A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (36 page)

‘Try to jump me and you’ll die. Fuck around and you’ll die. Lie
to me and you’ll die. If you would prefer to die now, just say so. It’s not a problem.’

The voice was calm, quiet, polite.

‘Like I said. All about honesty. That’s what it was supposed to be. Honesty and respect. The two go together. The one grows from the other. Honesty comes first.’

The Hard Man gurgled, tried to cough, tried not to cough. Gurgled and wheezed. A thin red line straggled from his mouth. His eyes were filled with rage. Furious, staring rage.

‘Ah. The tickly throat? Trachea’s cut. That is one very sharp blade. It’ll get hard to breathe. You could drown. Time is short. Time doesn’t hang around, not even for you. Especially not for you. How long has this been going on?’

‘Always.’ A simple statement, made carefully. Another stifled cough. The sound of the echo of the rattle of death.

‘She hates you.’ Stoner made a statement. He wasn’t asking a question. ‘Always has. Right from the start.’

‘Customer.’ The Hard Man pushed against the firm orthopaedic mattress to maintain his upright posture, his balance. ‘Good customer.’ His eyes were watering. He blinked. ‘Should have told you. Should have noticed. You . . . should have. She . . . should have told you. She . . .’

He gasped carefully, breathing light, eyes weeping tears of frustration and rage.

‘The country house. Yours?’

The Hard Man closed his eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘You told her you’re a fucking member of fucking parliament?’

‘Ex. Was.’ Speaking was becoming difficult. The bubbling was more noticeable, the trickle of blood more pronounced, the red brighter, frothy.

Stoner propped himself in the corner of the room. Tapped the
handle of the long black blade in his hand against the edge of the desk.

‘OK. I see sense. Where do you work, Mr Man? Mr ex-MP? Where in Whitehall? You’re more than a boss spook, then. More to you than ever I saw. How did you hide it? How did I fail to find it? What do you do? And who do you do it for?’

The Hard Man’s gaze was focused, a grimace of concentration. Whispering . . .

‘Procurement. Financial procurement. Cobra. As high . . .’ he coughed finally, painfully, blood running, bubbling, from his mouth, pooling on the mattress between his legs. Slowly soaking. ‘As high as it gets.’

Stoner levered himself with visible reluctance from the wall. Stalked slowly to, past and around the Hard Man who sat, transfixed, unmoving, staring. Reached inside his jacket, removing the wallet and the two cell phones he encountered. Patted down the other pockets, gently enough. Flicked open the phones, one after the other, read their displays. Unclipped the backs of the units, removed both SIM cards, replaced the backs and dropped them into a leg pocket of his own cargo pants. He walked around again until the two men faced each other, one standing, face expressionless, the other leaking his life away into a firm mattress. Stoner, a tired sigh marking the arrival of a decision, took another cell phone from the desk and placed it by his companion’s right hand.

‘Make your call. Make it fast. Never cross me again. Good luck.’

34

TIRED OF WAITING

One of the many appealing features of the Harley-Davidson motorcycle is that the same basic design of machine has been in production for longer than anyone can remember without stooping to a work of reference. There was once a time when Harley-Davidson were not building large capacity twin-cylinder motorcycles, with those twin cylinders arranged in a vee layout . . . but few, if any folk alive could remember that time.

What this means is that all current models of Harley-Davidson motorcycle have been developed to a point close to perfection. At least, close to their builder’s idea of perfection, and presumably close to the idea of perfection as perceived by their legions of loyal customers. It is maybe a small surprise that many of these customers, maybe a majority of them, prefer to improve upon the near-perfection upon which they have already spent their very many dollars, Harley-Davidsons being American motorcycles, and the dollar being American currency.

