Assassin (14 page)

Above them, the sky was beginning to darken and Carter had to squint to see his watch in the growing gloom.

'Half-past seven,' he announced. 'We'll give them another fifteen minutes and then follow.'

The three men watched as the last of the trucks rounded a comer and disappeared out of sight. Only the low rumble of the Scania engines echoed through the stillness of the evening.

'I hope to Christ Frank knows what he's doing,' said McIntire nervously.

'It'll be fine; Drake said.

'Yeah, fine for him. If anything goes wrong, we're the ones who get banged up, not Harrison.'

'You worry too much, Lou. You'll have a heart attack by the time you're thirty-five.'

'I'll have one before the end of the evening if this goes wrong,' McIntire told him.

The three men sat in silence for a moment. Then Drake looked at Carter and smiled thinly.

'How do you get on with Frank's bird? Tina, isn't it?' he wanted to know.

'Why?' asked Carter, a little too sharply.

Drake frowned.

'Just wondered,' he said, catching the look on his companion's face. 'She's a good looker isn't she?'

Carter nodded.

He wondered if Drake suspected anything but then reasoned that there was no way he could know about their relationship. Something would have been said before now. Nevertheless, the driver shifted slightly in his seat.

'You got the money?' Carter asked, anxious to change the subject.

'In the boot,' Drake told him. 'I checked it with Frank before we left this morning.'

McIntire glanced out of the back window and saw a policeman heading towards the car.

'Old Bill,' he said nervously.

'So what,' said Carter, catching sight of the uniformed man in the wing mirror. 'We're not breaking any laws.'

'Yet,' chuckled Drake.

The policeman came within six feet of the car, bending low to look at the men inside.

Carter saw McIntire's hand go to his inside pocket.

'What the fuck are you doing?' the Carter said.

'He's coming over,' McIntire blurted, hand already closed around the butt of his Walther PPK.

'Get your hand off the shooter,' snarled Carter as the policeman drew nearer.

He was within two strides of the vehicle now.

'Relax, will you,' Carter said.

The constable bent low and smiled at the three occupants of the Audi.

'Evening gentlemen,' he said, smiling.

'Evening all,' echoed Drake, trying to suppress a laugh.

'How long do you think it'll take us to reach Norwich if we drive through the night?’ Carter asked him conversationally.

'You'd probably be best stopping over unless you're in a hurry,' the constable said, his eyes still flicking around the inside of the car. He looked hard at McIntire who returned his gaze, right hand twitching on his lap. Carter watched the expression on the older man's face reflected in the rear view mirror. Stay calm you stupid sod, he thought. If McIntire lost his bottle and pulled the gun they were all in bother. And not just with the law.

'You driving through to Norwich then?' the policeman asked.

Carter nodded.

'If you want to get there before morning you'd best be off now,' the constable said.

'Yeah, I think you're right,' Carter said, seeing McIntire move uncomfortably in his seat. Carter started the engine, thanked the policeman and drove off, glancing at him in the rear view mirror until they rounded a comer.

'You fucking idiot,' he swore at McIntire. 'You were ready to pull down on that copper weren't you?'

'I thought he was going to start asking questions,' McIntire blurted.

'Yeah, well he didn't did he? Next time keep calm or
I'll
be asking you a question, like how are you going to eat with all your fucking teeth knocked out, because if you ever look like pulling a shooter on a copper again I'll re-arrange your fillings for you.'

Carter saw McIntire pull the PPK from its holster and felt the cold steel against his cheek.

'Yeah?' snarled McIntire.

'Yeah,' Carter repeated and stepped hard on the brake.

The sudden halt caused McIntire to fall forward between the two seats, unprotected as he was wasn’t wearing a seat belt. As he sprawled helplessly, Carter pulled his own pistol free of its holster and jammed it against McIntire's face, pushing hard so that the other man's nose was bent back at a painful angle.

