A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1)

by Frank Westworth

  ‘Do you? Dream of drowning?’

  ‘Of course I do. You of all people do not need to ask me of all people that question, Mr Stoner.’

  ‘You swim to escape, then.’ Not really a question.

  ‘You run to hide, Mr Stoner.’ Not really an answer.

  ‘No. I run because I like running and because I like the opportunity it gives me to think. I rarely hide. There is rarely anything to gain in hiding.’

  ‘Confrontation is your way, Mr Stoner. I know that. I respect that. It’s one reason I am sitting here collecting parking tickets rather than leading you by the nose in a more subtle way. Dealing with your friend Mr Harding is less . . . direct. Also less stressful. Maybe.’

  ‘Why the formality? A chap could get tired of this “Mr Stoner” nonsense pretty quickly. I think you know me well enough to use my given name. And why in any case are you dealing with me directly? Aren’t I supposed to be hunting you?’

  ‘You made little effort to hunt me, Jean-Jacques. Very little effort. I was surprised by that. It made me think. Although, truth be told, it’s not actually me you’re hunting. It’s ain’t me you’re looking for.’

  ‘Babe. That is a quote. I play the damn song sometimes. Dylan. I prefer JJ. And as I said, one reason I enjoy running is that when I run I can think. I find that I think my best when I run. And while I was running I understood that although I consider you to be my opponent in this mucky, filthy business, you don’t see me in the same light. Which is why I’ve sat here like a civilised chap and why you’re sat here like a civilised lady, and neither of us is attempting to kill the other.

  ‘You have a sister.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘I have two sisters. You’ve met one of them, although I don’t think you would recognise her – we’re not much alike – and you’re looking for the other. When you find her I think you’ll kill her. If you don’t, then I think your Mr Harding will do it. He may not have told you this, of course.’

  ‘If your sister is the person behind all this utter shit with the chopped-off heads and the insane online movies, then she has no reason to be left alive. But she wants stopping, not killing. My instructions are to find her, not to kill her.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? My understanding is that your job is to find her and kill her.’

  ‘No. Just the former. Are you really called Charity?’

  ‘Yes. My sister is Chastity. She was well named.’

  ‘Really? She would have been better named Psycho, surely? Maybe Chopper, if you crave the alliteration.’

  ‘She struggles with herself sometimes. But we all do that, don’t we, JJ?’

  ‘Why is she killing all these guys? I mean . . . accountants? And why are you talking to me? Don’t you worry that I’ll lock you up and use you as a bargaining tool to collect your sister? That would appear to be a sensible course of action.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that at all, Mr Stoner. You have nothing to gain from that. Trailing me as bait won’t have any effect on Chastity. Other than more killing. And if she felt that you were attacking me, she’d attack you.’

  ‘Of course she would. That’s the whole point of a hostage. To provoke a response, an attack. Or something like that.’

  ‘She’s not stupid, Mr Stoner. She may be increasingly insane, but she has never been stupid. And she is killing because she has . . . we have . . . a contract to fulfil.’

  ‘It’s a joint effort? Both of you are involved?’

  ‘All three of us, in fact.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Stoner stood. ‘This is a pig of a thing. Can we at least have some breakfast if it’s going to go on for much longer?’

  He walked towards her car, collected two parking tickets from its screen, along with a couple of his own.

  ‘I’ll deal with these.’

  Charity smiled sadly at him.

  ‘No need. The car doesn’t exist. Follow me. Let’s do brunch. Or something.’ She climbed in and fired up the saloon, pulled into the mid-morning traffic. Stoner sprinted to the Transporter, fired up and followed.

  ‘The contract is simple. It’s open-ended. We have a target list. Exactly like you followed when you were operating yourself.’

  ‘Operating. A great word.’ Stoner leaned back in the coffee shop’s least comfy chair and reached for his cup. ‘Does the contract specify the butchery? The stupid fucking video? And why are you talking to me anyway?’

  ‘The original target was an accountant. We didn’t know that; I’ve only learned it by following your investigation.’