Stoner sat on a stool, leaning into his own inevitably black Harley-Davidson. Not one of the 350cc semi off-road military machines which he sometimes transported in the rear of his heavy Transporters; this was his Sunday-best Harley-Davidson,
his own permanently ongoing companion in his personal nonsensical quest for two-wheeled perfection. Every time he modified it, tuned it, altered its suspension settings, its seating, fuel capacity, engine capacity or riding position, he would head for the hills, ride for a few hundred miles then return it to the bench in his premises at Parkside, at the Transportation Station. Following this, he would, if he chose to ride a motorcycle rather than drive a car, habitually ride either one of his 350cc off-road Harley-Davidsons or something bland, possibly less conspicuous and certainly more efficient than his Sunday Harley. Such is an irony in the affluent motorcyclist’s life.

Compared with earlier models from Harley-Davidson’s Milwaukee plant, modern machines bearing that name boast excellent brakes, essential to handle the ever-increasing levels of performance demanded by the modern motorcyclist and crucial if that motorcyclist wishes to stay alive and kicking ass along the increasingly crowded highways of the world. Stoner always wanted better brakes. He was changing the front brakes of his Sunday Harley for probably the fourth or fifth time, reflecting silently to himself as he sat, relaxed and easy, measuring up the components he was replacing with the components with which he was replacing them. It was an absorbing task. It is possible that the task was so absorbing that he was unaware that he had company until that company spoke to him.

Then again, it is also possible, and in fact more likely, that he was entirely aware of the arrival and entry but was sufficiently relaxed about it that he appeared to have taken none of his customary precautions.

‘Hartmann’s dead.’ Shard was careful to walk into Stoner’s direct line of sight. ‘Did you know that?’

Stoner laid his spanners down and looked straight ahead, at the motorcycle rather than at his visitor. Slow seconds ground past. A cell phone shook itself into a small electronic frenzy somewhere
in the room. He looked up, met Shard’s hard stare with a blank neutral gaze of his own. Pointed to a desk in the gap between two curtained dirty windows. The computer screen standing there displayed a pattern of shifting colours; a screen-saver.

‘Spacebar.’ A single word. No stress, flat voiced and quiet. Shard walked to the computer, pressed the bar. The screen flicked to life, showing a severed head, revolving slowly. He turned back to Stoner, who had picked up a spanner, but was wiping it clean, not fixing fasteners with it.

‘You know, then. Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be looking for these guys? Shouldn’t you be at the scene? Who told you, anyway?’ Shard appeared concerned more than angry, bemused more than belligerent.

‘Same as told you. Mallis. “Another head,” he said; usual place, usual happy smiling face. In any case, SOC guys are there, forensics, experts littering the place, paddling through the blood, losing and confusing all those vital clues, misinterpreting evidence with their usual good humour. What’s there for me?’

‘He was . . . fuck it, Stoner, he was your friend.’ Shard’s customary control seemed to be struggling.

‘You’re struggling with reality, Shard.’ Stoner spoke evenly, almost gently. ‘The guy’s my employer –
was
my employer – not my lover. And now he’s dead, I am unemployed. It’s a good place to be, especially at the moment. I can recommend it.’ He brandished a gleaming lump of metal. ‘Look at these; six-pot Billet racing calipers. If these beauties don’t haul down the speed, then there’s no hope. No hope at all.’

Shard stared at him.

‘Grief. It must be grief. I’ve heard it said that grief takes many strange forms.’ His body posture suggested that he was taking stock of the situation; more care and caution than before.

‘No grief. None here, at any rate. He was not a pleasant man.’
Stoner was giving the impression of being a very relaxed man, particularly relaxed, given the circumstances.

Shard however was far from relaxed. His agitation was visibly increasing, escalating along with his mystification at Stoner’s obvious unconcern.

‘Don’t you want to know who killed him? You worked together for years. Years and fucking years. I can’t remember how many years. Doesn’t this matter to you? Are you off your head again? On the powder again?’

‘Calm down. I know who killed him, give or take. So do you. I don’t know why, exactly, but I can make several good guesses, and they’re good enough for me. He will go unmourned. No grief-ripped widow, no known next of kin.’

‘You have cracked. He used to be an MP. Mallis told me. Did you know that? Of course there’ll be next of kin. There’ll be the godmother of all investigations, inquiries, statements in Parliament. It will be hideous. Reporters. Heavy police. State spooks. Bad men with big guns and big budgets.’

