A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  Kyle’s scalp prickled. He was on the money; had just rolled the dice and thrown lucky seven. The only missing piece of the jigsaw was Barnes. And it was no stretch to deduce what would go down. Beth Holder would be coerced into calling the cop and ensuring that he visit, alone. They say that love is blind. Kyle agreed. It was an emotion that fucked-up perfectly good brain cells and played havoc with commonsense. Being pierced by Cupid’s arrow could be a blessing or a curse; it had been the ruin of many men and women. Barnes would walk straight into deep shit, and be brought down by the power of love, and Noon.

  It was turning out to be a turkey shoot. He would wait for lover boy to arrive, let Noon take care of business, then lift the hitter when he left the building. Sometimes everything came together just right. Then again, it didn’t pay to be too brash. There was a flaw in his reasoning. He had personally never left the scene of a hit by the same route. Noon might also be good enough to cover all the bases. Surely his paranoid personality put him in an elite category. He would not discount any possible area of danger. Capping the mark was always only half of it. The job wasn’t a done deal until you were home free.

  Kyle decided that only by being on site and in total control of the unravelling chain of impending events, could he be sure of the outcome. It all rested on Barnes showing up. If he did, then Kyle would be able to gate crash the soiree and bring things to a satisfactory conclusion.

  * * *

  There was already one casualty inside Hawksworth House. Kyle had followed an elderly woman into the building the previous evening, slipping through the door before it could self-lock.

  Violet Fuller had survived World War Two, outlived three husbands, and was – despite chronic angina – still self-reliant and mobile at the age of eighty-eight.

  Violet shared her flat with three cats: Charity, Mrs. Beeton and Tabitha. And although not without a tidy sum of money (untouched and accruing interest in the local branch of the Nationwide), she was thrifty, using teabags several times before disposing of them, and regularly feeding herself with the same cheap, canned meat that she put down to her pets, having determined that if it was good enough for her babies, it was good enough for her. An austere upbringing had patterned Violet’s frugal nature. She had been born and raised within earshot of Bow bells, and was proud to be what she considered pure cockney. Harold Barnes, her father, had been a slaughterman; her mother, Constance, a skivvy to a local doctor. The only surviving child of eleven siblings, Violet had long since come to terms with the frangible nature of life. Knowing that she was on the last knockings of her tenure on God’s good earth was of little concern to her. Death was not an issue that she was unduly preoccupied with. She lived from one breath to the next, made no plans, and was reconciled to the fact that, as her late and only friend of recent years, Gladys Chalmers, (who had lived next door to her on the fourth floor) she would no doubt be the next tenant to be carried out in a box. My, they thought of everything, she mused. The lower section of the back wall in the lift had a hatch that could be unlocked and opened to facilitate a coffin being removed from the building in a dignified manner.

  All that concerned Violet was her beloved cats. She had made it clear in her will that they should be put to sleep after her passing. Mrs. Beeton was nineteen, a little arthritic, and slow to get going in the morning. Tabitha was only fourteen, but had a heart murmur. And Charity, the baby at ten, was highly strung, pining if Violet was away from home for more than an hour or two.

  Violet did not recognise the man who followed her into the lift. He was smartly dressed, middle-aged, and gave her a warm smile.

  “Which floor?” he asked.

  “Four, please, luv,” Violet answered, recognising the man’s accent as being American. Her first husband, Grant, had been an American from Monfort Heights, a district of Cincinnati in southern Ohio. Grant had been tall and good looking, especially in his uniform. For a few seconds, she was transported back to the forties, to the Tower Ballroom in Shoreditch. As many young women at the time, she had been fascinated by the Yanks, who all appeared to be so outgoing, full of confidence, and in possession of an endless supplies of milk chocolate and nylon stockings.

  Greg had a gravely, sexy voice, and the looks of Clark Gable, with his clipped moustache and strong features. She had been lost in his arms, with the local band – The Jimmy Dwyer Orchestra – playing Glen Miller music as the multifaceted, mirrored globe sparkled above them, revolving, casting magical dots of light on all below it.

