The Evil And The Pure (56 page)

Kevin
thought. “No further south than Great Dover Street. Not east of Tower Bridge Road or west of Borough High Street. And not north of the river.”

“OK,” Clint said. “How about we work it east to west, and south to north, so we end up at the
Thames?”

Kevin shrugged. “Seems as good a way as any.”

“But when we see water,” Clint added, “that’s it, I’m out of here.”

Kevin nodded reluctantly. “If we haven’t found her by the time we get to the
river, we probably won’t. I’ll come with you.”

Clint blinked, surprised. “I thought you’d rather die than leave without her.” Kevin didn’t answer, just turned away and started walking. Clint watched him through narrow eyes – he’d
liked the idea of Kevin staying to hunt for Tulip, Clint getting away with all the money – then followed, checking his watch, figuring the odds on them running into Tulip were slim. As he searched he played with escape plans, ways to get a passport, get out of the country, evade the cops, make his peace with Dave. None of his plans panning out. He was a lone rat surrounded by wild hounds. As far as he could see, without Tulip and the formula he was destined to be devoured.

SEVENTY

From their southernmost point they d
oggedly worked their way west, then back east, then west again, gradually gravitating north. Exploring the maze of narrow streets and alleys contained by the triangle of Great Dover Street, Long Lane and Tower Bridge Road on the off-chance that Tulip was resting by a fence or on a bench. Potier Street, Prioress Street, Manciple Street, Alice Street… Soon they stopped taking notice of the names, feeling their way, trusting their instincts.

Once they’d finished with the triangle – no Tulip – they checked Borough High Street,
crawled along one side of the road from Borough Tube station to London Bridge, then down the other side, glancing in windows of restaurants, ducking into pubs, before taking on the warren of back streets between Long Lane and Saint Thomas Street.

Kevin torn between hope and terror. He wanted to believe Tulip was lying low here, waiting for him, but he couldn’t. He kept telling himself she’d be in Guy’s hospital or around London Bridge station or in Hay’s Galleria. But the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. More probably she was tucked up in a friend’s flat, sobbing her way through her horror story, her friend listening in a mounting mixture of sympathy and disbelief. Part of him hoped she was – at least she’d be safe – but another part hated her if that was the path
she’d chosen. That dark part which came to the fore when he was watching her copulate would rather she die than live without him. That part fantasized about escaping with the money then returning to track her down, make her pay for betraying him. That part almost wished they didn’t find her, just so it could grow stronger within him and claim him whole.

Kevin said nothing of this to Clint. He barely even acknowledged it himself. Just kept
going, alert, padding through the dark streets, heart leaping whenever he saw anyone who remotely resembled Tulip, leading Kevin, working his way back towards Borough High Street. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes to nine. Wondering how long it would take them to complete their search and if he could bring himself to slip away with Clint if they reached the river without sight of Tulip, if he could find the courage/cowardice to leave his sister behind.

SEVENTY-ONE

The
hound tracked Clint Smith, Big Sandy tracked the hound, Eyes Burton and the other man tracked Big Sandy. The hound’s pace hadn’t dropped, tracing the scent with unwavering confidence.

The hunt led
them to the Borough, up Long Lane, then down Tower Bridge Road. Big Sandy puzzled. Why would Smith come here? Was there something in Kevin’s apartment that they needed? Big Sandy didn’t think so. Besides, the hound hadn’t hesitated in front of the building, just charged on. Had the dog led them astray, chasing an old scent of Smith’s? Nothing Big Sandy could do if that was the case, except report to the Bush at the end of the night and accept what he had coming.

At the bottom of
the road the hound drew to a temporary halt, sniffing the area beneath the flyover uncertainly, before returning to Tower Bridge Road. It began leading them back up the road, stopped, sniffed some more, then took off to the left down a side-street. Lots of twists and turns, backtracking, returning to Tower Bridge Road, more side-streets. Then the hound led them west to Borough High Street. They emerged slightly north of the Tube station and the hound followed the scent up the street to the top, crossed the road and started down the other side. Big Sandy checked his watch. Five to nine. By this time tomorrow he might be dead. Pushed that thought away as swiftly as it popped into his head. He had to focus, take each hour as it came, forget about the future and the price of failure. Tonight was all that mattered, all he had to play with. Let tomorrow take care of…

The thought died unfinished. Eyes had come to a halt and was staring down the street incredulously. “I don’t fucking believe i
t,” he muttered, raising a shaking finger to point. Big Sandy focused and saw Clint Smith and Kevin Tyne on the other side of the road, walking away from them. Big Sandy grinned viciously at the beauty of it. With their backs turned, the hunters could sneak up on the pair and take them before they knew what was happening.

Then the man
with Big Sandy and Eyes, whose name Big Sandy hadn’t even asked for, opened his stupid fucking mouth and roared, “
Stop!
”

Big Sandy groaned with disgust as Smith and Kevin spun and spotted them. He made a quick note to teach the dumb son of a bitch a very painful lesson later, then took off after
their prey as fast as his massive legs would carry him, releasing the hound, which raced along beside him. Eyes and the fuckwit were slower to react and were only getting into gear as Big Sandy and the hound tore across the road and hit the pavement on the far side.

Smith and Kevin gawped at Big Sandy and the
hound, then fled for their lives. Big Sandy didn’t waste breath shouting. As he closed the gap, Smith broke off to the left and darted down a side-street. Kevin looked back, hesitated, then carried on down the High Street, arms and legs pumping madly. He saw a taxi and roared for it to stop, desperately waving his right hand above his head.

