A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1)

by Frank Westworth

  ‘I do believe that I called you – after many hours failing to make a connection – to warn you that this was more than just a possibility. That Harding may consider you to be responsible in some way and that I was concerned. Both for your wellbeing and for the possibility that he might be wrong and might act precipitously. Although I should also say that I have no doubt that you would be able to look after yourself should there be a conflict. Unless a long gun was involved. Harding is an excellent shot. First class.’

  ‘You would know, I’d imagine? You’ve employed him?’ There may have been a little bitterness in Stoner’s question.

  ‘Not directly. Not recently. But I have respect for his abilities. As I’m sure you do too. If it’s worth anything, I’m pleased you’ve sorted it out. Should I assume that you’re working together?’

  ‘Assume away. Assume what you want to assume. There’s one big fat fuck of a lot more to this. That you’re not talking to me is a loud shout in itself. You’re not interested in finding a killer. Plods can do that. What’s going on? What are you actually after?’

  ‘Eat up.’ The Hard Man continued chewing. Stoner looked at his plate, as if noticing it for the first time.

  But the Hard Man offered an answer. ‘I don’t know all of it. And I can’t tell you all of what I do know. It’s not riddles. Any operative needs direction. You don’t need me to tell you that. You’ve run enough operators in your time. It can too easily be that too much information gets in the way of finding the truth.

  ‘And the truth I want you to find is – you were wrong about this – the identity of the madman who is killing these johns. That has to be enough for you. From that point on, others further up the food chain will make decisions. They may or may not involve me, and I may or may not involve you. You should know that there is a lot of flapping. There’s no panic. There is concern at levels which concern me. Political levels, which is always bad news. I don’t know who, but I do know why. Or rather, I can guess why.

  ‘It’ll be a loss of control. A wobble in the established order of how things work. I’d lay odds on that. Maybe a shift in loyalties somewhere behind doors so closed that they’re more solid walls than French windows. Even if I did know more than that – and all I have is suspicion – I’d not willingly tell you more because it could hamper your judgement, impair your sense of direction. Things like that. It might also lay you open to easy identification by parties I’d rather remained unaware of your involvement. If that happened, then you might face rival recruitment, which would be bad, or removal from the field, which could be disabling or fatal. Which would also be bad.

  ‘It feels like the manoeuvring of a private army. I’ve got no problems with that; many of us have our own private armies. It’s usually the easiest way to get things done in these dark days when everyone sits on a committee and everyone sat on that committee reports to another committee, and everyone on those committees reports to another committee. It gets utterly inefficient. Which is what it’s for. It’s all a huge, expensive and insane control and check on everything, accidentally intended to prevent anything actually happening. Like major wars, cleansings both ethnic and otherwise, genocides, mass destructions, nuclear annihilation and the unpalatable understanding by Joseph Q. Public that none of it actually matters and that the whole world is run by big companies anyway, leaving government by media as a palatable and allegedly accountable fairy-tale front. Which is as it should be.

  ‘Where was I? Is any of this actually any use to you? I doubt it. I tend to believe that information only clouds the thinking. There’s a struggle going on somewhere. There always is. There’s no need for me to know who’s involved and why and where. There never is. Can you ever believe that I might actually be helping you to help me? Does it ever occur to you that it is in my own interest for you to be successful? Why are you always so fucking paranoid?

  ‘Guinea fowl’s good, isn’t it? Why is some maniac filming these dead heads and posting them on that sicko site? Why is the same maniac murdering people who I can find no sensible connection between and chopping off their dicks? I could almost have understood keeping them as trophies. I can see the appeal in that. There are a few gentlemen whose detached dicks I would happily keep in the freezer so I could laugh at them from time to time when things were feeling just too fucking serious, but . . . chopping them off and flushing them down the lav? That’s a bit extreme. Why’s he doing it?

  ‘These questions are much more interesting and involving than the machinations of self-deluding pensioners desperate to retain their grips on power, office or whatever they think they’re doing. Or should we swap jobs? You stand well back, be uninvolved, do nothing but seek patterns in the famous big picture, while I go digging in the dirty detail looking for actual, tangible, provable facts. That would make a refreshing change, as cider drinkers say on telly.’

