Dead Pretty (23 page)

Mark had an automatic in each pocket and the S and W stuck in his belt. He stood at the end of the pier, looked around a few times and dropped them quietly into the sea, three splashes, three histories disappearing. The sea wasn't very deep here, but it was murky enough. The guns would be rusting sculpture in just days, encrusted with sea-life in weeks.

Mark walked up and down the seafront. He ought to be off, on the first train he could get to London, but something held him back. If Carl hadn't been so badly hurt he would have driven them to the ferry port for Ireland himself. One loose end could have been tidied up. He wished he could actually believe his confident words to Julie. They shouldn't know anything about Carl or where he lived but
shouldn't
wasn't
couldn't.

Perhaps it was fear, and his guts were not as rock hard as people had always said. Perhaps, now that he was back in Wales, he felt something for the place. The language, history, and assorted bullshit had always passed the Richards by. He'd never seen the point of any of it, other than to divide people. But it was where he'd spent his first twenty years, and maybe Shane was still here somewhere, dead or alive. When he'd read the Welsh inscriptions on the headstones in that valley church, as he'd done so many times before in his youth, all his tortuous upbringing came back to him. Maybe it did mean something, even if belonging for the Richards family just meant clinging on. Valley people
were
different, he'd found that out when he'd been banged up in Portland, surrounded by English rogues, and in his early years in London.

Mark grinned, or rather grimaced to himself. His thoughts were getting soft. Time to put them away and get on with business.
Business,
that was what Agani and Angelo had called it. A neat eight-letter word which covered everything, cleansed it, made evil acts seem normal.

Mark stopped in a store and bought two papers, national and local. In the local, the brothers had made front page. They would have liked that.
Havoc on the Hillside
, the headline read. There was a picture of the two cars locked together and burnt out. Like one of those overpriced sculptures Lena had liked to look at.
Mystery surrounds the identity …
good. The more mystery the better. There was no mention of anyone else being at the scene. Even better. They had got away with it. For now. There was a much smaller piece on the inside pages of the national paper. This was something that happened in that place west of England, just another accident. No mention anywhere of Kelly. He'd had his few inches of fame. Kelly was yesterday now, his sad life rubbed out in seconds. Mark saw his snivelling face, imagined its terror, what he must have gone through before they realised he really didn't know anything, and didn't care. The local council would have to pay to put him in the ground, and Mark doubted that there would be many mourners. Mark went back into the newsagents and bought a pen and pad much the same as Angelo's, stuffed the papers in a litter bin and made his way to the local station. In Cardiff he caught the first train to Paddington that came in, and for the next few hours copied out everything that was in Angelo's book.

Paddington again. Same new makeover, same sushi bar, but mid-morning Tuesday it was busier, more people chasing their lives through London, as he had, just a few days ago. Mark sat down at the sushi bar, an instant decision, and ordered something he could at least recognise. He thought it might be prawns and rice. A businessman in a pin-striped suit sat opposite him, waiting for his meal to come around. When it did, he tucked into something that looked like someone's nightmare. They exchanged glances, eyes from completely different worlds collided. Mark had sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a straight job, but not often. He seemed to be following Lena's diet, healthy breakfast, healthy snack. He tried to push rice into his mouth with chopsticks and wondered if anything could be more ironic, eating healthy at a time when people were trying to snuff him out. A large man who stank of garlic sat down next to him. He looked a bit like Angelo and Mark instinctively reached for the Smith and Wesson. He'd got used to the weight of it against his heart, and, for a moment, felt quite naked. How quickly those lethal tools became a habit. Angelo was right. They did take over, the user and the situation. Guns hadn't really helped him in the churchyard, it took a middle-aged ex-squaddie to do that.

Mark sat at the bar longer than he intended. It was as hard as ever to form a realistic plan. Instant action and reaction was what he was good at, or at least used to be good at. The Angelo look-alike left the bar and left his paper. Mark picked it up. It was opened on the travel page. Cheap flights to everywhere.
Amsterdam.
The name jumped up at him. Lots of companies offering to fly you there from London for peanuts.

He was shaking a little. First healthy food, now flying. He wasn't sure he could do it. Mark wasn't sure at all. But it would make sense. They would know about his flying phobia. Getting there that way might give him a slight edge. It might also turn him into a gibbering wreck, someone Stellachi could pick off with ease.

‘Anything else, sir?' a friendly Eastern face inquired.

‘I'll have a bottle of lager.'

