Verner thought about the question. ‘It’s possible. . I usually leave no traces, but I didn’t have time to clean up behind myself this time.’ His teeth were grinding as he remembered how things had panned out for him. His job had been simply to frighten the life out of John Lloyd Wickson. Wickson, he knew, had become involved with the importation of drugs for the Mafia and was now trying to extricate himself from any obligation to them. But the Mob did not allow such things. Once they got their hooks into you, they did not let go until the funeral was over. All Verner had been tasked to do was bring Wickson, and his hard-arsed sidekick, Jake Coulton, back into line. It would have all gone OK if not for the interfering of Henry Christie, a man Verner now had a grudging respect for.
‘It’s possible then, you may be of no further use to us,’ Verner’s controller said. ‘One of your attributes was your ability to remain undetected. If the police get to know who you are. .’
The words chilled Verner’s spine. ‘It’s true I may need to move back to mainland Europe, but I will still be of great value to you. I offer a service that is second to none.’
There was a beat of silence over the phone which again had a physical effect on Verner.
‘Yes, you are good,’ the man conceded, ‘still. . we would like you to carry out one more task for us, then withdraw to Spain where your role will be reassessed.’
Verner did not like the sound of that. His enthusiasm waned. ‘What is it?’
‘We feel that the target has stretched our patience too far for his own good. He has made contact and made threats. We would like to terminate our correspondence with him, and that of his head of security. Is this something you could achieve with a business deal?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly.
‘Ensure he knows what he has done wrong prior to terminating the contract, please.’
‘Leave it with me.’
Verner did not care why his employers suddenly wanted Wickson out of the picture. All he was concerned about was doing the job well, getting paid for it and then doing a runner. He had banked over half a million dollars and that would keep him going until he decided he could reappear and resume work. He even knew where he would hide out: India was very cheap.
He ate in a pizza place on Deansgate whilst he worked out his plan. The first necessity was to rearm himself. It would be far too difficult to source a reliable rifle, so it would have to be a handgun. He actually liked close-quarter work best anyway. It was far more satisfying than looking down telescopic sights and seeing somebody fall over. The problem with a handgun, though, because of the distance involved was that it was easier to leave physical evidence behind: DNA, fingerprints, eyewitnesses. All these things were a possibility being near to the victim, but they were not insurmountable by any means.
After he had found himself a gun, he would find the correct clothing.
The last slice of pizza marinara slid into his mouth, complemented by the last swig of the one glass of red wine he allowed himself. He paid cash and left the restaurant, emerging back into the mid-evening streets of Manchester.
It was time to mix business with pleasure.
He found his pleasure in a basement club on the edge of Chinatown. It was an expensive place, populated by business types and classy-looking hookers drinking pricey cocktails at the bar.
The one he hit on was in her mid-twenties.
He watched her for a while before making his move. She looked drug clean, which was always a factor for him, and seemed pretty much in control of herself, although he knew both things were unlikely.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Verner asked her, sliding in next to her.
She was sipping a brightly coloured concoction through a twirly straw. She removed her lips from the top of the straw and smiled at him. ‘You can. A Long-Hard Screw, please,’ she said, naming the chosen cocktail and, less than subtly, providing Verner with her job description.
Verner almost choked, but ordered one and a beer for himself. Cost:?15.
He watched the money disappear into a till.
Lifting his glass, he said, ‘Cheap at half the price. Cheers.’
‘Cheers to you.’ Her red-lipsticked lips surrounded the top of the straw of her new drink and she drew some into her mouth. ‘Nice,’ she said, eyeing him suggestively. ‘You want some action?’
Verner nodded. ‘Just a fuck.’
‘I’m sure I can accommodate that.’
‘How much?’
‘Two-fifty.’ He did not even blink. ‘Half up front.’
‘What’s your percentage?’
‘None of your business.’
‘OK at my hotel — the Radisson?’
‘Fine by me.’
When it was over, Verner lay spread-eagled and naked on the double bed in his hotel room. Aggie, as she told him she was called, started to get dressed. The whole sex act had taken just over four minutes, from the second she got hold of him, slid a ribbed condom on to his highly sensitive prick, to entry, to ejaculation. Short and sweet, but Verner did not care. It satisfied his needs. She had moaned and writhed in all the right places, told him she loved him, and that was OK with him. He loved her for about six seconds.
She pulled on her tiny knickers, not much more than a thong. Her eyes looked at his body. ‘You really needed that, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I could stay the night, you know? You could recover and we could have a long fuck, a really good session. Only cost one-fifty more.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘OK.’ She hooked her skimpy bra on, her eyes still on his wiry body. ‘Got a lot of bruises on you.’ She bent down and placed a finger on a large bruise on his thigh. He winced. ‘Been beaten up?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And your arms — they look a mess, too.’
She got no response and could tell he did not want to do small talk. That was fine with her. She could go any way the client wanted: chatter or silence, brains or dumb. She was out to make money, offer a service and then leave.
‘You don’t do drugs,’ he said. He had been watching her all the time for the giveaway signs. There were none.
She shook her head. ‘Did once, don’t now. Got a three-year-old kid to bring up. Clean as a whistle now. It fucks you up.’
‘Good for you.’
‘But I can get you something if you want.’ She turned to him and curled her fingers around his penis, now limp and damp, and quite small. He removed her hand.
‘No thanks.’
‘Whatever,’ she shrugged.
Verner sat up, watching her complete her dressing. ‘Is he waiting down in reception for you?’
‘Who?’
‘Your pimp.’
‘Not your business. I fuck, that’s all you need to know.’
‘But he knows you’re up here, doesn’t he?’
‘Look, don’t start getting all weird on me.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’ve been a good client, OK. Time for me to go.’ She eased herself finally into her tight, short, body-gripping dress, picked up her shoulder bag and trotted to the door.
As it closed behind her, Verner quickly scurried around the room, dressing fast. Then he was out, down the corridor, running down the stairs towards the reception area, easily beating the lift down which he knew Aggie would be using. He was on the ground floor twenty seconds before the lift doors opened. Aggie stepped regally out as though she owned the place.
Verner hid behind a wide pillar and watched her teeter on her high heels towards the revolving doors of the hotel. She stopped to light a cigarette, then picked her mobile phone out of her bag and made a quick call. Instead of leaving the hotel, she dropped into a leather sofa by the door, crossing her long legs, displaying her stocking tops, and bouncing her feet angrily. It would seem she had been told to wait.
Verner sat down too, out of her sight.
A few minutes later a smooth-looking black guy shouldered his way into the foyer.
Aggie stood to meet him. She handed over the wad of notes that Verner had given her. The black man counted them carefully there and then, not bothering about who might have been watching him. He smiled, nodded and gave Aggie a hard kiss on the lips, steering her out of the door — probably en route to her next assignation. On a poor night, Verner reckoned she would be earning her pimp at least two grand and taking less than ten per cent of it for herself. Slave labour.