Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Conrad shrugged. If this were his problem, he wouldn’t have wasted time interrogating them. He would have ordered both men killed and be done with it. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’ he demanded, looking at his Rolex impatiently.

  The gesture was duly noted. ‘Not long at all,’ Goliath promised, walking over to a baseball bat that leaned against a wall behind the two dealers, just beyond their peripheral vision. It was a wicked looking implement, with a large number of six-inch nails embedded at various angles in the head and along the first foot of the neck. Picking it up with one massive hand, he tested the weight and then, apparently satisfied, went and stood behind the two prisoners.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, running the fingers of his free hand through Tyrone’s bushy hair to work out how far down his skull started, ‘I think I believe you when you say you are innocent.’

  On hearing this Tyrone nearly fainted with relief. He scrunched his eyes shut and let out a long, pitiful moan of gratitude.

  ‘Open your eyes, Tyrone,’ Goliath ordered. ‘I want you to watch what I do to people who steal from my associates.’

  As Tyrone tearfully complied, Goliath raised the baseball bat high above his gleaming dome and brought it down with tremendous force into the unconscious head of the fat man. The sound of the impact was sickeningly loud, reverberating around the basement like a thunderclap. The unconscious man’s head jerked forward violently as the back of his skull was caved in. With a grunt of satisfaction, Goliath released his grip on the bat, which remained exactly where it was, having been nailed to his cranium.

  ‘Jesus…’ Livingstone breathed, stunned by the sudden display of violence. He was immediately conscious of the giant’s eyes turning on him to gauge his reaction and knew any show of emotion on his part would be perceived as a sign of weakness. That wasn’t going to be a problem; Livingstone did what he always did in situations like this and put on his dead face, making it appear devoid of any feeling or humanity.

  With the body still twitching, Goliath took a leisurely walk around to the front and knelt down to study Drake’s face. Death had always fascinated him, and he liked to watch the life drain from the eyes of his victims.

  The left side of Tyrone’s face was now covered with blood spatter, and he was shrieking hysterically as he tried to shake it off. ‘Oh God, oh God,’ he whimpered repeatedly.’ You killed Drake, man. You fucking killed Drake.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Goliath snapped, raising a warning finger. ‘I won’t be happy if you spoil this demonstration for our visitor.’

  Overcome by shock and revulsion, Tyrone was now crying uncontrollably. ‘I - I’m sorry,’ he stuttered, praying that God would forgive him for being so grateful Drake had died here tonight instead of him.

  Goliath stood up and grasped the bat’s handle in his right hand. Using it as a lever, he tilted Drake’s head backwards, manipulating him like a gruesome puppeteer. The small-time drug dealer’s eyes were half-open, but there was no longer any life in them.

  Goliath tentatively tugged at the bat’s handle to see how tightly the nails had become wedged into his victim’s skull. All that achieved was to make Drake’s head twist from side to side like he was violently disagreeing with somebody.

  This made the giant smile. ‘You stole Marvin’s money, didn’t you?’ he accused the corpse, and then twisted the bat a couple of time to make Drake shake his head.

  Goliath looked at Tyrone and laughed. ‘Drake says no,’ he said.

  ‘Please…’ Tyrone begged, knowing he must sound utterly pathetic to the psychotic giant.’ Please stop…’

  Goliath took hold of the bat with both hands this time, and, placing his right foot against the back of Drake’s chair, began violently twisting the handle: left, right, up, down. The muscles in his arms corded, and his breathing became faster. Finally, the bat came flying away, spraying blood, bone, and bits of grey dura matter everywhere.

  ‘That’s better,’ Goliath said, a little breathlessly. ‘Now that I’ve worked out how best to extract it, it’ll be much easier next time.’

  Tyrone looked at him, his face suddenly filled with horror. ‘You’re not going to hit him again, are you?’

  Goliath shook his head, solemnly. ‘No, Tyrone, I have finished with him.’

  Tyrone paled. ‘So, w-what did y-you mean when you s-said “next time”?’

  ‘Well,’ Goliath said, walking behind him. ‘Do you remember I said that I didn’t like you?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Tyrone sobbed, ‘but surely –’

  Goliath swung the bat, sideways this time, like an American baseball star hitting a home run. The nails were driven into the terrified man’s temple with incredible power. The bone was much thinner there, so the nails entered smoothly, hardly encountering any resistance at all. The sound of the impact was duller, too, more like a watermelon being dropped. Tyrone didn’t even have time to cry out as the strike imploded his cheekbone and shattered his jaw, sending his disfigured head rocketing sideways at tremendous speed.

  From across the room Livingstone watched on with calm detachment. Tyrone’s fate had been sealed the moment Goliath strapped him to the chair. What had just happened was sad, he supposed, but the ever-present risk of meeting a violent end was a consequence of the lifestyle they all embraced. Everyone who played the game knew the risks, but they all thought it could never happen to them. Tyrone had made his choices in life, and those choices had led to his death. He should have made better choices.

  Wrenching the bat free a moment later – Goliath was right, it was much easier the second time around – he stood back and evaluated his handiwork.

  ‘There, all done,’ he said.

  Dropping the bat, Goliath ambled over to a metal dustbin at the far end of the room and began undressing. Everything went into the bin, even his shoes and underwear. When he was naked, he picked up a yellow packet of bleach wipes from a shelf and began vigorously rubbing his hands and arms with them. The used wipes also went into the bin. A new set of identical clothing was waiting for him on a hanger next to the bin.

  A few minutes later, he led Livingstone back up the secret staircase to the manager’s office, poured them both a generous measure of Macallan whiskey, and invited his perspective client to take a seat in one of the armchairs by the coffee table.

  ‘So,’ he asked, once he had made himself comfortable on the sofa, ‘What would you have done in my place?’

