A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1)

by Frank Westworth

  The cabinets were fireproof, too, which had seemed like a good idea until he thought about it during another unwelcome period of inaction. If the tasty combination of motor oils, fuels, wood and plastics which packed the buildings did indeed go up in flames, would it not be good to know that the prized guitars were safely stored in flameproof steel cabinets? Superficially, perhaps, but if the temperatures rose high enough to wipe out the buildings, the guitars would surely suffer. It would most likely be a challenge to extract the most rudimentary of blue notes from large lumps of charcoal.

  Procrastination is an undervalued virtue in men whose nature is to react suddenly and often with violence. There are plenty of times when action itself is probably the least sensible course of action. But men of action are notoriously and properly admired for their ability to leap feet-first into risky situations, caring not a damn for the dangers which might be involved. This is how they die. Or, worse, how they become seriously injured and cause the deaths of others, sometimes innocent others. Stoner’s experience of life had confirmed this truth to him, hence his tendency, when all about him were losing their heads, to immerse himself in the subtleties of his music or in the delights of maintaining and riding his motorcycles. Others of his acquaintance in similar occupations indulged in recreational pharmacy to calm their nerves, which were then so dulled that they failed at their tasks, often fatally, when the need for action became suddenly imperative.

  He removed the guitar from its case. This particular instrument was a Gibson, a model obscure, which he had purchased only because it shared its model name with a motorcycle he had ridden once, hated and returned to its owner with flattering protestations of delight and a silent understanding that he would much rather walk over broken glass than ride another.

  The Gibson was much the same. Beautifully made and handsome in its deep lacquer and expensive woods, it impressed everyone who saw it, who remarked upon its rarity. A justifiable rarity in Stoner’s view, given that it was much better to look at than to play. It sounded wonderful, though, as indeed did the eponymous motorcycle, but his Fender-familiar fingers found the fretting experience to be more of a challenge than a reward. However, when he had decided to attempt the bottleneck approach to playing his blues, where the fingers fretting individual notes to play tunes or to form chords are replaced by a cylindrical slide worn over a finger to perform that duty, he had retuned the Gibson and discovered that it was perfectly suited to the task.

  This conversion came after staring with disbelief and with ears whistling from the power of the world’s top slide guitarist. ‘I can do that,’ Stoner had declared – but only to himself, fortunately – and had launched into a concentrated study of the technique. Bili the Bass had, after hearing his early efforts, suggested that he take up the triangle, coining a shared joke which had now lasted for several years.

  Stoner fingered the strings on the Gibson. They were tuned to an open-G chord and familiar finger fencing produced unfamiliar tunes. He gazed again at his phones and at the screen of his laptop. None of them seemed likely to save him from the dreaded practice. He performed the perfected coffee ritual. That dark, almost black brew hissed, bubbled and wheezed into his mug. He picked up a blue glass slide and slid it over the ring finger of his left hand. It felt unfamiliar. He removed it, powered up a Marshall amplifier, connected the Gibson. As it was an efficient Gibson and not an elderly Fender, there were no buzzes and clicks, no pops nor crackles, just an amplified mains hum. He wound up the volume until the air quivered around the speakers and the strings of the guitar attempted to sound themselves, aching for the screaming release of feedback. Rested the glass slide on the strings and rocked it gently; the strings chimed in chorus.

  He leaned back on his stool, sharing the weight of the instrument between his left knee and the shoulder strap, and began at the beginning. The scale of G-major; one, two, three. The first scale, the first octave was perfect. He was as pleased as he was surprised. The second octave likewise.

  He was encouraged.

  Three of his phones lit up.

  *

  Shard again, all three messages the same.

  ‘Outside. Company. North.’

  Interior lights left as they were, Stoner, wrapped in black and with a mood to match, armed himself, unobtrusively exited the Transportation Station and merged with the evening. Stood in the cooling air, breathing it in and listening to the chorus. Footsteps, quiet and confident. A confidence misplaced, hopefully.

