“I guess she didn't want me to go running when I found out what her last name was.”
“And why would you run?” A perverse pleasure clung to Curtis's words. Footsteps thudded down the stairs as Mark re-emerged, a full glass of scotch in his hand.
Curtis accepted it without a thank you.
“I wouldn't have.” Starling finally responded.
Curtis stopped the glass halfway to his mouth, surprised.
“You wouldn't have?”
Starling shook his head, gambling at the wisdom of his response. He reminded himself of what he had just witnessed, that the man before him had killed countless people and that Lucas Cole was facing the end of his life just a few feet below them.
“I would have tried to adjust.”
Curtis chuckled, almost spitting his drink out as he took a large gulp. Starling smiled nervously.
“That's a good one.” He chuckled some more. “Adjust.”
“I would have made it work.”
“Listen, mate. There’s no adjusting on this side of the fence. You don't just make things work and sweep things under the rug.”
“I loved Ashley, not the life she came from.”
“You mean the life where she hand-picked girls for her brothers to bring to me? That life?” Curtis shook his head, taking another sip. He looked like he’d just won the lottery such was his celebratory demeanour. “Did you know that once, probably before you were on the scene, some woman pulled the fella she had her eye on in a club. She called Tommy, and after I gave her the once over, Ashley called to make sure she was dead?”
Starling felt his fists clench, a sudden rush of anger bursting through him at the accusation. He controlled himself somehow and Curtis smiled like a spoilt child playing with a new toy.
“Lighten up, Ollie.”
He raised his glass at the regretful policeman, winking patronisingly at him. The deck of cards flicked rapidly as Banner shuffled them on the other side of the room. His shotgun lay on the table alongside an ashtray with a half burnt cigarette releasing smoke into the air.
Starling cleared his throat, straightening his back and standing firmly.
“'Like I said, I didn't love the life she had. I just loved her.”
“So you came to me because you knew that I would take care of the situation?”
“In a way, yes.”
“In a way?” Curtis's voice flickered quickly to irritated.
“Look, I wanted Lucas dead. It's funny, I watched him in the hospital room when he was told his wife had moments to live. I’d never seen pain like it.”
Curtis smirked, taking a sip of drink as a liquid pat on the back. Starling felt his anger bubble again.
“Then, when he walked back out of that room, he was a different man. Any emotion he’d before had been struck off. Like someone had entered the playlist of his emotions and had deleted them.”
Starling shook his head, re-treading the steps that had brought his enjoyable and well-planned life to this moment.
“But when I saw Annette's, sorry, Ashley's body, when they’d hauled her back in from the rain, I understood. I understood why he wanted you and your family dead. Because seeing her eyes open but her beauty gone rendered all my other emotions useless.”
Curtis finished his glass, the ice clinking softly as he placed it down on the bench.
“I just wanted the person responsible for her death to go the same way.”
Starling said the words to the floor, his head hanging low in shame. What would his father think? A man who’d boasted to everyone within earshot about the upstanding police officer his son was? Now here he stood, face to face with one of the most notorious criminals London had known and working alongside him to end another man's life.
This was not the path he’d wanted.
Curtis showed little sympathy as he walked towards him.
“Well he’s dead now. For everything he’s done and taken from us, he’s gone the same way as everyone else. And if it's any consolation to you, Ollie, you helped.”
The look on Starling's face told him it was not.
“But that’s all done now, so now we need to discuss exactly what this means going forward. I could use a drink.”
Curtis wrapped his arm around Starling's shoulder and the two men slowly walked through the shop towards the door leading to his office staircase. Curtis looked over at the two card players.
“When Tommy’s finished playing with his food, tell him to come upstairs would you? We need to talk.”
Mark nodded but didn't look away from the wonderful hand he’d been dealt. Starling stared at the pool of blood on the floor and could only imagine what Lucas was going through.
“See Ollie, the way it works is: people in this city, they fall in line. When I say jump, I don't want them to ask how high. You understand? I want them to just jump higher than they ever fucking have. Now I'm sure I'm all over your station, people always looking at ways that they can bring me down. I imagine right now, what with Lucas's irritating rampage, that opportunity is brighter than usual.”
He smiled at Starling, who felt the unease of the man's forearm draped across his shoulder.
“You work for me now and that means that cannot happen. It won't take long. Once Tommy posts Lucas back to the police, body part by body part, the press will soon get the message.”
Curtis stopped a few feet from the door. He turned and stood in front of Starling, adjusting his blazer lapels and locking his jet black eyes on the young officer.
“This city will be afraid of me again. I promise you that.”
Starling sighed. He envisaged Annette's blonde hair against his face, the intoxicating aroma of her shampoo filling his nostrils. Her pretty smile flaring up unwillingly at his lame jokes.
Her heart-breaking giggle.
She was worth this. He told himself again. No matter what she’d done.
She was worth this.
“Now you’ve already proven to me that I can trust you. You played your part tonight to perfection and I am kind of impressed. You're a natural.”
