse to draw his gun and put a bullet through Lister’s head. The suave-looking gangster was a purveyor of misery, pain and death. He supplied class A drugs, was into loan-sharking, prostitution, human trafficking and almost everything illegal that you could list, and yet on paper he was Mr. Clean, and appeared to be untouchable.

  “You’re a piece of shit,” Matt said. “You think that you can buy or threaten your way out of everything, but it won’t last.”

  “If I was as bad as you like to think I am, then you could add blackmail to that. I would have a lot of information and video of people in high office doing things that would ruin them, and in some cases put them inside if it ever came to light. Can you imagine a top cop or high court judge wanting it to be known that he has a predilection for minors of both sexes, or enjoys more than the odd snort of coke to help him unwind after a long day in court or at the office?”

  “It’s the straight cops you need to worry about, Lister.”

  “Everyone has a price, a dark secret, or a weakness to be used as a lever against them, Barnes.”

  “Remember this conversation when you get a life sentence,” Matt said. “You’re sixty, and would probably die in prison.”

  Ricky chuckled again. “I’d adapt and have a very comfortable life inside. It would be like a little empire for me to run. But it won’t happen. If I ever found myself in the dock, there would be no jury that would find me guilty. They wouldn’t want to take the risk of their loved ones being harmed.”

  Matt tossed his empty cup in a waste bin and headed for the door. Pete followed suit.

  “He enjoyed that, boss,” Pete said. “And a lot of what he said may be true. Some bad bastards know how to cover their arses and stay in business.”

  “He’ll go down,” Matt said as he climbed in the passenger seat of his Vectra. “It’s not if, just when.”

  Beth saw the glare of headlights and went to the door. The outside security light came on and turned night to day. She watched as Matt awkwardly exited his car. Pete Deakin was at the wheel.

  “Pick me up in the morning,” Matt said to Pete. “And don’t prang my motor.”

  Pete grinned and reversed on the gravel driveway, spinning the wheel and almost sideswiping Beth’s Lexus. He pulled forward a few feet and said, “Hi, Beth,” through the open window, before driving off like a wannabe Steve McQueen in a remake of ‘Bullet’.

  Matt smiled at Beth, but she did not return it.

  “What?” she said. “Why is Pete driving your car, and where did you get the new shirt and jacket from? And why is your hand bandaged?”

  “You a cop?” Matt said.

  “No, just a concerned citizen. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “We caught the Housekeeper Killer. It’s a long story, so do you mind if I come in and have a large scotch before I tell you all the gory details?”

  Beth stood to one side as if she was a disgruntled landlady letting a late guest in.

  Matt sat down in the kitchen nook. Beth said nothing, just poured a scotch for him and a white wine for her, and then slid onto the bench seat facing him and waited till he’d half emptied the glass in one swallow.

  Matt told her about Billy Foster, and of how he had escaped arrest by running in front of a 4x4. He then made light of the tussle and the wound to his shoulder and the cuts to his knuckles.

  “Take your jacket off and let me see,” Beth said.

  Matt shuffled sideways, stood up and removed the windbreaker slowly. Blood had seeped through the bandage and discoloured the new shirt.

  Beth held him and said, “You always seem to wind up injured, Barnes. Are you a closet masochist?”

  “Just seems to go with the job, ma’am,” Matt said and put his good arm around her and kissed her tenderly on the lips. When they came up for air, he sat down again, finished his drink and asked Beth how her day had been.

  “Pretty tame compared to yours,” she said. “I got a call from a woman who is the clinical director at a centre for psychologically fragile children. One of the doctors at Northfield met her at a dinner party and mentioned me to her.”

  “And?”

  “She asked me if I’d be interested in a part-time post. I’ve arranged to meet her tomorrow for lunch.”

  “What does the work entail?”

  “A lot of talk therapy I would imagine. These are children that have been abused both mentally and physically.”

  “Sounds good,” Matt said. “The young man that died today may not have turned out to be a killer if he hadn’t had all feelings knocked out of him as a kid. What else have you done?”

  “I phoned Ron at the Kenton Court Hotel and booked our overdue engagement party.”

  “When for?”

  “A week on Saturday, so make sure that you’re not off hunting down deranged serial killers for at least a few hours.”

  Matt smiled. “Anyone you don’t want me to invite to this shindig?”

  “Apart from the squad, who else do you know?”

  “I have friends in low places.”

  “I know, and they’re all coppers.”

