 
A REASON TO KILL

A DI Matt Barnes Thriller

-1-

By

Michael Kerr

Smashwords Edition

Published by Head Nook Books

Copyright © 2013 Michael Kerr

Discover other Titles by Michael Kerr at MichaelKerr.org

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this Author.

An evil man seeketh only rebellion:

Therefore a cruel messenger shall be

sent against him.

Proverbs 17-11

#

# 

# PROLOGUE

**UNDER** normal circumstances the quiet, tree-lined street in Finchley was not a location that would be associated with sudden and violent death.

It was 6.00 a.m., and this bright June morning heralded a short, final day for several of the police officers on duty both outside and within the innocuous looking detached bungalow with pebble dashed walls and a bright, red-tiled roof.

Detective Inspector Matt Barnes got up from an easy chair, groaned, stretched his arms and grimaced, rolling his neck to loosen knotted muscles. Going into the kitchen, he switched on the coffeemaker.

"Black, one sugar," Detective Sergeant Donny Campbell said through a yawn, tossing the paperback he'd been reading onto a chair as he walked past the kitchen door, heading in the direction of the loo.

"What did your last skivvy die of?" Matt asked; a tired smile momentarily softening his craggy features as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.

Donny just grinned, adjusted the semiautomatic pistol that hung from a shoulder rig below his left armpit, and vanished.

The end of this gig was finally in sight, and that suited Donny just fine. The witness, Lester Little, was taking the stand in No 3 court at the Old Bailey the following day, and his evidence would be the clincher to putting Frank Santini away for the rest of his natural.

Matt heard the toilet flush, placed two mugs of steaming coffee on the pine tabletop, and when Donny returned, zipping up his pants, Matt went to relieve his own pounding bladder. Too much java.

It had been a pain in the arse, Matt thought. This was the third location in six weeks. But every angle was covered. He, Donny, and DC Bernie Mellors – who was on stand down, grabbing some shuteye – were inside with Little. Outside were two more officers in an unmarked Transit van. All of them were armed, and considered this a straightforward baby-sit.

As he sighed with relief and jettisoned what seemed like a gallon of filtered coffee, Matt looked at his reflection in the brown-stained mirrored-door of the medicine cabinet that was screwed to the wall. He acknowledged that he was completely knackered, felt crap, and looked like shit. The weeks' of nocturnal vigilance had turned him into a zombie. Christ, he was only thirty-four, and yet the face in the mirror could have belonged to a man of forty, plus VAT. His eyes were red-rimmed, with lines radiating out from the corners. The wrinkles seemed to be deeper these days, like fissures in a rock face. And his skin had what he termed prison pallor. There were even a few grey hairs showing at his temples, highlighted by the otherwise blue-black thatch. For a second, he could see his father looking back at him from the dull square of amalgam-coated glass.

Thank fuck this gig was almost a wrap. He needed some down time. A few days off to regroup; to sleep a lot and spend some quality time with Linda. He hadn't seen her for days, and chose not to get on the phone when he was working. Their relationship was on shaky ground, stretched as tight as a rope that was beginning to fray and come apart. They were in danger of splitting up. He knew it, but couldn't work out how to share his self between her and the work.

He sighed, shrugged, shook off and hit the lever, unwittingly drowning out the sound of death in progress, as the water swirled noisily around the toilet bowl.

#

# 

# CHAPTER ONE

**HE** had been given the address and all relevant details twelve days ago, and had made meticulous plans to kill his intended mark. He was now in the house next door to the bungalow, holding a young couple and their baby prisoners as he made ready to launch what would be a lethal attack.

Waiting was all part of the game; a hiatus before the planning and preparation came together. He liked to think of it as a military operation, himself a Chris Ryan/SAS type, setting out on a life or death mission. At this stage it was as though he was in the eye of a hurricane; an eerie place of absolute calm where he could find equanimity, before the serenity was broken to culminate in a shitstorm of his own design. He would soon be the instrument that would once again bring about the bloody death of fellow human beings. He mused. What was it Hemingway had said? 'There is no hunting like the hunting of man'. Now _there_ was a guy he had a lot of time for. He'd read all about him. Decided that he was a restless, brawling, drinking, womanising adventurer, who had also written about life in such a visceral way, that it was like a hand reaching into your guts and tearing them every which way but loose. And when Hemingway had had his fill of all on offer, the great man went out explosively on his own terms; a bullet his entry fee to the hereafter.

Knowing how the law operated was the key to game, set and match. They were overconfident of their capabilities, too smug by far, which was a potentially fatal flaw. He was within yards of them, and yet they were oblivious to the danger they were in. Unbeknown to them, they were on the clock. The countdown had begun, and their time was rapidly running out.

The couple were totally compliant to his demands, abetting him without question. They both knew that he was their worst nightmare, and were treating him with the due respect that one would afford a suicide bomber, all primed-up and ready for supposed martyrdom. Hallelujah!

After parking the car half a mile distant, he had approached the house from the rear, entered through a conveniently unlocked kitchen window – left open an inch to presumably allow in fresh air – and made his way to the bedroom. A night light illuminated the cot. Perfect. He pointed the silenced Glock at the slumbering infant's head, and then prodded the sleeping man in the bed next to it.

Jerry Page blinked his eyes and made to sit up as he saw the figure standing next to him. "Uh...what the―"

"Move a fucking inch and I'll blow your kid's brains out. Do you understand?" he asked.

Jerry was too shocked to even think of disobeying the stranger. He took in the thin, smiling face. Even in the soft yellow glow of the 25 watt bulb, he could see the madness that danced in eyes that were devoid of all compassion or humanity; bright and black, like those of a murderous crow.

"Don't hurt Michael, please," Jerry whispered.

"Then don't give me the slightest reason to. Wake your wife up. We need to talk."

"Penny, Penny," Jerry said, shaking her by the shoulder. "Wake up, love."

Penny took a few seconds to digest the situation. She then reacted against the threat to her baby, throwing herself across the bed, arms outstretched, and with a guttural noise escaping her open mouth.

He swept the pistol through the air in a lazy arc, to connect with the lunging woman's right temple, knocking her sideways, to where she collapsed unconscious over her husband's legs.

"Women!" he said, shaking his head at Jerry as he pointed the muzzle of the gun back at the infant. "Aren't they all just too fucking highly strung and unpredictable? God love 'em."

"What the hell do you want?" Jerry asked, cradling Penny's head and fighting back tears of fear, frustration and rage.

"Rule one. I ask the questions. What's your name?"

"Jerry Page."

"Okay, Jer, old son. I need for you to know exactly what's going down here. When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, we'll all go to the kitchen, have ourselves a cup of coffee and talk it through in a civilised manner. Just be sure to impress wifey that if she becomes irrational again, it's the kid I'll hit next time."

Twenty minutes later, with the Pages seated at the kitchen table, – Jerry holding the baby, and Penny fighting nausea as she held a tea towel packed with ice cubes to the swelling on her head, – he explained the situation to them.

"My business is with a piece of shit being kept under armed police protection in the bungalow next door. When I'm ready to go and deal with him, I'll tie you both up and leave. If you behave, you'll get through this. But you need to know that if you describe me to the police, I'll come back and kill the rug rat. I don't make idle threats. Until I go, your job is to act as though everything is normal, and do nothing that might seem suspicious."

"Whatever you want." Jerry mumbled.

"Music to my ears," he said, reaching down with his free hand to stroke the mongrel pup that yelped for attention. "Your mutt fussed me when I broke in. You should trade it in for a Doberman with attitude, and keep the windows locked in future. What do you call him?"

"Becks," Jerry said.

"What does that mean?"

"We...I named him after Beckham, the footballer. You know."

He frowned. "I don't watch football, or any sport. I think that life's too short to be a couch potato. There are more meaningful pursuits. Do you take Becks out for walks at specific times?"

"First thing in the morning, and in the evening, just before we go to bed. Penny lets him out in the back garden during the day."

"Good, we'll keep to that, Jer. What we need is the illusion of continuity; normality. And you need to be on my team. Anything worth having has to be worked for, and in this instance, you have the incentive of wanting to survive. To realise that goal, you have to believe beyond all doubt that you don't get a second chance in this game. If either of you fuck up, just the once, then it's over, and little Mikey here gets whacked."

Penny stammered, "We'll d...do anything y...you want."

He tried to smile, but it didn't come easy and never felt convincing. "Good girl," he said. "Just don't mistake my wholesome charm and good manners for weakness. I kill people for a living. It's not personal, so don't do anything that would result in any or all of you being collateral damage. We can all walk away from this and get to play another day. Does that sound good to you?"

Jerry and Penny both vigorously nodded their heads.

"Excellent. Now be a love, Penny, and make me another coffee, and a sandwich. I want you to treat me as a friend and house guest till I leave."

# CHAPTER TWO

**HE** had lied to Jerry and Penny. As dawn broke, he casually put a bullet in each of their heads. But he had given them a quick and merciful exit from all further consternation. They had not been targets, just a means to an end that had become of no further use to him. He pointed the gun at the sleeping baby's forehead. Hesitated. No. It couldn't identify him. He chose to let it live, because he had the power to be merciful if it suited him to be.

Outside, the two cops in the van gave him only a cursory glance as he closed the gate and walked along the pavement in their direction. They were programmed to seeing Jerry in his red blouson, I ♥ NY baseball cap, and with the pup on a leash nipping playfully at his Nikes.

It was so easy. As he drew level with the surveillance van, one of the cops flicked a cigarette end out of the open window, and even nodded in greeting, his attention mainly on Becks.

The street was clear. He drew the silenced Glock, stepped forward and shot the two men at point blank range; the first through the left eye, the second in his temple. Poetry in flowing motion. The game was now in play. He gave himself two minutes to take care of business and quit the scene. Without pause, he walked down the driveway and around the side of the garage, jemmied open the door with its cheap Mickey Mouse lock and stepped inside, leaving the pup to its own devices.

As the kitchen door to the integral garage flew back, Donny was raising a mug of coffee to his lips. He dropped it and reached for his pistol. But the initiative was wholly with the intruder, who had the advantage of surprise on his side, plus a gun already in hand and pointing rock steady at Donny.

Two bullets crashed into Donny's chest, knocking him backwards out of the chair. It was as if he'd been jerked by an invisible wire: a stuntman being pulled from his horse in an old western movie.

Donny tried to sit up, to call out a warning, but his body would not respond. All that came out of his mouth was a gout of poppy-red blood and a final whistling exhalation of breath. The few seconds it took him to lose consciousness seemed to last forever. Knowing that you are about to die is something you only get to experience once, and for Donny it was a real attention-getter. For some reason he focused his clouding vision on a crack that ran across the ceiling above, until it opened up and swallowed him.

From where he lay on the settee in the small lounge, Bernie opened his eyes in time to see Donny hit the floor. He saw the slim figure, gun in hand, and shouted, "Matt," a split second before a slug hit him in the neck, sentencing him to a comparatively quick death as the bullet ruptured his right carotid artery, to continue on through his vertebrae and the upper part of his spinal cord, effectively turning him into a quadriplegic even as he bled out.

In a heartbeat, Matt reacted without thought and just let his instincts take over. He saw a flash of red material; a narrow face below a long-billed cap, and the gun being brought round to target him. He threw himself sideways, out of the short hall and into a bedroom. Thank God the door was ajar. He almost made it. Drawing his pistol as he hit the floor and rolled, he cried out against the fiery pain that flared in both his leg and side.

Coming up into a sitting position with his back against the bed, and his Browning Hi-Power held two-handed and pointing at the open doorway, Matt readied himself to empty the clip into whoever had made the assault on the safe house.

