Dark Powers

by Raymond Haigh

  ‘Shots were exchanged, a couple of men came out of the house, then things turned nasty and the squad opened fire. There was a derelict old building on a rise above the farm. I walked up the slope to check it out and get a better view of the action. When I stepped inside, one of the women stabbed a gun in my back and handcuffed me, then they took me across fields to where we’d left the cars. It was utterly humiliating, Kelvin: me, being overpowered by a woman. And it was no use shouting, the guns were making such a racket no one would have heard. She was a vicious little bitch with nightmare eyes. When she threatened to kill me, I knew she meant it.

  ‘They gagged me with a pair of tights, yanked the crotch into my mouth like a bit on a bridle and tied the legs so tight I could hardly breathe, let alone swallow. Then they put me in the back of my own car and drove to Haverfordwest. They went to the top of a multi-storey car park, tied my ankles to the seat supports, then pulled my pants down, tore my shirt open and daubed lipstick all over me. The bitches even took underwear from one of their bags and draped it over the seat.

  ‘Press arrived not long after, a reporter and a photographer. They didn’t untie me, didn’t even speak to me, they just opened the car doors and took photographs of me: hands tied, gagged with a pair of tights, legs spread, pants down, covered in lipstick. Reporter called the local force before they left, asked them to come round and release me, said they hadn’t touched anything because they didn’t want to disturb evidence. You know the rest.’

  Sir Kelvin eyed his friend for a moment, then asked, ‘The women, do we know where—’

  ‘Bitches!’ Nigel interrupted angrily. ‘Absolute bloody bitches. Spoke to one another in Russian. Older one had the gun; I think she was minding the girl. She was very calm, very professional, utterly ruthless. She’d have murdered me without a second thought.’

  ‘How’s Evelyn taken it?’

  ‘Badly. I think she’s having difficulty believing me.’ Sir Nigel sighed, rested his huge hands on his knees and stared down at the floor. He was casually dressed, blue check shirt, open at the neck, khaki sweater, brown corduroys, brown suede shoes as big as boats. His usually rather florid face was grey, his blue eyes vague, his expression one of dazed stupefaction. He sniffed. ‘I’m going to have to resign, Kelvin. Even if I manage to convince the PM and the committee I’m telling the truth, I’ve lost all credibility.’

  Filled with a profound compassion, Sir Kelvin Makewood remained silent. He knew that what his friend said was true. The women had destroyed him. Presently he asked, ‘Do we know where they are now?’

  Nigel Dillon nodded. ‘Car they’d been using was found parked in Cheltenham. One of the men assigned to watch it saw a woman and a girl sitting outside a coffee place nearby, both smartly dressed, both very attractive. Hair colour was wrong, but he was suspicious, so he followed them, on foot, to a restaurant, then to a car hire place. He put out a call for transport and a driver, and they tailed the hire car to a hotel, watched porters load it with luggage, then followed it to a house in Gloucester. The women went inside for about thirty minutes. When they left he tailed them while his partner called at the house. Occupier was a man of about thirty, said he’d been threatened by one of the women who’d pulled a gun on him; said she’d taken away a box of old mobile phones he’d found in a builder’s skip in Cheltenham. The officers were sure then that they were on to something, and passed the details up the line.

  ‘I’ve been at home since that business in the car park – letting the dust settle, talking to my lawyers, trying to calm Evelyn down – so Ingrams, my deputy, dealt with it. Officer in the car was told to continue tailing the women, keep them under surveillance, but on no account to approach them. I understand the instruction came from the PM himself. After that cock-up in Belgravia and the hiatus in Wales, the politicians are probably getting cold feet. The women were followed to a hotel near Chertsey, then to a mews flat in London. That’s where they are now.’

  ‘And they’re ruthless and anarchic and they have the phones,’ Sir Kelvin muttered. ‘Just think of the people they could ruin; our sort of people, members of the aristocracy even.’

  ‘There could be more to this than selling pictures to the media, Kelvin. They could be deliberately having a go at the establishment; perhaps they’re trying to bring the government down. Trouble is, we don’t know what’s recorded on those phones.’

