Low Profile

Table of Contents

Cover

Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

BACKLASH

SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

DEAD HEAT

BIG CITY JACKS

PSYCHO ALLEY

CRITICAL THREAT

CRUNCH TIME

THE NOTHING JOB

SEIZURE

HIDDEN WITNESS

FACING JUSTICE

INSTINCT

FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD

BAD TIDINGS

JUDGEMENT CALL

LOW PROFILE

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2014 by Nick Oldham

The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Oldham, Nick, 1956- author.

Low profile. – (A Henry Christie novel)

1. Christie, Henry (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

2. Murder–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Police–England–

Blackpool–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9'2-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-72788-390-2 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-537-6 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

This one is for Philip Joseph Oldham

H
awke smiled warmly at the woman.

She returned the smile hesitantly and he could see from the look in her eyes that it was slowly dawning on her he might not be the person he claimed to be. But he kept his smile warm and genuine and said, ‘Yes, please, I'd love a cup of tea. I'll bet you have Earl Grey, don't you?'

She nodded.

‘Just a drop of milk, though,' he said, touching his thumb and forefinger together to emphasize the tiny amount required.

‘OK.' She stood up and crossed to the door of the living room, glancing his way.

He watched her, still smiling. He knew he would have to follow her into the kitchen to stop her making the call. But he didn't rise or give any indication of his intent because he wanted her to go through the motions of putting the kettle on, setting up the tea pot and cups – and then picking up the phone.

Because that moment was one of the pleasures of Hawke's work. The moment they picked up the phone to make
the call
and he would appear silently by their shoulder to reach out and peel the phone gently from their grasp whilst they were halfway through dialling the number which, if they had connected, would only have served to confirm what they had begun to suspect: that Hawke was not here for a legitimate reason.

As she closed the door, Hawke's smile dropped instantly from his face and was replaced by a happy smirk. This was exactly the kind of killing he revelled in.

One of those that built up nicely, stage by stage. A continuum of terror. First, as the witness slowly began to realize things were not just quite right. That the person who had entered their home – with their permission, it had to be said – started to make them feel uncomfortable, then agitated, then angry, then afraid and then terrified.

And then, of course, helpless. The circle would be complete when they also realized they had been promoted from witness to victim.

It could be a long-drawn-out process.

And Hawke loved it. The unfolding drama. The tension.

Much more fun than the straightforward executions that were his bread and butter, the gun-to-the-back-of-the-head ones which were over as soon as they had begun. They required little finesse and made him a lot of easy money.

If he had been honest with himself he could have made this killing just like that, but he had opted for the change in MO because the female had answered the door, not his actual target. He had seen the possibility of some fun and switched instantly into ad lib mode.

He could simply have blown the back of her head off using the soft-nosed .38 rounds loaded into his silenced four-inch-barrelled Smith & Wesson Model Ten revolver, with the stubby, bulbous silencer, his rather staid and old-fashioned, but extremely reliable, weapon of choice. Her face would have imploded like a pillow being punched and her skull exploded with the exit of the bullet. She would have been driven backwards down the hallway, most of her brains splattering the wall. He could simply have stepped over her twitching body, dragged her further in, closed the door and waited for the real target to arrive home.

But … wouldn't have been an awful lot of pleasure in that.

She was a nice, pretty woman, and it would have been criminal not to have at least some fun with her. Get to know her a little, let her get to know him. Have some connection … maybe even flirt a little.

So, on the pretence of being a business partner-to-be of the target and claiming he had a prearranged appointment with him – which did make her frown slightly – he was glib enough to get her to invite him into the house. The presence of the sleek Porsche 911 parked alongside her nippy little Fiat 500 in the driveway helped to smooth matters.

Hawke stood up.

One problem with spending this quality time with an additional victim was, of course, the possibility of leaving a trail of evidence behind him. Fingerprints, DNA, fibres, that sort of thing.

