The Murder Exchange (7 page)

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I
who probably had no idea of the terrible damage he
was inflicting. It was such a waste and, six months on/ we were no nearer bringing the killer to justice,
even though a reward of twenty-five thousand
pounds had been offered for information leading to
a conviction: fifteen thousand from the police and
ten thousand from a local businessman. Unlike
Robert Jones, his killer had had all the luck.

'What about the poisoning angle?' I asked. 'Any
more news on that?'

Knox furrowed his brow into deep, craggy lines.
'Well, it's coming along/ he said without a huge
amount of conviction. 'WDC Boyd's been liaising
with the poisons department at Guy's and doctors
from the Home Office about this substance and its
possible source, as you know, but I'm not sure how
much help it is. I mean, it's not as if you can pop
into the pharmacy, pick some of this stuff up, and
sign the Poisons Register. It's cobra venom, for
God's sake.'

'So there's no place you could get it in this
country?'

Knox shook his head. 'Not officially, no. As far as
anyone seems to know, the only place you can find
it is in the mouth, or whatever, of the cobra. And as
far as I'm aware, none of them lives within five
thousand miles of here. You'll have to talk to Boyd
about all that, though. She's now our resident
toxins expert. The thing is, I don't know how much
help either she or anyone else can be. We haven't
got a clue where you actually get it from in a usable
format, where this particular batch may have
originated, or anything like that. All we know is

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that somehow someone came into possession of
enough of the stuff to kill three people, and somehow
got the opportunity to inject the whole
lot into the left arm of a sixteen-stone bouncer without
him noticing, or getting any sort of opportunity
to seek medical help.'

DC Benin exhaled slowly and thoughtfully. 'It's
a mystery/ he said. A statement of the obvious if
ever there was one, but which pretty much j|
summed things up.

Iversson

The lunchtime traffic was heavy and I was
paranoid. Not surprising when you're driving at
speeds a two-legged dog could muster in a car
that looks like it's been used in an Arnie
Schwarzenegger film, even down to the bloodstains
on the back seat, and you know that most of the
bullets wedged in the exterior were meant for you.
But what choice did I have? The Range Rover was
registered in my name and I needed to stash it
somewhere where it was not going to receive
undue attention. I was therefore on my way now
to the abode of one Gary Tyler, a bloke who did
occasional work for us, and who had the invaluable
asset of a lock-up over in Silvertown that I could use
for storage purposes until I worked out what to do.
I looked at my watch. It was five to one. What a
twenty-four hours.
There'd been no news on the shootings the

62
previous night. Not a dickie bird. Whoever had
organized our little warehouse reception - and
some bastard most definitely had - was as efficient
as he was ruthless. Three bodies left behind in an
industrial estate in the heart of north London amid
a load of gunfire, and not a peep about it in the
press or on the TV, and I'd checked enough times
(hat day. When I'd spoken to my partner Joe Riggs
on the blower earlier, he'd been shocked (although
not half as shocked as I'd been when one of our
most reliable employees had started taking potshots
at me), and it was only when he'd asked me
whether I'd managed to pick up the money in
advance that I knew the tight bastard was all right.
L; the end, we'd decided not to say anything about
Eric's death. It was unfair to the family, no-one was
denying that, and it was a decision that could easily
come back to haunt us, but what was the alternative?
At least by keeping stum, we'd hopefully
avoid a lot of unwanted attention.

But it was Tony's role in the whole thing we
found the hardest to understand. I suppose we both
thought we'd known him pretty well. He didn't
work for us so much these days, less and less over
the past couple of years, but that didn't mean a
thing. He was still someone we thought we could
depend on, and right up until the previous night
he'd never let us down once. So what had made
him suddenly turn a gun on me and Eric, as well as
a man he'd never even met before, just like that?
This was the big question.

We'd left it that I would see what I could dig up
on Fowler while Joe would do the same with Tony,

63
I

and we'd meet up the following day. In the meantime,
I needed to be rid of this motor, and Fowler's
briefcase, which was still on the front seat.