  He resumed chewing with obvious relish and looked across at Stoner, who was prodding at his food with the air of a man who’s just realised that he’s guest of honour at his own last supper.

  Stoner was feeling familiarly resigned to his lack of progress. ‘There is no getting a straight answer from you, is there? Can I ask some questions and will you answer them with a simple yes or no?’ To his surprise, the Hard Man nodded, waved his cutlery in what appeared to be an encouraging manner.

  ‘Do you have any idea who the killer actually is? If so, that knowledge could save me a lot of dicking around.’

  ‘No. Simple answer.’

  ‘Do you know who’s behind it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have suspects?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you share this with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  ‘There is no yes/no answer to that, my keen, impetuous but grammatically challenged friend. And that was the deal. Any more questions?’

  ‘Is Harding working for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who he is working for?’

  ‘No. But before you ask again, yes I do think I know, but if I’m correct in my thinking, that information could seriously impair your own work, would cloud your vision when it needs to be clear, and might send you off down roads to nowhere. Would certainly waste a lot of time, yours and mine. However, if it helps, I’ll guarantee to tell you should I get proof. And if I think it’s in our joint best interests. OK?’

  ‘Are you aware that there are two sets of murders running in parallel?’ Stoner sat back and watched for any signs of impact. The Hard Man stopped chewing for a moment, then resumed.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Parallel? I’m aware that there may be other bodies in this sequence of which I am as yet unaware. But parallel? What do you mean by that?’

  Stoner ignored the question. Asked another instead. ‘Do you genuinely know of no connection between the dead heads?’

  ‘No. The very fact that they are so completely unconnected is what worries me the most. I can see no pattern in it. If it was just some nameless nutter extracting a terrible revenge from a society that hates him . . . I could live with that, but our employers would not care about that at all, so we would not be employed. The lack of connection is the key to this. I think so, anyway. Find the connection and we can all retire to Barbados and watch the cricket. If you’re not eating that bird, pass it over and I will. It’s too good to waste.’

  Stoner stared at his plate with distaste, then stood up. ‘I’ve had enough; you eat it. This just goes around in circles. We’re getting nowhere sitting here chewing chunks of undernourished, overpriced chicken. I’m off to the club to make some noise. I’ll leave the cell connected unless I’m feeling paranoid about it, and if that happens I’ll leave a message for you. That OK?’

  ‘It’ll have to be. How did you find out about the last killing, by the way?’

  Stoner ostentatiously checked for eavesdroppers and whispered; ‘Elementary, my dear fellow. Elementary.’

  Both m
en laughed aloud. A surprisingly happy ending to what should have been a more difficult conversation.

  ‘Nice evening for a walk, Mr Stoner,’ the Hard Man sounded almost avuncular. ‘Enjoy the air, and keep an eye on those dark doorways.’

  22

  IT HURTS ME TOO

  ‘I’d do anything to play in your band, Mr Stoner.’ The chubby young woman had been hovering around the stage like a lost soul for the entire evening. ‘Anything. Absolutely anything.’ She gazed at him, eyes wide in lonely appeal. Bili rolled her eyes, grinning from behind the supplicant, pointlessly but with pleasure tuning and re-tuning her bass.

  ‘It doesn’t really work like that.’ Stoner’s mental processing was preoccupied more with murder than with music; badness real rather than recalled and turned into song. ‘We’re not a band, as such. It’s certainly not my band. We’re just a clump of guys, y’know? We mainly turn up and play, as and when. The house band, Mellow, that’s a real band. We’re more . . . y’know . . . ad hoc. More of a loose jam kind of thing. Mellow are good, really good. They learn numbers and rehearse and everything you’d want. And they play a lot. Do you want an intro? I can do that. What’s your name? What do you play? Hey! You any good?’ He beamed encouragement.

  Bili beamed right back over the young woman’s head. ‘It’s a fan!’ she mouthed, rolling her wide eyes.

