The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) (27 page)

The benefit, I felt, of getting this girl to come in with me, was so as to draw attention from myself. It has worked very well so far, but now will be the ultimate test. I don’t where Samson and Leonard are, but I’m hoping that the first thing they see, or anyone looking for me for that matter, will be this girl, not me. She is eye-catching, in that bombastic sort of way, and will have a broad lads-mag style appeal. As we start descending the stairs, she does attract eyes from both sexes. As a single man, wandering about in here, I may have looked more conspicuous, but now I have someone with me who will draw attention actively away from me.

Nobody gives me a second thought. Krystal is stealing the show, as planned. All I need, is to get up in that VIP.

I scan for green. The color of exits. I find three, one by the bar, two either side of the back wall beneath the VIP tank, with another stairway between them, dimly lit, and foreboding. Security staff either side suggest we have found the VIP entrance. I direct us that way, and we descend into the mist of the dance floor.

The girl starts to sway, her shapely figure in perfect time to the heavy beat. My eyes are locked on the VIP, desperate for an ID of either of my intended targets. I spy security cameras, but that doesn’t sway me in the least. They will be for the use of the owners and nobody else. There is no chance any of the tapes from here will ever make it to any official police avenues, since I’m more than sure that Samson and Leonard use this place to peddle some of their more illicit wares, as it is a ready-made customer base with immediate market demand. And I refuse to believe that the pulsating crowd on this dance floor, with their fixed gazes, pin-prick pupils and slack jaws, are all sober as judges. I begin to sway with the girl, joining in with my cover story.

My eyes are drawn to a column over on the far left of the dance floor, that has a cage atop it, designed like an upscaled bird coop. In it there is a pole, with a bikini-clad dancer going through the motions. There is something about the dancer I cannot fathom, but cannot ignore. As I sway, and Krystal herself pushes into me, I recognize her. It’s Tina, Samson’s other half, theatrically made-up like a burlesque goddess. Is this how they met? Most probably.

If she’s in on things, she will know I’m definitely not supposed to be here. I pull Krystal in close and bury my face in her neck, pretending to nibble on her shoulder, a move that feels horribly forced (because it is) but she responds well to it, and throws her head back. My face is buried in her hair, and we look just like any of the other twisting couples. She grinds herself into me, and I swear she brushes the gun again. It delights her, it seems - or at least the thought of what else it might be. What a strange girl. Her dad would have nightmares if he knew what she was like. Christ, I’m old-fashioned.

I spin her slowly away from the bird-cage, so that our backs are to Tina, and usher her to the VIP.

‘Champagne,’ I whisper to her, trying my best to be sexy, but just hearing me speak in that way makes me cringe.

The stiletto gives us immediate access to the rear private stairwell, the bouncers eyes roaming my companion without even glancing at me, and we are permitted to ascend.

‘I’ve never been up here before,’ giggles Krystal, while making heavy weather of the steps. The stairs double back on themselves after a short landing, and we enter into the tank. I let the girl go first. Ahead of us are a few tables pressed up against the glass, and a bar to the left. There are a few people about, but, even though it’s the middle of the night, it’s still kind of early in hot nightclub terms. No sign of my targets just yet, but I’m liking what I’m seeing so far. We are approached by an attractive girl, dressed all in black.

‘Good evening. I’m Alice, I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Would you like a table or booth?’ she asks.

So there are booths up here too. Where are they?

‘Where’s the toilet?’ asks Krystal.

‘Just past the bar,’ comes the reply.

‘I’ll be right back,’ says Krystal, as she scampers away. Thank God for that.

‘I’ll just have a drink please and wait for her?’ I say, motioning for the bar.

‘Of course, I’ll keep an eye out and you can decide when she gets back.’

‘Perfect.’

I head for the bar, pretending to adjust my belt but secretly pop the butt of the gun up over my waistband, for easy access.

I start a purposeful walk, and notice that the VIP itself has an emergency exit along from the toilets. Exactly as hoped for.

