Hidden Witness (2 page)

The American didn't actually care. Marini could have asked for fifty per cent. However, for the sake of appearances and not to raise suspicion, he would not go over forty.

He mulled over Marini's demand as though it mattered – then he nodded.

‘We have a deal.'

The men reached across the table and shook hands, and for the first time their faces cracked into grins. The other two men breathed out with relief, also, and the American offered his hand to them. Marini beckoned the waiter across and ordered champagne.

‘You won't regret it,' the American promised. ‘This is the start of something very big . . . yeah, sounds corny, but it's true . . . now, Jeez, sorry guys, I need to pee again . . . if you'll excuse . . .'

Marini waved him happily away, still doing the sums in his mind. Immense amounts of money. He leaned to the man who gave him advice for an ear-to-ear whispered conversation. There was much nodding and agreement and shoulder touching.

‘Many people will be glad of this, but there may be some personal times ahead.' They were talking in Italian now, having conversed in English all night for the American's benefit, who, though of Italian blood, hardly spoke a word of the mother tongue.

‘You will need to be strong,' the adviser cautioned.

‘I know – but with you beside me, we can surmount the attrition.'

They clapped each other's shoulders again.

‘Success!'

Marini raised his champagne glass as the American returned from the toilet.

Just then, the same Lexus four-wheel drive that had trundled past earlier, cruised by again. This time the men tensed up, lowered their glasses. Paulo rose slowly from his seat, his right hand snaking underneath his jacket to reach for the pistol tucked into his trouser waistband at the small of his back.

The Lexus stopped.

Marini began to rise now, his instincts clicking in.

Then the front passenger window opened smoothly to reveal the face of the guy sat there.

‘Hey fuckers! When you coming to my club?' the big, round-faced Russian bawled.

Marini relaxed, gave the guy a wave.

‘Girls queuing up for you all!'

‘An hour, give us an hour,' Marini said after consulting his watch.

‘Yeah, yeah – beluga on ice, vodka on ice, girls on heat.' The window slid back up and the Lexus jumped forwards quietly.

The American was still standing. ‘Jesus,' he breathed.

‘Yeah, man, I thought I was back in Napoli for a moment,' Paulo laughed nervously, his hand coming back into view and sitting down with relief.

Marini covered his nerves with a hand gesture telling everyone to keep cool. In Naples, eating al fresco meant having men up and down the street watching for danger. ‘Just the Russians trying to shit us.'

They all laughed.

The American was still on his feet.

Marini looked up at him. ‘You sitting, or what? C'mon, chill. Discussion time . . . a deal to make.'

The American had spent his time with the three men carefully weighing them up. Paulo being ordered to search him had been a good thing. It meant that finding nothing had put him off guard and also that by getting so close to each other in the toilets, the American had been able to brush up against him and make a judgement about his fire power. The passing of the stupid Russian just confirmed what he already knew: one gun, a pistol, probably a Glock in the waistband . . . a knife in the jacket pocket.

Having assessed the other two – meeting them earlier, shaking their hands, patting shoulders, being effusive, touchy-feely, told him that Marini was unarmed and that the adviser was armed similarly to Paulo.

It was going to be a big kill, but it had to be done.

He actually thought about giving some sort of retort to Marini's remark about the deal, saying that, actually, the deal was off . . . but that was the kind of silly display that shaved valuable seconds off your time and gave people the opportunity to react.

Instead, he moved fast and picked his moment with precision – the seconds just after the Lexus had disappeared.

All three had had a surge of adrenaline – was this going to be a drive-by shooting or not? Each would still have that bitter taste in his mouth: fear. But it was short-lived and as soon as the possible danger had passed, they were all telling each other to relax, cool down, remember where we are – in a foreign land where they were safe. Internally their bodies were also telling themselves that, too.

The American moved as Paulo made himself comfortable, as the adviser shook his head at their stupidity, as Marini reached for his glass and the bottle of champagne.

