Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

  Malice left the kitchen light off and unlocked the back door. No need to have windows smashed when it wasn’t necessary — Hayley would do her nut.

  He settled down with his back against the cupboard and checked his watch. 7 p.m.

  Game on.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text message from an unknown number.

  On the screen was a picture of Hayley and Amy standing next to a blue Ford Fiesta — her blue Ford Fiesta. Hayley was chatting to a woman standing in the doorway of a terraced house. The message on the bottom read:

  Hope Hayley’s having a nice time with her sister. Don’t keep me waiting.

  Chapter 44

  M alice scrabbled to his feet and dashed about the house switching the lights off and opening the curtains. He slammed the back door shut, locked it, then sprinted out the front and down the steps. His heart banging against his ribcage.

  The old diesel engine complained when he slammed his foot into the carpet in an attempt to race up the road. It managed a leisurely take-off until the revs got high enough to give it a kick in the arse. Malice’s head was a turmoil of possibilities.

  Did they have Hayley and Amy? Was there someone with them now? What if …?

  He shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on getting to the Whistle and Flute without killing himself or the car in the process.

  Twenty minutes later he screeched to a halt in a side street, picked a buff coloured folder from his kit bag and legged it up the road. He reached the pub when a black van pulled alongside him and the tall, lean guy that Malice had seen before jumped out of the passenger seat and slid open the side door.

  ‘You’re late. There’s been a change of venue, get in.’ Malice glanced inside the cab to see the big guy with the bald head and leather jacket behind the wheel. ‘Lubos is expecting you,’ he said in mangled English. ‘Gimme your phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your phone, give it to me.’

  Malice reached into his pocket and handed it over. The Slovak dropped it onto the road and crunched it under the heel of his boot.

  ‘Hey! What the hell?’

  ‘Get in the van.’

  Malice stepped up into the back and the door clattered shut behind him. The back windows were blacked out and the window into the driver’s cab was boarded up, leaving the interior completely dark. The van pulled away and Malice fell to the floor, sliding into the back doors as the vehicle powered up the road.

  ‘Fuck!’ he yelled trying to get up. A sharp right turn sent him crashing against the side. He spread his arms and legs out like an upturned starfish to gain some stability. A left turn had him smacking into the other side.

  Malice couldn’t see a hand in front of his face. The van steadied and he was able to slide on his arse and jam himself into the corner, digging his heels into the corrugated floor. It was like being in a tumble dryer.

  He tried to get his bearings but the constant turn-left, turn-right, had him disorientated. He braced his body and had no choice but to ride it out.

  Half an hour later the van shuddered to a stop. Malice heard the cab doors open and the side door slid across. The two men walked away. He rubbed his elbows and knees trying to massage the bruises away, then shuffled forwards and peered outside. He was in a warehouse which, from the look of it, had long since been decommissioned. The place was bathed in semi-darkness with pools of water on the floor where the rain had come through the roof. He staggered out and arched his back, he could feel the vertebrae cracking into place.

  In the centre of the vast space was a free-standing metal structure. A huge mezzanine platform supported high in the air by eight stanchions with a prefabricated office perched on top.

  ‘Mr Malice!’ It was Mitchell standing at the base of a staircase leading to the floor above. ‘Please come and join us.’ His voice reverberated around the cavernous interior.

  Malice walked towards him carrying the file. Mitchell beckoned for him to follow up the steps to the office. ‘Glad you could make it. We were worried about you.’ The metal staircase creaked and groaned as the men climbed the stairs. The room was big with windows set in one side overlooking the warehouse floor below. There was a distinct smell of mouse droppings and dead rodents.

  A large oval table took centre stage, surrounded by chairs and a chest freezer hummed in the corner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Malice said nothing and went inside to find Lubos Vasco flanked by the big bald guy sporting his leather jacket.

  The lanky bloke made the universal gesture that said ‘raise your arms’. Malice did as he was told and an expert pair of hands patted him down. In seconds he was relieved of his gun and his knife.

