Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (7 page)

“So you’d have to assume that the real police would have come along later, interviewed Parkes and made the assumption that I was the murderer.”

“But you’re not ... right?” she asked.

“Of course not,” John said, sitting upright. “Why would I want to murder my best friend?”

“Because he tricked you into owing me a thousand pounds?”

“You think I’d commit murder for a thousand pounds?”

“It would be my luck to get stiffed by a murderer.”

“Stiffed?”

“Cheated.”

“I never cheated you out of a thousand pounds. That was down to Mark.”

“So you said. Why don’t you call the police and tell them what happened then?”

“Because they’d just tell me to come in.”

“So?”

John exhaled. “So they might not let me out again. In fact, there are probably police on the way here now.”

Savannah pinched her bottom lip between a thumb and forefinger, rolling the soft flesh around, face scrunched up in thought.

“Give me the thousand pounds, and I’ll help you,” she exclaimed.

John didn’t know why but trusting this weird and wonderful girl seemed preferable to being alone. Was he being stupid? Probably. But other than go to his parents where he’d just be the failure causing more bother, he didn’t have much choice. He wasn’t going to be responsible for his mother’s break down and subsequent enrolment into a psychiatric home.

“I don’t have it, I told you.”

“This place must be worth a fortune.” She stared from wall to wall. “Don’t you have any decent possessions?”

“Not really. The place is in Mum and Dad’s name. I just live here.” He lifted his hand towards Savannah. “As for possessions, the only thing worth anything is this watch.”

Savannah grabbed his hand and twisted it, giving the watch a good looking over. “Rolex Daytona. How much is it worth?”

“It’s the dual-metal, champagne-faced model. They go for around ten thousand new, but this was bought nine years ago as a graduation present. I might get two or three thousand for it if we can find a watch dealer.”

“Or a pawn shop.”

“We won’t get such a good price at a pawn shop.”

“No, but I know one nearby who won’t ask any questions. The guy’s a sleaze, but we don’t want to attract any extra unwanted attention, right?”

“Right.” He flicked the safety clasp on the gold and silver bracelet and slid the watch off. “Just out of interest, before I hand over my only asset of any real value...”

“What?”

“Did we actually have sex?”

“No, but I would have, and it would have been the best you’d ever had.”

“To be honest, that’s not saying much.” John cleared his throat, wishing to a superior power that he’d never said that. “So are we agreed that you still owe me sex once I hand this watch over?”

“No, but if you’re nice to me I might kiss your cheek when all this is over, on one condition.”

“Fair enough,” agreed John. “What is it?”

“Tell me your real name.”

John laughed. “Let’s get out of here before it’s too late. I’m sure I’ll get more than a kiss if I get locked up. I’d be the equivalent of a supermodel in prison.”

She laughed. “You wish.”

7: Saturday 24th September, 15:30

I am fifty yards behind the black Mercedes on a narrow road parallel to Chiswick High Street. Most of the old buildings here have been converted to flats. Rents must be high, and even the less fortunate on this street are wealthier than most. I am parked on double yellow lines. It is impossible to park here unless you are an agent who has no need to be concerned with traffic violations. I don’t want a record of being here and so watch all sides as well as the Mercedes. What are the fools waiting here for? I light a cigarette.

My attention is focussed as I watch Wilson, the short and broad shouldered one, leave the car. He must be two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. I can take him. Stealth is everything, but they haven’t got the weapon yet and he is too close to his partner. He appears to be stretching his legs. Someone taps at my window. Shit. I have no disguise and do not turn as I lower the window and speak.

“Yes?” I say, my peripheral vision recognising the large frame of an elderly man. I reach to my ankle and pull on the handle of my stiletto blade.

“This is residents only parking. You’ll have to move on,” he says, much louder than I care for. The agents must not be alerted.

I keep my eyes ahead and take my voice down to a whisper. “I’ll only be here a little while and I’m on double yellows so I’m not taking anyone’s space.”