  Violet had become part of the mini exodus of British girls who married GI Joes, to leave Blighty and start a new life across the Atlantic. Only after Grant had died from lung cancer in sixty-eight, after having smoked three packs of Salem a day for thirty-two of his forty-nine years, had Violet realised that, without children – which she was unable to bear due to an anomaly in her internal plumbing that could not be rectified – there was nothing to keep her in America. She sold up and returned, back to her roots, where she was to meet Charlie Palmer and settle to a more humble life as a shipping clerk’s wife. Charlie had handled his mid-life crisis badly, and was to fly the coop in nineteen-seventy-five with a waitress from a Kardomah coffee shop, that had – to her way of thinking – been a superior precursor of the modern-day Starbucks and the like.

  As Violet brought her last husband, Gerald, to mind, the familiar sound of the bell broke her reverie. The lift door slid open and she walked the ten paces to her flat’s door, to withdraw her key, insert it in the lock and open up, unaware of the American who was just a step behind her.

  As the door opened, Kyle gently manoeuvred the elderly woman through it and quickly closed it behind them. His only interest was in procuring her key card to the entrance door, though the theft would necessitate unavoidable collateral damage, by way of silencing its lawful holder.

  Deep pleats formed in a heavy frown on Violet’s mottled brow as she turned to face the intruder. “What do you want? Are you going to rob me?” she asked.

  Kyle gave her a reassuring smile, fighting the impulse to grimace as the acidic stench of cats’ piss assaulted him. The soles of his wingtips were sticking to the matted carpet. “What’s your name, lady?” he asked.

  “Violet,” she answered.

  The fishy smell of her breath backed him up two feet. “Well, Violet,” he said, after swallowing hard. “I’m not here to rob or harm you. I just need to borrow your key card to the outside door.”

  “So that you can burgle other residents?” Violet said, adopting a recalcitrant pose with her hands on her hips and her chin pushed up and out in defiance. “I don’t think so, young man.”

  “Jesus, lady! I was trying to do this in a civilised manner,” Kyle said, grasping her by a fleshy upper arm and bundling her through the apartment and into a bedroom.

  Violet felt bright anger blossom, which was replaced by fear as she was pushed roughly onto the bed. Charity and Mrs. Beeton growled, leapt down from the duvet and fled the room. Was he going to rape her? She was a very old woman, surely safe from sexual assault. But only last week there had been a report on the news of a pensioner in Romford – supposedly in secure, sheltered accommodation – being raped, then strangled.

  “Do you live here alone?” Kyle asked.

  Violet did not reply, but the look in her eyes was answer enough. That was all he needed to know. He had chosen wisely. It might be weeks before this reclusive old broad was found. He moved fast, straddling her, pulling a pillow down from the top of the bed to cover her face. He then drew his silenced gun, pressed it firmly up against the feather-filled linen covering and fired twice, putting two low-powered, soft-nosed slugs through her head.

  Violet jerked beneath him as though she had been plugged into an electric socket, and then went limp.

  He worked quickly, and within ten minutes had left the building with the means to re-enter safely stashed in his wallet behind the photograph of his wife’s and daughters’ smiling faces.

 
Violet could not have imagined in her wildest dreams of how her life would end. After dispatching her, Kyle had used two large, black garbage bags to encapsulate the body, taping them together to form an airtight covering, before placing the corpse into the chest freezer in the kitchen. The three cats were on top of their late owner, also bagged-up, their necks broken. He quite liked cats, but could not risk leaving them alive to howl and attract attention.

  Now, waiting for the cop to arrive, or for the man he believed to be Noon to leave, Kyle allowed himself to think of his family. He was a self-made man, who through his own enterprise and endeavour had become extremely wealthy; able to care for his wife and daughters in a manner that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He was the consummate hunter; a provider without equal in his chosen profession. He offered a service, and in common with Noon, had always delivered the goods. Pride supposedly cometh before a fall, but he could not help but feel a certain degree of amour propre. Had there been an official ranking system for contract killers, as there was for golfers, tennis players and the like, then he had no doubt whatsoever that he would have been at the very top of the list. Number one seed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  WHEN Tom and DS Pete Deakin arrived at Villa Venice, Paramedics were stretchering Nick out to the waiting ambulance.

