Assassin (12 page)

Harrison looked up as Tina and Carter entered the room.

Pat Mendham stood up and smiled at the young woman, nodding his head in a gesture of greeting.

'What's wrong, sweetheart?' asked Harrison. Carter felt anger rising within him as he watched Harrison's exaggerated display of affection as he tenderly kissed Tina on the lips. The younger man remembered the bruises which discoloured her arms and neck.

'Can we speak alone?' she asked.

'Of course,' Harrison said and asked Carter and Mendham to wait outside. They dutifully left the room, both of them wandering down to the casino bar.

Tina stood facing Harrison for a moment then sucked in a deep breath.

'Frank, I'm worried about what's happening,' she told him. 'These shootings, what happened the other night at the restaurant. I don't feel safe.'

'I told you, I'll send a couple of men round to watch the flat ...'

She cut him short.

'No.'

'Then what else can I do?' he wanted to know.

'Give me a gun,' she told him flatly.

Harrison was silent for a moment and then smiled, not sure whether or not he was the victim of some kind of joke.

'Frank, please,' she persisted.

'Why do you want a gun?'

'I told you, I'm scared,' she said. 'Is that so difficult to understand? The tone of her voice softened abruptly. 'If you care about me as much as you say then do that for me. Please.'

Harrison shrugged, held her gaze for long seconds and then turned and crossed to a cabinet on the wall. He took a small key from his jacket pocket and unlocked it, opening the door to reveal what looked like a drinks' cabinet. However, he reached past a couple of the bottles and flicked a switch.

The cabinet revolved, turning slowly to reveal a veritable arsenal of pistols. Automatics, revolvers, even a couple of light SMGs.

The gang boss reached in and pulled out a small pistol which almost disappeared in the palm of his large hand. Then he turned to Tina, the weapon held out for display.

'Take it,' he said.

She picked up the gun, surprised at its lightness and the shortness of its barrel. The pistol was less than four and a half inches long.

'It's a .25 Beretta,' Harrison told her. 'At close range it should do the trick.'

Close range, she thought, looking at Harrison with a smile on her face.

If they lay side by side in bed, she mused, still looking at the gang boss. A smile began to hover on her lips.

Yes, that would be close enough.

She dropped the gun into her handbag.

MADMAN GIVEN LIFE SENTENCE. MASS KILLER INSISTS THE WAR AGAINST THE RICH WILL GO ON.

The headline screamed at them. Below it was a photo of Jonathan Crawford being taken from the Old Bailey, surrounded by policemen.

'What does it say?' asked Jennifer Thomas who was seated in one comer of the room.

The hurricane lamp burned in the centre of the mildewed floor, bathing the occupants in insipid yellow light. It forced Michael Grant to squint as he read the story which accompanied the headline.

'Jonathan Crawford, main defendant in one of the most sensational murder trials of the century, was sentenced to life imprisonment today; Grant began The others listened intently as he continued. 'Crawford, 25, was found guilty of five murders and sentenced with a recommendation that he spend not less than thirty years in prison. However, the defendant was judged to be seriously disturbed and will spend much of the sentence in Broadmoor prison which is reserved for inmates who are classified as criminally insane.'

'Insane?' snorted Phillip Walton. 'Does that make
us
insane too? For believing in what Jonathan believed in.'

Grant continued reading. 'As Crawford was led away he shouted to the court, "There'll be more deaths. This war against the rich will go on." Crawford's co-defendant, Sally Reese, is due to take the witness stand tomorrow to confess her own part in the series of killings which Crawford claims to have ordered. The Charles Manson-like figure claims also to have many other followers who, he says, will continue a campaign of violence against the wealthy and the well-known. Police are still attempting to trace Crawford's associates.'

Grant folded the paper and tossed it contemptuously aside.

'Perhaps we should try to get him out of prison,' said Paul

Gardner.

'Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Mark Paxton, scraping the top of a whitehead with his index finger.

