A Man Alone (6 page)

Josie shook her head. “What’s going on?”

“Mr. Wood upping the stakes.”

“This isn’t a game.

“I know that. But he appears to be a man who likes to finish what he’s started.”

“What’s happening?” Both turned to look.

April stood on the bottom stair. Her voice was small and frail. She held a bear, white with a huge red heart in its paws, close to her. Her mouth dropped when she saw the smashed window and damaged living room. She pulled the bear into her chest. “This isn’t my fault.”

Josie went to her. “Course it’s not your fault. It’s just...” She looked at Doyle, wanting him to say something, wanting him to make it better. He turned back to the window.

April pulled away. She shot Doyle a glance and her eyes narrowed. “It’s him isn’t it? This wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t stuck his nose in.”

Josie tried. “No love. It’s these people.” She shook her head. “John’s trying to do what’s right.”

Doyle thought she didn’t sound entirely convinced herself.

Josie put a hand out to soothe her daughter.

April shrugged it aside and stood in front of Doyle. “It’s all your fault. Why did you come here? Why?” She gritted her teeth and began to scream. “I hate you John, I hate you.”

Josie slapped her face.

Seconds passed. Josie’s shock dissolved first and she put a hand to her mouth. “April.” She reached out, wanted to hug her and tell her it was the madness going on around them. April backed away, one step at a time. Her eyes never left her mother’s face. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she turned and raced away until she was out of sight. Somewhere on the landing, she burst into tears.

Doyle closed his eyes. It was Wood. Wood turning them against each other. But that was the way these things worked. He reached for his jacket and went to the door. Caught between running after April and watching Doyle, Josie grabbed his arm.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“It’s best I’m not here when the police arrive.”

She put her hands to her head and squeezed as if it were a way of exorcising the evil. “I don’t believe this is happening?”

“It’ll be okay.” He opened the door and peered up and down the street.

Ignoring the stares from his neighbors, he looked at Josie. “Just you and April live here. You don’t know why it happened.” He stared into her eyes, making sure she understood. “A case of mistaken identity. That’s all you have to say.”

As he slipped through the door, Josie grabbed his hand and tried to pull him back. “I’m frightened.”

He smiled and touched her face. “I’ll be back before morning.” Before she could say anything more, Doyle ducked his head and closed the door behind him.

I
N EVERY CITY AND
every town, there are places where the rules don’t apply. The rules that govern behavior and decency; conduct, bearing, and support for the offices of the law. These are the places where the outcasts, the dispossessed, and those living on the edge of society feel at home. To men in need, they’re the first port of call. And to a man like John Doyle, it paid to know where they were.

Five years ago, alone and washed up in a city he had never before visited, he sought out those places where a man in trouble might find the things he needed. Anything could be bought for the right price, including a new identity. In the years between, Doyle kept his eyes and ears open. You just never knew.

Doyle’s nose twitched as he walked through the door of the Turk’s Head. An odor like something dead hung in the air. He guessed, hoped, it was from the sewers. Doyle looked at his surroundings, bare walls and peeling paint, the décor as unappealing as the punters. Already he had taken them in—the boys playing pool, the silent bar grazers, and the deal going on in the corner. For an instant they turned their heads and eyed him. Doyle knew how to behave and kept his focus on the bar ahead.

He ordered a beer. The barmaid was fifty going on eighteen: peroxide hair, gold hooped earrings, and as she turned to pour his beer, Doyle saw the lines of a spider-web tattoo stretching down from her neck and into her white vest top. She saw him looking and smiled. He bought her a drink—she liked gin, he made it a double. Said her name was Sandra. After serving one of the lads playing pool, she came round to his side of the bar and sat on a stool next to him.

Doyle took a sip of beer and looking straight ahead asked, “Know where I can buy a shooter?”

Sandra didn’t flinch. She paused with the glass almost touching her lips and for a few fleeting, uncomfortable seconds, she stared at Doyle. She put the glass back on the counter. There was a hint of resignation in her voice. These days, men who bought her drink tended to want something she hadn’t got.

“How much?”

Doyle shrugged. “Depends what’s on offer.”

Sandra nodded. “Give us a minute,” she said and squeezed her hand into the pocket of her pants until she located her phone. Getting off the stool, she turned her back on Doyle and walked out of earshot. This is it, thought Doyle. She was either phoning a contact or phoning the police. She went back behind the counter a moment later. “Be in the car park at midnight,” she said. “Sergei will meet you there.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow. These days every East European selling dodgy gear was called Sergei. But he thanked her, bought her another gin, and moved to a table where he could see out of the window. A bitter smile played on his lips, for he remembered the way it was, every place checked for danger and an escape route should the shit hit the fan. Doyle sighed and checked his watch. Still an hour to go.

Doyle finished his beer just before midnight and went outside. He placed his glass on the counter and winked at Sandra. No police. Not yet anyway, so maybe this was the real deal. He stood beneath the porch until the car park had emptied then to advertise his presence, sat on a low wall beneath a streetlight.

It was thirty minutes later when a gray Mercedes pulled in to the car park. It turned a lazy half circle and halted fifty feet from where he sat. The driver switched his lights to full catching Doyle in its beam. Doyle winced and held up a hand to shield his eyes. A heartbeat later, the driver dipped the lights and backed in a space so that the boot faced away from the road.

Doyle took a deep breath. He had passed the first test.

