A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (13 page)

Before its part in winning the Second World War for the alleged
Allies, Parkside had genuinely been part of a park. Part of the park attached to a minor stately residence, inhabited by a vaguely aristocratic family. The war had not been kind to the family. Not only did all of its sons and heirs fail to return from fatally active service, but their former family home was destroyed by fire shortly after victory was confirmed, hostilities ended, and there was rejoicing throughout the lands. At Parkside, there was no rejoicing. The recently bereaved tend to make for unhappy bedfellows, company best avoided.

The already bad situation was worsened considerably by the refusal of the family’s ancient insurers to compensate the family, their clients for centuries, for the loss of their house, and the military felt in no rush to confirm a connection between the conflagration and their employees. The records of the military medical facility had been lost in the blaze, and it was a blaze whose cause was unclear but whose effect was convenient. Except for the once faintly noble family.

From the unlovely but functional clump of military buildings grew a small, out of the way, almost invisible and largely anonymous clutch of demobbed buildings inhabited by the recently demobbed military types who dealt in allegedly demobbed military equipment, of which there was a considerable quantity, much of it impressively lethal and much of it in demand by all sides involved in the worldwide conflicts which had failed to recognise or believe that the war was over and that it was time to give peace a chance.

What had been a notional hospital became a notional scrapyard for military hardware, heavy and less so, where the operating equipment of several divisions of fighting men was decommissioned. There are many ways of killing people, as soldiers and their masters have always known, and many of them passed through Parkside on their way from active service with the Allied forces to . . . well, the public view was that the equipment was
rendered inoperable and the metals sold for scrap. Firing pins were removed from tens of thousands of rifles, for example. Then the wooden stocks were removed and sold as waste wood, while the various metals, several of them of a high grade and much in demand, were sold off within the metal trade for eventual use in the country’s many heavy industries. Not so much swords to ploughshares, but more rifles to rebar, poured concrete for the support of.

As it was with hand weapons, so it was with the heavier armaments. Tanks, armoured cars, Bren gun carriers, motorcycles, Jeeps, bicycles, bridge-building kit and the heavy haulage required to haul them all heavily about appeared at Parkside for disposal. And disposed is what they were. Many of them, most of the killing tackle, perhaps, took to a peaceful post-war world and contributed to its growth and development. But a lot did not. No surprises there.

When Stoner first visited Parkside, he was on the hunt for a supply of untraceable weapons. Nothing in the mass-destructions stakes; he found himself in the market for portable killing machines. Machines intended to be transported easily by a single man and used to forcibly assist in the demise of another single man. Maybe two. Occasionally a few men.

The range available was remarkable. Hand guns, sub-machine guns, light machine guns, heavy machine guns. Hand grenades, gas canisters, flame throwers . . . all suitable for a military museum and entirely risible by the modern weapons standards of the day, but all untraceable, invisible and cheap. And plentiful.

The first handgun Stoner acquired and used just the once for a swift double-tap to honour a decently paying contract had, under the terms of that contract, to be found with the body. Stoner never knew why, and the body was long past caring. The gun was duly discovered, along with the corpse, and while the newspapers failed to reveal the identity of the dead man, they
did report that the gun belonged to a subaltern in a defunct regional regiment, who had failed to return to his homeland after being reported missing in action in North Africa, 1943. Much had been made of the remarkable deduction that a long-dead junior officer had returned to wreak vengeance upon some unidentified but presumably unpleasant character almost exactly four decades after his own death. Newspapers can certainly tell tall tales. And, more remarkably, newspaper readers pay to read them.

It would be something of an exaggeration to suggest that Stoner enjoyed a giant revelation of a biblical nature after that contract, but he certainly understood that weapons issued to His Majesty’s forces for use in some long-gone conflict in a faraway land were equally effective at ending a life in the old homeland several decades later. These historical death-dealers became his weapons of choice. No need for the fashionable handguns. Sig Sauers, Berettas, Walthers and Glocks were fine for the image-conscious flaunter of fine weaponry; a Webley revolver dispensed death just as well in close quarters, cost little to buy and could be thrown away afterwards without regret.

