Kiss Me Quick (32 page)

Vince eased himself up carefully into a crouch, making sure he stayed lower than the coffee table. As soon as he saw Vaughn rising, the coiled Vince sprung. With his head kept down he felt his cranium connect with Vaughn’s chin. There was a grinding and snapping of ill-set teeth, followed by a low yelp of surprise and pain. Vince had launched himself with such force that he’d almost thrust Vaughn through the wall. A palpable tremor ran through the prefabricated bungalow. With one hand around Vaughn’s throat, Vince sent his brother’s head smashing against the skirting board as he fell. There was blood on the wall from his brother’s injured head, and around his mouth where the splintered teeth had pierced his tongue.

Vince reached down with his other hand to search for the gun that might still be in Vaughn’s hand. Meanwhile he squeezed his brother’s throat to stop him calling out. In the tormented silence that followed, he heard the gargle of blood from within Vaughn’s throat. Still Vince squeezed tight, unprepared to listen to any pleas.

Down on the floor it was even darker yet he could distinguish the expanding whites of Vaughn’s eyes as they bulged, almost cartoonishly, turning his wretched features into some type of cheap Halloween mask. Vince turned away from the sight, felt his brother squirming underneath him. Those bony legs trying to kick out, doing the death dance, the last dance – the one you do on the end of a rope. Vince wanted to be sure of having the gun in his hand, before the last breath left Vaughn’s body.

Then he found the weapon, as he felt the hard metal of it pressing into his chest. The butt or the barrel, he couldn’t tell.

Then it gave its report.

Bobbie was sitting on the red-lipped sofa. Henry Pierce sat in the chair opposite, a high-backed armchair with gilt-painted
woodwork
and red-velvet upholstery. Ornate, altogether over the top, and Jack’s. His chair, his throne. Pierce had seen him seated in it many times. He recalled looking up at Jack, whilst he himself sat below his level, on the feminised sofa, awaiting his boss’s
instructions
. Over time he’d grown to resent the arrangement – not Jack being boss, for that was never in question – but merely the
seating
arrangements. Jack on his burnished throne, all-powerful and talking down to him, while Pierce perched on a pair of girly
fucking
lips. Naaaa, no way to conduct business, Pierce thought, not dignified. Jack Regent? Jack Regina more like!
She
really knew how to lord it, sometimes! But now the chairs had been turned and he was on the throne. He had control.

Pierce had poured himself a glass of brandy, a Vieille Reserve, Jack’s favourite tipple. He held the swordstick in his hand, its point rotating and boring a hole into the thick blue carpet. Pierce savoured the spirit, and the moment. As far as he was concerned, everything had now gone to plan. Even though he hadn’t
actually
planned any of it. But he satisfied himself that, if he had planned it, he couldn’t have executed it any better.

He looked down at Bobbie. She stared at the hole he was
making
in the carpet. He considered the carving knife that she was holding so unconvincingly. They both had weapons, but, even with the best will in the world, you’d be hard pressed to call it a Mexican stand-off. She might as well have been wielding one of Murray the Head’s nail files. Bobbie looked down at the knife in her hand – and had a nasty feeling it would soon be out of it.

‘What do you think Treadwell will do when he comes back here to find that knife you’re holding buried in your skull?’ asked Pierce.

Bobbie dry-swallowed but said nothing.

‘Young Vincent has got one of two options,’ he said. ‘One, he’ll call the bogies and report a murder, then Machin will do a thorough investigation. A certain film will fall into his hands, showing Treadwell killing a man with his bare hands. Machin will put two and two together, because that’s what coppers are wont to do, and come up with a suitable conclusion: crime of passion. Copper falls for and then kills a gangster’s inamorata. The same gangster that he was sent down here to nick. Or, option two, the more likely but less bleedin’ newsworthy scenario: he’ll cut off your head, your hands, drive the knife into your chest to puncture your lungs to get all the air out of you, and then bury you somewhere at sea. Then he’ll go back to London like nothing ever happened, and carry on with his good work for the
Metropolitan
police service.’ Pierce smiled contentedly on reaching this conclusion.

Bobbie bit her bottom lip, hoping the pain would distract her from thinking about the latter fate just laid out for her. Then she shook her head. ‘It’s all a lie, because Vincent wouldn’t do that. He’s not a killer.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Pierce, reaching into the inside pocket of his black Crombie overcoat and pulling out a long
cardboard
tube, ‘until I was shown these today. They’re enough to make you wish you was blind.’ Pierce tut-tutted and threw the tube over towards Bobbie.

