One Last Hit

by Linda Coles

  “Jack? Jack!” Amanda was speaking to him but he hadn’t heard a word.

  “Sorry. Yes, Lacey. I was miles away.”

  “I know you were. Welcome back.” Amanda suspected exactly where he’d been. “I was saying about last night – how ill he was with his headache and what he was like when we dropped him off.”

  “Yeah, he said he was all right, needed an early night. He was looking forward to his training, so we left him at the door. I can’t believe what’s happened to him since. It’s unreal.”

  “Sure is,” said Rochelle. “Do they say when he’ll be allowed home, and has anyone told his wife yet?”

  “He’s probably only in for a couple of days, but they’re looking to move him to Manchester when it’s feasible. To my knowledge, his wife hasn’t been told yet, particularly in light of what you’ve said. Thought maybe it would be best coming from you or one of your team.” Amanda hated notifying next of kin at the best of times; it reminded her too much of when she’d had to tell Ruth’s father that his wife had died. Ruth had been too shocked and upset to tell him herself.

  “In that case, I’ll get Rick – DS Black, I mean – to go round now that I know what state he’s in. Has he said much?”

  “No. His throat is too sore yet, so it’s head nods and shakes when he’s awake. He tried to write some notes but his right hand is shattered, so that’s awkward too. He managed to say he’d been dreaming a lot, imagining things. If it was a migraine, that could be the cause of the strange visions, though that’s usually visual disturbances, not hallucinations. He didn’t eat anything at the restaurant; he was as sick as a dog in the toilet before our food came. He was really sweaty, though. I remember seeing it on his top lip before he ran for the loo.” She checked her notebook. “Apparently the hotel housekeeping had a master key card go missing during the night, so we’re assuming that’s how the culprit got access. Easy enough to garner a room number if you’re intent on getting one.”

  “He must have been ill because when we found him, the bed was soaked. I remember thinking how unusual that was,” added Jack. “Forensics are at the scene now pulling evidence together, but Amanda tells me you might have an idea who’s behind it?”

  “It’s loose, but the pieces seem to fit. I don’t think I’m making them fit. That’s why I’ll get DS Black, to go round to their house. He can watch her reaction if he knows what we’re looking for, see if it’s genuine shock or shock that he’s still alive when he shouldn’t be.”

  “Jesus, that’s rough, isn’t it? Your missus planning your demise and she’s shocked you’re actually alive when she’s likely paid good money to have you bumped. I’d like to be a fly on that particular wall.” Jack shook his head in disgust.

  Rochelle dialled a number and left the room to make the call so Duncan couldn’t hear if he woke up. Even though he’d already mentioned the possibility, she didn’t want to rub it in any further; they’d only just been discussing it in front of him.

  Amanda and Jack raised their eyebrows at each other and waited in silence. Nothing stirred from Duncan’s bed. Jack’s phone vibrated.

  “Hopefully a clue,” he said, picking up his phone.

  Amanda listened to one side of the conversation and picked up that they’d located two bullets from a Colt 45, a gun easy enough to get hold of if you knew the right people. Since nobody had heard the gunshots, the gunman would have used a silencer and that alone pointed to someone more organized. This was not a random hit, and probably not a retaliation from someone Duncan had put away, though uniform were checking recent releases from prisons in case there was someone after him.

  Then there was the strange fact that he had been shot in the back, through the right shoulder, and left for dead. Gangs, organized crime and experienced criminals tended to be a great deal more accurate – and thorough.

  So, the person or persons they were looking for were sloppy. The burning question was, who had wanted Duncan dead? Was it his wife? Or was it someone else entirely?

  A nurse stepped into the room and gave them both a disapproving look.

  “The rest will do him good, as would the peace and quiet. Perhaps you can wait in the waiting room until he wakes. He’s not going anywhere for a while,” she said. It was more an order than a request. Amanda and Jack both rose to leave, but a croak from Duncan stopped them all, the nurse included.