The gun had been left for him by another guest at the restaurant. He did not know who, didn't want to know, but who had been into the toilet just after he and Paulo had left following the body search.

He was standing at ninety degrees to Paulo, who was first to go.

The American's hand appeared from underneath his jacket holding the pistol. He hadn't checked it. He'd been told it would be ready for use: one bullet chambered, safety off, gun ready to fire.

The move was smooth, seemingly unhurried.

He touched Paulo's temple with the muzzle and squeezed. The noise was deafening, disorientating, as it was meant to be. Paulo's brained splattered all over the chest of the adviser who, stunned, looked down in disbelief as though someone had just spilled a beer over him.

But he had no time to consider further because as he started to move and react properly, the gun swung at him, was fired. The bullet entered his head through his right eye, twisted sideways and exited through his left temple like a rocket tearing through a warship, the exit wound enormous.

All due credit to him, Marini moved quickly, and threw himself off his chair, starting to scurry-crawl desperately away, but the American shot him in the back of the head, and the exit wound removed most of his face.

In seconds the American had stepped around the table and put another bullet into each of the men, even though in his heart of hearts he knew they were dead, but he was paid not to make any mistakes and a man in a coma can always wake up.

Then he allowed himself his little quip.

‘Deal off.'

TWO

Three years later

B
y the time the two boys came across the old man that evening, they had already committed three robberies.

Technically, the first one wasn't a robbery, just a theft. This was because to commit a robbery by the legal definition under the Theft Act, there has to be violence combined with stealing.

Simply rolling a drunk didn't count.

However, if they'd ever got chance to brag about it they would have claimed it was a robbery by their own definition. In fact, all they did was trip over an unconscious vagrant in a Blackpool back alley and when he didn't respond to their tentative prod-kicks, other than to groan, they shared a triumphant glance and one dared the other to go through his pockets. The tramp stank of body odour, vomit and booze, and had obviously urinated where he lay, so searching through his trouser pockets took some doing. The younger of the two lads, the least experienced one, took on the task to prove himself. He found a crumpled, wet, five-pound note and some loose change. After helping themselves to the unopened can of cider in the gutter by the guy, they legged it victoriously through the rain-splattered streets of the resort.

They shared the cider in a shop doorway opposite the entrance to Blackpool Tower, tossed the empty tin at two passing girls, then moved on to find more victims.

They were fired up, brimful of violence, on the rob.

Next time it was a fully-fledged robbery as per the legal definition. Still hyper from their first success and fuelled by the cider that went straight to their heads, they wanted to feel someone fall under their punches. The Goth teenager standing on Talbot Square opposite where Yates' Wine Lodge had burned down, using his mobile phone was an ideal target. Once chosen, they didn't hesitate – simply walked brazenly up to him, unfazed by the number of other people walking about and the older lad said, ‘Gimme your phone, badger-face.'

The Goth, his eyes blackened by make-up, his face whitened by foundation, looked quizzically at them, part-way through his conversation. ‘Eh?'

It was the younger of the two lads who stepped in and took the lead. The boy with the phone was older than the both of them, but no match physically or aggressively, as evidenced by his terrified expression. ‘Phone,' the lad said, as if the Goth was stupid.

‘Get lost.' He angled away from them, hoping that ignoring them would make them go away, like covering your face with a bed sheet to stop a burglar attacking. He was very wrong. The youngest lad smashed him hard on the side of his head, crashing his knuckles into the temple. He hit him three times in quick succession, driving the victim down against a building as his legs buckled at the knee and he dropped his phone. As he went down, his attacker continued to strike, and the older lad joined in, kicking him several times on the head with the sole of his trainer, stomping on him as he hit the ground.

