Cold Kill (29 page)

He thought every time would be different. Different and better than the last, but no time would be quite like the first. Now he dreamed it up again, eyes closed, feeling breathless and feverish.

Bloss sat in the room's only other chair, drinking whisky he'd bought on his way, and watched Kimber lost in a world of blood and thrills. How lucky to have found this man, he thought, and how easy to move him from confessor to killer. It wasn't much of a journey; it took only the smallest leap of the imagination for someone as close as Kimber had been. A nudge had been enough.

He went into the bathroom. Kimber's hair brush was lying by the sink. Bloss plucked a swatch of hair from the bristles and put it into an envelope, then the envelope into his pocket.

When he went back to the main room, Kimber appeared to be sleeping. Bloss said, ‘I have to go, Bobby.' He said, ‘We'll talk soon.' He waited a moment, then added, ‘I'll call you.'

Kimber might have nodded; might have been falling into an ever deeper sleep.

It ought to be DS Mooney. It ought to be her. She ought to be next. The next one. She walks fast but not fast enough to stop me getting something off her. A clipping. I couldnt smell scent on it but I could smell her. She sits up late and drinks. She falls asleep on the couch. I got a photo of her with the man in the resterant they were sitting by the window. He always calls me Bobby he shouldnt do that. Ive told him about following Stella and he says good but wait. He says wait before you do anything. No one calls me Bobby. She will be next I think. But different not his way not in the street where theres no time. They already broke into her flat so thats what people will think. The police. Theyll think burglars. Stella I was close enough to touch. Your next.

Billy Souza had made a call from his car, but Oscar Gribbin's phone was off. Or else Oscar had seen Billy's name come up on the screen and dumped the call. That made Billy angry and, since he was already pretty annoyed with Oscar, he was edging into danger areas. Edging into the red.

Oscar lived in a five million pound mansion off Holland Park. It was after nine in the evening and the staff had left, so no one was picking up the phone. Billy went there anyway, but the alarm system was primed and the floodlights snapped on as he approached, all of which said no one home.

He started a tour of the casinos. He went to Irving's and the Portland and Stars and Stripes, then he went to Aces Up and Kavanagh's and Slowhand; he had enemies in all those places and it wasn't a comfortable expedition. He finally found Oscar in the Palm House, about to go two grand down at craps. He had a blonde by his side who was half his age, half his weight and wearing a cocktail dress that brought to mind the words ‘cock' and ‘tail'.

Oscar rolled five and three followed by snake-eyes, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he saw Billy and shrugged again. They went to the bar and found a couple of seats on the horseshoe, away from the barman, away from the punters. Oscar gave the blonde a fistful of chips and sent her off to play.

‘I was going to call you.'

‘I know you were,' Billy said. ‘But here I am.'

Oscar was a short man with a long bank balance and the
confidence that went with money. He said, ‘I was going to call to say that you'll have to count me out, Billy. It's been okay, we've all made some money, but it makes me jumpy, you know? It's been five times now, five shipments, and sooner or later something's going to fuck up. A Customs and Excise search, a leak from the other end, a piece of bad luck, who knows?'

‘You see' – Billy spoke as if he'd been interrupted mid-sentence – ‘the thing about this kind of operation is that it takes investment money to set up and it takes time. You were part of the set-up process. You were in pole position. Seed money, it's called. It was a sizeable amount.'

‘People come, people go,' Oscar advised. ‘I have business decisions to make: this is one of them. No more iffy shipments for a while. I've put a stop on illegals already. Too many are getting lifted and it's a worry; if immigration start going back along the chain, sooner or later they find me. I'm taking a rest. Talk to me again in six months.'

‘No, Oscar, you're not listening. I don't have the time. Apart from the money invested in you, there's the way things work, the routes, the channels. Changing all that – it's not an option. I've got clients who want delivery now. I need you to green-light those shipments. I'm losing business, losing money, losing face. It can't go on.' Billy was smiling, even though he'd said it all before.

They were drinking Scotch. Oscar signalled for another round, and they sat in silence while the barman poured. Oscar signed a tab for the drinks; he said, ‘That's all there is to it, Billy. I'm out.'

