A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  After they had drained the teapot, Gary walked her down to her car.

  “I’ll call by on Wednesday afternoon...if that’s all right,” Marion said after fastening her seat belt and winding the window down.

  Gary smiled. “Look forward to it. And next weekend I’ll definitely stay at your place.”

  “Bring the camera,” she said, blowing him a kiss before driving out to the main road.

  He waved until she was out of sight, and then went back up to his flat, to wait.

  It was midnight. Humid. He drove through Paddington, turned into a narrow street, not pausing as he passed the house where Penny Page was no doubt under armed guard. The cops would be alert and trigger happy after recent events. Couldn’t blame them. The parked cars on both sides of the street were unoccupied, and yet he felt at risk. Maybe the woman wasn’t here. Santini could have set a trap. Might have his men waiting, ready to shoot him on sight.

  He drove to the end of the street, made a left and didn’t stop until he felt far enough away from whatever threat may exist. He put his head back on the rest, closed his eyes and thought it through. Commonsense told him to back off and take heed of his gut feeling. But he needed to investigate. Decision time. With the silenced Glock tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, he made his way back to an alley that was at the rear of the row of terrace. He climbed over a wood panel fence into a garden four up from his intended destination and quickly made his way over dividing fences until he was at the kitchen door of the house next to where he would overcome any adversity.

  High cloud cover abetted him. The moon’s light was reflected back from it to afford him the cloak of invisibility needed to strike unseen.

  The house was in darkness. Slipping the catch of a window with the blade of his knife, he gained entry. The kitchen led through to a short hallway. There were three open doors. Gary checked them. A living room, bedroom and bathroom. He was in a flat. A single occupant was asleep in the bedroom; a grey-haired old man, curled up on his side, snoring, his mouth hanging open.

  Gary wore latex gloves. He removed a woollen Balaclava from his jerkin pocket and pulled it over his head, drew the pistol and shook the old man by the shoulder to wake him up.

  Jacob Goldman snorted and narrowed his eyes to slits as Gary switched on the bedside lamp.

  “Uh! What?” he exclaimed, and sat bolt upright as he saw the hooded figure sitting next to him.

  “Nice and easy, old man,” Gary whispered. “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t live to regret.”

  “What d...do you want?” Jacob asked. He felt dizzy and his heart was aching, hammering against his narrow ribcage. “Money? You are here to rob me?”

  “No. I’m not a thief. I want information. If you co-operate, I won’t harm you.”

  “What is it you think an old man who hardly ever goes out can tell you?”

  “First, who are you?” Gary asked.

  “My name is Jacob. Jacob Goldman.”

  “You a tenant, Jake?”

  “No. I own the house.”

  “A live-in landlord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect. I need to know the layout of the house, and whether there is a firewall in the loft that separates it from the one next door,” Gary said, inclining his head to the right, so that Jacob would know which property he meant. “And you need to know that if you tell me one single lie, I’ll core you like an apple.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE doorman stepped forward and raised his hand up like a cop stopping traffic.

  “Not dressed like that, sir,” he said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And it’s members only.”

  Matt produced his ID. “This is my membership card. Your boss is expecting me.”

  The maroon-suited bouncer gave the warrant card a hard look and dropped all trace of geniality. “Wait here,” he said, and went inside the door to pluck the receiver from a wall-mounted phone. He returned almost immediately. “Okay. Up those stairs,” and he jerked his head to the left, smirking at the implications as he pointedly looked at Matt’s full leg cast. “Someone will meet you at the top, if you make it.”

  Holding the wide, lacquered banister rail, and heavily supported by the walking cane he carried, Matt made his way up the sweeping staircase. He felt like Ahab out of Moby Dick. Had to swing his stiff leg out and up to slowly negotiate every riser. He recognised the giant black who met him at the top. It was Luthor Tyrell, an ex-pro boxer who had been hard as nails, but too slow. He was now an enforcer for Santini; an emissary who kept people sweet, or chastised them for offending his master. He was over three hundred pounds of muscle that could be sicked on anyone who didn’t walk the line.

  “Follow me, cop,” ordered Tiny in a deep Barry White rumble.

  Matt could feel the sweat beading at his hairline, under his arms and on his back. His leg was alive with pain, and his side was rhythmically pounding with a dull, aching beat. He was led through a door marked Staff Only, which opened onto a narrow corridor. Came to a lurching stop as Tiny turned to face him.

  “I need to check you out. Assume the position.”

  Matt put his hands on the oak panelled wall and spread his legs as far as he was able to. The rub down search was thorough. Tiny even examined the leg cast, and the cane Matt still held in his hand.

  “Happy?” Matt asked.

  Tiny did not reply, just thumbed an intercom on the wall next to a door, bent down to speak into it, and moved aside to let Matt enter first as the lock mechanism clicked open.

  Dom didn’t stand up to greet him, just motioned to a dark green wing back chair that was upholstered in shiny leather and faced his desk.

  Matt went to it and eased himself down, using both hands to position his leg.

  “Okay, Barnes. Say what’s on your mind, and then get out,” Dom said.

