Assassin (4 page)

Carter watched as she lifted her wine glass, the sound of crystal on crystal drifting through the stillness as Harrison touched his own glass to hers. They both drank.

One of the waiters approached Carter, smiling his practised smile.

'Can I get you something, sir?' he asked in a heavy accent.

'Just a beer, please,' Carter said, glancing first at Tina and then at Harrison.

He didn't look his age. The beginnings of a paunch pushed against the waistcoat of his suit but his face was relatively unlined, his hair still thick and lustrous. In the dull glow cast by the candles his eyes looked sunken but Carter knew that was just a trick of the light.

From where he stood, Carter could not hear their conversation so he contented himself with snatching appreciative glances at Tina and sipping the beer which the waiter had just brought.

Apart from Harrison and Tina, the restaurant was empty. No one to disturb the carefully nurtured atmosphere. Carter reached across and pulled a menu towards him, scanning the prices. No wonder the bloody place was empty he thought, and glanced out of the window at the jag. James was picking his teeth with a broken match, apparently unperturbed by the amount of time they'd been sitting around waiting for Harrison. But then, thought Carter, his brother had always been more patient. Ray was impetuous, sometimes dangerously impatient but James liked life to move at a slower pace. He never rushed.

Carter finished his drink and waved the waiter over to fetch him another. He pulled his cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one, glancing again at his watch. How much longer was Harrison going to be?

He was still pondering when he saw the black Datsun pull up alongside the jag.

Probably some bloody tourist wanting directions, he thought.

It was difficult to see into the vehicle from where he sat so he got to his feet and moved closer to the front window, peering past the pot plants which filled the windowsill like an indoor jungle.

James Carter heard the car pull up alongside him and glanced across to see the driver pointing at him, motioning for him to lower his window. He hesitated a moment, squinting through the gloom to get a better look at the driver.

Squat, bull-necked. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

James saw the window of the other car being rolled down. Saw the driver leaning across towards him. Saw his hand move towards the parcel shelf.

Saw the barrel of the .357 Magnum pointing at him.

James actually had his mouth open in surprise when the gun was fired.

The bullet exploded from the barrel, shattering the side window of the jag, hurtling into James' mouth.

The heavy grain shell blasted three of his front teeth backwards into his mouth, ripping away a portion of his upper jaw before smashing through the back of his neck just below the base of his skull. He fell across the front seat, blood spurting from the exit wound, spilling across the leather.

'NO,' roared Ray Carter as the back doors of the Datsun were flung open.

Two men came running towards the restaurant, one of them clutching a dark, bulky object in one hand. The other held what Carter knew to be an Ingram M-10 sub-machine gun.

The two men were within ten yards now and Carter spun round to shout a warning to Harrison who was already on his feet, alerted by the sound of the gunshot from outside.

The restaurant staff threw themselves down, two of them struggling to squeeze through a window in the kitchen at the rear of the building.

`Get out,' bellowed Carter, dropping to his knees.

'Use the back door. Now.'

The Last word was lost as the Ingram opened up.

A hail of bullets struck the front window of the restaurant exploding the glass and sending huge lumps crashing into the dining area. The second burst blew in what was left of the window, bullets ricocheting off stonework and drilling into the ceiling. Two lamps were blasted to atoms by the fusillade. Plaster flew from the walls, mingling with brick dust to form a fine mist.

Harrison was on all fours, crawling towards the back of the restaurant, trying to cover Tina with his own body as they attempted to reach the sanctuary of the kitchen.

Carter followed, turning in time to see the second of the two men hurl the bulky package into the restaurant where it landed close to the bullet-shattered window.

The explosion came seconds later.

What was left of the window was blown outwards by the blast and Carter rolled over as he felt the searing heat. A piece of stone the size of a fist dropped from the ceiling and hit him in the side, momentarily knocking the wind from him but he rolled over, pushing Harrison and Tina ahead of him towards the rear entrance.

