Verner felt the presence of the other two men who had quietly moved round to be behind him.
‘Ammunition?’
‘Two spare magazines with each. Forty-five rounds in total.’
‘How much?’
‘The Glock is five hundred; the other is two.’
‘Not cheap.’
‘I guess a man like you needs a gun,’ said the pimp, ‘and would be prepared to pay whatever the cost.’
Verner nodded, knowing full well he would not be paying a penny for either gun. Had it been a straightforward, trustworthy transaction, he would have bartered and gladly paid, but he instinctively knew this was going to turn sour. ‘But you’re wrong, actually, the gun isn’t for me. I need to make a call to my boss, just for the nod.’ He already had his mobile phone in his hand, one bullet left in it.
‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ the pimp said. He nodded to his compatriots.
Suddenly Verner’s arms were pinned to his side by one of the men behind him. Not the small guy, because he came around the front and yanked open Verner’s jacket.
Verner let it happen, still holding the mobile phone in his hand.
‘Just chill, pal,’ he was told by the small man with the complexion like the face of the moon, ‘and it’ll soon be over.’ His hand went into the inside pocket which Verner had shown him contained the money. Except now there was a bar of soap in it with razor blades stuck into it. The small man’s hand grasped what he thought was going to be a wad of cash. He screamed and pulled his hand away, blood dripping.
Verner stamped his heel down the shin of the man holding him and finished the movement by smashing his heel down hard on the man’s toes. He dug his right elbow back into his ribs, then his hand shot up and he stabbed the antenna of the mobile hard into the man’s eye. He shook the man off, who staggered backwards, holding his injured face.
‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the small man yelped, nursing his lacerated hand between his knees, just in the exact position Verner needed him. He grabbed the back of his head and pounded his face down on to an upcoming knee, bursting his nose beautifully.
Verner pushed him aside, spun quickly on the man who had been holding him — who was tending his injured eye. Verner leapt at him and head butted him hard and accurately on the bridge of his nose.
Broken nose number two.
Like a cat, he turned low, back to the pimp, who had watched Verner’s sudden and unexpected display of violence with shock. But he was a man of the street and was recovering fast. His hand went inside his well-cut jacket.
Verner pointed the mobile phone at him. Just one left. It had to count because the pimp was pulling out a handgun.
There were perhaps four metres between the men. Verner knew that phone guns were pretty inaccurate even over close ranges, so he had to get close enough to ensure it was effective.
He took a step forward, decreased the gap.
The handgun in the black man’s hand was almost out.
Verner aimed the mobile-phone gun at the man’s chest. Go for the large body mass. It might not be fatal, but whatever happened, the man had to be put down. He pressed the button on the keypad. There was a crack and a kick and the bullet fired into the pimp’s wide chest, knocking him down on to his arse. He rolled over and came back up, his own gun now out and in his hand. Verner powered in and kicked the gun out of his hand, then, twisting so he was side on, kicked him flat-footed in the face, sending him rolling across the car park.
Broken nose number three. A record for one night.
This time the pimp did not get up.
Verner picked up the gun, which had skittered away a few feet, then went to stand over him.
He thought about ending the life of all three men there and then.
The black man clutched his chest, trying to stem the blood gushing out from the bullet hole just above his heart.
Verner weighed it up quickly. If he killed them, the cops would dig the bullet out of the pimp’s chest and soon make the link to the ones they had pulled out of two dead cops and a nurse in Preston. But if the pimp and his little gang stayed alive, there would probably be little chance of them going to the cops to report the incident. The problem would be if the pimp died anyway.
‘That’ll teach you a lesson, amateur,’ Verner said. He pointed the gun at him, almost pulled the trigger, decided not to.
He scooped up the Glock and the spare magazines, pocketed them and threw the pimp’s gun into one of the rubbish bins.
He returned briefly to the Radisson, collected his belongings and left. It would have been more than foolhardy to stay there, so he walked down the street and got a room at the Travel Lodge, paid cash, locked himself in, dropped on to the wide double bed, aching and sore.
Time for some recuperation.
He slept for ten hours.
Next morning he walked to Piccadilly Railway Station, grabbing an Egg McMuffin on the way for breakfast. He was in luck — and smiled at the thought of luck — when he gazed up at the departures board. A train for Blackpool was soon to be leaving, calling in at all manner of romantic-sounding places on the way. He noticed that the last-but-one stop was Poulton-le-Fylde. He knew he would not be getting off there. He bought a one-way ticket and found himself a seat in a sparsely populated carriage towards the front of the train.
He enjoyed train travel, liked the perspective it gave on places. He settled comfortably for the journey.
It passed uneventfully and, sooner than he thought, he was alighting in Blackpool. As he emerged, the chill wind of the coast slapped him in the face. He had never quite known anything like it. Bracing, he thought.
He strolled slowly into town and found a nice-looking guest house near to the centre which would be a useful base for a few days. He did not expect to be staying for long. He intended to get his job done quickly and get away. He spent the rest of that day browsing, shopping, and being a tourist.
He even walked past several foot-patrol coppers, but not one gave him a second glance.
Fourteen
‘Sit.’
Verner waved the pistol, indicating Henry should do as he was told. Nervously he moved across to the kitchen table and sat next to John Lloyd Wickson. Tara remained slumped on the floor, whimpering into her hands covering her tear-stained face.
‘Shut it,’ Verner said to her, getting annoyed by her snivelling.
Unlike Henry, she took no notice. Her world had crumbled, was destroyed, and nothing Verner could say or do would make anything worse for her.
‘Henry, shut her up, will you?’
‘It’ll mean me getting up again and going across to her.’
‘Do it, then — but don’t do anything stupid. I know you too well. You’re a bit of a hero, aren’t you?’
Henry stood up slowly, went and bent down next to Tara. He took her shoulders and shook her gently. ‘Tara, you need to be quiet. . please. . this man will do something stupid if you don’t.’ She did not respond. He could tell his words had not penetrated at all. He shook his head at Verner, who, he saw, had picked up the shotgun in his left hand, the pistol now tucked into his waistband.
‘Get back to your chair,’ he told Henry. When Henry was seated, Verner inspected the shotgun. ‘Nice weapon. Devastating at short range.’ He glanced at Coulton and laughed. ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’ He began to empty the shotgun. The cartridges dropped out of the weapon on to the work surface he was next to.
Henry saw a chance. Verner was holding an empty gun and he had the pistol in his waistband.
‘Don’t,’ Verner said, anticipating the possible move. ‘You’d be dead before your ass even left the chair.’
Henry settled down, obviously having telegraphed his move.
Verner reloaded the shotgun: three cartridges, racking one into the breech, then letting the gun hover at a point equidistant between Henry and Wickson. He kept it aimed there, covering the both of them, and moved across to Tara.