  “Try again, Duncan,” Amanda said soothingly, avoiding the nurse’s warning look.

  “Looook a Saam. Speak ta Saaam.”

  “We’ll speak to Sam. Rochelle is here and understands. Anything else? Did you see anything?”

  “That’s enough for now,” interjected the nurse sternly. “He must rest. Please, the waiting area?”

  Obediently, Amanda and Jack decamped to the waiting room. They met Rochelle as they moved rooms and she followed them along.

  “Rick is going round now and will inform Sam. He knows what to look for. Then we’ll take it from there. Still asleep, I assume?”

  Jack explained what had gone on and Rochelle rolled her eyes impatiently.

  “I know Duncan well, and he’d be wanting us to get on with this before too much time elapses. It must be frustrating for him if he’s aware, though he is pretty sedated.”

  “Why don’t you stay here and wait? We’ll head back to the room, see where forensics are at, ask some more questions, check footage again. We’re doing no good here.”

  “That’s fine by me,” Rochelle said. “Maybe I’ll get a cup of that horrible hospital coffee before I face Nurse Ratchett again.”

  “I’d be interested in Rick’s observation when you know,” Amanda said to her.

  “So will I,” Rochelle said, narrowing her eyes. “So will I.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  After the call, Rick stood for a moment, thoughtful, looking at his phone. Really? Sam a suspect? Rochelle had not mentioned anything before now, but then why would she? That was between her and Duncan, and she wasn’t one to gossip. Still, if Sam was involved somehow, they needed to find out. He hoped she wasn’t.

  “I’m off out. I’ll be back shortly,” he shouted across to a colleague, who nodded. With Duncan in hospital and Rochelle down there with him, his department was a couple short. Others were out investigating cases of their own, leaving only a couple of civilian clerks to carry on with case research in their absence. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and a half-filled takeaway cup of coffee from his desk and headed outside to his BMW. He swung out of the station gates in the direction of Duncan’s home, a place he’d been to many times but not like this, not to deliver news and dig at the same time.

  His automatic windscreen wipers came on as the first signs of moisture hit the windscreen, tiny wet dots the size of pinheads glistening like diamonds. Whoosh. Whoosh. The rain increased in intensity until it was pouring heavily, bouncing off the car bonnet as he drove the few miles and parked up outside Duncan and Sam’s house. The street was a dark, sodden grey, making everything look more depressing than it was on a brighter sunny day; rain had a habit of doing that. It was like Manchester was crying at its own pain. He glanced up at the front window of the house hoping she was home, not wanting to have to psych himself up again to deliver the news later.

  Sam. He hoped this was all a big mistake. What motive had she got? What reason could she possibly have to want her husband, her loving Duncan, dead? And who had she organized to do the deed? Sam certainly didn’t mix in those circles. Maybe he didn’t know Sam at all. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t even involved. Maybe this whole thing was the product of an overactive imagination on Rochelle’s part. But a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour was not something to take lightly, he knew. It was a well-known ‘tell’ that something was adrift; a well-known FBI profiler had figured it out some years ago, and it was now taught as part of advanced police training. He wondered about motive again. Maybe the change was to do with something else?

  There was movement at the
window, a curtain then a face, briefly.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said, and lifted his jacket up over his head before stepping out into the pelting rain. He dashed up the front path and knocked, grateful there was an overhang to shelter him. He ruffled his hair back into shape and put a weak smile on his face ready to greet her. The door opened, and Sam stood there, a smile on her own face, looking as normal as ever.

  “Hi, Rick. Come on in out of the rain,” she said cheerily.

  He was noting everything she said, every miniscule movement she made, and adding it to the imaginary notepad in his head.

  “Thanks. It wasn’t even raining when I set off.”

  “Want a cuppa? I’m just making one.”

  “Please, thanks.” Why hasn’t she asked immediately why I’m here? he wondered. I’ve never been here without Rick unless I’m picking him up. He added this to his mental checklist.

