A Reason to Kill (28 page)

Dressing casually, Kyle left the hotel and drove across town to an address in Forest Gate to meet a gun dealer he had done business with before. Within the hour, he was in possession of a SIG P228, a silencer, a box of Teflon-tipped ammunition, and a shoulder rig. He headed out to the woman’s address in Roehampton, hoping that the job would be wrapped up inside a week. It was his daughter Janice’s twenty-first in nine days time, and he would have liked to have helped his wife, Terri, with preparation for the outdoor party they planned. He owned a large waterside property in Coral Gables, and wanted to be back in Miami to oversee the erection of the marquee in the backyard, and the setting up of the outdoor lighting and firework display. Nobody got things done right nowadays unless they were stood over and hassled. It promised to be a memorable night, as befitted his youngest princess. There would be a live band, and a surprise guest in the shape of Janice’s favourite singer, Ricky Garcia. Kyle played golf with the rock star’s father, Tony, and had offed a union official for him several years back. It nearly always came down to not what, but who you knew.

He parked where he had a clear view of the entrance to the apartment block. It was well lit. He settled, ready to do what he had decades of experience of, watching, waiting, and ruining people’s day in the extreme.

DOM
completed thirty lengths of the pool that abutted the rear of the house. He swam fast, using his powerful arms and shoulders to cleave through the water. His legs and feet hardly moved, giving the top half of his body no assistance as they dragged along in his wake like excess baggage. Swimming was the only sport he indulged in. The activity had a calming influence, soothing him and suppressing the anger that he felt at being almost a prisoner under self-imposed house arrest.

The large patio doors formed a glass wall at one side of the pool. They were open, and Tiny was sitting at a table in the small, cobbled piazza. He had never been to Italy, but supposed that this portico with tiled roof supported by marble columns was what Frank Santini had based on some place he knew in the old country. It was a miniature Venetian Riviera. Tiny would not have been surprised if a couple of gondolas had been moored in the pool for added effect. The whole estate was a shrine to wop architecture and landscaping. It could have been set beside Epcot’s World Showcase Lagoon with a small scale version of the coliseum, and a Pizza Hut thrown in for good measure.

Tiny was nervous as he watched his boss. Dom was pissed that no one could locate Noon. His mood was degenerating with every passing day, as internal pressures raged within him. He needed to release the pent-up frustration, and nothing less than dismembering his father’s killer would pacify him. Tiny knew that Dom always found murder a satisfying solution. The gratification of personally dealing with Noon would be a special and glorious liberation, incorporating revenge with the riddance of a serious threat to his continued good health.

The wall-mounted extension phone rang. Tiny answered it.

“It’s the cop, boss,” he shouted as Dom approached the shallow end of the pool and stood up in thigh-deep water.

“So take a message, why don’t you?” Dom rasped, combing his long, matted hair back with his fingers.

“He says it’s personal,” Tiny said, almost apologetically.

Dom nodded, walked up the steps onto the non slip surround of the pool and took the receiver from Tiny.

“Yeah?” he growled, snatching the offered towel from Tiny and wiping his face with it, before draping it around his shoulders.

“You’ve got another fox in the chicken shed,” his contact said.

“Don’t speak to me in fucking riddles. My phones are secure.”

“Okay. You’ve got another undercover cop on the inside.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

“So find out.”

“I’ll try.”

“Trying doesn’t cut it. When was he planted?”

“Not long after you whacked the other one. I’d check out every guy you’ve hired over the last twelve months.”

“I will. And when I turn him up, he’ll be nailed to that stupid fucking revolving sign outside the Yard. Your mob are starting to seriously piss me off.” With that, Dom ripped the phone from the wall and hurled it into the pool.

Tiny watched the handset sway back and forth through the water as it sank to the bottom. Braced himself to face the tsunami that was Dominic Santini.

Dom walked back down the steps, unmindful of the towel that floated off his shoulders to become waterlogged and slowly drift down to join the telephone as he set out to swim another ten lengths. Only when he felt capable of speaking without exploding into frenzy, did he once more exit the pool and address Tiny.

“We’ve got another stinking cop on the firm,” he said. “Make a list of all the new faces that have been hired during the past year. Then check their backgrounds and dig out the fucking plod.”

Tiny said nothing, just nodded and made to leave.

“First, fix me a drink,” Dom said as he pulled on a towelling robe.

