A Reason to Kill (21 page)

MATT’S
side was all healed up, but still a little tender. He felt well, but out of condition. His strength would return when he could start in on a proper fitness programme. He intended to take up jogging, when the pot on his leg that was slowing him down was removed. He would also have to buy some new jeans and chinos. Almost all of his pants were one-legged, now. He had bought some oversize and baggy cargo pants that he could put on without drastic alteration. But they made him feel like some kid rapper off MTV. He was sure his encased leg would be bone white and withered when finally liberated.

Stopping at a street side eatery, he ordered a chicken curry and coffee. The meal was good, the coffee strong, black and overpriced. He was getting miserly. The cost of everything seemed to be extortionate, and rose almost weekly. Living and working in London was an expensive enterprise. He began to envy Cal Turner, a DCI who had recently retired, sold up and gone to live in Spain. Wondered whether
his
golf clubs would get more use if he lived on the Costa Blanca. But retirement was a long way off, and he wasn’t one to sit around without a challenge. He needed regular adrenaline fixes, and above all, purpose. And he had no shortage of purpose. The deaths of Donny and the others was still gnawing at him like a dog worrying a bone, intent on breaking it up to get at the marrow. He had often thought that he hated certain people, or things that drove him to distraction for the wrong reasons. He now knew that he hadn’t. Hatred was as valid as love. But it was heavy; had a colour; the brown-yellow of bile, and grew like rogue cells mutating and transforming healthy tissue to malignant growths. Cop or not, he wanted to kill Gary Noon, and also Frank Santini, who had pointed the hitman their way. Was that wrong? A part of him said yes, but with no conviction. He would sleep easier with Noon and Santini in Hell, where they both belonged.

The sun was big and low, but the concrete jungle that was the city held the heat of the day like a giant storage heater, to release back out into the night by degrees.

Some diners sat at pavement tables, but Matt ate inside, at a table near the back of the café. He felt exactly as he believed James Butler – Wild Bill – Hickok must have. Hickok had always faced the door when playing poker in a saloon. The shootist had feared being bushwhacked from behind. His paranoia was not without substance. The first time he sat with his back to the bat wing doors of the No. 10 Saloon in Deadwood, a young drifter, Jack McCall, put a bullet through the back of his head with a .45 Colt revolver. You’ve got to go with your instincts.

Matt searched every face. It was irrational. And yet he could not shake off the sense of imminent danger. Common-sense decreed that even in the unlikely event that Noon could locate him, he would not be stupid enough to gun him down in broad daylight in a crowded environment. Logic, however, did not lessen the underlying apprehension. It was on a par with being told and believing that flying was the safest form of transport. Knowing that very few planes dropped from the skies to impact on land or in the ocean, was of little comfort. You could be in one of the miniscule percentage that did. And in theory there was no reason why Noon could not appear at any second, empty a clip at him, then stroll off into the early evening shadows.

Pushing the unfinished meal away, he drained the coffee cup and phoned for a cab, to go through the same procedure as usual and take a protracted and circuitous route to the vicinity of the hotel. He spent the journey snatching glances back over his shoulder through the rear window, watching for a tail. Almost being killed had concentrated his mind and given rise to a heightened awareness and appreciation of his own mortality. And with enemies such as Noon and the Santinis’, he felt justified in being as cautious as any cat. He also appreciated how powerful the sense of paranoia could be. But in his case, it was not the product of a disturbed mind. People really were out to get him.

In Ron Quinn, he had found an unexpected ally. They had set up a simple yet effective safeguard. Matt phoned the hotel from the cab.

“John Gabriel,” was all he said when Ron picked up.

“Come on in Mr G, the water’s fine,” Ron answered. If anything had been amiss, he would have told Matt. And if there had been anybody suspicious within earshot, he would have said, ‘Yes, sir, we do have a vacancy’, and given the rates.

