Assassin (5 page)

He'd died in the ring. A massive brain haemorrhage.

Carter had never been back in a ring since.

Jim was out of the army. Ray had left the ring.

Then came Frank Harrison.

At the time he only owned a pub in Camden Town and two strip joints in the West End but he was expanding. He needed people. 'People with know-how and ambition' as he liked to put it, although Carter, having seen some of the men who worked for Harrison, was under the impression that sadism and psychosis were also useful qualifications.

So, in just eight years, Carter had risen from the post of nightclub bouncer to that of personal bodyguard.

He and his brother together. Just as it had been in the past.

It would no longer be so and that realization brought more

tears.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as if shutting out the light would shut out the pain.

It didn't.

Frank Harrison dug his hand in the ice bucket and brought out three or four dripping cubes. He dropped them into the crystal tumbler then half-filled it with Jack Daniels, swallowing a large measure of the fiery liquid.

'I tell you,' he rasped, turning to face his guest. 'This is well out of order. I go out for a quiet meal and some mad sod tries to kill me. Fuck knows how much it's going to cost me to get my restaurant repaired and redecorated.' He downed more of the amber fluid and began pacing back and forth across the spacious lounge of the flat. Every now and then he would pause and look out of the large double windows that opened out onto a balcony which gave him a view of Holland Park.

'Who the hell would do it?' he said, not really expecting an answer. 'And why? For years there's been peace and now this. Somebody getting too fucking ambitious no doubt. So, one of my best men is killed, another one wounded. Thank God Tina wasn't hurt.' He turned to face the person who sat on the leather sofa. 'I'm telling you, some bastard is going to pay for this. If I let it pass then anyone will think they can walk over me and I'm not having that.'

He turned back to the window, gazing out over the darkened park. Trees swayed in the wind, spectral fingers that had lost many of their leaves rattled beneath the balcony.

'I'd just like to know why,' Harrison continued. 'I haven't stepped on anybody's toes, none of my interests conflict with any of the other organisations in London. Unless it's one I don't know about.' He finished what was left in his glass and poured himself another, his anger boiling up again as he rounded on the solitary figure who cradled a glass of brandy in his lap.

'Put the word out on the street,' Harrison said. 'I want to know who was behind that attack. I'll pay for the information if necessary and, before you say anything, I'll take care of who's behind it my own way, right?'

The figure shrugged.

'It's more than two years since there was any trouble like this. I should know, it was me who started it last time,' said Harrison. He pulled off his tie and threw it into one of the leather armchairs then, holding his drink in one hand, he began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

'Well I'm not having it. And it happened on my manor too. That makes it worse. What a fucking nerve.' He downed more of the whisky. Then he turned to face his visitor who sat quietly, allowing the gang boss to vent his fury, knowing that no words could calm him.

'You tell me if you hear anything, anything at all. I want to know, got it?' Harrison snarled. 'Where do they think they are, fucking Belfast? Bombs, machine guns.' He shook his head, drained his glass and hurled the empty receptacle across the large lounge where it shattered against the wall.

'Fuckers,' shouted Harrison, furiously. 'You find out,' he growled, stepping closer to the other occupant of the room. 'And you do it quick, right? I don't pay you twenty thousand a year for nothing. Find out who wants me dead.'

Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe nodded slowly.

He awoke suddenly, as if propelled from a nightmare, eyes jerking open, mouth forming soundless words.

As he was dragged to his feet Danny Weller shook his head as if trying to clear his senses. A vile stench filled his nostrils, a stench so rank that he thought he was going to vomit. He felt strong hands gripping his wrists, dragging him backwards towards the wall of the supermarket storeroom and, suddenly, the circumstances of his predicament came flooding back with a clarity which forced a moan from his throat.

The figures were standing in front of him.

Three of them.

Two others held him against the wall as he struggled in their-grip, aware of the numbing coldness which seemed to radiate from them. It was as if the chill ran from their own hands into his veins causing him to shudder as they slammed him back against the wall and held him there.

The first of the watching trio stepped forward and gripped Weller's chin in one powerful hand, running his fingers over the flesh, enjoying the smoothness, stroking the skin as a man might stroke the face of his lover. But there was no emotion in this gesture.

Weller felt the pressure on his chin increase and he let out a grunt of pain. By now, the stench was almost overpowering and it was all he could do to keep a grip on consciousness.

The moon had retreated behind a thick bank of cloud so the supermarket was once again in almost total darkness. But, even so, Weller knew that his captors were close.

Exactly who, or what they were he
didn't
know.

The one that held his face took a step back and glanced across at the two who held Weller's arms. He nodded slowly and the younger man felt his hands being forced back against the wall. He tried to struggle free but the pressure on his wrists only increased.

'Who are you?' he wailed, tears of fear once more running freely down his cheeks.

He heard a metallic rattle and looked to his left.

One of the figures had taken a handful of flat-headed nails from his jacket pocket.

He pressed one into the palm of Weller's left hand.

The movement was so swift he barely had time to scream.

The figure gripping his wrist dropped down and retrieved a piece of broken concrete; then with one powerful blow he struck the head of the nail.

Weller shrieked in pain as the metal spike was driven through his hand, each successive stroke sending it deeper into the flesh of his hand then beyond into the wall.

Blood burst from the punctured palm, spurting on to the jacket of the one who stood before him but the figure did not move, merely continued to stare into Weller's face as he tried one last time to escape.

His right hand was pressed against the wall and, quick as a flash, he felt another of the metal spikes being pounded through that palm until he was supported not by the freezing hands but by the thick steel nails that transfixed his palms. Blood dripped to the floor where it soaked into the dust like ink into blotting paper.