  ‘What’s your next move?’

  ‘Probably be taken out of my hands tomorrow. Prime Minister’s summoned me to number ten. I think I’ll be told to resign.’ He drew breath and let it out in a defeated sigh. ‘The flat’s under surveillance, the politicians have been asked for guidance; until we have it nothing more can be done. Arrest is out of the question. We’d be opening a very messy can of worms if they were put on trial.’

  ‘Is there any chance they’ll authorize a discreet killing?’

  Sir Nigel shrugged. ‘It’s the only sure and certain way to deal with the situation. Home Secretary would never go along with it though, and the PM’s probably listening to him now. That could be why we’ve not had a decision.’

  ‘But the women have the phones, dammit. We can’t dither any longer. If the politicians are tying your hands, my group will have to act.’

  Sir Nigel gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Put someone in we’ve used before. He’s good, the very best; a former SAS operative, discharged on medical grounds.’

  ‘Discharged on medical grounds?’

  ‘His wife left him for a bookmaker, took the children with her. When he confronted her, she wasn’t contrite; just mocked him, said he was stupid and useless, taunted him about his lack of sexual prowess. He went for her, had his hands round her throat, then broke down, thank God. Dashed out into the street, shouting and raving; hit by a truck, suffered multiple fractures and severe concussion. He was in hospital for quite a while; came out with his hatred for his wife transferred to all women. He’s very disturbed and has to be carefully medicated, but he’s lost none of his skills. He might be mentally crippled, but he’s still a splendid physical specimen: incredibly fit, highly trained, knows all the tricks. One could almost call him a killing machine. They wouldn’t stand a chance.’ He gave his friend a grim smile. ‘Wouldn’t you say they deserved it after what they’ve done to you?’

  Sir Nigel Dillon’s eyes glittered. ‘And if it went wrong, we could say it was a random attack by a psychopath under medication.’

  ‘It won’t go wrong, old man. He’s never let me down. Do you have the address of the place?’

  ‘Better than that, I’ve got the plans.’ Nigel reached down the side of his chair, lifted an attaché case on to his knees and took out a grimy manila envelope. He handed it over. ‘Only entry is at the front and it’s protected by security cameras. Small enclosed yard at the rear reached through a door at the back of the garage. The living area’s on the first floor: a typical stable and coach house conversion. Address is written on the envelope.’

  Kelvin rose to his feet. ‘I’m going to have to leave you, Nigel. I’d hoped to stay longer but we must act quickly.’ They shook hands. ‘Remember, you’re surrounded by friends. Whatever happens, we’re always there for you.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Barstow seated himself astride the ridge and leaned against a chimney stack while he recovered his breath. Simple jobs sometimes presented difficult problems. Security cameras at the front, security cameras at the back; he’d had to climb above them, but finding a place where he could get on to the roof hadn’t been easy. The front was exposed to the view of passers-by, and the rear was completely enclosed by yards and houses. He’d had to approach down an alleyway that served another street, traverse the high garden walls of adjoining properties, then clamber over outhouses before he could heave himself up on to the roof of the terrace. He adjusted the straps on his harness, made himself more comfortable, then counted the fire-stop walls protruding through the slates. The flat where the women were hiding was some
way along the terrace.

  He allowed his head to fall back against the brickwork, closed his eyes and breathed in the cool night air, trying to calm himself. Above the deep and constant rumble of the city he could hear the barking of a dog, the drone of a plane, the murmur of a car passing along the nearby road. He felt tense and edgy. It wasn’t the job – that was going to be easy – it was because he hadn’t taken his medication. The tablets he’d been prescribed were the only things that brought him relief, that kept him calm and prevented the explosions of rage. The shock treatment hadn’t worked, the therapy hadn’t worked, only the tablets with the unpronounceable name calmed him. The problem was, they took away his edge and dulled his responses. When he was out on a mission for the Major, he didn’t dare take them. Right now he could feel his heart-rate increasing, the tension building up. Worst of all, when he didn’t take the tablets, he began to dwell on the past and think about Wendy. The thoughts went round and round inside his head, faster and faster, making the rage and anger boil up. It was boiling up now. He had to get a grip.

