Dead Man's Gift and Other Stories

by Simon Kernick

  The movement was so fast and sudden that it caught both guards completely by surprise. Ripping his left arm free, Scope struck Messy Hair in the jaw with a left jab, then swung round with his right and punched the second guard in the side of the head, knocking him off-balance. Before the second guard could right himself, Scope launched a three-punch combination to his face and stomach, sending him crashing against the wall, pretty much out for the count. Several people, including the orderly, had stopped to watch, but no one tried to intervene as Scope took off down the corridor, hoping Orla didn’t try anything stupid before he got there.

  The mobile phone that Frank had bought specifically for this operation was ringing. The ringtone was ‘The Funeral March’, which was Frank’s little joke, but it didn’t feel very funny now. Only two people knew that number, and one of them – Phil Vermont – was dead. Which meant this was his fellow kidnapper, Celia.

  He was currently in a busy hospital corridor, so he had no desire to have a conversation with her, but she was too volatile to ignore, so he stopped for a moment to get his breath and, as he pulled out the phone, took a quick look behind him to check no one was too close.

  Which was when he saw her twenty yards away, clearly following him, a phone to her ear. Vermont’s floozie, Orla, the one he’d used to entrap Tim Horton and who was meant to have been dead for the past twelve hours.

  Frank Bale was a pro. It was why he’d lasted as long as he had, both as a police officer and as a hardened criminal. So he didn’t react at all when he saw her. Instead, he casually put the phone to his ear, turned back round and continued walking. ‘I’ll call you in five minutes,’ he told Celia.

  ‘You’d better fucking do,’ she snapped back. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

  Don’t we all, thought Frank, making a left turning and heading for the emergency staircase. Keeping the phone to his ear, even though he’d ended the call, he went through the doors and descended the first flight of steps, slipping into the shadows. The stairwell was empty and he took out the pistol, keeping it down by his side.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Orla might have been a pro hooker but she was an amateur surveillance operative, and she came through the doors quickly, no longer talking on the phone, and was already halfway down the steps before she saw Frank.

  She was a looker, he had to admit. Nice firm tits; a pouty, come-to-bed face; and big blue eyes that suddenly looked very scared as she saw the gun with the suppressor attached in Frank’s hand.

  ‘How did you find me?’ he demanded. ‘Answer truthfully or I’ll shoot you in the gut.’

  She answered without hesitation and even put her hands up. ‘We put a tracking device on your car.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘The man who rescued me.’

  ‘Scope?’

  She nodded, seemingly surprised that Frank knew who he was.

  ‘Is he here?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and shot her once just above the left boob. Then, as she clattered in a heap down the remaining steps, he took a step forward and put one in the back of her head, just to make sure. It was the first time he’d killed someone at close range, and he had to admit it felt very satisfying.

  He considered staying put and waiting for Scope to turn up, which he was pretty sure wouldn’t be long, but decided against it. It was one thing killing a cheap hooker, quite another to take out an ex-soldier with a penchant for violence. Instead, he took a quick look round for any unseen cameras, didn’t spot any and, with a feeling of relief mixed with excitement, hurried down the stairs, knowing he needed to get out of here fast.

  Scope heard about the bomb as he passed a nurse’s station on the second floor. A group of staff members were clustered round a small TV on the wall, staring at the screen, where a reporter was talking from outside the Houses of Parliament as emergency vehicles clustered into shot behind him. He slowed just long enough to read the Breaking News headline along the bottom of the screen, which told of an explosion in a select-committee hearing.

  So Bale had detonated the bomb from inside the hospital.

  And Tim Horton must have ignored Scope’s advice and had been wearing it, otherwise there’d have been no explosion. It seemed his former brother-in-law had had more guts than Scope had given him credit for.

  But with him gone, Scope had to find Max even more urgently, because the kidnappers no longer needed him, and there was no way they were letting him go.