There are booths along the left rear wall of the tank, which I couldn't see from the stairs. They are slightly elevated, sunken and dark, wedged in before the toilets. There are three, and I have to pass by each one to get to the bar. No one else in the VIP is looking. The music is still blaring from below, permeating the glass like auditory osmosis. The barman over there looks bored to tears, staring out of the window. My gun has a silencer, but considering the thumping bass, I could probably get away without it. No time like the present, and I’m upon the first booth...

Empty. A leather wraparound bench with no occupants, a low dim chandelier illuminating nothing but a menu card.

I keep pressing for the second one.

Empty. Same result.

If they’re in the third one, I might as well ready myself, and I place my hand around the grip of the Glock. I round the edge of the third booth.

Two pairs of eyes immediately search out to me from the seat, surprise etched on their faces. I’ll soon make that surprise permanent. Samson and Leonard, drinks and a dusting of cocaine on the table in front of them, look back at me agog. Leonard actually has a sprinkling of white powder in his pencil mustache, like a kid who got at the icing sugar.

I immediately train the gun on them, not caring who sees anymore. At this range, their fates are sealed, and they will die enacting their own ludicrous fantasy.

‘I know what you did,’ I say.

‘Ben...’ Leonard says, but I cut him off. I fire a bullet into his forehead, a purple puff clouding up behind him. He slumps, his eyes still fixed on me. Samson sits arrow-straight.

‘Jesus Christ! We didn’t know!’ he shouts, pleading. It’s funny to see a stacked man reduced to a whimpering wreck in a t-shirt six sizes too small. It will be his final indignity.

‘Yes. You did. You knew about it all.’

I shoot him over his right eye, a neat precise dot. He slumps heavily into the booth, against Leonard, and to the casual observer, it looks as if they have had one too many sherbets and are having a little brotherly snooze. The staff might not even notice their fate for a while.

The noise of the suppressed shots were perfectly muffled by the music. At the bar, the barman is still staring out over the dance floor, daydreaming while he waits for a drink to pour. The rest of the patrons are lost in their own little worlds.

I stick the gun in my pants again, and head for the toilets, just as Krystal emerges, smoothing her dress. I grab her arm.

‘We need to get out of here, sweetheart,’ I say, and usher her to the green exit door. She protests a little.

‘Someone came in the club a bit upset, it looked like something was about to go down,’ I tell her. She buys it.

We pass through a door, and down a grimy staircase that looks like nobody has passed through it in years. There is a fire door at the bottom. I waste no time.

We exit into the street, as still as it was before. We must have been inside two or three minutes. Job done.

‘You’re on your own, darling. Go home. Clean up your act,’ I tell her. She looks at me uncomprehendingly, as if I just revealed myself to be part alien. I don’t think she gets the message.

‘You fucking twat,’ she says, spitting the words at me as if they are throwing stars. I turn and start to walk. What a lovely girl. I check my phone. 3.40am. It’s time to ready myself for the next part. Part 1 has been an unqualified success. Word will reach Felix about what happened here. I just hope I can get a fix on him in time. If I lose him now, and he disappears into the mists, I’ll never forgive myself.

I start to run.

25

I light the rag, with one flick of a cheap lighter I had picked up from an all-night petrol station just moments before. The flame is more than happy to take hold of the scrap I am feeding it, and it reaches out along the rag slowly, like a miniature human torch crawling hand over hand up a climbing rope.

I step back, and keep pacing in reverse. The flame creeps higher, and I hear a crackle now, as well as that soft hot-air blow of a fire alive. It reaches the silver bodywork, bouncing off it almost reluctantly, then angling into the opening of the petrol tank. A second passes, and the Lexus rips from the inside out, a messy convulsion of metal and orange.

Goodbye Lexus, you have served me well. I turn and start the one mile walk to the waterfront. I picked this abandoned industrial estate on the edge of Stretford to be the car’s graveyard, since it is only a short walk from Salford Quays, but far enough away not to be visible from Felix’s vast windows.

I am supremely focused. Fixed on an objective. Unrelenting. Unwavering.

