by Michael Kerr
Eddie had been left with a limp. He had put the house up for sale, but as yet he had only had a couple of offers, and they were well below the asking price. He went over to the kettle and switched it on.
“What happened to your leg?” Al said.
Eddie frowned. “You don’t know?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be askin’ you.”
“Lister sent two guys to beat me up and warn me not to talk to the police again. One of the bastards shot my dog.”
“What did the police want to know?”
“Where your wife was. They’d knocked but she was out. They asked me if I’d noticed anything suspicious, or seen any strangers calling at the house, but I told them nothing. Next thing I know I’m being beaten half to death with a baseball bat.”
“You don’t miss anythin’, Eddie. Was my wife gettin’ visitors?”
Eddie poured boiling water over teabags in two mugs. His hand was shaking. “I don’t want to be involved,” he said.
“You shouldn’t be such a nosy fucker,” Al said. “Tell me what’s been goin’ on while I’ve been inside, and you’ll come to no harm.”
“Claudine gets a delivery every month; a package.”
“I know about that. What else?”
“Lister. He usually calls round once a week. He usually stays for an hour or so, and sometimes for a lot longer.”
Al said nothing. Just waited until Eddie finished making the tea and put it on the kitchen table.
“You think that he’s fuckin’ her?” Al said as he picked up the mug.
“I don’t know, Al. Please, leave me out of it; I just want a quiet life.”
Al sipped the tea, it was strong, just the way he liked it. “Okay, Eddie, no sweat. Just bear in mind that we haven’t had this conversation.”
Eddie let out a sigh of relief.
“There’s just one more thing,” Al said. “Before I got nicked I took the liberty of hidin’ somethin’ under your shed. I’ll just go and get it.”
Al went down to the bottom of the garden, around to the rear of the eight by six foot shed and pulled out a couple of the bricks that surrounded the base. He had to lie down on his side and stretch his arm to the right to its full extent to reach the slim, metal briefcase that was wrapped and sealed in heavy gauge black plastic.
Back in the kitchen, Al put the covered case on the floor near the door, went over to the sink and washed his hands.
“Here’s what’s goin’ to happen,” Al said as he dried his hands on a tea towel. “I’m goin’ to leave after I finish my tea, and what has been said stays in this kitchen. We remain good neighbours and both live long and happy lives. Understand?”
“Yeah, Al,” Eddie said. “My lips are sealed.”
Back home, Al took the case into the garage, to cut the plastic covering off with a Stanley knife and open it. Inside was a Sig-Sauer P228 pistol wrapped in oilcloth. There was also a sealed package containing over ten thousand pounds. He unwrapped the handgun, placed it on the workbench at the back of the garage and dismantled it, to clean and oil it and check the load.
It was mid afternoon when Al walked into the yard at Lewisham and opened the office door.
Ricky and two other men that Al didn’t recognise were sitting at a table. They looked up unconcernedly as Al walked in.
“Hi, Al,” Ricky said, taking a cigar from his mouth and placing it in a large stainless steel ashtray. “You could have given me a bell. I got word yesterday that you were out.”
“I needed to go home and chill, and get organised,” Al said.
Ricky could understand that. “Well you’re back in the fold now,” he said. “Like you’ve never been gone.”
“Not quite, Ricky,” Al said. “There are issues. You were screwin’ Claudine while I was inside, and you had me hurt. I think that needs to be addressed.”
“I don’t like your attitude,” Ricky said. “I was prepared to take you back in, but maybe that’s a bad idea.”
The skinny guy with a ponytail who was sitting on Ricky’s left reached in his jacket, but too slow and hesitantly, not sure whether he should or not. Al drew the Sig from the back of his chinos and shot the guy twice in the chest, then turned the gun on the chunky black guy with a soul patch and put a bullet through his throat.
Ricky shot to his feet and said, “Easy, Al. Think about this. We go back a long way. Your future can be rosy with me.”
Al held up his hand to show the scars on the back of it. “The day that you believed the filth and set a couple of drugged-up jailbirds on me was a mistake, Ricky. And when I found out that you’d been takin’ advantage of Claudine, well that sealed your fate. I’ve been dreamin’ of this moment for a long time.”
“Don’t be a total arsehole,” Ricky said. “We’re talking about millions here. Don’t you want a share in it?”
“I’ll have a large share of it,” Al said. “Your spineless accountant and lawyer will both need new direction, and I can hand pick my own crew to run what you’ve built up. You’re dead weight from where I’m standin’.”
Ricky grasped the edge of the table and threw it up so that the top of it shielded him. Al just grinned and put half a dozen bullets through it and watched as Ricky staggered out from behind it and then collapsed to his knees with irregular patches of blood blossoming, soaking through his expensive threads. There was a look of total disbelief on his face as the acknowledgment of his impending death sunk in. He had lived hard, been quick to hurt others or have them eliminated if he considered it necessary or profitable, and was now probably only seconds away from also becoming a victim of violence.
“Your money and contacts can’t help you now,” Al said. “The only person that can is me. And the only chance you’ve got is to beg me for your life.”