Flames rose in a yellow wall, fire sending out enveloping tendrils which fastened eagerly on tables and chairs, devouring them hungrily. But, through the fire, Carter saw that the two men had turned and were running back towards the Datsun. He scrambled to his feet and, shielding his face with one arm, dashed through the wall of fire and out into the street.

The sudden coolness washed over him and he tugged the automatic from its shoulder holster as the rear wheels of the Datsun spun on the wet road, screaming loudly as they tried to get a grip.

Carter fired three times, the gun jerking in his grip, the recoil slamming it back against the heel of his hand.

The first bullet blasted off one of the wing mirrors. The other two missed their target as the Datsun finally shot forward.

Carter ran into the street, aware that the back window of the escaping car was open.

He saw a muzzle flash and then felt a searing pain in his left shoulder.

The impact of the bullet sent him crashing back against the side of the jag, blood running freely from the wound. It was as if someone had struck him with a red hot hammer and he felt his stomach contract. Felt consciousness slipping away from him.

Behind him the restaurant continued to bum.

People all along the street were spilling from the clubs, the pubs, some emerging from shop doorways to see what was happening.

Someone screamed.

Carter thought he heard the wail of sirens.

Then, as the pain in his shoulder became unbearable, he slipped sideways and lay on the wet tarmac.

He heard nothing.

'Carter.'

He tried to open his eyes but it seemed as if they'd been sealed.

'Carter.'

He heard his name again and wondered if he was dreaming.

The hand on his shoulder told him that he wasn't.

He rubbed his face and managed to open his eyes, aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder.

The figures who stood beside the bed were blurred and he shook his head as if that simple gesture would clear his vision.

It helped a little. He blinked hard and re-focussed.

Wakey, wakey,' said the voice and he found himself looking into the face of a man in his early forties. At least that's what he thought. As he struggled to sit up Carter also became aware of the smell in the room. The antiseptic. The smell of fresh sheets. But he had no idea which hospital he was in.

And now he recognised the figure which stood above him, dressed in a crumpled blue suit.

Detective Sergeant Vic Riley looked down at him.

'How's your shoulder?' asked the policeman. 'You were lucky. The bullet went straight through.'

'I don't feel very lucky,' said Carter, his throat dry. He reached for the jug of water on the bedside table but Riley reached it first and poured him a beaker of the clear liquid.

The DS seated himself on the end of the bed, watching Carter as he drank.

The other man whom he'd seen, a uniformed officer, had stepped back towards the door of the room.

'Your brother's dead,' said Riley, quietly. `They're scraping what's left of his head off the inside of Harrison's car.'

'I don't need the details,' rasped Carter, taking another sip of water.

'Who shot you, Ray?' asked Riley, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose.

'I didn't see them,' said Carter.

'They killed your brother.'

'I know that and I still didn't see them,' snarled Carter.

Riley nodded slowly.

'The automatic we found lying in the road was yours wasn't it?' the policeman asked.

'I haven't got a gun.'

'Oh come on, Ray. This isn't the time to pull the dumb routine. You could have been killed tonight. Not that it would have bothered me that much; the DS added as an afterthought. 'Now tell me who shot you. What the hell was going on there tonight?'

'I told you, I didn't see anyone. Why aren't you out arresting tarts and nicking kerb crawlers, that's your usual business isn't it?'

'When restaurants get 'bombed and people get killed,
that’s
my business. I don't like fuss, Carter, and right now you and your bloody boss are causing me more grief than I need so stop pissing about and tell me what happened or I'll have you inside for obstruction.'

'Because you can't pin anything else on me,' Carter observed, a satisfied smile touching his lips.

'Who might have wanted to have a go at Harrison?' ask the policeman.

'I told you, I don't know. And I don't know who shot me either. Satisfied?'

'Not really but I don't suppose there's much I can do about it is there?' He got to his feet. 'I just thought you might have wanted us to catch the blokes who killed your brother. Next time it could be you who gets your skull ventilated.'

