To Kill Or Be Killed (24 page)

It was all too
easy to get the laundry room and staff access areas. Most people
hesitated, were nervous or held back in out of bounds areas, but
having the confidence to just walk through the doors marked staff
only and do so with an affected air of rectitude was one of the
skills that delineated the successful in the killing trade. The
trick was to look like you belonged there.

There was no
lock on the staff door around the corner from reception and he
pushed it open and made his way down a narrow stair case to a
basement area. There was a decent though not large sized open area
in front of him, a small lift to his left and storage rooms behind
him and to his right.

To his delight
the laundry baskets were sitting waiting to be taken away near a
cellar hatch hydraulic hoist. He was at the back of the hotel and
there were steps up beside the hoist and he could smell fresh air.
He opened a basket and without cringing waded through the linen.
Sure enough there were aprons, blue check trousers and white cotton
tops, even white kitchen caps, at the bottom. He held a number of
them up to look at, senses alert to the possible arrival of an
employee. The third pair of trousers he pulled out, tomato stained
and mucky around the trouser cuffs, were his size roughly and he
found a white top with a variety of splashes and smelling of stale
sweat which was roughly the right size too. The sound of the lift
hurried his decision. He took the items, rolled them under his arm
and climbed the steps into the fresh air.

Just around the
corner from his hotel on Montagu Row he found a hair salon. The
girl wasn’t impressed by his badly cut and poorly dyed hair. He
needed an appointment and as the receptionist had taken pity on him
when he’d told the story of a stag night binge and waking to find
his hair damaged and dyed. They had a stylist available and she
said she’d fit him in at five. She frowned at rolled bundle of
dirty chef’s clothing and his shabby clothes. He’d shrugged his
shoulders knowing she’d assume the worst.

The tube took
him to the Oxford Circus, where he knew he’d get some clothes. He
was also looking for a launderette. He walked amongst the crowds
aware of the CCTV cameras watching, but knowing that he could not
be spotted in the huge crowds of shoppers. Thanks to the brown hair
and even without the fake facial hair he was the wrong shaped
needle in a haystack.

He picked out
the Diesel shop and bought himself a much more in touch look. The
shop assistant gave him sad looks, thinking that it was another
middle aged man having a trend crisis. Mason spent over four
hundred pounds including a leather coat and shoes.

When he paid it
struck him that he ought to change now.

“Do you mind if
I change here?” The assistant raised an eye brow and Mason gave him
the deadest of cold stares, hardening his face. The youth looked
down

“Yeah sure no
problem.”

Having used the
cubicle to change in and feeling more human and much more like
himself out of the Oxfam clothes he strode over to the counter. The
youth was serving a customer.

“Bin that lot
mate. Ta.” Mason said breezily.

Mason dumped
the bag full of old clothes on the counter and walked out. He was
feeling fine. Tonight he was going to have fun and tomorrow he was
going to make contact and make a million pounds on one hit.

It took him
five minutes to find a launderette two streets away in Marshall
Place. It was fully attended so he left the small bundle to be
washed and ironed and decided, looking at his watch and seeing it
was four thirty, to find a bar and have drink. A short walk down
the road he found the John Snow Pub. It was half full. He ordered a
pint of lager and sat at the bar watching the clock. He caught his
reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottles on optics and
frowned at himself. He looked down at his new clothes and smiled.
‘Nearly there.’ He thought.

Within half an
hour he had collected his stolen kitchen uniform and caught the
underground back to Baker Street. He had just about run out of
ready cash.

Chapter
68

London

4 p.m.

April 18th

After the
landing at Stansted Airport David was taken by car around Long
Border Road, along Coppice Road and through the Avenues to the
airport plane parking area where there was a helicopter waiting to
take him into central London.

The trip was
different to the outward journey and David noted that London looked
rather more mundane from air by daylight than it had at night. He
mused on the fact that perhaps he had been full of expectation on
the night journey out and on this return he was deflated and
jaded.

