A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  “I told you to shut up,” he said. “That means, keep your fucking lips zipped unless I ask you something. You know what I want, Doctor. You’re supposedly the smart bitch who worked up a profile on me, so you know exactly what I’m capable of, and where I’m coming from. I strongly suggest that you try very hard not to upset me. You really wouldn’t want to see me lose my temper.”

  Now lying on her side, Beth stayed in that position. Her face burned, and she could feel the skin tightening as the bruised flesh beneath it began to swell.

  Gary tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants, and then withdrew a roll of duct tape. Within seconds he had secured Beth’s arms behind her back, bound at the wrists. He then grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her upright, back into a sitting position. Sitting next to her, he grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted it, bringing her face up and sideways to meet his gaze.

  “You’re going to phone Barnes,” he said. “You’ll tell him to get over here, by himself. Right?”

  Beth shook her head. “Wrong,” she replied. “His house is under surveillance. He can’t move without being seen by a dozen armed police.”

  “He’ll improvise and find a way to cut loose. You need to tell him that Marion is here, and that she knows where I am, but will only talk to him.”

  Beth jerked her head back and broke his hold. “If you believe for one second that I’m going to help you murder Matt, then you’re a lot more unbalanced than I thought.”

  Gary smiled. “Ah, the voice of true love. Your protestations are commendable, but I promise you, you will call him. The only choice you’ve got is, whether you do it before I cut off your nipples or put one of your come-to-bed eyes out. Think about it. Do you really want to be mutilated and blinded before you beg to do whatever I say?”

  Beth searched the black pools of Noon’s eyes. There was no expression in them. They held all the emotion of a reptile’s impassive stare. The unblinking, soulless orbs were devoid of all humanity. She knew with utter conviction that this was an individual who was capable of any act, however depraved. But as he talked, she devised a way to warn Matt. He was a match for Noon, knew his capacity, and was trained to deal with extreme situations; sometimes finding it necessary to take life without compunction. On one level, the two men shared the same faculty to inflict extreme violence, though Matt’s was reserved wholly for use against individuals such as Noon, who threatened the sanctity that law-abiding citizens had a right to expect.

  “Well?” Gary snarled. “Which way do you want to play it, Doc? Are you going to call Supercop, or give me the pleasure of doing things to you that would make dying seem like a dream come true?”

  “I...I’ll do whatever you say,” Beth replied, allowing tears to flow, and for her shoulders to slump in resignation, assuming a posture of defeatism to present him with the outward appearance of a vanquished spirit. Her vocational training and experience of patients/criminals with personality disorders was a boon to the predicament she now found herself in. He expected to be feared, and would believe that she was psychologically cowed by his threats; just so much putty in his hands to shape in whatever way he wished.

  “That’s better,” he said, visibly relaxing as he intimated to Marion that he wanted her cell phone. “What’s his number?”

  Beth told him.

  “Okay. Before I make the call, be advised that if I think you’re trying to warn him, I’ll peel and core you like an apple. Be very, very careful Dr. Holder, or all he’ll find here is cuts of raw meat.”

  Marion had listened, standing unmoving as the man she had believed she was in love with conversed with Beth. To see the pleasure that even the act of just issuing verbal threats gave him, sickened her. Watching Gary terrorise Beth led to her doubting his feelings toward her, and to regret her participation in what was to be the slaughter of innocent people. He had used her once; blackmailed her with the video of their lovemaking. Was he still manipulating her? She now thought so. Rationality kicked-in with a vengeance, and with a fresh perception as bright and shiny as a new penny, she saw Gary for the rotten, twisted killer he was: A user, who with calculated determination took life for wanton pleasure to feed and pacify some inner demon. She had allowed herself to believe his hollow words; to revel in their energised and frenzied lovemaking, and to be duped and to suspend belief, denying the reality of the situation. He had generated an upheaval of her emotions. But in the final analysis, she was not like him and never could or would be. He was a drug, like heroin, that she had craved for and could not get enough of, but was now ready to give up, recognising it for what it was. She knew that the killing would not stop with Beth and Barnes. Maybe he also planned to murder her before the night was out. She had put her trust in a monster whose only concern was selfish, perverse gratification. He did not have the capacity to love, only hate. She believed that he was consumed by mental agony, and killed in an unachievable attempt to lessen the pain. He was an incorrigible sociopath.

