The Outsiders (41 page)

The weapon was old, hadn’t been cared for. Its bodywork was scraped as if it had been roughly treated. The long sight lay in its own polystyrene bay. There were two magazines, taped crudely together. Jonno had started to count the scratches gouged in the handle behind the trigger and its guard. In another bay there was a plastic bag, with twenty, maybe two dozen bullets in it.

‘Fuck me,’ Snapper murmured.

Loy echoed, ‘Well, fuck me.’

Jonno asked what it was.

Sparky said, ‘It’s an SVD Dragunov, uses a 7.62 cartridge. Aimed ROF – that’s rate of fire – is four rounds a minute. Maximum effective range is around thirteen hundred metres. Muzzle velocity is 830 metres per second . . .’

Jonno thought he sounded like the bank employee with whom he’d negotiated an overdraft. His voice was flat, toneless.

Snapper said, ‘This is something else.’

Loy said, ‘Too right. Yes.’

Sparky took the main body of the weapon from its protective casing, then flicked the folded end. The sound of its locking spewed into the room. The barrel tip waved and the hands couldn’t hold it steady. They were all quiet. The weapon was at Sparky’s shoulder and his cheeks had paled. A long-ago past was recalled – unwelcome, Jonno knew. The weapon seemed aimed at the walls, the window, the walls again – and it was jerked upwards each time one of them was in its line of fire, then came down when the moment had passed.

Snapper said, ‘This isn’t what we came for.’

Loy said, ‘Spot on.’

The barrel was lowered and aimed at the bed in the corner. Sparky wrenched a lever back – the clatter of metal moving on metal, then a click, and silence.

Sparky said, distant, ‘It’s safe.’

It should have been Mikey Fanning’s finest hour, and would have been if he’d enjoyed an audience worthy of the occasion. He had had only the Russian and the Russian’s goons. They might have thought they were dealing with a foolish old man who had to be humoured.

He had been told, ‘A deal with your nephew? I don’t recall it. There was the meeting with you where you made an introduction, but no meeting between your nephew and my advisers at which any decision was made to go forward with the proposal he put. I’m sorry. If he is missing, I cannot help you.  . . You look tired from your walk up the hill. We will not allow you to walk again. My colleague will drive you to the bus station.’

That had been the moment when he was supposed to swallow the remainder of the lemon juice he had been given, thank the big man for his kindness and courtesy, and bugger off.

Through the big glass windows, up the garden, he saw the dog crouched as if it was readying itself to charge. He saw a hut with a chain saw outside the door and beyond the hut a chipper, one of the big ones with fitted wheels. The dog watched the chipper, and a pair of rats darted by the machine’s exit vent, as if they were trying to find the courage to hop up and into it. Mikey saw that.  . . and something else.

He stood up and walked towards the window, past a low armchair, dropping his handkerchief on the way. He bent to pick it up. It was hard to get down that low and he wheezed. He scooped up the handkerchief and the little plastic badge, no more than three-eighths of an inch across, which had been almost hidden under the chair. It was the badge his nephew wore. It had been given to Tommy King two years previously, when the little bastard still had money. The doormen at a nightclub on the beach between Estepona and San Pedro de Alcantara recognised it as having been given to a favoured customer. The place was now closed and the owner in gaol for dealing narcotics. He straightened. One of the men now had car keys in his hand, and they smiled – patronising bastards.

‘Are you telling me that my nephew, my Tommy, wasn’t here yesterday or the day before? You telling me that?’

‘He was not here. I regret your visit was wasted. Good day. Please, any further communication, go to my lawyer, to Rafael.’

‘You’re a liar, Mr Ivanov. My nephew was here. How do I know? Because of this. It’s a badge he wore. He had it a week before the bar that dished them out was closed. He was here and it fell off and went under the chair.’

Pity Izzy wasn’t there to see him, and Myrtle.

Mikey Fanning was a man of impulse, always had been. He’d decide on which jewellery-shop window they would do or which wages van. He had not yet done any analysis of consequences, outcomes, endgames, but he had seen the badge and picked it up. He was a creature of the moment. They stared at him. All three had fixed him with a cold gaze, but he reckoned this was his finest hour because he had nailed them.