The man’s voice rises. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I have no choice. I put out my Marlboro Red in the ashtray and turn to the man. He is bigger than I first expected. In one motion, I pull free my knife and thrust the four inch narrow blade through the man’s throat. I get in three lightning stabs before he has time to raise his hands. He looks at me wide eyed as he clutches his throat and begins to stagger. I look him up and down and smile at him. Once upon a time he might have been a tough guy. His vocal chords and airways are damaged beyond repair, and his screams are barely audible gurgles that won’t betray my position. I open the car door and help the man down to the ground behind my van. He will die quietly. Illegal kill number two is less fun than number one. I return to my post.

Twenty minutes pass before the Mercedes pulls away. Why are they crawling along? They must be following someone on foot. Eventually we reach Stamford Brook tube underground, and Wilson jumps out. I have to make a decision. Johnson is the man in charge and I stay on his tail. It feels like progress. I may get to call Sasha before the day is out. An exquisite shudder runs right through me.

*

Johnson’s phone vibrated. He answered.

“Where are they, Wilson?”

“We’re at Shepherd’s Bush underground station. Do you want me to take them out?”

The tall agent stared at his phone like it was an alien artefact. Everything he said to Wilson had fallen on deaf ears.

“No, keep on them, and I’ll be with you soon.”

Johnson ended the call and pulled away. He tapped a few buttons on the steering wheel, and ‘Ave Maria’ erupted from the impressive sound system. It was his favourite stress reliever. It was the first time he’d listened to it in five years.

*

At four o’clock Savannah and John exited Shepherd’s Bush Market underground station, turning right along the Uxbridge Road.

Traffic was bumper to bumper and pedestrians jostled to get in and out of the market opposite. Savannah had once worked in the well-known market, and she would have enjoyed saying hello to a few of her friends who still worked inside the thronging centre, but she needed Christos off her back more than she needed to catch up with old pals. Other than Wales, Shepherd’s Bush was where she had spent most of her life. She had never liked it enough to consider it home though, even when her mother had been alive.

John’s black waxed Barbour jacket was several sizes too big for her narrow frame. The shoulders were loose and the jacket was heavy but it kept the cold afternoon drizzle from her skin. John had thrown an old, dark blue, Marks & Spencer’s anorak on top of his hoodie. They must have looked quite the pair.

“We’ll sell the watch and then go to my bedsit so I can change,” she said, her arm linked through his as they walked beneath the street lamps which had already started to flicker into life, despite the official sunset being three hours away.

John had responded well to her kindness, especially having his head stroked, but she had to keep him focussed. He was her ticket out of the escort business, and the sooner she paid Christos the Greek, the sooner she could start over. Once she’d handed over the grand, she’d call the emergency services and get John taken into care. He needed psychological help, and probably quite soon, but not before she paid Christos. There was no other way she could help Smith, and she would be keeping her end of the deal, even if it wasn’t what he believed he had agreed to.

What sort of person goes around calling themselves John Smith and making up crazy stories about gruesome murders? At least he hadn’t shown any threatening behaviour, and somehow she sensed that he was more danger to himself than to her but decided it was best to be on her guard.

“John, are you okay with that?”

“Sure,” he said. “Sell the watch, go to your bedsit.”

Savannah sensed he was going into himself again, which could well mean another outburst was on its way. She had to stop his imagination from taking him over the edge. She wondered if he was on any medication and if he carried anything with him?

“Do you take any pills?” she asked. “For anything?”

“Like headaches, you mean?”

She wasn’t sure how to word her enquiry without arousing suspicion. “Yes ... or anything else?”

“I suppose the same as the next man. For hangovers and suchlike.”

“Nothing else?”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean recreational drugs?”

“No. I don’t know what I meant. Just ignore me.” God, he seemed so normal sometimes. No wonder he’d been off the radar for so long. If she hadn’t witnessed the dramatic breakdown, she’d have thought him saner than her.