Tiny obeyed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was beginning to feel vulnerable, out in the middle of a firing range with nowhere to take cover. Frank had been the boss, and Dom didn’t have the old man’s acumen to run the show. Tiny had a premonition of disaster. A niggling voice told him to get out while he had the chance to. If the cops lifted Noon before the Yank shooter found him, then Dom and everybody close to him would spend the foreseeable future doing soul-destroying time in the confines of a maximum security dispersal nick. Tiny shuddered inwardly. Truth was, he felt not a shred of loyalty to Dom. Being a glorified – if highly paid – manservant was beginning to pall. He was no slave. He was Luther Tyrell, and didn’t need the money enough anymore to be treated like dirt by a lowlife psycho dago who he had no respect for. And yet it wasn’t easy to walk away. You didn’t just quit as if it was a nine-to-five job. He knew too much about the operation to be allowed out. There were examples that came to mind. Billy Henderson was one. The big Geordie had ducked-out after being on Santini’s payroll for eight years. The dumb ox had legged it back to Newcastle, sure that he would be safe. Tiny and Eddie had been sent up to waste him.

It wasn’t personal. They’d found Henderson’s sister on a council estate east of the city. Donna had been gutsy, like her brother. They slapped her around for a while, knocked a few teeth out, broke an arm, and were about to start in on her two-year-old daughter. It was then that she saw the light and gave Billy up. She swore on her kid’s life not to pick the phone up or tell anyone that they had dropped by. Tiny believed her. She wasn’t thick. The threat of another visit, and the promise that a pan of boiling water would be poured over the kid, guaranteed her silence.

It had been a cold November night. Billy left a city bar alone and made his way on foot to the flat he rented, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets of a parka, beer-breath steaming the frigid air as he whistled out of tune and wove his way along the pavement.

It was almost too easy. They manhandled the protesting but incapable drunk into the boot of the car and subsequently committed their former co-worker to the murky waters of the Tyne. Tiny recalled the look on Billy’s face as his throat was slashed prior to him being pushed over a railing to somersault down and vanish into the freezing river.

No, Tiny determined. Like it or not, he was in for the long haul. It was the lesser of two evils. For a second, he actually considered drawing his gun and emptying the clip into Dom. But as the rest of the house, the area was covered by CCTV cameras. Carlo Falco was loyal, had his finger on the pulse, and was most likely sat watching them now via the bank of monitors in the small control room at the top of the house. Carlo knew everything that happened, and would never, ever turn on Santini. His allegiance to Frank had been transferred to Dom.

“So get to it, Tiny,” Dom said, taking the ice-laden glass of Scotch and walking out into the walled-in courtyard.

Tiny masked the growing hatred he felt for his boss, nodded and left. Less than an hour later, he found Dom in the main lounge, sat back in a recliner chair, now dressed in beige polo shirt and cream slacks. He was barefoot, and his large hammer-toed feet moved to the music of The Three Tenors: Pavarotti and co. His eyes were closed, but Tiny said nothing. Dom knew he was there. After a few minutes, when the track had finished, Dom picked up a remote from the chair’s arm and paused the CD. He was much calmer. The rich voices had soothed him and repelled the dark spell that the cop’s call had cast.

“What have you got, Tiny?” he asked.

“Hard copy of all employees hired since Demaris was taken care of,” Tiny said, approaching Dom and offering him the file he held.

“How many?” Dom asked, waving away the file.

“Eighteen. But eleven of them are solid, recommended, with all the right connections. Of the other seven, three are croupiers who could never get close to the business, and another two run sex shops in Soho.”

“Which leaves?”

“Andy Webb and Ray Lansky.”

“Webb was with Herbie Leach for years.”

Tiny nodded. Andy had been top muscle for Leach, up until the south London gangster had been shot gunned to death at a meet with a Russian Mafia leader.

“You think it’s Lansky?” Dom asked.

“He’s favourite, boss. I thought he was sound. But that’s where the mud’s stickin’.”

“Where is he, now?”

“Doin’ a patrol of the grounds. He’ll be on stand down in half an hour.”

“Arrange for him to be in the basement, softened up and ready to sing in forty minutes.”

Nick was Feeling good. He now enjoyed a great deal of trust, having assisted in the cover up of Frank’s death at the house, and the disposal of the other bodies. He felt that the end of the case was in sight, and that it wouldn’t be long before he had enough hard evidence to wrap Dom and his firm up and bring them down.

After being relieved by one of the other men, Nick strolled back through the grounds to the bunkhouse, opened the door and was surprised to see Tiny standing in front of him, his massive body silhouetted against the bright sunlight that shone through a window on the opposite wall. There was no time to even think. The black, knuckle-scarred fist shot out and caught him square on the point of the chin. Nick was out before the back of his head made contact with the ground.