  A vivid image sprang into Marion’s mind. In it, Beth and the cop were both dead, and Gary was naked, laced with their blood. She was beneath him on the carpet, being taken. He was growling like some wild beast, and as he spent himself, he slashed her throat open. She watched in horror as her lifeblood jetted out and up to paint his already crimson face. Was it a premonition of a possible near future? Maybe. Maybe not. She remembered that her Aunt Pamela – dead for over ten years now – had sometimes felt forebodings that she took notice of. Way back in ‘74, Pamela became aware that on numerous occasions, when she glanced at clocks, the time would be 7.47 a.m. or p.m. She cancelled a flight out of Heathrow on the strength of what she considered to be a portent, and the Jumbo jet she had been due to catch, a 747, crashed shortly after takeoff, barely missing the centre of Staines as it fell from the sky into a field. There had been no survivors. Pamela always insisted that instinct or premonitions should not be ignored. Marion determined not to let this episode play out, and by doing so risk being too late to modify unfurling events. The thought of trying to somehow stop Gary was enough to cause a hard ball of fear to form in the pit of her stomach. Had she the will, or the ability to intervene? Only time would tell.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Gary asked. “You look as if you’re about to throw up or pass out.”

  Panic closed her throat and threatened to suffocate her. Somehow, she took a breath. “I’m just a little scared, that’s all, Gary.”

  “No need to be, darlin’. We’ll soon be finished up here and on our way. Just keep focused on us, what we have, and the future we’ll enjoy together. Nothing else matters.”

  She nodded and forced a smile.

  Gary went to her and kissed her on the lips. “Why don’t you go and make some coffee while the good doctor makes her phone call?”

  Marion appreciated the excuse to leave the room. Beth’s ice-cold stare was too much to bear. In it was a melange of hatred, accusation, disappointment, and above all, abject fear.

  Once by herself in the kitchen, a small seed of anger germinated in her mind and grew into a controlled rage to consume much of her own state of trepidation. If possible, she would intercede on Beth’s and the cop’s behalf to prevent another atrocity from taking place. Her dreams of a new life with Gary were now in disarray. It was as if she were recovering from a debilitating fever, to finally regain her senses. How could she have been so easily taken in by him? She filled and switched on the kettle, found mugs and instant coffee, and opened the top drawer of a floor unit to view the contents as potential weapons. Let her fingers play over several knives, but ignoring them, selected and withdrew a crosshatched, metal steak hammer, which she tucked into the back of her jeans, pulling the thick sweater she wore down over it.

  Gary tapped in the number and held the phone to Beth’s ear so that she could hear the ringing tone. She mentally rehearsed what she would say to Matt. She had to warn him without alarming Noon.

  “Barnes.”

&n
bsp; “It’s Elizabeth, Matt,” she said. “I’ve got a visitor who you need to speak with.”

  There was a pause.

  “Where are you?” Matt asked.

  “At home. Marion Peterson is with me. She didn’t tell us everything. She thinks she knows were Noon might be holed-up.”

  “Put her on.”

  “No can do. She won’t talk over the phone in case my calls are being monitored. She doesn’t want to be officially involved. Thinks it would put her at risk. Can you come to my place, by yourself?”

  “Why is she acting like Mata Hari?”

  “In case you don’t catch him. She’s terrified of the man. Can you blame her?”

  “Okay. I’ll try to slip my minders. I may be a while.”

  “Make it soon. She may change her mind if she has too long to think about it.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Good. I’ll open a bottle of your favourite white wine.”