The lights up ahead turned red and I came to a
halt in the nearside lane, the third car back. In front
of me was a black BMW with tinted windows blasting
out a thumping bass so powerful that it was
making me shake in my seat. When I'd been a kid,
punk had been the big thing, and my mum had
constantly droned on about how the music ||
sounded terrible and you couldn't understand a
word the singers were shouting, and I'd thought
what the fuck did she know? Now I knew it was a
generational thing. This stuff, this garage shite that
had suddenly become all the rage, it was a pile of
dung, to be honest with you. There weren't even
any tunes as such, just some bloke bragging about
how hard he was, and how much the ladies rated
him. Kids these days - they've got no taste.

I saw the flashing lights in the rear-view mirror
and cursed, because I knew straight away that I
was trapped. The lane next to me was full of traffic
and the lights were still red. The cop car put its
hazards on and two uniforms got out, donning
their caps. I was just going to have to front it.

They came round either side of the Range Rover
and the one nearest me tapped on the driver's-side
window.

'Afternoon, officer,' I said as jauntily as possible.

'Can you turn your engine off, sir, please?' he
asked, giving me the standard copper's-in-control,
I'11-know-if-you're-guilty-don't-try-to-hide-it gaze.
He was about twenty-five and not particularly big.

64
Rosy cheeks, too. About as menacing as Tony Blair.

The lights were still red, and on a main road as
well. I couldn't believe it. No wonder London had
traffic problems. That was the fucking mayor for you. A coma victim could have done a better job.
Seeing as I had no choice, I switched off. The other
copper, who was even younger, looked to be
inspecting the bullet holes on the other side.

'How can I help you, officer?'

'Can I just take these for a moment?' he asked,
leaning in the window and removing the keys from
the ignition.

'What's the problem? I'm in a bit of a hurry, to tell
you the truth.'

He gave the interior a bit of a nose and spotted
the two dark stains on the back seat where Fowler
had bled. I'd given them a clean-up earlier that
morning, but they still looked a bit suspicious. I'd
never been much cop at domestic chores.

There appear to be bullet holes in your vehicle,
sir/ he said, totally deadpan, like he was telling me
I had toothpaste round my mouth.

'I live on a rough estate, officer.'

The other one now opened the back passenger
door and began inspecting the stains more closely.
'What happened here?' he asked. This looks a lot
like blood.'

'It's red wine/ I told him. 'I spilled it in there
yesterday. It's a right bastard to get rid of.'

'Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir/
said the first one, opening the door for me.

'No problem/ I said wearily, and got out.

Still holding the handle, he shut it behind me at

65
r

just the moment I delivered a ferocious uppercut
that sent him flying. He landed on his back,
absolutely sparko, narrowly missing the traffic in
the next lane, and his cap rolled off, only to be immediately
crushed by a passing minibus full of
pensioners.

'Oi!' shouted his partner, going for his extendable
baton.

There was too much traffic to cross the road
before he caught up with me so I ran round the *
front of the Range Rover, mounted the pavement,
and charged him before he had a chance to actually
extend the baton. I punched him full in the face,
knocking him off balance, then got my leg round
his and tripped him up. He went down, his nose
bleeding badly, and I ran back round to retrieve my
keys.

But cars were stopping all over the place now to
watch the drama unfolding and the lights had gone
red again. A well-built workman was getting out of
his van and glaring at me, looking worryingly like
he was about to carry out a citizen's arrest. Then,
from up the street, I heard the sound of a siren. It
meant a quick decision.

Run for it.

So that's what I did, and as I tore off at a rate of
knots in the opposite direction to the siren, past the
surprised expressions of passing civilians, it struck
me then that however bad I thought my predicament
was ten minutes ago, it was now a hundred
times worse.

