Dead Man's Gift 03 - Today

by Simon Kernick

  Frank nodded. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘If that’s the way you want it.’ He retreated backwards through the hallway, and only when he was at the front door did he finally replace the gun in his shoulder holster.

  26

  Turville was one of those picturesque English villages with thatched cottages, a pub and an old church, but Scope paid little heed to its beauty as he drove along the single road that ran through it, searching for Bale’s Jag. He’d driven down here like an absolute maniac, breaking pretty much every rule of the road, and was sure he couldn’t be that far behind him. He was also certain that Bale wouldn’t have rented a house in the actual village itself. The cottages were mainly terraced, and there wouldn’t have been enough privacy.

  The village soon gave way to woodland on either side of the road, and Scope scoured it for turnings, the tension pounding through him like a drum. A child’s life was at stake. He could be dead already. Would almost certainly be dead within the next couple of hours. And then what? Scope knew he’d find it hard to live with himself. He’d tried to do everything on his own, but in the end it would always have been best to go to the police. They had the resources and technology to deal with this.

  Through sheer willpower, he forced the doubt from his mind. He had to keep going.

  A turning appeared to his left among the trees, two hundred yards beyond the last house in the village. Scope slowed down and saw there was a wooden sign sticking up on the adjacent bank with the names of two houses carved into it. He could just make out one of them poking out through the woodland, thirty yards up, and he pulled off the road and parked next to a tree, out of sight. Knowing he was going to have to eliminate these houses from his enquiries as soon as possible, he was straight out the car and running up the lane, keeping to the edge so that the sound of his approach was at a minimum.

  There was an old Fiat in the driveway of the first house, so Scope continued on as the lane wound through more woodland until he saw a slightly dilapidated cottage appear in a break in the trees. Moving into the shadows of the tree line, he approached on the other side of the lane until the front of the cottage came into view.

  The Jag was there, along with a Toyota Rav 4. And so was the unmistakeable figure of Frank Bale. He was at the front door with his back to the road, a duffel bag in one hand, and as Scope watched he disappeared inside.

  So this was it. The endgame. A minimum of two targets. Scope took a deep breath and slipped the .22 revolver, with its three bullets, from the waistband of his jeans.

  ‘Count it,’ said Frank, putting the bag down on the floor and taking the gun out again. Ten feet separated them. Celia held the kid in front of her like a human shield, the knife still tight against his throat.

  ‘Unzip it, then kick it over here and don’t get too close. Put the fucking gun away as well.’

  Frank followed the first two instructions but made no move to replace the gun in his jacket. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t trust you either.’

  She shoved a hand in the bag and pulled out a wad of used twenties, never taking her eyes off Frank.

  ‘Tell me something,’ said Frank. ‘Why’s there blood on that knife? What have you been doing?’

  She paused long enough to set the alarm bells ringing in his head. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you.’ She risked a glance at the notes in her hand, opening the wad to inspect one of the notes in the middle.

  ‘I do worry. That blood looks fresh. Whose is it, Celia?’

  She scowled at him. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘The same way you know mine. Our good friend Phil, God rest his soul. I know lots about you.’

  ‘I was cutting meat.’

  It was a lie. A crap one too. She’d done something bad. The problem was he needed to know what it was.

  Celia put the wad down next to the bag and pulled out another one, her fingers rustling through the notes, the knife blade looking looser on the kid’s throat as her greed took over and she momentarily lost concentration.

  Frank met the kid’s eyes, and he motioned for him to shove Celia’s arm aside and make a dash for it. But the kid was in shock. He wasn’t doing anything.

  ‘There are four more wads in there. Five grand each.’

  ‘There’d better be,’ she said, rummaging round inside the bag, the knife grip loosening once again.

  Frank and the kid made eye contact again. Again Frank motioned. Again the kid didn’t move.

  Seemingly satisfied that the money was all there, Celia nodded. ‘Okay, that looks about right.’ She picked up the two wads next to the bag and put them back in. As she did so, the knife drifted a couple of inches from the kid’s throat. Without warning, the kid knocked her arm to one side and ran over to Frank.

  ‘You little fuck!’ she screamed and tried to grab him. But she was too late. Frank had got hold of him now. He raised the gun.

  Slowly, Celia got to her feet, the duffel bag in one hand, the knife in the other, looking a lot less confident than before. ‘Listen, there’s no need to make a mess in here. You can just let me by with the money and that’ll be the end of it. Okay?’

  ‘How did you get the blood on your knife, Celia?’

  ‘She stabbed the old lady,’ the kid piped up.

  Her face twisted into a snarl, and she went to take a step forward. ‘You lying little piece of shit.’

  ‘Stay where you are and shut the fuck up.’ Frank turned to the kid. ‘Which old lady?’

  ‘She lives next door. She tried to rescue me.’

  ‘And now she’s dead, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ the kid sobbed.