‘You’ve lied to me, Mr Ivanov.’

Those who knew Mikey Fanning well would have described him as sharp, cunning, but short of intelligence. He had not noted that the three men facing him, one jangling the car keys, wore a uniform of jeans and heavy shoes, black shirts, leather coats and shades – like bloody gangsters. He felt good, and the exhaustion of flogging up the hill was gone

The dog took off: it raced towards the chipper – and leaped. It caught a rat and shook it. The rat hung limp and the dog dropped it.

His finest hour. ‘A lie is a lie, Mr Ivanov. He was here.’

He watched the Russian. He saw puzzlement spread across the man’s face and thought himself clever. He didn’t notice that the other two had drifted away from his field of vision. He thought they’d see a man of substance challenging them and would seek to buy him off.

He pushed: ‘You lied to me.’

A man came to where the Major, Grigoriy and Ruslan sat. He said the boat would come soon. They would go when it was dark, and take cigarettes. The weather would be better then.

A launch was tied up at the pier pontoon. It rose and fell with the waves, its sides crashing against the tyres slung from the posts. None of them talked. They were men of combat, used to the surges of adrenalin that drove them forward. They had realised the crossing would be shit at best, hell at worst. They waited.

Sparky didn’t watch. Neither did Posie.

Snapper said, ‘In London, of course, I’d intervene – not that it would do him any good – but I’m not in London.’

Loy said, ‘In London we’d call the cavalry.’

The chain saw had started. The engine had come alive with only the third pull.

Jonno saw the old man who had thanked him with a squeezed hand for a lift up the hill. He didn’t know whether the man was unconscious, had lost all movement through acute fear or was dead. Sparky was behind him and worked assiduously at his task. He did not look up. Posie had moved away from Loy and was beside Sparky, pushing against him, but he didn’t acknowledge her.

Sparky stripped the thing, took it apart. Jonno wondered how – if – he would be able to put it together again. He had brought a cloth from the bathroom to clean it.

Snapper did the commentary in a level voice: ‘I’m thinking he’s already dead, Loy – he’s not struggling like the other one did. One has a hold of him, one’s with the saw, and the other is lifting up and holding some sort of sheet close to the lower part of the trunk and upper legs. It’ll be a screen for the detritus of the wound. Without it there’d be blood, muscle and bone splinters halfway across the garden. There it goes, the chain saw. I think he’s dead, so this is a gesture, not an act of barbarism, but we’ll see.’

The shutter clicked. It was not on automatic but there would be a portfolio of images.

Jonno looked round. Posie’s hands were over her ears but she’d have heard Snapper’s clear voice. Sparky had the weapon together again, perfect, as it had been. The finger closed on the trigger bar and the mechanism clicked. Sparky caught his eye, then checked the bullets and loaded them into the magazines.

‘It’s what they do. They cut the legs off. Russians, Albanians, Colombians and Irish – it’s the same message, same language. ‘‘You can’t run from me.’’ An old favourite. Usually they’ll leave the legs where they’ll be found, and dispose of the rest of the body.’

Loy said, ‘I’ve all that down, Snapper. Pictures good?’

‘Fine. I reckon they’re the last I’ll take. Four things. First, we have no mandate of legitimacy. Second, the rug’s out from under our feet, and no action will be taken if we identify our target. Three, we’re up alongside as horrible a group of psychos as I’ve witnessed, with a pea-shooter as back-up. Four, the pea-shooter is not a protection weapon. It’s for assassination, which makes you and me, Loy, accessory to murder, should it be used, which is a long way beyond any remit of mine. In the morning, we’re out.’

Loy said, ‘I’m not disagreeing.’

Jonno watched. Two plastic bags were brought from the villa. The body went into one. The legs went into the other. He saw the socks his passenger had worn and the brightly polished shoes. The material, perhaps an old curtain, was folded tightly, then thrust into the bag with the body. Both bags were knotted. The Russian walked back to the house, leaving the haulage to his Serbs.

He knew what Posie would do. He knew what he himself would do.

15

It had a metronome’s rhythm. He had learned the sounds. There was the hiss of indrawn breath, the pause, the click of the action, then the sigh.