'No more shooters, right?' said Carter.

McIntire tried to get up but the driver pulled back the hammer of the automatic, pressing the barrel harder into his companion's face.

'Right,' McIntire said and sat up, rubbing the end of his nose.

Carter holstered his pistol, started the engine once more and drove on.

Drake glanced down the slope at the waiting Audi, the receiver held in his hand. He had a stack of change laid out on the metal shelf before him from which he took out five ten-pence coins and fed them into the phone.

He had to phone Frank Harrison, tell him that so far everything was going according to plan.

His fingers hovered over the buttons and he glanced at the car once again. Then he turned his back as if afraid that Carter and McIntire would see the number he was dialling.

Harrison could wait.

Right now there was someone else he had to call.

He jabbed the digits and waited.

John Kenning drove the car into the garage, switched off the engine and slumped back in his seat. The laughter, when it came, was uncontrollable. He jerked in his seat, laughing until tears rolled down his cheeks. Finally he swung himself out of the car and locked it, attempting a chorus of `We are the Champions' but the words dissolved into another fit of giggles. He could smell the whisky on his breath and thought how fortunate he'd been not to be stopped by police on his drive from the office to his house in Primrose Hill. He'd escaped, he thought and it set him giggling again. Kenning couldn't remember being this happy since the birth of his first child over ten years ago. Naturally there had been many happy times since then but nothing to compare with the exultation he felt now.

He made a mental note to phone his son at boarding school in Buckinghamshire, to tell him the news which had brought him so much joy.

As owner and managing director of Kenning Electronics, he had, that very day, secured the largest contract his firm had ever undertaken. Namely, to supply electronic score- boards to no less than nine First Division football clubs up and down the country. Not bad going for a boy who'd been expelled from school and had started his business with less than a thousand pounds borrowed from friends. Now the Kenning empire (as he liked to call it) was worth millions. He chuckled again at the thought and ran a hand through his dark hair. Wait until he told Sharon.

She deserved the success every bit as much as he did. It was she who, in the beginning, had worked at two jobs to help pay for their bedsit in the East End. Like Kenning, she now enjoyed the privileges of wealth, including the five- bedroomed house they had occupied these last six years. Kenning's mother also lived with them. His father had died at the age of just forty-six and he'd made his son promise to look after his mother. It was a task which he was happy to fulfil. There had been disagreements between himself and his wife in the beginning about the arrangement but Kenning's mother had proved to be a great help to them. She also came in handy as a baby-sitter when Craig was home from school.

Kenning tried singing a couple of lines of `Here We go' but they too trailed off into a chorus of giggles. He approached the door which led through into the kitchen, not bothering to retrieve his briefcase from the back seat of the car. He glanced briefly at his watch, frowning when he saw that it was almost nine o'clock. He'd tried to phone Sharon from the office to tell her that he'd be late but, with the festivities going on around him, he hadn't tried again when she didn't answer his first call. What the hell, he'd take her out for dinner. He could afford it. The thought made him laugh once more. He wasn't sure how much of his joviality was a product of the Glenfiddich he'd consumed but he guessed that a large measure of his light-headedness came from the sheer pleasure he was feeling at what he'd achieved that day. The intoxication was induced not by spirits but by the feeling of success.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the kitchen.

It was like stepping into a Turkish bath.

The room was full of steam. Thick white clouds of it which made him cough. He could smell burning too.

Muttering to himself, Kenning crossed to the cooker and found that the gas was burning under all four saucepans, two of which had boiled dry. The others were caked with blackened contents. He waved a hand before him, reaching up to open a window in an effort to let the steam out. As the white cloud slowly dispersed he looked around the room.

Cupboards had been pulled open, their contents scattered over the worktops and floor.

Drawers had been wrenched out and tossed unceremoniously amongst the other debris.

The kitchen table and several of the worktops had been scored deeply with a knife. A particularly large blade was still embedded in one of the overturned chairs.

