The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series) (31 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Stevan had concluded his meeting the previous evening very satisfactorily indeed. The other party had an endless supply of goods, available on very short notice: even his personal favourite. Perhaps there was more to this place than he’d thought. He would take possession, complete the job and be on a plane home tonight.

The arrangements had left him with last night free and unable to leave the hotel - it wouldn’t have done to bump into Teresa or Jeanie. So he’d had to find another little diversion…it was amazing how many freckles that girl had, and they were everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

He shook himself from the pleasant image and got ready for his trip. He disposed of his detritus, dissolving his suit in the sink with the solution they’d brought. All he needed now was his twenty-something uniform, cap, sunglasses, money, and a couple of small bottles and gloves.

He’d paid the bill the night before, including a huge tip for ‘Freckles’, so he left the room quickly now, taking the lift to the ground and bypassing reception discreetly. Then out to the front, where the taxi was already waiting. He got in and nodded, handing the driver a slip of paper with an address written on it. Pretending not to speak English limited conversations, which limited leaving any clues.

They stuttered out through the busy Saturday traffic and onto the M1 motorway, driving towards the quaint town of Hillsborough and an open-house day at a luxurious new development. The show-house was waiting, ready for viewers, with others in various stages of growth, ranging from staked-out plots to half-built shells.

Stevan gave the driver another note that instructed him to wait for fifteen minutes, and then walked nonchalantly through the gates of the development. He turned left towards the show-house for the cabbie to see him, and then sharp left again, into plot fourteen and the half-finished shell built there.

Entering the empty kitchen, he reached urgently under the sink, feeling for the package. It was there. He swiftly unzipped his rucksack and pushed it in. Then he walked casually into the show-house for a quick alibi tour, exiting back to the taxi exactly on time.

As they sped down the Ballyrobin Road, eight kilometres from Antrim Racecourse, Stevan gazed out at the pretty winter countryside, gearing himself up for the kill. The car dropped him at the main gate, under instruction to return at 2.45 precisely. Plenty of time for his return flight to Heathrow.

He pulled down his baseball cap and walked inconspicuously past the glamorous race-goers, ignoring their laughter. Part of him wished that he could be part of it, that he was really here for the races. An unexpected sadness surprised him, and he knew then that if he listened to their chatter for too long, he would walk away from today’s kill, and the life, for good.

He walked on hurriedly and then stopped again, abruptly, watching the crowds milling past him. For a moment he heard nothing but silence, only seeing the women’s brightly coloured dresses fluttering past him like petals. He felt completely at peace without knowing why. And then he did. In that split second he realised that he’d already walked away from the life, and that this would be his last job ever.

***

It was a clear, soft day and Declan was convinced that his luck was in, he could feel it. Standing in the VIP tent, wearing Ralph Lauren and drinking champagne, how could it not be? He looked around at Northern Ireland’s great and good, and not so good, and laughed to himself. All the characters were there, it would be an entertaining afternoon.

His next thought surprised him. He felt happy for the first time in years, genuinely happy. He hadn’t loved Joanne for a long time, he realised that now, so why had it taken him so long to leave? The answer came immediately and with it a hint of sadness, the girls, they were why he hadn’t left. But he still felt happy.

Bob Leighton’s death was a tragedy of course, and one that everyone in the tent was talking about, but at least it had brought him a final chance at life. Without it, he would never have had the balls to leave – Joanne had stolen those years ago. But now, here he was, drinking champagne under a cloudless winter sky, and growing a new pair.

He could feel the eyes of the other VIPs on him, noticing Joanne’s absence, a mixture of curiosity and smiles. She’d gone to school with most of the women, and they’d married the weak men that he’d known at school. Sad enough in itself, except that their kids would probably do the same. Northern Ireland needed some new blood.

He raised the glass to his lips and smiled ironically at the gathering. They voted for each other in the best-dressed lists, praised each other’s businesses, and even slept with each other, afraid of diluting the gene pool with the ‘wrong sort’.

There were some salvageable people amongst them, but mostly they just did what they did best, survived in the shark pool. So today, he was going to do what he did best. Gamble, and not just on the horses.

He walked to the bar along the back wall of the tent and turned to face the room, full of fat-faced men and over-tanned women, looking and whispering. A few noted his move curiously, still talking. His best friend Neil, who had always hated Joanne, leaned over and asked the bartender to turn the music down.

It took a moment for people to notice the background quiet, and then another for the chatter to die away, until finally, the majority were silent, and the ones that weren’t drew sharp looks. Then Declan spoke, without a single care what the fat frauds thought of him.

“Most of you know that I’m married to Joanne, and most of you can see that she’s not here today. And those of you who matter will be happy for me on that. I’m don’t love her and I’m going to divorce her, and frankly I don’t give a toss what you think about that, or me. But you will stop looking at me as if I’m an exhibit, or...” his voice took on a hard edge “any of you that I do business with, will be losing your contracts with Greer’s. Which, despite what Joanne may have told you, is
my
company. So be good.” He raised his glass to the room. “And enjoy your day. I know I will.”

Neil nodded and the bartender turned the music on again, grinning into his glasses. As Declan left the tent to check out the runners and riders, he noticed a pretty redhead in a mini-dress smiling widely at him and he smiled back shyly, feeling free for the first time in years.

***

Stevan had found a near perfect vantage-point at the back of the hospitality pavilion, lining up perfectly with the VIP marquee, and he could see his target clearly now through his scope. He was walking casually towards the tent, head down, studying some papers, and marking them forcefully with a pen.