There was an argument that the elderly ammunition for the elderly guns could be less than reliable, but service revolvers rarely jam and are extremely robust. Stoner had been amused to learn that the national police forces developed a considerable file on the mysterious gang of killers who preferred to use obsolete weapons, and more than one crime journalist sold stories of considerable imagination and no factual base developing a handsome theory that a lost legion of World War II warriors had returned to seek out and destroy those who had somehow and in some mysterious and impenetrable way betrayed them. They even developed a nickname for the deadly band, but he couldn’t remember it. And in any case, the gang was a gang of one.

All good things come an end, however careful are the participants,
and Stoner was not particularly surprised when his arms dealer decided to sell the truth to a tabloid. The world of the contract killer is a small world, known almost exclusively to its inhabitants, and Stoner got the word before his dealer sold his own revelatory words, and paid an unadvertised, unannounced visit to Parkside.

Reasonably brutal conversation with the dealer resulted in his explaining to Stoner that he had dealt with the reporter entirely via the telephone, that he had arranged to meet that reporter within a few days of Stoner’s visit to share the full delight of the newspaper’s largesse and the full facts of the story behind the gang of obsolete but deadly gun fans.

Stoner was delighted by the symmetry of the arrangement, removed the dealer from the scene and kept the appointment with the reporter himself. It proved to be a beneficial meeting. The reporter paid Stoner a relatively small sum of money for the information that the dealer was the killer, with the promise that more money would follow with further corroboration.

Stoner was subsequently sad and distressed when he was forced to reveal that unhappily the killer had himself been killed. He supplied photographic evidence of this; the dead dealer lying in a bloody akimbo and with an ancient Webley clutched in his hand. By way of corroboration, the historic weapons murders ceased at the same time as the dealer’s demise, remarkably. The newspaper was naturally delighted and somehow Stoner found himself paid for his misinformation, while coincidentally understanding that he had acquired unobtrusive premises at Parkside. He had watched the place for an age or two after offing the loquacious amateur arms dealer and would-be scoop seller, but no one claimed it, so he took it as his own. Life can move in strange ways, if you let it.

And over the years, apparently legitimate ownership of the industrial units on the Parkside firmed up, became legal. The
scrapyard dogs were replaced by burglar alarms and Volvo estate cars. Roofs were retiled and brickwork repointed. A curious air of respectability descended. Along with quiet, peace and a peculiarly studied indifference to much of the less than legal trading activity which remained the unsung speciality of the trading estate. All of which suited Stoner perfectly.

He drove the heavy Transporter over the first of several decayed speed humps, pulled over to the side of the disastrously surfaced road and switched off. Engine and lights. Parkside’s dark side lay before him. Few lights were visible, no signs of activity. All exactly as it should be. Stoner contemplated the smoking of an imaginary cigarette. He had never actually taken to smoking, failing as he did to understand the purpose, but accepted without question that there were perfect moments for the smoking of a straight cigarette. This was one of them. The length of time demanded by the smoking of a king-sized cigarette would have been the exact length of time required for anyone concerned about being followed to observe whether they actually were being followed or whether a little justifiable paranoia was rearing its wise old head.

Stoner slid from driver’s to passenger’s seat and opened the door, pretty much silently. He had plenty of practice at being silent. He dropped to the floor, rested the door against its lock while he took a stroll. All was quiet. He knew he was being watched, but he expected that. He did not appear to have grown a tail. He would have been surprised if he had. But relatively few folk died by being excessively cautious, and Stoner had absolutely no wish to lead any of the uninvited to his quiet place.

He walked into the dark, listening for the familiar sounds of night-time Parkside. Strains of music, distantly through the breeze. The hum of electrical power and the murmur of nature. He walked on. Familiar ground. His home from home for many
years now. His buildings were silent. A light burned somewhere distantly inside. Telltales shone dimly, suggesting security and cameras. He walked on.

Back to the Transporter. Which was as he had left it. He climbed back in, started the engine, left off the lights and drove towards his units, his own buildings. As he approached he pressed the remote which unlocked the roller doors to the central unit, waited for a count of ten, reversed the VW into its space and switched off, the door rolling quietly closed before him. He took another non-smoking notional cigarette break. Listening. Dropped from the driver’s door to the clean concrete of the floor and wondered how many of the estate’s band of ferocious feline fighters would be waiting, watching him, as is their enviable and inspirational way. He occasionally considered that if he could watch and wait like a decently feral cat then he would live to see retirement.

As well as being surprisingly clean, the unit was surprisingly spacious. Apart from the Transporter he’d parked, two other VWs, seemingly identical, sat within.