  ‘This is where we hold our board meetings,’ Vasco said, sitting at the head of the table, his hands folded on top of themselves.

  ‘Bet you don’t take minutes,’ Malice said, dropping his arms while making a snap assessment of his situation — Not good.

  ‘Ha, no we don’t. Sorry about the transport. We could have put a bag over your head but that is so overdramatic. Danek is a terrible driver, I hope the ride wasn’t too rough.’

  ‘It was fine. Why the change of venue?’ replied Malice.

  ‘When I heard about the conversation you had with your new best friend, I think you’ve christened him Mitchell — which is very funny, I love the way you Brits give each other names that, how you say, ‘take the piss’. Anyway, I took the precaution of not believing you and thought some additional security measures were in order.’

  Mitchell picked up a briefcase which was sitting behind the door and took a seat at the table, he rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Maybe he gave you a skewed version of our chat,’ Malice jerked his thumb at Mitchell, causing him to smile.

  ‘No, no I don’t think he did. Why is your ex-wife and daughter staying with her sister?’ asked Vasco.

  ‘No reason.’ Malice yawned and moved across to the window with his back to Vasco. The lights inside the office made it impossible to see what the rest of the warehouse had to offer. ‘She often goes there. Her sister is divorced as well so it’s great opportunity to drink wine and bitch about their ex-husbands.’

  ‘It is like that the world over, Mr Malice. Only in my country they do it with vodka. Why is it women choose to marry rubbish men and are then horrified to find they make rubbish husbands? I’m sure you were a little on the wayward side before she met you?’

  ‘I was,’ Malice turned and edged towards him. The big guy stepped forwards. ‘It’s like the saying goes: a man marries a woman hoping she won’t change and she does, while a woman marries a man thinking she’ll change him and he doesn’t.’

  ‘You’re a philosopher, like me, Mr Malice. I said I liked you.’

  ‘Can’t say it’s mutual.’

  ‘My problem is I don’t believe you: It is unusual to take your daughter out of school during term time, am I right?’

  ‘What can I say, she’s a terrible mother.’

  ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of doing anything stupid?’ Mitchell chipped in.

  ‘Like stealing sensitive operational information from my employers? That kind of stupid?’ Malice said, pulling up the chair which was closest to the door. The lanky guy crabbed sideways and stood in the entrance.

  ‘You came tooled up,’ Mitchell said eyeing the weapons.

  ‘Like I said – I’m not stupid,’ said Malice, trying to keep the man by the door in his peripheral vision.

  ‘Very wise, Mr Malice. Now let’s try again; why were you late and why is your wife not at home?’

  ‘Hayley has taken Amy to visit her sister. There’s nothing unusual about that, and as for me being late …’ Malice slid the folder across the table. ‘This proved more difficult than I thought.’

  ‘Is it all there?’ Vasco picked it up and flipped open the front cover.

  ‘Not quite. The force is taking part in a neighbourhood policing conference so I couldn
’t get my hands on some of the material. I’ll have it next time.’

  Vasco thumbed through the papers. ‘This is good, you have been a busy boy.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get a gold star?’ Malice stole a sideways glance at Mitchell.

  ‘Maybe. But I’m still perplexed by your ex-wife and daughter.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘To be honest it’s less to do with them and more to do with you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Malice pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘I told Mitchell that I liked you, because I look at you and I see myself. I am the bleached version of course but inside we are the same.’

  ‘I have all my fingers, so maybe not.’

  ‘Ha, there you go again, with the ready joke. You and I are very much alike and if it were me I would have sent my ex-wife and child away. Then I would have abducted one of my men and sliced bits off him until he revealed as much about the organisation as possible. But most importantly I would want to know … where does Lubos Vasco hang out? Am I right?’ Vasco leaned forward, placing his heavily tattooed forearms of the table and cracking his knuckles.

  Malice leaned forward and did the same.

  ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ Malice said as his joints popped under the pressure. ‘But you’ve failed to consider what’s in the file. If I was going to do that, why would I go to the trouble of lifting the intel?’

  ‘That’s easy …’ replied Vasco. ‘It’s called contingency. I believe that like me you’re a thinker, and I would be thinking – what if my plan goes, how you say, tits-up? I would need a fall-back position to keep everything on an even keel, while I wait my chance.’

  ‘Chance to do what?’

  ‘Kill us all.’

  ‘Ha!’ Malice flopped back in his chair and put both hands on his head, interlocking his fingers. ‘Then it’s a good job I have a stronger moral compass than you, Mr Vasco. Because that sounds convoluted and dangerous.’

  ‘As am I, Mr Malice, and when I look at you I see myself staring back which means you’re dangerous too.’

  ‘As much as I appreciate the compliment I think you’re forgetting two things. It is not your family that will end up at the bottom of the lake if things go wrong, now is it? And secondly, take a look around, the odds don’t look good to me.’

  ‘That’s a fair point, I do agree you’re in a predicament. Mitchell here, is always telling me to loosen up a little. He tells me my paranoia is hurting our business, stopping us making new and exciting deals.’

  ‘Maybe you should listen to him.’

  ‘I respect what he has to say but I cannot switch it off.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Lubos, on this occasion the man from Eastenders is right.’

  Vasco looked across at Mitchell, who nodded.

  ‘This is for you,’ Mitchell snapped open the catches on the case and opened it up. He removed an envelope and tossed it across the table.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Malice.

  ‘This is a business, and we are business men. It is for you to enjoy,’ said Vasco.

  Malice slid his finger under the flap to find the envelope stuffed full of twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Five grand. Don’t go mad with it,’ Mitchell said closing the case. ‘I bet Burko and Wrigley weren’t as generous.’

  ‘Is it clean money? I don’t want any nasty surprises when they check the serial numbers,’ Malice waved the wad of notes in the air.

  ‘Do we look like fucking amateurs?’ Mitchell planted both hands on the desk and half got out of his seat. Malice balled his fists. The guy behind him stepped forwards.

  ‘Now, now, gentlemen,’ Vasco waved his hands to calm the situation. ‘Let’s play nicely. I think this calls for a drink, You wouldn’t drink with me last time, Mr Malice, but I will be offended if you do the same again.’

  ‘How can I refuse,’ Malice relaxed when he saw Mitchell return to his seat.

  ‘I told you we like our drinks cold. You will find vodka in the freezer, would you be so kind as to do the honours?’ Vasco said, looking across to the other side of the room.

  Malice rose from his chair, walked across and slid his fingertips under the rubber seal to lift the lid. The suction gave way with a hiss and the top flew up. Inside was Wrigley, his glassy eyes stared up at Malice and his tongue was protruding from his mouth. His face glistened with ice and frost.

  Both hands were clasped across his chest holding a bottle of vodka.

  Chapter 45

  M alice knew all eyes were on him. He gazed down at Wrigley. Ice crystals hung from his lashes and eyebrows. The vodka bottle lay on his chest.

  It was flat and rectangular in shape with the name Double Cross etched in black down the side. Malice grasped the bottle to prise it out of Wrigley’s clutches. It was stuck.

  The first bars of his daughter’s favourite song rang out in his head – that annoying one from Frozen.

  He tried to prise away one of Wrigley’s fingers. It was solid. Malice twisted the bottle and Wrigley’s arms moved. There was nothing else for it.

  Sorry about this…

  Malice wrenched the bottle and it came free with a snap. Two of Wrigley’s fingers broke off, still welded to the glass. Malice closed the lid and placed the vodka on the table in front of Vasco — digits and all.

  ‘Are you shocked?’ Vasco asked.

  ‘No. After you killed Bullseye, and Wrigley went missing, I knew he’d show up somewhere. It was only a matter of time.’

