Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (6 page)

Who are these people?
Blake questioned whether or not it was safe. But if he had come this far in this man's capable hands, why would he hurt him now? Whoever he was, and whatever he wanted, Blake's wellbeing must have been one of his main concerns.

There was a set of uncarpeted stairs, paint-stained and dusty, steep and with narrow walls. Blake was at eye-level with Silver Hair's feet as they ascended. If he wanted to he could run right now, though he had a feeling that they wouldn't let him get very far. But from the looks of it he was probably safer with these two than he would be if he went to the police.

They came up into an open apartment, comprised mostly of dust and old, splintered wood. Beige blankets covered most of the furniture, and a thin, flimsy-looking mattress sat in the corner. There was a window - just one - but it was curtained by newspaper. The sun shone through it, printing text onto the floorboards.

'Classy,' Blake said, as if not to notice that he had said it out loud.

The barman turned to his friend, nodded sideways at Blake with an obvious intolerance. 'There a good reason little'un here is snapping at your heel?'

'As it happens,' Silver Hair said, slapping Blake on the shoulder, perhaps a little too hard, 'there is. This here is Salinger's boy.'

The barman recoiled, hesitated, like he didn't believe it. 'You're kidding?' He looked Blake up and down. 'But he's… he's a…'

'A total pussy.' Silver Hair laughed. 'But a seemingly good chap.'

Blake had never felt so insulted, yet, something told him that his opinion meant little or nothing in the presence of these men. 'You two knew my father? How?'

'Don't look so surprised, kid,' said the silver-haired man. 'A total stranger obviously wouldn't have done all that for you–which, by the way, you owe me for.
Big
time.'

The Barman snickered.

'
Thank
you?
Thank
you?!' Blood raced through him, burning through his veins. 'If it weren't for you, the police would be filing my statement by now, and I would be in bed with a hot cup of tea and a bloody coconut macaroon!'

Both of the men were looking at each other, a smile of knowledge being exchanged from each end. Silver Hair stepped forward, suddenly serious. 'If it weren't for me, you would be locked up and then killed in your cell. Those policemen were dirty.'

Blake could barely believe it. Was he living in a movie? He unclenched his fists, tried to take a deep breath. 'Who are you? Why are you helping me? Did you kill my dad?'

Silver Hair began to smile again, his grimace shark-like. 'Sit down, kid. We had better fill you in on everything. Starting with the fact that your old man is still alive.'

Chapter 8

He felt as though he had been punched in the gut, the wind knocked straight out of him. His head was spinning. He needed to sit down. It was a wave of relief mixed with the sickening anxiety that you get when big news comes your way–whether it be good or bad.

'Alive?' He stuttered the words, imagining how stupid he would feel if he had simply misheard. 'Did you say my father is… alive?'

The barman waved a hand, gesturing them to take a seat on the blanketed sofa. 'I'll get us a beer,' he said, and then disappeared into what looked like a box room. The door had barely had time to creep shut behind him when he returned with three bottles in the same large hand. He flicked the caps off with his thumb and handed them around.

Silver Hair took is and sat down, sinking the beer too quickly.

Blake wasn't a big drinker - never had been - but he found his shaking hand bringing the bottle to his lips anyway, chugging it down in big, sour gulps.

'I suppose formal introductions are necessary,' the barman said, pulling up an empty drinks crate and sitting down. 'I'm Frank. The surname is not important, but what
is
important is that your dad saved my life more than once. Greg's too.'

Blake glanced over at Silver Hair. 'I'm guessing you're Greg?'

'Depends on where I am. In this establishment, I'm Greg. Head to Lower Clapton and I'm Lee. In Kensington I'm Jack. Back at The Agency… well, I'm someone entirely different.'

He couldn't help but laugh. 'So you're a spy.' He pointed his bottle at Frank. 'And you?'

'We're not
spies.
We work–'

'
Worked
,' Greg corrected.

'Right. Worked.' Frank cleared his throat. 'We worked for a company that - for lack of a better term - solved problems. Val did too.'