So his house, his own private home, was a garage. As well as the Transporters, the building contained a workshop, complete with tools and ramps, engine hoists and an inspection pit. In short, it looked like the vans’ home rather than his. An uninvited casual visitor (there had been none of those in several years) or a slightly less casual but miraculously talented burglar (there had also been none of those) would have observed that the business which described itself as the Transportation Station was indeed a business centred around VW’s finest vannery.

And plainly, as was often the way, the proprietor slept above the shop. Or in it, maybe. Stoner was home safe. The heavy Transporter ticked as it cooled and he walked through the workshop, patting a black Harley-Davidson on its black saddle as he passed it, heading through another pair of locked doors – mighty
strong locked doors – into a wide and comfortable set of living rooms.

Home.

Safe.

13

THE RED HOUSE

There is a famous saying that things look better in the morning. Like most famous sayings, it’s only true when it’s true. Which could easily be a famous saying in itself; Stoner was unsure. Although like all practising musicians he carried an endless store of lyrics around in his head and was wont to produce them, either vocally or silently, at unwanted and unappreciated moments, he recognised pretty sayings for what they were . . . pretty sayings.

This particular dawn looked no more comfortable than the night which had preceded it. He had slept well enough by his own poor standards; Parkside was quiet by night, and its inhabitants maintained that quiet with as much intensity and ferocity as might be required. And Stoner’s premises were secure. In the main, his reasons for occasionally sleeping badly revolved around levels of discomfort. Like most practising motorcyclists he carried his share of accidental batterings, ancient and modern, and they would from time to time intrude sufficiently upon his physical wellbeing to interrupt his sleep, but that was not a common occurrence. Others who shared his means of gainful employment occasionally enquired about his sleeping habits,
which was a minor strangeness in itself, given that theirs was an occupation not much given to the sharing of confidences and the revelation of personal details, but those few he had known well had almost always complained of poor sleep.

Stoner slept well. Mostly. But for a decent depth of sleep, the sleep which restores and refreshes as well as merely recharging the cells, Stoner had grown to depend on the dirty blonde. Lying next to her he experienced a peace and a relaxation unique in his world. It was mysterious to him, strangely precious, and he preferred to refuse any sensible analysis of its mystery. The effect itself was sufficient.

His regular and reliable night-time awakenings were brought about by his inability to stop thinking. Unlike most men of his acquaintance, who appeared to think only rarely, and then about matters which he found mostly incomprehensible, Stoner was rarely able to stop or even to sensibly direct the mental churnings which made him so proficient at solving problems. Those problems and puzzles took many forms, and solving them was evidently something of profound importance to some centre, some core, of his being. He had never really figured it out, but knew well enough how to manage it.

The secret was being able to set his mostly unconscious mind a task of sublime unimportance. This distracted it from anything painful or profound, and provided a decently rewarding return of its own. It was quite a buzz to scramble from the twisted sheets and before the eyes of a delighted night-time companion, kick up an amplifier and play a piece of excellent guitar chording which had, only a few hours previously, been impenetrably elusive. At such moments, it was always a fine idea to suggest that the private acts of the night before had provided the inspiration – although that was rarely true – thus ensuring that those delights were repeated.

Had the night been suitably shared but basically unrewarding,
it was also always possible to sit entranced playing the same riff over and over until the lady in question recognised her folly in going home with such a self-centred idiot and left. Then of course the day’s play could really begin.

Stoner had hoped that after his slightly strange evening with the Hard Man and its subsequent perambulations, he would have understood a little more about the murders in hand. This was not the case. Instead, and this was a minor surprise in itself, he had remembered the identity of a man who had borrowed a tool from his workshop. Not that he needed the tool. In fact he had never used it, which was probably why he agreed to its loaning, but he had noticed its absence when looking for something else, as is so often the way.

Draping a sad-for-itself, huge and ancient pullover over his own warm body, he padded across the sanded and scarred wooden floors and booted up the computer in the unlit corner where it lived. While it loaded and performed its morning rituals, shaking hands with its remote digital brethren, Stoner performed morning rites of his own. Coffee machine loaded with solids and liquids destined to perform their awakening magic, a first indecisive glance into the food cupboards to see whether anything tempted more than morning muesli. He dredged out his cell phones, observed that among the chatter were three text communications from the Hard Man, several others irrelevant but vaguely interesting from the musical crew, two voicemail messages from the Hard Man, and nothing at all from the dirty blonde. But it was early in the day for her. He felt her distance less forcefully in the light of day.