  Frank sighed, caressing the kid’s shoulder. ‘Well, this is all a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’ He gave Celia a cold stare.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Look, don’t –’

  ‘You called me fat,’ said Frank. ‘I don’t like that. And you know what? I don’t like you either.’ He shot her once in the chest, watching as she went down like a sack of potatoes, crashing into the wall before lying in a still heap on the cheap carpet.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to see that,’ he told the kid, who was still crying loudly. ‘Now, can you just do me a little favour and take a few steps forward. We’re going to play a game.’

  ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  Frank gave him a gentle shove. ‘I won’t. Don’t worry. Just a few steps forward.’

  The kid took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of Celia’s body, craning back over his shoulder.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Frank. ‘Stop there. Now look in front of you, shut your eyes and count to ten.’

  The kid drew a shaky breath; his knees were wobbling. ‘Why can’t I just go home? I want to see my mummy and daddy.’

  ‘We’re going to go home right after this.’ Frank raised the pistol so the end of the suppressor was three feet from the back of the kid’s head. He felt vaguely sick having to do this, and he had a feeling it was going to haunt his dreams for a long time to come, but knew he had no choice. He was going to have to make it look like Celia had shot the kid and then turned the gun on herself. ‘Shut those eyes for me, okay? And let’s start counting together.’ His finger tightened on the trigger. ‘One …’

  27

  Scope had come in the unlocked back door to the cottage, the gun in his hand, using the sound of the voices in the hallway to cover his approach. He’d heard the two shots when he was halfway across the kitchen floor, followed by the muffled conversation between a man and a child, who he guessed were Frank Bale and Max.

  It was only when he got to the door that led into the hallway that he heard Bale tell Max to shut his eyes and they’d start counting together.

  Scope’s view might have been blocked by the staircase, but he could guess what was about to happen. The problem was that Bale sounded as if he was a good fifteen feet away, and the .22 Scope was holding was going to be inaccurate over distance, especially if he had no time to focus in on the targe
t.

  But he was going to have to do something. He had no choice.

  ‘One,’ said Bale.

  Which was when Scope came out from behind the door, holding the revolver two-handed, finger poised on the trigger, yelling out to disorientate Bale. He had a split second to take in the scene: the body of the woman on the floor; Max standing halfway down the narrow hallway in his school uniform, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he waited for what he must have known was his death; and behind him, the hulking figure of Bale holding out the pistol, ready to fire, his face already registering the shock as he caught sight of Scope.

  Bale swung the gun round as Scope broke cover from behind the staircase, but Scope was already firing. He emptied out all three rounds, at least one of which struck Bale in the upper body. As Bale stumbled and banged into the wall, he got off a round that flew past Scope’s head. At the same time Max, who’d been standing stock-still, finally reacted, diving to the floor as Scope jumped over him and charged Bale, throwing the .22 at his head.

  The gun hit Bale full in the face, making him cry out in pain, but he still had the presence of mind to point his pistol at Scope, who had to dive the last few feet, his arm managing to knock the gun aside so that the bullet flew wildly.

  The momentum of Scope’s attack sent both men crashing to the floor. Bale gasped, winded by the fall, but desperation drove him on, and as Scope grabbed the wrist of his gun hand, trying to make him let go, Bale made a last ditch to throw him off. Scope hung on, but Bale managed to force his gun arm from the floor, the end of the suppressor swinging perilously close to Scope’s face. The gun went off, and Scope actually felt the heat from the bullet as it passed by, which was when he made a sudden push on Bale’s gun arm with everything he had. Bale was already pulling the trigger a second time as Scope drove his arm down hard so that the end of the suppressor was actually touching the folds of flesh beneath Bale’s chin.

  The bullet ripped through Bale’s head, exiting his skull in a cloud of blood and bone. His body immediately went slack and Scope sat back up, exhaling with relief.

  Which was when he heard Max cry out from behind him.

  Grabbing Bale’s gun from the dead man’s hand, he swung round and saw the woman he’d thought was dead grabbing Max in a chokehold and pressing a knife against his gut. Her face was a mask of sheer venom as she stared down Scope.

  ‘Drop the gun and throw it over here,’ she hissed, crouching down beside Max, using him as cover. ‘Otherwise I kill him. Right here. Right now.’

  Scope could hear the excitement in her voice. She actually wanted to kill Max. She’d almost certainly kill them both if he let her have the gun. She also looked unhurt, which meant she had to be wearing a bulletproof vest to have withstood the earlier gunshot.

  ‘I said, Fucking drop it. Do you want me to start cutting him? Because I will. I’ll tear him into little fucking pieces.’

  Scope aimed the gun just above the arm that held Max in the chokehold, so it was pointed directly at the woman’s right eye. His arm was steady even though the tension was tearing at his insides. ‘If you let Max go, I’ll let you walk out of here. If you hurt him, I’ll kill you. I know you’re wearing a vest, but I’m a good shot, and I can take you in the head. You want to die like Frank here?’

  A flash of doubt crossed her face but disappeared just as quickly. ‘I’m going to give you one last chance. Drop the fucking gun, or I gut the kid right now.’ She crouched down even further behind him, so she was almost out of sight. ‘Right fucking now!’

  He sighed. A head shot was almost impossible. ‘Okay, I’m going to do as you say. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘No fucking tricks.’