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as he walked over. Each step pulsed through him like it might be his last. But the sensations were familiar allies, and he knew from experience to trust them.

The driver watched and waited until Doyle reached the car then wound the window down. He looked at Doyle, held his eyes as if to take his measure, then opened the door. A smell of old booze and tobacco escaped the interior. “I’m Sergei,” he said and held out a hand. It was big and swallowed Doyle’s. He squeezed and increased the pressure until Doyle thought his bones would break. It was both greeting and warning.

Releasing Doyle’s hand, he jerked his head to the to Merc’s boot and walked toward it with an exaggerated swagger. He wore a black, Armani jacket, but it was scuffed and worn at the elbows, and as he bent to open the boot, Doyle saw scabbed cuts on his head. Sergei struggled. A rear end shunt had twisted the lock. He pushed and tried to turn the key but there was a knack to it. A vein throbbed at the side of his head. Cursing beneath his breath, he pushed hard and tried again. At last the barrel turned and the lid rose. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. Much like his car, Sergei had seen better days. Doyle cast him a sidelong glance. Perhaps the gun trade wasn’t as lucrative as the press made out.

Sergei beckoned him with his hand. Inside were two holdalls. He pointed to the one on the left—full of handguns. Doyle prised the bag apart and began to sort through them. Even in the poor light he could see they were mostly East European, Polish Makarovs and Romanian Tokarevs. He took out a 9mm automatic and pulled back the slide. It grated, felt rough, and he tossed it to one side. Reconditioned pieces, converted blank firing pistols with mismatched ammunition waiting to explode in your hand. He shook his head and pulled a CZ 75 from the pile. A beautiful weapon but there was rust on the barrel and the lacquer was chipped. He put it back and looked at the other bag. The zip wasn’t fully fastened and Doyle could see a square, black piece with a pistol grip and large magazine. He pointed. “What’s this?” Sergei closed his big hand over the opening and slid the zip closed.

“Is special order.”

Doyle looked back and gestured to the holdall. “This is shit.”

He sensed Sergei bridle and glanced back. This was the moment when the big man might close the boot and drive away. This was the moment when he might accuse Doyle of wasting his time and go for him with fists—or something worse.

Doyle tensed and watched him pull at his lip. “You know about guns?”

“Enough.”

“You soldier man?”

Doyle shrugged. “Once.”

Sergei nodded. “Me too. Chechnya.” He shook his head sadly. “Lost a lot of people there. Good people.” He looked away and for a moment lost himself in a far off war. He heaved a great sigh and looked back at Doyle. “So what is it you want?”

“Something small and reliable, easily concealed, and accurate.” He pointed a finger at Sergei. “And none of this reconditioned shit.”

Sergei thought for a moment then eased Doyle to one side. Using his big hands he pushed and pulled at the contents of the holdall until he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Doyle. A revolver, a snub nosed .38. Doyle weighed it in his hand. It felt good. He swung out the cylinder and checked each chamber. Spinning it gave a satisfactory whirr. Apart from a few chips it was in good condition.

“How much?”

“Five hundred.”

“Ammunition?”

He opened a compartment in the holdall and pulled out a Swan Vesta matchbox.

Inside were six shells. Doyle put them in his pocket.

“I want three reloads.”

“Guns easy. Ammunition,” Sergei shrugged. “Not so easy.”

Doyle handed him another two hundred.

Sergei counted the money and pushed it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“You starting a war?”

Doyle shook his head. “No,” he said. “But I might have to finish one.”

I
T WAS THE EARLY
hours of the morning when Doyle returned to the house. The taxi dropped him on the deserted main road and he walked the last mile home. He clocked the police car as he turned the corner and cut left into a side street. After a shooting, it wouldn’t do to be caught with a handgun and a pocket full of bullets.

Making sure the bizzie never saw him, he backtracked and climbed the gate guarding the alley at the rear of the house. Doyle crept through the yard and went in through the back door.

Just as it clicked shut he heard Josie rushing down the stairs.

“Where the hell have you been?” She burst into the kitchen, closing her robe and trying to tie the cord before her breasts broke free of the thin material. She knotted it as if Doyle’s neck was within its coil.

Doyle didn’t look at her. He removed his keys and wallet from his jacket, idly patted the pocket with the .38 in it, and hung it on the back door. “I had a few things to do.”

Josie tugged her hair in frustration. “For fuck’s sake John. We’ve just had our windows blown in and you piss off out of the way.”

“It’s for us that I went.”

She grabbed his arm and Doyle felt her desperation. “I don’t understand any of this,” she said. “This isn’t you. And this thing with the police.” She shook her head. “You’ve changed. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

Doyle speared her with his gaze. “That’s just it, Josie. I’m exactly the same man.” He turned away. “Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”

She opened her mouth but before she could say any more, Doyle swept past.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, then paused at the foot of the stairs. “And I suggest you do the same.”

N
EXT MORNING DOYLE WAS
woken by hammering and loud voices coming from the room below. Throwing on a T-shirt and jeans, he wandered down the stairs, nodding to the two workmen fitting a new window in the living room before going into the kitchen. Josie sat at the table reading some glossy magazine and didn’t look up. More trouble, thought Doyle. He put a hand on the teapot, found it was still warm and poured himself a mug of tea. No use trying to push her. After five years he knew how stubborn she could be. When she was ready, Josie would say what she had to say.