  “Sounds good.” Matt hung up. His mental early warning system went to red alert. He knew that Beth was in danger and had been forced to make the call, which led him to believe that Noon was with her. Was there an alternative? No. She had said: ‘It’s Elizabeth’. He had never heard her use her full Christian name before. And he didn’t have a favourite white wine. She knew he preferred red. He remained standing as still as a statue for a few seconds, brain racing, considering his options. By the book, he should report to Tom. But Beth’s life was on the line. He was not prepared to put her at greater risk by having control of the situation taken away from him. Noon would not respond favourably to any attempt at negotiation, or the threat of armed incursion. If he felt vulnerable, he would not hesitate to kill Beth and the Peterson woman, if the nurse was even at the flat.

  He had to improvise. The ball was in his hands, and he intended to run with it. An image of Noon harming Beth sprang into his mind. She would be terrified, hoping against hope. But she would remain outwardly calm. She was trained to communicate with disturbed individuals. She knew what Noon was capable of; what triggers to pull to placate him. Black fury and a sense of unfettered outrage chilled his heart. If Noon had touched a hair of Beth’s head, he would allow the violence brimming within him to overflow. Hate had its place. It was a powerful fuel if channelled properly. He was now prepared and eager to shoot Noon dead on sight. Part of his heart was as cold and hard as stone. All that he now cared about was in danger of being lost to him. If Beth did not survive, then he was finished. This was literally do or die, with no ambiguity. He drew his Beretta as he schemed. Ejected the magazine and once again satisfied that it was fully loaded, relocated the clip into the butt, smacked it home with the heel of his hand, jacked a round into the chamber and slipped the gun back into the holster. He found some comfort in the power that the weapon gave him. All he needed was the chance to use it. The time for inaction was behind him. If he was to have any hope of saving Beth, then he would have to suppress the swelling madness that threatened to overflow and diminish logical thought. He and Beth had already shared experiences to produce good, sweet memories. But he wanted many more. He could not properly imagine the world now without her in it. Fuck! Sentimentality would not get the job done. He bit soft flesh on the inside of his cheek, hard, and sustained the pressure and let the pain centre him. He needed to be in full cop mode.

  Moving as fast as his lameness would allow, Matt went through to the kitchen, unlocked the door to the integral garage and, without switching on the overhead light, found a rusted, web-shrouded hacksaw that hung among other hand tools on nails he had hammered into the timber uprights on first moving into the house.

  Back in the kitchen, he lifted his left leg up and placed it on a chair, as if it was an object separate from him, not his own plaster-encased limb.

  As he sawed, the effort caused sweat to pop on his scalp and forehead. Beads broke free from his hair to run into his eyes and down his unshaven cheeks. More dripped through his eyebrows. Squeezing his eyelids shut to expel the stinging, briny rivulets, he slowly, carefully sawed around the hard cast, level with his knee. The teeth bit through the tough mould of bandage and plaster of Paris, and as he laboured, the seat of the chair and the floor around it became covered in a fine, white layer of gypsum. Gingerly, he bent his leg for the first time in several weeks. His knee complained with a loud, defiant crack, but soon settled as he gently eased the joint back and forth. Given time, he would have removed the bottom half of the cast, but time was now in short supply. Instead, he went back into the garage, found a pair of pincers and used them to nibble chunks from the cast at the back of his knee, to allow his leg more flexibility.

  Ten minutes later he was dressed and ready to go. He edged along the narrow space in the garage between the wall and the Discovery, with only the dim light from the open kitchen door to see by. After climbing into the 4x4, he sat behind the wheel, readied himself, and then turned the cold engine over and waited for it to warm. He could not risk stalling, or his Heath Robinson plan would be in tatters before it was implemented.

  The thick plaster sole of the cast made him feel as though he had a club foot. He likened the prospect of using it, to a surgeon trying to perform a delicate operation wearing oven gloves.

