A Good day to die

'I think you might have made a mistake,' he continued. 'I'm not really involved in all this.'

I smiled at him. 'I don't think I have. Now, who did you organize Billy West's murder on behalf of?'

'I didn't have anything to do with it, I promise. All I did was make some calls to Thomas Darke on behalf of another client of mine.'

'Who?'

'You know I can't tell you that.'

'All right, have it your own way.' I took him by the arm again and steered him across the road.

He continued to protest his innocence and I told him to save his breath.

Up ahead there was a narrow pedestrian walkway that led through to Rupert Street. We turned into it and I felt Pope stiffen. It was darker here and there were fewer people about. We walked past the entrance to one of Soho's infamous clip joints, where unsuspecting male punters were lured in on the pretext of having some sort of relationship with a pretty, semi-naked girl, only to find that this relationship was very much of the platonic kind and the obligatory drink was going to cost him the best part of a week's salary. The girl at the door of this one had the body of an East German shotputter and a face to match, and would have had difficulty enticing a sex-mad adolescent OD-ing on Viagra into her establishment, but she gamely tried anyway, and even winked at Pope.

Just past the clip joint was a small porn cinema offering 'XXX' films, a rarity in these parts now with the proliferation of DVDs and the Internet. 'In here,' I told Pope, bringing him to a halt and opening the door. 'After you.'

He stepped reluctantly into a shoebox-sized foyer that smelt of damp. I squeezed in after him, managing to find enough space to stand in. A small, weaselly-looking bloke in a threadbare cardigan who'd probably been here since the place opened in the Sixties sat behind a chipped wooden counter a couple of feet away. He stared at us blankly from behind glasses that were far too big for his face.

'Go on then, Leslie,' I said, 'pay the man.'

Pope sighed, then asked how much he wanted.

The bloke told him it was twenty-four quid for two and Pope sighed again, more loudly this time. 'That seems an awful lot,' he complained.

'It seems very reasonable to me,' I said. 'Give him the money.'

Reluctantly, he pulled a bulging black wallet from the pocket of his Savile Row suit and removed two crisp, clean twenties from the end of the half-inch-thick wad. He had to force himself to give them over, and he kept his hand there while the change was counted out and handed back with an equal lack of enthusiasm. It was like watching a bad comedy sketch about two ageing tightwads.

Pope was really beginning to annoy me now, and before he could return the change to his wallet, I gave him a push and manoeuvred him through the door that led into the cinema.

We were greeted by the sight of a naked woman on the screen as she serviced three men at the same time amidst a lot of grunting, groaning and muffled wails. The theatre itself was small, with no more than a couple of hundred seats. There were only three other people in there, all middle-aged men by the look of the backs of their heads, and they were spaced well apart. No one turned round as the door clunked shut behind us.

Ignoring the stale smell in the air and the telltale arm movements of the men in front, I guided Pope along a row near the back and shoved him all the way into the far corner, pushing him down in the last seat. I took the seat next to him, returned the.45 to its earlier position against his midriff, and used my other hand to locate the Swiss Army knife. Flicking open the main blade, I jabbed it gently against his crotch.

He looked down and took a sharp intake of breath. I jabbed him again, a little harder this time.

'My God,' he hissed, his voice cracking. 'Be careful. Please.'

I leaned close to him, my mouth inches from his ear. He had a musty, unwashed smell that was only partly disguised by the expensive cologne he was wearing. When I spoke, it was in a whisper. 'Now that I've got your undivided attention, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I'm going to ask you a series of questions and you're going to give me nothing but honest answers, and without any hesitation. If you lie, or pause for more than one second, I'm going to start cutting you with the knife.'

'Please, you're-'

'Do you understand?'

He tried to protest again but I pushed the knife hard against his balls, not enough to break the skin, but not far off it either. He let out a little squeak which was all but drowned out by the ecstatic noises on the screen, and nodded frantically. 'Yes, yes, I understand.'

'Who's the client? The one you hired Billy West for, and the one who got you to organize the hit on him?'

'His name's Nicholas Tyndall. For God's sake, don't tell him it was me who told you. He'd have me skinned.'

'Who is Nicholas Tyndall?'

'He's a gangster, a real thug. I've done work for him before. I-'

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?'

'I don't know anything about that…'

I brought the knife up to his face with a rapid movement and jabbed him in the cheek with it, creating a shallow wound half an inch across. He flinched and this time cried out properly, but once again the sound was all but drowned out. A thin line of blood appeared, getting thicker as I watched. I didn't like having to do this, but I couldn't afford to listen to bullshit. I also couldn't afford to keep making threats without being seen to carry them out. I returned the knife to his crotch while he wiped the blood from his cheek and stared at it on his fingers. He looked pale.

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?' I repeated, leaning close to his ear again.

'Because he didn't want it carried out by any of his own people, and he wanted it kept as quiet as possible.'

'What's Nicholas Tyndall got to do with Richard Blacklip?'

He tried looking at me blankly, one hand still on his face where I'd cut him, but it didn't work. 'Who?'

'Don't fuck me about,' I snarled, bringing the knife back up to his cheek again and slicing it across three of his fingers.

He shrieked in pain and quickly shoved the fingers into his mouth. I pulled the knife away and out of sight, just as one of the other punters turned round and gave us both a dirty look.

I gave him one back and mine must have been dirtier because he quickly turned away.

'Him,' I said, dropping the knife into my lap and producing the photo of the men at the golf course. I stuck it right in front of his eyes so that he had no choice but to look, using my index finger to point out Blacklip somewhere in the middle.

What colour there was drained from his face.

'No hesitation, Pope.'

'He was different,' he answered between pursed lips. 'He owed me money.'

'Then how did you know where to find him in Manila?'

Again he hesitated, and I was just about to give him another warning when a strange thing happened.

His face broke into a sly, confident smile, a sight made all the more odd by the blood dribbling down the side of his face. 'I don't think I'm going to tell you that,' he said, still smiling, and then there was a popping sound not unlike a champagne cork being dislodged and Pope's head snapped back against the wall, a black mark appearing in the centre of his forehead. Dark liquid splashed against the paintwork. Two more popping sounds followed in rapid succession and he slumped sidewards in his seat, blood pouring down his face. His body immediately went into wild spasms, the legs kicking out against the seat in front.

For a second I was too shocked to move as I watched him die in front of my eyes, then instinct took over and I tumbled out of my seat, rolling over so that I was crouching with my back to his corpse.