A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  A REASON TO KILL

  A DI Matt Barnes Thriller

  -1-

  By

  Michael Kerr

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by Head Nook Books

  Copyright © 2013 Michael Kerr

  Discover other Titles by Michael Kerr at MichaelKerr.org

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Prologue

  About The Author

  Other Books by Michael Kerr

  Deadly Reprisal - Sample

  An evil man seeketh only rebellion:

  Therefore a cruel messenger shall be

  sent against him.

  Proverbs 17-11

  PROLOGUE

  UNDER normal circumstances the quiet, tree-lined street in Finchley was not a location that would be associated with sudden and violent death.

  It was 6.00 a.m., and this bright June morning heralded a short, final day for several of the police officers on duty both outside and within the innocuous looking detached bungalow with pebble dashed walls and a bright, red-tiled roof.

  Detective Inspector Matt Barnes got up from an easy chair, groaned, stretched his arms and grimaced, rolling his neck to loosen knotted muscles. Going into the kitchen, he switched on the coffeemaker.

  “Black, one sugar,” Detective Sergeant Donny Campbell said through a yawn, tossing the paperback he’d been reading onto a chair as he walked past the kitchen door, heading in the direction of the loo.

  “What did your last skivvy die of?” Matt asked; a tired smile momentarily softening his craggy features as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

  Donny just grinned, adjusted the semiautomatic pistol that hung from a shoulder rig below his left armpit, and vanished.

  The end of this gig was finally in sight, and that suited Donny just fine. The witness, Lester Little, was taking the stand in No 3 court at the Old Bailey the following day, and his evidence would be the clincher to putting Frank Santini away for the rest of his natural.

  Matt heard the toilet flush, placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the pine tabletop, and when Donny returned, zipping up his pants, Matt went to relieve his own pounding bladder. Too much java.

  It had been a pain in the arse, Matt thought. This was the third location in six weeks. But every angle was covered. He, Donny, and DC Bernie Mellors – who was on stand down, grabbing some shuteye – were inside with Little. Outside were two more officers in an unmarked Transit van. All of them were armed, and considered this a straightforward baby-sit.

  As he sighed with relief and jettisoned what seemed like a gallon of filtered coffee, Matt looked at his reflection in the brown-stained mirrored-door of the medicine cabinet that was screwed to the wall. He acknowledged that he was completely knackered, felt crap, and looked like shit. The weeks’ of nocturnal vigilance had turned him into a zombie. Christ, he was only thirty-four, and yet the face in the mirror could have belonged to a man of forty, plus VAT. His eyes were red-rimmed, with lines radiating out from the corners. The wrinkles seemed to be deeper these days, like fissures in a rock face. And his skin had what he termed prison pallor. There were even a few grey hairs showing at his temples, highlighted by the otherwise blue-black thatch. For a second, he could see his father looking back at him from the dull square of amalgam-coated glass.

  Thank fuck this gig was almost a wrap. He needed some down time. A few days off to regroup; to sleep a lot and spend some quality time with Linda. He hadn’t seen her for days, and chose not to get on the phone when he was working. Their relationship was on shaky ground, stretched as tight as a rope that was beginning to fray and come apart. They were in danger of splitting up. He knew it, but couldn’t work out how to share his self between her and the work.

  He sighed, shrugged, shook off and hit the lever, unwittingly drowning out the sound of death in progress, as the water swirled noisily around the toilet bowl.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE had been given the address and all relevant details twelve days ago, and had made meticulous plans to kill his intended mark. He was now in the house next door to the bungalow, holding a young couple and their baby prisoners as he made ready to launch what would be a lethal attack.

  Waiting was all part of the game; a hiatus before the planning and preparation came together. He liked to think of it as a military operation, himself a Chris Ryan/SAS type, setting out on a life or death mission. At this stage it was as though he was in the eye of a hurricane; an eerie place of absolute calm where he could find equanimity, before the serenity was broken to culminate in a shitstorm of his own design. He would soon be the instrument that would once again bring about the bloody death of fellow human beings. He mused. What was it Hemingway had said? ‘There is no hunting like the hunting of man’. Now there was a guy he had a lot of time for. He’d read all about him. Decided that he was a restless, brawling, drinking, womanising adventurer, who had also written about life in such a visceral way, that it was like a hand reaching into your guts and tearing them every which way but loose. And when Hemingway had had his fill of all on offer, the great man went out explosively on his own terms; a bullet his entry fee to the hereafter.

  Knowing how the law operated was the key to game, set and match. They were overconfident of their capabilities, too smug by far, which was a potentially fatal flaw. He was within yards of them, and yet they were oblivious to the danger they were in. Unbeknown to them, they were on the clock. The countdown had begun, and their time was rapidly running out.