Seconds passed. He felt dizzy, sick to the stomach. Glanced down to see blood bubbling through the denim of his jeans. An artery. Jesus! He needed help, and fast. If he passed out, he knew that he would not wake up again.

"No...Please!" Lester Little's voice. A hysterical and terror-filled plea for mercy, followed by three sounds that could have been polite coughs, had Matt not known that it was the muffled explosions of bullets being spat out through the baffles of a suppressor.

His leg was now numb. No pain. And he was cold to the bone. He somehow found the strength of will to reach into a pocket, withdraw his cell and hit stored memory and 2, which connected him with the SCU.

"Serious Crimes―"

"This is Barnes," he interrupted. There was no time to waste words. "We've been hit. There are officers down," he managed to say before dropping the phone. Survival depends on making the right decisions quickly and acting on them. Too many people die because they freeze and let life-threatening events unfurl without trying to save themselves. Matt did not for one second contemplate death. He unbuckled the belt from his jeans and pulled it from the loops to employ as a makeshift tourniquet. Wrapped it around his thigh as tightly as he could and refastened the buckle. Seconds later he sank into the black.

Linda shivered. Slabs of charcoal cloud swept in from the west to block out the rising sun, darkening and chilling the air of what had promised to be a fine day. There was a stillness; a pregnant silence devoid of even birdsong, followed by heavy, driving rain. Cold nails hammered against her skin as she gathered up the washing basket and ran from the garden into the kitchen. Dumping the basket on a work surface, she pulled a towel from where it hung from a hook below the wall-mounted spice rack. She rubbed her short blond hair, and then patted at her tanned face, shoulders and arms.

The doorbell rang. Call it a presentiment, but she was immediately consumed by a sudden dread that made her heart double its rate. The bell rang twice more before she found the resolve to walk woodenly out into the hall.

It was Matt's boss, DCI Tom Bartlett, standing on the step. There was bad news written all over his face.

"Tell me," Linda demanded, backing up as he stepped forward.

"Inside," Tom replied, entering the hallway to take her by the arm and lead her through to the lounge, where he motioned for her to sit down.

She sank into a chair, clasped her hands tightly together on her lap and closed her eyes. This was one of the reasons she had decided to walk away. She still loved Matt, but not enough – or too much – to share him with his job. He lived in a world of murder and mayhem; a life comprising sudden death in many guises. She hardly saw him. He came and went like a lodger, or a ghost, and was almost a stranger these days.

They had met two years ago. She had been on a girls' night out, and he had been on his own, propping up the bar in the Half Moon pub. One thing quickly led to another. That he was a cop intrigued her, initially. Love conquers all, they say, whoever _they_ are. Wrong! Matt could not give her enough of himself. She wanted more from the relationship, but had come to know that time was a commodity Matt rationed unfairly, in her estimation. And even when he was supposedly off duty there was a tension as she waited for the call that would instigate his apologising for cancelling another night out, weekend away, or just the pleasure of them being together.

Linda believed that through Matt's eyes her personal world was mundane. She was a freelance journalist, now working wholly from home via computer. And the cesspool that Matt steeped himself in was too deep and stagnant; not something that she could come to terms with. A year living under the same roof with a murder cop had in some way depleted her lust for life and jaded her outlook. She had learned that loving someone till it hurts and becomes a vexation to the spirit, was not sustainable. They both knew each other's feelings. Their shelf life had expired, and all that remained was for one of them, her, to make the break and move on.

"Matt was shot this morning," Tom said, his voice a controlled monotone. "He's alive, but in a serious...critical condition. You need to come to the hospital, Linda."

Wings of fear flapped in her stomach and tried to take flight. "Is he going to make it?" she asked, forcing the words through what felt like a rock tightly wedged in her throat.

Tom ran his fingers through thinning, sandy hair, hiked his broad shoulders and narrowed his eyes. His expression was pained. "It's touch and go, love. He lost a lot of blood. They're operating on him now."

Sitting in the Cosworth next to the DCI, Linda silently prayed that Matt would pull through. When she felt she could talk, she turned to the burly cop. "Tell me what happened," she said. "I need to know."

Tom bit his bottom lip. By the book, he shouldn't discuss what had gone down. But what the hell. He didn't have to go into specifics. "Matt and four other officers were at a safe house, looking after a witness," he said. "They got hit."

"Meaning?"

"That Matt was the only one to come out alive."

"Dear God!"

"He'll get past this, Linda. He's like that town Tombstone in Arizona; too tough to die," Tom said with more conviction than he felt.

Matt was still in surgery at the Middlesex Hospital when Linda and Tom arrived at a little after ten. They were shown into a small waiting room. Linda went over to the window, stared out through it, but saw nothing. Her thoughts were focused inward.

Tom sank into one of the easy chairs that were crowded arm-to-arm against two of the walls. The terracotta-coloured fabric was almost identical to that of the old three piece suite in the lounge of his semi in Wood Green. Time to get rid of it, he thought. His wife had been bitching for a new one for almost three years. He would tell her to go ahead. As long as it wasn't fucking terracotta she could get whatever the hell she wanted. The walls of the room were a soft hue, maybe coral pink. And the framed prints on them were all by the painter who was into ponds and lilies: Monet? Tom wasn't sure. The whole ambience of the decor was an attempt to calm and comfort. It didn't work, even though it was an antithesis to the disease, illness and death that was all around them, out of sight in wards and operating theatres. He felt like shit. Just being in a hospital brought on phantom pains. He had suffered a mild heart attack almost four years back. Now, he took his beta blockers and aspirin every day like he should, but had drifted back to smoking, and was living on a diet of fried food and stress. His chest hurt. Imagination? Think about something else.

"You want a coffee or anything?" he asked Linda, standing, needing to move.

Linda was in a world of her own, still facing the window, her forehead now resting against the cold glass, hugging herself, even though the warm air was stifling and stale in the small room. She hadn't spoken to Tom since they'd arrived, but then, neither had he to her. Walking across the room, he put his hand on her shoulder. She jumped, startled out of dark thoughts.

"Sorry. Do you want a drink?"

Her cheeks were wet. "Uh, yes. Something cold. And will you _please_ talk to somebody? Find out how he is."

Tom nodded. Turned and made his way out into the corridor. Headed for the vending machine he had seen next to the nurses' station.

Matt Barnes wasn't just one of his DIs. He was a friend. They had been in CID together. Spent a lot of time in pubs, talking about football, women, villains...and more women. He also needed Matt to give them something. He was the only survivor, and had surely seen the perp who'd shot him. The brass was going apeshit. Lester Little had been Tom's responsibility. The buck stopped on his desk. That's why they'd been sitting on Little instead of handing him over to Witness Protection. But he didn't give a flying fuck what the suits on the top floor thought. He had no answers, only questions of his own. Someone had given Frank Santini the nod, and the result was a massacre on a quiet middle-class street in Finchley. Only he and the two teams concerned had known the locations that Little was being ferried between. It didn't take an Einstein to work out the implication. What a fucking mess. The conversation between himself and Lester Little several weeks previously came back to haunt him:

"You're looking at double figures, Lester. We caught you cold, setting up the importation and distribution of enough H to fill a supermarket. You're a front for Santini, and unless you serve him up on a plate, you'll do the bird for him."

"I got nothin' to say," Lester had said.

Tom had shaken his head. "You're fifty-four. Do you see yourself in Belmarsh till you're old enough to apply for a bus pass?"

Lester's smile was sardonic. "If I grass, I'll get my throat cut and my tongue pulled out through it. You can't offer me enough to say jack shit about anythin'."

"What if we spring you, lift Santini, and let it be known that you're helping us with our inquiries?"

Lester's face went bone white. The smile disappeared. "You can't do that, Bartlett. You'd be signin' my fuckin 'death warrant."

"I can and will do whatever it takes to get to your boss. Talk to me, and I'll guarantee you immunity, with the paperwork to catch a silver bird and start over in Spain or somewhere."

"What's the catch?"

"You get up in the witness box and spill your guts. You'll be under twenty-four-hour protection until then."

"And you really think I'd be safe?"

"I guarantee it."

Lester shook his head. "I'm between the proverbial rock and hard place, Bartlett. I reckon I get to be chopped liver whichever way I jump. Santini will have someone in Witness Protection."

"I'm the only game in town and you know it, Lester. You made your bed, now you get to lie on it. My team will look after you."

"Okay, but my money says I get capped, and that Frank stays on the street."

"Trust me, Lester. You'll get to play golf in the sun, screw dusky senoritas, and drink sangria till it comes out of your ears."

"I don't play golf, the sun doesn't agree with me, I'm gay, and I drink French cognac," Lester said without a trace of humour...

Tom sighed. Fished in his pocket for change. Jesus, how right Little had been. He was now in a mortuary drawer with three bullet holes in his head. A far cry from a new life. If he could speak, he'd say: 'I told you, Bartlett. But you just wouldn't fuckin' listen up'.

Back in the waiting room, Linda was now sitting, head hung down between her shoulders, unmoving. She was withdrawn, consumed by her own thoughts and fears.

"I got you a Coke," Tom said, holding out the can.

She took it. Pressed the ice-cold metal to her forehead. Rolled it back and forth. "Thanks. Anything?" she asked.

"Only that they're nearly finished operating, and he's made it this far. No details."

It was another ninety minutes before a guy in surgical greens entered. Linda could read nothing in his expression.

"Mrs. Barnes?" he asked.

"No. I'm Linda Reece. I'm Matt's...partner," she said, as if needing to explain.

"I'm Dr. Lawson. One of the team that have been patching, er, Matt up."

A badger, Linda thought, standing up to face the portly surgeon. He was in his fifties, and he sported a bushy black beard that was going to white in the middle, over his chin.

"He's in post-op, now," Sam Lawson said.

Thank God! He was alive. "Is he going to...?"

"I believe he's going to pull through, Ms. Reece. But his condition is still serious. We had to remove his left kidney, though that in itself is not a major concern."

"What is?" Linda asked.

"He lost a great deal of blood and went into severe shock. If there was a lengthy decrease in the flow of blood to his brain, then tissues will have been deoxygenated."

"Are you saying he might be brain damaged?"

"I'm saying, we'll know better when he regains consciousness. His EEG looks fine. I don't bet, but if I was a gambling man, I'd put money on him making it. Having said that, there are no guarantees."

"There never are in life," Linda whispered, and then ran out of the room to look for the toilets. She was going to throw up, and the doctor could have safely bet a month's salary on that.

# CHAPTER THREE

**FIRST** thing he did when he got in was make coffee, before going into the lounge to feed a live cricket to Simon, his pet spider. After being away, taking care of business, he knew that the little guy would now be peckish.

The thrill of the kill had subsided. After the event, he always experienced a period of anticlimax. Even now, so soon, he wanted to feel the high again. Everyone dies. Take your pick; natural causes, accident, suicide or murder. But the anticipation of personally making it happen was what turned _his_ wheels. When he wasn't taking life, he was thinking about it, or planning it.

