A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (28 page)

Reve looked up, settled back. ‘In a VW van, presumably?’

‘Yeah. Whatever.’ Stoner flagged down the sullen waitress, both of them failed to smile, he placed an experimental order for water.

‘Why are we having this meeting? Pleasant though it might be, I confess a little puzzlement at the leading up to it. You were nearly but not quite killed by a tasty lady who seduced you in a swimming pool. You have a fine theory that after failing to kill you, which she was supposed to do for some as-yet unknown reason and for another unknown reason changed her mind and instead went off and killed someone else. It’s not easy to believe this. A long series of non-coincidences. I need to ask: why was she supposed to kill you, do you think? You’re a money man, nothing useful. No offence unless you want to take some. And if you do . . . well fuck you, hey?’

‘You’re supposed to know more about this than I do, Mr Stoner.’ A tinge of irritation, steel almost, in Reve’s tone. ‘You are supposed to be asking me relevant questions, getting answers which mean something to you and thus gaining something of an understanding of whatever it is that’s going on. You are not supposed to be sitting here like a sulky teenager, being ill-humoured and tricking me into drinking some seriously unpleasant mess in a cup.’

Stoner pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

‘Excuse me.’

Texted the Hard Man. Who replied as though he’d been sitting
waiting for the call. Stoner replaced the phone in a leg pocket of his cargo pants.

‘You’re clean, then. Also cleared. I can tell you anything. Impressive in one so young. Information can be fatal. Think carefully. Do you want information? Do you wish to share my thinking on this? You can say no. Wives, families, pensions and the like can get awesome vulnerable, awesome quickly.’

Reve nodded. Stoner shrugged.

‘Heads. You know about the heads?’

Reve shook his own, a puzzled look fixed to the front of it. ‘Heads?’

‘As in severed. Cut off. Sat on hotel desks and filmed. Instant movies instantly uploaded for the instant furtive delight of . . . well, I’m not sure who, really. You don’t know about these?’

Reve shook his head again.

‘OK. It’s guys. Always guys. We have a number . . .’

‘We?’ Reve interrupted.

‘Me and others. You don’t know them. If you do know them, it’s better that you can’t connect them. We have a number of headless bodies. The number varies depending on who you’re talking to and where you look. These things are never as definite nor defined as in the movies.’

Interruption again. ‘Where? How d’you mean? A body’s either a dead headless one or it isn’t. Surely?’

‘You would think so. But it’s not clear. At first there was no obvious pattern to a bunch of increasingly messy killings. Plod was baffled, as you’d hope and expect. No offence, officer. But the bodies were complete. Well . . . all of the bits of the body would be in the killing room. Scattered around a lot . . . increasingly a lot . . . but all there. And there was an escalation pattern. The killings were getting worse. Messier. And someone was messing with the scene. Either the killer or someone else. I can’t get my head around a lot of this, not the least because I’ve only
received the bulk of the data in the last twenty-four hours or so. And no, don’t even ask. I’m under no obligation to tell you who tells me what or in what order they tell it to me. The data is trustworthy, and I need to assume that it’s accurate so I can work with it. It may not be complete. Hence the caution. Hence my reluctance to claim facts.’

Stoner paused, Reve stared at him. Wondered aloud whether something a little more fortifying than coffee – be it ever so strong – might help. Stoner agreed that it might indeed. But what? And where?

‘You have a car?’ Stoner raised an eyebrow in Reve’s direction.

Reve nodded. ‘I have a Jaguar.’

‘Bully for you. I have a VW van. Let’s go take a drive in it to a place I know where they might serve a quiet drink to a constable without scowling a lot. Better yet; I drive, you follow. How’s that?’

Reve shrugged. ‘I’m a family man. I know plenty of family-friendly places. You spooks like families, right? They make you feel safe.’

‘You’ve been watching too much TV. Children just make a noise, pretty young mums distract the eye. I prefer quiet dirty places where they serve beer from jugs.’

‘Whatever.’ Reve had the air of someone who truly cared not a lot. ‘Drive on, so long as you bring me back to civilisation at some point.’

‘That I cannot guarantee. You adept at following? Done the police course in chasing a tail for beginners?’

‘Mine’s a Jag, yours a van. I should be able to keep up.’

