Hearts of Stone (16 page)

36

‘W
hat was that all about?' asked Jools when I came off the phone. ‘As if I didn't know.'

‘It was Brady.'

‘I gathered that. And?'

‘And apparently your boyfriend's put the heavy mob on to me.' And you, I thought. But I didn't say it.

She looked scared and glanced at the door. ‘Are they coming here?'

‘Not right now. There's other unfinished business first.'

‘The drugs you were buying?'

‘Not me. I was just the messenger boy. But I've been kicked into touch. Not flavour of the month no more. Not since I punched your boyfriend in the head.'

‘I wish you'd stop calling him my boyfriend.'

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘
Mr
Seeley.'

‘So who is?'

‘What?'

‘Flavour of the month.'

‘Brady.' I looked at her. ‘Jools,' I said, ‘tell me something. You were with those two after we'd met. Was anything said about a double-cross?'

She shook her head. ‘No. They're straight. As straight as anyone is in that business.'

‘That's reassuring,' I said.

‘So what are we going to do?' she asked.

We?
I thought. ‘Nothing, just now. Roll with the flow. We've got a bit of time yet. At least I hope we have. Do you know when the buy's going down?'

She shook her head. ‘They never told me a thing. I was just Roy's bit of skirt as far as they were concerned.'

‘But not anymore.'

‘No. Not anymore. I'm never going to be anyone's bit of skirt again.'

‘That's good,' I said. ‘Hold that thought.'

I went and made more coffee, and she paced the floor between the bed and the sofa. ‘Jesus,' she said, ‘but this is making me nervous.'

‘What do you want to do?' I asked.

‘Get out of here.'

‘And go where? I thought you wanted to stay.'

‘I did. But now I'm not so sure.'

‘So go,' I said.

‘Can I have that money?' she asked.

‘Sure,' I said. ‘Stay here.' I went out of the flat, closing the door behind me and went to my hidey-hole in the roof. I checked that the Howdah pistol was still there, then got out the grand that Brady had given me, split off half, replaced the rest, took the monkey back to the flat, and gave it to her.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘I
will
pay you back.'

‘Whenever,' I said.

‘Listen,' she said, ‘I've got to go.'

‘That's up to you. Do you want a lift anywhere?'

‘Can you take me to Fulham? I've got some friends there.'

‘Sure,' I said.

She stuffed the money into her handbag and we went down to the car. As I drove to Fulham she kept looking over her shoulder at the traffic behind.

‘We're not being followed,' I said.

She smiled weakly. ‘I'm sorry I've brought you all this trouble, Nick. I'll make it up to you someday, I promise.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I said.

She got me to drop her off in a side turning near the Broadway. She waved once, then vanished into an alley, and I turned the car round and headed home.

37

S
o that was Monday. I was supposed to work the evening shift, but I called in sick. I didn't want to be around the bar with Seeley and Hughes looking for a spot of revenge, no matter what Brady had said. I didn't trust them not to send around a couple of heavy lumps to sort me out. At least at home I could lock the door and I had the Howdah pistol, if nothing else.

I called Kylie, just to hear her friendly voice, but there was no answer from her number all day.

I didn't go to bed at all on Monday night, just dozed, fully dressed on the sofa with the gun by my hand. No one rang, wrote or called.

Tuesday was the same. It was my official day off, so I didn't even have to lie to JJ. I didn't go out. Just washed and shaved and changed my clothes and ate what was in the fridge. I tried Kylie again several times, but again there was no answer.

At seven the phone rang. It was Brady. ‘It's on,' he said. ‘Just thought I'd let you know.'

‘Where… when?'

‘Soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Who knows? I've got the money. They're going to let me know the details later. Like the last time.'

‘Are you happy with that?'

‘I've got no choice. That's the way they want it.'

‘And you're covered?'

‘Sure I am.'

‘So when you're doing the deal, the cavalry arrive and take them down.'

‘That's the plan.'

‘I hope it works.'

‘It's not your problem now, is it?'