It was early but Mark needed it. The bottle was well-chilled and he realised how hot his face was when he put it to his lips. He looked at the advert for a long while then phoned the number. Within minutes he'd bought a ticket on his card. Another first for him. He'd be in Amsterdam by evening, if he got over to Heathrow quickly and if he could keep his funk under control. Mark drank the lager from the bottle in two draughts, and went out of the station to the taxi rank. It would cost, but so what? His money only had to last a few days.

He sat in the back of the car as the driver mumbled on about traffic chaos. After what had happened in the last five days getting through one short flight should be OK. That's what he told himself, that's what he kept on telling himself. As they neared the airport his body tightened, the sweating got worse, and one hand dug into the other.

‘What terminal, pal?'

‘Uh, I'm not sure. I've got an afternoon flight for Amsterdam.'

Mark named the airline.

‘Got it. Know them all now, I do, all the flights, all the terminals. Like an extra bit of knowledge, that is. Business or pleasure?'

The driver didn't wait for an answer. They never did. ‘You'll have a good time over there, me old son. Fit bloke like you. That'll be sixty quid.'

Mark pushed notes into the man's hand and was gone, walking into the building, like it was a place of execution. He was just in time for the check-in. The case was small enough to keep as hand luggage and he went through the alien routines as if he'd drunk many bottles of lager, not one. No one bothered him, and his passport was handed back to him with a smile.

In the departure lounge Mark checked the mobile. Nothing from Julie but maybe no news was good news. He tried to relax. The sushi food fought with the lager and repeated on him. Mark was barely aware of what was going on around him, and the nerve kicked in. This was too good an opportunity for it to miss, and the headache soon joined it. More a migraine. He knew the signs. The way pain crept over the left hand section of his head, then got the lot in its grip. Until the dizziness came and he wanted to be sick, but never was. The nerve kept perfect time.
Tap tap. Tap tap.
The bright lights of the building united into a punishing sun, and the noise around him blurred into a drone, like wasps inside a bottle, but inside his head.

Mark's flight was called. There was a flurry of activity around him, and he let everyone go on ahead of him. He could hardly see his boarding card, as a woman took it from him. He was at the back of the plane, in a seat ridiculously small, an already amorous couple of kids alongside him. The boy looked at him with resignation.. Mark thanked Christ this would only take an hour.
An hour
. Divided up into sixty minutes. Minutes divided up into sixty seconds. Mark started to count them.

Taking off was bad. His guts seemed to be coming up to his mouth. He almost grabbed the kid next to him as his hands dug into the sides of his seat. Going up against Stellachi would be nothing compared to this. Something was said to him, but he didn't hear it. Everything was drowned out by the rushing in his ears. They popped and now he was in some underwater land. The nerve was loving it. It had reinforcements. His neighbour was saying something else to him.

‘I said are you all right, mate? You're as white as a sheet.'

‘Yeah, all right. Just a headache.'

At least Mark thought he said this. His voice echoed in his head.

‘He's pissed,' the boy said to his girlfriend. ‘He'd better not fucking throw up.'

His girlfriend straightened her clothes and told him to shut up.

Mark was vaguely aware of a voice announcing something. A sugary you-are-safe-in-my-hands kind of voice. The voice that might sell you an overpriced car, or tell you you have cancer. Yet it worked. He was so headshot that this moment of calm helped. Someone came round with tea, coffee and booze. He tried the tea, and made it as sweet as he could. The migraine became devious. It had a knife in its possession, and started to cut into his skull. Working its way towards his eyes, prodding them, stabbing at them. Mark tried to rub the pain away but it was useless.

He was up to fifty minutes. Counting out each section. His vision cleared a few times, when the tight, thin capsule of the plane stood out sharply, its captive cargo in rows, all helpless and behaving normally. The boy was staring at him again, but he was more nervous than cocky now. He probably thinks I'm praying, Mark thought – I am.

Then they were landing. The sugary voice came on again. Pleased that they were five minutes early, saying that the weather was wet, and foggy. Mark's guts rushed back down, passing where they ought to be, on their way to his boots. He almost did what the boy was afraid of and wasn't sure how he got off the plane, as his own automatic pilot took over, working his legs, and propelling them along the walkway. The fresh air was a relief, it was a blessing, and he sucked it in greedily. Mark got through controls without being stopped or questioned, which surprised him. If ever anyone looked like a dead man walking it must be him this night.

Schiphol was busy. Mark managed to change some money, though the notes danced around in his hand. He sat at a table in the nearest café, and, gradually, he pulled himself together. The ground was starting to steady, not moving in front of him, and he was cold. He'd given himself a sweat bath for the last few hours, and now he was drying out in the fresh night. The coffee was strong and he put three sachets of sugar into it. He needed to come on stream as quickly as possible.