The older lad snatched up the phone, which hadn't shattered on impact with the pavement, and the pair raced away from a crime scene for the second time in half an hour. It was an attack that had taken place out in the open on a busy street, on a bustling evening, and though it lasted for less than thirty blurred seconds, there were many eyewitnesses but none brave enough to challenge or intervene. In fact, the bleeding victim crawled unaided to a nearby phone box to call the police, and on that short, incredibly painful journey, at least four people walked around him, one actually stepped over him. The streets of Blackpool could be harsh and unforgiving.

The two boys never even saw a cop car because none was dispatched to the incident. The poor, sobbing Goth was informed that every police officer in town was busy, and if it wasn't too much trouble, he should make his way to the police station to report the crime. His other option was to make an appointment for a home visit by his local beat officer.

Within ten minutes the boys had sold the phone for ten pounds and so, fifteen pounds richer, they treated themselves to a burger and coke each at the McDonald's opposite central pier. Then they decided to keep a low profile for a while in the amusement arcades before selecting their next victim.

But as it happened, they were so hyped up after the Goth robbery and the fast food, they couldn't stop themselves going out on the prowl again. As they stalked through the streets they chanted, ‘Vic-tim, vic-tim, vic-tim,' quietly, winding themselves up into some sort of feral frenzy. This time they wanted real money, to really hurt someone, and they needed to make a careful choice.

At nine p.m., they turned into the southern entrance to Bonny Street, which ran parallel to, and one-step back from, the promenade. They were walking north, the multi-storey car park and high-rise police station on their right, and the backs of various premises on their left, such as amusement arcades and the Sea Life Centre. Tucked in amongst those buildings was a pub called the Pump and Truncheon, a hostelry frequented by cops from the station opposite.

With the police station, and its enquiry desk now relocated to ground level, Bonny Street should have been a safe haven.

But it wasn't. It was poorly lit and deserted at that time of day. The backs of the buildings, so inviting from the front, were grim and dark and full of shadow.

The lads quit their chanting as they passed the pub. The door opened and a couple staggered out, obviously the worse for wear, bickering at each other. They turned south, paying the robbers no heed, apart from a quick glance. The boys stopped for a moment, watched the man and woman cross the road and disappear.

Then they noticed the girl. She was walking towards them, not much older than they were, dolled up for a night out, unsuitably dressed to be walking through the drizzle. She was kitted out like someone much older, a tiny silver purse hanging on a thin chain from her shoulder that had to contain her money and phone. Her micro-skirt and skimpy top meant there was nowhere else to stash her valuables. And the boys knew this.

‘Vic-tim,' the older one hissed.

‘Vic-tim,' the younger one agreed.

They pretended to ignore her, walking along the centre of the road, the police station fifty metres behind them now. The girl was on the pavement to their left, in the shadow cast by the buildings. They passed within feet. Her eyes nervously checked them out, picking up a suspicious feel for the duo, uncertain, wary . . . then relieved as they went past without even seeming to notice her. Even so, she upped her pace on her unsteady high heels. Better safe than sorry.

Two metres past, they turned like hunting dogs on an unsuspecting gazelle. They bundled her into a wide, deep service door. One clamped a hand over her face and pushed her against the side of an industrial size wheelie-bin where the assault began. Neither boy spoke as they kicked and smacked her, pounding her down to the litter-strewn ground. One ripped the purse off her shoulder, snapping the thin strap easily.

Then they were gone, sucked up on to the busy streets of the resort.

The purse contained two folded up five-pound notes, an expensive looking mobile phone, and a lip-gloss. This brought the cash total of three robberies to twenty-five pounds, less the cost of the burgers. They split the money as they walked up Church Street, past the Winter Gardens complex.

The older, more experienced lad said, ‘Maybe we'd better just quit for the night now, eh? Don't wanna keep ridin' our luck.' He handed his mate his share of the cash and kept the phone for himself. ‘Not much, but I told you it was ace, didn't I?' The older boy – he was seventeen – had deep-green eyes and curly black hair, as though he could have been a descendant from the Romany gypsies. He had a wild, untamed look and a face that mirrored this.