  They had one more drink, and then went to bed. Matt had been in the mood to fool around, but was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow. The combination of the day’s action, the drugs in his system, the elation of closing the case and a couple of large scotches had conspired to enervate him both physically and mentally.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Nothing major came up over the next few days, although a few loose ends proved thought-provoking to the squad. Sean Worsley�
��s body had been found in his bedsit with a single gunshot wound to the head. And three days after Billy Foster’s death another corpse had risen up from the murky waters of the canal that Marci had been thrown into. It was identified as being that of one Marlon White, a man of mystery to them, whom they ascertained had been in the Paras, and up until his demise had lived in an up-market apartment in north London and drove a late model BMW.

  Matt was almost certain that Worsley had been the subject of a paid hit. That would be why White had been the up until now unknown man in the duster coat who’d followed Foster from his house. Foster had somehow bested the contract killer, seconds before throwing Marci into the canal. She had been lucky that he had not taken the time to shoot her at the scene. It had to be linked to Ricky Lister. The gangster had wanted his nephew and Worsley dead. But there was no connection. They would probably never know why, although it was in all probability something to do with the gun that Foster had used on his killing spree.

  Tom and his wife, Jean, and Pete and Marci were already seated around a large table in the residents’ lounge when Beth and Matt walked in. After hugs and handshakes all round, Ron poured Matt a very large measure of malt whisky, and asked Beth what her choice of poison was.

  “A white wine and soda, please, Ron. I want to stay reasonably sober.”

  Within thirty minutes the other members of the squad arrived, to be followed by Detective Chief Superintendent Clive ‘Grizzly’ Adams, which was a surprise to all of them. Grizzly had turned himself around and knew that without Tom, Matt and the others he was just an overpaid pen-pusher. He congratulated the squad on their recent results, then ordered a gin and tonic and struck up a conversation with Tom.

  A bigger shock to Matt was that Nat Farley, the curmudgeonly Home Office pathologist, made an appearance, as did Kenny Ruskin from Computer Crime Section.

  Thankfully, Ron had pulled out all the stops and laid on a terrific buffet.

  After an hour of chitchat, with drinks flowing and fingers greasy from finger food, the mood was set. Pete stood up and said, “Speech, boss. We want an official declaration, seeing as how Beth is already wearing a rock on her finger that Liz Taylor would have wanted for her collection.”

  Matt felt slightly embarrassed as he got to his feet. This was personal, not work, and he was outside his comfort zone.

  “Well, you all know why we’re gathered here at Ron’s place,” Matt began. “Thank you for showing up and making it a special evening for Beth and yours truly. As for the rock,” he smiled, “It’s amazing what you can find in the police property store, it’s like an Aladdin’s’ cave down there.”

  Everyone laughed, but Grizzly raised his eyebrows.

  “I was kidding,” Matt said. “I have a receipt for that zircon…I mean diamond.”

  “Stop stalling and say something to bring tears to my eyes,” Jean said.

  Matt reached out to gently take Beth’s hand in his. “Okay, this is one of those singularly momentous moments in time for me,” he said. “I’ve always been a self-possessed kind of guy, and held the belief that if I didn’t get too emotionally involved and really give of myself to anyone, then I was safe from being let down or hurt. That was selfish and stupid. What really matters to me now is friendship, love and laughter, and some place you want and need to go home to. You all know how important the job is to me, so try to imagine that it means nothing at all weighed against my love for Beth. When you find someone that you know is the one, then all else pales in comparison. I have no idea why Beth would want to spend her life with a cop that has almost gotten her killed on several occasions, but I’m glad that she does.”

  Matt retook his seat and drank the large scotch in front of him in one gulp. Public speaking was not his forte.

  Everyone put their hands together, and Jean did dab at her eyes with a tissue and squeezed Tom’s knee beneath the table.

  “Your turn,” Marci said to Beth.

  Beth didn’t stand up. Just smiled and said, “As you all know, I’m a criminal psychologist. I’ve spent years studying mental functions and behaviour, but have no idea what love is. All I do know is that it is all-consuming, and that if you are lucky enough to be smitten by it, then your life is vastly enriched by the experience. I don’t know why I love Matt Barnes. It’s like being in love with an extreme sport that can be seriously damaging to your health. I worry about him every time he leaves me to do what you guys do. But I wouldn’t trade him for the world.”

  More applause, more drinks, middle of the road music wafting from hidden speakers, and a good night was had by all.

  “That was terrific,” Beth said after the last of the team had left. “Did you notice that Grizzly Adams got totally wrecked and started telling dirty jokes?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “It’s a side of him I’ve not seen.”

