by Shaun Hutson
'Who killed Joule and Dome?' Harrison asked.
'I don't know,' McIntire told him weakly.
'And Pat Mendham?'
Again the other man merely shook his head as if he were resigned to his fate. Had he known what that was to be, he might well have been a little more forthcoming with his answers.
Harrison looked at Billy Stripes and nodded. The big man crossed to a cabinet behind his boss's desk and pulled something out. An object with a long lead.
It took McIntire only a second to realize it was a power drill.
He watched in terror as Billy plugged it in and pressed the starter button, watching as the bit spun at over 3,500 rpm. The high pitched whine died away as he switched it off again and moved closer to McIntire who now began to struggle even more violently in his chair. ,
'Hold him,' snapped Harrison and Joe Duggan duly obliged, steadying the captive as Billy moved closer, flicking the drill on again. It gave off a plaintive scream as the drill bit spun viciously.
'Roll his trousers up,' Harrison instructed, watching as Drake knelt by the bound man's legs and tore the material, exposing bare flesh to just above the knee.
'Frank, for God's sake,' shrieked McIntire, struggling madly, his eyes bulging in their sockets.
'Keep the fucker still,' the gang boss instructed, savouring the terror on his victim's face as Billy bent lower, the drill bit aimed at a spot just below McIntire's left kneecap.
'Oh Jesus, no,' McIntire bellowed, trying to squirm free. His shouts had become sobs. 'Frank, please call him off, for God's sake.'
The drill was barely six inches from his kneecap.
'Who killed my men?' Harrison demanded.
'I don't know. I swear on my mother's life. Please God stop it, for fuck's sake, please.' The entreaties fell on deaf ears.
Four inches away.
'How much did Barbieri pay you to set me up?'
Three inches.
'I'll tell you, I'll tell you anything. Please stop,' screamed McIntire.
Two inches.
'You've got to learn, Lou,' Harrison said, grinning.
One inch.
'But I said I’d tell you,' screamed McIntire, looking down to see that the drill was still aimed at his kneecap. 'Frank, please. Please ...'
The last word dissolved into a shriek of agony, the like of which few of the men in the room had ever heard.
The drill bit lacerated flesh then, with Billy Stripes' weight behind it, cut effortlessly through the bone of the patella, churning nerves and ligaments on its way. There was a high-pitched squeal as the bone was pierced then followed by a loud crack as the entire kneecap split in two. Billy began to pull it free, blood flying from the spinning bit.
McIntire felt his leg go numb as pain enveloped it from toe to thigh. It felt as if someone had set light to the whole limb. He screamed but the sound faded as he felt consciousness leaving him. His head flopped forward but Duggan seized his hair and snapped him upright again, slapping his bloodied face to revive him.
Tears of pain and fear were coursing down his cheeks, cutting a path through the crimson fluid which had congealed there.
Harrison looked on impassively.
'I hate fucking grasses,' he said vehemently. 'You talk too much, Lou. Maybe we should make sure you don't keep on babbling.'
Harrison reached behind him into the drawer of his desk.
He held the pliers in his right hand so that McIntire could get a good look at them. Then the gang boss stepped forward.
'Open his mouth,' he said to Joe Duggan.
Realizing what was to happen, McIntire clamped his jaws firmly together, much as a frightened child might do at the dentist.
Harrison nodded at Duggan who gripped the other man's jaws and started to prise them open. McIntire resisted stubbornly, his face, wet with his own blood, was difficult to grip and he managed to jerk away from Duggan's grip for precious seconds but it was only a momentary respite.
Billy Stripes put down the drill and grabbed McIntire's broken nose, twisting the already shattered bone until more blood flowed. The combination of being unable to breath and the agonising pain caused McIntire to open his mouth.
Quick as a flash, Duggan gripped the other man's bottom jaw and weighed down on it causing his mouth to yawn open.