'Why should we anyway?' Phillip Walton added. 'We're still here, we can carry on with the work.' He smiled broadly.

Maria Chalfont retrieved the paper from the dirt-clogged fireplace and opened it at the front page, glancing at the photo of Crawford.

'They couldn't break him,' she said, smiling. 'They still haven't won.' She touched the photograph of Crawford lovingly, aware of the moistening between her legs.

'So, who's next?' asked Walton.

'We should choose someone further away this time, perhaps south of the river,' Grant mused, regarding the array of photos and cuttings which decorated the mould-encrusted wall of the room.

'What the fuck does it matter who it is?' snarled Walton.

'They're all going to die eventually. We're not picking them in order of wealth. It doesn't matter which one dies next.'

'The police can't watch everyone,' offered Paxton, coaxing the pus from a particularly stubborn spot. He wiped it on his jeans. 'They won't have any idea who's going to be executed next.'

'There are so many to pick from,' added Jennifer Thomas,.

'All fucking parasites,' said Walton, hawking loudly. He propelled a lump of sputum towards the pictures on the wall, smiling as the sticky mucus struck the face of a large breasted model.

'What about her?' he asked.

Grant shook his head.

'Oh come on, we might as well draw straws for it,' Walton said. 'Are we going to kill one of them or not?'

'The timing is important,' Grant told him. 'We should wait a day or two, until Sally's trial has begun.'

'I hope you can trust her,' said Walton challengingly.

'What do you mean?' Grant demanded.

'I mean, I hope she doesn't crack and tell the police our names.'

'Why should she do that?' asked Jennifer Thomas.

'Well, she was Grant's girlfriend wasn't she?' Walton reminded her. 'She might be missing her lover. She might have forgotten what this struggle is all about.'

'She won't betray us,' Grant replied with assurance.

'She'd better not, otherwise
I'll kill you
.' Walton reached for the long knife which was jammed in his belt and pointed the razor-sharp tip at Grant.

'You're welcome to try,' Grant said, his own hand gripping the handle of the machete which hung by a strap from his waistband.

'For God's sake stop bickering will you?' snapped Paul Gardner. 'We're supposed to be united in this fight, not at each other's throats.'

'He's right,' Maria Chalfont said.

Walton nodded and slid the knife back into his belt.

Tiring of the spots on his face and neck, Mark Paxton began picking his nose as he watched the other men challenge one another. But then, as if some silent signal had passed between them, the others rose and joined Grant, gazing at the array of photos, murmuring softly as they regarded each one.

They knew most of the names. So many to choose from.

Grant pointed at one of the pictures.

The others nodded.

The choice was made.

The keys on the ring jangled noisily as Warden Josephine Gregory pulled them from her belt and selected the appropriate one. The long key-chain, denoting her years of service in Holloway, hung almost to her knees.

As she turned the key in the lock, Detective Sergeant Vic Riley watched her, pulling a cigarette from the packet in his jacket pocket. He was about to light it when the warden turned and looked reproachfully at him. The DS shrugged and slipped the Marlboro back into the box. He thought about apologising. She made him look as if he should apologise for even
thinking
about having a fag. Her hair was pulled back with unnecessary severity and tied in a neat bun. It looked to Riley as if the flesh of her face had been so tautly stretched over the bones of her skull that her eyes were slightly narrowed. She reminded him of every sour old schoolmistress who'd ever rapped his knuckles with a ruler.

She strode through the door and ushered Riley through behind her, locking the door after both had passed.

The policeman found himself in another long corridor, flanked on both sides by steel doors. Each one three inches thick and painted a sickly beige. Paint was peeling off them in places showing rust beneath, as if the scabs had been pulled from badly healed wounds. The observation slots in most of the doors were open and, as he stood waiting for the warden to join him, he could see two or three faces pressed against the slots, peering out at this newcomer.

`Fucking screw,' one shouted.

'Bitch.'

The first voice seemed to start a chorus which echoed around them as they walked.