‘I'm not so sure.' The dread premonition that I'd been feeling since we'd last spoken came back stronger than ever. ‘Brady,' I said. ‘I've never liked this thing from the beginning. You be careful, d'y'hear?'

‘Relax, Nick.' He changed the subject. ‘How's Jools?'

‘Gone,' I replied.

‘Good job.'

I changed the subject back. ‘Brady, listen, can't I come with you?'

‘Don't be silly. If they see you, it will get blown.'

‘I could hide in the back of the car. Keep out of sight.'

‘You've been watching too many old movies.'

‘It could work,' I urged. ‘At least you wouldn't be on your own.'

‘Don't be fucking stupid. I'm not going to be on my own.' And he hung up. When I rang back, his portable had been turned off and there was no answer from his home phone.

That night I sat up again. The phone rang about four. I was sitting drinking coffee and watching Donahue on TV. The programme was all about alcoholism and drug abuse. I felt quite at home with the subject matter. I turned down the sound with the remote, and answered on the second ring.

I heard a sound like a snore, or a cough. A bad cough. Terminal. ‘Hello,' I said.

‘Nick?' The voice was far away. Too far.

‘Brady?' I said.

‘Nick, that you?'

‘Yes, course it is. What's happening?'

‘They were here.'

‘Who? What are you talking about?'

‘Don't know who. Four of them. And, Nick…'

‘Yes.'

‘Alfie was here. They've got Alfie.'

‘What happened?' Although I knew – and I knew I was just wasting time by asking. Too much time. Too much of his precious time.

‘They had guns.'

‘Are you hurt?' Stupid, stupid question.

‘Bad, Nick.'

‘Where are you?'

‘Elephant. At the back of the shopping centre. Next to the station. In a car park or something. Jesus, Nick, it hurts.' His voice broke, and I heard him gasping for breath.

‘Have you called an ambulance?'

‘Too late, Nick. Far too late.'

‘Brady. Put down the phone and call an ambulance.'

‘Nick, you've got to help me. Help Alfie.'

‘What the hell can I do?'

‘Find him. Make sure he's safe.'

‘That's not my job. Tell the police. Get off the line and I'll call them.'

‘No, Nick. They won't care about him. He's gay and black, and he won't have me to protect him any more.'

I hardly thought it was the time and place to discuss civil rights. ‘Brady, this is crazy…'

‘You owe me one, remember. You said so.'

‘I remember.'

‘I'm calling in the debt. Help him.'

‘I will. But call an ambulance. Now, Brady.'

But there was nothing but silence at the other end of the connection. ‘Brady,' I said, ‘can you hear me?'

But all I heard was another half cough, half snore and a crash as the phone hit something hard. ‘Brady!' I shouted, as if it would help – but I knew it wouldn't.

I put down the phone. Then picked it up again. But the connection was still complete, and all I got was more silence. Terrific. Just what I needed. The first copper on the scene with any sense had a hot-line right through to my phone. I slammed the receiver down again, grabbed my jacket, and left.

I made it to the Elephant in ten minutes, breaking every traffic law in the book as I went. As I drove, my head was spinning with questions I couldn't answer. Who the hell had burst in on Brady when the deal was going down? And why was Alfie with them? What was all that about? Had it been a double-cross by Seeley and Hughes, or had someone else muscled in? And where the hell had Endesleigh and his posse been whilst it was all going off? Or were they there? Christ, that was an ugly thought. How many bodies was I going to find when I got there? And who the hell else had known about the deal? Apart from me, that is.

Oh shit. Not the most pleasant thought I've ever had.

By the time I turned the Ford into the back streets behind the Elephant and Castle rail station, I hadn't answered question one.

I cruised round slowly, looking for signs of police, but the streets were quiet and deserted, and there were few lights in the flats across the open ground next to the railway. Then I saw the BMW I'd been taken in to the warehouse in London Bridge, parked up round by the railway arches, with its side lights on. I stopped the Cosworth behind it, switched off the engine, and got out to take a look. The big saloon was empty.

Then I looked round for the place Brady had described, and it wasn't hard to find. It was one of the loading bays for the shopping centre. The metal accordion doors had been pulled back, and when I looked closer I saw that the locks had been busted open. The entrance yawned in front of me, and then a ramp dropped away, dimly lit by low-wattage lamps mounted behind metal grilles high on the walls.