‘I can't allow it.'

Oscar gave a chuckle, indulgent, dismissive. ‘Find another shipper. They're ten a penny. Rust-buckets are putting in at British ports every day and offloading drugs and whores and
illegals and guns. Same with trucking companies. Put the word about. You'll have offers coming out of your arse.'

Billy lifted his glass. He was gripping it so tightly that the whisky trembled along its surface. He said, ‘I'm asking you, Oscar. Help me out.'

‘No can do. End of story.'

The blonde was in sight at a roulette table and looking excited, as if the numbers were falling for her. She was betting birthdays, lucky numbers and the countdown to Christmas with a side bet on black. Billy said, ‘She seems lively. Friend of your wife's?'

Oscar laughed. ‘Don't go there, Billy. Think of the things I know about you. I might even have a tape, you know?'

‘A what?'

‘A tape. We had a meeting at my house, remember that?' Oscar smiled. ‘I used to be in the insurance business.'

Billy dropped his head and stared at the moulding on the bar-rail. He was holding on but only just. It wouldn't be clever to kill Oscar Gribbin right here and now, but it would be one hell of a fucking pleasure.

Oscar said, ‘Hey, Billy, let's not part on bad terms, yeah? It's a great scam, but I have to get out while I'm ahead. I take the risk, I carry the merchandise. You buy, you ship, you sell on, fuck it, you don't even
see
the stuff.'

Billy put his drink down. He said, ‘I can see how you feel.' He put out a hand and they shook.

The blonde waved her arms and bounced with glee as her number came up – days to Christmas, lucky seven.

Billy got into his car and took some deep breaths. A tape. A fucking tape. Gribbin was almost straight, that was the problem. He liked a little on the side, but the roots didn't go deep. It wasn't a way of life, that was the fucking
problem
.
He was a dabbler, an amateur, he was someone who made tapes.

Bloss came on the phone straight away. Billy said, ‘I talked to him. He's not open to suggestions.'

‘Find a new shipper,' Bloss said. ‘Just cut him out of it.'

‘He's cut himself out. That's the point. That's why he has to go. He said no to me. Said no – to
me
. I got a whole operation up and running, now he's pulling the pin. Fuck that. Here's something else: here's the kicker. He's got a tape of me.'

‘What do you mean, a tape?'

‘A tape. A fucking video. Us talking, him and me – talking business.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘You think I want to second-guess him on this?'

There was a silence, then Bloss said, ‘Okay, Billy.'

‘Good.' There was a pause, then Billy said, ‘What are we talking here?'

Bloss named a sum. Billy named another. They went to and fro for a while, as they had expected to, and met more or less in the middle.

‘Make it soon, okay? His wife's away on a winter holiday.'

‘I need some time, Billy. I need to get some background, you know – habits, when he's usually in, when he's usually out, where he goes.'

‘It's okay, you can short-cut all that; there's someone ready to help.' Billy gave Bloss a mobile number. ‘Just call. You'll know his schedule, you'll know when he's back home. You can pop up and see him. Just ring the bell.'

It wasn't drugs or whores or illegals – it was guns.

Billy Souza had made good connections in the Balkans, in the Czech Republic, in Russia. He also had growing market input from Australia, South Africa, Israel and Switzerland. Albania has a population of three and a half million people and four million guns; Billy made quite a few trips to Albania. All the ex-Soviet bloc countries had rich pickings: one big arms bazaar selling ex-military weapons, each with its own low-level price tag.

Generally speaking, guns were an optional extra for the people smuggling drugs and girls, but Billy had decided to specialize. It had started as a sideline to Jumping Jacks because he'd had a reason to be at the buyer's end of the market, but then he'd seen the potential. Every hard man in London wanted a shooter. Every crew member, every lowlife, every robber, every dealer, every pimp. No gun, no class. No gun, your arse. The revenue from weapons almost equalled the take from the casino, and, after the overheads had been covered, it was gross profit: no tax.