He drank the coffee and then ran a bath. Got in and lay with his knees up and his head resting on a padded, plastic-covered pillow fitted with suction cups to hold it to the smooth surface of a bath that was also made of plastic. Was everything made of fucking plastic these days? The shower curtain, toilet lid and seat were. And the mirror was framed in the stuff, as was the frosted double glazed window. The more he looked about him, the more of the invasive manmade synthetic resinous shit he saw. The world was being overrun by unnatural polymeric substances. _Calm down. Think good thoughts._

The water was now only lukewarm. He had been soaking in it for over an hour. His fingers and toes were 'wrinkled like prunes', as his mother used to say. Sitting up, he reached forward and plucked a Stanley knife from the plastic rack, pleased that at least the knife was made from metal. Substantial. Thumbing the sharp blade out, he ran it smoothly across the inside of his left wrist. Not too deep. Just enough to allow plenty of blood to escape and flow down his fingers to drip into the scented water. Both wrists and inner forearms were striped with white scar tissue, caused by years of self mutilation. God! He wanted to cut deeper; do it properly. He imagined inserting the blade into his forearm at the crook of the elbow, and drawing it down under pressure in a zigzag line to his wrist and severing the artery in several places. There would be no real pain, just pulsing crimson jets spattering the white-tiled walls and Artexed ceiling. The room would be turned into a Pollock drip painting.

' _Do it, do it, do it!'_ one of the voices in his head insisted.

"No," he replied aloud, clearly and with conviction, and the tension dissolved to leave him calm and no longer in the mood to self-destruct. Maybe another day. If he had taken his medication, then the episode would not have occurred. But he'd had a job to do. Needed a clear head. The clozapine tended to make him feel a little lethargic and dulled his senses. He couldn't drive or work efficiently with his brain numbed-up as though it was full of anaesthetic. Retracting the blade, he tossed the knife back on top of the flannel in the rack, got up, turned on the shower and grunted at the pleasant discomfort of the sudden impact, as needle jets of chilled water drilled the soap and blood from his body.

After towelling himself dry and bandaging his wrist, he went through to the bedroom and dressed in casual clothes. He skipped down the stairs, whistling some inane ditty that had been plugged unmercifully on the radio for a week or two. _He_ could have been a pop star, if socialising was not such a problem. Ha! Maybe in his next life.

He made a call on a pay-as-you-go phone that couldn't be traced.

"I got the pest control guy askin' for you, boss," Luther 'Tiny' Tyrell said. "You wanna word?"

Frank Santini nodded, and Tiny handed him the cell phone.

"Yeah, speak to me," Frank said.

"I eliminated that rodent problem."

"Music to my ears. I'll have the balance of your fee delivered as arranged, and be in touch if we have any further infestations."

"Always a pleasure to do business with you. Bye for now, Mr S."

Frank tossed the phone back to Tiny, who picked it out of the air with reactions that belied his appearance. He was six-eight, wide as a bus, and had the look of someone who had gone several bouts too many in a boxing ring.

"Give our friend at the Yard a bell, Tiny. I want details," Frank said, his mood now lighter than it had been for weeks. With Lester out of the way, he could relax. The plods had nothing without the little rat. Disloyalty was something he could not and would not abide. He looked after his people, and demanded total allegiance in return. If anyone stepped out of line, then an example had to be made. It was the only way to stay on top of the food chain and command respect.

Frank was a lean, sinewy Italian, who looked all of his sixty-five years. His face was swarthy, cruel looking, with high cheekbones, a patrician nose, and dark, heavily lidded eyes. He wore a toupee that was incongruously black against the silver of his remaining underlying hair; sitting atop his head like a limp animal pelt. Frank thought it undetectable, and no one around him had the balls to enlighten him as to how bizarre it looked. He was dressed in a dark-blue mohair suit, cream silk shirt and maroon tie. His loafers were handmade in Milan. He had all the accoutrements, but still looked like a spiv who you wouldn't buy a second-hand car, or even a watch from.

Francis Mario Santini had been born in the back streets of Naples in 1947, to migrate to London with his mamma the same year. His father, Rocco, had not survived the war.

Frank was to carve out an empire from the underbelly of society in the East End after the Kray twins, who he had been on good terms with, were safely behind bars. He kept a low profile, took a percentage of almost everything that went down north of the river, and protected his interests with a small army of enforcers who, like Tiny, knew better than to ever cross him or his son, Dominic, who if anything was even more dangerous and unpredictable than Frank.

Tiny closed the phone and pocketed it. A gold-capped grin broke the ebony edifice of his broad face. "He wasted Lester and five pigs, boss," he said. "The guy's like the fuckin' Terminator."

Frank smiled. "Get us both a drink, Tiny. I think we can afford to celebrate. Their case just fell apart. I might just send DCI Bartlett a sympathy card. He's had a hard-on for months, dreamin' of seein' me in prison grey. I'd like to see the cocksucker's face now."

Tiny went across to the corner bar, built Frank a large Jack Daniel's over ice. Uncapped a bottle of Club soda for himself.

"Life is good, Tiny," Frank said, sipping the chilled sour mash as he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Thames from his penthouse apartment. "Put an extra five grand in our friend's payoff. He deserves a bonus."

"Have you met him, boss?" Tiny asked.

"No, and I don't ever want to. Just drop the cash off and leave the scene. You gotta know that some people are screwballs, Tiny. This guy came highly recommended. But he has a death wish, which makes him as lethal as a fox in a chicken shed."

Gary watched from the bushes as the Merc stopped on the inner circle of Regent's Park. The giant, shaven-headed black exited and walked along the pavement towards the nominated bench seat. After waiting until Santini's goon had placed the briefcase behind the seat, returned to the car and driven off, he collected the balance of his fee. Less than forty minutes later he was back at his flat in Putney. He placed the briefcase on the bed and opened it. There was an extra wedge of five thousand, with a note that read: 'For doing the filth'. It was nice to be appreciated. Santini recognised class when he saw it; though he had not taken the cops out for any other reason than that they were an armed threat in between him and his intended mark.

Paid hits were very profitable. They gave him the independence, means, and the time to commit more emotionally rewarding personal atrocities. He was a chameleon, able to project a meek and affable personality to the morons that monitored his mental health, and especially to Marion Peterson, the buxom community psychiatric nurse who he had to suffer regular contact with. At first he had hated the CPN, considering her a spy; an enemy within who exacerbated his paranoia. However, with time, he came to acknowledge that she and the rest of the support team – as they tagged themselves – were an invaluable aid. Due to his perceived co-operation and self-awareness of his condition, he was able to present them with a model patient who, in their opinion, was no danger to himself or society at large, and responded well to all the required therapy. The art was in cloaking the aggression and the need to express himself by hurting others. As long as he was believed to be popping the antipsychotics as prescribed and following his care plan to the letter, he was protected by the system. Should he demonstrate an unwillingness to comply, then the consultant psychiatrist, CPN, social worker and his GP would consider him a risk and section him under the Mental Health Act, condemning him to an indeterminate future in a nuthatch. The thought of staggering about, full to the gills with drugs that would eventually turn his brain to chicken soup, was his biggest fear in life. To be surrounded by head cases, listening to 'lift music' all day and being locked in a room at night, was not an option. It would never happen. He wasn't ill, just different. True, he heard voices that sometimes insisted he do things. But he possessed the willpower to ignore them – most of the time – should he choose to. And he didn't display inappropriate behaviour in public these days. As a teenager, masturbating on the top decks of buses had seemed a harmless activity; though he had discontinued the practise after the first arrest. For some reason it had offended other passengers. Overall, he considered himself 'in control'. He was able to concentrate, plan, and make decisions. Sometimes his thoughts _did_ jump erratically between completely unrelated topics, which he accepted was disordered thinking. But he was basically as bright as a new penny, even aware of other people's feelings, though they did not concern him. It was the imagined events that could be a little disconcerting. The compulsion to act them out was sometimes irresistible. Thankfully, he had the ability to fool all of the people most of the time. So many underestimated him, which in the majority of cases proved to be a fatal mistake on their part.

Putting the wads of banded fifty pound notes in a plastic sack, he wound gaffer tape around the top of it, went downstairs into the laundry room – that served the eight flat complex – and wedged the door from the inside, so as not to be disturbed.

Grunting and straining with the effort, he manoeuvred one of the large dryers away from the wall, removed a breeze block that he had loosened a long time ago, and placed the bag of money in the hidey-hole behind it, along with the handgun and silencer. There was no logical reason why his flat should ever be searched, but he chose to embrace his own version of the chaos theory, therein which unpredictability ruled. He would not have been able to relax for a second with incriminating evidence under the floorboards, or stashed where professional searchers would undoubtedly find it.

"Floorboards!" he said aloud, halfway back up the stairs. He liked floorboards, and yet had none. The floor under his carpeting was made from chipboard, or maybe MDF, which was all the rage these days. He had read somewhere that it had carcinogenic properties. Would it end up causing the same disastrous results as asbestos had done? And it was common knowledge that overuse of mobile phones was giving people brain tumours. Modern technology was lethal. The world was being poisoned. And some people thought that _he_ was mad. If he could somehow work out how to explain his hidden wealth, then he would move out to a village in Essex, buy a cottage with ceiling beams and _real_ floorboards, and put up a bird table in the back garden. It was a dream he determined to make come true. The prospect of enjoying rustic charm appealed to him.

The next morning, he showered, took his medication, and dressed in tight denim shorts and a plain white T-shirt that highlighted his tanned face and arms. It didn't take a lot of sun to turn his skin a tawny brown. And the fair hair on his forearms looked like 9 carat gold threads against it. He was slim but muscular, and when 'Maid Marion' arrived in just over an hour, he wanted to look his best; beauty to her beast. She was short and dumpy, with a body that resembled a lumpy mattress, and her breath reeked of garlic, which also leaked from the pores of her skin as she perspired and stunk up his flat. After she had gone, he would have to spray the place with magnolia and vanilla air freshener, and open the windows wide to let out the residual aroma of her presence.

He closed his eyes, to fantasise. He chose to see the CPN naked in his bath, her hands tied tightly behind her back and her ankles bound together. She would be gagged, and he would show her the knife before slowly starting the procedure. She would buck and writhe, and whine through her nose. He would initially open her up with an orthodox 'Y' cut from shoulder to shoulder, and then cut down between the quivering pink blancmanges of her sagging breasts from sternum to pubic mound. It would not be an autopsy as such. After all she was alive, not dead. This would be more of a pre mortem inspection. She wanted to see inside his mind and examine it. He would see inside her body, sink his hands into her hot, slimy guts and pelvic organs, before dissecting her. He would negate her arrogant, condescending attitude. The bitch would be flopping around the bath like a dying cod on a trawler's deck. He wondered at what point she would manage to escape into unconsciousness, before the spark of whatever life was, fizzled out.

As he imagined dismembering the raw meat, bagging it up and packing the resulting parcels into the boot of his car for dispersal at several sites, the buzzer snapped his attention back to reality. Jesus! He could still smell the illusory warm, coppery stench of her blood. He could even taste it; a little salty, and of course flavoured by the garlic that the fat cow undoubtedly chewed whole cloves of.

The buzzer sounded again, like an irate wasp in a bottle. He could have answered the intercom on the wall and pressed the button to disengage the lock on the outer door, but elected to go down to let her in. It seemed more mannerly.

The Clozapine was kicking in. He felt relaxed, and the hallucinatory episode of butchering the nurse had helped him to internalise his anger. He was now mellow, primed to play her pathetic mind games.

"And how are we today?" Marion asked, almost pushing past him as he opened the door to greet her with what he felt to be an amiable smile.

Always the royal _we_. As if that somehow inferred they were Team Noon. "I'm feeling well, Marion. How are you?" he replied, not caring how she was.

"I'm fine, Gary. Thank you for asking," she said, heading for the stairs. He followed, marvelling at how her massive buttocks were somehow contained within the too-tight skirt she wore.

She entered the flat as though she owned it, and lowered herself into one of the armchairs, testing the creaking frame to its limit.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.

"That would be nice, Gary," she said, opening a buff document wallet to withdraw his personal notes and care plan details.