38

W
alking down the ramp was like a descent into hell. Not the hell of eternal fire and the screams of the damned in torment, but a chill hell that was silent except for the sound of cold drops of water dripping from the cracks in the stressed concrete ceiling, and splashing into deep black puddles that teemed with the transparent, sightless creatures that swam and crawled there, and ate each other and themselves in the constant battle for survival. A bit like human beings, I suppose. But, then, that's one for the philosophers – and I've never been a philosopher. The puddles stank of bad fish as I walked through them, but as I reached the parking area at the bottom of the ramp, the smell changed to that of cordite and used gunpowder, and that coppery stink that stuck in the back of my throat as if I'd been sucking on an old penny, and made me want to retch.

Brady's Porsche was sitting in the middle of the empty bay, headlights on. Their light splashed against the walls rich with graffiti, and created shadows black as ink across the floor. Wreathed in the light was the faint memory of smoke, like a dream that refuses to leave the corners of your mind at the coming of the morning sun. And in the reflection of the light I saw the bodies and the blood. So much blood. Oh Christ, if I live forever I'll never forget the sight of all that blood. Long streaks of it obscuring the paint sprayed on the walls. Puddles of it next to the car, and more on the car itself. Its bodywork splattered and stained with viscous streaks and spots like a bad paint job that had smeared to the colour of shit in the air. And, amidst all the blood, the bodies. Sprawled like mannequins in a window display out of your worst nightmare. I checked each one for signs of life, but found none. Their wounds were horrendous. Great rips and tears and holes in their flesh. Christ knows who had killed who. Endesleigh had been smashed apart by a shotgun blast that had blown him nearly in half. Chiltern's torso had been riddled with heavy-calibre bullets that had gone right through him and torn the back of his leather jacket to shreds. Ollie, the driver of the BMW, had bled to death from a groin wound, and lay face upwards in a lake of blood that was already beginning to crust over like fondue icing on a chocolate cake.

Seeley had been shot in the back of the head, executioner-style, and his face was almost unrecognisable. It was a rust-coloured mask, and his open mouth was full of a clot of dark-coloured matter that I didn't want to think about. Hughes looked like he'd been cut down whilst trying to escape towards a door with a pale green EXIT sign above it. His back had been opened up so that I could see the white splinters of his spine and ribs embedded in the flesh of his lungs. The hard-looking face I'd met at the electronics factory with Seeley and Hughes was curled in a foetal position half under the body of the Porsche. I could see no visible wounds, but when I felt for a pulse, his skin was cool, and I couldn't find even a flutter.

That was six of them. Then I went looking for Brady. The driver's door of the Porsche was open, and he had bled to death over the leather upholstery. His face was the colour of raw chicken skin, and his eyes were open and staring through the blood-flecked windscreen. The car-phone receiver was clutched in a death grip in his right hand. I closed his eyes for him and tried to prise the phone out of his hand. His fingers had set around the plastic like steel talons, and I snapped one with a sound like a gun being cocked and I jumped at the noise, like a schoolgirl being touched up for the first time. Eventually I got the receiver free, and reached over and tore the whole phone fitment out of the centre console.

As I stepped away from the car, I looked around again. Something was not quite right with the picture. Then I realised. There was no sign of any bags of money or drugs. And no weapons. Someone had done a thorough clean-up job. Just in case, I checked the back seat and the boot of the Porsche. Nothing. Whoever had done the killing had been waiting, or had followed them and shot them down during or after the bust. But who? I didn't know. But I
did
know that if I looked in a mirror, I'd see the prize suspect. There was nobody left to tell the truth about my involvement. And that was very bad news for me.

Then I heard, far off in the distance, the sound of sirens. Someone had finally done their civic duty and called the authorities. I ran back towards the ramp, carrying the phone, slipped in a slick of blood, steadied myself and kept running, splashing through the puddles of water and crushing the little beasties that lived in them to paste under the soles of my DMs.