  The couple were totally compliant to his demands, abetting him without question. They both knew that he was their worst nightmare, and were treating him with the due respect that one would afford a suicide bomber, all primed-up and ready for supposed martyrdom. Hallelujah!

  After parking the car half a mile distant, he had approached the house from the rear, entered through a conveniently unlocked kitchen window – left open an inch to presumably allow in fresh air – and made his way to the bedroom. A night light illuminated the cot. Perfect. He pointed the silenced Glock at the slumbering infant’s head, and then prodded the sleeping man in the bed next to it.

  Jerry Page blinked his eyes and made to sit up as he saw the figure standing next to him. “Uh...what the¯”

  “Move a fucking inch and I’ll blow your kid’s brains out. Do you understand?” he asked.

  Jerry was too shocked to even think of disobeying the stranger. He took in the thin, smiling face. Even in the soft yellow glow of the 25 watt bulb, he could see the madness that danced in eyes that were devoid of all compassion or humanity; bright and black, like those of a murderous crow.

  “Don’t hurt Michael, please,” Jerry whispered.


  “Then don’t give me the slightest reason to. Wake your wife up. We need to talk.”

  “Penny, Penny,” Jerry said, shaking her by the shoulder. “Wake up, love.”

  Penny took a few seconds to digest the situation. She then reacted against the threat to her baby, throwing herself across the bed, arms outstretched, and with a guttural noise escaping her open mouth.

  He swept the pistol through the air in a lazy arc, to connect with the lunging woman’s right temple, knocking her sideways, to where she collapsed unconscious over her husband’s legs.

  “Women!” he said, shaking his head at Jerry as he pointed the muzzle of the gun back at the infant. “Aren’t they all just too fucking highly strung and unpredictable? God love ‘em.”

  “What the hell do you want?” Jerry asked, cradling Penny’s head and fighting back tears of fear, frustration and rage.

  “Rule one. I ask the questions. What’s your name?”

  “Jerry Page.”

  “Okay, Jer, old son. I need for you to know exactly what’s going down here. When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, we’ll all go to the kitchen, have ourselves a cup of coffee and talk it through in a civilised manner. Just be sure to impress wifey that if she becomes irrational again, it’s the kid I’ll hit next time.”

  Twenty minutes later, with the Pages seated at the kitchen table, – Jerry holding the baby, and Penny fighting nausea as she held a tea towel packed with ice cubes to the swelling on her head, – he explained the situation to them.

  “My business is with a piece of shit being kept under armed police protection in the bungalow next door. When I’m ready to go and deal with him, I’ll tie you both up and leave. If you behave, you’ll get through this. But you need to know that if you describe me to the police, I’ll come back and kill the rug rat. I don’t make idle threats. Until I go, your job is to act as though everything is normal, and do nothing that might seem suspicious.”

  “Whatever you want.” Jerry mumbled.

  “Music to my ears,” he said, reaching down with his free hand to stroke the mongrel pup that yelped for attention. “Your mutt fussed me when I broke in. You should trade it in for a Doberman with attitude, and keep the windows locked in future. What do you call him?”

  “Becks,” Jerry said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We...I named him after Beckham, the footballer. You know.”

  He frowned. “I don’t watch football, or any sport. I think that life’s too short to be a couch potato. There are more meaningful pursuits. Do you take Becks out for walks at specific times?”

  “First thing in the morning, and in the evening, just before we go to bed. Penny lets him out in the back garden during the day.”

  “Good, we’ll keep to that, Jer. What we need is the illusion of continuity; normality. And you need to be on my team. Anything worth having has to be worked for, and in this instance, you have the incentive of wanting to survive. To realise that goal, you have to believe beyond all doubt that you don’t get a second chance in this game. If either of you fuck up, just the once, then it’s over, and little Mikey here gets whacked.”

  Penny stammered, “We’ll d...do anything y...you want.”

  He tried to smile, but it didn’t come easy and never felt convincing. “Good girl,” he said. “Just don’t mistake my wholesome charm and good manners for weakness. I kill people for a living. It’s not personal, so don’t do anything that would result in any or all of you being collateral damage. We can all walk away from this and get to play another day. Does that sound good to you?”

  Jerry and Penny both vigorously nodded their heads.

  “Excellent. Now be a love, Penny, and make me another coffee, and a sandwich. I want you to treat me as a friend and house guest till I leave.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE had lied to Jerry and Penny. As dawn broke, he casually put a bullet in each of their heads. But he had given them a quick and merciful exit from all further consternation. They had not been targets, just a means to an end that had become of no further use to him. He pointed the gun at the sleeping baby’s forehead. Hesitated. No. It couldn’t identify him. He chose to let it live, because he had the power to be merciful if it suited him to be.

  Outside, the two cops in the van gave him only a cursory glance as he closed the gate and walked along the pavement in their direction. They were programmed to seeing Jerry in his red blouson, I ♥ NY baseball cap, and with the pup on a leash nipping playfully at his Nikes.