It bounced off the plump bottom lip of the sofa, and fell on to the floor next to Bobbie’s feet. She glanced down at it, then fixed her eyes straight back on Pierce. He carefully rested the
sword-stick
on the arm of the throne, then mockingly raised his hands, palms upwards, in a fey gesture of surrender, knowing that he could take the carving knife off her in a none-too-bothersome second.

Vigilantly, Bobbie leaned down to pick up the cardboard tube, making sure that the pointy end of her knife was constantly aimed at Pierce, as though it was a wand that could ward off evil spirits. With one hand, she popped off the white plastic cap as if it was a big tube of Smarties and stuck a finger inside. Instead of sweets, she found two A4-sized, rolled-up glossy black-and-white photos. Sliding them out of the tube, she laid them on the coffee table. About five seconds was all it took for the knife to fall from her trembling grip. The tremble took over, reverberated around her body, shook tears from her eyes. She buried her head in her hands.

As Pierce stood up, the carving knife was already in his hand …

Vince placed the receiver down on its cradle. He had just called an ambulance for Vaughn, who was laid out on the floor with a pillow under his head, and his jacket tied around him by its sleeves to stem the blood. The bullet had caught him on his right-hand side, just below the ribs. No major organs there, but enough of a hole to empty him out. Apart from the bloodied mouth, smashed teeth and cracked cranium, his eyes were as wide as saucers. A permanent eddy of tears streaked his pockmarked cheeks, as Vaughn had not accepted the consequences of his actions stoically. Vince thought he might have to knock him out to stop his screaming and squirming so he could then tie something more effective around the wound to stem the blood. It had been
fifty-fifty
who would get shot, but Vince knew that if anyone were to take a bet on it from past form, their money would be on Vaughn buying the bullet. Vince picked up the gun from the floor, emptied it of the remaining bullets, then threw it on to the sofa.

‘I didn’t want to be the one to bring you in, Vaughn, but that’s what I would be obliged to do, so maybe this is the best result.’

‘Tell me about it, copper.’

‘Nothing to do with being a copper. Whatever you think of me, I’m still your brother, and I don’t want to see you dead. And Pierce and the others, they’ll kill you, and they’ll do it properly so that you’ll never be found. You’ve got nowhere to run, Vaughn.’

‘I’d have killed
you
, so what do you care what happens to
me
?’

‘You would have, yes, but you didn’t. As for caring what
happens
to you, Vaughn? I don’t know that I do any more. But we shared the same mother, so …’

Whatever was left of Vaughn’s tough-guy schtick had pretty much evaporated now. ‘What’s … what’s going to happen to me, Vince? Will they hang me?’

Vince walked towards the door.

‘Vince … please, Vince, will they?’

‘The ambulance will be here soon. Don’t try and move. You won’t get very far.’

Vince opened the door and exited without looking back at his brother. He stared up at the moon, which was clouding over. Dark swathes covered its face. It looked angry.

‘Vince! … Vince! Please, don’t let them. Please …!’

Vince walked over to the car, his brother’s pleas falling on deaf ears. He got in the vehicle and drove off.

‘They’re what they call “stills” in the picture business,’ said Henry Pierce, eyeing the glossies. ‘When they want to advertise a
coming
attraction, they take photos of the best bits, and hang them in the foyer. “Publicity stills”,’ he elaborated in an enlightened, learn-something-new-every-day kind of way.

Bobbie still had her head buried in her hands, still too torn apart inside herself to look at the photos. So Pierce forced the issue. He bent down, grabbed her by the hair, pulled her head up, picked up one of the photos and shoved it in front of her face. ‘See how photogenic young Vincent is?’

Bobbie yanked herself free, grabbed the photo out of his hand and tore it in pieces.

Pierce tut-tutted. ‘Shouldn’t have done that. I was hoping to get the young star himself to sign it. But, don’t worry, plenty more where they came from. Enough copies to last a lifetime. His
lifetime
at least. You see, they don’t want to kill Vincent, because, since he’s a copper, much as I’d like to, you just can’t. Not the done thing. And you certainly don’t kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. I’ve heard good things about the boy, headed for the top of his chosen profession. Of course, the boy obviously needs
looking
after, to be handled with care. He has violent tendencies, but none of us is perfect, I say. I did a stint in c, would you believe? They wanted to call me “Mad” Henry when I got out – you know how villains love snappy monikers – but I soon nipped that one in the bud. Everyone’s a “mad” something or other in my line of work.’