  Taking deep breaths, Matt concentrated, staring at his own gaunt reflection in the windscreen, which was illuminated by the weak light radiating through from the kitchen. He pressed the remote to activate the up-and-over door, and flooring the accelerator, left the garage like a bat out of hell. The bottom edge of the rising door scraped along the roof of the vehicle with the squeal of fingernails on a blackboard as the tyres laid down rubber on the concrete floor.

  Into second gear, over steering, he hit a wheelie bin which went down like a ninepin, spewing its bagged contents out to split open and litter the pavement. He almost lost control, shooting out of the drive to fishtail across the road and come within an inch of sideswiping a neighbour’s Rover. He somehow straightened out of the skid, gunned the engine and was in third gear doing fifty, praying that nobody stepped out into the road between parked cars.

  “Yeesss!” he hissed, using side streets to make a clean getaway, heading east from Harrow to throw fellow police off the scent.

  Ten minutes later, he was cruising on the speed limit, headlights now on as he sped west in the general direction of Richmond Park.

  The officers watching his house would have been caught cold. They were geared-up to expect an assault on it by a lone gunman, not a Steve McQueen, Bullitt-style escape by the cop they were safeguarding.

  Matt knew that by the time his registration was put out, after the team leader had first contacted Tom for new orders, he would be at Beth’s place in Roehampton. It had now come down to one-on-one. At some point, very soon, a split-second of action would determine who lived and who died.

  It was a warm, muggy night, and yet Matt felt chilled to the marrow as he switched off the ignition key and the engine noise was replaced by a cloying silence. He waited a minute to settle and gather his wits, before climbing out of the Discovery and walking across the car park to the bright yellow rectangle of Hawksworth House’s entrance, praying that he was up to the task. Any worthwhile future depended on him being able to function efficiently to his limit, and beyond. If there was a God, then he needed His company now, to give him the courage to be strong, and the ability to prevail over the evil that was waiting for him, manifested as Gary Noon.

  Wiping clammy hands on the sides of his pants, he reached out to press the button that would connect him to Beth’s intercom. His tremulous finger stopped a hairsbreadth from its destination.

  “Do it!” he whispered, and depressed it with a hard jab.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “HE did what?” Tom shouted into his phone.

  “He did a runner, guv,” DS Dick Shaw repeated, wincing against the volume of the DCI’s voice and jerking the cell away from his ear.

  “How?” Tom aske
d.

  “Came out of his garage like a champagne cork and was gone in seconds.”

  “His leg’s in fucking plaster, for Christ’s sake. Are you sure it was Barnes driving?”

  “Yeah, we eyeballed him. No doubt. And there was no one else in the vehicle, unless they were in the rear and keeping well down, which is impossible, because no one but Barnes was in the house.”

  “Check the house anyway, and have any incoming calls he’s received traced. He must have been contacted.”

  “What do you think he’s up to, guv?”

  “Mystic Meg, I’m not,” Tom said caustically before ending the call. He slammed the mug he was holding down onto the tabletop with such force that the handle snapped off. Punched up Matt’s mobile number. Not available. This was a totally unacceptable fuck-up of a situation. There were loose cannons in the shape of Noon, the Yank shooter, and now Matt, all trigger-happy and looking to blow the living shit out of each other. Tom kept arriving at scenes after the event, with only bodies to greet him. Not true! He had Luther Tyrell. And Nick Marino had survived.

  Tom turned his attention to the granite-faced Goliath. “We need to contact Noon or the imported hitter, Luther,” he said.

  Tiny appreciated being called by his proper name. It made him feel like a real person, not a goon with an infantile nickname. “Not possible,” he said, frowning. “Dom didn’t know how to run Noon down, or he would’ve had him taken out. And the Yank’s a phantom.”

  “How did Santini contact him, then?”

  “Through a New York mobster. Benny Andretti.”

  “You got this Andretti guy’s number?”

  “It’ll be on the computer. Carlo dealt with all the technical stuff.”

  Tom sighed. It was something. Luther led him upstairs to where Carlo had the hardware set up. Tom wasn’t going to mess with it. He rang Computer Crime Section and was pleased to find Kenny Ruskin still on duty.