The Evil And The Pure (46 page)

It took forty minutes to complete the formula.
It ran to several pages, close to the genuine article – to even a trained eye it would look like the real thing – but riddled with a number of errors and omissions. The manufacturer would produce something approximating Baby P, a drug that would generate a pleasant high. But it wouldn’t attack the inner organs the way Baby P would. A partial success, worth a nice bit on its own, but not the devastating, unbelievably valuable monster that he had the power to deliver. Designed to buy him time, so he could work on Clint.

“There,” he snapped, thrusting the notebook at Gawl, spitting on it for dramatic effect. “I hope it brings you as much luck and joy as it’s brought me.”

Gawl flicked through the pages, studying the squiggles and equations. He didn’t think for a second that this was the actual formula but acted as if he did. Smiled dumbly. “Ye made the right choice, doc. Would’ve been a shame t’ lose yer nose.” Slipped the notebook inside his jacket, like he believed the matter was done and dusted. “Now I’ll tie yer hands again, free yer feet, grab one of Fr Seb’s jackets, and we’ll –”

“What do I need a jacket for?” Phials snapped.

“It’s cold outside.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“We have t’ test it.”

“But you said you had a chemist
lined up to test it for you.”

“Aye,” Gawl lied,
“but I can’t leave ye here. Ye might have made a mistake that’ll need tweaking. Easier t’ bring ye with me than have t’ return for ye.”

“But it’s
a long, time-consuming process,” Phials objected. “I doubt your associate will have all the ingredients required. Even if he has, it’ll take the better part of a week to fix up a batch.”

“That’s OK,” Gawl grinned. “He has a cellar. A bit more cramped than yer current room, and ye won’t have the run of a house – ye’ll have t’ stay trussed up until we’re done – but ye’ll be safe there.” His grin died. “And if ye did make a mistake – purely by accident, like – ye’ll be close at hand t’ fix it.”

Phials stared into Gawl’s eyes. No idea that Gawl was bluffing, that there was no chemist, no test, no cellar. Seeing only captivity, torture when Gawl found out he’d tricked him, being forced to cough up the genuine article. Spirits sinking. Simpler to spare himself the hassle and deliver the real thing now. Get into Gawl’s good books, hope a chance to escape presented itself later.

“Give me the notebook,” Phials said sourly as Gawl reached down to bind his hands again.

“Why?” Gawl asked mock-innocently. “Did ye forget something?”

“Just fucking give it to me!”

Gawl restrained his smile. Reached inside his jacket. Passed the notebook back to Phials. Phials scanned through the formula page by page, making alterations and insertions, spilling all his secrets. He started to cry, his only trump card exposed, negated, void. At the end of the day he’d be back where he started, a prisoner. Baby P would change the world, but Tony Phials would remain a slave, living out a dreary existence, his pleasures few and far between.

“There,” Phials wept, sliding the notebook to Gawl when he was finished.

Gawl stared long and hard at Phials. Everything came down to this moment and whether or not he made the right call. If he got it right, a happy ending, riding off into the sunset, free to enjoy his fortune. If he called it wrong, temporary elation, then a furious Bush snapping at his heels, a fevered pursuit, capture, torture, death. Had Phials provided him with the real formula or was it another time-wasting gambit? Studying the chemist’s tears, his self-pity, his desolation. Concluded —
It’s real.

“It’s been a pleasure doing busines
s with ye, doc,” Gawl chuckled blackly, then pushed Phials on to his back and drove the tip of his knife deep into the chemist’s unprotected stomach.

Phials gasped with pain and shock. His hands gripped Gawl’s forearm. He tried pushing Gawl away. Gawl dug deepe
r with the knife, working it left and right. Phials coughed up blood. His strength deserted him. He pissed himself. His limbs shook. Blood oozed out over the blade and Gawl’s hand. Gawl kept stabbing, doing it because he had to, Phials a liability now that Gawl had the formula. Easier to sell a notebook than a living person. Less complications. It would also put an end to Clint’s American dreams — he’d have to deal with the cold hard facts now and follow Gawl’s lead.