He went into the kitchen, a smile on his face as he filled the kettle and switched it on. She was so transparent. Her eyes had flitted over the front of his shorts, feasting on the bulge at his crotch that was enhanced by the wearing of a cock ring that tightly encompassed his genitals. And no doubt as he turned away, she had also eyeballed his tight buns. Should he incite her to seduce him? Screwing her was something he had deliberated over for months. She would be a worthwhile ally, who he could manipulate even more if she was infatuated with him. He determined to set up his old video camera in the bedroom to record their antics through a gap he would leave between two doors of the wall-length wardrobe. That would put the shoe firmly on the other foot. With the control shifted, he would dictate all future aspects of their relationship.

"There you go, Marion," he said, placing the freshly brewed cup of Earl Grey on the glass-topped coffee table in front of her, before sitting down on the settee with his legs open to allow her to make what she would of the provocative pose. He was surprised to feel aroused to the point of discomfort beneath the stretched denim.

# CHAPTER FOUR

**THERE** were eight beds in the main area of the ICU, all in sight of the nurses from the semicircular station at the rear of the unit. Matt was one of the patients, attached to a cardiac monitor, intravenous drips that provided him with antibiotics and glucose, and a bifurcated oxygen tube clipped to his septum. He was unconscious. His skin was slate grey, eyes sunken and underlined by puce, crescent smudges. He looked dead.

The young male nurse brought a plastic contour chair for Linda. Tom accompanied her to the bedside and looked Matt over. Didn't like what he saw.

"I need a smoke," Tom said. "I'll see you back in the waiting room."

Outside, well away from the main doors of the hospital, Tom fired up, dragged deeply on the cigarette, and stared out from under the concrete overhang at the summer rain that still sheeted down from a sullen sky.

He was shaky, and felt weak and tired to the bone. Stunned disbelief was still the strongest emotion he felt. This wasn't America, where cops met violent ends with sickening regularity. The shooting of police officers was still an extremely rare occurrence in Britain. That five of his men had been gunned down that morning was almost inconceivable. Donny Campbell had been married for less than a year, for Christ's sake. And his wife, Kath, was pregnant. The kid would be born fatherless. Bernie Mellors was divorced, but had been very close to his two daughters. Keith Collins and Tony Pybus were single, though that was of little solace. How many lives had been affected by their deaths? How many hearts broken? Wives, children, parents, significant others and friends would have to face a wall of grief and find a way to accommodate it. It was a fucking catastrophe. And knowing that Frank Santini would be laughing at them made it even worse. Tom's brain burned with a white-hot wire of anger. Even a young couple next door to the supposed safe house had been shot. The man was dead, but his wife had survived, though was in a critical condition. The bullet had struck her at an angle, glanced off her skull, fracturing it, but had been deflected enough to travel around the outside of her cranium, under the skin and hair, to almost tear her right ear off as it exited. There had also been a baby boy in the house, found unharmed. If the mother lived, then at least she still had her son. Tom supposed that his survival would be some measure of consolation. The kid wouldn't be an orphan.

Dropping the cigarette end and grinding it out with the sole of his shoe, Tom promised himself that Santini would get what was coming to him, and sooner rather than later. Even the mighty fall eventually and Frank Santini would be no exception. His days were numbered.

Back inside, grimacing at the antiseptic smell that hit him as the automatic doors slid back, Tom determined to stay at the hospital until Linda's mother arrived. She was on her way in from Oxford, and should be there within the hour. He would then head back to the Yard, write up his report and steel himself against the bollocking that the brass would subject him to. He just hoped he could grit his teeth and not tell the dickheads into what dark and unwholesome places they could shove their slings and arrows.

Linda put her hand over Matt's. It was clammy, not the marble cold she had expected. "You're going to be fine, Matt," she said. "I'll be here with you until you wake up." Could he hear her? she wondered. Maybe not, but she talked to him anyway, about everything in general and nothing in particular. She had read somewhere that even people in comas sometimes responded to the outside stimulation of voices or music. And Matt was not comatose. Every so often, she went back to the waiting room. Her mother arrived and fussed too much, as usual. Tom left, promising to return as soon as he could. Linda didn't care whether he did or not. Bartlett meant well, but was part of the problem that had led to this.

It was two-thirty the following morning when Matt's fingers twitched and then tightened round her hand. She gasped, shocked by the unexpected movement. And her stomach cramped as his eyelids slowly opened. Would he still be Matt? What if his brain had been damaged and he had no awareness of his surroundings, or of anything?

"Matt, are you all right?" she asked.

His eyes found hers. He blinked and frowned as he fought to focus. Swallowed hard, and felt nauseous from the residue of the meds.

A male nurse appeared at the bedside with what looked to be a kiddies' plastic beaker, complete with lid and spout. "Just take a couple of sips," he said, slipping one hand gently beneath Matt's head to elevate it slightly, as he placed the spout to his lips.

"Donny? The others?" Matt whispered, after the cool water had moistened his mouth and throat.

Linda could not summon the words, but her expression answered for her.

Matt closed his eyes again, but was unable to hold back the tears that forced their way out onto his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," Linda said, her fingers smoothing his hair back from where it lay damp on his brow.

Matt's teeth were clenched, his cheek muscles bunched. He let the horror sink in. The facts were simple. Professionals had walked in like some bloody terrorist group on a mission, and coldly blown away everyone in the house, bar him. More by luck than good judgement, he had survived. Going for a piss had saved his life. Had he gone before Donny, then it would have been him that ended up wasted with the others. He pushed all the pointless ifs to the back of his mind. One thing was _not_ an if, it was a definite. He would get past what had happened to his team by nurturing the anger and finding those responsible. Nothing could put things right. Dead was dead. But retribution would go a long way to even things up and bring about some measure of closure.

First things first. "How am I doing?" he asked Linda.

"It was touch and go for a while," she answered. "They had you in surgery for hours. You'd lost a lot of blood."

"And?"

"You...you lost a kidney."

"You make it sound as if I misplaced it. What else have I lost?"

"That's it. You get to joust at windmills again another day, when you've healed up," she said with a sharper edge to her voice than intended.

There was something distant about her. He sensed a farrago of emotions, and one approximated that of a woman sickened by her partner's constant philandering. She was acting the way a wife might, having found lipstick on one collar too many. He had the premonition that, not at this time while he was in an intensive care unit, but soon, when he was fitter, she would deliver an ultimatum. Her eyes and body language said that he was in the last chance saloon.

"Are we in trouble?" he asked.

"Yes, Matt. Think of this as time out. You need to know that I couldn't go through it again. I love you too much to spend my life waiting for another knock at the door. Maybe I just haven't got the strength of character to sit on the sidelines of a copper's life."

"You're asking me to quit the force?"

"No, I didn't say that. I'm suggesting that you look at your priorities. If playing cops and robbers is something that you can't walk away from, then I don't think we have what it takes to be a couple."

As if on cue, to leave the subject hanging like the sword of Damocles over them, the Badger, Dr. Lawson, swept into the unit with the air of James Robertson Justice in the old 'Doctor' movies.

Linda bobbed her head and kissed Matt on the forehead, not his lips. "I'll be out in the waiting room," she said. "My mother came, and Tom Bartlett is back. He stayed with me for hours. They'll both want to know that you're back in the land of the living."

"How're you doing, Inspector? I'm Dr. Lawson. I patched up your bullet-ridden body."

"You tell me how I'm doing, Doc. I'm a cop, not a medical student. And call me Matt."

"You got away with it, Matt. One bullet nicked your femoral artery and fractured your femur. The other pulverised your left kidney. The resulting shock and blood loss nearly killed you. And there was a chance you might have suffered brain damage, due to oxygen loss to the brain. We still need to do a few tests, but I think you beat the odds this time. The belt around your thigh was a lifesaver"

"What about the kidney?"

Sam Lawson grinned. "It was delicious. I had it lightly sautéed with fava beans, and washed it down with a glass of Chianti."

Matt couldn't suppress a tight smile. "Very funny, Lecter. I meant―"

"I know what you meant. The answer is, you can function quite normally with one kidney. You just haven't got a backup now, so you'll have to take care of it."

"How long will I be in here?"

"I should think we'll be able to throw you back out on the street in about a week, maybe less. But you'll be convalescing for a couple of months. Initially, just lay back and let the healing process do its job. No getting out of bed for a few days, until I give the okay. I'm sure the indignity of nurses bearing bedpans will encourage you to get well with all due haste."

"Thanks, Doc, you're a prince."

"I try to please," Sam said, nodding, and then moving off to another bed, where a woman on a ventilator was passing blood into a colostomy bag that was suspended below the level of the sheet covering her. Matt looked away and thanked God for small mercies.

A few minutes later, Tom came in, by himself. Matt thought he looked ill, more like a patient than a visitor.

"You look how I feel, Matt," Tom said, parking himself in a chair.

"You don't look too hot yourself, Tom. Did you get the shooters?"

"To the best of our knowledge, there was only one."

" _One_?"

"Yeah. And he spent some time in the house next door. Left the couple for dead, but the woman is still hanging in. If she makes it, we might learn some more. Did you see the perp?"

"For an instant. He was young, in his late twenties at a guess. Maybe five-eight or nine. And he was thin. He had weird eyes, black like a fucking white shark's. Wore a baseball cap and a red top, a fleece, I think."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, Tom. He came to kill not chitchat. What's been recovered from the scene to make you think he was alone?"

"Just slugs. Ballistics is working on them, and Ray Baxter over there says preliminary tests point to them all coming from the same silenced 9 millimetre. He thinks the shooter used home-made baffles of steel wool to suppress the sound. The striations bear that out."

"So Santini sent a pro?"

"Looks that way. The hitter had some balls. He walked up to Keith and Tony in the van and took them out with head shots. Their weapons were still holstered, so they didn't see it coming. And then he entered the bungalow through the garage and offed everyone but you. He had all the intel."

"Which means we've got a leak. One of our own sold out."

Tom looked pained, but nodded.

"When I'm back on my feet, I'll―"

"You'll do nothing, Matt. You're off this. You know the score. This is up front and personal to you and that gets in the way and clouds judgement."

"You really believe I'm going to sit back and let Santini, his hired gun, and whoever served us up on a plate walk away from this?"

"Nobody is going to walk away from anything, Matt. And you'll be kept up to speed. Whatever I get to know, you'll know. But you aren't going to work it, and that's set in fucking stone. Just concentrate on getting back on your feet. You're going to be laid up for awhile."

"Okay, Tom. Will you ask Linda to come in?"

"You telling me to go?"

"Yeah. I think we've covered it. And I'm hurting. I lost four men that I was close to."

"You couldn't have stopped it, Matt. We were set up. So don't waste time on a guilt trip. How do you think I feel, for Christ's sake? It was my case."

The DCI's words hit home. He realised that Tom was also suffering. "Next time you drop by, bring a bottle of Scotch, huh?"

"In your dreams, Barnes," Tom said, standing up and heading for the door.

Linda came back in and they talked for a long time. When she left, he knew that it was the beginning of the end for them, as a couple. It was sad, but not really a surprise to him. He'd seen it coming. Even understood her feelings of insecurity and frustration. But the bottom line was that neither of them could, would, or even should change their personality to try and suit the other. He was too long in the tooth to fool himself that he would be happy to walk away from his chosen profession. You can't be what you're not. Being a murder cop was not just what he did for a living, it was who he was and somehow defined him. As she went out through the door of the unit, he felt an emptiness. It was the beginning of a new chapter for both of them. To all intents and purposes he was back on his own again. It was bittersweet. Not having the heavy responsibility for someone else's happiness was, in a way, liberating. He was an individual, and not the easiest of men to be around. Linda needed more than he could give. She would be far happier with a nine-to-five homebody; some guy who could share her interests and aspirations. That didn't stop him feeling a deep sense of failure, though. And yet another part of him reviled her for not being able to adjust. Christ, she'd known what he did from the word go. He hadn't tried to be anything but what he was.