  He followed her through to the kitchen. The place looked spic and span; nothing, it seemed, was out of place. He watched from behind as she put tea bags in two mugs and reached for a packet of biscuits. Still no question as to the reason for his visit. Finally, the tea was ready and they sat down at the kitchen table. Rain pelted the window outside. The wind had picked up, adding to a wild day.

  Finally, she asked.

  “So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit? Duncan is down in Kent somewhere.”

  He watched her sip her tea, looking over the rim of the mug at him. “Well, that’s why I’m here Sam. I have some news. There’s no easy way to tell you, but I’m afraid Duncan has been shot and is in hospital in Croydon.”

  He waited, handing the floor over to Sam to make the performance of her life. And make it convincing – to them both.

  “What?! How bad is he?” she asked, shocked. Her mouth hung open.

  “He’s doing okay. They operated earlier this morning. He was shot in the shoulder, but he was lying on his hand so the bullet went straight through and into his hand. He’ll need more surgery to get his hand working properly again, and he lost a lot of blood, but other than that he’s a lucky man. He’ll live.” He waited for a twitch, a tell, something at the deliberate words ‘he’ll live.’

  Sam took a deep breath in and out, which could have meant anything, but other than that, there was nothing obvious.

  “I need to see him. Let me organize the girls overnight, and I’ll grab a few things and head down.” She looked at the clock, and Duncan waited while she made some calculations before speaking.

  “They will be transferring him up to Manchester as soon as they can, but I don’t know when that will be. It’s maybe worth a call to the hospital before you dash down there.”

  “Yes – good idea.”

  She sat silently and Duncan again watched, wondering what was actually going on inside her head. Would a loving, caring wife with a husband in hospital a good four hours away really wait, or would she dash off no matter what? Noted again. He sipped his tea and took a biscuit, more for something to do in the strange atmosphere than anything else. Rick was eager to learn as much as he could, and as with any suspect (if she was one), he was prepared to let her talk and ramble on; that’s generally where they slipped up. Too much detail equalled a set-up alibi; too little was clever and cagey but didn’t necessarily mean guilty. It only meant smart.

  When Sam spoke again, it wasn’t quite what he expected to hear.

  “Right, then. Well, thanks for coming round and telling me. I really appreciate it. I’ll give them a ring and see what’s what.” She managed a smile – a weak one, but a smile nonetheless.

  Rick stood to leave, adding her last comment to his imaginary notepad along with a couple of other observations: no tears, no pain, not much shock and not a great deal of concern about seeing him any time soon. As far as Rick was concerned, there was more digging to be done before Sam was completely eliminated as a suspect. And that disappointed him immensely. She was not the woman he’d thought she was.

  Chapter Seventy

  “I’m assuming that’s us done as hit men?” Clinton enquired as they both sat in Luke’s tiny room, Clinton in the chair, Luke on the bed. They’d got home in the early hours after leaving Croydon in a rush around 1 a.m. It was safe to say their little foray into being killing machines hadn’t gone so well; Luke’s bottling it at the last minute had been awkward. Clinton would never have been able to take over if Luke hadn’t found his balls in time before the target had woken up; thankfully the strength had found him somehow.

  Or the stupidity. Or the sheer dumb luck, depending on your view.

  As it was, they were forced to dissect what had gone wrong and how it might affect them from today onwards. And was the guy even dead? Clinton seemed to think so, Luke thought; otherwise he wouldn’t be talking like he was. Luke had not yet voiced that concern. He sat silent, listening as Clinton went over the details.

  “There shouldn’t be any footage of us. There weren’t any cameras in the corridor – of that I’m sure – and we both kept our heads well down, hoodies up, so there’d have been nothing to be seen even if there had been a camera. It would simply show two figures, hoods up, caps on, heads down. No one saw us enter or leave or nick the master key card.