  Stoner’s cup halted halfway to his lips.

  ‘You’re following the investigation?’

  ‘Which should tell you something. Something more than I’d be prepared to confirm, so don’t ask about it. The original contract was simple, and specified that the method should be distinctive. It left finer details up to the operator. She . . . and I’m unsure how and why she decided this . . . made the job so messy and so . . . apparently unprofessional and psychotic that it was bound to attract attention from more specialist agencies than the regular police. That worked, and although the police have been involved all along in parallel to other investigations, your own included, their role has been restricted.’

  Stoner attempted to speak.

  ‘This would be easier if you let me say what I can say, JJ. This needs to be resolved. I can’t take questions and you do need to understand that Chas knows I’m talking to you. She is very good. Her tradecraft, her streetcraft . . . when she works she’s pretty much unstoppable. But she needs to be stopped.’

  ‘One hundred per cent agreement on that. Tell me the where and the when and I’ll take her down. Or send others to take her alive. If she’s as good as you say I might be unable to do that myself. Seriously.’

  ‘There are two more jobs.’

  ‘Fucking heavens, there’ll be no accountants left! Forgive my levity. This is the twenty-first century; we have a billion spare accountants. Who cares about a few more or a few less?’

  ‘I don’t think the contract is actually about accountants.’ Charity paused. ‘The longer you do this job, the harder it gets to keep your interest to a minimum. You start to wonder why you’re being contracted to kill people. You shouldn’t. By becoming involved it’s inevitable that you’re going to learn too much about the business of those who you’ve been contracted to kill. And by association you learn the business of those you’ve been employed by. That sort of knowledge is never a good thing to carry around. It is in fact a burden.’

  Stoner nodded. Moved the crockery around on their table, no recognisable pattern emerged. No tea-leaves revealed themselves. No enlightenment resulted.

  ‘It’s why operators like you move into investigation, Mr Stoner. JJ. Otherwise you get too knowledgeable and unless you also understand that knowledge is not power – knowledge is a liability in many circumstances – that knowledge, the stuff you accumulate when you start working out why you’re sanctioning who you’re sanctioning, that knowledge is usually fatal. And in case you’re wondering, I’m telling you this because I want you to help me.’

  ‘Very kind. Why would I do that?’

  ‘I think you’ll die if you don’t.’

  ‘Is that intended as an incentive? A negotiating position? It’s a little clumsy. Threats usually don’t work. I am a man who is convinced of the merits of direct action whenever I feel threatened. I have been known to become almost violent at times. So they say.’ Stoner stared from the window. The café’s car park contained cars. The number and variety changed. He saw no pattern. He stared from the window at the cars simply because that was something to do with his eyes which was other than staring at his companion.

  Who shrugged and spoke, gently enough. ‘No threat. Not really an incentive. I have, I think, learned too much of the reasons behind this series of contracts. The snag is that there is no way to confirm it other than by watching and observing what happens as the pieces fall. The pattern behi
nd the contract isn’t just a series of deceased accountants. It appears to be more a removal of funding. The final targets, the end-users, appear to be those being paid, not those doing the paying. One recipient in particular seems to be especially unpopular with the customer.’

  ‘Does this curiosity bring benefits?’ Stoner sounded genuinely interested. ‘I just got . . . tired of it all. It is very wearying.’

  ‘No. No benefits. Knowledge is like cancer. Once it takes a hold it’s impossible to stop it growing without surgery. And the surgery looks like murder to me. More murder. What we’re doing now feels like surgery . . . butchery. We’re contracted to remove someone else’s problem. Our problem is that we understand it too much. When I say “we” I mean I understand it, Chas doesn’t care. She cares less and less about less and less. That’s the escalation you’re seeing. She’s way beyond the brief now.’

  ‘Can’t you cool that yourselves? Involving someone else seems damned risky to me.’

  ‘Not while the contract is ongoing. Not easily.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me who the target actually is?’

  ‘No. Mostly because I might be wrong. You’re going to follow me away from here, are you not?’