  It was so easy. As he drew level with the surveillance van, one of the cops flicked a cigarette end out of the open window, and even nodded in greeting, his attention mainly on Becks.

  The street was clear. He drew the silenced Glock, stepped forward and shot the two men at point blank range; the first through the left eye, the second in his temple. Poetry in flowing motion. The game was now in play. He gave himself two minutes to take care of business and quit the scene. Without pause, he walked down the driveway and around the side of the garage, jemmied open the door with its cheap Mickey Mouse lock and stepped inside, leaving the pup to its own devices.

  As the kitchen door to the integral garage flew back, Donny was raising a mug of coffee to his lips. He dropped it and reached for his pistol. But the initiative was wholly with the intruder, who had the advantage of surprise on his side, plus a gun already in hand and pointing rock steady at Donny.

  Two bullets crashed into Donny’s chest, knocking him backwards out of the chair. It was as if he’d been jerked by an invisible wire: a stuntman being pulled from his horse in an old western movie.

  Donny tried to sit up, to call out a warning, but his body would not respond. All that came out of his mouth was a gout of poppy-red blood and a final whistling exhalation of breath. The few seconds it took him to lose consciousness seemed to last forever. Knowing that you are about to die is something you only get to experience once, and for Donny it was a real attention-getter. For some reason he focused his clouding vision on a crack that ran across the ceiling above, until it opened up and swallowed him.

  From where he lay on the settee in the small lounge, Bernie opened his eyes in time to see Donny hit the floor. He saw the slim figure, gun in hand, and shouted, “Matt,” a split second before a slug hit him in the neck, sentencing him to a comparatively quick death as the bullet ruptured his right carotid artery, to continue on through his vertebrae and the upper part of his spinal cord, effectively turning him into a quadriplegic even as he bled out.

  In a heartbeat, Matt reacted without thought and just let his instincts take over. He saw a flash of red material; a narrow face below a long-billed cap, and the gun being brought round to target him. He threw himself sideways, out of the short hall and into a bedroom. Thank God the door was ajar. He almost made it. Drawing his pistol as he hit the floor and rolled, he cried out against the fiery pain that flared in both his leg and side.

  Coming up into a sitting position with his back against the bed, and his Browning Hi-Power held two-handed and pointing at the open doorway, Matt readied himself to empty the clip into whoever had made the assault on the safe house.

  Seconds passed. He felt dizzy, sick to the stomach. Glanced down to see blood bubbling through the denim of his jeans. An artery. Jesus! He needed help, and fast. If he passed out, he knew that he would not wake up again.

  “No...Please!” Lester Little’s voice. An hysterical and terror-filled plea for mercy, followed by three sounds that could have been polite coughs, had Matt not known that it was the muffled explosions of bullets being spat out through the baffles of a suppressor.

  His leg was now numb. No pain. And he was cold to the bone. He somehow found the strength of will to reach into a pocket, withdraw his cell and hit stored memory and 2, which connected him with the SCU.

  “Serious Crimes¯”

  “This is Barnes,” he interrupted. There was no time to waste words. “We’ve been hit. There are officers
down,” he managed to say before dropping the phone. Survival depends on making the right decisions quickly and acting on them. Too many people die because they freeze and let life-threatening events unfurl without trying to save themselves. Matt did not for one second contemplate death. He unbuckled the belt from his jeans and pulled it from the loops to employ as a makeshift tourniquet. Wrapped it around his thigh as tightly as he could and refastened the buckle. Seconds later he sank into the black.

  Linda shivered. Slabs of charcoal cloud swept in from the west to block out the rising sun, darkening and chilling the air of what had promised to be a fine day. There was a stillness; a pregnant silence devoid of even birdsong, followed by heavy, driving rain. Cold nails hammered against her skin as she gathered up the washing basket and ran from the garden into the kitchen. Dumping the basket on a work surface, she pulled a towel from where it hung from a hook below the wall-mounted spice rack. She rubbed her short blond hair, and then patted at her tanned face, shoulders and arms.

  The doorbell rang. Call it a presentiment, but she was immediately consumed by a sudden dread that made her heart double its rate. The bell rang twice more before she found the resolve to walk woodenly out into the hall.

  It was Matt’s boss, DCI Tom Bartlett, standing on the step. There was bad news written all over his face.

  “Tell me,” Linda demanded, backing up as he stepped forward.

  “Inside,” Tom replied, entering the hallway to take her by the arm and lead her through to the lounge, where he motioned for her to sit down.

  She sank into a chair, clasped her hands tightly together on her lap and closed her eyes. This was one of the reasons she had decided to walk away. She still loved Matt, but not enough – or too much – to share him with his job. He lived in a world of murder and mayhem; a life comprising sudden death in many guises. She hardly saw him. He came and went like a lodger, or a ghost, and was almost a stranger these days.