Harrison advanced with the pliers, eyes narrowed, glancing at the terrified McIntire for a moment. Then he fastened the steel grips onto one of McIntire's bottom incisors and pulled.
Such was the force exerted by the gang boss that the tooth cracked under the strain and McIntire screamed again as enamel and pulp spilled back on to his tongue. He retched violently but did not vomit. Excruciating pain thundered inside his head with each beat of his heart and he tried to beg for mercy but, before he could speak, Harrison had taken a firm grip on a molar at the back of his open mouth.
This tooth was stronger and as Harrison tugged, he actually felt it come free of the gum. Blood filled McIntire's mouth but Harrison continued pulling, actually pressing one foot against the captive man's chair to gain more leverage. McIntire tried to struggle but it was useless. Held by a combination of ropes and two of his former colleagues, he was helpless, able only to sit there as Harrison continued wrenching his tooth from its socket.
A little more of the molar came free, tendrils of root dangling from the dripping base.
McIntire felt as if the top of his head was coming off and, incredibly, the pain seemed to intensify as Harrison finally succeeded in ripping the molar out. He gripped it in the teeth of the pliers, like some dripping trophy, blood and sputum hanging from it like thick streamers. He glanced into McIntire's open mouth and saw the hole in the gum left by the tooth. It was a nasty wound, rather like an open sore. It pumped blood steadily.
The gang leader waited for a moment then took hold of another tooth.
This time McIntire blacked out and no amount of slapping roused him.
Harrison ripped the tooth out, snapping it as he did so, leaving a large portion of the root still in the lacerated gum. Then he threw it to one side and looked into McIntire's face.
The man was breathing faintly, his chest rising almost imperceptibly.
Harrison stepped back, never taking his eyes from the unconscious individual before him.
'Get rid of him,' he said to Billy Stripes. 'Then clean this place up. I'm going back to the flat to see how Tina is. First I've got to make a couple of phone calls.'
'So what do we do now, Frank?' Duggan asked.
'What we should have done in the beginning,' said the gang boss, reaching for the phone. He dialled, waiting for the receiver to be picked up at the other end. As he stood waiting he wrinkled his nose, aware that McIntire had lost control of his bowels. The phone was finally picked up at the other end. 'Thorpe? This is Harrison,' he said. 'You didn't come up with the goods did you? I had to do the work myself.' He looked at the unconscious figure of McIntire and grinned.
'I've been too busy trying to cover what happened yesterday,' the Detective Inspector said. 'Car chases, gun fights. Where do you think you are, New York? Well fuck you, I've had enough. I told you I couldn't protect you if things went as far as this. You're on your own now, Frank.'
'You were never any use to me, Thorpe,' Harrison said. 'But listen to me, you'd better keep your head down in the next few weeks because otherwise you might be going down with the rest of them.'
'The rest of who? What the hell are you planning?' the policeman wanted to know.
'Every other gang leader in London,' Harrison snarled. 'I'm wiping them out. This has gone too far, you're right. Well now I'm going to call a man who can get the fucking job done.'
'A hit man?'
'Bright boy. Well, now you know you'd better keep out of the way otherwise he might have to add one more to his list.'
'You can't do it,' Thorpe protested.
'Don't you ever tell me what I can or can't do,' the gang leader said. 'I gave you forty-eight hours. I sat still for
forty-eight hours. Well fuck it. No more. You had your chance and you blew it. Now it's my turn.'
PART TWO
`I never ask no questions,
I never speak my mind.
I've always found that silence
helps to keep me and my kind alive ...'
Judas Priest
`Hell is a city much like London ...'
Shelley
Thirty-Six
`You might attract more customers if you cleaned the place up. It stinks in here.'
Frank Harrison waved a hand in front of his nose and squinted once more at the large ledger laid out before him.
'Oh leave it out, Frank,' Reg Truman said, grinding some cigarette ash into the carpet. 'The old girl who cleans hasn't been round yet. The place is usually cleaner than Mother Theresa's underwear.'