  Stoner met her gaze. ‘Of course. Yes.’

  ‘I can’t stop you, but there would be no point. I have no reason to lie about that.’ She seemed nervous, suddenly. Watching the passers-by.

  ‘You seem nervous,’ Stoner remarked, solicitously.

  ‘Surprise. You can pay. Thanks for breakfast.’

  ‘That’s fine. You’re a cheap date.’ She’d drunk four coffees and eaten nothing. Stoner placed a large note on the table and followed her out.

  ‘You’re following me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t. You have nothing to gain by following me. I’ll just lead you around in circles, call in interference and a block and lose you. Accept that and enjoy your day. Play the guitar, sing a song. Screw someone.’

  ‘And you.’ Stoner stood and watched as she walked to her car. Stood by its door, as if waiting for something. Then unlocked it, fired up and drove away.

  32

  PARK AND RIDE

  Stoner drove. The skies leaked softly towards the end of the day and into the night’s dark. The roads smeared beneath the wheels of the Transporter. He watched everything and he waited for anything. He varied his speed. He took alternate lefts and rights. He found a three-lane and he drove down the centre lane at twenty under the limit. Vehicles passed him on the left and on the right. He picked out his cell phones one by one, flicked them open in turn and read their displays. No one called.

  The dirty blonde maintained her recent silence. He thumbed her a text message. One word. ‘Dinner?’ Dropped the phone into the dashtop tray and watched it. It failed to respond with the electronic delight of an incoming call. He steered the Transporter through the same series of road junctions in a creative and varied way. When being followed, it was Stoner’s view that a chap should provide both challenge and entertainment for whoever was struggling with the tedious routine of following.

  A phone buzzed. He swerved from one lane to another, then back, as he picked up the phone from the dashtop. It was mute. Another phone buzzed its irritation, or possibly its joy at being a messenger. He replaced the silent device and flicked open the second. The Hard Man.

  ‘Where are you?’ Direct. To the point.

  ‘On the road again. Being followed again.’ Stoner could also produce oblique when it was needed.

  ‘Do you have a report for me?’

  ‘Yes. Of sorts.’

  ‘Now is a bad time?’

  ‘Is there urgency from your end? I’m driving in ever-increasing circles here. Should I be bringing someone to your office door? If we carry on waltzing around the city like this they are going to get dizzy soon. They’d probably appreciate a nice warm chat and a cup of that which refreshes in convivial company. Which is not me, not exactly, not at this moment.’

  The Hard Man produced a competent impression of a man with nothing to say. Maybe he was thinking. Eventually, he spoke: ‘Will it wait till tomorrow?’

  ‘You called me, remember? Of course it will. When I reverse the tail, who knows what I’ll discover. They’re determined. Why are they following me? Do you know?’

  A pause. ‘How the hell would I know who’s following you? Probably some half-stoned guitar groupie from that loud club of yours.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice? I’m going to turn the tail. Do you have a time I should call?’

  ‘I’ll call you. I shall aim for maximum inconvenience, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Stoner closed the phone. Swung the Transporter into an industrial development, accelerated as hard as the heavy engine would let him, which was very hard indeed, swept through the wide and empty night-time roads, cutting the corners and sweeping the bends, taking efficient racing lines and apexing, assuming there would be no oncoming traffic and uncaring if there was, then, as soon as he’d made enough distance to create invisibility in the eyes of his pursuers, he offed the lights, braked hard into a small service road between two dark warehouses and hand-brake-spun the Transporter to a stop; straightened it against the kerb.

  Switched off. Silent in the night.

  Climbed into the back. Swung into a black leather jacket, zipped it, unhooked a crash helmet from its shelf, hit the handlebar-mounted switch which motivated the hydraulic struts which lifted the rear door as high as it would lift, and carefully, near-silently, bounced the trailbike out into the night. Sat on it in silence as the van’s door closed, and watched the moving patterns of headlights as they approached, seeking the Transporter. Which sat, silent, one more anonymous van parked in a service road with at least another half dozen, their varied colours muted to mud beneath the industrial sodium yellow of the street lighting – what there was of it.