Matt was doing press-ups when the phone rang. With his right leg, he powered himself up from the floor, gripping the arm of the settee for balance as he swung his plastered leg into a vertical position. He picked up the phone.

“Matt?”

He grunted in the affirmative.

“Why the heavy breathing? What have you been up to?” Beth asked.

“Press-ups,” he gasped. “I’m trying to get fit. I’ve spent too much time sat on my arse chain-smoking, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts of late.”

“I can think of better ways to exercise.”

“You offering to be my personal trainer?”

“Yes. With my fitness plan, you get to enjoy toning-up and losing calories, without even having to get out of bed.”

“Put me down for a prolonged course. But until I can attend, I’ll just have to do it the hard way.”

“I’m missing you, Matt. Can’t we meet?”

“No, Beth. It isn’t worth the risk.”

“But what if nothing happens?”

“It will. Something’s got to give. Noon can’t just stop. You said that yourself. If we’re lucky, Santini will find him and close it out. Or Noon will make a play for me and walk into a trap.”

“He’ll use distraction, Matt. Expect him to consider every possible avenue, then to employ a means of getting to you that wouldn’t even be considered.”

“Such as?”

“I wish I knew. Put yourself in his place and think how he will try to develop a plan of attack based on the belief that you are ringed with protection. If you can figure how
you
would do it, then it could well be what he will attempt.”

“Thanks, Beth. I’ll give it some thought. I want this to be a done deal, so that we can get down to some serious exercise.”

“And I thought it was my mind you admired.”

“It’s the whole package. Mind, body and spirit. You know I want us to be together...Don’t you?”

“Yes, so keep that shot-up body out of harm’s way. You’re already damaged goods.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You do that, Matt. Take care.”

“I will. I’ll call you tonight.”

After hanging up, Matt went to the stairs and made his way up one step at a time, cursing his cast as he held the banister rail for support. As per usual, he showered with his able leg inside the bath and the encumbered limb outside it, ramrod straight. Just being able to mount the stairs and shower was progress, though. He could now sleep in his own bed, but had left the sofa bed made up in the lounge for daytime use.

Time was dragging like the hands of a watched clock. It was unnerving and made him jittery. He wanted the present predicament to be resolved, one way or the other. Having his life on hold was an unacceptable state of affairs. He was as much a prisoner as Dominic Santini. Gary Noon had got them both pinned down, with nothing to do but wait until he decided to make his move. It was a war of attrition; one which Matt found hard to come to terms with. In his job, which as with Lester Little sometimes involved the squad doing their own witness protection, he should have been well used to being keyed up, waiting, not knowing if or when a sudden onslaught might be made by an unknown assailant. But this was personal. He was not part of an organised team guarding a witness whose life was in danger. Being the actual subject at risk was a whole new experience. Noon had outwitted him once, almost killed him, and had shown that he was adept at taking out his intended targets and making his escape.

Back downstairs, Matt made fresh coffee and considered what Beth had said. He sat, mug cupped in hands, eyes closed as he reviewed every single scrap of information he had on Noon. He incorporated what he considered to be the other man’s personality with his own, clearing his mind of all else as he strove to find, to
be
Noon. It took a long time. Noon was a complex individual.

When it came, it was with a rush. Matt’s body actually jerked as though an electric current had been passed through it. With his eyes still tightly closed, he felt the anger, resentment and frustration that filled his enemy’s heart and mind. Gary Noon was unfulfilled. His formative years had been saturated in shame and broken dreams. His childhood experiences had patterned a pitiless, morose and bitter human being. The acts of self-mutilation and destroying other people’s lives – and in so doing denying them any future – pacified him and dampened the sense of...of what? The unworthiness he felt? To snuff out the spark of existence in others raised his self-esteem to the point where he considered himself godlike, totally in control and all-powerful. He was a man consumed by violence, venting his own torment in the only way he could find temporary respite and express himself. Thinking as he believed Noon did, Matt considered his options. He, had he been Noon, could wait, back-off, and know that with the passage of time the police and Santini would drop their guard and consider the threat lessened, or even nonexistent. No! Matt felt the psycho’s urgency; the deep need to act and respond to the challenge. Noon would watch the watchers, become au fait with the opposition’s methodology, and then use that knowledge and find a way through a crack in their defences. The killer was a consummate professional with an impressive c.v. He could adapt, use versatility, and had shown his ingenuity in taking out the safe house, then Penny Page, and most recently, Frank Santini and two of his men. He entered protected territory with frightening ease, and so far had a hundred percent success rate in his malefic endeavours.