'Well something's making you lose money,' Harrison said, running his index finger down the column of figures.
'Takings are down by a grand from last week. Am I running a strip joint or a fucking charity?'
'The other places have more girls, more specialized acts. We do the best we can,' Truman protested.
'Specialized acts,' Harrison grunted. 'So, what are you telling me, if you had a tart who could pull rabbits out of her fanny you'd get more punters in here?'
Truman shrugged.
'It'd be worth a try,' he chuckled.
Harrison didn't see the joke. He owned five strip clubs in Soho and each one had been losing money for the past month or so. He'd put it down to other gangs muscling in on his manor. Well, if it was, all that would stop once the hit man got his act together. Harrison looked around him. In the harsh light of day the club looked like any other cabaret venue. A dozen or so tables, a small bar and a stage. A considerable p.a. system had been set up, through which music was played to accompany the girls in their on-stage gyrations. As Harrison sat looking at the bank of speakers they suddenly burst into life, filling the club with music loud enough to crack the walls.
`Leroy, for fuck's sake,' roared Truman. The music ceased as abruptly as it had started.
An unmistakeably Jamaican voice came floating over the p.a.
`Sorry Reg, I didn't realize it was on,' said the voice.
`Why don't you get rid of that bleeding jungle bunny? If he's playing that reggae shit, no wonder no one wants to come in.'
`He's a good worker, Frank,' Truman said.
Harrison shook his head and looked at the ledger again.
Carter stood by the door with Damien Drake. Out in the car McAuslan was sitting behind the wheel.
Tina had been left in the care of Billy Stripes for the day.
Just for a fleeting second when Harrison had first called him, Carter had wondered if the gang boss had suspected something was going on between himself and Tina but he'd reassured himself that the boss was still blissfully ignorant of their dangerous affair. If he'd any suspicions at all, Carter thought, then he would be floating face down in the Thames by now.
He took a long draw on his cigarette and glanced across at Drake who was scanning the photos of girls that adorned the club's entrance. The beauties in the display case had never been inside the club though, Carter knew that. He wondered how many of them looked at the photo of Joan Collins outside and went home disappointed because she hadn't turned up to do a routine.
He was still contemplating this when he saw a man approach the entrance to the club. He was well dressed, his suit immaculate. Carter guessed he was in his mid-thirties. About five ten, thickset and very powerfully built. And yet there was a delicacy to his features which belied his build. He nodded a greeting to Carter as he approached and, despite himself, the younger man found himself returning the gesture. He noticed that there was a light covering of whiskers on the man's cheeks and chin.
As the man approached, Drake stepped in front of him. 'Where are you going?' he asked.
'I'm looking for Frank Harrison,' the man said, his voice cultured but without the trappings of pretension.
'And who are you?' Drake demanded.
'My business is with him. Now, if you'd let me pass please,' said the newcomer.
Carter took a step back, watching as Drake put his arm across the doorway to block the man's passage.
'There's always one isn't there?' the man said, shaking his head.
He shot out a hand and gripped Drake by the throat, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the door frame with a force that almost knocked him out.
Carter raised a hand to reach for his automatic but, without turning round, his hand still fastened around Drake's neck, the man spoke again.
'Leave the gun where it is,' he said softly. 'Now tell Harrison I want to see him, otherwise I'll break this half-wit's neck.'
Carter eyed him malevolently for a moment and then ducked past him into the club.
Harrison, already disturbed by the commotion outside, was on his feet, waiting.
'What the hell's going on out there?' he demanded.
Before Carter could speak, the smartly dressed man had followed him inside, leaving Drake almost unconscious by the door.
'Frank Harrison?' the man asked.
'Yeah, and who the fuck are you?'
'My name's David Mitchell. You sent for me.'
Thirty-Seven
It was as if someone had pressed the freeze-frame button on a video. The little tableau inside the strip club was momentarily motionless as all eyes turned towards Mitchell.