Ricky knew that he was already dying. One of the bullets had hit him in the stomach, another high up on the left side of his chest, and a third, his right thigh. He was fucked, as literally as he had been on numerous occasions by Eltringham’s wife. He tasted blood, thick and coppery, and so spat it at Al, only for it to fall short and leave a red trail on the floor.
“I’ll take that as a refusal,” Al said, holding the Sig two-handed and picking his spot, to pull the trigger and put another round in Ricky’s chest, and after a three second pause as his ex-boss fell back, a final one that entered his head through the bridge of his nose and blew brains, pieces of skull, and a gusher of blood out of the large exit wound.
Al meticulously wiped the gun with a J Cloth that he had brought with him, and then tossed the weapon onto the corpse’s stomach. He had previously cleaned the bullets and the mag. There would be no dabs for the filth to lift.
Leaving through a rear door, Al pulled on a black rib knit beanie hat and walked around the building and out through the main gate. He kept his head down and didn’t rush. Within five minutes he was at the bus station, and soon after, minus the hat, he was on his way to Waterloo, where he would travel the rest of the way home by tube.
Claudine was waiting for Al when he got home. He seemed up, in a relaxed mood. “Are we going to be okay?” she asked.
“That’s up to you, sweetheart,” Al said. “You get a second chance, which is more than I give anyone else. Just don’t screw around behind my back again, or I’ll think that you’re takin’ the piss and play noughts and crosses on your face with a Stanley knife. Let’s consider this a fresh start for you, me and the girls.”
EPILOGUE
Matt and Beth were at home, sitting out at the table on the deck, wrapped up against the cold and drinking coffee and talking about this, that and the state of the nation in general.
“How’s your dad?” Matt asked. “Is he golfing again yet?”
Robert Holder had suffered a fall and broken his leg just three days before he and Beth’s mother, Maddie, had been due to make the trip over from Cyprus for Matt and Beth’s engagement party, and to stay on at Orchard Cottage for a few days.
“He’s well
on the way to full recovery,” Beth said. “But I would think it’ll be a while before he gets back on a golf course. My mum invited us to go out and see them.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’d love to, but that you were a work addict and probably wouldn’t take time off.”
“So I get to be the bad guy, eh?”
“You got it, Barnes.”
Matt grinned. “Arrange it,” he said. “I could use a little sun and a change of scenery.”
“You mean it?”
“Absolutely.”
A good day got even better. Matt’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and answered. “Yes, Tam,” he said.
“Do you want the good―?”
“…News or the bad news first,” Matt said, finishing the standard line.
“Just good news, boss. You’re going to be a happy camper.”
“I’m listening.”
“I just got a call from a DS at SC and O. They attended a murder scene. Guess where?”
“I don’t do quizzes, Tam. Spit it out.”
“It was a hit. Three vics. Two were just small-time foot soldiers, but the now late leader of the pack was; wait for it…Ricky Lister.”
Matt fisted his hand. He was happy to hear the news. Maybe it was wrong to be pleased to be told that anyone had been murdered, but he could live with it. “How and where?” he said to Tam.
“Multiple gunshot wounds, at his place of business in Lewisham.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“No. Scum like Lister will have made a shitload of enemies. I daresay that if there’s no trace evidence at the scene, we’ll never know who to thank.”
“I won’t be in today, Tam,” Matt said. “I reckon I’ll have a couple of scotches and celebrate. See you in the morning.”
“You look as happy as Larry,” Beth said when Matt had ended the call. “What do you plan on celebrating?”
“Ricky Lister got hit. Someone did us a good turn.”
Beth felt a wave of coldness spread through her. Matt was displaying the dark side of his character, taking a lot of pleasure in the fact that someone’s life had been violently curtailed. And yet she had reached a point, due to personal experience, where she could actually understand how he felt, if not condone it. She knew that he was a good man, and that his ongoing fight against evil ‒ with no hesitation or reluctance to put his own life at risk ‒ was the mark of a person who was driven to seek justice for the dead, and for those that were left behind and in need of closure.
* * * *
About The Author
I write the type of original, action-packed, violent crime thrillers that I know I would enjoy reading if they were written by such authors as: Lee Child, David Baldacci, Simon Kernick, Harlan Coben, Michael Billingham and their ilk.
Over twenty years in the Prison Service proved great research into the minds of criminals, and especially into the dark world that serial killers - of who I have met quite a few - frequent.
I live in a cottage a mile from the nearest main road in the Yorkshire Wolds, enjoy photography, the wildlife, and of course creating new characters to place in dilemmas that my mind dreams up.
What makes a good read? Believable protagonists that you care about, set in a story that stirs all of your emotions.
If you like your crime fiction fast-paced, then I believe that the books I have already uploaded on Amazon/Kindle will keep you turning the pages.
Connect With Michael Kerr and discover other great titles.