Phials died gurgling blood. A tragic end to what could have been a brilliant career. Gawl didn’t spare him a second thought
. He knew nothing of the chemist’s early promise, his youthful plans to cure cancer and make the world a better place, his gradual fall from grace and descent into disgrace. Wouldn’t have cared if he’d known, hard luck stories didn’t impress him.

Gawl fetched bl
ankets, a mop, hot water, black plastic bags. Wrapped Phials in blankets and a couple of bags. Cleaned up the blood around the altar. Fetched a torch, gave the altar a quick once-over, returned to the corpse. He hadn’t masked Phials’ head. Now he did, carefully covering it with a towel, leaving the chemist’s throat exposed. He slipped a bag under Phials’ neck, then a second towel. Picked a knife with a sharp serrated edge. Got busy severing the head from the body.

Hard but fast work
. Let the blood soak into the towel. Plugged the neck of the body with tissues and tea-towels, then covered it with a plastic bag. Shoved the body aside, made sure it wasn’t leaking, then dragged it through to the closet under the stairs in the house. Returned to the church and checked the head. Most of the blood had drained off. Replaced the towel, left the head for ten minutes, then stuck it in a plastic bag, rolled the plastic tight around the head, then dumped it inside another bag. Dropped in the note he’d scrawled earlier, making sure it was on top of the bag with the head, where it would be instantly seen when the outer bag was unwrapped.

Gawl checked his watch —
loads of time. He carried the notebook through to the kitchen and hid it behind the fridge. Took down a packet of biscuits. Chewed automatically, hands steady, heartbeat normal. No thrill in this murder, not like when he killed a woman. Just business.

Back to the church, pausing in the hallway of the priest’s house, grabbing his coat and one of Fr Sebastian’s hats and scarves. Covered as much of his face as he could. Hunched his shoulders, so he appeared much smaller. Shuffled into the church, grabbed the bag with the head, returned to the house and let himself out.

Walking quickly through the streets, he struck for a main road and caught a bus to the Elephant & Castle, just a few stops, but enough to throw off the Bush’s dogs if they were set after his scent. From the Elephant he made his way to the lab. Dangerous — he would have preferred to post the head or dump it outside a pub, sure that word would trickle back to the Bush. But he wanted to get the head to the Bush quickly, tie up the deal ASAP. The reward worth the risk.

Gawl came at the lab from the maze of side-streets to the east of the Walworth Road. Paused
at the mouth of the cul-de-sac. It looked deserted. He hurried to the large garage door and laid the bag by the foot of it, where it was bound to attract attention, positioning it carefully so it wouldn’t be mistaken for refuse which had blown against the door during the night.

Bag settled to his satisfaction, Gawl beat a hasty retreat, not looking back but listening closely
, no sounds of pursuit. Smiling to himself beneath the cover of the scarf and hat. Walked to the Walworth Road, caught a bus, got off after several stops, took a different route back to the church. Chuckling as he pictured Clint’s reaction when he woke him and broke the news, sorry he hadn’t been able to hold on to Phials’ head to dangle in front of the dealer, give him a
real
fucking shock!

Monday, searching for Gawl McCaskey, hitting the same pubs and cafés as before, flashing various artist’s impressions of the Scot, making calls on his mobile as he roamed from one place to another, chatting with people who’d known McCaskey, old friends and enemies, building up as thorough a picture as possible. Beginning to feel like he knew McCaskey. A vile, violent nobody. In trouble most of his life, but he had a knack for survival. He’d spent time in jail but not as much as his crimes merited, and those he’d crossed – there were many – had never caught up with him. Always one step ahead, being able to make a swift getaway his sole gift.