  Matt took a flyer of the artist’s work-up out of a pocket, unfolded it and pushed it across the desktop to Santini. “That’s the hit man that you or your father hired to whack Lester Little. I doubt you’ve ever met him, but you need to know we have a lot on him. We even have his name. When he’s lifted, we’ll offer him a deal that he can’t and won’t refuse.” Matt was bluffing, but on a roll. “He probably makes tapes of all his calls. I’m sure he’ll want to cut himself some slack by selling you out.”

  Dom’s bland expression did not falter. He pushed the flyer back, after first motioning for Tiny to study it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Barnes,” he said. “You’re wasting my time. I’ve never seen this punk before in my life.”

  “I’m talking about give and take. You don’t need to have seen him to hire him. You heard the news about Pender?”

  “Who?”

  “C’mon, Dom. No need to act stupid. I’m not wired. DI Vic Pender. He topped himself last night, after giving me a call and¯”

  “Whatever he said to you is hearsay. Nothing you’ve got would count for shit in a courtroom,” Dom said. He clicked his fingers and Tiny went over to the bar and fixed him a drink. “Just get to the point. Why’re you here?”

  “I want this psycho off my back. Apart from the Page woman, only I could finger him. And he intends to make sure neither of us gets a chance to. I want to ensure he’s lifted or taken out. Every day he’s on the loose is a day too many. I can give you the address of where the woman is holed up. You can come through for him, and he’ll walk into a trap.”

  “No deal,” Dom said. “I don’t need anything from you. I hope you get capped. I did my homework, Barnes. You’re one of those hard-nosed cops on a mission. You want revenge for what went down at the bungalow. You’re sore physically and mentally, and you intend to make someone pay for the other filth who got taken out. Even your woman walked. You’re obsessed, Barnes. Why don’t you take fair warning and keep out of it? You might even want to consider a career change.”

  Matt didn’t bite. “Why
did you see me if you believe that?”

  “Curiosity. It pays to keep up with the opposition. You don’t have anything solid or you would have come in here mob-handed and bust me. And the last thing you would do is ask the people you believe to be responsible for what happened at Finchley to help you out. If I thought for a second you’d walked in here without backup, I’d have Tiny rip that crocked leg off and beat you to death with it.”

  The meeting was over. Tiny gripped Matt by the collar of his jacket and lifted him roughly to his feet.

  Matt reacted. He snatched at the huge hand that held him, peeled the middle finger back and jerked with all his strength. There was a dry twig crack as the digit snapped.

  Tiny screamed. Was forced down onto his knees, and silenced as Matt scythed him across the temple with the brass handle of the heavy cane. The giant made a faltering attempt to come up off the floor, so Matt swung the cane again and Tiny toppled sideways and stayed down. Blood sprayed onto the carpet from a deep scalp wound.

  Dom reached for the top drawer of his desk.

  “If you open that, I’ll put the end of this stick through your eye and poke out whatever crap is inside your skull masquerading as brains,” Matt hissed.

  Dom put his hands palm down on the desktop. “You’ll pay for this, Barnes. That’s a promise. If the hitter doesn’t get you, then we will.”

  “Don’t bank on it, Santini. You got it right when you said I was a loner on a mission. You and your no-good father have got the police, a deranged shooter and me on your case. One way or another you’re going down. And don’t expect me to play by the rules, or wait for you to make the moves. From the second I walk out of here, you’re on borrowed time. And if anyone even looks at me sideways on my way out, I’ll have this dump raided, and guarantee they’ll find enough dope to close you down.”

  “You don’t act like a cop, Barnes.”

  “I’ve always been a loose cannon, junior. I use what works to deal with scum like you.”

  “I’ll be sure to make time to drop by and piss on your grave, cop,” Dom said. “Because as the Yanks would say, you’re a dead man walking.”

  “Everybody dies, Santini. Just take a look at the photos on these walls. Then remember what happened to all the lowlife gangsters in them.”

  “Talk’s cheap, Barnes. You know that we’re like fucking Teflon, nothing sticks to us. We’re connected. It’s you that’s going down, and soon.”

  The car pulled up next to him as he limped along the pavement a hundred yards from Rocco’s.

  Tom leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he said.

  Matt manoeuvred himself into the car and lit a cigarette as Tom drove off.

  “Anything?”

  Matt hiked his shoulders. “He didn’t bite. But he took in every word. I don’t think I made any new friends.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The big black, Tyrell, manhandled me. I couldn’t sit back and let him abuse an invalid.”

  “You got in a tussle with that freak? He’s the best part of seven feet tall, and built like a fucking battleship.”

  “He didn’t look that big when I left him curled up and bleeding on Santini’s carpet.”

  “Jesus, Matt. Apart from beating the shit out of the help, did you learn anything?”

  “Yeah, that we may have another rat on the inside. I offered to give the spaghetti-sucker the address where Penny is holed-up. He wasn’t interested. That tells me he knows where she is.”

  “That’s Impossible.”

  “Is it, Tom?”

  “Yes. Apart from you, me and McClane, no one knows where we moved her to. And the cops guarding her are all outsiders.”

  “Do they expect to be hit?”

