Paint. The art of scam. (39 page)

There were six
pillars, running three a side, right to the back of the shop. She planned to
have different areas to dress as different rooms, not fully furnished, just
suggestions of.

There was an
office in the back with old mouse nibbled paperwork scattered around on the
desk. A 1961 calendar, hung crooked on the embossed wallpaper, a Formica table
in the corner and a box containing spare mannequin limbs. It was just as if
someone had said one day. ‘Bugger it, I give up.’ and walked out.

Polly dusted off
the old ripped burgundy leather chair behind the desk and sat down. She could
see right the way through to the front door. Perfect. She sat back in the chair
and drank in the musty silence of the shop.

These last few
months had been quite a journey: a journey that at last seemed to slowing down,
since her confession to Seymour. She had stopped thinking that she was being
watched or rather given up worrying about it. She figured, with the aid of
Seymour’s welcome armchair logic, that if anything happened to her, there was
nothing she could do about it, which somehow gave her life a new meaning. As
James Dean once said, just before he decapitated himself under a truck in his
Porsche. ‘Dream as if you will live forever, but live as if you will die
tomorrow.’ How right he was.

Polly smiled as
Seymour popped into her head. He was so funny lately, so full of energy and
enthusiasm and constantly reminding her that he was the breadwinner now and she
had better watch her step. He had agreed to pay for the shop’s renovation using
the sale of his work, which, Polly pointed out, she was going to do anyway.

Seymour was
firing on all cylinders and had surprisingly produced the work for the next
show in good time. His work was becoming far more abstract now, textured with
tiny colourful swooping lines that faded at the ends: like comet tails. Sandra
Withington loved his new work and had already pre bought four and commissioned him
to do a mural wall, for a client in Mayfair. It was no secret that she sold Seymour’s
paintings on to clients. She had discussed it with Seymour one night at one of
Harry’s legendary dinner parties. Seymour had launched into an amusing,
emotional performance, about how he felt used, as if he was being artistically
raped by her and that Sandra was nothing more than a pimp. She agreed.

God it was so
good having all these wacky people around. For the first time in her life she was
in a place that she didn't plan to leave.

The fact that
Seymour’s work was selling well, took a lot of pressure off. Money was still
tight and there were many a day that she felt tempted to take a covert trip out
to check on the bags and maybe grab the lot. But something always stopped her; that
thought that it would very likely kill everything they had. They lived cheaply,
but well and therefore appreciated everything they had together Their life was full
of colourful characters, hilarious encounters and intriguing gossip. She didn’t
want to change any of that. Seymour, however, had tried, so far unsuccesfully,
to persuade her to at least grab some of the cash. He had introduced various
hypothetical scenarios to change her mind, like: the possibility that somebody
would find it and hand it to the police: complete with her prints and possibly
traces of her DNA. Although she didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, she
was starting to come around to his thinking.

Pop Goes the Weasel.

Johnny hated
ferries, especially when they took him to France: he hated France. Not that
he'd been there much, only twice before, once on school trip, when he was 14
and another time on a job. His dad, also called Johnny, was in the first wave
of landing craft in the Normandy D day landings, mowed down by German machine
guns, before he even got to the beach, along with hundreds of other youngsters.
That's why he hated Germans too. As far as he could make out, he was probably
conceived on the night before his dad left for Normandy.

His mum used to
talk for hours about 'her Johnny' and the few photos she had of him matched her
words. Cheeky chappy, always up to something, never let her down or anyone else
come to that, good looking, a snappy dresser and a grin that seemed to be glued
on. She never saw him angry, she said, always calm and collected, a disposition
some felt uncomfortable with. That's why nobody crossed him. ‘Nobody would
cross my Johnny,’ his mum would say.

Johnny and his
mum had lived in a small old Victorian terrace in the East End of London. It
was tough, not in terms of poverty, more in terms of a survival that involved a
sharp mind, rather than toughness. He never remembered being hungry. There was
always plenty of food; dropped in by unrelated uncles and aunts, who always
spoke about his dad to the point where he thought he had something to prove to
them. As if his dad was watching him and he'd better not let him down. Duty
love.

France was just
in sight and Johnny looked down at the murky cruel water. He'd been on deck for
the whole trip, despite the freezing, slicing wind. You have to keep your head
down when you’re working in his profession. You don't mix with anyone. No
contact unless it’s absolutely necessary. You go invisible. In. Bang. Out.
Sometimes easier said than done. If someone engages with you? The jobs off.
Invisibility is a technique and Johnny was a master at it.

He could see the
beaches looming up, as the ferry charged ahead pushed by the cold north wind
and rising tide. Johnny shook his head as he thought of his dad. He'd seen
footage of the Normandy landings on 'The World at War' on the telly. His mum had
cried, so did he.

Once the ferry
landed and he'd gone through customs with a fake passport, he was to meet a Jean
Luc Pique, at a garage outside Paris, where he would pick up a car to drive
down to Southern France. You can't fly or take a train. You can't risk anyone
talking to you. He hated flying anyway. In fact, he hated public transport in
general: you lose control.

The French really
pissed Johnny off. The way they talk, full of ponsy confidence. The way they
dress, as if they got their clothes for Christmas from someone who thinks
they're an asshole and most of all; the way they speak English. Jean Luc Pique was
a classic Frenchman and Johnny would have happily popped him for a tenner.
Arrogant twat. And what a car, a poxy Peugot 309. Great!

The drive down
was uneventful, which was the point. Nothing unusual must happen, no hotels, no
stopping for a nap. He was to meet Frank Block, at a villa near Vence, in the
mountains above Nice. He knew Frank Block from years back. He’d never worked
with him, but he was to be trusted. Stella only used the best people. Johnny
had ordered a .22 magnum pistol with silencer and 6 rounds: that would do it. Nice
and clean, close range.

