Deadly Purpose, page 28
Jim would look at mug shots, but didn’t hold out much hope of coming across the perpetrator. He would get a police artist to work up a likeness of Hendricks, but not now. It was late, he was hurting, and he wanted to see Liv, and Helen. The SOCO team would find trace at Merrick’s house. At the very least, blood. And Hendricks had dropped his weapon. There would be latents, because he hadn’t been wearing gloves. And one of Jim’s shots had made contact, and if only a crease, it had sent a spray of blood from high up on Hendricks’ face, near his right temple. Half an inch difference, and the guy would have gone down. But that was another if; a pipe dream. A chance had presented itself, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that there was no guarantee that Jim would ever get a better one.
Fuck it. He needed a cigarette, a large Scotch, and a few hours’ down time.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He drove around for over an hour before heading home. Ignored the blood that he could feel congealing and tightening the skin on his face. The flesh wound had bled a lot, but was not painful. The hot lead had probably helped to cauterize the shallow lesion even as it made contact and parted the skin, in the way a branding iron will. The gash on his cheek did hurt. The dumbfuck lawyer had caught him a heavy blow with the head of the golf club. It made him grunt with pain whenever he tried to open his mouth. So don’t try. He hoped that his jaw wasn’t broken. His face had swollen up on that side. The bastard had almost got the better of him. But he knew that the shot he’d loosed off had made contact. The annoying part was, he had momentarily, inexplicably panicked. That was unforgivable; a facet of his makeup he had not known existed. As the Glock had flown from his hand, and he had been stunned by the force of the blow, he’d turned tail and made his escape. Bad move. He should have retrieved the gun and finished them both. The incident highlighted a flaw in his character that he had been oblivious to. And that he had almost been duped, angered him. He had always been so careful; wary of the unexpected ways that prospective marks may behave, allowing for capriciousness. It was not lost on him that the best laid schemes could go pear-shaped. He usually had a Plan B ready to employ. But to take flight under pressure was a disturbing slant that he had not thought himself capable of doing. Twice now. His earlier escape from the police at the reservoir had been another instance of having to cut and run.
He mulled it over as he drove through the quiet night. There were salient points to reflect on. The cop had said he was SCS, and he knew that SCS was an acronym for Serious Crime Squad, and0 was aware that they were relentless in their determination to close any cases they were investigating. The cop had seen his face. But with two slugs in his chest, he would have almost certainly taken the image of it into the hereafter. Damn it, though. He had been sloppy. The cop had outsmarted and outthought him and somehow got himself into Merrick’s house and just waited it out, confident that he would make a move. It was totally unacceptable. He had walked into a spider’s web like a witless fucking fly. If Merrick hadn’t intervened, then he’d have probably died at the cop’s hand, because there was no way he would have let himself be taken alive. Rotting in a prison cell for perhaps the rest of his life was not ever going to happen. He would have had to shoot it out, and that would have been tantamount to committing suicide, given that the cop had the drop on him.
Back in his flat in Merton, he showered, bandaged his cheek, and liberally splashed the bullet crease to his temple with antiseptic, but left it uncovered. Sitting in the dark, naked, he let the incident play over and over. Not only had the cop seen him, he had seen the cop. That was a bonus. He recalled the man’s appearance; six feet tall, unruly black hair, and clear blue eyes that had been full of cold and deadly purpose. A pro like himself. No more than forty, max, but old enough to have rank. Not a minion. A worthy adversary whom he would give all due respect to, should the cop miraculously survive his wounds.
The next move was to find out who the man was, and everything about him. Treat him in the same way he would any mark he intended to hit. No. Give him more credit than he would to an unsuspecting civilian that had no idea that he or she had been targeted.
Switching on the television he skipped through the channels. The story was breaking on Sky News. A talking head was reporting that a shooting had taken place at a private house in Barnet, and that a police officer had been wounded, but not seriously, and that a renowned lawyer was in a critical condition, still undergoing surgery. It was not known if he would survive the gunshot wound he had suffered. There were no more details.
Using a pay-as-you-go, Hendricks tapped in a number and let it ring until it was answered.
“Yeah, baby, that’s blowin’ my mind,” Mo said. He was between the sheets with a cute chick he’d picked up at Waxy Jack’s, a nightclub over in Croyden. Jodie was as hot as jalapeno. She was giving him slow head as the first few bars of Bad Moon Rising erupted in the darkness.
Not a lot of people had his number. Mo reluctantly cupped Jodie’s face with his hands and pushed her backwards, detaching her mouth from his slick, engorged member. “Gotta answer it, hotlips,” he said, rolling sideways to feel blindly for his cargo pants on the chair at the side of the bed, and pull his phone from a pocket. There was no caller ID.
“Yeah?”
“That you, Maurice?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Hendricks.”
“Yeah, it’s me. You know what time it is, dude?”
“I don’t give a shit what time it is, Maurice.”
“S’cool,” Mo said. “Whadya need?”
“Same as always, Maurice, information. You got a pen and paper to hand?”
“Jus’ a sec,” Mo said as he swung himself up into a sitting position and switched on the bedside lamp. “Okay, shoot”
“You got company?” Hendricks said.