Stoner smiled. ‘I wonder. Where’re you parked? Outside here on the double yellows which deny convenient parking to us mere humans? No doubt with a big bright badge in the screen to ward off the wardens? That sort of thing?’

‘You got it. I’m not a spook. I don’t need to hide. And the job
needs at least one tax-free perk.’ Reve was standing, buttoning into his coat.

‘Yes of course, folk just try to murder you in swimming pools. We all love the quiet life.’ Stoner moved scarily swiftly to the door, leaving a crumpled banknote on the table. ‘When the big black van comes up behind you and flashes those big German headlights, pull out and follow. It’s easy enough.’

And he was gone.

To reappear as stated a few minutes later, almost before Reve had fired up, belted up and called up to the office. Stoner pulled up behind the Jaguar, flashed some lights, passed and led away and out of town. To a grand old country house hotel, where the staff were welcoming and discreet and the drinking hours flexible and discreet.

‘So why do you think the pattern’s changed? Why did the killer – is it one or more than one? – switch from a progression, an escalation, to filming dead heads? You will have a theory, I imagine.’ Reve stared at a soft drink. Stoner ordered a bottle of vodka and a litre of chilled water to chase it. And an orange. A healthy lunch. Balanced.

‘Drugs.’ Stoner busied himself pouring generous measures of the spirit into two glasses. He poured water for himself, pushed one of the spirit measures to Reve, who shook his head gently. ‘I think it’s a drug thing. Escalations and unpredictabilities often go together with dopers.’

Reve sipped the mysterious fruit drink he’d ordered, twitched a little at its bite and shook his head. ‘A drugs thing? You reckon this whole business is about drugs? I don’t think I’m payman for any drugs ops. The paperwork I get is all national security, very occasional organised crime, very rarely political. Drugs, though. Don’t recall any drugs. Except maybe incidentally.’

‘No. The chopping of heads is a drug thing with the cartels of Mexico and parts of the States. It’s a way of attracting attention.
Dunno whether they also film them, but they certainly leave heads lying around to make a point. I gather they also deliver them to the person they’re making a point to. Sending messages is important. You can see that it would have an impact.’

‘Would certainly wake me up!’

Reve reached for the spirit bottle and poured.

‘Yes. I could be completely wrong, but . . .’ He ground to a slow stop.

Reve prompted, waved his glass a little. ‘But? But?’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of a serial, an escalating killer, who suddenly shifts MO.’

‘OK.’ Reve pulled an encouraging face.

‘Can I show you something?’ Stoner stood, pulled a wallet from a pocket, pulled banknotes from the wallet. Reve lost his encouraging face, replaced it with a more honestly bewildered expression.

‘We’re dealing with the same thing, but you don’t actually understand, comprehend, recognise that thing.’ Stoner spoke with an air of decision; Reve responded only with blank confusion.

‘Grab your coat, grab your hat, we’re going somewhere quiet.’

Reve’s air of wonder coagulated into an almost physical cloud of confusion. ‘We’re leaving? We just got here. I was just getting used to the idea of getting wrecked at the expense of the noble taxpayer, a worrying notion for public servants, as you know.’

He made no move to leave. Stoner towered over him.

‘Come on. I want to show you something. Something which will increase your bean-counter’s appreciation of the realities of what’s going down.’

‘What? Where?’ Reve stood, only a little unsteadily.

‘What proper policemen call a body of evidence, I think.’ Stoner smiled a distantly grim smile. ‘It’s all in the van. The other van,’ he added, attempting to clarify a point which had quite plainly become lost somewhere in translation between them. ‘It’s not
far. And we can share that drink immediately afterwards. C’mon; you might learn something today.’

They piled into the heavy Transporter, leaving Reve’s smart car where it was, and headed out. Reve, in an excellent alcohol-fuelled humour, demanded to know what they were going to view. Stoner’s companionable silence was companionable enough, but it was also silent.

As they swung through a complex traffic interchange, Stoner pulled into a faster lane to clear a dawdler, impressing an impressionably cheerful Reve with the sheer performance of the heavy Transporter, so Stoner glowered from driver mirror to passenger mirror, to central mirror and back to the driver mirror again.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he growled, mainly to himself.