Starling felt Curtis goading him. He knew he couldn't rise to it.
“Now, like I said, the police are probably going to try and make a move and I need you to make sure that doesn't happen.”
Starling was too busy looking at the floor, wallowing in his own self-hatred and wonderful memories of a love lost, to notice that Curtis had slid his hand into his blazer.
“What do you need me to do?”
He looked up, his eyes widening in horror at the gun that was in Curtis's hand.
They grew even wider at the sadistic, calm stare that sat on Curtis's face.
“I need you to die.”
The explosion of the gun as it shot the bullet out rang around the shop like a firework. The bullet ripped through Starling's neck and slapped against the wall behind him, embedding itself in the plaster.
It was followed by an erratic splattering of Starling's blood.
Starling stumbled backwards, gargling as the blood pooled out from the hole in his throat, more of it falling downwards and slowly filling up his lungs.
His eyes searched Curtis for any strands of help.
There were none.
He fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering, a scarlet pool quickly surrounding him.
Mark and Banner shuffled their cards.
“A dead cop is a hell of a message.”
Starling heard the words trail off and footsteps ascending the stairs and growing quieter.
He stared at the ceiling tiles, the long bright lights that sat in their brackets.
As the blood gushed over his fingers that clasped to his throat, he tried to picture Annette a final time.
He slowly faded from consciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Fletcher slammed the front door behind him with such force as he stomped into the house that the photo of his beloved Susan swung on its hook.
He refused to
look at it, out of shame.
Thirty years as one of the most respected men to wear the Metropolitan Police uniform; it was all undone in one act of sympathy. He knew that helping Lucas had been a bad idea at the time, but he could see the man's need for vengeance. The pain that was locked around his body and slowly crushing him.
Now, as he walked through the dark hallway and into the equally dark living room, he would have to face the consequences of the events he’d set in motion.
He unzipped his coat, tossing it onto the back of the dusty sofa and rocking the living room as he marched his way to the kitchen. The house stank with the aroma of stale cigarettes, the plug-in air freshener by the doorway fighting a losing battle as its batteries slowly died.
He could relate.
He pulled the cord inside the kitchen doorway, the light flickering a few times before casting its fading light over a dirty kitchen that was used sparingly. On the side was a bottle of Jack Daniel's, a third of its contents gone with the rest about to go the same way. He pulled open the cupboard above the sink and removed a dusty glass tumbler.
He ran it under the sink, the water crashing against his hand and forearm and his mind jumped back to a few nights earlier when he’d stood in the very same spot shaking after the Draytons had left.
His arm would be forever scarred from the night he’d defied them.
He shut off the water and scooped up a tea towel, sloppily drying the glass before slamming it down on the worktop.
A desperate hand reaching for the bottle.
Unscrewing its cap.
The whiskey cascading into the glass.
Fletcher hurriedly slapped around his pockets, located his cigarettes and retrieved the box. He pulled out a thin roll of nicotine and lazily tossed the box onto the side. It slid and rebounded off the bottle of Jack.
He placed the cigarette between his lips and before he lit it, he wondered what Susan would think.
Chain smoking. Alcoholic. Estranged from their kids. His grandkids. Destined to spend the last of his years rotting in a prison cell.
She would have been so ashamed.
But what did he have left?
What could he possibly have to offer the world when he had nothing to offer himself?
He clicked the lighter and as he drew it upwards, his eyes gazed over the fridge.
Christine and Annabelle's childish faces smiled from the photo, both of them dressed like princesses. Susan sat between them, the make-up they’d painted onto her face, making her look like a clown.
It was one of his most cherished memories.
He was still a father. He could still be a grandfather.
His eyes roved back through the living room to the desk sitting in front of the bay window, the curtains drawn to keep the world out of his business.
He let the cigarette drop to the floor.
With a quick scoop, Fletcher poured the whiskey down the sink. The rest of the bottle followed.
A few minutes later he walked into the living room with a hot cup of coffee in hand as he approached the masses of papers that reminded him of a job he’d never go back to. He pulled the chair back and sat down, placing the mug of coffee to the side and lifted the lid on the laptop.
As it booted up, he shifted through the random scrawlings, trying to impose some degree of order.
He leant over and switched on his police radio, turning the volume down to no louder than a whisper, the world of crime quietly providing the backing track as he began typing, allowing his memoirs to flow from his fingertips.
Lucas stumbled off the final wooden step, tumbling forward and landing onto the firm mats carpeting Tommy's gym. He breathed heavily, the pain of his stab wound doing its best to keep him grounded. He received a firm kick in the ribs.
“Get up!”
Tommy stood above him, the gun casually swinging in his hand. Bright lights burst from the ceiling, illuminating the gym with a polished glow. Everything was meticulously placed, every weight lined up properly, the two benches in alignment by the mirror on the far wall.
Lucas could barely register anything, his vision swirling as colours and shapes merged into one another. He pushed himself upwards, blood trickling down his face and splashing onto the mats.
It joined the small puddle from the hole in his side.