I arrive at the waterfront in no time at all, my stride having powered me here without effort. I have picked a secluded spot from which to begin my assault, and I have to drop over a roadside barrier, shimmy down a gravel slope for a couple of seconds, and enter into some unkempt urban vegetation at the bottom. The bushes aren’t supposed to be here, having forced an existence in an inhospitable environment. I sympathize fully.

I hear the water, lapping in the darkness to my right. The sky is brightening in its furthest corners, as the sun begins its slow, steady ascent once more. The timing is fine so far, but I want to keep that tempo up.

I search in the bushes, and find my hidden item with ease. When I was carrying out my surveillance earlier, I had searched for some way to get over to Felix’s house by water, considering the coverage of the security cameras over on land route. I was struggling with a solution, until I saw the kayaks paddling about on the water over where the Ship Canal enters the Quays. I followed their progress to a small watersports club further up on this side of the water. I checked it out after dark, when everyone had gone home, and the place had been locked up.

It was nothing more than a black shed with a side door, and a large jetty leading directly through two large double doors, all of which were locked. Looking through the window, I saw kayaks, one of which I had intended to borrow - that is until I got inside and saw the jetski. I pull the branches of the bush aside, and there it is now. Its propellor over the water, its nose up in the bush. I push the vessel back, lowering it into the water, which it enters silently. I’m not really dressed for the part, in my jeans and shirt, but I hop on the back, make sure my backpack is secure, and find the ignition button on the handlebars. The jetski roars to life.

I have never ridden one before, and as I squeeze the accelerator tentatively, I realize immediately that I have been missing out. I am very familiar with boats, and the way they surge through moving bodies of water. The principals are identical, albeit to a different scale, and before long I am maneuvering the jetski skillfully and easily. I see the twinkling night lights of Felix’s house across the water, and the vast conservatory, and accelerate hard.

I cut across the water with composure, gliding over the flat currents and bouncing over the slight rolls of water. I make no time at all - far quicker than a kayak - and I am on immediate approach within a couple of minutes. The lights on inside are dim and decorative, not searching and illuminative as if somebody was awake. It is still. There is a little jetty that I hadn’t seen before, to the far right of the conservatory at the bottom of the short garden, which I proceed directly towards. I kill the engine and float the remaining few yards. Seconds later, the jet ski is tied to the dock and I am scampering up the jetty, my eyes alive to the possibility of being seen. Keep moving, don’t stop. Don’t slow. Up tempo, up tempo.

The conservatory has a single glass door, which I check to see if I can prize open. It seems I can’t without causing an almighty racket. Inside, the water in the pool is still, and the rest of the house even stiller. I keep following the edge of the conservatory around the side of the house, until I reach solid brick walls. I search for a window or vent and I notice that the kitchen window is only slightly ajar. I check inside. Still nothing. Behind me, the sky is bleeding streaks of warm orange onto ever lightening blue. I ease the window open, and hop in, directly over the sink. I have entered hostile buildings under the cover of darkness before, usually with a team behind me. I’m amazed how much easier it is when you are by yourself, but just how naked you feel without that backup.

I pause in the kitchen, and listen. Silence, save for the gurgling of the pool filters next door in the conservatory. I don’t know which bedroom is Felix’s so I’ll have to conduct a search. My plan is to kill Felix and wait for Michael. I make my way through the kitchen, and ready my weapon. I travel them, one steady step at a time, Glock aimed upwards in readiness.

Stillness.

I reach the landing. The door on my left is the spare room I stayed in, in what seems a lifetime ago. The door to the right is the one I suspect is the master bedroom, judging by the layout of the house so far. I cross the landing in the spot where I imagine Felix and Royston swapped the baby and the brandy, remembering that cruel story and how everything has changed since that fateful night... and I stop. That huge window over the stairs, that looks out over the rear of the house and the water beyond. Something has caught my eye out there, and I try to focus on it.

There, out in the middle of the water, is a boat. A speedboat, just idling there. And on its deck I can make out three figures.

I squint, and strain my eyes to see in the darkness. And I can’t believe what I see.

Felix. Michael. Carolyn. The men are watching, standing by the steering wheel of the sleek craft, and Carolyn on her knees at the stern, her hands bound and her mouth taped shut.