After being moved from the ICU to a private room with an armed officer outside the door, Matt determined to be out of the joint in less than a week. He felt driven, and every second seemed a small eternity. He was channelled, with only one goal. He would not sit idle for long. Santini and his paid assassin had unwittingly thrown down the gauntlet to a man who would not be averse to stepping outside the law if necessary to exact justice by any means, fair or foul.

# CHAPTER FIVE

**MARION** sipped her tea and averted her eyes from Gary's crotch. She had wanted him for months and found it difficult to keep up the facade of detached professionalism. Most of her patients were, to say the least, odd. Many of them were pathetic and confused individuals, barely able to function if not dosed up with medication. Gary was different. He wasn't a problem patient. He accepted his condition, understood it, and complied readily with all requirements of his care plan. The sporadic self-mutilation was the only ongoing problem, which she attributed to be a physical manifestation of frustration; a symbolic cry for love and affection, which he found difficult to express.

Jesus! He crossed his ankles and shifted forward on the seat. His 'lunch box' appeared even more pronounced. She could see the shape of everything he'd got under the tight denim, and it made her damp and tingly. A part of her wanted to take advantage of being alone with the enigmatic, single young man. Her sex life consisted of manual stimulation once or twice a week, as she conjured up images of Russell Crowe, George Clooney or Brad Pitt naked, their bodies glistening with baby oil. She was almost squirming; could feel the sweat running down the middle of her back and feeding into the deep crack between her buttocks.

Marion Peterson was thirty-one, unmarried, and at least five stone overweight at a conservative estimate. She had given up weighing herself. It was a depressing, humiliating procedure, standing bare-arsed on the bathroom scales, only able to see the glowing red readout if she leaned forward to peer down over pendulous breasts that rested on her swollen belly. She was a blimp, and knew it. Inside was a Kate Moss trying to get out; a slim attractive, sexy-looking chick. By contrast, she was a plump caterpillar, waiting to pupate and burst free from a chrysalis, to be transformed into a beautiful butterfly. It wasn't her fault she was so fat. It was glandular, or in her genes. She didn't eat too much; hardly ever pigged out these days, or raided the fridge in the middle of the night. Her mother, Glenda, had been obese, and dropped dead at the ripe old age of fifty-four, just two years ago. It had been a massive stroke, and Marion knew that she might go the same way, and was already borderline diabetic. If anything, the worry over it made her eat more. It was always tomorrow that she was going to turn herself round and radically change her lifestyle. Her face was fine. She had the look of Gillian Anderson, the actress who'd played Dana Scully in the _X-Files._ Maybe if she had her hair dyed auburn and styled, and could just lose a few pounds, it would give her the kick-start she needed to get with a programme. Her self esteem needed a boost. A makeover would be a start. And she would have to exercise. Sat in front of the TV – sometimes with a comforting box of chocolates within easy reach – was never going to be the answer.

It was over three years since Marion had felt the fullness of a man inside her. The memory of the incident was at once exciting and abhorrent. It had been at the Christmas office party. One of the psychiatrists, Barry Levin, had plied her with vodka and tonic until she was three sheets to the wind, and her already wafer-thin inhibitions were overcome by an alcoholic haze. There was a vague memory of him leading her into an interview room, pushing her over the table, lifting her skirt up and pulling her tights and panties down below her knees. It had lasted all of thirty seconds. Just wham, bang, and not even a 'thank you, ma'am'. As she had wiped herself with a Kleenex and rearranged her clothing, he had left without a word. The only lasting impressions were bruises on her breasts, caused by his fingers digging into them. Neither of them ever mentioned the one-off encounter. He had needed somewhere wet and warm to off load, and she had served the purpose. Damn the fucking man! Being a shrink, he had recognised her need, and treated her as easy pickings.

Her rule of thumb, now, was that all men were bastards, whose brains were, for the most part located in their pants. But that didn't stop her from wanting sex.

"You seem a little, er, distracted, Marion. Are you sure you're all right?" Gary asked, noticing the preoccupied look in her eyes. She was staring off into the middle distance and chewing the inside of her cheek. _Looked like a fucking hamster._

"Uh! Sorry. I was away with the fairies for a minute, Gary. Tell me about your week. Any voices?"

"Hardly a murmur. The new medication is brilliant, with a couple of small reservations."

"Being?"

"I don't sleep too well and...and, just one other thing, but it's not important."

Marion tutted. "We don't have secrets, Gary, do we? I thought we could talk about anything and everything."

"It's a little embarrassing, Marion."

"There's no one else to hear. Don't forget, a trouble shared is a trouble halved."

"I think the drug has made me...you know, impotent. I haven't had an...been the same since shortly after starting this course."

"And are you active, Gary? Is it causing relationship problems?"

"Well, no. I haven't done, er, been with anyone for a long time. It's just making me a little anxious. I feel as though I've been, well, chemically castrated, like how they sometimes treat sex offenders."

He let his head drop, clamped his face in his hands, and even forced a few tears from his eyes. _Kevin Spacey, eat your heart out. This is an Oscar-winning performance._

Marion put her cup down, heaved herself up and went to sit next to him on the settee, draping her arm around his shoulder and actually hugging him. "I'll talk to the doctor, Gary. I'm sure we'll be able to prescribe an alternative. Maybe risperdone or olanzapine. Don't worry about it, or you'll make it worse."

He put his hand on her thigh, casually, and felt deeply buried muscle quiver beneath the soft, pliant flesh. It was time to push the envelope. He continued to sob, half-turned towards her and buried his face into her massive bosom.

She stroked his short, thinning hair, and actually rocked him as though he were a child. This cannot happen, she thought, as their cheeks somehow met, and her lips greedily sought his.

He tongued her mouth. Held her close and let his fingers trace a line down her cheek, around the rim of her ear. She gasped and began to shake.

"You're beautiful, Marion," he lied, as they began to frantically undress each other.

Once both of them were completely stripped off, he led her to his bed.

Forbidden fruit. I'm risking my career, everything, and I don't give a fuck, Marion thought, spreading her tree-trunk-thick thighs and unconsciously raising herself up, eager to receive his far from drug-wilted member. His problem had miraculously evaporated, or in this case, expanded, which instilled her with renewed self worth. Her sexuality had caused him to rise to what she knew was going to be a great occasion. And he had said that she was beautiful.

Ignoring the hippo's body odour, he applied himself to the task, if not wholeheartedly. Christ! she was almost killing him. Her legs were locked around his waist with such force that he could hardly breathe. He thought she might spring a rib or two as she screamed, bucked, and raked his back with her fingernails. To his surprise, he actually found himself beginning to enjoy it. She was now his to control and dominate. The newly transferred seat of power, and the sex, turned him on.

Sated, Marion sagged down next to him. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, her lungs ached, and the post-orgasmic sensations in her nether regions made muscles she had not known existed twitch and jump, causing her to moan. It had been the single most wondrous experience of her life, to date. It had been pure lust, and she had every intention of repeating the act at every given opportunity.

"That was mind-blowing, Marion. Would you like a nice cup of tea, now?" Gary said, getting up and smiling down at his conquest.

Marion nodded as she licked beads of sweat from her top lip and appraised his smooth, tanned body.

They drank the tea, made love again, then showered and finally dressed.

He kissed her tenderly on the mouth at the flat door. Said he could hardly wait for her next visit. And when she had gone, he went through to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out with Listerine, then returned to the kitchen and made black coffee.

This was a new dynamic. After Marion's next visit, with everything they would do together taped for posterity, she would be his to manipulate and shape like so much Plasticine in the palm of his hand.

Turning on the portable TV that perched – hardly ever watched – on a countertop, Gary caught the tail-end of a news bulletin. One of the fucking cops was still alive. He thought it through. Loose ends bothered him. What would the cop have seen, a split second of the dead guy's baseball cap and fleece, and a gun pointing at him? No big deal. There was no way he could be identified. Whichever of the pigs had survived would never be able to pick him out of a crowd. And yet, should he take the slightest chance? His paranoia swelled inside his brain like an overfilled balloon. He would play it by ear. If necessary he would find out the cop's identity and negate the problem. Time would tell.

Marion drove back to the clinic on cloud nine. She felt mixed emotions. She had never before formed any personal relationship with a patient. Doing things by the book had been her rule of thumb. How had it happened? They were mutually attracted to each other; it was as simple as that. Gary had probably been infatuated with her for a long time, and today it had just come together. She giggled. They had _come_ together in every sense of the word. It would just have to be their secret. If anyone found out, they wouldn't understand, and she would be looking for a new post. Maybe it was time to move on. If she wasn't a part of the team that oversaw Gary's mental health, then their relationship would be nobody else's business. She certainly wasn't going to let anything or anyone come between them. She had found somebody who appreciated her for who she was and how she looked. Before next week, she would visit Big Girls Boutique in Tottenham and splash out on some sexy bras, panties, and a suspender belt and stockings. Something black or ruby red, and in silk. And she would visit a department store perfume counter. Treat herself to some exotic scent. It was high time she started to enjoy life.

After daydreaming for a while, Marion wrote a glowing report on Gary, and then left the clinic and drove home to the terrace house in Hornsey where she had been born and which now – since her mother's death – belonged to her. Gary would have to visit. Maybe even stay over. The future was looking decidedly brighter. Her empty life was suddenly full to overflowing. How she had survived her whole life without someone special in it, she found almost impossible to fathom. But the loneliness was now behind her. It was time to spread her wings and live life to the full. Gary had opened a door, unleashing emotions that she had kept wholly subdued. Emotions that she now knew there was no way she could ignore or contain.

# CHAPTER SIX

**DURING** the next forty-eight hours, and having been aided by one or other of the four regular cops who took turns to guard him night and day, Matt had been spared the indignity of the dreaded bedpan. He felt like a geriatric, being helped out of bed, supported, and walked from the bed to the room's en suite bathroom. Having his leg plastered up to his crotch didn't help matters.

On the seventh day, Dr. Lawson gave him the all clear to go home, and also an appointment card for him to attend as an outpatient for check-ups and physio.

"You're going to be sore for awhile yet," Sam Lawson said. "Maybe breaking your leg was a blessing in disguise. It'll slow you down a bit and make you take it easy."

With Tom there to drive him home, Matt was wheel chaired to the main doors of the hospital. If he was going to have another mishap, then they obviously wanted it to happen off the premises.

"What's with you and Linda?" Tom asked after he had driven almost halfway to Harrow. "Why did you need me as a taxi driver?"

Tom always cut to the chase without preamble. Matt was the same, and knew that his boss wouldn't be offended if he told him to mind his own business. Though he didn't.

"She moved out yesterday, Tom. Couldn't hack it any longer. She would have stayed on to look after me for a week or two, but I figured if it was over, then it was over."

"Sorry, Matt. I thought you two were tight."

"So did I. She apparently needed more than I was giving. She looked down the road a few years and saw a lot more of the same on the horizon. My getting shot just moved things along. I can't say I blame her. She deserves better than a bloke who passes through like a lodger. She loves me, maybe too much to hang in for the duration. We talked a lot this last week, while I've been a captive audience. Came to the decision that there wasn't enough common ground to build anything permanent on."

"You'll need a nurse for a while. You're in no fit state to look after yourself properly, yet."

"I've seen enough nurses to last me a lifetime. I'll sleep downstairs. The sofa converts."

"Whatever. If you need help, there'll be a car outside."

"I don't think that's necessary."