  One set of clever steps, near-silent steps, heading for him. He wondered whether he could hear a second set following the first, but decided that it was unimportant. What was important was that he intercepted the incoming intruder. The only reason for a stealthy approach like this was malicious intent. He hoped so. He stood still and silent as two sets of steps approached. Two. Definite. A team. Quite suddenly, Stoner felt himself wake up. As if a switch had been thrown, he was spoiling for it. Movement, maybe; contact, maybe; progress, answers . . .

  A slight figure, moving in the shadows of the unkempt roadside shrubs. Indistinct in the failing light, excellent tradecraft and casual camouflage; hiking gear rather than military; innocently effective, always deniable.

  The figure drifted past Stoner’s stationary post. He was no longer aware of the second intruder. All senses focused upon the target. In sight now, but not for long. The edge of evening; a perfect time to intrude . . . and to defend against that intrusion.

  No time for genial introductions. Stoner announced his presence with a stunning sideways blow to the back right side of the intruder’s head. Glancing success – maybe the slight sound of the air parting before the blow or the movement of that air; maybe the second sense all stealth fighters learn as an essential survival tool – the target was alert and moved to avoid the strike, twisting left and away from the initial blow . . .

  . . . directly into the path of the main assault, the rapidly closing left fist, the heel of which landed hard against the intruder’s left ear, snapping his head sideways and back into Stoner’s right fist. Ears seriously boxed, the figure paused; Stoner stamped the deeply cleated sole of the weighty Caterpillar boot of his left foot hard and accurately into the back of the right knee of his opponent.

  The effect was exactly as the manuals suggest; the intruder fell, stunned and unbalanced, to Stoner’s right. Arms thrown out for balance. The correct reaction would have been to relax and roll, but the dual head strikes had – as intended – delayed the brain’s higher functions and instinct attempted to preserve balance.

  Stoner caught the rising left arm, twisted it higher, pulled it back, and down, and hard, and followed the figure to the ground as it fell, landing a precise elbow directly and with maximum force into the intruder’s left temple at the exact moment the right side of his head made contract with the exhausted, worn concrete of the old roadway. The impact was as loud and as violent as a gunshot. The body fell limp. Stoner stepped back, stood tall, turned to face the second figure as it closed in rapidly.

  And stopped, well short, well out of range.

  ‘Wow, JJ. That was neat.’ Shard. Inevitably. ‘Did you need to kill him? It would have been good to get an answer or two first.’

  Stoner paused. Accepted Shard’s presence and turned back to the fallen. A calm descended upon him. A familiar calm. Acceptance and a little denial. ‘He’ll be OK. A bit tender and in need of a little joint repair . . .’ His voice tailed away. He reached for a pulse.

  ‘Fuck. Sorry about that. He’s gone. To somewhere better, let’s hope for that.’ Stoner stepped back, while Shard moved in close and rolled the body over, face up.

  ‘Anyone you know?’

  ‘No. You?’ Stoner focused on Shard’s face in the failing light. Shard re-checked the pulse, rocked back, sitting on his ankles.

  ‘Yes. But a long long time back. 2 Para. Maybe a Hereford squaddie. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Do you have a name for him?’ Stoner, practical, calm.

  ‘No
pe. But we can print him. That should be simple enough. Why d’you kill him? He would have talked to us. More use alive than dead.’

  Shard looked up. Stoner stood silent, darkness settling around them.

  Shard tried again. ‘Why d’you kill him?’

  No reply.

  ‘He could simply have been coming to listen, to watch, to warn, to . . . oh I don’t know, just to talk about Transporters and Harleys, fuck’s sake.’ Shard wrestled with the dead man’s clothing. The long, dark, sound-muffling coat fell open to reveal a sawn-off shotgun hanging from a lanyard around the neck.

  ‘No loss. There are plenty more. The world is full of assholes. You’d bring a neat killing thing like that if you wanted a chat? Hmmm?’ Stoner scanned the increasing dark.

  Shard stood, gazed from motionless body to impassive killer. ‘You want someone else to come after us? You can be strange. Damn fast though. For an old man. Impressed. Any thoughts about how to dispose of the evidence?’