Billy had picked his shippers with care, or thought he had. Two truck companies and Oscar Gribbin, who was a perfect choice because, in addition to illegals, he shipped metal and metal goods. With the National Criminal Intelligence Service, Customs and Excise, Interpol and the National Firearms Tracing Service all on the case, that kind of camouflage was a good idea.

Oscar had been right to say that the guns never came
near Billy. They were pre-sold long before they ever reached the UK. JD and a couple of managers organized the next stage of the journey, when the weapons were moved from London, Liverpool or Hull to wholesalers in seven cities. From those locations, the guns went to smaller outlets: the armourers.

The office of Leon Bloss's armourer of choice was a table in the Wheatsheaf, or at least that was where you made your first contact. Slipper Wilkie had five mobile phones, each for a specific purpose. Certain clients had one number and one only. The divisions had to do with different aspects of his business, though his fifth was an eyes-and-ears phone and rang only if there was trouble. The pub was central, neutral, and there was a racket of muzak and fruit-machine-tunes that meant only those at the table could hear what was being said. Wilkie spent twelve hours a day working, eight on the phone. He was having a ‘yes-no-okay' exchange with someone when Bloss sat down at his table with two glasses of Scotch.

Wilkie was stylish. He had expensive blond streaks and a lamp-tan, looked late thirties, obviously kept himself in shape. His clothes were casual but pricey. He finished his call, put another on hold, then turned to Bloss. ‘Is it going to be used?'

An unused gun could be returned. Maybe you wanted to frighten someone or show class. Maybe it was for a robbery and no one would get clever or brave. Return the gun and you'd get half your deposit back. A gun that had been fired was a different proposition. There would be a forensic trace. If you were going to use the gun, you had to pay for the gun.

Bloss shrugged and said nothing. Wilkie took that to mean
used
. He said, ‘Any preferences?'

‘Glock forty-five or something similar. H & K; Beretta nine mill...' Bloss added, ‘Spare clip with it.' It was unnecessary, but, when it came to his work, Bloss was a cautious man.

Wilkie nodded and named a price; Bloss nodded back. Wilkie said, ‘Where do you want to pick up?'

‘Walk through Holland Park tomorrow afternoon at four,' Bloss said. ‘Come up from Ken High Street.'

‘It's out of my way.'

‘It's good for me.'

‘Anywhere away from cameras is good. Plenty of places.'

‘Holland Park,' Bloss said.

Wilkie shrugged. Another of his phones rang and he lifted it, but waited for Bloss to leave.

Out on the street there was was cutting edge to the wind, but it came with a mish-mash of burger fat and exhaust gas and puke. Bloss thought it might be nice to get away for Christmas. In fact he thought it might be essential.

Mike Sorley's programme of self-doctoring was going pretty well. It involved a twice-hourly cigarette linked to an hourly shot of whisky and it had certainly brought a glow to his cheeks. The regime allowed for paracetamol on the side.

Stella had picked up her breakfast coffee from Starbucks and gone straight to his office. She was talking to him about replacement officers, fitting the details of her request in between his coughing fits. He had got his coffee from the squad-room dispenser and considered it to be the only real long-term threat to his health.

He said, ‘I've got this fucking flu on the run.'

‘It certainly sounds that way,' Stella agreed. Sorley laughed and coughed, coughed and laughed. Stella waited for him to recover. She touched her hair, feeling for the missing lock; it had almost become a nervous tic. In the shower, washing the shampoo from her hair, she'd been certain, but now she wasn't so sure. The lock that Delaney had snipped was an obvious absence – high to the crown of her head. The other was lower and seemed slight, and that was when she could find it at all. Her hair was layered; there were other ragged ends. Maybe it was a form of wishful thinking:
Follow me, you bastard, I'll nail you
.

When Sorley got his breath back, she said, ‘I need some money, Boss.'

‘I thought you had a look on your face.'

‘An inducement. Unofficial.'

‘How much?'

‘Five grand?'

Sorley lit his nine thirty cigarette. The nine o'clock had petered out in the ashtray. He said, ‘Try a grand. Go higher if someone looks like biting.'

‘I want the word to spread. A grand won't get it far.'