His vision was getting better, and the headache receded to a dull throb. There was no stopping the nerve though, it had been boosted with new sensations and it kept up its own relentless rhythm, flexing the vein.

So, this was the place Lena had passed through many times. Bringing him back little gifts, always excited about her Dutch trips. Over the years she must have smuggled stuff worth millions. He appreciated her nerve. She could have been stopped at any time and if she had been, she'd be alive now. Mark doubted they'd want to kill her for getting caught, though with creatures like Stellachi nothing could be certain.

Mark stayed at the café for half an hour, then took the train to the central station. The nightmare of flying had been crowded out. He was becoming alert again, and the station was at least somewhere he'd been before. It was dark now, and the usual nightlife was about, the type that populated train and bus stations everywhere Mark had been. The type that came alive at night, attaching itself to transient movement, like sharks to shoals of fish. Street people looking for angles, quick deals, easy scores. Looking for stragglers, and the unwary. Here it was many nationalities and colours, all fetched up under the Dutch flag, but the same action was going down. A few black guys looked at Mark expectantly as they passed. Their eyes said
you want something, mister, we got it,
but Mark was not the type to approach with any confidence. There were also plenty of police about. Every so often they herded the most persistent hustlers towards the exit door, but they hung around outside for a few minutes, then came back in. No one was taking it very seriously.

Mark had stayed at a small two-star guesthouse before, the Hotel Lola. It was a fifteen-minute walk away on Niewe Keizergracht. His type of place, run by a bald-headed fat git called Anton, who always looked like he needed a wash, but who also had three useful qualities – he was deaf, dumb and blind. Mark stepped out, letting the air freshen him up. His clothes no longer stuck to him, he felt like an animal released, almost invigorated, an invigorated stupid bastard, moving blindly on towards his fate.

Chapter Thirteen

Stellachi fingered the ring on his fourth finger, which was new and a little loose. He liked to twirl it around, to run his fingers over its gold, and let the amethyst eyes in the skull catch the light. Childish, but enjoyable. It was an original SS skull's head. He was calming, though his face still burned. Earlier they'd talked to him in a way he wasn't used to, and wouldn't tolerate from anyone but his paymasters. This was that clown Agani's fault, and those imbeciles he employed. They were careless, and now the blame fell on him. He'd been sent for, told about it, what they expected from him now. Four were dead, they said. The London operation would have to be rebuilt. Stellachi was told to finish it.

If he'd found the goods nothing would have been said. Stellachi was certain she'd swallowed them, girls like her always did, but he'd underestimated Lena, just as those clowns had underestimated this Richards. It would have been better to have stayed in the girl's flat and finish him also.

Albanians! Throat slitters and back stabbers one and all, no sense of honour, of history, just vile pigs grubbing around in the dirt. He should have stayed in Bucharest and never worked for them. Since they'd shot that old bastard and his wife Romania had opened up, lots of opportunities there now for someone like him, but it was awkward to get out and go back; Albanians did not like out, unless it was feet first.

Stellachi's life had been good in the last ten years. He'd seen a lot of places, made good money, more than enough for his needs. He liked to display his new fortune, to show it to the world; the suit he wore now cost a thousand euros, how much bani in the old money was that? The shoes were hand made for him, best Italian workmanship, but he didn't pay for the ring. He'd taken it from someone who'd annoyed him, which made its presence all the sweeter. These tastes were simple, he had others more complex, fools might think them extreme, and he had the lifestyle to indulge them now. He'd earned it, and was not going to let anything go.

What this Richards was doing was understandable. The man had feelings for Lena. To him she wasn't a lowlife whore, smuggler and cheat, she was his woman. Stellachi smiled to himself. She'd thought it was Richards when he'd entered the flat. Lena didn't lack for spirit, and had even tried to hit him with an ashtray. It had been necessary to silence her quickly. By the time she came to, he'd searched the flat and found nothing. Lena wouldn't say where the goods were. So foolish. Stubborn. So Albanian. Maybe she thought he'd leave her, and report back. That was even more foolish. Even when he got the long meat knife from the kitchen she wouldn't talk. It was a new experience for him. The only other woman he'd killed had stepped in front of another target, and didn't count. He snuffed out her airwaves with the palm of his hand and went to work. Nothing was found. Lena had died for her diamonds. He'd straightened up the flat, neatness was everything to him, and left her looking quite peaceful, if a eviscerated woman could ever look that. The end, as far as he was concerned. Let others find the goods. Now he'd been sent for, and told what had happened since. At least it was quite amusing about Agani.