‘Say what?’ Reve stared around, lost in the van’s lack of rear windows.

‘Some prat on a motorcycle.’

Stoner accelerated the Transporter past the slower car, started to change lanes to allow an overtake, when a large, loud and very fast motorcycle stormed through an invisible gap between the Transporter and the car it had passed. The rider – or the passenger – banged gloved fist and booted foot against the van’s side and door as they screamed through a gap which was visible only to them. Stoner gave them no more room, continuing to change lanes, to close the gap between the motorcycle and the Transporter.

Then the bike was clear and accelerating away, rider and passengers both gesticulating their disapproval of Stoner’s driving with a series of lurid gestures. The girl perched on the tiny rear seat, Lycra-clad knees held high, and clamped to the rider’s sides, demonstrated her view that Stoner’s virility may be a feeble thing, if a thing at all. Stoner watched, but did nothing, held to the speed limit as the bike accelerated away.

‘Stupid. Why pull that crap?’

The bike had pulled off the carriageway and had parked up with a clump of other machines and their riders. The passenger climbed down and joined the rider and his companions; much vigorous gesticulation as the Transporter reached them. Dave Reve raised two fingers in salute as they passed. Stoner’s sigh was long and loud.

‘Dear, dear, the posturing policeman; now you’ll inflame their egos, prod their manhood, expect noise and bad riding.’

‘You can outrun them in this rocket van, surely?’ Reve’s face reflected sudden concern. Not a combatant, then.

‘Nope. Not in this. This maxes at about ton-twenty; they’ll get another thirty on top of that. And there’s not much traffic, either. Here he comes, riding like the lone deranger himself. They do love to pose, these lads. Makes me feel very old.’ Stoner’s voice was flat.

The bike was back; the same one from before, along with the original rider, judging by his crash helmet, painted to resemble an alien head. The back seat hero was now another man, open-face helmet, leather cut-offs and a swinging chain replacing the original woman and the Lycra legs. Stoner watched the mirrors as they approached . . . and as they passed, pulling into the path of the Transporter and braking hard ahead of them. Stoner swung out and accelerated past.

‘What’s this about?’ Reve looked more nervous than he sounded.

Stoner sighed again, glanced at the mirrors.

‘OK, they want to stop us, to shout and swear at us for driving on their road and somehow in some pathetic way they want us – me – to apologise while they push us around and scare us to death. This is because they are big scary boys and everyone is scared of them. It makes me sad to be a bloke, to be a biker, frankly.’

The bike passed them again, making a lot more noise from its open exhaust, while the passenger swung the chain against the side of the van.

‘They have no respect for my paint,’ rasped Stoner, watching as the bike pulled past once more. ‘Paint is important to some of us. Paint costs money. Some people spend a lot of money achieving the exact paint job that reflects their personalities. It’s a personal style statement. You’d know nothing about that, you being a cop. And a married man with kids, so forth.’

‘Are you like that?’ Reve sounded surprised.

‘No. But they don’t know that. They’re treating me with great disrespect, though.’

‘Does that bother you?’ Reve sounded concerned.

‘No. But they don’t know that either. But they’ve done this before. I’ll bet they’re the absolute scourge of other low-life tossers who drive their mates around in fucked-over hatchbacks with wrecked engines and great paint jobs. Here we go again.’

The bike had braked hard, slowing in front of them. This time Stoner accelerated hard at the bike and its riders, switching on his headlights and spotlights to suggest his intention. The bike accelerated again, but late, too late to avoid the onslaught of the heavy Transporter, and Stoner swung it out to overtake them again, missing them by only a metre or two. Reve clung to the grab handles, although the Transporter’s suspension matched its hefty engine and the van was track-car stable as it shifted lanes . . .

. . . and shifted lanes again, as the barriers and demands of highway maintenance closed the outer lane to traffic, cutting the flow to just a single lane.

Chain clattered and rang along the sides of the heavy Transporter as the bike carved through between the van and the barriers. Once again it slowed, this time to a stop, the rider swinging his motorcycle to block the lane and dismounting,
standing behind his machine and folding his arms with unmistakable intent.

‘Can you drive over it?’ Reve sounded worried now. ‘Push it out of the way?’

‘Not easily. It would damage the van, and why would I do that?’