Big Sandy returned to McCaskey’s apartment in the evening, studying it in light of the new insights he had into the man’s charact
er, hoping to find a previously overlooked clue. He fingered clothes and bed sheets, tossed the drawers, wardrobe and cupboards, trying to think as McCaskey might have.

Nothing.

Two of the Bush’s men standing guard. Another two in the Tynes’ apartment. An almost certainly pointless watch, but best to cover the pads, just in case. Thinking about Kevin and Tulip, wondering if they were dead. He figured they were, innocents in the break-out, used by McCaskey and Smith, discarded when they were of no further worth. He didn’t care about Kevin, but Tulip deserved better. One more reason to extract painful revenge on the kidnappers.

Midnight. Home to bed. A troubled sleep, tossing and turning. He hadn’t slept
properly since the break-out. Not sure why he was taking it to heart, this wasn’t personal, just business. He’d stayed with Sapphire a couple of nights, telling her what was happening, calm in her arms. Wanted to go back tonight but reluctant to outstay his welcome. Sapphire was starting to act like a girlfriend. Getting snappy when it was all about him, not liking it if he just turned up when he needed her and then buggered off again.

He managed a grin despite everything else. He’d have to be careful or that might develop into a real relationship. Romance the last thing he was looking for, but men rare
ly had a say in such matters when a women made up her mind. Then he fell back to thoughts of Tulip, and the smile faded, not to return.

He was surprised but r
elieved when his phone rang in the early hours of Tuesday, welcoming any excuse to abandon his doomed attempts to fall asleep. “Yeah?” he muttered, answering the phone in the dark.

“It’s me.” Fast Eddie. Big Sandy hadn’t seen him since the break-out. The Bush didn’t blame Fast Eddie – nobody did – but Fast Eddie was ashamed of the way he’d let himself be duped and had kept a low profile, sticking to the lab, taking no active part in the hunt for Phials.

“What’s up?” Big Sandy yawned.

“
Come quick. We’ve had a delivery.”

Fast Eddie rang off. Big Sandy frowned, wondering what the cryptic message meant.
He got dressed and walked to the lab. The outer door was unlocked. Fast Eddie opened the inner door immediately when Big Sandy rang. He looked worried but excited. Headed straight for the secret door to the cellar, nodding at Big Sandy to follow. The cellar less cluttered than normal. The Bush had thought about shutting down the lab in the wake of the break-out, in case the kidnappers tipped off the police to make life uncomfortable for their pursuers. In the end he decided against closure, but most of the staff had been evacuated temporarily, and many of the crates in the cellar had been transported elsewhere. The two surviving hounds had been left where they were, the Bush keeping them in reserve in case the kidnappers needed to be tracked down.

Fast Eddie led Big Sandy to a table in the centre of the underground maze. A football-sized object rested on the table, wrapped in a black plastic bag. There wa
s a hand printed note beside it.
We’ll be in contact soon.
Fast Eddie unwrapped the bag. Big Sandy found himself staring into the vacant eyes of Tony Phials.

“When?” he croaked.

“We found it about a quarter of an hour before I phoned you. I checked the security tapes. It was dropped here two and a half hours before that. A large man, probably McCaskey, but his face was covered so we can’t be sure.”

“You phoned Dave?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure if I should disturb him. Thought I’d check with you.”

“He won’t mind being disturbed for this.” Big Sandy smiled
grimly at the sad, bloody face of Tony Phials. “You made the wrong call, doc.”

“You know what this means,” Fast Eddie said softly. “They’re still in London and they want to cut a deal.”

“They must have squeezed the formula out of Phials before killing him,” Big Sandy nodded, thinking it through. “Easier to sell the formula than Phials.”

“But why come to us? Why try
to sell it back to the man they stole it from?”

Big Sandy began to shake his head. Stopped and laughed. “The Bush called it right. He didn’t think they had anyone behind them, that McCaskey and Smith set it up themselves. I didn’t buy it
, but that’s the only explanation, they’re a couple of dicks who don’t know anyone else they can take this to.”