He stood in the doorway a moment longer before stepping forward.
The film was running again.
From behind him, Drake blundered in, clutching his throat, massaging the red marks where Mitchell's fingers had gouged into his flesh. He lunged towards the newcomer but Mitchell merely sidestepped and Drake overbalanced, crashing into a nearby table. He sprawled there for a moment glaring angrily at Mitchell who didn't even spare him a glance.
Drake reached for the pistol beneath his left armpit.
It was Harrison who stepped forward and kicked his hand away.
He dragged Drake to his feet and pushed him aside.
'You're a wise man, Mr Harrison,' said Mitchell. 'You've lost enough men already, best not to add to the total.' He glared at Drake and the other than saw the fire in Mitchell's eyes. He backed off.
Carter watched the entire scene nervously, wondering if Harrison was going to give the order to start shooting. If this newcomer was as handy with a gun as he was with his bare hands then the cleaning lady was going to need more than a vacuum cleaner.
Reg Truman looked on bewildered, his eyes flicking rapidly back and forth from Harrison to Mitchell who had now fixed the gang leader in an unblinking stare.
'Who are you?' Harrison wanted to know.
'I told you, my name's Mitchell. I understand you need my services.'
'You're a hit man?' Harrison asked, although it sounded more like a statement than a question.
Mitchell nodded.
'You weren't the geezer I spoke to last night,' Harrison insisted.
'Do you need my services or not?' Mitchell said sharply.
Harrison wasn't slow to catch the irritation in the hit man's voice.
'It depends how good you are,' he said.
'You won't find better.'
'You're sure of yourself.'
'I can afford to be.'
Harrison finally sat down. Mitchell remained where he was.
Drake continued glaring at him.
'Get us a drink,' Harrison said to Reg Truman and the strip club manager crossed to the small bar and returned with some glasses.
'This isn't a social call, Mr Harrison,' Mitchell told him, declining the offer of a drink. 'I understood that you had some work for me. I'd rather discuss that.'
Harrison sipped slowly at his whisky, regarding the newcomer over the rim of his glass.
'I suppose you want to discuss money too?' the gang boss said.
'Not yet. I'll wait until the job's done,' Mitchell
told him.
'You'll be needing information then, about the blokes I want taken out.'
'All I need from you is a driver. Nothing else,' Mitchell announced.
'What about a base to work from? Weapons?'
'That's all been taken care of. Like I said, just the driver.'
Harrison looked at Carter.
‘Ray?’
Carter nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly.
'Let's go then,' said Mitchell, turning towards the door.
'Hold on,' Harrison called after him. 'Where do I contact you?'
'You don't. I'll call you, when and if it's necessary.'
'Look, Mitchell, I'm not sure I like this arrangement,’ snapped the gang boss, getting to his feet. 'You're supposed to be working for me...'
Mitchell cut him short.
'You want the job done, don't you?' he challenged.
Harrison found himself mesmerised by that icy stare.
'You keep me informed, right?' he said, although some of the bravado had gone out of his voice.
Mitchell hesitated a second longer and then walked out. Carter was about to follow him when the gang boss called him back.
'Ray, you keep your eye on that bastard,' he said angrily. 'I don't know who the fuck he thinks he is. I want to know where he's working from, get me addresses, a phone number, anything. If he farts I want to know about it. You got that?’
Carter nodded and went outside. He found Mitchell standing on the pavement by the club entrance.
'If we're going to be working together, it'd help if I knew your name,' the hit man said.
Carter introduced himself and wandered over to the waiting Volvo Estate. He slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Mitchell climbed into the back seat.
'Where to?' asked Carter, catching a glimpse of the hit man in the rear view mirror.
'Head towards Highgate.'
Carter nodded and pulled out into the traffic. His passenger, he found, wasn't very talkative but seemed content to gaze unseeing out of the car windows. It was as if his mind was elsewhere.