  ‘Oh. Mellow? Yeah, they’re OK. They’re good enough, but they’re not . . . ahh . . . special like you guys. You guys really do make it work. It’s just . . . it’s like it calls out to me. Makes me want to play too. It’s like . . . when I hear you guys getting really into it . . . really deep into it, and especially you, Mr Stoner, on the guitar, then I want to play it too. I work the saxophone. Tenor, alto. It would fit right in. Would blow side by side with your guitar, Mr Stoner. When you solo’d on “It Hurts Me Too” in your first set I knew I’d have to ask if I could audition or jam or join in or whatever. Your playing gets right inside me. I think you’d know what I mean when you hear me play. I’d pick up your lines, harmonise. You make your phrasing work in a way that would work on the sax, I think.

  ‘Really. I’m not pushy. I don’t mean to be pushy. It’s just, I dunno, it’s just that I’ve never met anyone who plays the guitar like it’s a sax before. It really digs into me. I really would do anything you want if you’d let me play. Anything. Just say what.’ She wound down, eyes wide, hoping for encouragement. Stoner stared at her. Bili had ambled off to conspire with Stretch by the piano.

  ‘OK. Couple of things. Like I said, it’s not really a band, in the formal sense that you seem to think it is . . .’ He was floundering a little. ‘We just . . . know each other really well and we’ve played together forever, so we don’t rehearse like most bands do, so they can get to know each other. We just come together here when it’s right. The others do more gigs than me, but I . . . I work a lot of evenings so I don’t get a lot of chances to learn many new numbers, so we mainly stick to blues we all know . . .’

  ‘Oh yes! I can see how it works. Couple of guys told me all about how your band plays, and how you stick to a pretty short list of numbers in the set, and that you don’t ever play the same thing twice. I’d love to try that. I can play lots of stuff, from formal jazz to bebop, and I think that some trad alto phrases would work just perfectly into the way you play. Your solo in “It Hurts Me Too” just made my lips and fingers twitch. I could pile a whole extra layer onto that. Couple of run-throughs to sort out the timing, your approach to scales, this that this that, and . . . it would be brilliant.’

  ‘I’m sure it would.’ Stoner looked up, seeking help. Chimp waved, obligingly, from the bar. Bili pointed her eyebrows at the lights overhead. ‘Hey, look. I’m getting the evil eye from the others. Looks like they want to play some more. Could chat about it later if you’re around. Before the last act? What’s your name, anyway?’

  ‘That would be great. Great. Amanda. I’m Amanda. Do you do requests?’

  Stoner paused on his way to his stool, stage left. Looked back. ‘I don’t usually choose the numbers. Bili on the bass usually decides what she fancies singing. I play it if I know it. You got a request, best ask Bili. She does bite, so look out!’

  He grinned, and Amanda duly grinned in reply, headed off to speak to Bili the Bass. Who listened to her, smiled. Looked across the stage to Stoner. Stuck out her tongue at him. Fingered a third-fret G on her bass’s bottom string, dropped the string to sound the open E. Hit that note twice, left it ringing. Fretted the G to E sequence twice in slow succession then hit that bottom E twice again. Looked at Stoner.

  Who nodded, fell into the tune, adding part-chords to Bili’s grumbling, mumbling bass. He switched to the Stratocaster’s bass pick-up, his little finger wound the tone control down to dull so the clicking of the bass strings cut staccato through the muted guitar chords as Bili stalked her microphone.

  ‘The night fell a spoonful of diamonds . . .’

  Stoner’s Stratocaster coughed a sliding chord.

  ‘The night fell a spoonful of gold . . .’

  A cluster of minor harmonics sang from the guitar.

  ‘Just a little spoonful of your precious love . . .

  ‘. . . satisfies my soul.’

  And Bili growled out her take on Willie Dixon’s most famous ballad, her eyes laughing at Stoner while Amanda swayed on her feet in front of the audience, staring at her very own personal guitar hero. Who delivered a succession of steady workmanlike single-verse solos until after the third sung verse, when Bili stepped back from the microphone and Stoner fingered the Fender into its most abrasive, sax-impersonating throaty roar and improvised on the two-note, two-chord Spoonful theme for maybe a half hour before resting back on his stool, muting the loud red guitar and letting Bili wind up the single-song set.