"I do. The papers have made you a duck in a shooting gallery. They ran the story of how you were the only survivor of a mini massacre, and slapped your ugly mug all over the front pages."

"It was a hit, for Christ's sake. He isn't going to worry about one cop. I wasn't the mark."

"The subject isn't open for debate, Matt. If he thinks you could ID him, he might decide to try and whack you."

"If he does, then remember what happened to Tony and Keith outside the safe house. It's too risky having a cop out there. Get me my piece and I'll watch my own back."

"They'll be very low profile. And you're on sick leave. I can't authorise for you to be armed off duty."

"Get round it, Tom. Put me down as being _on_ duty. If you think I'm at risk, do the paperwork and bring me a gun. Because if you're right and I wind up shot like a rat in a barrel, you'll have made it easy for him."

Tom pulled into the kerb outside the nondescript maisonette that was fronted by a postage stamp open-plan lawn. He hadn't answered Matt, and didn't need to. They both knew he'd pull strings and make sure that Matt had the resources to defend himself with, should the perp make a play for him.

Tom let Matt hobble on the hospital-issue aluminium crutches, but stayed as close to him as a mother hen, just in case he lost his balance.

In the kitchen, they settled to smoke, drink coffee and run through what little they had. One bonus of Linda not being there was that Matt could now light-up in the house, and not have to go outside or into the garage to feed his habit.

"Any ideas yet on who might have given us up to Santini?" Matt asked, wanting to talk and keep his mind off Linda being gone.

"No. I looked at everyone who knew where Little was stashed, and came up blank."

"We have to nail him, Tom. If he's in Santini's pocket, then every move we make will be compromised. Get me a list of everybody who knew about the operation. Something might click. Or at least we can eliminate some of them and see what we're left with."

Tom reached into a pocket and pulled out a couple of folded sheets of A4 copy paper. "I'm ahead of you," he said.

Matt gave him a quizzical look. "You said I was out of it. Why the change of heart?"

"Because you'd go after it like a dog with a fucking bone. I don't need a loose cannon, and anyway, being a victim makes you the only cop on the case I can really trust."

"That could be a false premise, Tom. It could have been me, or Donny, Bernie, Keith or Tony. The hitter wouldn't have known or cared if he took Santini's man out."

"You really think―"

"No, Tom. I don't believe for a second it was one of the team. But I don't know for a fact that it wasn't. What about the cop on the inside? Hasn't he heard anything?"

Nick Marino was an undercover cop; a DC who had worked his way into Santini's organisation. He was still on the bottom rung, little more than an errand boy and driver. It took time to build up trust and get anywhere near Santini, his son, and the inner circle that ran the show.

"Not a whisper," Tom said. "But there was a big party at Santini's club on the night following the hit. It was common knowledge what they were celebrating. My man is all eyes and ears, but they don't stay one foot ahead of us by running off at the mouth. It's like a fucking Mafia family. They don't trust their own shadows. They expect us to try and get close. Remember Joey?"

Matt had met Joey Demaris a couple of times. He'd worked undercover, supposedly got close to one of Santini's lieutenants, but had been sussed, and vanished. That had been over a year ago. Joey had been murdered, of that they were certain. But without a body there was nowhere to go. Joey was no doubt at the bottom of the Thames estuary wrapped in chicken wire and weighted with breeze blocks, or maybe in the foundations of a new high-rise office block. The possibilities were endless.

"What's the latest on the Page woman?" Matt asked.

Penny Page had made good progress, physically, but had blanked out the incident; her mind closing down to escape the horror of what had happened.

Tom scowled. "She's in the Twilight Zone. The doctor says it's disassociative amnesia. She doesn't remember a thing. She's a blank page, no pun intended."

"Do they expect her to get her memory back?"

"You know how anal the medical profession can be. They let me in to see her, but it was like trying to interview a retard. The light was on, but nobody was at home. I feel sorry for her, but that doesn't help us. A psychiatrist gave me a lot of psychobabble over how her mind had escaped from a situation that was untenable. She may not remember what went down for days, weeks or months, if ever."

"What about the baby? Maybe if he's taken to her, she'd snap out of it."

"I put that to the doc. He said they don't want to shock her out of whatever state she's in; that it would be better if she came out of it naturally, when her brain is good and ready to deal with the situation."

"Is she under wraps?"

"Yeah. We've kept it from the media so far, but it'll leak, it always does."

"The hitter will kill her if he gets wind of where she is."

"I know. We plan on moving her to a private clinic. The bastard must have spoken to her. Whatever's locked inside her skull could be priceless."

"Maybe. Though even a description wouldn't necessarily help us find the shooter, or tie Santini to it. He could have flown him in from across the pond."

"That would be a good scenario for you and Penny Page, Matt. If he's back in Chicago or somewhere, chugging Budweiser and watching baseball on TV, then you've got nothing to worry about."

Matt had been looking through the names on the list as they talked. "The priority is digging out whoever served us up to the wop on a plate," he said.

"I've got Kenny Ruskin over in Computer Crime Section running a check. If anyone on that list is living above his means or looks dirty, Kenny will red flag him, or her."

Matt nodded. He suddenly wanted Tom to go. He felt sick and tired. His leg and side hurt, and the need for a Scotch or two, then bed, were becoming more attractive by the second.

"I think I need to get some kip, Tom. I feel shot."

"You were shot, remember?"

"Is that a poor attempt at humour?"

Tom smiled. "I'll make up the sofa bed, and then piss off."

"Thanks."

Fifteen minutes later, Tom was gone. Matt was sipping Black Label on the rocks. He put the glass down on the coffee table, drew the lounge curtains together, and then lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn't come. He missed Linda like hell. Without looking, he knew that her drawers and wardrobe would be empty. The bookshelves in the lounge were almost bare. She had taken all the material, personal items that had made the house a home. He didn't collect anything. It made him a little sad to realise that he had made no time to read, rarely watched TV, and had no pastimes. Christ, he wasn't even into sport. He'd played golf, badly, a decade earlier; his clubs were out in the garage, cobwebbed and rusting. It grieved him that he had driven Linda away. Their time together should have been more fulfilling. She had wanted...deserved more than a workaholic cop. It hit him surprisingly hard. He hadn't got a life. The job was what fuelled and drove his engine. Now, shot-up and feeling totally pissed-off, he wished he'd nurtured their relationship. Nothing grows without sustenance. Love can wither and die like a plant starved of water. And a part of his mind admitted that his being a cop wasn't making any real difference. The shit he dealt with every day didn't go away. He had become like a hamster on a fucking wheel, and life was passing him by as he ran on the spot, getting nowhere fast. It struck him that Linda had been a trimming, to kid himself he was a regular guy. If he had really loved her, he would be hurting more, not just feeling sorry for himself. Oh, yes, he missed her, but not enough, or for the right reasons. On one level he knew she had done the best thing by moving on.

He got up with difficulty. His side and back were sore and his leg ached. After pouring another Scotch he went through to the kitchen. Stared at the wall-mounted phone for over a minute before finally removing it from the cradle and dialling.

After ten rings a weary voice answered. "Yeah."

"Hi, Dad. It's Matt."

"You at home, yet?"

"Yeah. They kicked me out this morning."

"So take a medical and walk. You don't need to go back to it."

"And do what, Dad? You know what it's like. You were a cop."

"I should've been something else. Maybe a plumber or a cabbie. You're still young enough to get some sense and follow the money. You don't get paid enough to be a target in a shooting gallery."

"How're you feeling, Dad?" Matt asked, changing the subject.

"How should I feel? I've not had a good night's sleep since your mother died, God bless her," His voice hitched. "I couldn't get up to visit you in hospital, son. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah. You phoned. I appreciated that. How's the ticker?"

"Still ticking, but it'll get me sooner or later. Damn thing's on bobbins."

"You should quit smoking and get out more. Walking and fresh air would help."

"You a cop, or a bloody quack?"

"You're right. We all have to do it our own way. It'll be a few weeks before the cast comes off my leg. When it does, I'll drive down and let you buy me a pint."

"Okay, son. How's Linda? She making sure you rest up and give yourself a chance to heal properly?"

Now wasn't the time to discuss it. "She's fine. I'll give her your love."

"You do that. She's too good for you."

"I know. I'll call you in a day or two. Bye, Dad."

After racking the phone, Matt made coffee. The chat with his dad had not helped. He felt even more dejected than before. Arthur Barnes was a little remote, and always had been. He'd made sergeant, and then manned the front desk at Greenwich for the last fifteen years of his service, before retiring to a poxy flat in Hove that was set well back from the front on a narrow side street. The odd seagull sitting on a chimney pot or shitting down the window was the only visible clue to his being near the sea. And just twelve months into what should have been their 'Golden Years', Nancy Barnes had developed lung cancer and faded away within six weeks of being diagnosed. It was ironical. She had never smoked a fucking cigarette in her life.

Arthur hadn't dealt with it well. And within six months of Nancy passing, he had suffered a massive heart attack and undergone quadruple bypass surgery. Now, he was just waiting for the end, impatiently, as though death was little more than an overdue bus. He'd told Matt that if you had nothing to look forward to, and there was no more you wanted from life, then you were just like an empty Scotch bottle; a complete waste of fucking space.

Back on the sofa bed, Matt fell asleep as he contemplated life and all its incongruous twists and turns. It was a rollercoaster, and he decided that all you could do was hang on tight and go with it. There was no getting off until it came to a stop.

"MAATTT!" Bernie's voice, as once again Matt was in the bungalow, feeling secure and in control of the situation. The slim figure appeared, and he froze his dream to study the face below the peak of the I ♥ NY baseball cap. Saw the first explosive flash from the silenced muzzle. The scenario that followed was a fabrication. He reached for his gun, and like Dirty Harry, cut the figure down in a hail of lead. But dreams were like movies; any comparison to reality was purely coincidental.

Crying out, he reared up, bathed in sweat. It was as dark and quiet as a crypt. The panic ran its course and subsided, to be replaced by a searing anger. Purpose overcame all other emotions. Santini and his paid assassin were going down for what they had done. Tom was right; he was too close to the case. It was in his face; personal business. Only revenge would extinguish the fire that raged in his soul. And if he got his hands on the cop who'd sold them out, then he didn't think he would be able to stop himself from ripping the no good bastard's heart out with his bare hands.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

**DOMINIC** Santini was seated behind an oversize solid oak desk in his father's office on the top floor of Rocco's. His loafer-clad feet were up on the leather-bound blotter, ankles crossed. The room looked to be a throwback to Victorian times; dark, panelled walls that matched the desk. And opaque glass-masked wall lights, their glow a dull ivory creating soft-edged shadows that melted to black at the room's edges.

Rocco's was a private gambling club off Wardour Street. The haunt of high-rollers. There were suites for the serious players, for whom booze, nose candy and even female or male company was laid on gratis, should they wish to partake. Inside, the club was as lavish as many of the joints on the Strip in Vegas; a magnet to both serious players and well-heeled celebrities visiting the capital.

In the foyer – hung pride of place – was a poster-size photograph of Frank, pallying up to his namesake, Sinatra, who had played the tables for a couple of hours one evening back in the early eighties, after a gig at the New Festival Hall.

The interior of Rocco's was done in an Italianate motif, with gilded chandeliers and ornamentation. Frank had spared no expense to impress.

"I got the cop here," Eddie Costello said into the intercom on the outside of the office door.

Dom pressed a button on the console in front of him. Detective Inspector Victor Pender entered nervously, with Eddie behind him.

Take a load off, Vic," Dom said, sitting up and placing his feet on the floor, nodding to the dark green upholstered chair facing him.

