To Kill For (25 page)

I pulled my coat tight, put my hands in my pockets, my right gripping the Makarov. The night was clear and a weak wind moved the coldness slowly into my limbs. I buried my face in the collar of the coat.

The branches moved and cracked. I thought of the girl, Kid, her body so thin, now nothing but ashes somewhere. She'd been used by Paget, trampled by him. But it had been me, probably, who'd killed her. I'd been firing blind and those walls were thin. I'd saved her and killed her at the same moment.

I tried to blank my mind, but the image of her kept coming to me out of the gloom. I saw her staring up at me, her eyes wide, her stick-thin body hunched against pain and fear.

Where I stood, in that darkness, I was only a couple of miles from the cemetery where we'd burned the girl. Were her ashes about me now? Were they on the wind or on the ground where I stood or in the rattling branches? And Brenda? Where was she now? What had her life come to? And that boy, that Argentinean conscript who'd never had a choice, whose life had taken him to me and the rounds I'd fired on that foggy damp hill all those years ago? What had become of him? I saw his face again, there in front of me, frozen into a vile smile, as if he could see it all as a lousy joke, and see me, too, as part of the same joke. Did people think of him still, see his face, as I saw it?

I swayed and felt myself falling. I staggered into branches. I caught myself and shook my head. I was sweating, despite the freezing cold air. I shivered. My head was empty and light and, for a moment, I didn't know where I was or why I was there. All I saw was darkness. I felt the Makarov in my grip. It was solid and heavy and real. It was good. The feel of it brought me back. I remembered where I was.

Then I heard a car's deep engine slow and I knew it was Laing turning into the road. I flexed my gun hand and felt anger surge through my blood. Murder was on my mind.

I watched the car's headlamps throw light onto the road. Then the car was slowing down again and I heard the tyres grind grit as it passed me and made to turn into the entrance for Ross Court. It was the blue Lexus, just like Green had said. It braked sharply. There was one man in the front, none in the back. Laing had come alone, then, and now he was staring at the gates and wondering why they were shut. That was when he could have realized something was wrong, but I was hoping he'd never been here this late at night and that he didn't think there was anything strange about the gates being closed. I heard the handbrake go on. He opened the door and got out and went over to the gates. I moved. He turned when he heard my feet crunch the dead leaves. I saw it in his face. He knew he was fucked. There was desperation in the way he grappled in his jacket for a weapon. I brought the Makarov down on the side of his head. He grunted and fell to his knees, his hands flat on the ground. When he tried to get up, I smacked him again at the base of his skull and he hit the floor face first. I checked him for weapons and found a lock knife with a three-inch blade. I removed his trainers, took out the laces and used them to tie his wrists together behind his back. Then I grabbed the back of his jacket and hoisted him up and carried him to my car. I stuffed him into the boot and drove off.

We were a couple of miles away, in the park, near the Eagle Pond. I'd stashed the car in the middle of a group of trees. I took a recce, found no sign of anyone. I unlocked the boot and let it glide open. Laing was conscious, curled up as much as he could be. He stared out at me with eyes wide, part angry, part scared. I told him to get out. He struggled onto his knees, using his shoulders to lever himself, and then climbed out slowly, looking at me all the time.

He was a small man, no more than five and a half feet and slim, but he was wiry, his muscles ropey and tight. On his left wrist he wore a Rolex watch. On his right a thick gold bracelet. He had a deep suntan. He had money alright, and he looked like he'd gotten used to the easy life. I wanted to rip that tan from his body.

I smacked him, a short jab to the mouth. My fist was half the size of his head. His lip split and he staggered backwards, doubling over and dribbling blood. When he straightened up he backed further away from me so that he was almost back in the boot of the car.

‘I haven't got much money. Take it.'

‘Where's Paget?'

‘What? Who the fuck's Paget?'

‘Where is he?'

‘I don't know what you're on about. I don't know anyone called Paget. You've got the wrong fucking man. My dad's ill. I was on my way to see him. That's all.'