On the black wooden table in front of Stellachi was a picture of Mark, provided by another clown, Tony. He'd taken it when Richards was coming out of a building somewhere in London, a poor shot, but clear enough for Stellachi to study. The man was large, and obviously fit. Stellachi used a magnifying glass to examine the eyes, yes, strength was there, and a certain madness. A certain madness was necessary.

Now they thought Richards would come to Amsterdam, but the man wouldn't fly. Another fool, but perhaps a more interesting one. Enough men had died around him. Those brothers had died in Wales. He'd looked it up on a map but it still meant nothing to him.

Stellachi had men watching the ferry ports. Richards would not be hard to spot, but he'd let him come on. It might be amusing, for they'd told him that a photograph had been taken from Agani's place, that one of him and Agani in Rome. This Richards must be doing the same as him, studying an image, and looking for an edge. He would not find one. Stellachi called out for Hakim. It was the boy's eighteenth birthday and they were going out.

‘Here,' Stellachi said, ‘I have something for you.'

Hakim stood in the doorway, smiling hesitantly. He looked younger than he was. Stellachi liked the way the boy seemed to move smoothly along the floor, quite silently, like a rat treading on silk. Stellachi pointed to a white shirt that was draped over a chair.

‘It's Egyptian,' Stellachi said, ‘pure cotton. Good enough to have been worn by a pharaoh. Put it on.'

Stellachi looked out from the penthouse at the abysmal night. He hated Amsterdam when summer ended. A city of fog, rain, and shabby people.

‘I feel Arab tonight,' Stellachi murmured, ‘I've booked a table at the Shibli, to remind you of home. The other half of your present.'

Hakim changed in front of him. The white shirt looked good on his sand-coloured torso, taut and finely muscled. Maybe I actually have feelings for this one, Stellachi thought. Maybe.

*

Anton pretended to remember him, but Mark doubted that he did. Why should he, he was just another dodgy punter passing in the night.

‘You should have phoned, my friend, I might have been full.'

Anton was another of these
my friend
people, and he was watching football on a TV the size of a wall. He held a thin glass of jenever in his hand, and wore a once-white vest stretched over a spreading gut, striped track-suit bottoms and trainers. Regulation slob gear. A small earring in his right ear completed the effect. The man was pudgier than Mark remembered, and he had a friend with him, a Dutch version of Kelly, who eyed Mark up with a mixture of admiration and fear. Mark looked right through him.

‘Well? You full or what?'

‘For you I have a room. Last one, my friend. Amsterdam is still busy, lots of students around. It's at the top, on the third floor. Remember how steep the stairs are.'

Anton handed him a large, old-fashioned key. He wasn't joking about the stairs. The Lola was a converted town-house, very old, built for the merchants who'd served the rich in another time. The flight of wooden stairs was almost straight up, kids could have gone up on all fours. A room at the top might be a good place to defend, but impossible to escape from.

At least the shower worked this time. It was the first thing Mark tried. He had stayed here in the middle of winter last time, when Anton's old wooden windows had proved useless against the cold and the shower had packed up.

As he let it warm up he stood by the large window and looked down onto the canal which ran alongside the Lola. The voice on the plane was right about the weather. Rain beat against the window and the street below had been slicked wet. The lights of a few houseboats glimmered through the gloom as a low fog settled onto the surface of the water. The sluggish canal below threaded its way through buildings like a black snake. Amsterdam was still tonight, and autumn was coming on strong. Mark stood under the shower and got warm.

Day five, PL was coming to a close. Five days, six lives. It might be seven if Carl didn't pull through. There was a full-length mirror in the shower room, its cracked imperfections clotted with brown slime. As it cleared, Mark dried off and checked himself out. There was nothing much to show what had gone on, just a small bruise where Angelo had chopped him. His body had come through unscathed, all the scars were inside. How many times had he posed in mirrors as a kid, not that Julie ever managed to buy a full-length one. He'd postured, dreamed, railed, gone through every emotion in front of them. Like Robert de Niro on speed. Any comments about vanity from his mother brought instant rage, the kind of rage that kids brought on when denying obvious truth.

There was no message from Julie on the mobile. He thought of sending her a text, but
turned his phone off.
Arrived safely
hardly seemed right, especially as she didn't know where he was or what he was trying to do. Better to try to keep himself out of her thoughts, as much as he could.

In the low light of a bedside lamp Mark studied the notebook again, and unfolded a map of the centre of the town. He put a cross on each address he found. Three of them were firmly in Porn City, not much more than a short walk away. Footsteps stopped outside. Mark got up and went to the window. It was a couple going home, the woman trying to hold her man up as he lurched over the cobblestones. They disappeared into the fog. It was thick now, the canal no longer visible, yet he could sense the water close by and hear the light chink of houseboats moving. Mark turned off the light but it was harder to turn off his mind. He was in enemy territory now. Stellachi might be outside, he might be on the stairs, he might be opening the door. Mark fell asleep with this thought.

