Assassin (23 page)

'Do you want to hear how Hayes went down or not?' Carter said angrily. 'Or do you want to discuss your girlfriend's tits? It's your choice.'

There was a moment of silence and Carter knew that his boss was either going to fly at him or back down.

That moment stretched into what seemed like an eternity.

'Do you know about her tits, then?' asked Harrison, as if he were genuinely interested. 'Have you seen them? Touched them?'

In the bedroom, Tina crossed to her handbag and reached inside.

Her hand was shaking as she pulled out the .25 Beretta.

Had the time come at last? Must she use the gun now?

She opened the door slightly, the pistol gripped in her fist, her index finger curled around the trigger.

'Do you want to hear about this fucking hit?' snarled Carter.

'No, I want to know how
you
know what Tina's tits look like. Have you been here before without me knowing? Is that why you came here today? Hoping you'd find her alone. Hoping you could fuck her. Is it?'

Tina raised the pistol so that it was level with Harrison's head. She steadied the weapon by gripping her right wrist, not sure how much recoil there would be, praying that her shot would bring him down.

'Fuck you, Frank,' said Carter. 'What do you want to hear? You want me to say yes? Would that make you feel better?'

Harrison didn't answer.

'I told you why I came here,' the driver continued. 'If you believe me then listen to what I'm saying.'

Harrison's eyes narrowed until Carter found himself looking into two steely slits.

'Mitchell killed Hayes and three of his men. The hit was clean. We ditched the car, picked up the new one and now he's gone again. That's it, end of story, right?'

Tina lowered the gun slightly.

Harrison let out a long, almost painful breath. As he did, he seemed to relax slightly. He took a step back, and that sinister smile returned to his lips.

'You're clever, Ray,' he said. 'Your brother was clever too. But just remember what happened to him.'

It was Carter's turn to feel anger.

'Next time you drop that bastard Mitchell off you tail him,' the gang boss said. 'I want to know where he's hanging out. I'm tired of this hide-and-seek shit.' Harrison sat down and reached for the bottle of Haig on the table in front of him.

He poured himself a large measure, then offered one to

Carter, who accepted.

Tina exhaled deeply and lowered the Beretta, noticing that  her hands were still shaking violently. She returned the pistol to her handbag, sucked in a couple of deep breaths and then padded through into the sitting room where she sat down beside Harrison.

'So, that's Barbieri and Hayes out of the way,' the gang boss said. 'Two down, two to go. Just that fucking scouse bastard Cleary and his mob and then Sullivan.' Harrison chuckled. 'That red-necked mick.'

'And then?' said Carter.

'Then London's mine,' declared Harrison. 'No more sharing. No more competing. It's all mine.' He took a long swig of his whisky. 'Then we take care of Mitchell.'

'We'll be killed before we get close to him.'

Paul Gardner's voice echoed around the darkened room.

'He's too well protected.'

'That's rubbish, we managed to get at the others,' Maria Chalfont intoned.

'But they didn't have bodyguards,' Gardner persisted.

'This is all bullshit,' said Phillip Walton. 'We either go after him or we pick someone else. I'm not sitting around here all night talking about it.'

'I agree with Paul,' Mark Paxton added, bursting a large spot on the end of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sniffed the thick yellowish pus then sucked it into his mouth rather like a child would lick the inside of a cake bowl.

Michael Grant looked around the room at his companions.

'Jennifer, what do you think?' he asked.

Jennifer Thomas ran a hand through her hair scratching at her scalp.

'What's the worst that can happen to us?' she asked.

'We could be killed,' Paxton told her:

'Better to die than be locked up for the rest of our lives. The police will find us eventually. I say we kill him,' she decided.

'We need to make the gesture,' Grant told them all, standing in the centre of the small circle they had formed on the mildewed floor of the room. 'We've executed people in the media, in the public eye. We've killed the respectable rich. It's time we struck elsewhere. We have to show that no one is safe from us. We have to kill Frank Harrison.'