  In the call Scope had received from Orla three minutes earlier, she’d told him that Bale was just about to go down the emergency staircase next to the entrance to the Maternity Ward. He’d told her to wait for him, but as he approached the staircase doors now, dodging past the people coming and going in both directions, he couldn’t see her. He stopped in front of the doors, and looked up and down the corridor without success. She must have followed Bale.

  Scope raced through the doors, hoping to catch up Orla before she got herself spotted, and straight away he saw her lying at the bottom of the steps, a dark pool of blood forming round her head.

  Not even thinking about what evidence he might be leaving behind, he crouched down next to her. Her eyes were closed and her face looked perfectly normal, except for the jagged fifty-pence-sized exit wound on her forehead. He felt for a pulse but there was nothing. She was gone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I really am.’

  Then, knowing there was nothing he could do for her, he jumped to his feet and raced down the stairs, taking them two, three, even four at a time, until he came to the underground car-park entrance.

  He saw the Jaguar immediately as he came through the doors. It was on the other side of the car park, a good fifty yards away, heading for the exit. He could just make out Bale’s fat, balding form behind the wheel and then it disappeared from view. He realized then that he hadn’t asked Orla where she’d parked the car, and he was forced to run up and down each row, losing valuable minutes, until he eventually found it.

  Scope wasn’t the sort of man to spend too much time agonizing over things that had gone wrong or mistakes he’d made. It was something he’d learned in the army. Things go wrong all the time. It was awful what had happened to Tim Horton. Arguably worse what had happened to a young woman like Orla, who’d never really had much luck, and whose life had been ended in the blink of an eye in some anonymous stairwell. But there was no time to think about any of that now. He just had to keep going.

  As soon as he was back in the car, he switched the laptop back to the Tracker screen, reversed out of the spot and took off towards the exit.

  There was no sign of Bale’s Jaguar out on the street, which didn’t surprise him. Bale had had a good two-minute start and he wasn’t going to be hanging around. But as Scope checked the Tracker screen and saw that there was no signal coming from the unit under the car, he cursed. Bale must have found it. Scope turned right, drove two hundred yards through the steady mid-morning traffic, checked the screen a final time, just to confirm his fears, and finally pulled over on double yellow lines, taking a deep breath.

  Bale was gone. He’d failed.

  22

  ‘I thought you said you were going to call me back in five minutes,’ snapped Celia, who had a harsh, shrieking voice that launched itself between glass-shattering falsetto and cigarette-drenched dog growl like a demented pinball. ‘What the fuck’s happening? And where’s Phil? I need to speak to Phil.’

  Christ, thought Frank as her dulcet tones cluster-bombed the car. Where did Vermont get these bitches from? ‘Listen,’ he said coldly. ‘Calm down and shut the fuck up. Phil’s dead. Horton sent some lunatic relative of his out to find the kid, and he killed Phil.’

  ‘How do you know?’ She was suddenly quiet, which as far as Frank was concerned was a blessed relief.

  ‘I just do, all right? Now if you want your money, you stay where you are and wait for me. I’m going to be with you in the next forty-five minutes.�
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  ‘Why should I trust you? You might have been the one who killed Phil.’

  ‘If I was, then I wouldn’t have told you about it, would I? Look, if you don’t believe me, check the news. There’ll be a story about a man killed in a flat in Harlesden. That’s Phil.’ Frank knew he had to be careful what he said here. ‘He was there to pay someone off. Horton’s man got to him. That’s why I’m coming over now. We need to tie up the loose ends and make ourselves scarce.’

  ‘He’s not coming as well, is he? The bloke Horton sent?’

  ‘No, I’ve got rid of him.’

  ‘Bastard,’ she growled, and Frank wondered for a moment whether the cheeky bitch was talking about him. ‘I want to do Horton’s kid. Right now.’

  Christ, this one was a real charmer, thought Frank. ‘You don’t do anything in that house. It’ll leave too much evidence behind. We’ll take him somewhere nice and quiet, and you can do your stuff there. Then we’ll bury him and be gone. Understand?’

  ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But don’t be long. I’m getting jumpy out here.’

  ‘Where are you? It sounds like you’re outside.’

  ‘I’m just having a smoke and a quick walk.’

  ‘Well, get back inside and babysit that kid, because that’s what you’re being paid for.’

  He ended the call without bothering to wait for a reply.

  Celia shoved the phone in her back pocket, took a last hard drag on the cigarette and chucked it in the bushes. She didn’t appreciate being talked to like that. Not by some arsehole she’d never met before. She didn’t trust this guy Frank, either. Phil had said he was reliable, but now it seemed Phil was dead and she was on her own. But she needed the money, and for thirty grand in cash she was prepared to put up with a lot.

  As she walked down the lane to the back gate of the house, she felt one of her dark moods coming on. She’d liked Phil. Liked him a lot. He’d made her laugh, and he was good in the sack. He’d treated her better than most men too. They’d been planning to go down to Brazil for a few months when this was over, get some serious R and R. They’d even talked about marriage.

  And now it had all gone to shit, just like everything else in her life. All because of that bastard Horton not doing what he was told. She couldn’t take out her rage on Horton – he was beyond her grasp. But his little brat wasn’t. And now she was going to make him scream.

  Max heard the door open and his whole body stiffened. It meant the horrible woman was coming in. For some reason he couldn’t understand, she liked to hurt him, even though he’d never done anything to her. He was scared. More scared than he’d ever been. He just wanted to go home and see Mummy and Daddy, but when he’d asked the horrible woman when he’d be leaving, she’d just laughed and called him names. And then, when he’d started crying, she’d got angry and slapped him again and again until he’d stopped.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize. The next second he felt the blindfold being lifted from his eyes and saw an old lady with a kind face staring down at him with a worried expression. ‘You poor thing,’ she whispered as she gently took the tape off his mouth.

  ‘We have to leave,’ said Max quickly, knowing the horrible woman could come in at any second. He was always hearing her moving around. ‘I’ve been kidnapped.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now,’ she said, untying the straps on his wrists, allowing him to sit up for the first time. He felt stiff from lying in the same position all that time, and ashamed too because he’d wet himself twice and he smelled bad. But he was excited as well, because this was his chance to escape. He tried releasing the strap on his left ankle, but his hands were shaking too much and he had to wait for the old lady to do it. When she was finished, she took him by the hand and helped him to his feet.

  Max’s legs felt weak and he almost fell over but he managed to follow her out into a dark hallway. He could see the front door and freedom, and he felt a rush of joy.

  ‘Come on,’ said the old lady and they started towards it.

  Which was when Max heard the sound of a door opening behind them.

  23

  Celia yanked open the door and stalked inside. Her fists were clenched tight, and she was conscious of her teeth grinding together as rage-fuelled adrenalin raced through her body. She was good at inflicting pain without marks, but occasionally her temper got the better of her, as was happening now, and she couldn’t afford for there to be too much blood, especially as she had a razor-sharp flick-knife in her back pocket, which was always a real temptation.

  And then she had an idea. She’d scald the little fuck. No mess, but pure agony. She’d take her time pouring the boiling water over him, giving him plenty on the face and between his legs, removing his gag so she could hear him howl and wail.

  She filled the kettle to the top and boiled the water, before carrying it through to the bedroom, her cold smile of anticipation disappearing the second she saw the empty bed.

  For a few seconds, she couldn’t think straight. The kid was gone. But that was impossible. He couldn’t untie himself. And who else knew he was there? It suddenly struck her that it could be the man Horton had sent, and that he could be here now, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Phil’s boss had said he’d got rid of him, and if he was here, surely he’d have tackled her?

  And then she remembered the snooty old lady from yesterday. Miss Marple. The one who’d looked her up and down. She owned this place so she had a key, and she only lived down the lane. Would she have been suspicious enough to have come in here unannounced? It didn’t take long for Celia to conclude she would, which left her with two choices. Either she could cut her losses and bail now, or she could try to retrieve the situation and make sure she kept her thirty grand.