Stevan knew exactly what he was doing. He was marking his ‘picks’ for the day, and he could see the man’s slight smile through his sights. He recognised that smile well; he’d worn it himself at the Dubai Racing Club many times. There was no feeling quite like watching your horse ride home a winner. Declan Greer was a betting man and he liked him for that.

The marquee was sponsored by a French champagne company. It had one whole side open to the outside world, and its floor was laid out in an artificial grass lawn. He could see a long linen table laden with flute glasses, each ones’ gleam picked out clearly by his scope. There was a long bar behind them serving cold drinks. His mouth suddenly felt tinder-dry; he could do with a glass himself. Maybe at the airport, he had work to do first.

His target lifted two glasses and walked over to a red-haired girl in a short green dress. She looked pleased to see him and she looked nice; she wasn’t his wife. Stevan could tell it even from this distance, and it made him sorrier for what he had to do. That was his curse, he was always sorry for his targets.

He was sick of the killing now. At the start, it had been about hatred, pure and unalloyed, each guilty death bringing him an almost visceral pleasure. Then anger, anger for murdering their innocence, and for the loss of warmth that no one now living could replace. No number of dead could warm them now.

Then survival; to eat and live, and wear and smile. Only two things had guaranteed that. The ability to kill. And money. The first bringing enough of the second to insulate them forever. And his skill had found plenty of interested buyers.

He took the black stealth TR-42 from his rucksack and stroked its twenty-inch barrel. It was his favourite weapon. There were other, newer models, and plenty more expensive. But it was like a thoroughbred horse; elegant and reliable, and accurate as hell. He wasn’t going to change just because fashion dictated. Whatever else he was, he was loyal, even to his guns.

He set-up, aligning the scope sights perfectly with the open side of the tent, adjusting his stance and waiting. It was a still afternoon and the wind had dropped completely now. The air was cold and still, perfect shooting conditions, like Serbia in the winter.

This time would be more public than the last, and the woman would be witness to the kill, very unfortunate. It went against his rules of decency to involve women, even as a witness. He hated Alik for Irene Leighton. He had made them trap her and mark her, and then lead her trustingly to her freedom. Only to kill her somewhere that no one could ignore, hoping to stir up political unrest.

It had turned his stomach in the way that no other kill ever had, and it was turned against killing permanently now. Even Kaisa felt remorse for the death of such a good woman. Now this man’s foolish, honest, open urge to tell the police was precipitating his own death.

Stevan knew that he was the best at what he did. It wasn’t a boast, he just was. Most others in the business used two shots to the chest and one to the head. It wasn’t necessary and it was cruel to those left behind. A single head shot was all he ever needed. Years of practice.

The scope was perfectly aligned and he looked at his watch. Not just yet, there were three minutes left. He stood up and watched them through his binoculars. A man with binoculars, a normal sight at the racecourse. Who would question it? The target was facing the red-haired girl now, smiling and pointing out something on the paper to her. It would be the odds and form for the next race, Stevan knew that it would. He’d done it himself to impress some nymphet. The things men do.

He watched them, musing. As ways to die went, it was a great one. Think about it; sunny day, pretty girl, champagne-soaked chatter and looking forward to watching your horse win, with no idea that you were about to die. Could you really ask for more? Life would only be disappointing after this.

Stevan watched as the horses lined up for the off, and Declan Greer turned towards the line, raising his right hand to point out something to the girl. He was almost facing him now and he looked nice, like the girl, another innocent victim. He was repulsed by more killing, not for survival, not for food or warmth, but for money.

Stevan thanked God that he couldn’t see him, he was much too intent on the horses. For once, he would be spared that instinctive glance towards his gun, he knew it. He lined up his sights ready to press the trigger, and felt a sudden vibration at his waist. He dropped the barrel instinctively and reached urgently for his phone. It was his one constant connection to Kaisa and she only ever rang it in an emergency. Something was very wrong.

“Draga, what is it? Why are you ringing?”

Her sobs came raw and fast as if she was gasping for breath, and his mind went back through the years, to another time when she’d been hurt. There was only one thing that would make her cry like this, and he would kill the man who had done it.

“Who did this? Who is he?”

She was crying so hard that she choked and coughed, and the sound almost drowned-out the one word that she managed to say. But he heard it. He soothed her gently with kind words, until he could hear her breath calming and her tears flow more quietly. Then he gave her instructions to meet him and gently closed the phone.

As the horses left the gate and the crowd roared out, he lined up his sights again, in anger now. He pressed the trigger down lightly, launching the sleek bullet that broke through the air
,
twisting and curving perfectly, until it reached its intended destination.

It split the air six inches from Declan Greer’s temporal bone. And then, with one soft deliberate thud, it skewered straight through the marquee’s central pole with just enough momentum to lodge undamaged in the wood, and provide the police with another clue to Irene Leighton’s death. It was a perfect shot, even by Stevan’s standards.

The cheering crowd covered the sound, but the man felt something skim past his ear, casting around for its final resting place. Stevan watched, pleased, as the redheaded woman smiled and teased him, as if he was searching around to make her laugh. And then at his male friend’s expression when they saw the hole in the tent’s support, realisation finally dawning, and with it the urgent grab for telephones.

He reached quickly for his rucksack, urgently removing the bottle and heavy gloves. Then he stripped the rifle down quickly into the scope, frame and stock, laying the pieces on the ground, and emptying the contents of the bottle onto the small pile. He watched calmly as the costly piece of equipment dissolved in front of his eyes, the small price for their freedom.

Moving swiftly, Stevan pulled on his sunglasses and joined the throng of race-goers queuing up for last minute spaces. He stood casually against the Course’s white outer wall, waiting for his taxi, and chatting on his mobile to an imaginary girlfriend, completely ignored by the others around him.