  “Yeah. I briefed them. They know the background. I told them it was almost a given that there would be a further attempt on her life. But I don’t believe it.”

  “I wish I was that confident.”

  “She’s safe, Matt.”

  “I daresay that’s what the Secret Service thought, right up until JFK got his brains blown out. Unless it was them that had him capped.”

  “I’m releasing the artist’s impression of the hitter to the media in the morning. With any luck, someone will recognise him and call it in.”

  Matt didn’t argue. They needed to use all they had, now. Events dictated the direction of an investigation. It might flush him out.

  “You want dropped off somewhere?” Tom asked.

  “Here will do.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want me to know where you’re staying?”

  “It means we could have a tail, Tom. No good me dropping out of sight, only to lead them straight to my door. You’ve got my mobile number.”

  Tom signalled and pulled into the kerb. “Don’t do anything without checking with me first, Matt. I’ve got the feeling you’re starting a one man war, and that’s bang out of order.”

  “I’ll call by the office in the morning,” Matt said. “I want to run through the autopsy reports on all the vics again.”

  Climbing out of the car, Matt walked away, leaning more heavily than ever on the cane. He felt as weak as a kitten. When his injuries healed up, he would have to get in the gym and work out. His muscles were going soft. He hadn’t been so out of condition in his life. He was a little frail, and didn’t like the feeling.

  I thought that you’d forgotten,” Beth said. She had fallen asleep in front of the television. The late movie was finished, and Jools Holland was now on, tinkling the ivories to produce a jazzed-up version of an old standard. She had hit the standby button on the remote and picked up the phone.

  “I just got back to my new digs,” Matt said. He was stretched out on top of the bed wearing nothing but his cast and a film of sweat. The air in the room was stuffy and hot, even with the window open. But he felt safe. The hair on the door had not been displaced, and his gun in exactly the position he had left it.

  “Did you meet with Santini?”

  “Yeah, he’s a poser. Diamond in his ear like the rock of Gibralter, wears his hair in a ponytail like Francis Rossi used to, and has a bad attitude.”

  “Francis who?”

  “You can’t be a Quo fan.”

  “Oh, him. I take it you didn’t hit it off with Santini.”

  “I ruffled his feathers. Only time will tell if it was worth it. He isn’t stupid. He acted dumb, but hung onto every word I said. I could almost see his brain racing.”

  “At least you got out in one piece.”

  “He would’ve loved to break my other leg, but held off. He didn’t buy that I was operating on my own. He’s not a very trusting soul.”

  “So it was uneventful?”

  “Yeah. Very civilised,” Matt said, not mentioning the altercation with Tiny.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I told you, in a small hotel off Tottenham Court Road. There’s no room service, TV, or air conditioning. But it has a bar, and the rates are cheap.”

  “Are you allowed room guests?”

  “Only the roaches.”

  “Is that a polite way of telling me I’m not welcome?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve got at least two parties who would use any leverage or anyone close to me to ruin my day, if not cancel it altogether. Just being seen with me could put you in real danger. You can meet me for coffee in Tom’s office in the morning, though. I plan to go through all the crime scene stuff again.”

  “Why? Nothing was recovered apart from a few bullets and casings that led nowhere.”

  “We might have missed something. And I haven’t even seen the reports on the nurse and patient who were shot at the clinic.”

  “Four eyes are better than two. I’ll look through it with you.”

  “Good. Bring some doughnuts.”

  “Doesn’t your hotel serve breakfast?”

  “No. It makes the ‘Y’ look like the Savoy.”r />
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I need a cigarette. Can I get one?” Jacob asked.

  Gary shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  They were sitting at a Formica-topped table in the kitchen. Jacob was trembling. He had Parkinson’s disease. His head shook from side to side as though he was perpetually denying something, and his fingers trembled like tree branches in a high wind. He fumbled a cigarette out of the pack, located it between his lips and then chased the end of it with the flame of his Bic lighter until the two met briefly and he was able to suck the cigarette alight. Simple tasks were becoming problematical. A large blister on the back of his hand was the result of pouring boiling water from kettle to teapot. Such was life.

  Jacob faced the masked man who was pointing a gun at his chest. It wasn’t lost on him that the gloved hand holding the pistol was rock steady. And all he could see of his assailant’s face were unblinking eyes. They were as black as the Balaclava he wore.

  “So talk to me, Jake. Is next door the same layout as this shithole?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I own it, and two others in the street.”

  “You must be raking it in. Why do you live in this poxy flat? Surely you can afford something upmarket.”

  “I’ve got everything I want here. I used to live out in the sticks in a big house with a swimming pool. Then, five years ago my wife, Alma, died. I sold the place and moved back here. I was born in this street. I thought I might as well die in it.”

  Gary nodded. He could relate to that. The little guy was older than he had first thought. Mid-seventies at a guess. He was bony. Looked how a live chicken felt when you picked one up. The string vest and boxer shorts he wore were old, grey, over washed, not dirty. His eyes were rheumy with deep purple pockets beneath them. And there was a bristly cyst the size of a golf ball under his chin, stretching the pale skin. Why wouldn’t he have it removed? Because he didn’t care.