He could see what was coming. He pulled at the binds around his wrists. He looked for a way out. I gave him a quick combination to the body. His legs buckled and he swayed and fell, doubling up and vomiting. I waited. When he'd finished retching, he fell over onto his side, took deep breaths. I hoisted him back to his feet and gave him some more body shots, finishing off with his kidney.

‘Where is he?'

‘Don't know.'

I slammed my fist into the side of his face. He flew sideways and hit the ground four feet away. His face was in mud and he didn't move. I thought I might have hit him too hard. I didn't much care.

I realized I hadn't found a mobile phone on him. I should've checked his car. I wasn't thinking right. I was being stupid, making mistakes. If I didn't calm down I'd go too far and fuck myself up. I wanted Paget. I had to remember that.

After a few minutes, Laing came round and tried to get to his knees. I waited. He gave up and stayed where he was.

‘I don't know what you want,' he said into the mud.

‘Where's Paget?'

I walked over to him. He tried to crawl away but with his hands tied behind him, he had no leverage and as he rose he fell again. I lifted him up and held him under his shoulders so that his feet dangled above the ground. He was limp, his head rolling backwards and forwards. I set him on his feet but held him up with my left.

‘You've got the wrong man.'

‘Where's Paget?'

‘Paget who?'

‘Kenny Paget. You bought some heroin from him.'

There was a flicker in his eyes. He knew something. I brought my right back.

‘Where is he?'

‘Honestly, I swear, I never heard of him, I don't know what this is about. I don't know who you are, I don't know anything.'

I lowered my hand. Maybe Green had wrong info. Or maybe Paget had got someone else to sell the drugs for him. One thing, though; Laing wasn't denying that he'd bought the junk.

I let go and he crumpled to the ground and stayed down there.

‘You bought some heroin a couple days ago. A lot of it.'

He lifted himself up onto his knees. He stood slowly.

‘I don't know anyone called Paget. There's been some mistake here. I was going to see my dad, that's all. He's – fuck. He's not ill, is he? That was you on the blower.' He spat blood. ‘That was stupid of me. I exposed myself.'

He used his shoulder to wipe away some of the blood from his mouth.

He was tough, and he was successful in a dangerous trade, which meant he was smart enough to know that he wouldn't be in business long if he grassed his suppliers every time he got slapped. He could go on telling me he didn't know Paget and I could go on beating him until he stopped saying anything. Maybe he'd eventually spill it all, but I didn't have time to make sure he was telling me the truth; I wouldn't get a second chance to question him. I'd have to try something else.

I took the lock knife from my pocket. I flicked open the blade. He watched it.

‘You think that's going to make me know who Paget is? You start slicing me up and I'll just give you a load of bollocks.'

I grabbed him and spun him round and cut the laces that bound his arms. He turned slowly, rubbing his wrists. He was looking up at me, no anger or fear in his face, just a kind of bafflement. He ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth.

‘I think I swallowed a tooth.'

‘Buy another one.'

‘You're not the police. You're not trying to rob me. You don't work for my rivals. Who do you work for?'

‘Myself.'

‘Oh? You're pretty good. Not many people can control violence like that. You were a fighter, right? Boxer? I could give you a job. More money than you earn now.'

‘You don't know how much I earn.'

‘No, but I'd give you more. I always need people like you.'

‘Not interested.'

‘Who told you about me?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘It matters to me.'

‘If I think you'll go hunting for a grass, I'll have to kill you now.'

He nodded.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘I'll leave it. So what do you want?'

‘I told you. I want Paget.'

‘Yeah, well, I never heard of any Paget.'

He spat some more blood and rubbed his stomach. He patted his pockets and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

‘Got a light?'

‘No.'

‘There's a cigarette lighter in the car.'

He must've thought I was stupid.

‘You made a big buy recently.'

He smiled and put the pack of cigarettes away.

‘Who says?'

‘Know whose stuff it was?'

He looked at me suspiciously. I said, ‘Ever heard of Bobby Cole?'