  Which was really no choice at all.

  The old lady’s house was big, warm and welcoming, and Max felt hugely relieved as she led him inside, quickly locking the door behind her.

  ‘Come through into the kitchen. I’ve got a fire going, so you can get warm.’

  ‘Can I have a drink of water, please? I’m very thirsty.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you poor thing. What happened to you?’

  Max told her everything he could remember about when the horrible woman had snatched him, but it wasn’t much. ‘I just want to go home to my mummy and daddy,’ he said as he warmed himself in front of the open fire in the kitchen while the old lady handed him a glass of water.

  She smiled. ‘You’ll be going home very soon, I promise. Just as soon as I’ve called the police. Now what’s your name?’

  ‘Max Horton,’ said Max. ‘My daddy’s an MP.’

  ‘Okay, Max. Well, give me a moment.’ She picked up the phone, her back to him.

  ‘Are all the doors locked?’ he asked. ‘The horrible woman’s going to come looking for us and she’s only round the corner.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said the old lady, walking over to the back door. ‘I’m always forgetting to lock things. It comes from living my whole life in Turville. It’s not the kind of place where anything bad ever happens.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Max saw a shadow appear in the window and suddenly the door was flung open, knocking the old lady off-balance, which was when he saw the horrible woman for the first time. She was young, with a thin face and long black hair like a witch’s, and her eyes were narrow and dark. She had a knife in her hand too, and before the old lady could get out of the way, she stabbed her in the stomach. As the old lady gasped with shock, the horrible woman grabbed her round the neck, pulling her close as she stabbed her a second time.

  Terrified, Max ran out of the kitchen and tried the front door, but it wouldn’t open. Not knowing what else to do, he sprinted up the stairs and into a bedroom, shutting the door behind him. It had a lock on it and, with shaking hands, he pushed it across, then ran over to the window and tried without success to get it open.

  He could hear footsteps coming up t
he stairs now and he was so scared he almost wet himself again. There was a phone by the bed and he grabbed it with shaking hands, dialling the only number he knew. Home.

  As it rang, he lay down behind the bed, trying to squeeze under it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mummy,’ whispered Max. ‘It’s me. Max.’

  ‘Max. Baby. Where are you?’

  He could hear the horrible woman trying the door, and cursing when she couldn’t get in. She kicked it hard.

  ‘I’m in a place called …’ He tried desperately to remember the name of the village that the old lady had told him he was in. ‘I’m trying to remember …’

  ‘Please try, baby. It’s very important.’

  The horrible woman kicked the door a second time and it rattled loudly.

  ‘It’s Tur-something …

  ‘Turville?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said excitedly. ‘It’s Turville. I’m in someone’s house. She rescued me.’

  The door flew open fast and Max cried out as the horrible woman came round the end of the bed, the knife in her hand, blood all over the blade.

  ‘What’s wrong, baby?’ his mummy screamed. ‘Are you okay?’

  The horrible woman grabbed him by the hair, putting the knife against his throat. ‘Don’t move an inch, you little shit. Who are you talking to?’

  ‘My mummy,’ gasped Max. ‘Please don’t hurt me. I just wanted to talk to her.’

  The horrible woman grabbed the phone off him with her free hand. ‘Listen to me, bitch. I’ve got your boy. If you call the coppers, I’ll cut his throat, right here, right now. Tell your mummy what I did to the woman downstairs. Tell her now.’ She shoved the phone against his ear.

  ‘She killed her,’ said Max, trying to ignore the pain of the blade being pushed into his neck. ‘She stabbed her with a knife.’

  ‘And I’ll do the same to him too if you call anyone about this,’ the horrible woman continued, snatching back the phone. ‘Do you understand?’

  Max heard his mummy’s voice down the other end of the phone, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.