Jonno imagined that the marksman found his target, settled on it and made the decisions about who lived, who died, and took aim. Then he filled his lungs, took his finger off the guard and squeezed the trigger. As he exhaled, he whistled. A car went down the drive of the Villa del Aguila. Jonno lay on his bed.

The killing ground was outside the bedroom door. The marksman’s firing position was the bottom stair.

Jonno had had pasta with butter and grated cheese. He had washed his bowl and gone to the bedroom. They’d been in the kitchen before him and Loy had been last out, grinning, as he took the big tray upstairs with whatever Posie had cooked for them. She’d come down. He’d heard her ask Sparky if he could make room for her to pass, then go into the kitchen and stack what she’d brought down in the sink. She’d used the bathroom and gone to the spare room. The door had closed. The space beside him was so damned empty.

He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. A couple of mosquitoes tracked above him. He thought that the man outside his door, with the rifle at his shoulder, was tortured.

The door opened above Sparky – every sound in the house was clear, as was the barking of the dog behind the wall, the command shouted at it from the patio. He could see the colours of the slabs as they had brought the old man across them. Jonno hadn’t wondered why he was coming up the hill on foot, in a suit that was too small at the waist . . . Confusion racked him. How much of what had happened was his responsibility? He didn’t know.

No one to tell him.

A light footfall on the stairs. ‘Move over, Sparky.’ Loy sounded chirpy. ‘Don’t bloody shoot me. Thanks.’

Loy might have put his hand on the rail and hopped past Sparky.

‘You all right, Sparky?’

Jonno imagined the eye at the sight aperture, the cheek on the butt. Maybe a nod.

‘They took the old guy out to dump him. Can I give you some advice, Sparky? Follow what Snapper says. Wise old bird. If he says we quit, then that’s what we do. Go with Snapper. We do our job and we get paid and we don’t get agitated by those who can’t say, “Here today, gone tomorrow.” She’s not our boss. I doubt she’s yours. I reckon your loyalty is to the foreman in Parks and Gardens, and ours is to our chief in SCD11. Snapper’ll look after you. And I’m sure he’d like your company – know what I mean?’

Sparky went heavily up the stairs and Jonno thought he heard a murmured ‘Good, man,’ but he wasn’t sure. It was not the bathroom door that was eased open: its hinges didn’t squeal – but those on the door to the spare room did.

Jonno heard the shushed giggle and buried his head in his pillow.

He held the sack as if it were a shopping bag. Pavel Ivanov was the Tractor and some of the older or middle-aged men who lived in the tower blocks of St Petersburg would remember him – with affection or loathing, but always with respect. Three days before, he’d have said that the man they remembered was gone, and it would have been true. He had reverted now, acknowledged it.

Marko was at the villa with mops, cloths and buckets of warm water with detergent. He would clean every room in which the old fool had been and lift each piece of furniture to check under it. He had driven Alex. The boot of the Mercedes had been loaded, with towels and a sheet to protect the interior from contamination with the bags. He had gone along small roads into the suburbs of Fuengirola, had turned into a sprawling urbanisation and found a hire car parked outside a terraced holiday let. Alex had opened its door and pushed it down a hill while Ivanov had pumped the footbrake to control the speed. Then, out of earshot, Alex had wired the engine. They had gone up on to the Sierra de Mijas, towards Coin, and had found a deserted quarry.

They had torched the hire car.

They had stayed long enough to see that the fire caught well. In the Mercedes, they had driven away from the high ground, which was often used for the disposal of bodies, renowned for it when fights for territory involved British, Irish and Colombians.

On the Playa de la Campana, Ivanov carried the second bag down to the shore line and opened it. He let the two severed legs, with the socks and shoes still on the feet, fall out. They would be found in the morning. The surf thundered and the wind hacked at them on the open beach. He could not have said to whom he sent a message, but it felt good and seemed necessary. The old man had called him a liar, an insult he could not ignore. He had then suggested Ivanov’s silence might be bought. Alex had garrotted him in the Spanish way. They left the legs on the sand and the moon’s thin light caught the whitened skin of the old man’s shins.