Pierce dragged Bobbie to her feet by her hair. She was nearly on tiptoes when he remarked, ‘You’ve got a lovely head of hair, my dear. That lustrous, it would make a nice addition. I collect scalps, you see. Maybe Jack told you? Maybe young Vincent told you?’

She spat in his face.

He threw her weightless body on to the big red mouth of the sofa that she wished would swallow her up. You never give up on the cavalry, thought Bobbie desperately. Vincent would come through the door and save her … At this point, she would have taken Jack coming through the door – even if she didn’t see a happy ending to that scenario either.

Pierce started to move in.

Delay!

She now gave up on the cavalry. It was up to her now. She knew she had to talk to him, engage him, prolong whatever life she still had left.

Delay!

‘You’ve always hated me, Henry, from the first time you set eyes on me. But what did I ever do to you? Please, just answer me that.’

‘One of you has to go. And, as they say, better a bent copper in the hand than a dirty bird in the bush.’

Delay!

‘The brooch? When I first met you, Henry, you wanted to take a closer look at my brooch. Why was that? Tell me why?’

Pierce readjusted his grip on the carving knife into the killing position.

‘Was it the dress?’ Though she was riddled with fear and
desperation
, her voice held firm. ‘What was it you saw, Henry …
please
tell me!’

Pierce stared down at her. She didn’t cower any more but met his gaze head-on. Usually no one looked at Henry Pierce’s good eye. They were too mesmerized, too horrified, by his bad eye. But Bobbie now peered into it, and found something. A glimmer, a hint of hidden treasure.
His Tell
. Henry Pierce was hiding a secret, and now Bobbie knew she had him. Because she herself knew the nature of secrets, and how the best ones are seldom kept. A good secret is an even better story that’s just waiting in the wings – waiting to burst on to the stage. Stories
need
to be told, and she saw that Pierce was dying to spill.

And who better to spill it to than someone who was about to die?

‘There’s something you want to tell me, isn’t there? I know there is.’ She smiled at him, her eyes wide like a child. She said softly, conspiratorially, ‘You can tell me, Henry.
Anything
.’

Pierce stood there unmoving, as if rigor-mortic in thought. As that bad old brain of his ticked over, he realized a golden opportunity had just presented itself. And on that realization his mouth twitched and creased into a grin. He hooked the thumb of his left hand under the fob chain hanging from the buttonhole of his lapel, yanked out a half-hunter gold pocket watch from his top pocket and gave it a glance. He had time; it wouldn’t take long. And he knew it would only add to the occasion, which made this time well spent. He sat back down on the burnished throne.

‘Anything?’ he echoed.

‘
Anything
.’

‘There is something, yes. Something I need to unburden myself of, and who better …?’

Pierce looked genuinely grateful to her for giving him this opportunity. He just hadn’t thought of it, and it was so obvious.
To kill Bobbie without telling her? No, that would never do
. He would never have forgiven himself.

Pierce cleared his gummy throat and began, ‘It was 1939 and I remember it like it was yesterday. Christmas Eve, snow on the ground, fairy lights, decorations, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Picture the scene. Lovely time of year, if you like that kind of thing. Means nothing much to me, but there you go. Jack, just out of nick, eighteen-month stretch for malicious wounding. He got out early, ’cause he saved a screw’s life in a riot. It was all a put-up job. They only had the riot so Jack could save the bloke’s life. Anyway, he’s out early, so I picks him up. I suggested a
slap-up
meal, drinks, a club, some whores – if you like that kind of thing. Means nothing much to me, but there you go. Not Jack, oh no, he’s all business. Business first. Take care of business. Someone he had to see, someone who had been taking liberties, besmirching his reputation. Had to be straightened out, taken care of …’

Bobbie exhaled a dispirited and disgusted sigh, then asked
timorously
, ‘Please, I need to know … who were they?’

Pierce slowly raised a knotty forefinger to his lips, and then said in a tone of someone chiding an impatient child, ‘First things first, my dear. There’s more to come, much more.’ He lowered his hand and carried on …