In the leather briefcase he carried – another little bit of fine detail that had helped convince the woman of his genuineness – he had a tightly folded white paper suit which he unravelled and stepped into, then pulled a pair of elasticated slippers over his shoes after which he fitted a hair net – a touch he particularly liked. The billowing paper suit and silly footwear made him look ridiculous enough, but the hair net took the comedic look to a completely new level. At least that was what Hawke thought. It made him almost clown-like, and he certainly appreciated the terror that clowns could induce. If he killed with a machete, the picture would have been complete, like something out of a slasher movie, but he had no wish to hack someone to death, mainly because of the forensic implications of massive blood splatter, which was impossible to control. He knew this because he had once hacked someone to pieces, got blood everywhere. He liked a bit of splatter but not too much.

Next he fitted his latex gloves, snapping them on to his hands like a surgeon.

There was a mirror over the fireplace in which he checked his appearance. He pulled the hood of his paper suit over his head and drew the drawstring tight so that only the basic features of his face could be seen, a circle around his eyes, nose and mouth. Satisfied, he picked the revolver out of his case and walked to the living room door, stepping silently into the hallway, sliding slowly along the parquet flooring like an ice skater, until he was at the kitchen door. He paused, his head cocked to one side, then sidled into the kitchen.

As ever he was right. Two cups by the kettle, a tea pot, the kettle actually burbling away and the woman – he had learned she was called Charlotte, but her friends called her Lottie – standing with her back to him, a mobile phone in her hands, thumbs desperately working the keypad, her concentration absolute.

Making the call.

She had no inkling he was right behind her. Right up to the moment his left hand snaked over her shoulder and slipped the phone from her grip and he said, ‘I'll take that please, Lottie,' in a quiet, gentle way.

She contorted away from him, gasping as she took in the vision he had become.

Hawke was still smiling, even though his features were drawn tight by the hood, and outwardly calm, although underneath he was now excited, blood pulsing through his veins, his breathing a little short.

‘Shh.' He held his fingertip to his lips.

‘What do you want?'

He paused before replying. ‘I want you to stay in control of yourself, Lottie,' he said. ‘You're not the one I'm interested in, so what we have to do is settle down and wait awhile … and maybe I could trouble you for that cup of tea, yeah?'

‘You shouldn't be calling me,' she whispered hoarsely into her mobile phone.

‘But I need help.'

‘What sort of help?' Lisa Christie stepped out on to the balcony of the apartment in Costa Teguise, slid the door closed behind her. ‘You know you can't phone me, we're over, finished. I'm getting my life together – properly.'

‘I know all that.' The anxiety was audible in the man's voice.

Lisa walked to the balcony rail and looked across the multi-form swimming pool in the centre of the apartment complex. ‘I'm not here for you now, you know that.'

‘Yes, yes, I know … but …'

‘Well? Why are you phoning?' she demanded.

‘I've done something really, really stupid.'

Lisa waited impatiently. She was dressed and changed, ready to go out for the evening, just waiting for her fiancé, Rik Dean, to finish his ablutions and come out smelling of Kouros. She took a sip from the glass of white, chilled wine.

‘That doesn't sound like you,' she said, trying to urge him on and get the phone call over with.

And it didn't – it sounded more like her. She was the rash, reckless one, the one who followed her heart, not her head. It certainly did not sound anything like Percy Astley-Barnes, the man she had been seriously involved with for a short period of time the year before. That was until she realized that what she really needed in her life was Rik, the man she had treated so abominably and who had so generously accepted her back into his life when he could so easily have shoved a hand in her face and told her to get lost.

Percy had taken the split in his stride, accepting gracefully that he wasn't the man for Lisa Christie. That didn't mean he wasn't besotted by her, though.

‘I made an error of judgement.'

Lisa frowned, trying to work out what she could hear in his voice. Fear?

‘And how can I possibly help?' She glanced back through the window into the apartment. Rik was still in the bathroom.

‘I don't know,' Percy admitted with a sob.

‘Jeez, Percy,' Lisa said, taken aback. If there was one thing Percy didn't do, that was cry. He was a decent, caring man but also a hard-headed businessman and not someone who showed his inner emotions. To hear him sob jarred her.