'So!' A shout; a Mr Angry shout. 'Disappointed, you rat-fucker?'
'Oh no. I'd only have been disappointed if you'd begged me, or if the gun had gone off. You know something? They say you can see the soul leave the body. I never have; but maybe you have to have a soul yourself before you can.'
Gun still steady, held on me. Now? Knew I should… sweet Jesus I've got to, but my Goddamn bloody legs are shaking. When I need them most they won't work.
'Round two.' Scotland, cat quick again, loading another bullet, spinning the chamber.
Missed it, fuck it. Missed the moment. Oh, Mother of Christ, I'm really dead now. No, six chambers, two bullets; two to one my favour. Take the bet, Andy, Go for him and he could fire four times before you get there. Dead for sure. Take the bet. ^After that… next try he's yours.'
Harder to hold it together this time. No more humour in his eyes; supposed to die or crap myself. Won't do either. Kill that rat-fucker. Kill, Kill! Heart still pounding, faces again; no, just one face. Karen, Karen, Karen, Karen. Oh fuck, Karen, he's pulling the trigger
…
Karen still there, me still there, no more chat now, third bullet. Dead for sure. Yell! Rush. Yes, the fucker's startled, dropped it, dropped the bullet. Hit him now, shoulder first in the chest, remember the time you flattened John Jeffrey… reverse of the usual. Knock this rat-fucker down; yes! Drive shoulder in again, crush him into the ground. In with the head, yes, in the face, hurt him, break whatever you can! Lie on his arm, pin that hand, don't let him close the breech on those two rounds. Christ, he s almost… Teeth, anything, yes, bite, go for trigger finger. Yes, got it now; bite, harder than that
… Taste blood; bite harder… bite harder… shake like a terrier.. loose in my mouth. Who 's screaming? Him. Great. You taste lousy, rat-fucker, your finger tastes lousy! Spit. Roll over on him, on your back; grab for gun with your hands… Grab… Got it… no. Yes, got it. Breech is closed. Stand up, knee in his chest again on the way
… Turn around, try to shoot the fucker? No, could shoot yourself, just empty the gun, then deal with him. Pull trigger empty chamber, pull trigger empty chamber. On his feet now, punching me with his good hand and the other, the one with the bloody stump. Nothing stuff. Girlie hits. Pull trigger, bang round gone, pull trigger empty chamber, pull trigger bang other round gone. Christ he 's got a rock now, big one, holding it up to brain me, charge again, drive harder faster this time head up kill the fucker kill the fucker head under chin drive up teeth into throat bite hard kill bite harder kill bite hardest kill kill kill kill… Got to see, Karen tell Karen Karen Karen… bite still, tear, rip, more blood, lots more blood, listen rat-fucker for your last pathetic gurgling gasp…
39
'How certain are you that this Howard Shearer's our man, sir?' Skinner smiled inwardly as he looked at the bleary-eyed Pringle. Eight a.m. Friday mornings in the office were not of his choosing, not any more, not at his age, not now that he was a Right Worshipful Panjandrum or whatever the hell he was in his Lodge. He thought for a moment of pointing out that there could be no degrees of certainty, but he let it pass; Nobody loves a smart-arse, he reminded himself.
'I'm not saying he is, Dan; I'm still a way short of that. But everyone who knows him… and there were nine of us last night, ten counting Sarah… agrees that the e-fit is a damn good likeness. There's an appendectomy scar too, and on top of that he was missing from action last night. We've always joked that the Diddler would skip his own funeral to make the game.
'I've checked his house, without breaking in, and I know that no-one's been there since Sunday at the latest. Still it's not conclusive; there could be an explanation. He's a high-flyer in fund management; he makes occasional trips to the Far East. He could be there, or he could be at a conference.
'I hope to God he is, for his sake and for his wife's.'
Pringle grunted. 'There's something else, for her sake too, sir. The man in the water had someone else's pubic hair trapped under the bell-end of his knob.'
'I know… and I just hope we don't wind up having to ask Edith for a sample for comparison.' He paused. 'I've read Sarah's report till I know it off by heart. The part of it which deals with how he was tied up… What did you make of that?'
The Superintendent looked at the DCC suspiciously, as if he was afraid he had been asked a trick question. 'It said that there were marks on the wrists and ankles, showing that he had been securely tied up.' He paused. 'And it noted that the marks went all the way round, indicating that the wrists and ankles may not have been bound together, although not ruling out the possibility that there might have been a final layer of rope or cord over the top.
'In other words,' he concluded, 'Sarah couldn't say whether they were tied together or not.'
'Right. Ten out of ten; damn near word perfect. Now; leave the question of identification to one side for the moment, add your alien pube to the situation and try this. A sex game: our victim was into bondage. He liked it upside down, the woman in control, not him. So he lets himself be tied to the bed posts and be fucked… and then it all goes very sadly wrong.'
Dan Pringle's expressive face wrinkled; he scratched his heavy moustache. 'So are you saying he was killed by a woman?'
'I'm saying he could have been, not that he was. I don't know how the other half lives; maybe the victim was gay. Or maybe he was straight and it was a set-up; she jumped off and in came a squad of guys with big hammers.'
'Not hammers, not according to the report.'
'Okay then, baton-like instruments, if you want me to quote verbatim. Terminal, whatever they were.'
'What's the time?' Skinner asked suddenly, glancing at his watch to answer his own question. 'Eight twenty-five. Late enough to try the Diddler's office. They do business in Europe, so the switchboard's always open at eight. His secretary could be in by now… and so, of course, could he.'
'What's his firm called?'
'Daybelge Fund Managers.' He picked up Yellow Pages from Pringle's desk. 'I can never remember the damn number. Ah here it is.' He picked up the direct line telephone, punched in seven digits, and waited.
'Daybelge; how can I help you?' The telephonist's voice had the tone of a bell.
'Is Mr Shearer in?'
'No sir.'
'Janine Bryant?'
'Yes, sir. Who shall I say is calling?'
'Mr Skinner, a friend of Mr Shearer.'
He waited again, until a new voice came on line. 'Good morning, Mr Skinner.'
The DCC had spoken to Janine Bryant many times, and had met her once when he had given the Diddler a lift home from his office on a Thursday evening. She was a clever, confident, assured woman in her late thirties. He had never heard her sound remotely apprehensive before, and so when she spoke, it was as if a cold fist had punched him in the stomach.
'Where's the Diddler, Janine?' he asked, quietly.
'I don't know, Mr Skinner. I was afraid that you did and that you were going to tell me. He hasn't been in the office since last Friday; but he didn't warn me he was going away or anything. I've had to ask other partners to take over his meetings all this week.'
'Have you called Mrs Shearer in France?'
'I didn't like to do that.'
'Why not?'
He sensed her hesitation. 'I hardly like to say this, even to you, but I have a feeling that he might be with a girlfriend.' 'What makes you think that?'
'I can't put my finger on it; it's just that last week there was a spring in his step, one that I've seen in the past, one that's usually been associated with a discreet adventure. With Mrs Shearer and Victoria leaving for France last Friday morning… well, I have a suspicion.'
'Is that why you didn't raise the alarm?'