If anyone ever wanted to kill Johnny Hexham, he

66
would not be a difficult man to find. Every
lunchtime between one and two, as regular as
clockwork, he was in the Forked Tail public house,
a mangy dive off Upper Street, gossiping with his
lowlife cronies and plotting his next poxy moneymaking
scheme. Sometimes he'd be there earlier,
sometimes he wouldn't leave until the early hours
of the following morning, but, without fail, he was
always in residence for that one hour. I got there at
ten to two, and waited in the doorway of a
boarded-up shop across the street, trying to look
inconspicuous. As it was a Friday, I guessed that the
la/y little shit would be in for an all-dayer, but, like
the creature of habit he was, I thought he'd probably
whip out for a few minutes to place some bets
on the horses, having picked up some tips from the
Paddy barman. I didn't much want to approach
Johnny in the bar where there were too many
people with big ears, but I would if I had to. Things
were not going well for me and I wanted some
answers quick.

And bang, like an assassin's dream, there he was,
coming out of the door, already filling out one of
the betting slips he always carried with him. I
looked at my watch - one minute past two - and
crossed the street, coming up behind him.

'Johnny Hexham. Long time no see.' And it was,
too. Getting close to six months.

He swung round and clocked me straight away.
He didn't look too pleased but worked hard to hide
it. 'All right, Max,' he said, coming to a halt. 'How's
it going, mate?'

I walked up and took him casually by the arm.

67
The grip was light but firm enough to let him know
I wasn't fucking around. 'Not good, Johnny. Not
good. There are a few questions I need answers to
fairly urgently, and I think you might be able
to help.'

'What's the Bobby, then?'

'Eh?'

The Bobby Moore, score.'

'It's about a certain Mr Fowler.'

'Fuck/ he said. 'I knew he'd be trouble/

Tou don't know the half of it.' I let go of his arm
and we walked down in the direction of Chapel
Market.

Johnny looked at me nervously. We might have
been old schoolmates but he was switched on
enough to notice that that wasn't going to count for
much in this conversation. I am a man of compassion
but, to be honest, you don't want to get on
the wrong side of me.

'What happened, then?' he asked.

Tou put this bloke, Fowler, on to me. Why?'

There was nothing bad about it, honest. I just
thought the two of you could do some business. He
needed some security--'

'How do you know him?' I had to remember not
to use the word 'did'.

'I don't really. It was Elaine who put me on to
him. Elaine Toms.'

'Jesus. Is she still around?'

Elaine had been in the same year as us in school,
way back when Duran Duran were the kings of the
rock world and furry pixie boots were all the rage.
She'd always been the girl the boys liked because,

68
without exception, she fucked on the first date, the
first date only ever meant buying her one drink,
and she was nice to look at. Which you've got to
admit is something of a rare and joyous combination.
Not that I'd ever managed to get her in the
sack. There'd always been too much of a queue in
front of me. And I'd been a bit of a skinny runt in
school, too. Like decent wine, I'd matured with age. The hadn't clapped eyes on Elaine in getting close to
fifteen years, probably longer, and briefly
wondered what she looked like now.

'Yeah, Elaine's still around. She's the manager of
Fowler's club.'

'The Arcadia.'

'That's the one. I still see her now and again
uucduse I drink down there sometimes. Not often,
like, cos it's a bit too young for me, all these kids
jumping about, out of it on all sorts, but it's worth
a Captain Cook. Anyway, she told me that Fowler
was having trouble with some people and he
needed protection. She asked me if I knew of anyone
who might be able to assist and so, you know, I
thought about it for a couple of minutes, then your
name popped up. I know you're into all that shit. I
thought you could do with the business.' He turned
and gave me his trademark boyish smile, the one I
knew had got Elaine Toms into bed on more than
one occasion back in the old days. Johnny Hexham,
the loveable rogue.

But it didn't work. Not today. 'It was a bad move,
Johnny.'

He looked worried. 'Why? What happened?'

We turned into Chapel Market and made our way

69
down the middle between the two lines of stalls. As
usual, it was noisy and crowded. I decided against
giving him the whole story. Johnny was no grass
and probably wouldn't go to the law if his balls
went missing, but it was best to err on the side of
caution.