  “One last drink before you two hit the sack in my best room,” Ron said, pouring malt whisky into three crystal glasses.

  “Thanks, Ron,” Beth said, stretching up to kiss the big man on his bearded cheek. “You really did us proud tonight.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Ron said as he held up his glass to toast Matt and Beth.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  He had spent the last three months keeping a low profile; had not even bothered to take his revenge on Jimmy Lynch, who had been as nervous as a deer that had caught the scent of a fox since the other tosser, Willie Draper, had lost most of one hand in the potato chipper.

  Al was pacing his cell before general unlock, waiting to be taken down to reception to be given back the property that had lain in a box with his name and prison number on it for several years now. Within an hour he should be on the out again, older and wiser, and with a blacker heart beating in his chest. He had squared things with Claudine and Ricky, though had not informed either of them of the date that he was being released on licence. Put a man in a cell for a long time with only his thoughts for company and anything could be contemplated and planned and become an obsession.

  The footsteps grew nearer, and he heard the sound of a screw’s key chain, and then the cell door was unlocked.

  “Time to hit the road, Al,” Officer Greg Reese said. “You ready to step out into the big bad world?”

  “What do you think?” Al said. “Imagine how happy you are to walk out of the gate after every shift, and multiply it by a million.”

  Greg grinned and followed Al along the landing and down the stairs to the ones, which was the ground level. Greg was an officer with over twenty years in, and always kept inmates in front of him. It was a practise, like so many sound ones, that had slid as the control of inmates had degenerated. He knew what Al meant about being happy at the end of his shift. He was eighteen pay days away from retirement, and couldn’t wait to be done with the now undermanned and inefficient service, that he thought was going to shit, like the country in general.

  Al signed for his few effects, and scrawled his signature on other release papers that listed his parole conditions.

  When the side gate was opened and he stepped out through it, he imagined that the air smelled sweeter. He decided to find a café and have a full breakfast and a pot of coffee before he went to the railway station and caught a train back to London.

  “Missing you already,” the old screw on the gate said. “Hurry back, Eltringham.”

  Al smiled at the grey-haired, pinch-faced nonentity. He said nothing, just walked off along County Road towards the city centre.

  Maidstone hadn’t been a bad nick, despite it being over two hundred years old. Al wondered how many grisly stories would be related if walls could talk. He had even spent some time in a cell that had once been occupied by Reggie Kray, who had got married at the jail back in ninety-seven.

  It was early evening when he turned up at his own front door. He rang the bell and waited, although he still had his keys, and Claudine opened it and stared at him as though he was the fucking Elephant Man.

  “Surprise, surprise,�
�� Al said. “Are you pleased to see me?”

  Claudine recovered fast, stepped forward and kissed him on the lips before saying, “Why didn’t you let me know that you were getting out today, Al?”

  “I didn’t want to make a big production out of it, love.” He said, walking past her and heading for the kitchen. “Have you got any beer in the fridge?”

  “No, but there’s a bottle of whisky next to the microwave.”

  Al poured a drink and got some ice from the fridge. After downing most of the scotch he topped it up. “Where are the girls?” he said.

  “At a show in town. One of their friends’ dads is going to bring them home.”

  “Good, that gives us time to do what I’ve been dreamin’ of for a long time, sweetheart.”

  Within five minutes they were in bed, and a minute later it was all over. Al had been more than ready, and couldn’t hold back.

  “You’ve lost a lot of weight,” Claudine said, sitting up with her back against the head board and lighting a cigarette.

  “Prison food,” Al said. “You’ve put a little on, your tits look bigger.”

  “What are you goin’ to do, now that you’re out?” Claudine said, ignoring the comment.

  “I’m still on Ricky’s payroll, so I’ll take up where I left off.”

  Al stayed in bed. Claudine brought him up another glass of Johnny Walker, and after he’d drunk it he turned the light off and went to sleep. He slept through to eight-thirty the next morning, and when he got up the girls had already left for school.

  After eating a cooked breakfast with Claudine, he went out for a walk off the estate, to stop at a shop near the local park and buy a newspaper. On the way back, as planned, he walked up the drive of his next-door neighbour’s house, went around back and knocked on the kitchen door.

  Eddie Stonehouse backed away as Al opened the door, entered and smiled at him.

  “I haven’t said a fucking word to anyone about anything,” Eddie said.

  “That’s nice to know, Eddie,” Al said. “I just want to have a private chat and ask you a couple of things. Why don’t you put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea?”