"I don't like this, Dom. What if someone saw me come up here?" Vic said, lowering himself onto the edge of the seat, feeling as uncomfortable as he looked.

Dom's smile resembled an animal's snarl. "What you do or don't like counts for shit, Vic. If I snap my fingers, you jump. That's the way it is, so don't whine."

"Your father―"

"My father owns your chickenshit arse, Pender, which means I do, too."

Vic's head dropped and his shoulders slumped. He sighed audibly, and then waited to be told why he had been summoned.

"That's better, Vic. You gotta get a philosophy. Realise that you reap what you sow in life," Dom said, motioning for Eddie to get them a drink from the well-stocked corner bar.

"So what's the problem?" Vic asked, taking the proffered Scotch from Santini junior's goon.

"You tell me. Because I hear that the cop who survived when Lester was creamed isn't going to leave it alone. And that the woman from next door to the safe house is also pulling through."

Vic fidgeted, pulled at the knees of his trousers. Shuffled his feet. "There's no sweat, Dom, believe me. The cop, Barnes, is out of the loop, and he's hurting. He lost a kidney and can't walk without a crutch. He got a look at a baseball cap and a gun. There's no way he can identify the shooter."

"And the woman?"

"She's cabbaged. They moved her to a private clinic, but she doesn't even know her own name. She's a pot noodle."

"Okay, Vic, stay on top of it. If this...Barnes saw more than you say, then he gets to lose his other kidney. So keep him out of it, or order a wreath."

"I'm not his boss. I―"

"Don't start getting fucking negative, Vic. Just use your limited initiative," Dom said, putting his glass down and standing up to signal that the meeting was at an end. "Why don't you go and relax...Play a little roulette? Eddie will organise a few chips to set you up. Have some fun."

Vic went downstairs, but didn't take Dom up on his offer. He walked through the casino, ignoring the sound of dice being thrown, the ball careering around a roulette wheel, and the non-stop metallic clunks of fruit machines being worked. The allure of all this shit was the reason he had become bought and paid for by Frank Santini in the first place.

Walking out onto Wardour Street, he moved quickly away from the club, head down, staying close to the buildings and praying that no one he knew spotted him.

Just a slight, nondescript looking man, Vic Pender was in a hole that he couldn't climb, buy or talk his way out of. He had somehow run up a marker for forty grand at another West End club as he tried to play his way out of debt with the dumbfuck optimism that always keeps gamblers coming back to the well for more heartache.

Stopping in shadow, Vic lit a cigarette with shaking hands as he recalled the night his life had changed forever. He had parked the car in the drive of his semi at Feltham, opened the garage and been braced by two thugs who appeared from nowhere to push him inside and pull down the up-and-over door. That was when he was read the gospel according to St Francis Mario Santini.

"Say your prayers, copper," Eddie Costello had said, pressing the muzzle of a gun to his temple as the other gorilla gripped him by the neck and forced him to his knees.

Vic still had nightmares in which he heard the crisp metallic click as Eddie pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, and the resulting laughter of the two greaseballs as a stain spread out on the front of his pants.

"Here's how it is, Pender," Eddie had said. "Mr. Santini bought your marker, so you now owe him forty big ones, plus interest. Call in Rocco's tomorrow at noon, and Mr. S will see what he can do to help you straighten things out."

Christ, how had it come to this? He'd gone to the club as instructed. Been told by Santini that for just a little intel here and there, he could soon wipe out the debt. And that was it; he'd stepped over what had always been a hard line, and got in way too deep. Had even given up Joey Demaris to clear the books and get out from under the cosh. But that had just been the beginning. Frank Santini had made it clear that it was in Vic's best interest to stay on the winning side.

"If I go down, you go down harder," Frank said at the dockland warehouse where Vic had been taken to witness the demise of the undercover cop he had sold out.

He had openly wept as Joey – his mouth taped and arms bound – looked at him, accusation mingling with fear in eyes that were little more than slits in bruised, torn and swollen flesh.

Vic had watched, mortified, as the young cop was beaten to a bloody pulp by four men wearing overalls and wielding pickaxe handles.

It had been Dominic who had performed the coup de gráce, cutting Joey's throat, even though his multiple injuries had rendered him unconscious.

"Now you've been blooded, so to speak," Frank had said. "This is what happens to anyone who acts against me in word or deed. I want you to know that you work for me now, Victor. You're in up to your traitorous fuckin' neck. And if you get noble and try to do the right thing, just remember tonight. What happened to this piece of garbage can happen to your wife, daughter, and everyone you care about. Capite cosa intendo?"

Oh, yeah, Vic understood all too well. Only by feeding Santini with any intelligence that might harm the organisation, would he be able to keep his family alive and his arse out of prison, which was not a place a cop wanted it to be. Suicide was an option he had considered at least once every day, though he did not possess the strength of character to do what he believed would be the right thing. It would be a pointless exercise. He couldn't even leave incriminating evidence behind to bring the gangster down. His family would only be victimised by proxy. There was no way out of the shit-pile he'd jumped into.

Dom poured another Scotch and smiled as he looked at the framed photographs that graced the walls of his father's office. It was a gallery of Frank's heroes, featuring: Caruso and Lanza, who Frank said were singers, not crooners like Como, Bennett, Martin, and a host of other Italian Americans, Including Francis Albert. There was also a signed promotional shot of Rocky Marciano, who Santini senior proclaimed to have been the best fighter to ever climb into the ring. Maybe he hadn't had the footwork or finesse of an Ali, Frank would opine, but he came out swinging with a killer instinct, and did the business, every time. Another wall could have been out-of-date mug shots of the FBI's Most Wanted: Al Capone, his cousin Joe Fischetti, Lucky Luciano, Vito Genovese, Sam Giancana, Frank Nitti, and Benny Siegal, the New York gangster who had contracted hits for Murder Incorporated, and had turned the dusty, one-horse desert town of Las Vegas into a glittering, glamorous and hedonistic gambling capital; a money pit with no equal, that had laundered vast sums of dirty green for the mob.

Dom stood up and checked himself out in a full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good! Only the slightly thinning hair dismayed him. He was a victim of hereditary male pattern baldness, and supposed that at thirty-eight it could be worse, which gave him little comfort. One thing he wouldn't do was wear a rug. It would be better to wear his hair ultra short than succumb to the vanity that his father had fallen prey to. Frank's toupee was a joke. At the moment, Dom chose to keep his hair long, tied back in a ponytail. He turned to look at his profile, admired the diamond that graced his left earlobe (a rock that any woman would give a lot to have on her finger), and smiled at his reflection, pleased with the strong, handsome image. Dom was six foot three, and had shoulders so broad that his head looked a little on the small side for his body. He still pushed weights, did not smoke, or do drugs...to excess. He drank in moderation, and required – needed – sex at least once every twenty-four hours, preferring to use the high-class whores owned by the organisation, than to form relationships. Women in general expected to be taken out and pampered, which was too much like hard work. He didn't confuse lust and love. The working girls knew the score and were paid well for their services. He did not have demands made of him by anyone, with the exception of his father.

"Eddie, I don't like the idea of that injured cop or the woman being able to finger the hitter," Dom said when his aide returned from downstairs. "Check them out and get back to me with the story of their lives. Then I'll decide whether we have a problem, or if there's enough leverage to shut them up. If they don't have the sense to quit while they're ahead, then we'll vanish them."

"The shooter was sloppy, Dom," Eddie said. "I thought he came highly recommended?"

"He's a pro, Eddie. He did the job at short notice and got that creep, Little. Leaving witnesses was an oversight that proves he's human. Maybe I'll get him to clean up his own leftovers. I'll sleep on it. In the meantime, tell Courtney to get her cute little arse up to my suite in thirty minutes."

Eddie grinned. "You got it, boss.

Dom nodded. "Yeah, Eddie, I have."

# CHAPTER EIGHT

**IT** was ten o' clock the next morning when Tom knocked at Matt's door and waited; knowing that in his present condition it would take his DI a while to hobble through the house.

"I just put the coffee on" Matt said, opening the door, then turning awkwardly to make his way back to the kitchen.

"All you need is a bloody parrot on your shoulder," quipped Tom, closing the door and following him, with the image of Long John Silver coming to mind as Matt clumped along the hall under crutch power.

Matt took a seat as Tom placed a carrier bag on the table, and then went to pour the coffee.

"What's in the bag?" Matt asked.

"Take a look. It isn't grapes or Lucozade."

Matt reached into the bag and withdrew a nine millimetre Beretta and shoulder rig. "Thanks, Tom," he said. "I feel safer already."

"Sign for it," Tom said, putting the mugs of coffee on the table and pulling a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. "And let's hope to Christ you don't have to use it."

"I'll drink to that," Matt said, picking up his mug and taking a sip of the steaming black liquid. "What about the rogue cop? Anything?"

"No. There's no one involved who stands out. We had a close look at one of Vic Pender's DC's, Mike Vernon. He moved into a five hundred grand mock Tudor gaff at Chingford recently, but it was left to him. His mother checked out and he was the sole beneficiary."

"What have you done about the other cop you've got on the inside? He's on borrowed time if we've got a leak, which I know we have."

"He's safe. Or as safe as anyone under deep cover can be. He's from outside the Met, and only his handler knows his real ID, and is in contact with him."

"You?"

"Yeah. After Joey Demaris went missing, I decided that anyone on the inside needed total anonymity."

There was a knock at the door.

"That'll be Dick Curtis," Tom said, getting up and going to answer it.

Dick was an artist on a retainer, who could work-up a near perfect likeness from a description. He spent the best part of an hour drinking copious amounts of coffee as he attempted to capture on paper the fleeting glance of the killer from Matt's memory.

Matt nodded, studying the finished pencil portrait of a thin-faced young man with black, menacing eyes and sharp features. "That's good, Dick. His chin was maybe a touch firmer, though."

Dick quickly erased and redrew.

"That's who I saw," Matt said, grinning, amazed at the artist's ability.

"Pity he was wearing a baseball cap," Dick said.

Tom had been on the phone. He closed it. "We'll soon get to see how good it is," he said, giving the sketch a hard look. "I just checked in with the cop at the clinic. The Page woman came out of it. She's got her memory back, but they had to sedate her when she was told that her husband didn't make it. When she's able, we should get a lot more to work with."

All Penny wanted when she came to was her baby. He was brought in by her parents and she cradled him and cried for a long time. The relief and grief to know that Michael was unharmed, but that her husband had not survived the ordeal, threw up a mix of bittersweet emotions that no one who had not been there could appreciate. She was in a bad place.

The medical staff could not answer her questions. They didn't know why she and her husband had been shot.

When Tom arrived, Penny was a willing witness; wanted to talk to him. There was no reluctance, just a need on her part to try and understand. She was both victim _and_ witness, who apart from Matt, was all Tom had to run with.

"Why?" Penny asked, after waiting until her mum and dad had taken Michael out of the room.

Tom pulled one of the chairs up next to the bed and sat down before answering. "You'd seen him, Mrs. Page. May I call you Penny? I'm Detective Chief Inspector Tom Bartlett...Tom."

Her shoulders hiked a little, as if to say that she didn't give a damn what he called her. She just wanted an explanation. Tom knew that whatever he said would be woefully inadequate.

Penny looked down to where her hands were clasped on top of the blanket, but not still. Nerves seemed to have given them a life of their own; her fingers began to clench and unclench independent of any conscious control.

Tom waited, not forcing the issue.

"He said he wouldn't harm us if we did exactly as we were told and promised not to say anything," Penny said, looking up with disbelief in her eyes, tears running down her cheeks as she spoke in a still, small voice.

