Dead Heat

by Nick Oldham

  Henry blew out his cheeks, his eyes and mind not believing the tableau around him. His hands rested on his hips. He prayed even harder for the arrival of the cops because he just wanted to hand it all over.

  The kitchen door creaked and opened slightly.

  ‘Charlotte, love, don’t come in,’ Henry called. ‘Please stay out there.’

  The door continued to open. And it wasn’t Charlotte who was standing in the hallway.

  Henry stiffened up; his jaw, though, fell slack.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me coming in?’

  Not as if there was any choice in the matter. Verner pushed the door open, and stepped into the kitchen, as confident as he could be, a smile of victory on his face and a pistol in his right hand. He placed his foot on the shotgun which Henry had thrown across the floor. ‘Goodness, what a mess. Still,’ he said, looking at Henry with a big smile, ‘saved me a job.’

  Thirteen

  The mobile-phone gun was one of several toys that Verner liked to have at his disposal. Always useful in case of emergencies, such as being arrested. He would never have used such a weapon for an actual contract killing because they were unreliable and apt to explode in the hand, which would never do when face to face with someone you have been contracted to assassinate. On those occasions a proper weapon would always be used as unreliability was not an option. But as a standby, to have a mobile-phone gun or a cigarette-packet gun or even a belt-buckle gun was very reassuring. They came in handy if you didn’t want to be in police custody.

  Verner knew that on the continent of Europe, the police were very aware of disguised weapons, but that British cops, being the smug island race they were, still thought they were the stuff of fiction and did not expect to find them pointed in their face in the same way, say, French cops did.

  That was how Verner had been able to get underneath the guard of the two armed officers who had been escorting him at the hospital.

  By playing on the British sense of fair play, which still existed within the police, he had been able to persuade the officers to let him make a phone call on the understanding they could record the number dialled and then listen in to the conversation. Except their sense of fair play had ended up with them dead. He had then been able to coerce the petrified X-ray nurse to get the handcuff key from one of the dead cops and release him.

  It had seemed almost surreal to him to be pointing a mobile phone at someone and threatening them with death.

  When free, he had of course been obliged to kill her too. Verner did not like leaving witnesses, even innocent ones. He had actually felt a tinge of remorse for that, for a few minutes, but having to apply his mind to escaping had flushed that idiotic emotion right out of him.

  Getting away had been a breeze.

  Within an hour he had been in Manchester, dressed in clothing stripped from a poor soul unfortunate enough to be about his size and build. He had left the guy stripped naked and trussed up like a turkey in an empty room. He hadn’t even seen Verner hit him, which is why he was allowed to live. He had stolen a Ford Focus from the staff car park and tootled unchallenged away from the hospital.

  He dumped the car on a side street near Manchester city centre and made his way to the Radisson Hotel on Deansgate, booking in for a couple of nights under an assumed name. Using a credit card, also in a false name, which had been taped to his inner thigh, together with £150 in ten pound notes – Verner rarely left anything to chance – he visited Marks and Spencer and was reclothed, fed, re-moneyed through cashback and a cash machine and feeling good within an hour. He also visited Boots the Chemist for some ointment for the dog bites on his arms.

  His next port of call was the bed in his hotel room where, after taking some aspirin, he lay down and slept for a few hours.

  He woke at 5 p.m. that day, feeling stiff and sore, but rejoicing in his freedom. It had been a close run thing for him, probably the nearest he had come to being incarcerated in a dozen years.

  He showered and shaved and dressed himself in his new M&S gear, smart, casual and practical. He left the hotel and walked across to the Arndale Shopping Centre and bought a pay-as-you-go mobile phone (a real one this time) and a couple of SIM cards from the Carphone Warehouse.

  Manchester actually felt quite warm. He strolled up Deansgate and called his controller.

  ‘Things went slightly awry for me,’ he admitted to the man. ‘I did the job, conveyed the message, but I got caught by the police. I got away, though.’

  ‘I know. It’s all over the news.’

  ‘Have I been named?’

  ‘Not yet . . . Do you think you will be?’

  Verner thought about the question. ‘It’s possible . . . I usually leave no traces, but I didn’t have time to clean up behind myself this time.’ His teeth were grinding as he remembered how things had panned out for him. His job had been simply to frighten the life out of John Lloyd Wickson. Wickson, he knew, had become involved with the importation of drugs for the Mafia and was now trying to extricate himself from any obligation to them. But the Mob did not allow such things. Once they got their hooks into you, they did not let go until the funeral was over. All Verner had been tasked to do was bring Wickson, and his hard-arsed sidekick, Jake Coulton, back into line. It would have all gone OK if not for the interfering of Henry Christie, a man Verner now had a grudging respect for.

  ‘It’s possible then, you may be of no further use to us,’ Verner’s controller said. ‘One of your attributes was your ability to remain undetected. If the police get to know who you are . . .’

  The words chilled Verner’s spine. ‘It’s true I may need to move back to mainland Europe, but I will still be of great value to you. I offer a service that is second to none.’

  There was a beat of silence over the phone which again had a physical effect on Verner.