The policeman wandered across to the window and looked out onto the car park below. Another ambulance, its blue lights spinning silently in the darkness, had just pulled up.

'Do you think that Harrison would have given a damn if you'd been killed tonight?' said Riley. 'Do you think he'll shed any tears over your brother?'

Carter didn't answer; he was looking down at the beaker of water which he held, his face set in deep lines.

'You're protecting Harrison too by keeping quiet you know,' Riley continued. 'What have you got to gain by that?'

'Staying alive for one thing,' Carter said.

'If you decided to give evidence against Harrison, you'd be protected.'

Carter laughed humourlessly.

'Evidence about what?' he asked, innocently.

'About all the pies he's got his grubby little fingers in. We heard that he's just moved into child porn.'

'I'm only a driver. I don't know what he does. I don't care.'

'Maybe if you'd cared enough your brother would still have been alive.'

'Fuck you,' rasped Carter. 'It's not my fault Jim's dead. Do you think that's what I wanted?' His voice was a mixture of anger and sorrow.

Riley shrugged and turned towards the door.

'If you change your mind, you know where to reach me,' he said, turning the handle. 'By the way, Carter. We'll get you all one day. If you don't kill each other first.' He winked then closed the door behind him, leaving Carter alone in the room.

'Bastard,' muttered the younger man. He sighed and lay back, closing his eyes. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull ache and he gently touched the heavily padded wound, wincing as he moved the shoulder.

He had been lucky, Riley had been right. Lucky not just because the bullet had passed through him without creating too much internal havoc but also because he hadn't been killed.

He'd been luckier than Jim.

The tears came suddenly, unexpectedly, and Carter cursed under his breath as if angry with himself for the private display of emotion. Not that he should be ashamed. Jim had been the only family he'd had. Their mother had died of cancer twenty years ago. As a ten year old, Carter could remember coming home from school and seeing her hunched in the chair in front of the fire, each day looking a little more shrunken until finally he'd arrived one Tuesday afternoon and found the ambulance waiting outside and seen two men carrying her out of the house. It had hardly seemed necessary to get two of them to carry her. In the final stages of her illness she'd withered to a mere six stone from her usual ten. It had eaten her away from the inside, slowly, painfully over eighteen months. But she'd never stopped fighting it, never surrendered to the pain.

Carter wept for his mother too, fresh tears that he didn't bother to wipe away.

The two boys had remained in the small house in Bermondsey with their father for another three years until a massive stroke had taken the old man. It hadn't killed him, just robbed him of his faculties, turning him into a helpless invalid who couldn't even feed himself. Ray and Jim would take turns looking after him, feeding him, cleaning him up when he messed himself. It was like having a sixty-eight year old child in the house and the strain eventually told on both boys.

When his father finally died, Jim decided he'd had enough. He joined the army.

Ray was left alone and, in the first few months, he felt resentment building up inside him.
He
needed to escape as well, not so much from the environment but from the memories.

Since the age of nine he had boxed at a club in Islington and now he turned his frustration towards the sport. He trained harder than ever, he fought with a ferocity that even he had not realized he possessed; it was like a purging, a cleansing of his soul and if part of that catharsis meant he was sometimes on the receiving end of beatings then so be it. He channelled his fury into boxing and it paid off. He reached the finals of the ABA Lightweight Division when he was nineteen and turned professional the year after that.

Jim returned from the army after his three year spell, his own demons exorcised and, for a time, the two of them saw little of one another. Ray's professional career brought in a steady wage but then came the setback which was to finish him in the ring.

He could still remember the fight. The other lad was overweight, ponderous in his movements. It seemed to Ray that he had no heart for the right. Carter had caught him with a powerful uppercut while the lad had been flat-footed. He'd dropped like a stone, his eyes glazed, almost opaque even as he hit the canvas. A doctor had leapt into the ring and Carter could remember being pulled away while efforts were made to revive his opponent.