  ‘This was a message. Everything’s a message of some kind.’ Stoner massaged the elbow which had delivered the killing strike. ‘Snag is I have no idea who sent it, what it means, who this guy was or who he worked for. I just knew that his job was to deliver a killing shot or to die trying. That was his job . . . his function. I doubt he knew about the dying trying thing, though. If whoever sent him knew he was sending him up against me . . . against us, then they also knew he would fail. Which is a message in itself. On the other hand, he could simply have accepted a hit contract without knowing the target. That’s usually the best way, no? Saves on the jitters. So, if someone was sending a message, the best message in reply is always a return-to-sender. Except we don’t know who the sender is, which is unhelpful.’ Stoner paused. He was icy calm, calculating a response. Shard displayed none of the sudden fear he felt.

  ‘So . . .’ Stoner thought aloud. ‘It’ll be another unexplained accident, messy enough to make the media sit up, and public enough for our late compadre’s employer to work out what happened. I can do that. See what comes out of the woodwork as a result. If anything. It may of course be unrelated.’ His tone made it plain that he felt this to be unlikely. ‘Stick him in the van. I’ll take him for a drive and drop him off somewhere. Big road or a railway track so he can get a bit messed up, confuse the issue for the plods.’

  ‘Christ, JJ, do you always think this much?’ Shard stood over the body, lifted the shotgun and its lanyard from it, trawled the pockets for other weapons, found only a knife. ‘You going to help me carry Mister Happy?’

  But Stoner was gone.

  27

  EVERYTHING’S WAITING FOR YOU

  ‘You were recommended by a lady.’ One seriously smartly presented individual had seated himself at the café table, uninvited, opposite Stoner. Who was unimpressed, unamused and uninterested.

  ‘Recommended for what?’ He was in no mood for conversations with strangers, no matter how well dressed, how well mannered.

  The intruder sat back, looked around, flashed gleaming teeth in a fine attempt to attract service. None came. Unlike a shared silence. Both men appeared comfortable with that. Stoner removed a phone from his pocket, opened it, confirmed that there were no outstanding instructions warning him to beware tall, handsome strangers, and replaced it in its pocket. He gazed at the man opposite, neutrally. This could perhaps be a welcome encounter. It was unlikely, in the light of his past experience of these things, but it could be. His guest smiled. Again.

  ‘Is service likely? Possible?’

  Stoner nodded, encouragingly. The stranger mistook the nod for a thawing, and showed further wider whiter teeth in a truly winning and welcoming smile.

  ‘She told me you always stop at this place when you’re passing. So I waited.’

  ‘For very long?’ The notion of parking up outside an anonymous roadside café and then waiting for an unknown, if recommended, apparently, stranger to drop by was a good one. Amusing, perhaps. ‘Many weeks, for example?’

  ‘About a half hour. You sure about that service?’

  Stoner shifted his gaze over his guest’s shoulder and tracked the approaching coffee as it progressed glacially towards the table. The stranger smiled on, aware of the shift but undisturbed, undistracted by it. Professional, then. The plate and cup landed, the waitress turned away in silence. Stoner raised a hand.

  ‘More, please.’

  She stopped, turned, looked only at Stoner. Silence.

  ‘Same again, please. And thanks.’

  He nodded towards his guest. The waitress left in her maintained silence, with as much vigour and bounce to her step as when she arrived. Immune to displays of dazzling dentistry. A true waitress, an example to her profession.

  ‘You want something.’ A statement. ‘Other than breakfast?’ Stoner sipped his coffee, winced. It was as bracing as ever.

  ‘That good, huh?’ The smile was still convincingly in place, no sign of tension or intent. ‘Yes. I’m a policeman, Mr Stoner. I know who you are, who you’re working for and that you’re good at what you do. I have been told to find you and to talk with you. Your employer, public-spirited and helpful though he always is, claimed to be unaware of your immediate surroundings. The very tall black lady in his office suggested that I might find you here at around this time. And here you are. She knows your movements well.’

  Stoner sipped steadily. Carefully.

