by Shaun Hutson
A train was pulling in.
He slowed his pace, careful not to emerge onto the platform too soon, in case it was sparsely populated. He couldn't risk Mitchell spotting him.
The doors of the train opened.
Carter waited, his breath coming in short gasps.
He turned the comer on to the platform, looked both ways and saw the familiar black attaché case in Mitchell's hand.
The hit man stepped onto the train.
Then off.
Carter ducked back into the walkway, certain now that Mitchell had spotted him.
The doors hissed and began to close.
Mitchell jumped on.
Carter scurried forward and succeeded in squeezing through the narrow gap, trapping the sleeve of his jacket. He tugged it free, careful not to expose the automatic pistol strapped beneath his left arm. He grabbed one of the overhead rails and hung on as the train moved off. Where the hell was Mitchell going?
They passed through Oxford Circus, through Regent's Park.
At Baker Street the hit man left the train once more. Carter followed, keeping about fifteen yards between them, glancing up every so often as Mitchell stood on the escalators and rose towards ground level. Carter could only guess at his next move.
The hit man passed through the ticket barrier and Carter followed, relieved that there was no one on duty. He couldn't spare the time to explain why he hadn't got a ticket. He scuttled up the steps which led to the street, noticing how few people there were on the darkened stairway. Mitchell must be only ten yards in front of him.
Carter rounded a comer.
He felt a crushing impact on the back of his neck.
Then he felt nothing at all.
Forty-Six
Carter didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.
He felt hands on his face, voices drifting around him. Someone was checking his pulse, feeling his brow.
He snapped his eyes open and sat up, wishing that he hadn't. A stab of pain in the back of his neck made him wince. He groaned and sat back against the cold wall of the staircase. There were three or four people clustered around him, all looking anxiously at him as he struggled to regain his senses. As he screwed his eyes up once more they finally swam into focus.
A young woman was stroking his brow with the back of her hand. She stopped as Carter sat up.
The assembled group seemed to back off slightly as he looked at them, hoping that no one had spotted the 9mm automatic inside his jacket. If they had then they certainly weren't saying anything. Carter slid one hand inside his coat and touched the butt of the pistol to reassure himself that it was still there. Satisfied that no one had found the lethal weapon, he rubbed his neck again and looked at the interested spectators: two youths in leather jackets and a man who was sweating heavily despite the chill in the air.
'Are you all right, mate?' one of the youths asked. 'I saw the geezer hit you. Me and Pete were going to go after him...’
Carter cut him short.
'How long have I been out?' he wanted to know.
'Only about a minute,' the youth told him. 'The bloke whacked you and then legged it.'
Carter nodded slowly, painfully, rubbing the back of his neck once more. He tried to rise but his legs felt like jelly. As he swayed uncertainly the young woman moved forward to support him. Carter smelt the perfume she wore and the heady aroma did nothing to hasten his recovery. Maybe if she'd been wearing smelling salts, he mused as he tried to regain control of his legs. That bastard Mitchell, thought Carter as a fresh wave of pain throbbed through his skull.
'Did he take anything?' the sweating man wanted to know.
Carter shook his head.
'You going to call the Old Bill?' the second youth asked.
'No,' snapped Carter. 'No police. I'm OK.'
'We'll get an ambulance,' the young woman insisted.
Carter thanked her but dismissed the suggestion.
People passing by on the stairs glanced at the little tableau with curiosity, glad that they weren't involved. Carter saw the faces gazing at him. He sucked in a deep breath, his senses returning more fully now. He thanked the four people gathered round him and then headed up the steps, leaving them to watch him go.
The sweating man shook his head.
'You're not safe anywhere these days, are you?' he muttered. 'Criminals everywhere. I mean, that poor chap, having a quiet night out and that happens to him.' He shook his head. 'I don't know what the world's coming to.'
'What do you mean you lost him?'
Carter held the phone slightly away from his ear as Harrison rasped the question at him.
'I mean the bastard laid me out; snapped the driver irritably.
'What about Cleary?'
Carter explained.
There was a moment of silence at the other end before Carter heard a grunt of satisfaction.
'I'm not trekking round London all night trying to find Mitchell,' Carter told his boss. 'I'm going home.'
'Well next time be more careful,' Harrison told him. 'I told you I wanted that bastard found.'
'Look, I'm a driver not a fucking bloodhound. You want him, then put one of your coppers on the job.' He slammed the phone down and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, massaging the back of his neck with one hand. Then he fumbled in his pocket for more change and fed it into the phone. He jabbed the numbers and waited.
It rang.
And rang.
Carter drummed on the metal shelf, muttering under his breath.
'Hello.'
He recognised the voice immediately.
'Tina, it's me.'
She asked how he was. He explained again, mentioning Cleary only briefly.
'Can you come to my fiat?' she asked. 'Frank's been and gone.'
'After what happened last night? You must be kidding,' he said. 'Meet me somewhere.'
They arranged a place and a time. Carter checked his watch, then he hung up. He paused a moment and walked out into the streams of people, pausing by the roadside to call a taxi.