  The followed becomes the follower. Prey becomes hunter. The conspicuous becomes hidden. Only one car had been following the heavy Transporter. Only one car was searching for it now. It cruised the roads, unlit. Stoner watched in dark silence. Until it moved slowly away. Stoner started the bike, it ticked over very quietly. No lights. Not even the instruments lit. He praised the military minds at NATO who had specified a bike for the battlefield. A bike which could run almost silently and without lighting. They even specified that particular and unusual ability along with the drab green paint, which was allegedly radar-fooling paint, and the large pannier boxes slung each side of the front wheel, making it look very unbikelike from many angles and particularly in the dark, an incomprehensible silhouette; they had specified a blackout switch, intended for those battlefield moments when being invisible would most certainly be an aid to survival.

  Taking advantage of the studded off-road tyres and the long-travel off-road suspension, he pottered at walking pace along the neat grassy lawns of the industrial park. Keeping close to the buildings. Drifting from pool of shadow to dimly-lit corner to another shadow. So long as the car’s engine was running, they’d not hear the bike’s muted muttering. And they would be looking for a van or a man. Not the strange angular asymmetry which is an unlit motorcycle in the dark.

  He could see the car. It was cruising towards the Transporter now, slowing to check out each of the parked vans as it passed them. Well driven, smoothly done. Quiet. No fuss. No histrionics. It drew level with the Transporter, passed it slowly, paused, passed on. No more pauses; the van had been identified. Stoner watched, silently. Wondering. Would the driver leave the car to take a closer look? That would be best; that way Stoner would have some chance of identifying his followers, could even intercept them if he felt like it.

  The car reached the end of the road. And with a sudden explosion of noise and illumination, the driver spun it in a wheel-spinning tyre-shredding display of precision stunt driving which ended with the car, the dull saloon, facing the Transporter, which sat, mute, immobile and inscrutable in the full glare of the follower’s headli
ghts. A dark rabbit, caught in the hunter’s beam.

  Positions held for several minutes. Stoner watched his watchers, who watched the empty van. By now they would have worked out that the van was empty, this bird had flown.

  The car door opened. A woman stepped out. Trim. Very blonde. Moved with an excellent and striking fluidity. Charity? That was not Charity’s car. At least it was not the car she’d been driving earlier, and there was no reason for her to change it – it is difficult enough to spot a professional tail in the dark, it is impossible to identify make and model of pursuing vehicle from the brightness of its headlights, so she had no reason to swap, no reason at all.

  Chastity, then. The killer sister. The dangerous sister. The deadly blonde sister. The extreme and increasingly disturbed sister. Apparently.

  She walked smoothly to the Transporter. She moved easily. Fascinatingly fluidly. Her walk was nothing like her sister’s walk. She prowled where Charity stalked. She walked soundless over the background music provided by the idling car’s subdued engine. Leaned her back against the driver’s door of the Transporter. Rocked the van a little. No alarms. Of course there were no alarms. What use are alarms? All they do is annoy the neighbours and awaken leashed dogs. She leaned there for perhaps a half minute, gazing around her, silently interrogating the darkness but evidently receiving few answers in return. She prowled to the front of the van, leaned her ass against the VW logo on the front, spread her lowered arms out to her sides, resting her hands on the edges of the front panels. And she laughed. Once. Not loud. Not soft. Not harsh. Neither with nor without humour. And she leaned back there, lit up like a lamp dancer on a stage, for a second half minute.

  Then she was moving again. Was back inside the bland car and reversing it fast to the end of the road, to the junction. Reversed without pause across the bigger road, stopped, shifted gears and pulled away forward. No hurry, no racing, just a normal pace. Fast and fluid.

  Stoner was ready. The bike was moving to intercept the car as it left the industrial park, as it headed off into the rural dark. Stoner was being led, of that he had no doubt, but he needed to be sure she was really leaving. She would know he was following her. He felt respect for that. A soldier, then. Another soldier. Fighting another war.