  ‘You do have a name? You know mine, so it seems only reasonable to share these things. Your coffee might be on its way. Be cautious. You do not want to drink it. You should eat the bacon in bread – hard to describe it as a sandwich – and leave the coffee for me. I’m immune to it. Almost enjoy it on a bad headache morning. Try water, maybe a drink from a can. A new and unopened can. They’re the least dangerous.’

  He took a bite from his breakfast, revealed no visible distress and sipped more of the coffee.

  ‘What you after, anyway? Guitar lessons? Tips on traffic control? A guide to good coffee?’

  ‘According to the information you hold, I should be dead.’ The smiling policeman appeared unworried by this.

  ‘OK. I had wondered.’ Stoner chewed, with inexplicable relish. ‘You’re not the wrong policeman. You’re the right policeman. And you should be a dead one. You’re a man called Dave, right? Tell me all about it?’

  And so he did.

  Stoner listened while chewing. He signalled for more coffee. More coffee appeared. But only for him. He looked up sharply at the waitress’s retreating back. Waitresses do not have eyes in their backs. Or in the backs of their heads. And the strange grunting snorting noise she made when walking away, a noise with a distinctly porcine flavour, was perhaps a clue to her behaviour.

  ‘For. Fuck’s. Sake.’

  A series of statements. Staccato. Clear. Almost loud. With violence behind them. Stoner smiled no more. His gaze lacerated the calm and the quiet of the café. It lit a path to the waitress, who turned, returned and delivered two big mugs of coffee.

  ‘Food in a moment. Sorry Mr Stoner. Didn’t know it was a friend.’

  Stoner raised his eyes to hers, bloodless. ‘He’s not. He’s a plod. But he tells a terrific tale. Bring him ketchup for his bacon, and bring me another coffee.’

  She glanced at the table.

  ‘Yeah yeah, so I’ve got two already. I need strength. OK with you?’

  She left. No little piggy grunts trailed her.

  ‘I’ll get this straight. You met some tart in a bar, in a posh hotel filled to brimming with fellow constables.’

  Dave Reve nodded. Sipped. Grimaced only very slightly.

  ‘The wife’s upstairs counting sheep, so you decide to quench the hots with the blonde tart in the pool. How do I do so far?’

  ‘You’re good.’

  ‘You fuck about in the pool some, and then she half-drowns you by jamming your face into her snatch and taking the deep-end dive? Is this correct, Dave? It sounds truly unlikely to me, but if you’re telling me it happened then I
should believe you. You have no reason to lie, or at least I can’t think of one. How . . .’ he drank deeply, shuddered only a little. ‘How did you escape? Dear gods. What a way to go. Killed while muff-diving in a hotel pool. Glorious. Would your widow have got your pension? It would surely have given your forensics a bit of a day, taking oral swabs, as they do. “The deceased had eaten a hearty beefburger with relish and a lively cunt for dessert.” That would have made their day. Sorry, it’s a pleasing thought. Go on, how did you escape? Bite very very hard? I doubt that harsh thoughts would have done it. Interesting geometrically, though . . .’

  ‘I didn’t escape. She let me go. Try it. It’s not easy to break the grip. My mouth was tight up against her, so I couldn’t bite, and she had a grip of the pool’s rim, I think. I just flailed about. Got water up the nose, started coughing, swallowed, breathed more water, panicked like a fool . . .’

  ‘Thought about the grieving widow, how she’d explain it to the kids, stuff like that . . .’

  ‘Nope. Punched her in the body as hard as I could, which wasn’t very, started to cough, choke, horrible way to go, drowning, despite what some folk write about it. Couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t break her grip. Hell of a grip, she had. Great . . . really great legs. Fit as you like. Then she just let go. And she went. Was gone when I got out of the pool. No sign. No trace. Took her clothes and took my clothes too.’

  ‘Oh! I love that. She took your clothes? Left you strolling about the midnight lobbies in the starks? Excellent. Sense of humour, then. How d’you explain that when you got back to your room? “I say my dear, a funny thing happened on my way back from the bar?” That would be a challenge.’