Stoner dropped the last phone into its charging dock without acknowledging any of the messages. They would all wait. And for reasons all its own, the phone – a very smart phone indeed – began playing music for him. Stoner stopped dead in his tracks. He had not programmed the device to perform anything, and
was puzzled and a little unnerved by it. Could a distant someone cajole his own phone into playing music unrequested? But then he smiled, recognising Jimi Hendrix’s characteristic stretched Stratocaster, playing a long, loud, live take on a short, quiet track from his
Are You Experienced?
album. One of Stoner’s favourites, although it was not an album he played much. It was always worth a listen. Genius is always worth recognition. Amusing that his cell phone felt the same way. All on its mysterious own. Maybe.

Sufficient coffee had filtered into the glass jug for the day to officially start, and with a self-amusing air of reverence Stoner carried the first cup over to the workstation, where he sat sipping and flicking through his email accounts. Where once there were letters and a postman, there were now secretive deliveries through the ethers. There was much to be said for this. Where once the peace was endlessly shattered by the shrilling of the telephone, messages now arrived in silence. Without shock. Bad news, good news; they arrived with identical quiet.

Stoner’s musical circle was its usual boisterous self; self-indulgent as only performing artists can be, entertaining, tempting as only audiences can be. There was private mail from Bili the Bass and a ring-me note from Stretch McCann, pianist at the Blue Cube. Bili’s mail would require more than a single mug of coffee, but Stoner replied at once to Stretch’s note with a terse text: ‘Now’. He undocked the musical phone and dialled. Stretch answered at once. Some folk never sleep. It was just past six-thirty of that bright morning.

‘Someone was after you, JJ.’

Stretch was straight to the point. Silence stretched. Stoner thought.

‘Who? Was she nice?’

A gentle joke in case the big man was concerned for his slightly strange friend, the friend who always, but always, needed to know if anyone showed any interest in him.

‘She was, brother. Indeed she was.’

Sat sipping on his own, Stoner’s eyebrows rose gently and a smile tickled his lips.

‘Care to share? Brother?’

He aimed a wide and audible grin through the ethers.

‘She missed you by minutes the first time, and Bili handled her with her customary grace and diplomacy.’

The sound-only grin was returned. The morning was starting well enough.

‘Did she stay long?’

A chuckle. And a negative reply. A head shaken invisibly but definitely.

‘She’s a fan, though. Plainly a convert.’ Stretch warmed to his theme. ‘She was in at the opening last night. Sat by herself. Watching the doors. Just like you do. But you . . . did not come.’

A pause there, in case Stoner wished to share his whereabouts. His silence declined for him.

‘Drank expensive water diluted with whisky for an hour. And is brave. She asked Bili whether you were coming in. I do believe that Bili suggested that she fuck right off and ask you herself. No hard response. None at all. Didn’t twitch. Asked for your number. Bili gave her a number. Probably a local cats’ home. You know what she’s like.

‘She asked me the same thing when I’d finished the first set. She said that no, you weren’t friends, and no, she didn’t know how to find you, but a couple of her pals had told her that you were handy with the guitar, and she’d like to hear that. I told her the usual; we never know when your great genius would grace us with your strident string-stretching, so all she could do was keep on coming back and buying our oh-so-affordable water. Maybe something stronger to steady her patience.

‘She asked whether you were that good. I lied and told her
that you were. I am your true friend and you are a man who owes me much.’

Stoner grinned again. ‘Yep. That is of course true. The big black book of my life, your debt is recorded therein. That kinda thing.’

‘She’s no muso, JJ. She’s plod. Narco maybe. I dunno. You know these people. I don’t. I’d be happier if it stayed that way. She was too quiet. One of these spooky types, y’know? Sat there sipping one minute, gone leaving a half glass the next. I didn’t see her go. I didn’t see her come in. Know what I mean?’

Stoner agreed that he did. Agreed also that he owed Stretch a bottle of something. Suggested that it should be a strong something to soothe the jealousy, as the lady was plainly a talent scout, come to seek him out. And, finding no other talent in the Blue Cube, she’d left. Easy. They laughed and left it at that. Almost.

‘When you next here, JJ? Soon?’

‘Gotta see the blonde, y’know?’ Stoner was a master of the non-committal. ‘Maybe she’ll be free and fancy a loud night out, huh?’