  He pushed himself off the chimney and rose to his feet: tall, hard muscled, his face blackened; dressed in a black body suit, black boots, gloves and balaclava. Teeth bared in a smile of anticipation, he began to stride along the ridge, agile and confident, a dark shape moving across a night sky stained by the lights of the city.

  This would be the third job he’d done for the Major. The first had been the blackmailing call-girl and her smarmy pimp, then that cheating bitch of a wife, trying to rob her husband blind in the divorce courts. Women! It wasn’t just ordinary blokes like him who suffered: rich and powerful men got worked over, too. He’d been glad to do the jobs. It had been a means of repaying the Major for his kindness, for the way he’d called the brothers to his aid. They’d stood by him, got him the very best medical treatment, watched over him until he was well again, helped him recover his self-respect. Major Makewood – Sir Kelvin – had been more like a father to him than a superior officer.

  When he reached the roof above the women’s flat, he leaned back on his spongy rubber heels, walked down the slope and peered over the edge. A light was shining behind a window just beneath him; a window with two tall panes, one with a fanlight at the top. Obscure glazed, it probably served a bathroom.

  A sound startled him. Someone was fumbling with the catch on the fanlight. It clattered open and fragrant, moisture-laden air began to waft out into the night. Treacherous bitches: full of lies, seductive wiles and trickery, powdering and scenting themselves, tarting themselves up. His heart was really pounding now. Stay calm, he cautioned himself, it’s an easy job. And he mustn’t forget he had to retrieve some mobile phones. He had to keep at least one of the women alive until he’d done that.

  He stepped back from the eaves, climbed up to the ridge and tied one end of a length of nylon rope around the chimney stack. He clipped the other end to his harness, then paid it out as he walked backwards, down the slates. He leaned over the edge. There was no longer a light behind the window; the room was empty now. He pushed himself off, let the rope run through his gloved hands as he fell, then gripped it and swung back towards the wall. The soft rubber soles of his boots, his bending knees, absorbed the impact. With his arm through the open fanlight, he reached down, lifted the handle on the other pane and swung it open. The tiled sill was covered with jars and bottles. He laid them in the wash basin, then swung his legs inside. When his feet found the floor, he unclipped the rope, pushed it clear and closed the window.

  Their fragrance was all around him now, reviving memories that still tormented him, that still caused him such excruciating pain. In a wedge of light spreading out from the gap beneath the door he could see discarded tights, underwear, scattered towels. Slovenly cows. No order, no discipline, flouncing around doing just as they pleased, making a mess of the place, messing with people’s minds, fucking up their lives. His heart was pounding again. ‘Control yourself,’ he breathed. ‘Get a grip; just do the job, find the phones, kill the dirty whores, then scarper.’

  He opened the door and peered out, the whites of his eyes gleaming in his blackened face as he glanced this way and that. Faint sounds of movement were coming from a room. He crossed a tiny landing and peered around the edge of the open door. A naked girl, her buttocks high and firm, was standing with her back to him, spraying deodorant under her arm.

  ‘Fancy a cup of something?’ The husky voice had drifted through another doorway.

  The girl half turned and raised her other arm; the spray hissed. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Tea, coffee, cocoa; I think we have some cocoa.’

  ‘Cocoa would be good.’

  Barstow heard a stirring, darted to the top of an enclosed flight of stairs, descended into the darkness, then turned and, with his eyes at carpet level, looked back down the landing. A woman wearing a black silk dressing gown and red slippers emerged from one doorway and stepped through another. Fluorescent lights flickered on in a tiny kitchen. Water poured into a kettle.

  Steamy vapour still hung in the air, perfuming it, filling it with that cloying female stink. It disgusted and enraged him. Stay calm, stay calm, he kept reminding himself. He had to get those phones. When that was done he could let go, give way to the mounting frenzy, kill the dirty bitches: slash and stab, slash and stab, cut and hack their . . . His heart was pounding wildly, every beat a reminder of what that dirty slag, Wendy, had done to him, how cruelly she’d mocked him. He climbed back to landing level, tall, black clad, menacing, then drew a long knife from its sheath and moved, soundlessly, into the kitchen.