Kenning swallowed hard, the joy which he'd felt seconds earlier draining rapidly away. His mind cleared with a speed he would have thought impossible. He stood gazing at the chaos and then suddenly dashed towards the living room, throwing the door open.

The destruction in the other room was even worse.

The leather suite had been overturned, not a single inch of it unmarked by what he took to be knife cuts. Even the wallpaper had been ripped from the walls with sharp instruments. Paintings which had adorned the room were lying in tattered heaps, ornaments had been methodically smashed until not one remained intact.

The television and video had also been wrecked, smashed with a ferocity that had scattered bits all over the room. The video looked as if it had been forcibly flung from one side of the room to the other. The drinks' cabinet had been overturned, every single bottle inside smashed, the contents soaking into a carpet dotted with faeces.

This final ignominy caused him to gag and he turned away from the sight, his mind in turmoil, his heart thudding madly as he thought of his family. Of his wife. His mother.

Where were they?

The phone in the sitting room had been smashed. He ran for the one in the hall, briefly catching sight of something scrawled on the walls, something in red letters:

RICH FUCK

He ran on, past the upturned armchair, through into the hall, praying that the phone there was working, praying that his wife and mother were still all right.

Praying that the police would arrive quickly,

He reached for the phone, relieved that it was still in one piece.

Praying ...

The knife was brought down with terrifying force.

All Kenning heard was the swish of the blade then he felt the agonising pain as the knife powered through the back of his outstretched hand, pinning it to the wood of the table as the steel bit several inches into the oak. One of his carpal bones was pulverized by the impact and blood burst from the wound as he screamed his pain, secured to the table by the weapon.

It felt as if his hand were on fire.

Still gripping the knife, grinning at his victim, Phillip Walton leered into Kenning's face.

'Welcome home,' he chuckled.

'Come on, come on,' muttered Drake, looking first at his watch and then at the phone box nearby.

'Are you sure you gave the right number?' McIntire asked anxiously.

Carter looked at his watch.

9.58 p.m.

Drake was drumming on the side of the car with his fingertips, the incessant rhythm interrupted only when he looked at his own watch for what seemed the hundredth time since they'd arrived.

The Audi was parked in a lay-by about twenty miles from the centre of Colchester, the road flanked on both sides by trees and bushes which towered upwards in an effort to cut out the weak rays of the watery moon above. Barely five cars had passed them in the forty minutes they'd been sitting here.

'Are you sure you can trust him?' asked Carter.

'Frank set this up himself,' Drake said defensively. 'We've used him before.'

'Maybe he's got cold feet,' Carter insisted, reaching into his jacket for a cigarette.

'He'll ring,' Drake said, gazing at the phone box once more.

Another minute passed.

A car sped past them in the night.

Drake continued drumming on the side of the car.

'He's late,' muttered McIntire nervously. 'What if he doesn't call? We can't go back ...'

The phone rang.

Drake pushed the door open and scurried across to the booth, snatching up the receiver.

From inside the car Carter couldn't hear what was being said but he saw Drake smile and nod before slamming the receiver down. He ran back to the car and jumped in.

'Let's go,' he said. 'About ten miles down the road. He's waiting for us.'

Carter started the engine and drove off.

The van was parked among some trees, about twenty yards from the roadside, completely hidden by the thick foliage and the darkness. As Carter swung the Audi around a comer the driver of the van flashed his headlamps twice.

Carter guided the car towards the waiting vehicle, through the protective undergrowth until he was level with it, both vehicles now hidden from any prying eyes that might pass.

The three men in the Audi got out and stood beside the car, waiting.

The silence was unbroken for a moment.

A moth fluttered close to McIntire's face and he swatted it irritably.

To their left a twig cracked. There was movement in the trees.

Carter reached for his automatic, not liking the darkness. Not trusting the fact that he could barely see more than two feet ahead of him.