'He didn't,' said Blake. His heart was on its way to punching a hole through his chest. 'My dad is an accountant. He has been ever since I was born.'

Greg shook his head, pursing his thin lips into a smile. 'A killer, since long before you were born.' He stood, began to pace around the room. 'Probably the best The Agency has ever seen, too. You know, we were partners once.'

So that's why you looked so familiar.
Blake must have seen him and his father together at some point; a random memory, the same way you somehow remember an individual sentence from a book you read years ago.

This was too much. There was a searing pain in his head. He felt hot, shaky, and realised he hadn't eaten. But there was no way he would be able to keep a meal down now. He took another sip of the beer, winced at its taste. None of this made any sense. 'So you're ex-colleagues. And you both worked with my dad at some point. Am I right?'

Frank nodded, gulped his drink.

'Then where is he?'

Greg stopped pacing, set down his empty bottle, glanced at Frank and then over to Blake. 'That's what we need you for. You see; Val wanted to leave The Agency, which meant faking his own death. That's just how it's done with the business–no loose ends. But in order to do that, we needed a fake body and somebody to pin the crime on.'

Blake mulled that one over, putting down the bottle and pushing his hands into his face.
What the hell is wrong with these people? Agencies and murderers and shady business. I feel like a Corleone.
'What about Marcy?'

'Who the fuck is Marcy?' Frank asked.

'My father's wife. Surely she would have recognised the body when they had her identify my father. She would have been the first one to raise an eyebrow, right?'

Greg let out a breath. 'Kid, who do you think planted the evidence? She used the body of some junkie. Don't worry, he was dead anyway. All it took was a bit of bludgeoning to make the face unrecognisable, and her say-so that it was Val. Only thing is, she was supposed to pin it on one of our enemies. Guessing she wanted your share of the inheritance.'

Marcy. How could you do this to me?
It was strange what Blake felt then; a surge of anger and a feeling that made him want to hurt her. He had never felt that way before. Not towards anyone. But this was pretty serious stuff. Were it not for Greg, Blake could be in prison right now. 'This doesn't make any sense. If it was arranged for me to be locked up without knowing why, what do you need me for?'

'Val is in hiding. His life at The Agency is finished. What do you think is the one thing that could pull him out of retirement? I'll give you a clue; it ain't that old prune of a wife.'

Blake couldn't quite understand why his dad would want to hear from him. It had been a while anyway, but now he was probably on a beach somewhere, what could he possibly want to do. 'We weren't that close. Anyway, why would you even want him out of retirement? Isn't he happy?'

'He thinks he is,' Frank said getting up and leaving the room.

'Right,' Greg continued for him. 'What he
doesn't
know is that half The Agency are on his arse. Nobody was like to forget the infamous Val Salinger. He made some enemies with that trigger finger of his.'

My own dad, a killer.
Blake pictured those moments growing up, at the park with his father pushing his swing, laughter and smiles all round. That was back when his mother was still alive. Remembering her made his heart drop even lower.

'But you worked for this
Agency
. Why aren't you on his case?'

'I left as soon as the hit was ordered on your daddy. There's no back-stabbing in my genes. I just ain't wired up that way. And now The Agency want me dead too. All for your skinny arse. Listen, we need you to help him understand, kid. Make him aware that he isn't safe on his own. Can you do that for us? Can you do it for
him?
'

'I… I guess. But I'm no spy. I don't know how much use I could be.'

'More than you think, I'd wager.' Frank moved across the room and soon returned dragging an old-looking oak chest behind him. From the sounds of the scraping across the wooden flooring, it appeared to be quite heavy. He dropped it with a
thunk
, confirming Blake's suspicions.

'What's this?' Blake asked.

'It's what we came here for,' Greg said. 'Your father's stuff.'

They were looking at him expectedly. He glanced between them both and then finally pushed himself out of his seat. He took slow, steady steps towards the chest, unsure of whether he truly wanted to see what was inside.
Opening this will confirm what my dad is.
It would also, he realised, deny everything that he had ever thought about him.