  Tom hauled himself out of the car before Pete had brought it to a full stop, to run across and ask one of the medics what Nick’s condition was.

  “I’m gonna live, guv, thanks to Tiny,” Nick answered for himself, raising his head up from the gurney.

  “Tyrell?”

  “Yeah. He saw the light, blew Santini and another goon away, and then made the call for me. I said we could work out a deal for him, by way of appreciation.”

  “That’s enough,” a burly Paramedic said. “You have a man in shock here, who’s lost a lot of blood.” And with no further hesitation, Nick was transferred into the back of the ambulance, to be driven away with the vehicle’s lights flashing and the siren blaring.

  Tom and Pete entered the house to find Luther Tyrell sitting in the split-level lounge with four uniforms and a balding guy wearing a leather bomber jacket and blue jeans guarding him. The cop in civvies was a local DI, who in Tom’s estimation had watched far too many TV shows. He looked to be an over-the-hill Flying Squad type, who had been brought up on bile like The Sweeney, Starsky & Hutch, and The Professionals. His paunch, too-long hair – where it still grew over his collar at the back, to hang in uncombed tawdriness – and greying designer stubble made him look more like a biker, fairground worker, or Greenpeace activist.

  Tom beckoned him. “What can you tell me?” he asked the man, trying to ignore the fact that DI John Dale was noisily chewing gum.

  John removed the wad of gum, looked round for a waste bin, couldn’t find one, so fished a piece of grimy tissue from his pocket, wrapped the sticky glob in it and tucked it away. He grinned. “Try not to judge a book by its cover, guv,” he said in a crisp, Oxbridge accent. “I look like a nerd because of the assignment I’m on. My team was in the area, and attended the scene because we are armed.”

  Tom smiled. His expression had relayed his disdain of the other cop’s appearance. He resolved to mask his feelings better in future.

  “When we arrived,” John continued, “Man Mountain over there told me that there were two bodies in the basement, and that the guy with him, who was drifting in and out a bit, was an undercover cop.”

  “What have you done, so far?”

  “Confirmed that the two vics downstairs are dead, secured the scene, and informed the Home Office pathologist and Forensics that their presence would be greatly appreciated at the earliest convenience. We’ve rounded up all Santini’s men, who had been told by Tyrell to give it up and not start a fire fight.”

  “Good job,” Tom said as he walked over to where Tiny was sitting. “You one of the guys in white hats now, Luther?” he asked the black colossus.

  “Yeah, I saw the light. Ray, Nick, or whoever the fuck he is, was persuasive. Said it would be in my best interest to switch teams.”

  “So you capped your boss and one of your cohorts?”

  “Co what?”

  “One of your band of merry men.”

  “Santini was about to off the kitchen maid if the cop didn’t talk. Then he would’ve killed her baby before startin’ in on your guy again. I decided that enough was enough. Dom was on his way out. I just brought it to a head, to save unnecessary¯”

  “To try and save your own skin, Luther. Don’t try to lay it on me that you suddenly saw the error of your ways. I’m not about to buy a miraculous reformation. What else can you tell me?”

  “Not a lot with these bracelets on. I need a cigarette and some coffee,” Tiny said, flashing Tom a wide, toothy grin that brightened his oil-black face.

  Tom nodded. “Take them off,” he said, directing his order to the officer standing nearest to Tiny.

  DC Tony Kellett fumbled the keys from his pocket and obeyed. He believed that had the giant wanted to, he could have pulled the cuffs apart like Plasticine at any time. They barely encircled the man’s thick wrists, were on the last teeth of the ratchets, biting into the skin, and looked totally inadequate.