Big Sandy didn’t wait to see if
Tyne succeeded in hailing the cab or not. Smith was his target. He paused and bellowed at Eyes and the arsehole, “Go after Tyne!” Turned left and set off down the side-street after the hound.

Ahead of Big Sandy and the
dog, Smith was running wildly, panting erratically, feet slipping, head jerking left and right in search of an escape route. Big Sandy zeroed in on Smith, machine mode, thinking only of how to subdue him and get him back to the lab quietly and safely.

Not looking where he was going,
Clint smashed into a lamp post and crashed to the ground. Sitting up, he shook his head, fixed on the hound – several feet in front of Big Sandy now – stumbled to his feet, drew a gun and fired. His first two shots flew wide of the mark and the hound closed on him. As it prepared to jump, Clint fired again and this time struck true, taking the hound in its left flank. The dog spun away from Clint, hit the ground and slid, howling with pain. Clint took a step after the hound, intent on finishing it off, then remembered Big Sandy, looked up, saw the giant storming towards him, readjusted his aim and fired.

Big Sandy’s first instinct was to dive for cover. He ignored it and kept running, the bullet whistling past, focused on getting to Smith and disarming him. Clint’s face wrinkled with fear, then went calmly blank. He spread his legs, took careful aim at Big Sandy’s stomach – an easier target
than his head – and squeezed the trigger slowly, surely.

Just as Clint squeezed, the
hound threw itself at him, having recovered. It connected with his arm, knocking it aside, sending the bullet zinging down into the pavement. Clint cursed and raised the gun for another shot, but the hound was on him before he could fire, fangs locking on Clint’s other arm, trying to gnaw its way through the bone.

Clint screamed, dug the nozzel of his gun into the hard flesh of the
hound’s stomach and fired off two shots in quick succession before clicking on blank. The hound yelped and stiffened, then slumped, stomach torn to shreds, blood pumping, moaning pitifully in its death throes.

Big Sandy was on Smith before he could even think about reloading. Grabbed him by his ears and pulled his head down, then s
lammed his knee up into Smith’s jaw, but carefully, not wanting to snap the dealer’s neck and blow his only chance of getting out of this alive. Clint grunted dumbly as the strength left his arms and legs, and would have collapsed if Big Sandy hadn’t been holding him by his ears. Big Sandy prepared to knee Smith again, then saw his fluttering eyelids, realised it wasn’t necessary and laid him flat on the ground.

While Smith twitched and whimpered and slid into unconsciousness, Big Sandy examined the
hound, saw it was beyond help, took out his own gun and fired a shot through its head, putting it out of its misery. As the echo of the gunfire died away, he fixed on the sound of racing footsteps. He whirled and aimed. Saw Eyes Burton and the fuckwit. Lowered the gun. Eyes came to a stop, panting heavily.

“Tyne?” Big Sandy asked.

Eyes shook his head. “Made the taxi. I got half the licence plate.”

Big Sandy grimaced, then pointed at the idiot who’d blown their cover. “I’m going to fuck you up bad when this is over
, and you’d better hope that’s all I do.” The man’s face whitened but he said nothing. Big Sandy stooped, picked up the corpse of the hound and tossed it to Eyes, who staggered backwards under the weight. Big Sandy holstered his gun, drew his mobile phone, rang for a car then picked up the slumped Clint Smith and draped him over a shoulder like the slab of rancid meat that he was.

SEVENTY-TWO

Clint came to in the car, half sat up, groaning. As his eyes were clearing, a hand c
lamped over his mouth. Clint struggled, tugged feebly at the hand, then slipped back into blackness, the hand releasing him, knowing no more until he was slapped awake…

…
in the lab. Clint knew where he was even before his brain kicked in fully. In the cells where the hounds were kept. One of the four hounds present in a nearby cell, chained and gagged. The other cells vacant. Clint lying on a table which had been brought in for the occasion. Naked, his feet and hands bound, spreadeagled. Around the table, Big Sandy, a small guy Clint didn’t recognise, and cousin Dave.

“Welcome back,” Dave smiled maliciously. Clint
moaned and shut his eyes, wishing for a return to darkness. Fingers gripped his crotch and squeezed. He gasped and his eyes shot open again. Big Sandy let go. He wasn’t smiling. “No more sleeping,” Dave said softly. “Now’s when you sing like a bird.”

Clint licked his lips and tried croaking for water but he couldn’t get the words out. Dave saw what he was trying to ask for and told Big Sandy to give
him a drink. Big Sandy filled a glass and poured it into Clint’s mouth. Clint stretched his lips wide and gulped, savouring the water, knowing this was his final toast.

“Can you talk now?” Dave asked.

Clint nodded weakly. “Yuh-yuh-yuh-yes.”

“Then talk.” Dave
glared at Clint. Clint stared back stubbornly, saying nothing. Dave sighed and nodded at the man Clint didn’t know. “This is Michael. He’s from Eastern Europe. He tortures people for a living.” Michael grinned. A short man, thin, streaky grey/black hair. Dead eyes.

“I duh-duh-duh-don’t know wh-wh-what you
wuh-want me to suh-suh-suh-say.”

“I want my money and the formula. Where are they?”

Clint looked around. No sign of Kevin. “Wh-wh-where’s Kuh-Kevin?”

“Worry about yourself,” Dave snapped, then leant low over Clint, so their faces were only centimetres apart. “Let’s talk plain, cousin. You do not walk out of here alive. There is no hope for you. There never was. Did you know you were part of the deal I struck with McCaskey?
He promised you to me. Big Sandy was to take you as well as the formula. McCaskey betrayed you.”