  He lowered the gun three inches and pulled the trigger, shooting her in the forearm. She screamed in pain and teetered backwards, letting go of Max, who dived out of the way as Scope took aim a second time, and shot her in the face.

  For a long second she stared at him in shock, still crouched on her haunches, the blood pouring down over her mouth and onto her chin, before finally she fell slowly onto her side and lay there unmoving.

  Scope got to his feet and helped Max up. His nephew was weeping silently and Scope held him close. ‘It’s all right now,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all over.’ He led Max out onto the doorstep and asked him to wait a moment, then went back inside. Crouching down, he placed the pistol in Frank Bale’s hand, before picking up the .22 revolver and putting it beside the woman’s body. When the police arrived, it would look like the two of them had shot at each other, and that Frank had come out on top, killing her, before turning the gun on himself. It wasn’t exactly foolproof but it was going to have to do.

  When he was done, he went back outside and put an arm round Max, who looked up at him with a mixture of shock and relief. He even managed a small smile. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  It had been five years since Scope had set eyes on his nephew, so it was no surprise that Max didn’t remember him. In a way the lack of recognition hurt, but Scope knew it was a lot easier this way. ‘I’m just a man who likes to help people. I’m going to take you back to your mum now, but could you do me a little favour?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t tell the police about me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They might not understand that I had to shoot those people.’

  ‘Why not? They were very bad. They deserved it.’

  ‘That they did, but sometimes the police don’t see it like that.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘I won’t say anything.’ He looked up at Scope with wide, innocent eyes that had seen far too much this past twenty-four hours. ‘Can I go home now?’

  Scope smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze. ‘Sure you can.’

  28

  The man shook his head silently, the anger building inside him as he stared at the TV screen. All that planning and they’d failed. It would all have been so perfect as well. Everyone would have blamed the Asian gambling syndicates for the explosion at such a high-profile hearing into football match fixing, when the real target had been sitting only five feet away from Tim Horton the whole time.

  Garth Crossman, the charismatic government minister with the common touch, tipped for the top in the Conservative Party, should have been dead by now. Instead, his handsome features were filling the TV screen as he gave an account of the dramatic events inside the hearing that morning. He was still dressed in the suit he’d been wearing earlier and his well-coiffed head of silver hair looked perfect. His voice was deep and steady as he spoke, proving once again to his growing army of supporters that he was exactly the kind of man you looked up to in a crisis. The irony was that this attack was going to leave him far stronger.

  Frank Bale’s boss knew a lot about Garth Crossman, and much of it was unpleasant. If his supporters had any idea what Garth Crossman was really like, they’d desert him in droves. But they didn’t, and they were unlikely to either. He was far too clever for that. The problem was it also meant he’d realize very quickly that he’d been the target this morning, not the sports agent, and it wouldn’t take long to work out who’d been behind it.

  Frank’s boss took a sip of the whisky in his hand and sighed. There was going to be trouble ahead. Too much was riding on this whole thing.

  It was best he prepared for it.

  29

  They met inside the tiny car park of a deserted nature reserve a couple of miles north of Henley-on-Thames.

  As soon as Diane saw Scope pull up next to her, she was out of her car in an instant. With a cry of relief, Max ran into her arms. Scope watched them hold each other, feeling a strange mixture of joy and melancholy. He remembered holding his daughter like that a long time ago. Not wanting to encroach, he stayed in the car and turned away from the scene. His engine was still running and he was just about to pull away, when there was a tap on the window.

  Diane stared down at him, her eyes alight with relief and gratitude. She was clutching Max
to her side and his face was buried in her coat.

  He let down the window and smiled up at her.

  ‘Thank you, Scope,’ she said, her voice still a little unsteady. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. That goes for when you talk to the police too. I’d appreciate it if my name didn’t get mentioned.’

  ‘It won’t. I promise.’ She leaned down so her face was close to his. Her skin was puffy and red, and the stress of the last twenty-four hours was etched deeply into it. ‘And are we safe now?’ she whispered.

  He nodded. ‘You won’t be bothered by those people again. It’s over. You go back and look after your son. He needs you now.’

  She stared at him for a couple of seconds, and it was difficult to read what she was thinking, but he had a feeling that, amidst the genuine gratitude, a part of her was scared of him and what he was capable of. He was sure that she’d never want to see him again either, because he would always be a reminder of the most terrible experience of her life. Fair enough. He understood that.

  Finally she turned away and walked with Max back to her car.

  Scope watched them both get in, then reversed out of the spot and away from their permanently changed lives. He didn’t want to go back home, so instead he wound his way through the back roads that dotted this part of the Chiltern Hills until he finally found himself on the M40, heading north. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do when he got there. He just felt a need to get away.

  He was almost at the Lake District when he heard confirmation on the radio that Tim Horton was the sole fatality in the select committee hearing explosion. It had now been confirmed that it had been caused by a bomb, and the media were finally beginning to report that Tim might have been the man in possession of it. Because he’d been running for the door at the time of the explosion, the force of the blast had been directed against the main wall and away from those inside the room. The result was that the only other reported casualty was a nearby security guard, who was currently in hospital with serious but non-life-threatening injuries.