  ‘Yes, you are good,’ the man conceded, ‘still . . . we would like you to carry out one more task for us, then withdraw to Spain where your role will be reassessed.’

  Verner did not like the sound of that. His enthusiasm waned. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We feel that the target has stretched our patience too far for his own good. He has made contact and made threats. We would like to terminate our correspondence with him, and that of his head of security. Is this something you could achieve with a business deal?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Ensure he knows what he has done wrong prior to terminating the contract, please.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Verner did not care why his employers suddenly wanted Wickson out of the picture. All he was concerned about was doing the job well, getting paid for it and then doing a runner. He had banked over half a million dollars and that would keep him going until he decided he could reappear and resume work. He even knew where he would hide out: India was very cheap.

  He ate in a pizza place on Deansgate whilst he worked out his plan. The first necessity was to rearm himself. It would be far too difficult to source a reliable rifle, so it would have to be a handgun. He actually liked close-quarter work best anyway. It was far more satisfying than looking down telescopic sights and seeing somebody fall over. The problem with a handgun, though, because of the distance involved was that it was easier to leave physical evidence behind: DNA, fingerprints, eyewitnesses. All these things were a possibility being near to the victim, but they were not insurmountable by any means.

  After he had found himself a gun, he would find the correct clothing.

  The last slice of pizza marinara slid into his mouth, complemented by the last swig of the one glass of red wine he allowed himself. He paid cash and left the restaurant, emerging back into the mid-evening streets of Manchester.

  It was time to mix business with pleasure.

  He found his pleasure in a basement club on the edge of Chinatown. It was an expensive place, populated by business types and classy-looking hookers drinking pricey cocktails at the bar.

  The one he hit on
was in her mid-twenties.

  He watched her for a while before making his move. She looked drug clean, which was always a factor for him, and seemed pretty much in control of herself, although he knew both things were unlikely.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Verner asked her, sliding in next to her.

  She was sipping a brightly coloured concoction through a twirly straw. She removed her lips from the top of the straw and smiled at him. ‘You can. A Long-Hard Screw, please,’ she said, naming the chosen cocktail and, less than subtly, providing Verner with her job description.

  Verner almost choked, but ordered one and a beer for himself. Cost: £15.

  He watched the money disappear into a till.

  Lifting his glass, he said, ‘Cheap at half the price. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers to you.’ Her red-lipsticked lips surrounded the top of the straw of her new drink and she drew some into her mouth. ‘Nice,’ she said, eyeing him suggestively. ‘You want some action?’

  Verner nodded. ‘Just a fuck.’

  ‘I’m sure I can accommodate that.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two-fifty.’ He did not even blink. ‘Half up front.’

  ‘What’s your percentage?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘OK at my hotel – the Radisson?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  When it was over, Verner lay spread-eagled and naked on the double bed in his hotel room. Aggie, as she told him she was called, started to get dressed. The whole sex act had taken just over four minutes, from the second she got hold of him, slid a ribbed condom on to his highly sensitive prick, to entry, to ejaculation. Short and sweet, but Verner did not care. It satisfied his needs. She had moaned and writhed in all the right places, told him she loved him, and that was OK with him. He loved her for about six seconds.

  She pulled on her tiny knickers, not much more than a thong. Her eyes looked at his body. ‘You really needed that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I could stay the night, you know? You could recover and we could have a long fuck, a really good session. Only cost one-fifty more.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘OK.’ She hooked her skimpy bra on, her eyes still on his wiry body. ‘Got a lot of bruises on you.’ She bent down and placed a finger on a large bruise on his thigh. He winced. ‘Been beaten up?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And your arms – they look a mess, too.’

  She got no response and could tell he did not want to do small talk. That was fine with her. She could go any way the client wanted: chatter or silence, brains or dumb. She was out to make money, offer a service and then leave.

  ‘You don’t do drugs,’ he said. He had been watching her all the time for the giveaway signs. There were none.

  She shook her head. ‘Did once, don’t now. Got a three-year-old kid to bring up. Clean as a whistle now. It fucks you up.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘But I can get you something if you want.’ She turned to him and curled her fingers around his penis, now limp and damp, and quite small. He removed her hand.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she shrugged.

  Verner sat up, watching her complete her dressing. ‘Is he waiting down in reception for you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your pimp.’

  ‘Not your business. I fuck, that’s all you need to know.’

  ‘But he knows you’re up here, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Look, don’t start getting all weird on me.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’ve been a good client, OK. Time for me to go.’ She eased herself finally into her tight, short, body-gripping dress, picked up her shoulder bag and trotted to the door.

  As it closed behind her, Verner quickly scurried around the room, dressing fast. Then he was out, down the corridor, running down the stairs towards the reception area, easily beating the lift down which he knew Aggie would be using. He was on the ground floor twenty seconds before the lift doors opened. Aggie stepped regally out as though she owned the place.

