Rules of Honour (19 page)

The figure blocking the doorway wasn’t either man he expected. Both his housemates were shrunken gnomes; this man was large and stockily built. It wasn’t the first time some street punk had found their way inside, looking for somewhere out of sight to administer their drug of choice. Twice in the past fortnight, Tennant had had to kick bums back out on to the street. He started down the stairs, glad that he was only on the cusp of drunkenness because it meant he was at that stage where he could be as galled as he wished, but retained enough of his faculties that he could deal with a dangerous situation. ‘Hey, buddy, the street’s back that way. Now turn the fuck around and get outta here.’

The man didn’t reply, only bent down and heaved a large rucksack inside. Maddened, Tennant stomped down the stairs and into the hall. The house had three rooms, a shared kitchen and communal bathroom. The basement was a damp hole good for growing mould and nothing else. There was no room for a fourth lodger. ‘You can forget about moving in, buddy. Get your bag outta here and try somewhere else.’

The man closed the door. He was now lost in the shadows of the hall. Tennant halted. In the brief moment as the guy had turned to shut the door he’d caught a glimpse of his features in the street light from outside. It was the big guy who he’d almost collided with at the door of the Seven-Eleven. Suddenly Tennant didn’t feel as sure about himself as before.

‘You followed me back here, for what? OK, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have mouthed off like that. I’m sorry. Now let’s leave things at that, buddy.’

The man stepped forward.

‘OK. That’s as far as you come, buddy. I’ve apologised,’ Tennant puffed up his chest and bunched his fists, ‘but now it’s time to leave.’

‘I’m not finished here,’ the man replied.

‘Yes,’ Tennant said, stomping forward, ‘you are.’

The fear that pricked him at the appearance of the stranger had been pushed aside by the false courage of the liquor in his veins. When the whisky took hold like that, Tennant wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not even a big punk who invaded his house. Tennant went to grab the man, to force him back out on to the street.

He barely saw the man move. He hit Tennant with some Bruce Lee move; his knee flicking up, his lower shin whipping up and around to slam against his skull. Stars exploded in his vision and he tasted copper on his tongue. Tennant bounced off the wall, but fought to stay upright.

‘Son of a bitch!’ he hissed, his fingers against the welt growing on his forehead.

The man’s leg flicked again, this time beneath Tennant’s guard, and the ball of his foot found the soft spot beneath Tennant’s sternum. The wind was powered from his lungs, and his diaphragm recoiled at the trauma. Gasping for breath, Tennant retreated.

He heard a clink of metal as the man set down his bag. The movement was unhurried, as if Tennant were beneath contempt.

Tennant backed up to the base of the stairs, searching for something to use as a weapon, his heels digging through trash. His boot clanked against an empty beer bottle. Tennant ducked and came back up, holding the bottle by its neck. He lifted the bottle like a club.

‘Come any closer and I’ll break your head,’ he snapped.

There was a sound like someone coughing and the bottle shattered in his grip. Flying shards cut at his flesh, glittered in his vision. Tennant’s hand came open in reflex and the stub of the bottle fell back to the trash. The man came forward, and the slash of amber light filtering down from the window landed in a bar across his face. Below it something glinted bluish in the man’s right hand. Cordite drifted in the air, a stink stronger than the rankness already permeating the atmosphere.

Tennant had seen enough guns in his lifetime to recognise the semi-automatic in the man’s hand. The tubular object screwed on the barrel was something he was only familiar with from action movies and TV cop shows. The guy hadn’t simply followed him from the convenience store, he understood. The man had been following him before that. He had been spying inside, checking what he was up to, and Tennant had surprised him when he’d brusquely shoved out the door. The guy had been after him, and had an agenda that didn’t include finding lodging in this crap hole. Tennant knew enough that he was in real danger. As tough as he thought himself, he had no chance against a gun. He turned and fled up the stairs.

He didn’t get far.