'And what brilliant idea have you come up with?' asked Walton, hawking loudly and spitting into the empty fireplace. 'It won't just be Harrison we'll be fighting, it'll be his gang too.'

'Are you afraid?' asked Grant.

Walton regarded him angrily.

'No, I'm not afraid. I'm just being realistic. If we're killed, who's going to carry on the war? Have you thought about that?'

'We won't be killed if we do it right.'

'Our weapons are no match for guns,' Maria Chalfont said, holding up a knife.

'There are other weapons we can use,' Grant said, enigmatically.

'Like what?' asked Walton sarcastically.

The assembled group looked closely at the photo which Grant held up.

The photo of Tina Richardson.

He spotted Mitchell immediately.

Carter slowed down as he caught sight of the hit man standing in a doorway, the familiar black attaché case at his feet like a sleeping dog.

The driver had received the phone call less than an hour ago. Mitchell had given him instructions tersely, repeating them as if Carter were an idiot. He'd named the place in St John's Wood where he was to be picked up and given Carter a time. The driver had been about to say something about the traffic holding him up when Mitchell had put the phone down.

Carter pulled up at the side of the road and looked across at Mitchell who strode towards the car and climbed into the back seat.

'You're late,' he said flatly. The rebuke only served to irritate Carter further.

'I warned you about the traffic...'

Mitchell cut him short.

'Just drive,' he snapped. 'Regent's Park. I'll direct you once we get closer.'

'Who's the bunny this time?' Carter wanted to know.

'Michael Cleary,' Mitchell told him. 'He owns a restaurant close to the park itself.'

'You're not going to hit him inside a restaurant, are you?'

'Just drive.'

'I thought you blokes were supposed to have some kind of code of honour. You never hit anyone in front of their families, you never involve bystanders, that kind of thing.'

'You've been watching too many films,' Mitchell told him scornfully. He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw that the driver was looking at him, eyes narrowed slightly.

'Two hits in two days,' said Carter. 'That's a little risky isn't it?'

'Let me worry about that. 'You just drive the car.'

'But it
does
worry me,' Carter said. 'If you fuck up on one of these hits then it's my head that's likely to get blown off too.'

'I never make mistakes.'

'Famous last words.'

'Have faith, Ray. Faith moves mountains,' Mitchell chuckled.

'Yeah, but it doesn't knock over gang bosses.'

'If it's 9mm faith, it does.'

They drove some way in silence then Carter glanced at his passenger in the rear view mirror once again. Mitchell was gazing out of the windows to his right and left like a tourist on a sightseeing trip. As ever, the attaché case was laid across his lap.

'What are your plans when you finish this job?' Carter asked, tiring of the silence.

Mitchell shrugged.

'I don't know. Something will turn up. It always does.' You'd be amazed how many people in the world use my services. People you'd never imagine. Politicians, businessmen. Anyone with a grievance,' the hit man explained. 'Killing is my business.' He smiled. 'And business is good.'

Carter was about to speak again when Mitchell leant forward, pointing past the driver to an impressive looking white building about fifty yards ahead.

'Park as close as you can,' Mitchell said, his eyes riveted to the front of the restaurant, scanning back and forth in search of his pray. He reminded Carter of a terrier that has just caught the scent of a fox.

Carter managed to park the Escort thirty or forty yards beyond the restaurant. Mitchell turned and gazed out of the back window for a moment and then he flipped open the attaché case.

Inside lay the Spas and the HK33.

Mitchell took the shotgun from the case and pushed in three cartridges, working the slide to chamber a round. Then he replaced it in its case. From his shoulder holster he withdrew a Browning automatic, pulled back the slide and slipped off the safety catch, before he also returned it to the case.

He waited.

And waited.

Carter glanced at the dashboard clock and noted that it was almost 8.30 p.m.

`We've been sitting here for over two hours,' the driver protested. 'What if he's not in there?'

'He's there,' Mitchell said softly, his eyes never leaving the front of the restaurant.

Carter lit up a cigarette, blowing out a long stream of smoke and shaking his head wearily.