  Verner hid behind a wide pillar and watched her teeter on her high heels towards the revolving doors of the hotel. She stopped to light a cigarette, then picked her mobile phone out of her bag and made a quick call. Instead of leaving the hotel, she dropped into a leather sofa by the door, crossing her long legs, displaying her stocking tops, and bouncing her feet angrily. It would seem she had been told to wait.

  Verner sat down too, out of her sight.

  A few minutes later a smooth-looking black guy shouldered his way into the foyer.

  Aggie stood to meet him. She handed over the wad of notes that Verner had given her. The black man counted them carefully there and then, not bothering about who might have been watching him. He smiled, nodded and gave Aggie a hard kiss on the lips, steering her out of the door – probably en route to her next assignation. On a poor night, Verner reckoned she would be earning her pimp at least two grand and taking less than ten per cent of it for herself. Slave labour.

  Verner moved swiftly across the foyer. As Aggie and her pimp stepped on to the pavement outside the hotel, he was only feet behind them. An old, but beautifully maintained Ford Granada was parked on the kerb on the double yellows, a driver ready and waiting. Aggie opened the back door and glided in. The pimp went to the passenger door.

  Verner was behind him.

  ‘I want to talk business,’ he said to the man’s back.

  The black man rose slowly to his full height – six-three – and rotated slowly, his eyes wide at the gall of someone approaching him like this.

  ‘I don’t do business.’ He had a deep, booming voice with a Manchester accent, which even when spoken normally had the power to intimidate. He had a cut across the upper part of his left cheek that had been stitched badly. He was not a stranger to blades.

  Verner held up his hands and stepped back. ‘I need something and I’m willing to pay for it. I’m a stranger in town and I need help.’

  The black man towered over Verner. As well as being tall, he was wide and looked dangerous. In spite of that, Verner was not awed. He knew he could have taken him down within a second.

  ‘What is it you want, stranger?’

  ‘A gun.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he laughed loudly.

  The pimp turned away and reached for the door handle.

  ‘I’ll be in the Printer’s Arms,’ Verner said, giving him the name of a pub he’d seen on a dark side street off Deansgate. ‘I’ll be in the bar until eleven. I mean what I say. I’m not a cop or anything. I’ll pay good cash for the right one – a handgun, preferably a pistol. Five hundred for the right one.’

  The pimp regarded him unsmiling. He blinked and got into the Granada. The car swished away into the night. Aggie craned her neck to look round through the back window. Verner waved. He knew he was in business.

  As the name suggested, the Printer’s Arms had once been the haunt of members of that profession, particularly in the days when Deansgate housed the massive regional offices of newspapers like the Daily Mail. It had been frequented by typesetters and journalists alike and was not unlike the pubs that once used to be found off Fleet Street during its heyday. It was small, crowded, noisy and friendly and still retained that atmosphere, although the clientele now frequenting it consisted mainly of the middle-aged denizens of Manchester who knew a good pub when they tasted one. Its media history was just that – history.

  Verner struggled hard to find a place at the bar.

  He ordered a pint of Guinness, very cold, very black and wonderful. He sipped it as he leaned on the bar.

  The sex with Aggie had been a good relief for him. It was just what he had needed: quick and straight to the point.

  Now what he needed was a gun. He wanted that to be quick and straight to the point, too. He knew Manchester’s underworld was flooded with illegal firearms and that getting hold of one was easy, if you knew who to ask. Verne
r did not, but guessed that a pimp would know or would, in fact, be able to supply one. It had been a risk, but calculated.

  A small man with a round, pock-marked face squirmed into the bar alongside him and ordered a short. He was mid to late thirties and Verner knew he was it.

  He waited for the approach, sipping the Guinness, not taking any notice of the man. He had an urge to sink the drink in one, but held back. He had to have full control of his faculties and even one pint of the black stuff could be a deciding factor in business like this.

  The small man sniffed his whisky. Without looking at Verner, his nose hovering over the rim of the glass, he said, ‘I hear you’re looking.’

  ‘Depends what for,’ Verner answered, knowing that the conversation would be in code, just in case they were being listened to by the cops.

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Something small, light, compact, reliable.’ He could have been describing a condom. ‘And never used.’

  ‘Could be difficult. Secondhand is usual.’

  ‘I have the right amount.’

  ‘I might be able to find what you need.’ He tossed his drink down the back of his throat and shivered as it hit the spot. He slammed his glass on the bar. ‘One for the road,’ he told the barman. For the first time he looked at Verner, who saw that the guy’s complexion was atrocious. He quickly drank the second whisky. ‘I’ll be outside the door. Give me five minutes . . . Oh,’ he checked himself, as though this was an afterthought, ‘show me the colour of it.’

  Verner placed his pint down, opened his jacket and let the small man see the contents of his inside pocket.

  ‘Good enough,’ he said and then was gone.

  A moment later, Verner quit the bar too.

  By the time he stepped outside, the gun dealer was nowhere to be seen, having vanished like a rat into the darkness. Yeah, vermin, Verner thought with a mental sneer. He disliked having to deal with such people, but necessity was driving him here. He dashed across Deansgate, dodging the traffic, and backed into the shadow of a shop doorway from where he could see the main door of the Printer’s Arms.