Weller sagged forward, his own weight threatening to pull him free of the wall but a cold hand was fastened once more beneath his chin. He fought to retain his senses, pain stabbing up both his arms now. It felt as if his hands were on fire. Yet still he was denied the mercy of unconsciousness. Still he found that he was looking into a face which could have been plucked from a nightmare.

The skin of the man's features was stretched so tight over the bones of his face it seemed that it would tear, like plastic which has been pulled beyond its breaking point. Weller expected to see the skin burst. Instead, he saw it begin to heave, as if there was something beneath that dry skin.

The flesh began to undulate, slowly at first but then with greater speed until a bulge appeared beneath the left cheekbones, rising like a boil, swelling like some obscene tumour, growing before his eyes until finally it burst.

The boil was filled with maggots. Dozens of the writhing white forms twisted and turned in the festering hole until they spilled forth, dropping to the ground, some of them dropping into the puddles of Weller's blood.

He screamed loudly.

`Who are you?'

The leader moved closer and Weller recoiled as the stench threatened to choke him.

Then the others joined their leader, staring at the young man nailed to the wall with something akin to fascination.

He felt his stomach contract, felt it trying to expel its contents.

He heard a sound that was all too familiar.

The swish-click of a flick knife.

Then he felt it against his cheek, the point gouging into his flesh, digging deeper until blood began to run from the wound. And yet the knife was wielded with immaculate skill, drawn in light quick movements through the skin of Weller's face to expose the network of muscles beneath. He screamed again as he felt the blade moving beneath his right eye, scraping against his cheekbone. up and across his forehead then down the other side of his face.

When it reached his neck he
did
pass out.

The figure with the knife cut the last piece of flesh free then slid two fingers beneath the skin as if it were some kind of mask.

Pulling carefully, the figure pulled the skin free, coaxing it away from the eyes with the aid of the blade.

It came away in one piece.

One dripping piece of skin.

The figure turned to those watching and held the mask of living flesh aloft like some kind of bizarre trophy.

Two of the others stepped forward and began removing Weller's clothes, tossing them aside until he was naked.

Then they set to work.

The footsteps outside his door woke him.

Carter sat bolt upright, awake in an instant, ignoring the slight ache from his injured shoulder. He heard the footsteps and peered towards the door, watching the shadows beneath.

There was someone out there.

Listening.

Waiting.

He glanced across at the emergency button beside his bed, his finger poised over it.

The door handle turned slowly.

Carter swung himself out of bed, his eyes never leaving the slowly-turning handle. To hell with the emergency button, he thought. He'd deal with this himself.

The door opened a fraction, light from the corridor beyond spilling across the floor.

He saw a figure illuminated in the tight.

The door opened further, the figure took a step inside.

Carter sat on the end of the bed and waited.

Tina Richardson closed the door behind her and smiled at him.

`You'd never make a hitman,' said Carter, quietly, a smile spreading across his tips. He stood up and she walked towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, drawing his face to hers. Their lips pressed together, her tongue pushing against his, seeking entry to the warm moistness inside his mouth. He pulled her hard against him, aware of the growing warmth spreading around his groin, the heady scent of her perfume and her hands now gliding across his chest and back as he responded fiercely to his kiss.

When they finally parted, Tina was breathing heavily.

'I thought you'd been killed too,' she told him, gripping his right hand tightly.

She sat down on the bed beside him, shrugging off her coat.

Carter saw that she was wearing only a thin sweater and a leather skirt. Her hair was freshly washed. She smelled as if she'd just stepped out of a shower. He touched her cheek with his free hand and she kissed his fingers as he traced a pattern over her lips.

'How did you get in?' he asked, glancing at the clock. 'It's nearly three in the morning.'

'I sat in the car outside the train entrance,' she told him.

'There was only one porter on duty. It was just a matter of waiting.'

He smiled.

'For what?'

'Everyone has to pee eventually,' she informed him. 'I sneaked in then. I knew you'd be in this room, Frank always uses the best facilities for his men if they're injured.'

'Where is he now?' asked Carter, anxiously.

'He went back to his own place about midnight. I told him I'd be OK on my own.' She leant forward and kissed him again, quickly. 'I was so worried about you. I had to see you. I'm sorry, Ray.'

'We'll both be sorry if Frank finds out. We'll end up propping up a flyover somewhere,' Carter told her sardonically.

'I'll go if you want me to,' she said, getting to her feet.

Carter held her hand and pulled her back down beside him pulling her close, feeling her breasts pressing against his chest as they kissed. He allowed one hand to slide beneath her sweater, reaching higher until it closed over one unfettered mound. He rubbed gently, feeling the hardness of her nipple against his palm. She sighed and reached for his growing erection, encircling it in her hand, coaxing his stiffness. She pushed him back on the bed, slipping free of his hands to lay beside him. She kissed his chest, nipping the flesh between her teeth, sliding lower until her tongue flicked at the bulbous head of his penis.

'No,' gasped Carter, somewhat reluctantly. He sat up. 'Not here. Not now.'

She didn't speak but merely sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

'How much longer have we got to go on like this?' she asked. When she turned to face him he saw tears in her eyes. One solitary, salty droplet ran down her cheek. Carter leant forward and kissed it away.

'Meeting in secret, both of us frightened of what we say in case we give ourselves away,' she persisted. 'It's been like this for six months now. The odd night together if we're lucky but always looking over our shoulders. Looking for Frank.'

'That's the way it's got to be, Tina,' said Carter quietly. 'We have to be careful, both of us.'

'I hate the way things are,' she said wearily, clutching at his hand. 'But I know you're right. To a certain extent we both
need
Frank. Without him I'd have nothing ...'

Carter interrupted her.