'There,' snapped Mitchell, spotting the man he sought.

Mick Cleary emerged from the restaurant in the wake of two other men.

Mitchell smiled as he caught sight of the gang leader.

There was a woman with him. Young, beautiful. She clung to Cleary's arm as if glued to it, like some immaculately coutured leech. The small entourage moved to the edge of the pavement and, as Mitchell watched, a Daimler drew up and Cleary climbed in. The girl scrambled in beside him, careful not to wrinkle her expensive dress. One of the bodyguards got in front beside the driver and the car moved away.

Carter saw it glide past then he started the engine, swung out into the traffic and carefully kept a couple of car lengths between himself and the Daimler.

'Don't lose them,' said Mitchell, his eyes never straying from the other vehicle.

Carter didn't answer.

There was a set of traffic lights up ahead. He eased the Escort ahead of the car in front, leaving just one other vehicle between himself and the Daimler.

The sleek vehicle pulled away sharply and Carter had to restrain himself from speeding up to keep close enough to it. Although he doubted if Cleary was aware that he was being followed.

As they drove, the sodium glare of the street lamps shone back off the wet roads. It was like driving over a carpet of burnished gold. The traffic was fairly light and Carter kept his eye on the car in front at all times, afraid that it would speed off and force him into a chase. So far he'd been lucky but a police car passing him in the other direction reminded him that no one's luck held forever.

Mitchell was silent in the back, leaning forward slightly over the seat to keep his own vigil on the Daimler. Then, after a moment or two, he reached into his pocket and produced the Walkman. It seemed to be as much a part of his persona as the weapons, Carter thought, glancing briefly at him as he put on the headphones. He pushed a tape into the machine but didn't turn it on. The time hadn't come yet.

The Daimler turned into Albany Street.

Carter followed.

He could see Cleary in the back of the car with the girl.

She was kissing him. The big Liverpudlian had his arm around her. Both seemed preoccupied with each other. Neither bothered to glance out of the window but, Carter reasoned, even if they had done so they would have seen nothing unusual.

The Escort remained a measured two car lengths away from the Daimler, sometimes dropping back further, allowing other vehicles to filter into the gap.

They turned another comer.

Carter didn't even see the man.

He stepped into the road mere feet ahead of the Escort.

The driver stepped hard on the brake, the sudden halt causing the car to skid slightly.

Carter grunted as he was thrown forward, his seat belt cutting into his shoulder.

Mitchell sprawled on the floor of the car, pitched from his seat by the abrupt jolt.

The pedestrian was unhurt. He turned angrily towards the Escort, slapping the bonnet with the flat of his hand. Then he stalked round to the driver's side.

`You could have killed me,' he shouted, banging on the side window.

In the back Mitchell's hand slowly reached inside his jacket.

`Steady,' muttered Carter, winding down the window a fraction.

`You were going too fast, you stupid bastard,' the man roared.

'And you should look where you're going, you prat,' Carter said. 'What's wrong? Did you leave your fucking guide dog at home tonight?'

The man snarled something and grabbed the handle of the door but, quick as a flash, Carter shot his hand through the partially open window and grabbed the man by the collar, pulling his head towards the window, forcing it into the tiny gap. The man grunted in pain.

'Do you remember your birth?' Carter asked him. 'Because we're about to re-enact it.'

He pulled the man a little further into the car then pushed him away. He sprawled on to the wet pavement, looking up in bewilderment as Carter drove off.

'You've lost them you bloody fool,' snapped Mitchell, scanning the road ahead for the Daimler but failing to spot it.

Carter turned into Camden High Street, eyes alert, hitting the wheel angrily when he could not see the other car.

'I told you to be careful,' said Mitchell.

'Shut up, for Christ's sake,' the driver retorted.

He'd spotted the Daimler ahead.

It had pulled into a petrol station, the driver and bodyguard had stepped out of the car. The driver was filling the tank. Cleary and the girl remained in the back, still kissing.

A smile spread slowly across Mitchell's face.

Carter pulled into the kerb, the engine still running.