*

Julie almost walked straight into Carl's ex. She was rushing to get to the hospital, for a nurse had told her on the phone that Carl had regained consciousness. They appraised each other. Julie dabbed at her hair nervously, and wished she'd managed to get a night's sleep. She hadn't had time to put her face on either. Unlike this woman, who looked like she'd come straight from a beautician.

‘I'm Karen,' the woman said. ‘I knew he was with someone. One of his mates saw you in a club. Don't worry, I'm not going to start nothing. I don't care who he's with.'

‘I wasn't worried. Not about that.'

‘Look, what the hell happened to him? Fell down the stairs? I don't think so. I'm thinking of phoning the police.'

‘What, do you think I've beat him up? All five-foot nothing of me. Look, I'd been out shopping. When I came back Carl was at the bottom of the stairs. He'd slipped.'

‘And his car's been nicked, an' all. On the same day. He's been leading an exciting life with you, hasn't he?'

Julie shrugged. Part of her wanted this woman to phone the police, then the whole story could be dragged out of her, but it was too late. Mark was going to do whatever he was going to do, and nothing would stop that now.

‘How is he? Julie asked.

‘He'll live. He's pulled round. Always was a strong bugger.'

‘I'll go in and see him, then. Look, do what you want about the police, but Carl won't tell them any different. There's nothing
to
tell. It'll be a waste of time, and he don't need hassle right now. None of us do.'

‘Oh, I know he won't change the story. He always was close, that one, never knew what the hell he was thinking. No, I wash my hands of it. You can keep him.'

I intend to, Julie thought, if any of us get out of this. Carl was in intensive care, a tube in his mouth, wires trailing from various parts of his body, screens monitoring his condition. A ward sister approached her and they spoke in whispers.

‘He came round a few hours ago,' the nurse said. ‘Remarkable, really, most people with head injuries like Carl's take three or four days. He's drifted off again now, but the doctors are very pleased with him. He's amazingly fit for his age, and that's helped a lot.'

‘What's that tube for?' Julie asked.

‘To help him breathe. It'll be out in a few days if he continues to improve.'

Julie sat next to Carl and brushed his hair from his forehead, his eyes fluttered a little, then opened.

‘Hiya, babes.'

‘Jool. It
is
you?'

‘Course it is.'

‘I've been having so many weird dreams I'm not sure what's going on.'

‘Do you remember what happened yesterday?'

For a moment Julie thought it might have been wiped from his memory.

‘Aye, just about. I fell down the bloody stairs, didn't I. Where's Mark?'

‘Gone.'

‘We'll be all right now, Jool.'

‘Course we will.'

‘Christ, I feel tired. Like I've never slept. Went three days awake in the Falklands, but this …'

Carl fell asleep in mid-sentence. The nurse checked on him.

‘No problem,' she said quietly. ‘All the monitors are fine. He needs lots of rest now.'

‘Can I stay?'

‘Of course you can.'

Julie was not sure how long she stayed there. She was dozing herself when she was pressed on the shoulder by a nurse and offered a cup of tea. She took it gratefully. Julie wasn't used to this world of kindness. She cried softly and started to worry about Mark again, wondering if she could survive the loss of another son. She was still only fifty yet life had seemed long, and hard to spend. Those people who said it was too short must be happy people. Meeting Carl told her how she'd missed out, and now Mark was on some stupid man's game of kill or be killed. He'd always been fighting life, one way or another. The nurse came back. It was time for Julie to go. She'd take a taxi to Carl's place now to get her stuff.

It was weird standing in Carl's house. She half expected those men to bundle their way in again. The lock of the back door was bust. Looking around, it didn't seem like Carl had much to steal, but she propped a chair against the door. It would have to do, for now.

By the time Julie got back to the B & B it was dark. She sat on the bed, looking out of the window at the sky, not thinking much at all. Her head was a strange show of images, as if the last day had been freeze-framed. She saw the action rush through her private picture show, she was able to look in on herself, see herself scream in that damn churchyard, see herself try to help Carl as he crumpled onto the floor, watch the cars blow up and not believe her eyes. Not believe any of it. Then she was in that bloody forestry, so close to the old place. That was the weirdest thing of all. Mark had brought it all back there, like they were joined at the hip to the past. Julie texted her son, but didn't send the message. She didn't seem able to. Maybe she would in the morning.