Matt called in the bar and had a swift Scotch before going up to his room. Inside, he used the old but reliable ploy of wedging a chair under the door knob. Any attempt to enter would at least be delayed long enough for Matt to pick up his Beretta from the top of the bed and be ready for all comers. He was confidant in his ability to meet any trespasser with extreme prejudice if need be.

Lying back on the sagging mattress, Matt reviewed the week in general. The images from the video of Noon and Marion Peterson filtered through to the front of his mind. The couple metamorphosed to become Beth and him. Sat next to her in Tom’s office, he had been transported back to teenage days, to his first real date with a girl. She had been Helen Locklin, a busty fourteen-year-old in his class at school. They had gone to the cinema and made a beeline for the back row. He had spent more than an hour summing up the courage to put an arm around her shoulder. She cuddled up to him, and both his confidence and penis grew. He had eventually leaned across and kissed her on the lips; even summoned up the courage to place a hand over one of her large, soft breasts, only to be thwarted as the credits rolled and the lights came up, to leave him trembling, overexcited, and more frustrated than he had ever been before or since.

Matt smiled as he recalled the sensation of his bones melting, and the resulting liquid settling in the pit of his stomach, and lower. He had felt exactly the same sitting next to Beth, watching the home-made blue movie.

Picking up his mobile, he tapped in Beth’s number. After five or six rings: ‘Hello, this is Beth. I can’t get to the phone at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you’.

He waited for the bleep. “It’s Matt, Beth. I just
¯”

“I’m here,” Beth said, picking up. “Are you okay?”

“I could be better. My leg is itching like crazy. I need one of those old-fashioned back scratchers to get at it.”

“I’ve got one. Tell me where you’re hiding out and I’ll bring it over and relieve your discomfort.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day, but I’m going to have to pass.”

“So why did you call? Has something happened?”

“No. I just got round to thinking, and decided I wanted to hear your voice.”

“Meaning?”

He took a deep breath and went for broke. “That I like being with you, Beth.”

“We only get to meet at the Yard. And that’s with Tom as chaperone. So how can you like being with me?”

“We had Chinese take away at my place, and even watched a dirty movie together.”

“And you believe that those two meetings constitute a relationship?”

“Stop being a psychologist for a few minutes, Beth. It’s chemistry. I got the feeling you felt it too. Was I wrong?”

“...No. I think we may have to let whatever is between us find its own level.” “Sounds good to me. Although I might not be what you need in your life. My track record with relationships is...is
¯”

“Scared of getting your fingers burnt, eh?”

“Maybe. I’ve been there and got the T-shirt.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“We might have learned something, then.”

“What do you think you’ve learned, Matt?”

“Enough. After I got shot, I watched my life leaking out onto the carpet and thought I was a goner. It concentrates the mind. When I woke up in hospital, I started to re-examine priorities. Take stock. I’d been living like a runaway train, speeding along a track out of control. I hit the buffers and realised I’d never bothered to look at the scenery I was passing through. I’m a cop down to the bone, Beth. But there’s a part of me that’s coming to accept it’s not the be all and end all. I need to have a life away from it that matters. I don’t have any balance.”

“That’s how I feel, Matt. I’m on my own because I got to see too many people’s relationships slide down the pan, including my own. I decided to insulate myself from it. But it’s like opting out of life. It might be risk free, emotionally, but it’s as boring as hell, and unfulfilling.”

“I want to see you.”

“So make your way here without being followed.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Matt looked down the list of names that were printed on labels behind acetate next to the appropriate flat numbers. He pressed the button next to B HOLDER.

“Yes?”

“It’s me,” he said.

“Come on up.”