“Yeah, a lady friend.”
“Get rid of her, or go into another room and close the door.”
“Okay, dude,” Mo said as he got up and walked through to the living room and shut the bedroom door behind him. “What can I get for you?”
“I want the works on all male members of the Special Crimes Squad. Got it?”
“You lookin’ for anyone in particular?”
“Yeah. He’ll have rank. He’s around six feet tall, and pushing forty. Has dark hair and blue eyes.”
“Gimme forty-eight hours.”
“Twenty-four, Maurice, max. Call me.”
Mo had no time to argue. The line was dead. Fuck Hendricks. The dude had attitude. But he paid well and wasn’t the sort you wanted to get on the wrong side of. And anyhow, he didn’t need twenty-four hours. Breaking into the system at Scotland Yard was a doddle. He could be in and out without leaving any trace of his entry. Illicitly cracking into computers to steal data was what he did. And he was a Wizard: a computer expert. There were no firewalls he couldn’t break through. Cyberspace was a marketplace, where he could invisibly filch whatever he desired from the countless stalls.
The door to the bedroom opened. Jodie leaned against the frame and folded her arms under her small but perfectly formed tits. There was a light sheen of sweat on her pale skin. She formed a perfect O with her lush lips, and slid her tongue out and in.
Mo felt himself harden and rise. He grinned, and incisors capped with gold and inlaid with diamonds sparkled in the dim light. Finishing up with Hotlips took precedent over his work station. Mo liked to think he had his priorities right.
Jim made a phone call to the flat as he walked towards it from the kerb. Knew that one of his officers was inside, armed, and without doubt on edge. He was not about to just walk in unannounced.
DC Blythe Thorn answered the phone. She was in the kitchen brewing coffee for herself and Helen. Olivia had gone to bed.
“Okay, boss, come on in,” Blythe said after Jim had informed her that he was now at the door. “I promise I won’t shoot you.”
“Funny,” Jim said to his DC. Crazy, but with everything that had happened he still managed a fleeting smile. Blythe, who he called Bee, always had a one-liner, and nothing seemed to dampen her bubbly spirit. She came across as being zany, but was an extremely efficient and able member of the team, who had only returned from a holiday to the Gambia two days previously, but was already au fait with all that was happening.
“Liv?” Jim said to Helen, after telling Bee that once she’d drunk her coffee she could call it a night, go home and get some rest.
“She had a couple of Scotches and went to bed,” Helen said. “She’s in a bad place, that she’ll have to find her way out of, with our help.”
Jim sighed and took a sip of the coffee that Bee handed him. “I’m not sure that my sis will ever want my help again,” he said.
“Wrong. You’re all she’s got, Jim,” Helen said.
“Then God help her, because I don’t believe that I can.”
“You’re here for her, Jim, and that’s what counts.”
“I have enough trouble negotiating my own way through one day to the next, Helen.”
“You love your sister. You can show her how much you care. She needs looking after, Jim, until she finds her feet again, and until you can be sure that she is no longer at risk from the man who shot at you and murdered her husband.”
“Okay, message received loud and clear. I’ll go through and talk to her.”
“If she’s asleep, best leave her be,” Helen said. “A few hours out of it won’t do her any harm.”
Jim hiked his shoulders, grimaced, put his mug down on the coffee table and headed for the bedroom to stand outside the door for over a minute to gather his thoughts before opening it slowly, quietly, to look in. He could only make out the shape of Olivia under the duvet. He was retreating, about to close the door when she pushed herself up on her elbows to face him.
“Jim, is that you?”
“Yeah, sis.”
“Remember when you were little, and I used to hug you if you got upset or scared?”
Jim nodded.
“So now it’s payback time.”
Jim went to her, sat on the bed and held her for an age. Could feel her trembling against him as she cried softly. He stroked her hair and gently rocked her, as a doting father would nurse a distressed child. Neither of them spoke. There was nothing that needed to be said. They might have been kids again. Time became blurred for a while. Sometimes you can become lost in the moment. Jim closed his eyes and also gained comfort from the physical closeness. A protracted hug could smother a lot of the pain that the bitch called life threw at you.
Lesley and Craig approached the open lift door. Stopped dead at the sight of the couple that occupied it. They were at the rear, in a corner. A tall black guy with bleached hair was totally engrossed, his concentration fully occupied by the girl or woman he was joined to.
Lesley smiled, said nothing and just watched. A shapely pair of legs were scissored around the man’s hips. Toe nails flashed coral pink on feet crossed at the ankles, and a laboured, intermittent grunt came from the female as she was jerkily taken; her buttocks slapping against the cold metal behind her.
An OUT OF ORDER sign was taped to the other lift’s door.
Craig was still a little spaced-out and watched the proceedings with a silly grin on his face. Lesley took his hand in hers and pulled him away, towards the stairwell, leaving the pair to finish up.
Craig stopped on the fifth floor. Leaned forward with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.
“What?” Lesley said.
Gasping, Craig said, “I’m knackered.”