Tina replaced the receiver when Carter hung up. She turned immediately and went into the bedroom, pulling a sweatshirt over her jeans. She stepped into a pair of boots, picked up her handbag and headed for the door. As she paused to lock it behind her she glanced down at the .25 Beretta in the bottom of her bag.
Tina took the lift to the ground floor and walked out into
the night.
The place where she'd arranged to meet Carter was less than ten minutes from her flat. She set off at a brisk pace, the breeze stirring her hair as she walked.
From across the street, hidden in the shadows of a doorway, Phillip Walton watched her leave.
He smiled to himself and felt the long blade of the knife inside his jacket.
He chuckled.
This was going to be easier than he'd thought.
Forty-Seven
Harrison stood looking at the map of London laid out on his desk, surveying the blueprint of the capital like a general planning his next tactical move. He took a swig of whisky and smiled to himself.
'With Sullivan out of the way, that's it,' he said.
'Barbieri's manor in the north, Cleary's in the south and good old Eugene's in the east. And us right in the middle. Once Mitchell takes care of that fucking Irishman then the whole lot's mine.'
'What about some of the smaller gangs, Frank?' Billy Stripes wanted to know. 'With the big boys out of the way they might start getting ambitious.'
Harrison shook his head.
'The smaller gangs were controlled by Cleary and the other three. The only one who might try something is Cleary's brother but I doubt it. I reckon the scouse bastard will be on the next train back to Liverpool after what happened tonight.'
The gang boss and some of the other men in the room laughed.
Billy Stripes didn't see the funny side.
'So you're telling me that these other gangs are going to line up with us, work with us?' he
said.
'Why not? It's in their interests. If they don't, they know what the choice is.'
'You can't wipe out everyone in London who's against you, Frank,' Billy insisted.
'Why not?' Harrison demanded with conviction in his words. 'Besides, the law will appreciate it. There'll be peace again.' He smiled.
'When's Mitchell going to hit Sullivan?' Joe Duggan wanted to know.
Harrison shrugged.
'You tell me. I can't even find out where he's staying, let alone what his plans are.'
'He's good at his job, Frank,' Duggan said.
'He ought to be for what he's getting paid.'
The phone rang and Drake picked it up. He nodded then put his hand over the mouthpiece before handing it to Harrison.
'He wouldn't say who he was,' Drake informed the gang boss who took the receiver from him.
'Frank Harrison speaking.'
Silence.
'Who is this?' he said.
'I don't like being followed, Harrison.'
The gang boss recognised Mitchell's voice immediately.
'There was nothing in the contract about that. I was to be left alone.'
'I don't like all this cloak and dagger stuff,' Harrison said irritably.
'Tough.'
'Now listen, you .. .
Mitchell cut him short.
'No. You listen. Our business is nearly over. Until it is you keep your men away from me, understand? If anyone else tries to follow me or find out where I am then I'll kill them. And if I find out you sent them, I'll kill you too.'
'Who the fucking hell do you think you are?' shouted Harrison into the mouthpiece. 'You're working for me.'
The other men in the room looked on bemused. Billy Stripes shook his head slowly.
'You're working for me and you've still got a job to do,' Harrison snarled, gripping the receiver so tightly that it threatened to snap.
'No more tails,' Mitchell said flatly. 'Got it?'
'You can't talk to me like this.'
'The business is nearly completed. Just make sure I don't add you to the list.'
'You bastard,' Harrison bellowed. 'How dare you fucking speak to me like that ...' It took him a second or two to realise that the phone had been put down at the other end. He glared at it for a moment before bringing the receiver crashing down. His face was scarlet with rage, the veins at his temples throbbing. 'Mitchell,' he rasped. 'Well that settles it. As soon as he's hit Sullivan, I want him found. I want that fucker found and killed.' He looked at the other men in the room, his features still contorted with anger. 'You listening?' he roared. 'I want Mitchell dead. As soon as he's finished this business, I want him dead.'
Forty-Eight
'Dee's Teas' the sign over the door proclaimed in flickering neon letters.
Tina pushed the door open and walked in, aware immediately of the stares she was drawing from two young men seated in a booth at the far end of the cafe. Another youth was playing the fruit machine beside the counter and a series of electrical tunes periodically floated from the contraption, occasionally interrupted by the rattling of change as the machine spewed out some winnings. The youth scooped them up and began feeding them back into the machine, oblivious to everything around him.
The place smelt of fried food and strong coffee. Tina glanced at the youths at the far end of the room and then inspected the other booths.
There was no sign of Carter.
'Can I help you, love?'
Tina turned at the sound of the voice and saw a large woman smiling at her from behind the counter.
'I'm looking for someone,' Tina said hesitantly.
'Well have a cup of tea while you're waiting then,' said the woman, pushing a cup of what looked like steaming creosote towards her. Tina thanked her, paid and sat down facing the door, watching for Carter, wondering why he wasn't already there.
She almost shouted aloud when she felt the hand on her shoulder.
She turned to see Carter standing behind her.
'Where were you?' she said, her heart beating fast.