He heard the door lock mechanism disengage. He had the sudden feeling that this might not be one of his better ideas. The brightly lit doorway made him nervous. Anybody could be watching him. What if he had inadvertently put Beth at risk? He felt twitchy. Looked about him for what seemed the hundredth time. Damn it! He
knew
he hadn’t been tailed. He had left the hotel by the rear emergency exit, taken one cab, then another, to be dropped off at the apartment block next to Beth’s. Stood under some trees and waited ten minutes, monitoring all movement. His fear was wholly for her, but seemed unfounded. Though what held the promise of being the Garden of Eden could easily be turned into a briar patch or wasteland if he was under surveillance. The spectre of Noon was an oppressive force, instilling him with an almost irrational premonition. Primeval intuition caused him to feel as skittish as a prey animal being stalked by a predator he could not see, hear or smell, but that he felt positive was crouching nearby, waiting to pounce.

He hesitated too long and the door automatically locked. He thumbed the button again.

“Matt?”

“Yeah. I waited too long and got locked out.”

“Second thoughts?”

“Slightly cold feet.”

“You got this far.”

The buzzer sounded again. Matt pushed the door open and entered. Waited until he heard the lock engage again, and then went across the foyer to the lift.

Beth was waiting for him as the door slid open on the top floor.

God, she was beautiful. Her glossy, raven hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tan, sleeveless top and tight blue jeans. Her feet were bare.

Beth reached out and took his hand. The touch was electric. He used his free hand to lightly brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. A small gesture, but it was a breathtaking and somehow momentous occasion. Beth tilted her face up and grazed his cheek at the corner of his mouth with her lips. Bubbles of pleasure seemed to pop in his brain. He couldn’t move.

“You’ve shaved,” she said approvingly. “Come on, let’s go inside before Mrs. Kominsky comes out to investigate. I only have female colleagues back for a meal, and that’s not often. I’m sure the old bat thinks I’m gay. I don’t want her to catch me in a clinch with a hunk. It might confuse her.”

Matt allowed himself to be steered into the flat, along the short hall and into the lounge. Beth’s comment was significant. She was informing him that she was completely unattached, and did not have male callers. It was – he decided – her way of conveying to him how singular and therefore special the invitation into her personal life and space was. He felt flattered.

“Do you like wine?” Beth asked.

“Only red,” he said.

“I’ve got a bottle of Californian Cabernet.”

“If it’s red, It’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you put some music on while I go and open it?”

As Beth went through to the kitchen, he walked over to the midi system and ran his fingers over the tower stack of CDs next to it. The collection was heavy on classical. Matt had never really been into music. He liked Elvis, The Beatles, and some middle-of-the-road stuff, but could live with silence. He found an Iglesias – Julio, not his son, Enrique – disc:
Starry Night
.

“Have you ever noticed that Julio always sings with his eyes shut?” Beth said, re-entering the lounge and handing him a glass of the dark red wine as Iglesias started in on
Can’t Help Falling in Love
.

“Can’t say I have. It’s hard to tell on disc.”

“I saw him in concert once. He handled the microphone as if it was a beautiful woman.”

“All the right moves, eh?”

“Superficially, yes.”

“Did you manage to profile him?”

“No. I just let his voice do the talking.”

Matt felt a little unworthy. He was a rough diamond of a cop with no special skills outside of his career. What attracted Beth to him was obscure. She was everything he was not; refined and well-educated.

Julio was now purring his way through
And I Love Her
in the broken English that wooed millions of women world-wide.

Matt and Beth locked eyes, read volumes in each others gaze, and were then together, embracing. Matt found her lips with his and tenderly kissed them. He could smell the freshness of her. Far better than perfume and lipstick.
Au naturel
.

Oh, Jesus! He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest. Her tongue eased between his parted lips. They were sharing the very air they breathed. Everything was expanding out like the universe, leaving them hanging in space at its centre, floating, totally absorbed by each other.

Julio was halfway through
When I Need You
, when they both returned from a place that anyone falling head over heels in love has visited, and been enthralled by.

They did not speak. No words were necessary, and may have broken the spell. Putting her wine glass down, Beth released her hair to let it tumble onto her shoulders, and once more led Matt by the hand, this time out into the hallway, towards the bedroom.