“So get your breath back, there’s no hurry,” Lesley said, happy to rest. The excess fat she carried was weighing her down. Her calves and thighs were aching. Maybe she would find the resolve to get fit; reveal that much slimmer, attractive woman trapped inside. It was all about willpower. She had to wean herself off junk food and do some serious exercise. Maybe join a gym and get with a programme. She didn’t want to continue kidding herself that she was fat and happy. She wasn’t. And she was killing people because of their attitude towards her appearance. As a rule, fat fucks and longevity didn’t go together. Being grossly overweight was linked to cancer and diabetes and numerous other maladies, not just heart disease. She should have more sense. Knew that carrying all this blubber around was stupid. When she’d worked through her list, then she would have the time to concentrate on getting in shape. Because when she made up her mind to do something, then she invariably found the will to see it through.
“Okay,” Craig said. “I’m good. Let’s go and do the business. The sooner we get the hell away from here, the better. I’ve got bad vibes about this one.”
“In what way?” Lesley said as she huffed and puffed her way up the next flight.
“I dunno. Just doesn’t feel right.”
“Don’t be a worry bear. Once we’re inside it’ll be fun, you’ll see.”
“She probably knows about the others bein’ done, Les. It was in the papers and on the box. When you knock at the door, she could easily put it together and call the filth.”
“So I won’t knock on the bleedin’ door. You can break in. It’s late. She’s probably asleep.”
Shirley was expectant. Had spent the day at work knowing that there was a police officer outside the building, watching for anyone fitting Lesley Keller’s description to enter, and ready to act if she did. Not that they expected anything to happen during daylight hours. Phil had said that if and when Keller and her accomplice made their move, then it would most likely be at her flat, and after dark.
It was ten p.m. when Phil arrived. The other officer left shortly after, and Shirley felt excited at being alone with him again. She knew that he was attracted to her, and the feeling was mutual. Having made the break with Patrick, she felt free of all encumbrance. Rightly or wrongly, she wanted something to happen between them. If he came on to her, then she had no intention of playing hard to get. Not that he would. He was on duty, and she didn’t suppose for a second that he would get heavy, unless she made it crystal clear that she was up for it.
“You want coffee, Phil?” she said.
“Please,” he said. “I seem to live on the stuff.”
Phil was getting all the right signals. Shirley was in his space, looking up into his eyes with an expression that spoke volumes. Her parted lips were inviting, and the faint bouquet of her perfume was a come-on, he thought. But what if he was wrong? He wanted to make a move, but held back, unsure, and aware that getting involved with her would be well out of order. But who would know? They were together in a locked flat with total privacy.
Shirley turned and headed for the kitchen. Phil watched her. His eyes were drawn to her bottom. She was wearing a short skirt made of some type of material that clung to her buttocks and thighs. Why? Was the sultry look, the perfume and the sexy skirt for his benefit? He didn’t want to make a fool of himself and cause her to be offended, alarmed, or even so angry that she would report him. No way was he going to risk his career for the sake of a bunk-up. If she wanted him in the sack, then she would have to show her cards.
Shirley knew that Phil was holding back. He was just being professional. When she returned with the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the settee, talking on his mobile. His lightweight jacket was open, and she could see the black butt of a pistol protruding from a holster under his armpit.
Phil had just received a call from one of the cops outside the flats who made regular contact and would warn him if anything seemed to be amiss.
Placing the two mugs on the coffee table, Shirley sat down next to Phil, up close, so that there was contact between their thighs. He didn’t move away, just swallowed hard.
“You want to watch a movie, or just talk?” Shirley said.
“Your call,” Phil said.
Shirley got back up, edged past him. Felt her rump brush against his arms. “I’ll have a look through my DVDs,” she said. “What do you fancy?”
You, sweetheart, with a vengeance. “I’m easy. What have you got?”
“A mixed bag of this and that.”
“So surprise me.”
Shirley selected an old Jack Nicholson movie: The Postman Always Rings Twice. The red hot scene of lovemaking on the kitchen table always turned her on.
Phil got worked-up when Nicholson started in on the woman. He’d never seen the movie, and the frantic lovemaking was tantamount to torture. He had to wonder if Shirley had chosen the movie with an ulterior motive.
It happened fast. Shirley put her hand on his leg, just above the knee, and gently squeezed. Phil turned to her, and their lips came together like a brick to mortar as they got into a clinch.
“You sure about this?” Phil said when they came up for air.
“Positive,” Shirley said. “I just don’t want you to think I make a habit of it, Phil.”
At that moment, Phil didn’t give a shit whether she did or didn’t. The primal urge to have sex overruled all other consideration. He wanted her. Full stop.
Craig stopped on the landing and waited until he got his breath back. Lesley gripped the railing and flexed her aching legs. Climbing up to the ninth floor had totally knackered her.
After a few minutes they were ready to make their move. Craig eased the stairwell door open and satisfied himself that the coast was clear. “C’mon,” he said, and they hurried along the ill-lit internal corridor to Shirley’s flat.
A cheap lock. Craig had it picked in twenty seconds. The stretches he’d served in prison had not been totally negative experiences. They were places of learning; academies at which criminals could study and become more adept at diverse antisocial skills. And as a student, Craig had been no slouch.