He staggered to his feet, swaying slightly, his head spinning. The firm metal of a gun prodded him in the spine and he slowly took an aimless step forward, his feet dragging across the mats.
Tommy took measured steps behind him, his quiet voice not suiting his hulking frame.
“It was always going to end this way, Lucas.”
More shuffled steps. Lucas could barely see out of his right eye, the swelling from Curtis's cheap shot was covering his eyeball. Blood eased itself from the opening above, trickling down his swollen cheek.
“Don't get me wrong, there were a few moments when I thought you might actually pull this off, that I’d be another Drayton for you to tick off your sheet. But ultimately, I knew it would end like this. Deep down, you did too.”
Lucas couldn't answer, his breath struggling to filter in and out of his lungs. He wanted every step to be towards Helen, for her to be waiting for him with her arms open and a smile on her face.
Soon, he told himself.
“Now Curtis - Curtis is all show. I mean he is an evil fucker, but most of it’s for show. The whole high and mighty thing he did with you up there; that was for him as much as it was for you. You’ve shown him something recently that no one ever had before. That even he can be vulnerable.”
Tommy prodded Lucas forward a few more steps, a large black structure manifesting in Lucas's eye line. Blood slowly dripped from his side and to the mats below.
“And I really don't think he can handle it. I don't. He likes the fact that you, the public, the police all look at him like he’s the devil. He feeds off it. It's allowed him to build an empire that for a long time has been untouchable. Until you came along.”
The black structure grew, looming over Lucas like a dark wall. He wondered if it was the pathway to the other side, knowing the things he’d done would not lead him towards a lighter after-life. His foot clipped against a step.
“He is actually terrified of you, Lucas. I’ve never seen fear in the man like the way you put it in him. The way you came after us, the relentless thirst for vengeance. The violence you put our family through. It shit him up. He’s probably up there right now, begging I put a bullet in your head and set you on fire so you don't get back up.”
Tommy chuckled, shoving Lucas forward. His shins hit the step and he fell onto another hard floor. The floor beneath him shook slightly, echoing the noise of his impact.
“Me? I'm actually kind of impressed by it all.”
Tommy stepped up and through the door to the black MMA cage which had housed hundreds of hours of his life.
“I mean, you don't believe in the chaos of it all. You’re like me. You believe in the violence. The truth within the violence and how people react when it comes for them. You either face it or you flee it. Either way, it’ll get you. Curtis would flee. If he didn't have me or the now dwindling numbers around him, he would have fled from you a long time ago.”
Tommy slammed the cage door shut, locking them both within the octagon structure. Lucas slowly crawled away from Tommy, reaching the black, mesh wall of his prison. He pushed weak, bloody fingers through the holes in the metal and pulled his battered body to its feet.
Tommy looked on with a glint in his eye. He tossed the gun towards the door and began stretching his arms.
“He underestimated you. I think we all did, really. However the time has come, Lucas, for this whole journey of yours to end. But before that I want you to know something. Yes, I did kill your wife. But it wasn't anything personal. It just had to be done.”
The fence of the octagon reached all the way up to the roof of the gym, the panels connected by thick padded beams in each corner. Tommy s
lid the knife that had shed the blood of the man before him and his wife, and stabbed it into one of the padded beams with great force.
“Alex. Well that was just retribution. I mean, there have to be repercussions.”
Lucas heard the words as he straightened up, his broken chest pressing against the cage. The calm in the voice as it relayed the murders of those he held dear made him shake with an anger he could barely muster. Tommy continued.
“You killed my friend. You killed three of my brothers and you killed my little sister. I can't let that slide.”
Lucas pushed himself off the cage, turning feebly as he struggled to stay up on weary legs. His face was unrecognisable, the damage from Curtis's fists evident in the blood and bruising. His nose was crooked and broken, wheezing slightly as he breathed. Blood had covered the entire front of his shirt, with more of it dripping from his favoured leather jacket.
His life was slowly escaping from the hole that had been cut into his side.
Tommy stared at him as he limbered his shoulders, stretching out his neck before raising his fists as if ready for a competitive fight.
“I would have loved to have fought you at a hundred percent.”
With that, Tommy burst forward with staggering speed, launching himself into the air as he swung down a violent right fist that slammed into Lucas's cheek. Lucas stumbled back into the cage fence, a tooth zipping out his mouth and crashing to the mat in a bloody splat. Tommy weaved slightly, like a professional boxer, before sending a hard, pinpoint left hook into Lucas's midriff. He collided again with the fence, the little air in his body shooting out of him like a cannon.
He tried to stay on his feet, the power and energy that had brought the other Draytons to their death had left him. He tried to pull himself up straight as Tommy stalked him slowly, like a lion about to catch its dinner. As soon as Lucas planted both feet firmly on the mat, Tommy lunged forward, his legs pivoting as he raised a hard knee that shattered into the broken ribs.
Lucas hit the cage again, rebounding off the black chain links behind him and Tommy thrust the bone of his elbow into the side of Lucas's head.
One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down. Page 37