Once a Killer (13 page)

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for ages,” Rondell said, lighting up his last cigarette. His face looked pained, as if he was debating whether or not to trust Danny with the grand plan he had in mind. He took a large puff on the cigarette and then exhaled slowly. “When my mom cleaned for Jackson, she always kept a key. Thing is, she never gave it back.” Another drag on the Marlboro, and then he blew out a white cloud of smoke before staring at Danny. “Guess where that key is now?”

“Still in your mom’s apartment?”

“Good guess, but wrong.” Rondell slipped his left hand into his jeans and pulled out a key. “I have it.” He grinned, waving the key in the air. “Right here. Been carrying it with me for weeks.”

“Are we going to give it back to Mr. Jackson?”

Rondell screwed his face. “Are you serious?”

Danny looked at him, confused by the direction of the conversation.

“What day is it, Danny Boy?”

“Your birthday.”

“Yeah, but what day is it?”

“Wednesday. Why?”

“Something special happens on Wednesdays.”

“What?”

“The old man’s collected by his two sons. They live in one of the older blocks over there.” Rondell pointed with the key over Danny’s shoulder. “Every Wednesday evening, they collect him so he can have dinner with them.”

“So how are you going to give him his key back if he’s not in?”

“Duh! We’re not. We’re going to use it to get into his apartment while he’s out, stupid.”

Danny took a step back down the stairs. “No way. That ain’t right.”

“I know where he keeps his savings. My mom mentioned it once. She said she’d borrow from it when she was short.”

“I hope she put it back.”

Rondell shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyway, the money’s in a tin in his lounge, behind a bunch of books he can’t read anymore.”

“I don’t want anything to do with this, Rondell. He’s a good man. You can’t steal from him. Don’t even think about it.”

“Look. You don’t need to have any part in it if you don’t want to. I’ll do everything.” Rondell stubbed his cigarette on the wall and then threw it down the stairs past Danny. “All I need you to do is stand guard, just in case his sons return with him early.”

“I’m not—”

“Listen, there’s no risk. He won’t be there. I just need you to keep an eye out for me. That’s all. If anyone asks, you can say you took no part in it.”

“But I would be part of it.”

“Not if you stand outside his door. That’s public property. It’s not a crime if you happen to shout ‘Good evening, Mr. Jackson’ if you see them coming.”

Danny sighed. “I don’t like it.”

“You won’t be doing anything wrong. I never had you down as a complete coward.”

Danny looked at his watch again. “Okay, I’ll stand outside and let you know if anyone comes, but I don’t want any of his money. If I got caught, my mom would kill me.”

“Hey, I’m happy to keep it all.” Rondell stood up, opened the door to the third-floor corridor, and then looked back at Danny, who was still leaning against the banister. “Are you coming or not?”

They made their way along the poorly lit passageway, Rondell walking with purpose, while Danny crept along behind him, continually checking over his shoulder. When Rondell slipped the key into the latch of Mr. Jackson’s front door, Danny’s heart pounded in his chest.

Tugging at Rondell’s shoulder, he said, “This is as far as I go.”

“Just watch the corridor for me. Shout out and bang the door if anyone comes.” Rondell eased the door open.

Inside, the TV blared from the lounge. “That’s Alex Trebek,” whispered Danny. “
Jeopardy
must still be on.”

Rondell ignored him and disappeared into the apartment. Moments later, he came back to the front door.

“What’s wrong?” Danny asked, standing with his back flat against the wall facing the apartment door.

“Nothing. There’s no one in so you can wait just inside. It’ll be less obvious than standing out there. You look like a nerd.”

Danny did what he was told and stood inside with the door cracked open so he could still watch the walkway. Rondell ran back to the lounge and started moving things. A young couple walked by the front door, pushing a child in a stroller. Danny’s heart jumped into his mouth. He hadn’t even heard them coming. He shoved the door closed and stepped back so they couldn’t see him. Suddenly, behind him and to the side, a toilet flushed and an old man stumbled out of the bathroom.

Danny froze with his back glued to the front door. He stopped breathing. How could he warn Rondell that Mr. Jackson was in the apartment? A rattling noise came from the lounge. It sounded like Rondell was shaking a tin.

“Found it, Danny Boy,” Rondell shouted.

“Who’s there?” said Mr. Jackson, raising his walking stick above his head.

Rondell ran to the lounge door. “Danny, I told you to keep watch. What the fuck—”

Mr. Jackson kept his stick raised. “Is that you, Rondell? I know that voice. What are you doing in here?” He limped along the short hallway toward the lounge, blocking Rondell’s path.

Rondell’s terrified face appeared behind the man’s waist. “Help me out here, Danny.”

“Michael,” said Rachel, popping her head round his office door.

Michael flinched as though he’d just been woken from a bad dream. “Ugh?” He raised his eyes from the pile of papers and focused on his assistant.

“Everyone’s waiting for you upstairs.”

Michael reached for his mouse to open Outlook. “What—”

“The Spar team meeting started at ten. It’s now ten past.”

“Okay. Can you give me a moment? Tell them I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m just running a bit behind. That’s all. Any chance of one of your espressos?”