  Before his newest and greatest lifelong fan could reach him, and while the applause was still gathering strength, Stoner hopped from the stage and headed fast for the bar. He snagged the key to the club’s upstairs apartment from the fingers of the ever-aware barman. ‘My next is a weak beer, Chimp, my last is on its way back to the ocean!’ And, almost laughing with the appreciation of the back-slapping audience, he ran the short stairs to the apartment and its private facilities.

  As is the case with many basement clubs, the Blue Cube’s owner also owned the rest of the building, and the overground levels contained a decently-sized apartment, most often used for visiting musicians or other guests of the club. The apartment also offered a little personal privacy for performers and their guests, should they prefer to pee in peace, away from the stares of the well-meaning.

  Stoner unzipped and took aim, humming disconnected guitar jottings as he awaited the flow and the relief.

  ‘Great solo, Mr Stoner.’

  The voice was close beside him. He sighed. Gazed ahead and waited for the interrupted flow. Which, inconveniently, declined to arrive. He sighed again, more loudly.

  ‘Let me . . .’

  A chubby female hand reached around and took hold of him. He stood still, concentrating on breathing steadily, silently; on the pattern of the wallpaper. The hand squeezed, gently; ‘Come along now. There’s a good boy,’ and stroked while squeezing some more. The inevitable erection overtook Stoner’s close inspection of the tiling, fascinating though that was, and the urge to piss retreated. The hand was dextrous, too, reaching inside Stoner’s pants to the base of his cock, squeezing firmly then running that squeeze out to the tip, which swelled and purpled obligingly, doubling both his urges while satisfying neither.

  A face appeared at waist level, an eye winked at him. Lips moistened and she drooled spittle onto the end of his cock. Licked her lips again and muttered ironic encouragement; ‘Come along, you know what to do, little chap.’

  Searing genius wit is never easy at times like this, and Stoner was rarely interested in appearing cool anyway, so he felt mixed feelings as the first pale yellow drips hit the bowl. ‘Thanks,’ he managed as the flow improved.r />
  Amanda pulled herself between Stoner’s cock and its target, hoovering his cock into her mouth with impressive speed and drinking fast from it. Almost as fast as he peed, she drank. Impressive stuff. If messy, because capable though she was, his flow was initially uncontrolled and overflow was inevitable. But she swallowed heroically and with apparent relish; he eventually controlled his output, and balance was maintained until his seas were dried up. He looked down and raised both eyebrows, unusually at a loss for words at this point. The world of the gigging musician is always unusual; this was faintly extraordinary even by those standards.

  Words came instead from Amanda, who removed cock from mouth long enough to suggest that she recalled that men’s personal prongs could perform more than one function, and remarked that his appeared to be up for further exercise at this point, as indeed was unarguably the case. He nodded, words still strangely absent.

  ‘Control of the reed is key to getting a decent sound from a sax,’ Amanda observed, running her tongue under Stoner’s personal instrument to demonstrate her point. He leaned back against the wall; stared imploringly at the ceiling. There are many points of no return in a man’s life, and he could feel another of them fast approaching.

  ‘Umm . . .?’ he managed, with a faint hoarseness.

  She played her tongue on the fleshy purpling reed with visible amusement, contrived to grin while squeezing him with her lips. Being the perfect gentleman, Stoner of course exaggerated his delight. Being a perfect lady, Amanda removed tongue from cock to suggest that the saxophone analogy could perhaps be replaced with something more flute-like, where the sound is produced by blowing across the hole nearest the end of that other brazen instrument. She once again demonstrated her prowess at this curious musical technique using the increasingly rigid instrument to hand.

  ‘Accurate fingering is crucial, though, particularly while extemporising,’ she announced, managing to simultaneously squeeze and rub the shaft in demonstration. Combining her manual skills with the tongue technique and breathy blowing had by now reduced Stoner’s world to a tiny place indeed. Maybe a dozen cubic inches contained all of it. He was considering neither music nor metaphor. Sex was all. Pure physical delight. The whole world contained just two folk propped in a bathroom above a club from which the steady bass beat provided an eccentric persistent background sound. She sucked, rubbed, squeezed, blew . . . he leaned, weak-kneed, and groaned a little. Hardly a fair division of duties, but currently acceptable to both.