Kim & The Hitman
By Sandie Baldry
Copyright © 2021 Sandra Baldry
All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN:B08XLLF53J
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places used are fictitious. Names, characters, and places are products of the author's imagination.
Front cover image by Recbeca of Fiverr The book designed by Sandra Baldry by Amazon. www.sandienovellas.com email: [email protected]
[email protected]
Kim & The Hitman
Dedication
To my sister Sonia and daughter Dominie
To all my beta readers
Kim & The Hitman
1
Vincent waited in his Vauxhall, switching on the wipers to clean the dust off the windscreen. He needed a clear view of the apartment block on the opposite side. Already difficult with For sale signs vying for prominence at the car park exit. He would be lucky to catch sight of the target’s car when he left. Venturing closer wasn’t an option, having spotted the security cameras.
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with a glance to the time, he waited for the target to emerge—Michael Winthorpe, a local councillor who had made some powerful enemies. Vincent paid to eliminate him. He didn’t know who had generated the hit and didn’t care. This one had come through the agency, where the work was regular. They took a ten percent cut, irritating when all they did was allocate the job to someone like him. The only advantage was he remained anonymous to the person or organisation generating the job. Ordered to make this one look like the hit it was, guessing it was to set an example. He had the skill set to make that happen. Riskier, but he liked a challenge.
Vincent had followed his target for two weeks and was familiar with his routine. He left for his office at eight-thirty. Worked until three. Nice hours if you could get them. Then would stop off on a Monday at his golf club. He never took his clubs with him, so Vincent guessed he would be propping up the bar to meet with other wankers. On a Tuesday, he came to the apartment Vincent watched to visit his mistress. A glance at the car clock, not much longer, and the target would be on the move again to return to his country home. It was between here and his house Vincent would strike. He had a plan; he always had a plan. Then home, to Maggie, his Rottweiler, the love of his life. No complications. Her only desire was food, exercise, and to get a fuss. No sex, then he could buy that on any street corner in town at a certain time of night. Again, no complications. Married twice, the first wife took him for everything he had. He didn’t give the second a chance. Nope, he would not go down that road again, just him and Maggie.
Vincent spotted Michael Winthorpe’s BMW waiting at the exit for a gap in the traffic. Firing up his engine, Vincent indicated and pulled in behind him as he drove off. He would follow him to the country road, complete the hit.
Vincent’s hands squeezed the steering wheel. He wasn’t taking the same route home. He was going in the opposite direction, towards the town. Shit. He could do without this complication.
Following the target, keeping two car lengths back, he resigned himself to the detour where the traffic would be: stop, start, a pedestrian crossing every few metres. And the glare hitting his windscreen from the bright sun was giving him a headache. At this rate, he would not get home for another hour. While he waited, he checked his glove compartment. A packet of paracetamol laid there. His fingers reached in as the lights turned green. He moved on; his target was pulling off the road into the post office entrance, giving Vincent no choice but to linger in the space for taxi drivers. Only one taxi waited, and Vincent, glancing to his rear-view mirror, noted the driver was reading a paper. He didn’t underestimate how possessive taxi drivers were over their spot, and the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.
The target jumped out and strolled into the entrance while checking his phone.
Vincent considered taking him out when he got back into the car. Then chastised himself. That would be messy. This needed to be a clean kill and under no circumstances involve bystanders. That would do his reputation no good, and he survived on his reputation. He followed the training he had as a mercenary, keep collateral damage to a minimum, keep it clean.
The target, carrying a parcel, got back into his car and pulled away. Vincent went to follow, distracted by a tap on the car’s passenger side window. An elderly woman carrying two shopping bags peered at him with a frown.
‘Are you working or not?’ she snapped, trying the locked door and setting Vincent’s hackles up. Ignoring her, he indicated to the traffic behind and pulled out. The target car was somewhere ahead. This time he hoped to go towards Boddington. Usually, fewer vehicles would be on the quiet country road. A glance at the clock, five-thirty rush hour, every man and his car would be on the road trying to get home. Vincent’s jaw clenched, seeing the whole plan going tits up.
It was another fifteen minutes before they reached the Boddington road. His worst fears confirmed—a steady stream of traffic using it as a shortcut from Bury to Ipswich. He continued to follow the target’s progress as he gave way to oncoming traffic, Vincent doing likewise.
The BMW then turned off towards the target’s country home. The road little more than a country track and just the two of them. Tall trees either side thinned the closer they drew to the cottages that laid further up—each with their own security system. He couldn’t risk going that far and being caught on camera. It was now or never. He needed to get closer, to be in range. Putting his foot down on the accelerator, he drew closer to the car in front. Amused as a hand came out of the car to wave him around. Picking up the mobile, he pressed the pre-set number.
‘Goodbye, Michael,’ he whispered.
A loud explosion rocked the country track. The canopy of the trees swaying, evicting squawking birds. A fireball engulfed the BMW swallowing up the occupants. A pleasing sight as Vincent completed a U-turn driving off in the opposite direction.