Blake dropped to his knees. He could feel their eyes on him as he ran his fingers over the gold lettering; V.S.
The initials felt like an unexplored past–an uncertain future. It was as if these were somebody else's belongings. He drew a breath, sucking up the smell of old leather, unlatched the lock and prised open the case.

The contents were mostly black, had a feeling of manliness, something foreign to Blake. Each item had a history, a story that needed telling. He reached for the nearest object.

'That was your old man's gun. Colt 1911,' said Greg from behind him. 'That thing saw a lot of action. Tipped the scales of justice in the world's favour more than once.'

It was heavier than Blake would have imagined. He held it in one hand, careful to keep his finger away from the trigger. He suddenly pictured this thing going off, the deafening bang it might give. He imagined a bullet flying out of it, ending somebody's life in the blink of an eye. The thing was damn frightening. Blake shuddered, put it down, reached for the next thing. It was long and cylindrical, he didn't recognise it.

'A suppressor,' Frank offered. 'Or silencer if you'd rather. For the gun.'

Blake silently nodded his understanding, put it to one side and lifted a solid steel box. He needed both hands for its testing weight. He shook it. Nothing rattled.

'Now that is something else entirely,' Greg said, strolling across the room and towering over him. 'He dropped that off along with the rest of this stuff. Was in a real hurry. Guess he trusted it being here. See the dials on the side?'

Blake set it down with a clunk, tilted it and saw the dials; eight numerical bars. 'You don't know the combination?'

'No clue. I was hoping you could tell us.'

'I have no idea.' Blake studied it, wracked his brain for anything it could have been. He ran his finger over the studded numbers, trying his dad's birthday. Nothing happened.

'Nice try, kid, but we already thought of that.'

It was stupid to think he could be so important to his father, but he tried his own date of birth instead. Everybody held their breath as he fidgeted with the cylinders. When he was finished, he looked to Greg and Frank, then tried to prise it open.

Nothing again.

'Maybe we should hang on to this,' Blake said, sliding it to one side. 'When we find him, maybe he could tell us what's inside.'

'It's a sound idea, lad,' said Frank. 'Greg, you can stay the night with the boy, but I want you up before the sun rises. I'll get you some food and a pack of smokes.'

'Appreciate it.'

Blake sat cross-legged, staring at the items in front of him. He couldn't imagine his dad on a job, using these things. Although until today, there were many things he wouldn't have imagined about his father's hidden past.

'Get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll learn how to shoot,' Greg said when they were alone. He kicked off his boots one at a time, and they landed far away from each other.

'Shoot?' Blake's heart raced. 'What–why would I need to shoot?'

'Just in case. I mean we're getting knee-deep in some shit with the professionals. You didn't expect me to do it by myself, did you?' He laughed, removing his jacket and folding it to make a pillow.

He hadn't thought of that.
Me, with a weapon?
As a young boy he had always wanted to be an American cop, like the action stars in the movies. To picture himself pulling the trigger and firing a round into a person made his stomach twist. He needed an excuse. A way to get out of this. 'We should save the bullets.'

'I got plenty,' said Frank, closing the door behind him.

Shit.
'There's not enough room to practice anything.'

'That's why we're going somewhere quiet, and far away,' Greg offered.

'We are? Where?'

'To your dad's manor house. We can search through his stuff while we're there. Now get some sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.'

Blake believed him.

Chapter 9

Detective Wilkes sat with his hands clasped and his knee tapping.

DI John Howard had already been inside–The Boss had demanded that he sees to them one at a time. Considering their failure in letting the Salinger boy escape, Wilkes thought that it wasn't looking good for either of them.

There was no clock to suggest whether he was right or not, but he thought it was over an hour ago that he had made the call. Within minutes they had both been grabbed from behind, a sack was placed over their heads and they were shoved into the boot of a car. Before he knew it, they had arrived at The Agency's headquarters. It was procedure, he knew, and a certain element of fear had dissipated from the routine, but there was still a nervousness each time it happened.