He nodded in the direction of the toilets behind her.
She relaxed slightly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.
'How do you feel?’ she asked, deciding not to chance the steaming creosote after all.
Carter shrugged.
'I think Mitchell hurt my pride more than my head,' he told her. Their eyes met.
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Tina looked down at the table, glancing at the numerous tea stains and brown rings which covered the formica like a bizarre collage.
'What are we going to do about Frank?' she asked. 'I'm sure he knows what's going on between us.'
'He can't be sure or we'd both be dead by now,' Carter told her. 'Although that incident last night was too close for comfort. I don't think he knows.'
'But how much longer is it going to be before he finds out?' she wanted to know. 'Ray, I've had enough of this. Being frightened to speak to you, wondering what Frank's going to do to me. I can't take it anymore. You once said to me that he didn't own us, that we could walk away. You tell me how.'
Carter saw the tears in her eyes. She gritted her teeth, anxious to keep them back.
'There's only one way,' he said flatly. 'Kill him.'
The words hung in the air as thickly as the smell of burned food.
'How?' she wanted to know. 'What about the other members of the firm? Do you think they'd let us walk away after we'd killed him?'
'So, do you want to spend the rest of your life like a prisoner? Because that's what you are at the moment. We both are. I'm offering us a way out. You're right, Tina, it's gone far enough.' As he sat back in the seat his jacket opened slightly and she glimpsed the butt of the automatic in the shoulder holster.
From behind her the fruit machine paid out again to the accompaniment of an electronic fanfare.
'Where do we run to, Ray, after he's dead?' she asked.
'It isn't a matter of running,' Carter said angrily. Harrison's a businessman, a gang boss, not the Godfather. And if someone comes after us then ...'
She interrupted him.
'Then we kill him too?'
'If necessary.'
'And what if it's Mitchell who comes after us?'
'So, he's a hit man, big deal. He's still human. He can be killed.'
Tina ran a hand through her hair and sighed.
'I knew it would have to end like this,' she said. 'I don't know why I'm so shocked.' She opened her handbag and looked at the Beretta. 'I've even thought about killing Frank myself.' There was another long pause before she looked directly at Carter. 'When will you do it?'
He shrugged.
'Let me worry about that,' Carter told her. 'You start getting ready. Once it's done we're going to have to get out of London fast, maybe even out of the country.' He took her hand once more, squeezing tightly. 'When the time's right, I'll kill Harrison.'
Forty-Nine
Tina rose early that next morning. She showered, wrapped a towel around herself, pulled the suitcase from beneath the bed and began packing.
She knew she would have to be careful. If Harrison found any of her clothes missing, if he should chance upon the suitcase, then she would have no way of explaining it away.
She packed the clothes which she rarely wore, putting in a couple of pairs of shoes.
But, could she hide the suitcase once it was full?
She pondered this for a while.
There was nowhere in the fiat where she dared leave it. She couldn't take it round to Carter's flat.
The attic.
The flats had a vast communal attic where the residents stored their unwanted possessions. Those which served no practical purpose but which their owners could not bear to part with.
She would store the suitcase in the attic.
Satisfied with her decision she wandered into the kitchen and made herself some breakfast.
She was nervous, nothing she could do
could alter that. But, for the first time in months, she felt a sense of anticipation. A feeling that she might still escape.
Across the street, looking up at the window of her flat,
Mark Paxton rubbed a throbbing spot on his cheek and waited.
The knock on the door startled Carter.
He didn't get many visitors to his fiat, especially not at 8.30 in the morning. .
He turned down the radio and crossed to the door.
'What the hell do you want?' he hissed as he saw who stood there.
David Mitchell pushed past him into the flat, looking round like a prospective buyer on a house-hunting expedition.
'I ought to whack you after what happened last night,' Carter said, slamming the door.
'You're welcome to try,' Mitchell said, pulling open his jacket to reveal shoulder holsters on either side. One carried the Browning, the other a 9mm Beretta. 'You should think yourself lucky. I could have killed you.'
'What am I supposed to do, say thanks?'
Carter pulled his own shoulder holster from the back of a chair and fastened it on.
'We've got work to do,' Mitchell told him. 'Derek Sullivan. The last one. Then it's over.'
Carter eyed him irritably, glancing down at the familiar black attaché case which the hit man had put down on the floor beside him. It was like a tool box. A portable genocide kit.
'How much is Harrison paying you?' Carter asked, pulling on his leather jacket.
'I think that's my business, don't you?'
'I just wondered how much it took to ease your conscience.'
'Conscience is something that's never troubled me, Ray,' the hit man said. 'Besides, you're hardly in a position to preach, are you? You may not have killed anyone but you haven't exactly lived the life of a saint.
Carter didn't answer. He merely crossed to the door and opened it, gesturing for the hit man to leave. Mitchell picked up the attaché case and walked out. Carter switched off the radio and followed him, locking the door behind him.
'Ray Carter.'
Detective Sergeant Vic Riley nodded in the direction of the driver, watching as he climbed into the Peugeot.