  ‘He wasn’t very cooperative to begin with, but in the end, we got what we wanted.’

  ‘So why kill him? Wrigley was a smart operator, he could have been an asset.’

  ‘It was an accident. I got carried away with the lorry batteries and his heart gave out. In hindsight he’d probably given us all he had, but I was having too much fun. You know how it is when you get a rush of blood to the head. I made it clear to him it was nothing personal.’

  ‘I’m not sure he would see it that way.’

  ‘You British are way too squeamish about this type of thing.’

  ‘I’m not squeamish. I’m just surprised you didn’t see how valuable he could have been to your organisation.’

  Vasco took a knife from his pocket and flicked open the blade. He took the bottle and sliced through the red seal securing the ornate silver cap.

  ‘It’s good to celebrate our new working relationship with a proper drink. This is good shit, not the teenage stuff you sell in this country. It comes from the town of Stará Ľubovňa, located in the Tatra Mountains in north-eastern Slovakia. They boast that it is seven-times distilled and seven-times filtered – eighty percent proof. Even the bottle is made of high end French crystal.’ Vasco snapped off the cap, held the bottle in the air and prodded one of the stray fingers. ‘I do like my vodka with extra body. ‘Do Dna! Mr Malice. Here’s to galloping paranoia,’ he took a mouthful, followed by another and handed it to Malice who took a tentative swig. The liquid burned as it made its way into his stomach. He passed it to the big guy who knocked the fingers off the bottle onto the floor and gulped down two mouthfuls, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  ‘I think we are done here,’ Vasco announced. The other two men took turns swigging from the bottle. ‘We will digest the information you’ve kindly provided and let you know how we want to proceed.’

  The lanky guy stepped aside.

  ‘What about my stuff?’ Malice said.

  ‘We’ll drop it off at your home, in a box marked Amazon,’ said Mitchell taking another slug from the bottle. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Malice, the gentlemen will take you back.’

  Malice picked up the envelope containing the cash. ‘Can I ride in the front this time?’ He stood at the top of the mezzanine stairs. ‘After you.’

  The big man shook his head.

  Malice took hold of the handrail and made his way down to the ground floor. He pushed his thumb under the waistband of his jeans, felt the edge of the st
icking plaster and began picking at it with his nail.

  At the bottom, Vasco’s men strode across the warehouse to where the van was parked, chatting in Slovak and laughing. Something had tickled them.

  Malice lagged behind, stuffed the envelope into his pocket and used both hands to peel away the sticking plaster, freeing the razor blade stuck to his skin. He did the same on the other side.

  They reached the van and the lanky guy went around to the driver’s side and opened the door. The fat bloke walked to the opposite side, tugged on the handle and slid open the side door. Malice went to step up into the back.

  His arm swept upwards in an arc.

  The razor blade sliced through the fat bloke’s windpipe and he staggered backwards. A second downward slash severed the arteries on the side of his neck. The big man fell against the side of the van, clutching his throat with both hands. His eyes were bursting from his face and his mouth was flapping open but all that could be heard was the sound of his neck gargling. Arterial blood pumped through his fingers onto the paintwork. His legs gave way and he slumped to the floor.

  Malice ran around the back of the van and approached the driver’s door. He tugged the handle and it flew open. The lanky guy had the shock of his life being confronted by Malice but had an even bigger shock when the razor sliced the side of his neck open. He twisted to avoid the second blow and the blade carved through his scalp, leaving a pelt of flapping skin and a flash of exposed bone.

  Malice slashed at him again and cleaved another gash in his neck. The man was clawing himself across to the passenger seat to get away. Malice grabbed his legs, upended him and shoved him head first into the footwell. Blood spurted onto the windscreen as the man lost his grip on his neck. The next beat of his heart sent blood spraying across the air-conditioning controls. Malice drove hard and crumpled the lanky guy into the small space, his arms and legs flailing against the force. All the while the red stuff was soaking into the carpet in the footwell. Then the struggling stopped.