  “And the beauty of a hotel such as that one is the transient clientele, passing through for a night on business,” Clinton went on. “They’ll all have gone back to where they spend their days and nights now, no one the wiser. I bet most of them spend the evening catching up on work, have a drink or two then watch a porn movie before an early night.”

  Luke marvelled at how calm and reconciled he sounded and wished he felt the same. He wished he knew whether their target was still alive or not. He sat quietly on the bed, giving the odd grunt to show he was listening and agreeing. There was no point mentioning his concern until he knew for sure.

  The guy’s body must have been discovered by now, though surely? A quick look online hadn’t returned any reports of either. Gunshot wounds would be newsworthy either way, Luke knew, so he could only take from that the body – if there was one – was still to be discovered.

  He looked at his bedside clock. It was just coming up to noon, which meant housekeeping would find the guy any minute if someone else hadn’t in the last hour or so. Word would soon be out – and he hoped it was the right word.

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands and tried to clear his head, to push the stress out of his brain and think about something else. But how could he when he had no clue what the problem was going to be? Attempted murder or murder – both held hefty sentences. The only difference was that with murder, the victim couldn’t give evidence.

  But a target who was still breathing could.

  Luke got to his feet. “I need to sleep. Why don’t we meet up again later? I can’t think straight right now.” He rubbed his eyes again and yawned dramatically, more for effect so Clinton would leave.

  “Me too. I’m wasted,” Clinton declared. “Okay, I’ll be off, then. Come round to mine later? The parents will be at bingo so we can talk uninterrupted for a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah, great. Let’s do that.”

  Luke got up to show his friend out, not that he didn’t know the way. It was manners, the thing to do. He stood watching from the front window as Clinton disappeared from view, then retrieved his laptop, went back up to the sanctuary of his room and logged back on to the website. There was a message waiting for him. A surge of dread ripped through him. He hoped it wasn’t a new enquiry; his days of being a hit for hire were over. He’d frozen when the time had come, and that had been dangerous. He couldn’t risk that happening again, and more to the point, he didn’t want the stress that went with the job, money or not. Whoever this was, he was no longer open for business.

  But wasn’t a new enquiry – it was an angry customer.

  Nausea washed over him, replacing the dread. The words were clear:

  You fucked up. He’s still alive. Get it sorted.


  Head in his hands, Luke wasn’t sure how or if to respond. He’d received the money and he wasn’t about to give it back, but he was – they were – counting on the second payment. Six thousand pounds wasn’t to be sniffed at. It was a tidy sum of money and the whole reason they’d started the damn venture. He groaned to himself, wondering what the hell he was going to do now – loose ends, an angry customer and his own lost nerve wasn’t a helpful mix. His fingers hovered over the message to hit reply, but his head was pulling him back. If he said the job would be finished, how was he going to do that exactly? If he apologized? Well, that wouldn’t likely fly in a situation like this. Or he could ignore it, keep the first payment and leave it at that – they were still £5000 to the good. There was no way the customer could find out who they were and hunt them down, just as he had no idea who the customer was. Nor had he any desire to know, so in that respect they were safe.

  His fingers still hovered. He had to do something, make a decision, and deal with it, and even if the decision was not to reply, that was still a decision. Luke’s room was deathly quiet as he sat on his bed, digging deep for his gut instinct, because in this case, that’s all he had. In a tricky business decision, Clinton would force him to go by the data, the numbers, read what they were telling him and go with that, because without data, it was merely an opinion, he’d say. Well, in the absence of data, gut opinion was all he had now.

  The answer seemed obvious now: ignore the message. And delete the site before anything could be traced to him. And on the upside, in the unlikely event that he ventured into the dark web again, he now knew how to build a shop window.

  So that’s exactly what he did. When he was satisfied the files had been deleted he sat back and sighed, pleased with his decision. With the website now gone, there was no means for any angry customer to reach him.

  He was out of the hit-for-hire business – for good.

  Chapter Seventy-One