Applicant
Bill was interviewing killers. Well, would-be or wannabe ones. As usual, he held court in the end section of The Greyhound. Situated at The Oval, it’s a bar that restores pride in the business, and for as long as Bill had been kingpin in south-east London, he’d treated it as his office.
What to look for in a potential hit man.
1. Patience
2. Cool
3. Absolute ruthlessness
A hard man who’d never have to shout the odds. You didn’t ask about his rep, it had already reached you. Word was out that Fenton, The Alien, had lost it or gone to the US. Which amounted to the same thing if you clubbed in Clapham. (No, not night discos but crash-yer-skull clubs.)
Bill had already seen four guys. All young and all bananas. They wanted to be on the front page of the tabloids. Trainee psychos and apprentice sociopaths. They’d call attention. Sipping from a Ballygowan, Bill said to one of his minders, ‘I miss the old days.’
‘Guv?’
‘Get the motor, we’ll call it a day.’
‘Call it what, Guv?’
He sighed. With the Russian villains making in-roads, maybe it was time to head for the Costa and listen to Phil Collins albums. Or album. Seeing how he simply recorded the same one each time.
The minder said, ‘Guv, there’s one other bloke.’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s him by the cider pump.’
Bill saw a guy in his early twenties, leather jacket, faded jeans, trainers. The urban uniform. There were half a million right outside the door. Nothing to distinguish him, which was a huge plus.
Bill said, ‘Send him over.’
The guy moved easily, no wasted energy.
Bill nodded, said, ‘Take a stool.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Another plus. The last time Bill had heard ‘sir’ was in an Elvis interview. He offered a drink, got, ‘No, sir.’
‘Shit,’ thought Bill. ‘This kid could surprise a bloke to death.’ He asked, ‘You got a name, son?’
‘Collie. It’s Collie, sir.’
‘What, cos you like dogs, is it?’ And got to see the kid’s eyes. Dark eyes that were ever so slightly out of alignment. They gave the sense of relief that you weren’t their focus. Nor would you ever want to be.
Now the kid smiled, almost shyly. ‘Something that happened when I was young.’
Bill smiled, like the kid had to be all of twenty three. ‘Tell me.’ Not a request.
‘Our neighbour had a dog; every time you passed he threw himself against the gate. People got a fright regular as clockwork. Like, one minute there wasn’t a sign of him, then as you passed, he’d jump snarling and barking.’ Bill didn’t comment, so the kid continued. ‘The dog got off on it.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, he got his jollies from it.’ He pronounced the word ‘yollies’, giving it a resonance of distance and disease.
Bill had to ask — ‘How did you know that?’
Now the kid gave a shrug, said, ‘I looked into his eyes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, before I strangled him, I took a good look.’
Bill decided to ask the important question. ‘What is it you want, son?’
‘To work for you, sir.’
‘And what do you want, to be famous, get yourself a rep?’
Now the kid looked irritated, said, ‘I’m not stupid, sir.’
‘Done time, ’ave you?’
‘Once. I won’t be going back.’
Bill believed him. ‘OK … I’ll give you a trial.’ Now he reached in his jacket, took out a black and white photo, pushed it across the table. ‘Know him?’
‘No, sir.’
It showed Brant, resplendent in his Aran sweater as he boarded a flight. His face to the camera, he looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. Bill stared at it for a while then, back to biz, said, ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Brant. Due back from America any day.’ The kid waited. ‘Your predecessor, The Alien, was supposed to put some pressure on the man, persuade him to drop his interest in me. But … he fucked it up. And Brant not only didn’t lose interest, he paid me a visit.’ Bill’s face was bright red. Famous for his cool, he was close to losing it. ‘What I want is to hit him where it hurts. Not him — too much attention if he’s damaged personally. But if something he cared for got nobbled … He stopped, asked, ‘Do you follow me, son?’
‘Yes, sir. Damage where he’ll feel it.’
‘That’s it. Think you can handle it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bill reached again in his pocket, took out a thin wedge. It had the glow of fifties. He nudged it across the table. ‘To get you started; a bit of walking round money.’
The kid didn’t touch it. ‘I haven’t earned it yet.’
‘That’s what you think.’
Something in the way she moves
Falls finally crashed through the surface and immediately wished she hadn’t. As soon as she opened her eyes she knew the baby was gone.
Then the event of the pool hall returned and her whole body shook. She knew if she called, a gaggle of help would arrive. Instead, she cried silently … and as the tears coursed down her face she remembered the fourth Teletubby.
Po.
The very name raised her to new heights of anguish. Finally, she stirred and sat up. Looking down to the IV, she tore it from her arm and pulled the needle from the monitor. A wave of nausea engulfed her, but she weathered it. Got her feet on the floor and felt the room heave.
A nurse came rushing. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
Falls slowly raised her head and tried to focus. She gave a sad bitter laugh, answered, ‘Now, isn’t that a good question?’
At almost the same time, an impromptu party had begun in the police canteen. Roberts was being toasted with beer and cider.
The duty sergeant raised a glass. ‘Let’s hear it for DI Roberts … hip, hip!’
Roberts acknowledged the toast and then indicated McDonald. ‘I had help.’
More cheers. More booze.
The Super dropped in for a moment, gave Roberts a gruff nod. ‘Well done, laddie.’ Which was rich, him being five years younger. As these events go, it was tame — muted, even — due to Falls still being in hospital.
The duty sergeant, by way of conversation, said to Roberts, ‘You’ll ’ave heard about the new Mickey Finn the buggers are using?’
He hadn’t, said, ‘I haven’t.’
‘Aye, they meet a young girl in the pub or a club and buy her a drink, slip Rohypnol into it and the poor lass blacks out. Comes to next day after five of them have raped her.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Aye, that too.’
Roberts wondered if anything like that had happened with his daughter. Fear and rage crept along his spine. Finishing a pale ale, he resolved to turn everything round. He’d go home, say to the missus, ‘Listen honey, let’s have a fresh start. I have skin cancer, I’m skint too (a little humour), and let’s talk about our daughter. Who banged her up?’ It would need work but it was nearly there. He had the drive home to polish it …
With his career now having a shot of adrenalin, he felt downright optimistic. Parked the car and stood for a moment outside his house, thought: ‘OK, we’re mortgaged to the bloody hilt but we’ve still got it. Hell, I’ve still got it.’
Thus emboldened, he went in, shouted, ‘Yo … I’m home.’
No answer.
Never-no-mind — he’d grab a bite from the kitchen and begin the new life. He began to hum the truly horrendous ‘Begin The Beguine’. He hummed mainly cos he didn’t know the words. Opened the fridge. It was bare, like, completely empty, save for a note taped to a sorry lump of cheese. He read:
‘WE’VE GONE TO MY MOTHER’S. THAT’S IF YOU EVER GET HOME TO NOTICE’.
That was it.
He held on to the handle of the fridge, then muttered, ‘Now, that’s one cold note.’