As the helipad
came into view below them David got more of a sense of the scale of
the building than on the outward journey. He was not dwarfed or
made to feel insecure by the sense of the huge machine of which he
was a part. He felt a certain relief and comfort in coming in to
land on the top of his base. He had felt alone and isolated at
times on the ‘mission’, but as the helicopter bumped down the
strength of the department and the threads of its power stretching
across the country imbued him with a sense that the remaining
assassins would be brought to book one way or another.

Out of the
helicopter it was windy on the roof and he quickly made his way to
the lift and into the warm conditioned air. After the short lift
ride he made his way to Jack’s office. Magda told him to wait in a
chair and gave him a warm smile.

David was lost
in his thoughts for some minutes when the sharp opening of the
office door and Jack’s friendly tones beckoned him in.

“David. Good to
see you back safely come in. Magda hold all calls until further
notice.”

David sat in
the chair opposite Jack’s and looked at the grey sky and gloomy
clouds held at bay by the thick protective glass of the DIC
building. Jack sat opposite. David looked at the desk and saw a Sig
220 and two full magazines of ammunition lying beside it. They were
stark against the scattered papers. He refocused his eyes on his
boss’ face.

“Well the good
news is that Jack Beaumont will make a full recovery. I’ll need a
report, but you can type that and e-mail it tomorrow. By all
accounts Wheeler was a nasty piece of work and the kill was
necessary, even unavoidable. I’ve seen the bus station CCTV. I’m
amending procedures for active rota at the moment since the last
two incidents.”

“I’m sorry Jack
it was all a bit intense and not at all as easy as it appeared to
be at first sight.” David said.

“You needn’t be
sorry. Aside from the lack of DIC fatalities you did the job well.
I can tell you that everyone in this building is speaking highly of
you right now.” Jack said looking at McKie with keenly focussed
eyes.

David raised an
eyebrow.

“Oh yes.” Jack
continued. “There are less than fifteen people in this building
who’ve had to kill either as a part of this job or the job they had
when we head hunted them and they are the most impressed. You join
an elite cohort of DIC workers who’ve had to use a weapon and the
immunity to prosecution that the DIC badge bestows. If you like the
David McKie legend begins here.” Jack finished tapping his
desk.

“I hope it ends
here too, sorry, but this is a little more brawn and much less
brains than I had bargained for.” David replied quite
seriously.

“I’m glad to
hear that or you’d not be the man I hired, but I hope you’re not
going to leave us. I know you were in at the deep end from the
start, but I have every faith in you, in fact no-one could have
handled that duty ‘mission’ better. Many would have hesitated to
pull the trigger. Most would be awed by the responsibility of such
a task.” Jack was taken aback by David’s remarks and it showed in
the tone of his voice.

“Thank you. No
I don’t want to leave, but I would like to go home and spend time
in front of the screen monitoring.”

“And you will
David. I’ve had your things packed and there’s a car waiting to
take you to Charing Cross station. The counsellor will call next
week to make sure that you don’t get post traumatic stress
disorder.”

“Any news on
Cobb, Mason or Stanton?”

“No. Cobb’s
certainly in London. Mason must be here by now if the police car in
St Albans is his handy work. Lord knows where Stanton is. Perhaps
Monty will run him to earth.” Jack rose from his seat speaking.
“Well it’s time for you to go home and I have things to do. I have
to arrange for my deputy to take over whilst I go to Wally’s
funeral.”

“I’m sorry
about that. Did you know him well?” David asked glancing at the
pistols on the desk.

“Yes he and I
were partners on a DIC active rota in the eighties. He saved my
life. He was one of those staff I mentioned who killed in line of
duty.” Jack paused and picked up the pistol turning it over in his
hands. “Sadly because of the shock of the kill he didn’t like to
carry his gun after that, nor did he like the idea of killing
again.”