‘What's Cole got to do with it?'

‘Kenny Paget worked for Cole. He nicked a million quid's worth of heroin.'

‘I keep telling you; I never heard of Paget.'

‘Maybe. But that's Cole's stuff you've got and he won't care if you've never heard of Paget.'

‘Bollocks. How do I know that's Cole's stuff?'

‘You've heard about Cole, right?'

‘I've heard something, sure. Trouble with some East Europeans. So?'

‘They're Albanians. Cole owes them money. It was them Cole got the heroin from.'

He moved over to the car and slammed shut the boot and sat on top of it.

‘Say I believe you—'

‘It doesn't matter if you believe me or not. That stuff's going back to Cole. If you tell me where you got it, I'll let you take it back to Cole yourself.'

‘Or?'

‘Or I'll put you in the boot of this car and deliver you to him.'

‘You're lying.'

‘You know I'm not.'

‘So you work for Cole?'

‘I told you, I work for myself.'

‘So, suppose I give you some money to forget what you know?'

‘No.'

‘If I have to give that stuff to Cole, I'm gonna be out a lot of money.'

‘You can get it back from whoever you bought it from.'

He smiled.

‘Fuck,' he said. ‘I don't seem to have much choice, do I?'

‘You can choose to live.'

He spat more blood.

‘Bloke called Whelan. Doug Whelan.'

Whelan. I knew that name. Where had I heard it? No, not heard it. Read it. It had been on the list kept by Harry Siddons.

I couldn't reach Cole on the phone. When I got to his place, there was a single light on downstairs. I hammered on the door. The door opened and Cole's wife stared out at me.

‘Yes?'

‘Remember me?'

It took her a couple of seconds to focus her eyes. Without her make-up, she looked just like any old woman. She scrunched her face up for a moment, then it cleared and she said, ‘You were here before.'

‘Where's your husband?'

‘Out.'

‘Where?'

She shrugged.

‘Just out.'

I went into the house. The woman watched me and then wandered off, back to her bed or her glass of gin or whatever. I searched the place. Downstairs, in a study out back, I found the small bald bloke with the bad leg. He was in a chair with his eyes closed. I nudged him. He opened his eyes and looked up.

‘I wasn't asleep.'

‘Where's Cole?'

‘He's found them.'

‘The Albanians?'

‘Yeah. He said you might come by.'

‘You need to stop him.'

He sat up.

‘Can't.'

‘Call him.'

He looked at me a moment then got up and limped over to a desk. He lifted the phone and dialled a number. After a while, he looked at me and shrugged.

‘Phone's off.'

‘Try someone else.'

He tried. Nothing. He put the phone down.

‘All off.'

‘Where is he?'

‘The Albanians have got a warehouse in Barking.'

‘You know where?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Let's go.'

It took us twenty minutes. As I drove, I watched the thin grey line grow on the horizon. A new day crept in, people started moving about, trucks and busses chugged away.

The little bloke told me his name was Gibson. He told me Cole had waited for me to come up with something, but when he got the information that the Albanians had this place they were working out of, he decided to try and take them out in one knockout blow.

He gave me directions from a piece of paper he had in his hand. We were on some large industrial site closer to Dagenham than Barking. It seemed like mile after mile of large warehouses and workshops and lock-ups, spiked metal fences and breeze-block walls separating the places from the cracked concrete road. We passed a scrap-metal yard and Gibson told me Cole would be down the next right.

As I turned at the end of a concreted road, I slowed the car to a crawl, moving between two rows of garages. I killed the lights and peered ahead. I could see an iron gate a hundred yards away, and beyond that an empty forecourt leading to a large prefab warehouse. Ahead of us were four cars. A group of shadows moved about, ten or so men. Many were probably the same ones I'd seen at Cole's a few days earlier.

I stopped a dozen yards short. There wasn't much room to turn the car around, so I left it facing the other cars. We got out and walked towards the shadows. A dark, squat shape pulled itself away from the others and came towards us.