‘I doubt it. He’ll probably turn out to have suffered a heart attack while climbing an alp, or something noble but nebulous. Betcha. I bet the body the plods have taken away will be an unknown John Doe, maybe an illegal drug-dealing immigrant from the Vatican or somewhere unlikely, and that our man was nowhere near the place at the time he was killed. Five and Six are good at that kind of thing when they turn their hands to it. Maybe a motoring accident. They can mince up a body pretty bad I believe. Possibilities are endless. You’ll see.’

‘And you don’t care?’

‘I don’t care. I do not care. I care not at all. What’s to care about?’

‘He was your friend. Fuck it, JJ, sometimes you can be an utter cunt.’

‘Life is tough and then you die. Everybody dies. Be grateful he
beat you to it. He was not my friend, he was a professional friend. They are not the same thing. In theory we usually fought our little fights on the same side. He paid well and promptly, that’s about as far as it goes. Coffee? Or is it too late in the day for coffee? Places to go? People to see?’

‘Coffee’s good. Make some decent stuff. The stuff I brought.’ Shard was calming, as rapidly as his calm had deserted him, so it was returning. ‘I worked for him too. He’d asked me to start working as your shadow, to watch your back. Did you know that?’

‘I know that.’

‘I was supposed to be meeting him tonight. When did you last see him? Had you told him about those blonde sisters?’

‘Yes. I saw him last night. We had dinner.’

Shard’s recently recovered composure was draining away again.

‘Last night? You had dinner last night?’

‘Uh-huh. And the autopsy will reveal how much we drank, too. Quite a night.’

‘Was he OK?’

‘Do you mean did he appear to have a premonition of his own sudden and bloody departure? I doubt it. I think he had a tickle in his throat, but it didn’t seem fatal. Certainly not in the head falling off and landing in front of a convenient webcam stakes at any rate. But you never can tell, and you won’t be able to ask him, either.’

‘You are one cold fucker, JJ. You know that? Fucking cold.’

‘Not so.’ Stoner appeared absorbed by the rituals of fine coffee. ‘I am simply reserving my sorrow for the appropriate moment, preferably when I am alone, when my sobs will be Shakespearian and I will be inconsolable. He was the cunt, Shard. A very bad man. My main concern is that an even more bad man will replace him. If he’s replaced by a woman as bad as he was, we are all doomed. Doom would be inevitable. A woman so bad is an affront
to nature and a sure sign of the coming of the end, amen.’ Stoner appeared to be on the verge of bursting into song. He poured the coffee and the two men drank it, hot and black, while they watched each other. Carefully.

Shard interrupted the shared appreciation of Stoner’s excellent coffee. ‘I was to watch you. Not so much your back, more what you were doing. He seemed concerned at your lack of progress. I would have told you.’

‘Of course you would.’ Stoner sipped. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. That would have been stupid and unbelievable and unprofessional.’

‘You’re not angry?’ Caution edged each word.

‘No. Rarely. Almost never. Anger is simply unproductive. It wobbles the concentration, blunts the focus and clouds the thinking. Angry men make great fighters. They believe in causes, noble expensive stuff like that. And they always die. Angry men never grow old and die peacefully in their beds.’

‘Crap. That’s pure crap, JJ. I’ve seen you angry. Fucking furious in fact. Bouncing angry.’

‘You are mistaken. You have mistaken angst for anger. I am a modern man. I have angst. I am a bluesman, my friend. I know depths of angst you could never even contemplate. If I wasn’t also possibly the world’s greatest unappreciated guitar player I could end up psychotic with the angst. Suicidal. Murderous is more likely, but you get the idea.’

‘Killer angst?’

‘You’ve got it. No one knows how tough is the struggle against the angst of a bluesman.’

‘You’re spouting nonsense again, JJ.’

‘That is also true. More coffee?’

Coffee was poured, followed by a sipping silence. It was hot coffee. Also, it was good coffee, and strong.