  “This way,” Tom said to Tiny, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering him one, which was drawn free by fingers that wrongly appeared too cumbersome to be capable of performing such a delicate task. “You make the coffee and tell me everything you know about Gary Noon.”

  As they entered the kitchen, Tiny bobbed his head down to accept a light from Tom’s Zippo, then went over to the central island to fill two mugs from a coffee maker.

  “Noon is one seriously dangerous motherfucker,” Tiny said, handing one of the steaming mugs to Tom. “The boss was scared shitless of him, especially after the old man was capped. Dom arranged for a stateside hitter to be flown in, not to waste him, but to take him alive. Dom wanted to deal with…Noon himself.”

  Tom picked up on the hesitation. “Him and who else?” he demanded. “Don’t hold out on me, Luther, or you’ll be as old as Nelson Mandela when you get to walk on the outside again.”

  “The cop, Barnes. Dom wanted the Yank to waste the cop, and to deliver Noon up for his personal attention.”

  “Who is this Yank?”

  “I don’t know. Only Dom met him. He came highly recommended from one of Frank’s business partners in New York. The boss told me that he was maybe in his mid-fifties and a real cold fish. Rumour is, he would hit the Pope, or the President of the United States if the payoff was right. He never fails to get the job done.”

  Tom reached for his mobile and punched-up Matt’s home number.

  “Barnes.”

  “It’s Tom. I’m out at Santini’s drum. What news do you want first, good or bad?”

  “Good,” Matt said.

  “Dominic Santini got whacked. Tyrell helped our man out of a tight spot by capping him and Falco.”

  “That’s music to my ears. What’s the downside?”

  “Not only is Noon after your bony arse. There’s another player. A Yank shooter who Santini flew in to find Noon and top you.”

  “Terrific. Do we know him?”

  “No. We don’t even have a description. All I’ve got is Tyrell’s word that he’s reputedly the best. He isn’t some young gun like Noon. We’ve got a real pro out there.”

  “No problem,” Matt said. “Once he knows that Santini is dead, he’ll be on the next plane home. He won’t fulfil a contract for a corpse who isn’t about to pay the balance of his fee.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ll ensure that Santini’s misfortune hits the late news, and call a press conference.”

  “Send a car over. I should be there.”

  “Not a chance. There’s nothing you can do. Stay put, where we have control of the situation.”

  “I feel like a coconut in a fucking shy, Tom. I have the feeling that
Noon will get to me if I sit back and do nothing.”

  “I don’t buy that. We have you covered. If he makes a move, we’ll take him.”

  “He doesn’t do what he’s expected to. And so far, no one who he made a play for has survived. He gets past any protection that’s set up.”

  “You’ve already survived him once. Just keep away from windows and sleep with your gun under the pillow. I’ll drop by later, when I’ve finished up here.”

  Out of habit, Beth looked through the peephole. Marion’s moon face was close up to the other side of it, and looked wider and slightly grotesque beyond the distorted magnification of the fisheye lens.

  Slipping off the security chain, Beth opened the door. “Come in,” she said, before realising that Marion was not alone.

  Gary pushed Marion forward, closed the door behind him and pointed the business end of the Glock at Beth.

  Beth could not move. Her muscles locked up on her as she appraised and struggled to come to terms with the immediate situation. There was a choice of reasons why Marion would have led Noon to her; either out of fear, under threat, or because she was willingly aiding and abetting the deranged thrill killer. The pained expression of guilt on Marion’s face gave Beth her answer. She was Noon’s accomplice, lending him her unfailing allegiance.

  “You’re worse than him,” Beth said as Marion looked down at her shoes, unable to face the woman who had held out the hand of friendship to her.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Gary said. “Go and sit down before I knock you on your cute arse.”

  Beth found her legs, backed up into the lounge, unable to take her eyes off the black hole at the end of the gun’s silencer. When her calves met the front of the settee, she fell back off balance, but sat up quickly to perch on the edge, her back straight and hands on the cushions at her sides for support.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  Gary stepped forward and lashed out, to whip her head round as the cold steel smashed into her cheek.