A hand grasping Tennant’s jacket collar followed rapid footsteps. Tennant was no lightweight, but he was yanked off his feet, fell backwards and was dragged back down the stairs. Stunned, he blinked tears from his eyes as the man leaned over him.

‘Where do you think you’re running off to?’ the man asked.

‘Who are you, man? What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to say hello. Your old pal, Mitch, told me where to look you up.’

Mitch? He had to be talking about Mitchell Forbeck, his cellmate during his last six months inside. They had both been paroled the same week, but Tennant hadn’t seen him since. He’d had enough of Mitch to last him a lifetime and had said goodbye and meant it. Why would Mitch send this guy after him? He didn’t owe Mitch a damn thing, and their parting had been amicable enough. So, who was this guy: a friend of Mitch’s? He doubted it; Mitch didn’t have friends. Tennant attempted to study the man’s face. There was something vaguely familiar in it, but he was positive he didn’t know the man personally. Was he another inmate, someone he’d pissed off during their time behind bars?

‘Why’d Mitch send you
here
?’

‘Because I asked him to. Of course, I had to motivate him a little, the way I guess I’ll have to with you.’ The gun was pressed to Tennant’s forehead. ‘Now stand up. Don’t try anything funny, or your brains will decorate the floor.’

Recalling the state of Tennant’s home his threat was moot, because he had no intention of killing him outright. He had learned that Tennant was a braggart, and that while in prison he’d regaled his cellmate with tales of his criminal activity. All prisoners were guilty of embellishment, and Mitchell Forbeck had surmised that Tennant was building himself a tough rep, to ensure he was not someone to be messed with, when he’d told him about hanging and then burning a man alive in a cellar in Arkansas. Mitch didn’t believe Tennant, but he thought he could win points with the warden if he slipped him the nod. He didn’t get to see the warden himself, but two prison guards who reassured him that Tennant was blowing hot air out of his ass. The guards had sent Mitch back to his cell, cowed like a whipped dog for wasting their time, but they must have mentioned the story to another guard. From there the tale had grown fleetingly, before it was lost once more among all the other rumours bubbling around the general population. That was when the wild story had reached his ears and he knew that it was true: the man allegedly murdered shared his name. By then the originator of the admission was forgotten, but Mitch Forbeck’s inclusion was still bandied around. Mitch had been released from prison by then but he took no tracking down. All it took for him to learn the name of the braggart from Forbeck was to shove his gun under the punk’s chin. He probably didn’t need to shoot him dead afterwards, but it was possible that Mitch recognised him, and he had already proven himself to be the type to go stool pigeon.

Prior to that moment he had never killed another man, but it had proved surprisingly easy when he was driven by such pure rage. His life had been shit. Mother was a drunkard and those she brought into their home had been scum. He had known more
stepfathers
and
uncles
than he could count, and the beatings he took from them were the least of their sins he’d allow himself to recall. He went through his childhood hoping that his real dad would return, take him away from the horror, save him. When he discovered that his father had been thwarted from doing so by thugs led by vile lies he had resolved that Forbeck would not be the last to die at his hand.

It was a colossal coincidence that he should end up at the same prison as a man with information about his father’s demise, especially after so many years. He had truly believed he’d never avenge the murder, thinking the conspirators had to be so aged by now that they would already be in their graves.

After he’d found out Tennant’s identity, and tracked him back to the ramshackle house, it had pleased him to learn the names of all the lynch party, and more so that they – all the men at least – were still in the land of the living. What he hadn’t expected was for Tennant to be so forthcoming in the description of his father’s suffering. Perhaps it was because the asshole expected to die in agony and wished to take away some of the satisfaction from his punisher by basking in the gory details. Or maybe it was simply the man’s nature to brag, even if it meant further torment before he died.

‘I burned that sick motherfucker! It’s what the bastard deserved. I wasn’t like the other pussies that were having second thoughts. If I hadn’t thrown the gasoline over him I’m sure they’d have let him down, and rushed him to the nearest hospital to have his bullet wound seen to. Not me, though, no fucking way!’