Then it was the time to dig into the little phone’s memories to see what Bili had left.

It was short and to the point. The first message was a text version, abbreviated, of that from Stretch. The second read: ‘Need to see you. To talk. When?’

He finished his first coffee of the day. The cell screen lit with an incoming call. It was Bili. It was remarkable how often Stoner found himself thinking of her just before she called him. Spooky. Or maybe he just thought about her a lot. That was less spooky; more strange. He picked up.

‘Who’s your fan?’

Direct. To the point. Early in the morning, possibly pre-caffeine, maybe even unshowered. Her voice echoed sleeplessness.

‘No idea. Sorry.’ Sometimes the truth really is the only reply. ‘I spoke to Stretch. He thought she was a plod. Drugs, maybe.
Which would not be a problem for me. Did you get a take on her? A feel for her? Maybe she is a fan. Hey, Bili, I do play good enough to have at least one fan.’

Levity attempted, an offer of a humour truce accepted.

‘Yeah, yeah. Painted class, JJ. Very striking. She was a model. A model what, though? I dunno. She worried me. More last night than this morning. She looked like . . . y’know . . . a predator. Not a muso. Not a player. Really not a listener. You the morsel, huh? Nothing new there, man.’

She didn’t sound as though she were smiling. The words smiled, but not the mouth that spoke them.

‘Stretch said you gave her a number. Whose? Not mine, hey?’

‘Can’t remember. It would have been right for the night. Maybe the AA? Can’t remember. Really. You OK, JJ? Not being chased? She did smell like plod. You’re not in trouble. Not been fighting again? Slapping guys around too much?’

She really did sound concerned. It was a talent.

‘Don’t think so. . . but thanks. You around tonight? At the Cube? Just checking up on you, y’know. I do believe you owe me a glass or two.’

Stoner was well into the second coffee. Was considering a second whole brew.

‘Love you, that man! Me? Owe you a drink? I been lying for you, man. Hey! Your shout. My drinking. Get used to this, JJ.’

Bili sounded better.

‘Hey to you too, Bili. The day is early now. Get some sleep. I’ve got running to do. People to see. Rents to collect. Strings to fit and a motorcycle to fix.’

Pleasantries and a low tension sign-off.

Stoner’s several email inboxes revealed a common theme: incoming from the Hard Man. They would wait. His cell lit again. The Hard Man. Synchronicity in action. It’s overrated.

‘Yes.’

He was running out of politeness, inspirational guidance also.

‘Yes yourself, Mr Stoner. I have a package for you. A physical in your hands, for your eyes only package. Where do you want it? You’re not at home, so far as I can see, and I’d not like this to go adrift.’

‘The Cube. I’m aiming to be there later. Stretch some strings, ease my worried mind. That kind of thing.’

The Hard Man pretended no interest whatsoever in Stoner’s musical meanderings. But they agreed that the package would rendezvous with Stoner that evening. Stoner sensed that there was more to come.

‘Have you had another body?’

The subtle, indirect approach sometimes paid off.

‘Not exactly. Not exactly. You recall the movie of the dead head on that website?’

Stoner agreed that he did.

‘Have you looked at the site again recently?’

Stoner confessed that he had not.

‘Then do so.
Murdermayhemandmore.com
. Go gaze. Then try murdermaybemore.com. This is beginning to feel like an epidemic in waiting. This evening. Love to the missus. Pet the dog.’

And he was gone. Stoner contemplated further caffeine. Considered visiting the websites. Stripped off his ancient pullover, pulled on shorts, socks and a tee, and let himself out into the morning, ready to run. Always ready to run. Whenever there was no time to walk, if he could, Stoner would aim for a run. And Parkside, being the elderly pensioned-off military area that it was, was surrounded by a perimeter. A real perimeter, with the remains of a road. A challenging and interesting running track. All his own, too.

Stoner ran.

In almost instant company

He was running in synch with another runner: all senses so
advised him and he listened hard. Feet behind him. Exactly his pace. Exactly his speed. No one to see unless he stopped and turned around. A neat technique. He had used it himself occasion ally, although few criminals could run in any meaningful way. Heroes of fiction stop and retie shoelaces. Runners’ shoelaces never came undone. Stoner ran on, settling into his comfortable perimeter stride. He felt good. Followers are fine. If harm had been the intent then it would have landed by now. He ran.