'Who's your boyfriend, cunt?' one called and Riley found that he was forced to suppress a smile as he caught the look of rage on Warden Gregory's face.

'Bloody cow.'

They walked on.

'Fuck off and die, you bitch.'

Their footsteps were drowned by the continual tirade of abuse.

'Another fucking copper.'

Riley never ceased to be amazed at the ferocity of Holloway's lifers. He'd been into the prison on a number of occasions and, every time, had found the women to be as menacing as any hardened male criminals he'd seen in the Scrubs or Dartmoor.

He wondered what kind of reception he'd get from Sally Reese.

She hadn't been sentenced yet but was still locked up on remand in solitary, for her own protection as much as anything. Her part in the murders of the Donaldson family, particularly the children, had marked her out as the lowest of the low amongst the criminal fraternity. In the pecking order of prison life the greatest hatred and contempt was reserved for child molesters and those who killed youngsters. Even more so in a women's prison. Had Sally Reese been kept in a cell with other women, Riley thought, she might well have been dead by now. Hence the need to keep her in solitary.

It had been more than a week since he'd last questioned her about the murders but, more particularly, about Jonathan Crawford's other followers. At first she'd been full of bluff and bravado, even threatening Riley. But he'd gradually worn her down, telling her that all she could expect after the trial was life in a twelve-foot-square cell. Such a waste for one as young as she, he'd reminded her. Riley had left the twenty-year-old to consider that future, and then he mentioned that she still might be able to get away with a lighter sentence.

If she decided she wanted to name a few names then she might only face a twelve or fifteen year sentence. It was something worth considering. And something that Riley sincerely hoped would strike a chord with her because he and the men on the case were no closer to tracking down any of Crawford's followers and none of them doubted that the insanity which he'd begun
would
continue even after his incarceration. Sally Reese might well be the key to preventing any more slayings.

If
she was willing to talk.

Warden Gregory stopped at the door of a cell and reached for her bunch of keys again, sliding one into the lock.

It was as she did so that she noticed that the observation slot had been blocked with a blanket.

The warden tut-tutted.

'She's always doing that,' she told Riley. `She says she doesn't like being spied on by us.'

The DS nodded, still watching as the key turned.

`All right, Reese,' said the warden, pushing the door open and stepping inside: 'There's someone to see you ...'

The words seemed to trail off into a whisper and Riley pushed past the warden as he saw the colour drain from her face. He moved into the cell, his eyes widening as he saw what had transfixed the warden.

There was blood everywhere.

On the bare walls, on the floor, on the bed.

And in the centre of the crimson puddles, some of which were beginning to congeal, was Sally Reese.

Exactly how she'd managed to remove the leg from the metal frame of the bed Riley didn't know.

He couldn't begin to imagine how she'd managed to put up with the pain of trying to tug the screws free. He'd noticed that her fingertips were pulped stumps.

But, more than that, he could not conceive of how she'd succeeded in killing herself with that bed leg.

Of how she had driven it into her own stomach and ripped upwards using both hands like some vile parody of a hara-kiri death.

He tried to imagine how long it had taken her to die, her blood jetting from the wound, her entrails spilling from her riven torso like the sticky tentacles of a bloodied octopus.

Tried to understand how she could have infected such an agonising end upon herself.

He gazed at the body which was in a kneeling position, his eyes fixed on the length of metal which protruded from her torn stomach like a rigid steel umbilical cord.

'Get help,' he said quietly, glancing at the warden's pale face.

The woman nodded and scurried from the cell, glad to get away from the sight and smell of death.

Riley shook his head, his eyes still riveted to the dead girl.

And, this time, he did light up a cigarette.

So much for Sally Reese, he thought. He spat a piece of tobacco out and cursed under his breath.

The girl was barely eighteen.

She was standing beside her car sipping from a can of Coke, the breeze which whipped across the forecourt stirring her long brown hair. She wore an outfit of pure white, a perfect contrast to the unnaturally deep bronze of her tan.