Rachel smiled. “Of course. I’ll bring one into the meeting room for you. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

After Rachel left, Michael looked at his watch. The Seiko had long since been replaced by a Breitling. It was now almost ten fifteen, which meant he’d been in a world of his own for at least half an hour. His mind drifted back to the telephone conversation with Rondell earlier this morning and something he’d said about the newspaper coverage of what went on in Mr. Jackson’s apartment. Rondell was right; it didn’t really matter that Michael had tried to stop him from entering the old man’s home all those years ago. Or that the whole thing had been Rondell’s idea from the start. The press didn’t care. They were both there that night, and that’s all that mattered. While he was incarcerated, he’d read their stories more times than he could remember, and they made no distinction between the two boys. Both boys were killers as far as the outside world was concerned, and both of them had been sentenced for the crime.

Opening up to Caroline and telling her everything was not an option. He could never let her see him that way. That was not the man she knew and loved. As much as he detested the idea, he had to meet with Rondell tomorrow. If he wanted to keep what was most precious to him, Michael was going to have to break the law and give Rondell whatever he wanted. There was no other way out of this mess, and there never had been.

Chapter 15

J
AKUB
H
AVLICEK
S
TEPPED
O
FF
T
HE
C
OMMUTER
T
RAIN
at Wembley Central. Ignoring the No Smoking signs plastered on the walls of the station, he fired up the last of his pack of Luckies and strutted toward the exit for High Road. When he left the building, he took a left and headed west. Two minutes later, he passed a Roma gypsy woman selling
The Big Issue
next to the steep steps leading down to Station Grove. On his right, as he descended the steps, were blue-painted boards that made a bad job of hiding the overgrown building lot sitting behind them. Stuck to the wooden boards, and spaced about ten feet apart, were posters punctuating the graffiti. They read: “Don’t spit. It’s unhygienic and anti-social.” Havlicek threw his cigarette stub at one of them.

Just before he reached the end of Station Grove, he turned right and walked through an open iron gate into a driveway between two terraced houses. It led to a block of eight lock-up garages hidden at the back of the properties. He glanced over his shoulder before unlocking one of them and walking inside. The metal shutter door rattled against the concrete floor as he closed it before hitting the light switch inside.

Havlicek smiled when he looked at the Honda CB500X motorcycle standing in the middle of the garage. He removed his rucksack and placed it on the floor at the back of the machine. Kneeling next to the back wheel, he retrieved a Phillips screwdriver and yellow license plate from the bag. It took a few minutes to remove the original plate and replace it with the false one he’d brought with him. After cleaning his fingers with a packet of wet wipes, he slipped off his jeans and anorak and put on the set of motorcycle leathers lying on the bench in the corner.

On top of the bench were also a full-face crash helmet, a pair of Gore-Tex motorcycle gloves, and a large brown envelope. Havlicek placed the envelope into the rucksack before slipping it back over his shoulders. When he’d put on the gloves and helmet, he stood behind the door, listening for people who might be outside. On the few occasions he’d been here before, there had been children playing nearby. Once he was confident the area was clear, he opened the door and wheeled the bike outside. After closing the door, he checked twice that it was locked before starting up the machine.

As usual, the Hanger Lane roundabout was heaving with traffic, but Havlicek was in no hurry and he was able to navigate the bike through most of it without too much trouble. He followed the A40 into central London and then picked up the Marylebone Road. When he saw the road cameras at the start of the congestion charge zone, he snorted as he thought of the poor sucker whose license plate he’d copied and his reaction when, a few days from now, he received a fine through the mail for non-payment of the fee.

Havlicek didn’t take the Edgware Road exit for the West End. On his earlier dry runs, he’d found the traffic quieter by taking Baker Street south and then Audley Street to Grosvenor Square. He found a suitable spot and parked the motorcycle on the corner of Mount Row and Davies Street.

The offices of Mayfair Alpha Fund Managers were in a four-story, Georgian townhouse nearby on Davies Street. With its portico entrance and potted, perfectly round-trimmed box plants on either side, the building reeked of serious money. Havlicek stayed seated on the bike, occasionally looking across the intersection at the building while checking the contents of his rucksack, which he’d rested on the gas tank in front of him.

A traffic warden walked by and made a note of his license plate. Havlicek threw him a polite smile and then climbed off the motorcycle. He grabbed the bag with his left hand and walked over to the offices, where he had to wait until he was buzzed in.

“I have a delivery for Mr. Nicholas Walker,” he said in his thick Czech accent to the haughty female receptionist before removing his gloves and retrieving the folded envelope.

“I’ll sign for it,” she said, reaching over the mahogany desk.

“It’s a very important document. I was instructed to hand it to Mr. Walker only and obtain his signature or else not leave it.”

The receptionist’s plastic smile morphed into a slight scowl. “Take a seat over there.” She pointed to two leather chairs in the corner of the room. “I’ll see if he’s available.” Her tone made no effort to hide her irritation at having to disturb her boss for such a trivial matter.

“Thank you.” Havlicek turned toward the chairs.

“You’ll have to take that off.”

Havlicek swung around. She pointed to his helmet and then a sign on the wall that said: “Couriers—All helmets are to be removed.”

“Please,” he said, tapping the side of the helmet with his right hand, “my mobile microphone is loose. It will be damaged if I remove.”