‘How come the good mood?’ Shard’s curiosity may have been
prompted by the politeness of enquiry. Or then again, it may not. ‘Your . . . oh, I don’t know . . . your colleague, your associate has been murdered. And you seem happy with this. How is that? I seem more affected, and I hardly knew him. I’d always understood that you two were thick as thieves. Thicker.’

‘Long, long story. Too tedious for today.’

‘OK. There is no easy way.’ Shard stood, leaving Stoner sitting, relaxed. Calm. ‘You admitted you had dinner with him yesterday. What did you do afterwards?’

Stoner smiled. An easy, relaxed smile.

‘I went to the club. I played a song or two. Drank a drink. I had a lot to think about. You a policeman now? A bit of a come-down for a soldier. That lean, mean killing machine downgraded to a plodding officer of the law? Come on now. I said I didn’t kill him, which means I didn’t kill him. You should trust me, brother. I doubt you know many men more trustworthy than I am.’

‘But you knew he was dead? Before I arrived?’

‘Of course I did. I already said. I have reliable sources, as do you. As already agreed, matey, Mallis told us both. In the correct order, too. In fact, for your amusement, I instructed Mallis to let you know directly, rather than letting the knowledge dribble down through channels in the usual haphazard inaccurate way. Of course . . .’

He paused.

‘Of course I was also making sure that the circle of those who know about his death is a wider circle than those who feel they need to know. Folk who feel a need to know too often employ folk like you to remove others who may know but who they feel should not. Did you follow that? Should I say it again, only slower? Is your thinking hat on? Time to throw away the dunce’s cap, matey, and to understand that this is a risky time for you.’

‘But not for you?’

‘No. Not for me. I am retired. I have a pension fund and several
excellently endowed policies to support me in my retirement. I am quite suddenly delighted to be retired. I may actually ride my most excellent Harley-Davidson into several distant sunsets. I may go on a cruise. A long one. Around the world, maybe. It’s hard to say at the moment. But I shall enjoy thinking, deciding what I should do.’

‘And you’ll take your tame tart with you, I suppose? Your strange black whore?’

Stoner paused a second, his eyes briefly distant.

‘I think that retirement is a solitary adventure. You should be going. Time to leave.’

Shard stood his ground, as if uncertain.

‘I should be taking you in, JJ. Some guys want to ask a few questions. You didn’t kill him; that’s OK. I believe that. But I think you need to tell them that. I don’t think either of us wants them to send me to get you.’ He almost shuffled his feet. Almost looked embarrassed.

‘Heavy guys?’ Stoner appeared more amused than alarmed. ‘Real bad men?’

‘Yeah. Real bad . . .’

Shard avoided a collision with the impressively engineered six-pot Billet brake caliper only by thrusting violently sideways as soon as he realised it was in fast flight towards his head. By the time he recovered his balance, which was almost no time at all, he being extremely fit, very well co-ordinated and almost perfectly balanced, a wave of pungent volatile organics splashed into his face, soaking it, freezing his eyes and running fast from his face into his clothing. He swiped the fuel from his eyes, feinted fast to his right, Stoner’s left, and forced his better eye into as near to focus as he could manage. The eye attempted to focus upon a second shiny metallic object, this one stationary. This one, in fact, held out for him to see, as well as he could, in the circumstances.

‘Do not be fooled by the badge.’ Stoner appeared utterly calm, collected and cool. ‘The badge may announce that this lighter is a Harley-Davidson lighter, in which case you might consider that it could be less than one hundred per cent reliable and may thus fail to ignite the fuel which is currently causing you some irritation. And I’m sorry about that, but I needed to make a small point here. The lighter is in fact a Zippo. Zippo lighters are beloved of our American cousins for their unfailing ability to produce a flame to light their cigarettes. Marlboro Man, for example, could have been burned-out man, smokeless man, without his trusty Zippo. One particular joy of the Zippo lighter is that once lit, it remains lit until a second physical act shuts down the flame. This makes it an ideal lighter to throw, should anyone actually wish throw a lit lighter. You can, I imagine, deduce the reason I have one to hand.