The man listened to Tennant’s rant, dispassionately.

‘Do you hear me, you sick fuck? I burned your precious daddy. You should have seen him dance. Jesus! The screams. How half of Arkansas didn’t hear him I’ll never know. He was a fucking coward in life and he was a fucking coward in death.’

The man was sickened by Tennant’s lies. He had everything he needed from him – the names of each of the murderers, and a full description of each of their respective crimes. He did not need to listen any longer. He pulled tight the chain-link noose. Tennant gagged. His eyes bugged. The chain would strangle him completely, but not immediately. First Tennant must endure the agony of the links tearing into his flesh. He would like to allow the bastard to suffer the torture, but Tennant’s sickening false condemnation of his father had piqued his anger. He kicked the stool from under Tennant’s feet.

Tennant dropped like a stone, the links of the chain snapping around his throat, bunching up folds of grey skin beneath his clamped jaw. His tongue was forced between the gaps in his teeth, forming small blood-red balloons. His legs kicked and spasmed.

The man shot Tennant in the chest.

Then he began to pile the trash from the cellar floor around Tennant, watching him all the while. The bastard’s eyes were dulling, even as they bulged from their sockets. He leaned down, flicked his cigarette lighter and gave flame to the pile of trash.

The chain ensured that Tennant couldn’t scream, but he tried anyway, a keening noise that escaped him like steam as the flames danced up his legs and caught in the fabric of his trousers.

‘Who’s the fucking coward now?’ the man asked him, before firing once more into his chest.

Still, Tennant lingered. He was shuddering as the flames writhed over him.

The man shot him in the head.

Chapter 23

Studying it from outside, the police station on Vallejo Street was about the prettiest I’d ever had the pleasure of visiting, but once through the doors I forgot all about the tasteful architecture and concentrated on the reason why I was there. If I ended up in a cell, staring at the bare walls and featureless steel door, I’d have ample opportunity to think about the lovely views I was missing while killing time.

I approached a desk sergeant. In movies and books, desk sergeants are always trying to do ten tasks at once and barely give the time of day to someone making an enquiry. Often they are bad-tempered and shout a lot. Seems that the sarge here bucked the cliché somewhat. He was a rosy-faced guy, chubby in the shoulders and neck. All he needed was a white beard and he’d make an ideal department store Santa Claus. He was leaning on his fists, watching my approach, offering me a ‘come hither’ smile. ‘How can I help you, sir?’

‘I’m here to speak to Detective Jones, if he’s available?’

‘Detective Jones? My, my.’ He looked down at some list pinned beneath the level of the desk, running a finger down it. ‘We have three Joneses here, can you be more specific?’

‘Gar Jones,’ I said. ‘Homicide.’

The sergeant tapped the sheet. Smiled at me. ‘Of course, our friend Garforth,’ he said. He reached for a telephone, raised both eyebrows my way. ‘Your name please, sir.’

‘Joe Hunter,’ I said. No reason to lie.

His lack of recognition was a good sign; it meant that Jones and Tyler had not yet put out that APB I was worried about.

The sergeant spoke into the phone. He only frowned mildly at me once before hanging up. ‘You’re in luck, Mr Hunter. Come on through.’ He opened a flap in the desk, and unlatched a swing gate to allow me passage. As I stepped past him he made the counter secure once more, before indicating a door to his left. ‘Follow me, please.’

Just because the sarge was polite didn’t mean he wasn’t setting me up for an arrest once I was out of public view. If he was going to put the cuffs on me once we were through the back then so be it. I wouldn’t resist. There was no sense in making the situation more awkward than it already was.

As it was, when we passed through the door a female patrol officer was coming down the hall, her arms filled with investigation files.

‘Ah, Officer Brockovich! You’ve timed it just right.’ Without waiting, the sergeant reached and took the folders from her. ‘Will you escort this gentleman to the Homicide office for me? He’s here to see Gar Jones.’