  ‘Exactly the same,’ Livingstone replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Except…’

  Goliath smiled knowingly. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Why kill them here?’

  Livingstone nodded. It had been reckless to the point of stupidity, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted someone like that working for him.

  ‘Do you think I killed them here out of arrogance, a misguided belief that I am so good at my job I can kill with impunity?’

  ‘Is that why you did it?’ Livingstone asked, turning the question around.

  Goliath shook his head slowly but firmly. ‘No, Fam, I killed them here because it is the safest place I could possibly have chosen.’ He sat back in his chair, a man totally at ease. ‘These men will eventually be reported missing,’ he explained. ‘Even scum like them have families who worry about them. Their bodies will never turn up, of course, but supposing the police did launch a murder enquiry at some point, it would never go anywhere.’

  ‘You seem very confident.’

  ‘I am. There’s nothing to link either of them to this club or to me. Our state-of-the-art CCTV system has been recording all night and, as it covers everywhere within the club, even the basement, any foul play would have been captured on film.’

  ‘The way you’ve fooled the basement camera is ingenious,’ Livingstone allowed. ‘But what happens when the Old Bill find footage of the dead men arriving at the club earlier in the day? That’ll cause you problems, especially as there won’t be any footage of them leaving.’

  Goliath smiled indulgently. ‘
Don’t worry, Fam. I’ve got it all covered. Tyrone and Drake were picked up miles from here, well away from any CCTV cameras. The van used to grab them was on false plates, so if the Feds check DVLA records they’ll be misdirected to a perfectly legitimate van that’s registered to the local authority. They won’t find anything incriminating if they examine that! As soon as the two fools were tasered and bundled into the van, my men took their mobile phones off them. The batteries and SIM cards were immediately removed, so the Feds won’t be able to work out their movements from their call data. My men rang ahead when they were nearing the club, and at that point the cameras were turned off for precisely four minutes, which was all the time they needed to drive into the rear car park, unload the prisoners, and depart. The routine will be repeated in the morning in order to allow the bodies, which will be neatly wrapped up in the thick plastic sheeting you saw on the basement floor, to be removed. Everything will be taken straight to a nearby incinerator, where a man we pay an obscene amount of money to turn a blind eye to our activities every now and again will make sure that they are cremated.’

  It was incredibly clever, Livingstone had to admit. Although Goliath had killed two men on his property, the footage from the club’s doctored CCTV would refute that fact.

  Livingstone slowly nodded his approval. ‘Impressive, bruv,’ he said.

  ‘Impressive enough to convince you to hire me, I hope?’ the giant said.

  ‘Before I answer that, tell me one thing. Why did you kill those men in front of me, a complete stranger? Surely the fewer witnesses the better?’

  The giant chortled.’ Mr Livingstone, I have checked you out thoroughly. You are no stranger to death – in fact, the word is that you have personally killed at least three men.’

  Livingstone had indeed killed three men, not that he was going to admit it. The first had tried to stab him because he was becoming too powerful; the second had sent the man who tried to stab him, and the third had shot Livingstone during a botched drugs robbery. No bodies had ever been found; the men had just disappeared. ‘Nothing was ever proved,’ he said.

  Goliath beamed. “’Ha, of course not. You and I are kindred spirits. I felt it the moment we met. I have a good nose for people,’ he said, tapping it, ‘and I instinctively knew that I could trust you with my secret, unlike Tyrone downstairs.’

  Goliath seemed to harbour an illusion that because they were both murderers, they had something in common. Maybe he was right, but there was one major difference: Livingstone had killed out of necessity, and had taken no joy from it, whereas the giant clearly liked to kill for fun, prolonging the experience whenever he could to maximise the gratification it gave him.

  ‘Besides,’ Goliath said with a malevolent grin, ‘men like us know how dangerous talking to the wrong people can be for our health.’

  In other words, if Livingstone ratted Goliath out, he wouldn’t live long enough to testify. That was fine. Goliath knew it worked both ways.

  ‘So, you killed him because he might have talked, not because you didn’t like him?’ Livingstone said.

  Goliath nodded. ‘Yes, that’s why I killed Tyrone. He had a big mouth, and he would have sold me out to the Feds the first time that he got himself into trouble. So, you see, despite my reputation for being a little crazy, which I am very happy to encourage, I can assure you that there is always method to my madness.’

  ‘I believe you,” Livingstone said,’ and he did.

  ‘Good,’ Goliath said with a contented sigh. ‘So, shall we finally get down to business? Tell me, how can I be of service to you?’

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Livingstone said, knocking back his drink and holding the glass out for a refill, ‘I want you to come down to London and start a war for me.’

  DCI Tyler Thriller series

  UNLAWFULLY AT LARGE

  The second exciting instalment in the DCI Tyler Thriller series.

  Claude Winston has been on remand for the past two months awaiting trial for the attempted murder of two police officers. The evidence against him is overwhelming and he knows that he's looking at spending the rest of his life behind bars.

  When the unthinkable happens, and an opportunity to escape arises, Winston seizes it with both hands, leaving an ugly trail of death and destruction in his wake.

  DCI Jack Tyler and his partner, DI Tony Dillon, are the murder squad officers who sent Winston to prison, and now that he's unlawfully at large it's up to them to recapture him before he can be smuggled abroad to begin a new life in a country without an extradition treaty.

  It soon becomes apparent that this is not going to be easy; faced with a wall of silence on the streets, and having very few leads to follow, Tyler and Dillon find themselves being run into the ground as they battle against the clock to locate Winston before he slips out of their grasp for good.

  As the chase goes down to the wire, and things become increasingly frantic, Tyler realises that he is going to have to pull something pretty special out of the bag if he is to prevent Winston from getting away.