He now looked forward to a long walk with Maggie. A brief rest before the next job. A private commission. The hit, a woman. A couple of hours of his time, at the most, easy peasy—money for old rope.
2
Kim
‘You look great. The style suits your face’s shape.’ I stood back to admire my handy work—no mean feat since Alice was in her eighties and on a mission to cover her scalp, her silver hair thinner on each occasion I saw her. Her eyes studied her reflection as I positioned a mirror at the back of her head. The silver hair curled in gentle rolls, fixed into position by a generous spray of lacquer.
‘Yes, good as usual, Kim,’ agreed Alice, squinting her eyes at the mirror. ‘How is your beauty blog thingy doing?’ she asked.
‘Okay,’ I answered. It was almost the end of my shift, so I wasn’t keen to get side-tracked into a long conversation. Plus, my throat was a bit sore, and I knew Alice was just being polite anyway.
Alice paid. No tip: she never did, always grumbling about the rising cost of everything and the hardship of making ends meet on a pension.
Opening the door for her to leave, the cool air hit my face, welcome relief. The sky was clouding over, several drops of rain finding my skin.
It was time to go home. Time to put my feet up, and if I could get Paul to give them a rub, all the better. Though he’d been as moody as hell lately, picking fights for no reason. We’d only been together for a month and already
settling into old married life, though not married. I’d been thinking about it. I’d been eyeing a beautiful wedding dress in the shop over the road. It tucked in tight at the waist before spreading out in layers. Old fashioned, but then, I was a romantic.
‘You off then, Kim?’ asked Emma, breaking my train of thought as I snatched up my coat, wondering how many bridesmaids I should have and which flowers would look perfect.
‘Yeah, feeling tired.’ Which I was. It was only four o’clock, and I’d been on my feet all day. Most days, I could rely on my other skill; nails, my speciality, nail sculpting, when I could sit on a stool while working.
‘Haven’t heard you talking so much today,’ grinned Flossy, as she ushered her client to a hairdryer. Flossy was in training and was scrubbing up well. She worked with us three days a week, then two at the college. Until that day, only allowed to shampoo hair and keep the salon tidy. However, now let loose with scissors to lightly trim hair.
I put a hand to my throat. ‘Yeah, throat’s a touch sore, just hope I’m not coming down with something.’
I picked up on Emma and Flossy, sharing glances. Then Emma shot me a look,
‘Perhaps you could do a sponsored silence, be easy with a sore throat,’ she laughed. ‘Bet all the regulars would sponsor you,’ she added as she placed a mirror at the back of her client’s head for her to check. Emma owned the salon and was somewhere in her forties. I rented a chair from her, an arrangement suiting us both since I was a trained beautician and hairdresser with an NVQ level 3. She was lucky to have me, and I’d told her so more than once.
I didn’t dignify her with an answer. Yeah, I liked to chat with customers. Exchanging information and gossip. If you showed an interest in them, not only did you hear some interesting stories, but you got better tips.
Tucking my hood over my head as it rained, I left and hurried to the bus stop. I’d be so glad when I’d passed my driving test. I had planned to buy a little runner, something cheap as I had little money. And I was saving either for a holiday in the Canaries or maybe even a wedding, who knew? Paul and I might have only been together for a month, but I had known him at high school, though I didn’t fancy him then.
It was all my fault for getting distracted by Emma and Flossy; I missed my bus, so it forced me to sit and wait for the next one. Another twenty minutes, and it was cold, the last day of March, with the type of drizzle in the air that could ruin your hair. I kept my hood over my head, hoping to protect it, and scanned my phone for anything interesting. Two messages, one from the girls, to remind me we were meeting tomorrow. We met on the second Thursday every month for coffee and the latest gossip. The other message was from Paul, which was odd, ‘I’ve put your bags outside the door and changed the locks. Goodbye. I’d like to say it’s been fun, but it hasn’t. Thought you were only staying for one night!’
Paul was a bit of a joker, at least that was what I thought. An hour later, I got back to the flat. Tired, my throat sore, and being cramped on the bus with all the school kids, I was relieved when I arrived back home. Then I saw my bags parked outside the door. We might have lived in a posh block, but I still wouldn’t trust anyone.
Not in the mood for him joking around, I went to let myself in. My key didn’t work. Confused, I knocked on the door. What’s going on? He must’ve known that April 1st, April fool’s day isn’t until tomorrow.
‘Is that you, Kim?’
‘Yeah… who else would it be. Come on. This isn’t funny. I’m tired and hungry. Open the door.’
‘Didn’t you get my text?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘That’s it. We’re done. You came back with me for one night. I didn’t expect to get stuck with you for a month. Sorry, Kim, it’s not working and since you won’t take the bloody hint… fuck off.’
I was mystified. And what Paul had said wasn’t strictly true. He had invited me to stay for the weekend, not one night. And then hinted I could leave some clothes there. If he had said in the first week how he felt, but no, not a word. And we had made love the other night. It wasn’t his best performance, but still. And though he had been a bit rat arsed as of late, I figured he had problems at work. Though I liked to think, I never brought mine home.