  The black-haired woman was trying to light a gas ring. The igniter was clicking but the hissing gas refused to burst into flames. He crept up behind her, wrapped an arm around her throat, another across her breasts, jerked back her head and lifted her off the floor. She began to writhe and choke.

  Not too tight, take it easy, don’t snap the bitch’s neck; that was for later. He reached out, turned off the gas, then relaxed the pressure on her throat and grabbed a breast. Squeezing hard, he growled, ‘Stop kicking and struggling or I’ll—’

  Samantha raised her legs until her knees were under her chin, her thighs pressing against her chest. His grip tightened, constricting her throat, stopping her breath. She pressed her heels against the edge of the worktop, jerked her legs straight and sent him staggering back, his arms still wrapped around her.

  She heard a crash as the table collapsed and crockery scattered across the floor, then he slipped and fell, his head and shoulders smashed against the wall and his grip slackened. She turned and faced him. He grabbed her hair, tore at her pyjamas. She plunged her thumb into his eye until her nail scraped on bone, then tried to gouge out the slippery ball. He screamed, his body convulsed, and strong arms hurled her across the room.

  She scrambled to her feet; turned to see him retrieve the knife and push himself up from the wreckage on the floor. Rage and pain were twisting his craggy features. Blood, oozing from the socket of his ruptured eye, was carving a crimson track through black face paint and dripping from his chin.

  ‘Bitch!’ He spat out the word. ‘You’re going to regret doing that.’ Making wild slashing movements with the knife, he hunched his shoulders and moved towards her.

  A mind-numbing fear had gripped Samantha. Her terrified gaze was locked on his blackened face, his bloody eye socket, his grimacing gash of a mouth, as she groped behind her on the worktop, frantically searching for something she could use as a weapon.

  ‘Scared now, are yer?’ He let out a gruff, gloating laugh and brandished the knife. ‘You’d better be scared because you’re going to pay for what you just did. And you’re going to pay for what that dirty bitch, Wendy, did to me. She was a whore, not a wife; mocking me, laughing at me, taking my kids to live with her lover in his fancy house, sleeping in his bed.’ He was close to Samantha now and she could feel his acrid breath in her face, smell his sweat. His voice lowered, became menacing. ‘But
you won’t be laughing at me, you won’t be mocking me anymore, because you’ll be—’

  The crash of the gun was deafening. Tiles above a worktop shattered and fragments flew. He ducked and spun round to face the door, his body tensed and ready to spring. The gun roared again and he staggered back against the cupboards.

  Annushka stepped through the doorway, the black automatic clutched awkwardly in her shaking hands. The man sprang at her; she screamed, closed her eyes, squeezed the trigger. The gun roared and he jerked back and fell amongst the crockery fragments that littered the floor. He was moaning now, trying to push himself to his feet, groping blindly for the knife.

  Keeping her back to the wall, Samantha circled him, joined Annushka in the doorway and took the gun. Pointing it at him, she demanded, ‘Who are you? Who sent you?’

  ‘You filthy slag, Wendy,’ he moaned. ‘Have there been so many you can’t remember your own husband?’ He coughed. Small eruptions of blood escaped from the side of his mouth and trickled across his cheek. ‘You’re just a cheating bitch, Wendy, that’s all you are. And you’re . . .’

  His breathing had become laboured, his voice faint. Samantha knelt beside him and pressed the muzzle of the gun against his throat. ‘I’m not your wife. I’m not Wendy. I’m the bitch they sent you to kill. Who sent you? Did Milosovitch send you?’

  ‘Major,’ he moaned. ‘The Major sent me.’

  ‘The Major?’

  ‘Makewood . . . Kelvin . . . special duties . . . got to recover phones, got to kill the lousy traitors. Committing treason, threatening security, putting the country in danger.’ His good eye suddenly opened and glared up at her; bloodstained teeth parted in a grimace of hate and pain. He made a grab for her wrist. She squeezed the trigger, winced when the cartridge exploded, saw his body shudder and blood spread out over the tiles.