They spent the next five minutes in silence as they followed the straight stretch of the Uxbridge Road with its mixture of ethnic food takeaways and everything else from pharmacies to cash lenders, drycleaners and off licences. It truly was a world of its own, seeming like one of the few places where you could buy almost anything, legal or otherwise.

As they neared their destination, a sense of unease overtook Savannah. She had never felt comfortable around George Tibbett, a well-established dealer in stolen goods, but desperate times demanded that she must suffer for her freedom. Lewd innuendo and personal space invasion would not kill her, and John, despite his mental state, would make it all the more difficult for the old man to intimidate her.

“Here we are,” Savannah said, as they reached a small shop with the windows painted out in what once might have been a brilliant white emulsion. There were no words above the shop, and it appeared almost derelict with flaky brown paint falling from small, old-fashioned, wooden window frames. Parted, concertina-style, metal security gates were the only indication that there was something worth protecting inside.

“Are you sure?” John asked. “Looks closed to me.”

Savannah knocked on the glass of the wooden door causing it to rattle loosely in its frame.

“I doubt they have anything of value in here,” John said, putting his hand above his eyes and attempting to peer through the opaque window. “I can’t see anyone inside.”

The window rattled again, and a cloth blind behind it lifted. George Tibbett’s wrinkled face peered at them before he undid several bolts and pulled open the door.

“Savannah, my dear,” he said, brushing his thick white hair back with his hand. He glanced at John and sneered before returning his attention to her. “Come to rob me again with your beauty?”

The spindly old pervert’s eyes flashed up and down her oversized jacket which thankfully hid her feminine curves from his gaze. It wasn’t the fact that he was in his seventies that made his lecherous behaviour so appalling, but it did make him all the more pathetic. His attempt to dress younger only made him more so. Designer jeans and trainers did not go with craggy, old, sagging faces. He brushed up against her. She forced a smile to override the need to cringe.

“Hi, George,” she replied, putting her mouth to John’s ear. “Let me do all the talking, okay?”

John nodded but appeared more interested in his new surroundings. The small shop was around ten feet from front to back, fifteen feet wide and dimly lit by a solitary low-powered bulb hanging by a grubby wire from the ceiling. Floor to ceiling shelves adorned the left and rear walls. Thick wire caging sat two feet in front of the shelves, allowing access to the valuables solely via a door at the far right of the room.

Another door to the right of the shelves, directly opposite the cage door, gave access to a back room. The area in which they now waited contained a small wooden table and chair where Tibbett must have idled his time away waiting for customers or just as likely, the police. A light blue metallic cashbox and lamp sat on top of the table.

Savannah recalled that there were separate lights above each shelf which Tibbett could operate to allow prospective buyers a better look at his mostly contraband stock. He clearly didn’t waste electricity on non-purchasing customers. Savannah handed Tibbett the watch. He felt the weight and took it to the table, turned on the lamp and examined it closely.

“How much are you after?” he asked.

“Three thousand,” John said, not looking back as he leaned against the cage wire, straining his eyes to examine a shelf of necklaces.

Tibbett looked over to John and then to Savannah. “Your friend has quite a sense of humour.”

“Don’t mind him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s a bit simple. What can you give us for it, George?”

Seemingly bored of staring at badly lit jewellery, John shot Savannah a playfully offended look. She smiled back, grateful he wasn’t exhibiting any signs of anxiety.

“I thought he’d got a touch of nutter about him,” Tibbett said, tapping his forehead.
If only he knew,
thought Savannah. “I can give you seven fifty. It’s my special friend rate.”

“I’d hate to get enemy rates,” John said, looking at an array of mixed gemstones.

“I don’t sell to my enemies,” Tibbett snapped. His patience with John was running out. “Can I speak with you in private please, Sav?”

It was the last thing Savannah wanted to do, but it had to beat what Christos had in store for her. John was not behaving too strangely, but Tibbett was obviously not comfortable with him around, and she could not let this deal fall through. She walked over and stood by John at the caging. “Is that okay?”

John lowered his voice. “Are you sure you want to be alone with that creep? He looks like a child molester or something.”