Jack Fulton
laid the Sig gently on the desk and suddenly reminded by the unused
pistol David got up and grabbing his bag pulled Beaumont’s pistol,
in a plastic police labelled bag, from his rucksack. He put it on
the desk. He then added the laptop and cell phone.

“Beaumont’s.”

“Thank
you.”

When David
exited the office his overnight bag was waiting. He took the lift
directly to the ground floor and went out through security. As he
put his hand on the biometric pad his details were flagged up on
the security screen. The desk section opened and he passed out. He
felt the eyes of the security staff on him and turned to meet the
gazes of the three men.

“See you soon
Mr McKie.”

“Yeah safe
journey home too.”

David smiled
and in their eyes and across their faces he read some admiration
and respect. Word really had got round the building. He smiled
back.

“See you soon.”
He replied smiling.

The revolving
door eased him slowly out of the building and into the waiting car.
The driver pulled into traffic, knowing where they were going.
There was no talk, but David saw in the mirror the glances from the
pool driver and in his eyes he read admiration too. The word had
certainly got round that was for sure. David didn’t feel all that
comfortable with such hero worship though.

Chapter
69

London

4–58 p.m.

April 18th

Mason arrived
at the hair salon two minutes early and was shown to his seat
straight away. They were cleaning up and had obviously considered
that shaving his hair short would only take a moment. The
receptionist looked startled at his appearance. The story had got
around the salon and so his description had been fixed in her
mind.

“Who butchered
your hair like this?” The hair dresser asked.

She was an
attractive Asian girl in a standard black skirt and white blouse, a
foot shorter than him, slim at the waist and rounded in a fulsome,
but not heavy way, around the her backside. His eyes followed the
contours of her body, flat stomach and small rounded breasts, up to
the smooth dark skin of her neck and her hair which was spiky and
swept around and under her chin in places, showing her high cheek
bones. He looked at her face and thought it slightly Eurasian.
Behind the dark eye make up he saw professional disdain in her eyes
and her dislike of the job she was going to have to do. She looked
at her watch and sucked on her teeth. She looked over at the
receptionist.

“Tara I can’t
do this quickly. If you leave the keys I’ll lock up.”

“Are you sure
Aliesha?”

“Yes.” She
turned back to Mason pulling at his hair gently in various places
as she spoke. He mentally stored her name.

“I’ll clip the
back and sides shorter and try and give it some sort of style, but
they’ve cut the top and front too short and that’s the worst part
to have done. What’s your natural colour?”

“Black.”

“I suggest we
wash it and dye it black. It’ll cost, but you won’t look middle
aged any more. I take it you aren’t middle aged?”

“No.” Mason
said smiling.

For the first
time she looked into his eyes via the mirror. He smiled in a wry,
lop sided way. She smiled back with a little warmth, appraising his
face, thinking it handsome and mulling over the confident cat like
animal way he had walked over.

“I heard the
story. Not your stag night?”

“No my
friend’s.”

“Come this way.
I’ll wash your hair.”

She covered him
with a robe, which tied at the back, and he was a little surprised
when her hand smoothed the crumpled material across his back with
an all too tender touch. He mused that perhaps it was his build or
his eyes that had created a mild attraction. It had been said by
other women that he had an animal magnetism. He sat in the chair
and rested his head back. The warm water coursed through his hair
and tingled his scalp, a tingling which increased in intensity as
she lightly massaged her fingers over his scalp. She spoke gently
in a soft teasing voice.

“You a naughty
boy then?”

“Yes.” Mason
sighed the word out.

“Like to get
out and cut loose?” She pursued.

“Not all the
time and I don’t get that drunk often, in fact I can’t remember the
last time that happened.”

She made him
sit up with a light push of her hand and dried his hair lightly
with a towel.

“That’s good,
can’t have you winding up bald.” She took him back to the seat,
mixed up the dye and wearing plastic gloves applied it to his
hair.

“It’ll be ten
minutes before it takes to the right darkness. Can I get you a
coffee?”