Web
www.michaelkerr.org
Michael Kerr’s official site
Facebook
https://www.facebook.com/MichaelKerrAuthor
Kindle Store
http://www.michaelkerr.org/amazon
Also By Michael Kerr
DI Matt Barnes Series
1 - A Reason To Kill - Link
2 - Lethal Intent - Link
3 - A Need To Kill - Link
The Joe Logan Series
1 - Aftermath - Link
2 - Atonement - Link
3 – Absolution - Link
Other Crime Thrillers
Deadly Reprisal - Link
Deadly Requital - Link
Black Rock Bay - Link
A Hunger Within - Link
The Snake Pit - Link
A Deadly State of Mind - Link
Taken By Force - Link (Read a free sample at the end of this book)
Science Fiction / Horror
Waiting - Link
Close Encounters of the Strange Kind - Link
Children’s Fiction
Adventures in Otherworld – Part One – The Chalice of Hope - Link
Adventures in Otherworld – Part Two – The Fairy Crown - Link
TAKEN BY FORCE - SAMPLE
CHAPTER ONE
Bethany had bad vibes. For a week or more she’d had the feeling that she was being watched. On numerous occasions she had found herself looking about nervously, checking her surroundings and expecting to see someone staring at her. Maybe the coke was responsible. She would have to ease up. She was snorting far too much, and her septum wouldn’t take much more. How gross would that be, to have the flesh between her nostrils rot away? The sense of being watched or followed might well be drug-induced paranoia. Or not. What was it her dad had said? Go with your instincts. Trust your gut. Intuition should never be ignored.
The car park was ill lit. Neil lurched through a gap in the wire fencing and staggered across the tarmac surface between two cars, swearing under his breath as he caught his shoulder on the wing mirror of a gas-guzzling 4x4.
He was trembling, shaking. He needed to find the oblivion that cheap alcohol brought, to dull fragmented memories of a past life that was full of pain, sorrow and regrets. Four years of sleeping rough and self neglect had taken a heavy toll. He looked what he had become; a dropout existing alongside the quagmire of countless others who had lost the plot and were now denizens of the capital’s underbelly. He was truly a shadow of the man he had once been. His eyes were rheumy and full of lost hope, and he wore heavy, smelly clothing that concealed a bony, sickly, dirty body. His hair was lank and thinning, and his beard was matted with grime and nicotine.
Neil was taking a shortcut to a spot by the river where a few cronies might have some cheap sherry, or even something stronger. That was when he saw a tall, solid-built looking man climb out of a car, and so he angled across to intercept him, limping on ulcerated legs.
“You got a coupla quid for a veteran, guv?” Neil said.
The man stopped. Smiled. Asked, “Your name, rank and serial number, soldier?”
“Uh. What’re you on about?”
“You were never in the mob, you fucking tosser.”
A fist crashed into Neil’s cheek. He heard and felt his jaw break under the impact as he was spun round 180° before dropping to the hard ground.
T had needed to off load some of the pent-up frustration. Kicking the moaning vagrant in the face a few times, then in the kidneys and spine as he writhed around like an eel in a frying pan, went some way to chilling him out. He didn’t quit until the foul-smelling piece of shit curled up in a ball and stopped moving.
Neil had thought he was going to die as the blows kept coming. His mouth was full of blood, and he was in a world of pain. He felt more bones shatter, and his bladder voided, and then his bowels. The agony was unbearable at first, but seemed to drift away as his mind became foggier than usual, then closed down.
Much better. T let himself into the apartment block feeling mellower than he had for weeks. Kicking the shit out of the scrounging, lying old wino had done the trick, and all but negated the tension he’d let build up.
Flexing his aching fingers, he poured himself a large scotch and dabbed some of it on his grazed knuckles.
A little later, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, T took the expensive gizmo he’d purchased off the Internet out of the box and got it up and running. Aweso
me. When he held it against his throat and spoke, his voice had the metallic twang of a fucking Dalek, or that chair-bound egghead, Stephen Hawking.
He wrote out what he intended to say on tape, edited it, then practised saying it with the voice modifier until he was happy. What a toy. He made a recording. Played it back, and after going over it four times, was finally satisfied with the result.
Pressing PLAY on the small recorder, he closed his eyes, listened to the chilling, robotic voice and imagined that he was Gregory Marchant hearing it: ‘Mr. Marchant, we have your daughter. Please suppress the natural urge you will undoubtedly have to contact the police, and consider this. If for any reason whatsoever we suspect you of bringing in a third party, then Bethany will die, and you will receive her severed head as a consolation prize. The only way you can ensure her continued safety is by wiring five million pounds sterling to an overseas account number that you will be given at the appropriate time. There will be no negotiation. Your only choice is to either take the deal on offer, or not. We will contact you within the next twenty-four hours. Be aware that we have absolutely nothing to lose. We will conclude our business with you to our satisfaction, or rape, mutilate and kill your daughter’.
He liked it, a lot. The altered voice was a masterstroke. It had a certain terrifying quality to it that was detached and in some way inhuman. He was not a father, but knew instinctively that had he been, then on hearing this message he would be very scared, and follow instructions to the letter.
An hour later he was parked outside the apartment building she lived in, across the road and in shadow midway between street lamps, bumper to bumper in a row of cars as nondescript as the one he’d stolen and fitted with false plates. He was there for over ninety minutes, not smoking, unmoving.