‘If I’ve done something wrong… couldn’t we work it out?’ My gut was fluttering, my chest filled with emotion, and I struggled not to cry. I failed and burst into tears.
‘You can stop that. It won’t work on me,’ snapped Paul from the other side of the door.
‘Didn’t mean to cry,’ I sobbed. ‘Please open the door and talk to me face to face.’
‘Not a chance, you get your foot in the door, and I’ll never get rid of you–you are the shallowest person I think I’ve ever met. Everything is about you… I complain of an ache in my back, and you have one worse in your shoulder. I have an unpleasant customer, then you have three. Everything is about you, you, you….’
While I listened to the rant, a door opened behind me. It’s Fred, or whatever his name was, with a face like a poker. I guessed in his sixties, always grumbling about something.
Do you have to be so noisy?’
‘Do you mind? Can’t you see this is a private conversation?’ I informed him, brushing the wetness from my face and trying to muster some dignity.
‘It’s not exactly private. The entire block can hear you,’ he snapped and just stood there staring at me. Then his eyes flicked down to my bags, grinned, and closed the door again. Now everyone would know Paul had kicked me out, and a flush of humiliation hit me. Worse, my throat had become painful, reducing me to a whisper.
‘Are you still there?’ shouted Paul through the door.
‘Yes,’ I said but now not sure he could hear me. I texted him. ‘Losing my voice.’
‘And I’d like to lose you. Goodbye, Kim. Don’t contact me again.’
I texted him back, ‘I love you.’ No answer. So, I sat on the bags, waiting for him to change his mind. Sure, he’d had a bad day and took it out on me. An hour went by. A text from him. Why are you still there? I can see the top of your head through the peephole. Go away, will you?
Another hour and another bus and the sky opened up. I arrived at dads at six-thirty. I was soaked through and
knackered. I let myself in since I didn’t give dad the key back, ignoring him when he asked me to pop it through the letterbox. He was so happy for me when I left to live with Paul. Still, he’d be glad to have the company back.
The house was a two-up, two down on the road full of terraces where you couldn’t park a car for love nor money. When taking driving lessons, I had to get picked up in the middle of the road, which reminded me, I needed to let Pass-test-First time know I’ve moved again. The name was a bit of a joke as I’d failed three times. Still, I got on well with Jo; we had such a lot in common. What with liking the same television programs, Strictly and The Kardashians.
The house was warm, so I knew dad was somewhere about as he was old school. If he was not in, the heating went off. I’d tried to tell him it was more expensive that way, but would he listen?
Closing the door, I heard moaning. My heart spiked, thinking dad sounded like he was having a heart attack. He was not in the living room or kitchen. I raced to the bedrooms and burst in. OMG. I left again. I won’t describe what I saw as it’s too revolting—the sight of Mrs Brown from next door in that position with dad. I was traumatised.
‘What the fuck are you doing back here?’ shouted dad.
‘Didn’t work out with Paul,’ I answered, trying to unsee what confronted me. Then it hit me. ‘She hasn’t moved in, has she?’ I mean, she had a good house of her own. The grunts and groans continued—no answer. I couldn’t bear it if she moved in. My mother would’ve turned in her grave. And where would that have left me?
3
Thursday, my day off. I’d got out of bed at eleven; I was to meet the girls for coffee later and catch up with gossip. I hoped to stun them with my new red-streaked hair colour. A natural b
londe, so the effect was eye-catching. I didn’t mind saying I looked fantastic. Then, as a professional beautician, I would have expected no less of myself. When I gave the girls’ beauty advice, they listened. The only problem today was I’d lost my key feature, my voice. I wasn’t ill or anything, and it wasn’t as dad said because I talked nonstop to my clients. No, it was a strain affecting the throat. Other than that, I felt great. And the girls depended on me to cast an expert eye over their hair or acrylic nails. Not to mention I had the best gossip, coming from working in a hair salon.
‘Haven’t made you tea, and the kettle needs refilling, so make sure you use the water filter,’ said dad as he followed my progress to the kitchen. He stood by the living room window, no doubt watching out for the paperboy. I mouthed. ‘Okay.’
‘Still not talking?’ he said with a smirk, returning to the view over the front path. ‘You need to see a doctor. What’s it been, two days?’ The letterbox clunked dad’s cue to amble into the hall. And he was the one needing to see a doctor. To get his heart checked, what with all the exertion with her next-door. I was having a rant with myself. I was not an ageist, but some things were not right; sex after sixty was one of them. I could understand it if dad hired a sex worker, or escort, whatever they’re called. But her next door? She must be older than dad by at least ten years. Overweight, mostly taken up with her breasts, and always laughing even when something was not funny. I’d never disliked her, except for her cat that craps in our garden. But her? Then I consoled myself; at least she wasn’t living here. I had watched her creeping out, thinking I wouldn’t hear her making her way down the stairs. Then on seeing me in the sitting room, she gave me an embarrassed wave.
I glanced at Mum’s photo on the wall, and a sudden sadness gripped my chest. This wouldn’t do. I needed to keep my head straight. Focus on the important stuff like what I was going to wear.
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