The target had
already been eyeballed for a week, looking for a routine. They found one,
swimming in the pool at 8 am alone, doing laps. Johnny liked pool hits. The dead
thud, when a bullet hits naked skin, is somehow so much more rewarding than
when it's muffled by clothing. And there's the ricochet problem. In a pool, the
bullet just loses its momentum in the water and never comes out. There is
nothing worse than a ricocheting bullet. That's why he always tries to hit
bone. That slows the bullet down a bit. But, if he's unlucky, when he goes for
the heart and the bullet passes clean though without hitting a rib? That's a
problem. A couple of years before, he had to take out a blind man and ended up
killing his guide dog with the ricochet. It haunted him for weeks. He was to
rest up for the night at Franks place, where he would be briefed, shown photos
of the target and plans of the target’s villa. The next morning, he would be
taken to the target and dropped off. There would be a Blue VW Golf parked close
by, with the keys under the mat. He was to wait until a street sweeper stopped
sweeping, lit a cigarette and walked off. That was his cue. The side gate to
the villa will be open and alarms switched off. He must then go immediately in,
straight to the pool and pop the target. He was to drop the gun in the pool, as
it was licensed to a Gendarme who's life they wanted to complicate. From then
on, he was on his own. The VW was full of fuel and there was €1,000 in the
glove box, along with false papers and a new passport. His name will then be
John Clarke. Good luck.

And that is
exactly how it happened. Sweet as a nut. He was back home in 36 hours to a cool
ten grand, just like that. Johnny just loved working for Stella Solutions.

Johnny woke up
the next morning after his return from France still buzzing. It was the first
'proper' job he'd done for Stella. Mainly, up until then, he'd been a glorified
courier, or an eyeball on surveillance.

But this was his
trade and he was good at it. The sound that .22 magnum round made when it
pierced the targets head was perfect and the puff of blood that came out of his
ass suggested it had passed through his entire body, maybe smashing his spine
en route. You don't often you get a chance to do that. He had been swimming the
butterfly stroke toward him, not easy. He had waited until he was just four
metres away until he popped him. God it felt good.

Johnny slipped
out of bed, went to the kitchen, and made a good strong coffee with the old Gaggia
espresso machine he'd come by on a repossession job, a few months ago. It was a
beauty, all chrome and Bakelite knobs: it took up the whole work top. As he
went through the process of grinding beans and tapping out the coffee extruder,
Johnny thought about Polly again. He had to get her sorted out quickly. She was
eating his head away. The job in France had sparked up the fire in him, he was
getting respect again. She was the reason he had lost the respect people had
had for him and while she was alive and the money still missing, there was no
closure.

He was to lay low
for a week, that was normal after a job. Avoid going out, or communicating with
anyone except family and unconnected, close friends. This was the perfect time
to pop her, no more jobs coming in. Should be fairly easy. He would get her and
hopefully the money too. Although, deep down; the money wasn't that important.

Later that day,
after planning tactics and possibilities, Johnny went to his lockup garage to
get tooled up. He had to be ready when the time was right. This would be a
close-up shot again, the silenced .22 magnum would do it, and he had a beauty.

Off to Henry's
garage to hire a car for a few days. Henry had a good system if you need a car.
He had a fleet of cut and shut right-offs, all with good paperwork. The deal
was, if anything went wrong, you buy it. If the cops were involved you pay
double for administration charges, whatever that was. Henry gave him a white
Ford Escort, you could still smell the acrid stink of welding and sickly sweet
cellulose paint, despite the full can of air freshener it had been doused with.

It was a two door
model. Johnny had specifically asked for a two door model. Much bigger doors to
bundle bodies in and out of: living or dead. Nothing worse than struggling to
get someone through a four door ford escort. You could put your back out.

As an optional
extra, he ordered a Dagenham dagger, a small metal box, the size of a fag
packet, fitted to the seat belt's diagonal strap. Inside the box is a form of
flick knife that, when activated by the cable switch on the front of the
drivers seat, releases a 4 inch tungsten blade that flicked open, cutting edge
first. They reckon it could cut a rib clean in two, so hearts would be a
doddle. It also had a quick release clip, so that the Dagenham dagger could
either be used again or conveniently dumped in a river. A very nice tool. He'd
never had to use one. For some reason, he always told his clients about it and
how it worked. That always seemed to be enough to get what he wanted. Maybe one
day he'd try it out on someone.

Johnny checked
everything again in his head. He was ready. But first he had to do a spot of
housework.

Housework was a
phrase used in his profession that meant tidying things up.

He waited for
Jason to unlock The New Carva Gallery front door and watched him go into the
office to turn off the alarm. He had thirty seconds. Easy.

Johnny slipped
into the gallery, went straight into the office and popped Jason clean in the
back of head. Piece of piss.

Just as Johnny
was leaving Carva arrived.

‘Morning.’ said
Carva brightly.

‘Morning.’ said
Johnny as he went out onto the pavement. ‘Oh for fuck's sake.’ whispered Johnny
to himself, as he about turned and went back into the gallery.

Carva stood there
in the back office, his hand slapped over his mouth, as he looked down at
Jason's body. A large creeping pool of fresh blood had formed on the floor
around Jason's head.

Spit. Spit.
Johnny fired twice at the back of Carva’s head, just to make sure. He waited
until Carva fell, then closed the office door. As he was leaving he spotted the
gallery keys on the desk, picked them up, checked them as he made his way to
the door. They were all clearly marked with tags. Johnny stepped out, locked
the front door and went to his car around the corner; dropping the keys in road
drain en-route.