"I'm sorry, Penny. He was lying to you. After he left your house, he shot six other people, and only one survived."

"What brought him to our house? Why were we involved?"

Tom saw anger forming in the expression on her drawn face, and in the accusatory look in her sunken eyes. There was a new edge, a trace of steel in her voice. She wanted, needed someone to blame, to vent her wrath on. Tom sensed that he was going to be the sacrificial cow, like it or not.

"A witness who was due to appear in court was being protected by officers in the bungalow next door to your house," he said, having made the decision to give her all the information he could, barring names. "Someone found out where he was and sent a professional to kill him."

Penny sat up straight, hands now fisted, her whole body trembling. "You put innocent people in danger, and...and Jerry died."

"I can't alter what happened, Penny. All we can do, with your help, is find the man who did it and put him away for life."

Penny blinked her eyes and swallowed hard. Her throat hurt with the effort it was taking not to break down. "Are Michael and I safe from him, now?" she asked.

"You want the truth, Penny?"

She nodded.

"He attempted to kill you because you could describe him. I can't tell you that he won't try to finish the job. He'll still regard you as a threat."

"So until he's caught, my son and I are in danger?"

"I doubt it, but we have to assume that you are. That's why we moved you to a private clinic. And why there's an armed officer outside the door, and others in the building."

"Weren't the officers in the bungalow armed?"

She was distraught, but not to a point that prevented her from rationalising the situation.

"Yes," Tom conceded. "So you can appreciate we need all the help you can give us. Anything you can tell me that might help us to track him down."

Penny licked her lips. Her mouth was dry as tinder. Tom got up and poured water from a jug on the locker next to the bed into a plastic tumbler and handed it to her. She took small, birdlike sips. Her hands shook, and water splashed out over the rim.

"I'll tell you everything I can," she said.

"Thanks, Penny," Tom said, bending down to take a small recorder from his briefcase. "I need to tape it. I don't do shorthand or try to commit statements to memory. And with your permission, I want another officer to be present. He's the one that survived the shooting and got a glimpse of the man who did it."

"Okay," she whispered. There was no resistance in her demeanour. She _wanted_ to talk; to attempt to expunge some of the locked-in horror.

It took Tom all of his willpower not to lean forward and hold Penny Page in his arms. He wished that he could absorb some of the deep and poignant distress and pain she was suffering. For a second, he saw her not as a mother and newly grieving widow, but as a little girl; an orphan, lost, frightened and dazed by the accumulation of events that had led to her present predicament.

Tom went to the door, opened it a few inches and nodded to Matt, who was talking to an armed cop, Bo Silver, known as Boris the Spider from the Who's old sixties hit, because he was quick, and a little creepy.

Matt held Penny's hand firmly for a few seconds as Tom introduced them. He didn't offer his condolences, just exchanged looks that spoke volumes. Words could sound so lame and empty, even when well meant and sincerely voiced.

Penny saw the mental and physical pain in the cop's eyes. His set expression could not hide the underlying emotions emanating from him in unseen waves.

"You were shot," she stated, watching him as he carefully, awkwardly lowered himself into a sitting position.

"Yeah, but I'm paid to take risks. You and your family shouldn't have been in the firing line."

"He enjoyed it," Penny said, when Tom had set the tape running. She told them everything, pausing several times to regain her composure. "He said he killed people for a living. But that wasn't the truth. He does it because it gives him pleasure. He was...was feeding off our fear."

"Can you describe him?" Tom asked.

"Young. In his twenties," Penny said, her eyes closed as she recalled his features. "He was the same height as Jerry...five-nine. And he was slim, but looked strong. His hair was light brown, receding at the temples. And his eyes were black, somehow not human. I had the feeling he was...crazy

She gave a full account of everything the intruder had said and done. Of how he had wanted to know when Becks, their dog, was taken for walks; of his changing moods. Of the fact that one minute he could be pleasant and friendly, and the next, threatening and violent.

Tom showed her the sketch.

Penny physically shied away from it. Tom could have been holding up a live cobra in front of her.

"That...that's him. And the New York baseball cap is Jerry's."

"Did Jerry own a red jacket?" Matt asked. It pained him to hear Penny talking about her husband in the present tense, as though he was still alive. It would take a long time for her to accept that he was no longer among the living.

"A fleece. He has a red fleece. Why?"

"The killer was wearing the cap and fleece when I saw him."

"Why would he do that?"

Matt wasn't prepared to hold anything back. She deserved the full picture. "There were two cops in a van outside the bungalow. I believe he wore Jerry's stuff to get near to them without causing any alarm. They would have seen him leave the house with the dog and not given him a second look."

"Did he...?"

"Yes, Penny. He shot them both before entering the bungalow. We have a lot of people going through what you're having to face. I know that that won't help. But what he did affected a great many lives."

"His voice, Penny," Tom said. "Did he have an accent?"

She shook her head. "He sounded local. Definitely a southerner."

"Anything else?" Matt asked her. "Try and picture him, Penny. Was he wearing a ring or neck chain? Did he have a tattoo?"

"No...But he had scars on his wrists."

"What kind of scars?"

"As if he had slashed them lots of times," Penny said, running a finger across her own wrist repeatedly to illustrate what she meant. "Some were just white lines, but others looked fresh. There was a bandage on his left wrist. I don't recall any jewellery. He wore a dark sweater, blue jeans, and trainers."

There was no more.

"Okay, Penny. Thank you for going through it with us," Tom said, before stating the time and date and turning off the tape. "And try to feel safe. No one knows where you are, apart from us and your parents. Be sure to tell them to keep your location to themselves."

"Why does he do it?" Penny asked, looking from Tom to Matt.

Tom had no answer for her.

"You answered that yourself, Penny," Matt said. "He enjoys it. Some people don't need a reason to hurt others. They do it because they can, and because it fulfils some sick inner need."

After leaving Penny's room, Tom and Matt went to the clinic's small cafeteria on the ground floor.

"That was more than I hoped for," Tom said, returning from the self-service counter with two cups of coffee. "It confirms there was only one perp involved."

Matt propped the crutch up against the wall behind the corner table, grunting as he twisted slightly and his back and side complained. "You can feed that sketch to the media," he said. "It'll negate any reason for the killer to try and take Penny and me out. The only threat we were, was that we'd seen him."

"I'll arrange a press conference when I get back, after the super is clued up. He'll want to be the mouthpiece. The cameras love him."

Matt pulled a face. He had no time for their boss, Jack McClane, who he considered to be a lard-arsed pen-pusher, only interested in brown-nosing to the suits on the top floor.

"I know," Tom said. "He's a dickhead. But he can be pointed in the right direction if things are put to him in a way that leaves him thinking it was his idea in the first place."

"This shooter should be easy to find," Matt said, not wanting to waste time discussing a superintendent who he thought was little more than dead weight. "We have every reason to believe he's local. And he self mutilates. This is a head case that may have a history of mental illness, a criminal record, or both."

Tom agreed. "I'll have a couple of the squad run what we've got through the computer. His face might come up. Even if it doesn't, someone out there will recognise him when this hits the front pages. And the scarred wrists will confirm his ID to anyone who knows him."

Matt frowned. "We could scare him off, Tom. He isn't stupid. When the media run with this, he'll more than likely go to ground. He's a pro, which means he'll have made contingency plans for if ever the shit hits his personal fan."

"Maybe not. If he's a nutter, being caught might not be something he would ever contemplate."

"He's sharp, Tom. This was a well-planned hit. If Santini uses him, then he must come highly recommended with a good track record. Ballistics should be able to run a check on the slugs. He may have used the same handgun before."

"I'll see if they can find a match. Although that won't help us nail him. Do you think he might have altered his appearance? You know, worn contact lenses and stuff."

"No. He didn't plan on anybody being left alive to finger him."

"What do you suggest?"

"Get Dick Curtis to work up another sketch with Penny. She said he had receding hair. That'll make a difference. Then hold it back while we show it around on the street. We want this guy feeling safe, Tom. He can help us bury Santini."

"Santini might not even know who he is."

"No, but the shooter will know who he's capping people for."

Tom lifted his cup, found it empty, got up and went to get them both a refill.

While Tom queued behind a group of nurses, Matt reviewed what they had. It was known what the killer looked like, and that he had distinguishing marks in the form of scars on both of his wrists. He was most likely based in the London area, and may have done time, or received treatment for mental illness. They had leads to follow and every chance of coming up with a name.

"There you go," Tom said, placing a fresh brew in front of Matt. "I'm beginning to feel like a bloody manservant. The sooner you get that pot off your leg, the happier I'll be."

"You and me both," Matt said. "And Tom, don't mention the sketches to McClane. Let's keep that card close to our chests. With a little luck, we can cold-cock the bastard and lift him like a sleeping baby."

"I don't like it, Matt. If we don't splash his face all over the tabloids, you and Penny Page are still loose ends."

"I know. I'll be ready for him. But you'll have to put Penny under tighter wraps. Move her and the baby, and don't even let her parents know where she is."

"She might not go for it."

"She will. Did you see the look on her face when you showed her the sketch? She'll do anything to guarantee not meeting up with this flake again."

"We can't give her any guarantees, Matt. I'll put the description on hold for another forty-eight hours. But if we're still drawing a blank, it goes out."

# CHAPTER NINE

**SHE** couldn't wait. The next scheduled meeting was only days away, but she wanted to be with him. Every hour was an eternity, and her resolve to take it softly-softly went by the board. Just the thought of them fucking was driving her crazy. She had been able to somehow suppress the built-up frustration that had been like a mild itch; one that she had been able to relieve herself of when need be. But now it was as if an internal dam had overflowed and could not be held back. She had picked up the phone three times and put it back down, but was only fending off the inevitable and torturing herself in the process.

Her hands shook as she tapped in his number. She held her breath as the ringing tone sounded six, seven, eight times. She willed him to be in, and to pick up.

"Gary Noon."

"Gary, it's Marion. If it's convenient, I need to run over your care plan with you, due to, er, new guidelines that have just been circulated. I wondered if I might drop by and talk it through."

He could hear the sexual tension in her voice. She was feeding him bullshit. What she wanted to visit for was more of what she hadn't been getting for a long time. He had hit her spot, and she was aching for a rematch.

"No problem, Marion. When would be good for you?"

"I could be there in less than an hour," she said, trying not to sound excited or anything other than professional.

"I'll be waiting," Gary said, and then cradled the phone.

She felt like a million dollars in her brand new, sexy underwear. And could hardly contain herself as she drove towards Putney. Christ! She went through red lights. Her concentration was shot to pieces. That dam inside her had now given way under pressure, and the resulting flood of emotions was unbounded, sweeping all before it in a rushing, roaring deluge. It was irrational to allow carnal desire to overrule common-sense. But it was as if an inner flame had been fanned and was raging out of control. She burned with a compulsion that would not be denied. If anything, the danger and attendant subterfuge heightened the reward. Not since being a child had she felt so driven. At school, she had stolen from fellow pupils who teased her over her weight and called her Porky Peterson. They'd deserved to have their possessions and money taken. In the showers after PE, they would slap, pull and pinch at her rolls of fat, laughing, jibing; mentally and physically hurting her more than they could ever know. Stealing from their lockers was the only way she could retaliate. And the risk of being caught was electrifying, enhancing the actual act of forcing the doors open with a penknife and removing any valuables. She had not been found out. Every item she stole – apart from money – was secreted behind a panel above the false ceiling in the cloakroom. She had even reported some of her own stuff missing, to allay suspicion. Her new-found and illicit sexual relationship with Gary gave her the same thrill. Putting herself in jeopardy intensified the pleasure of the act. It was how she imagined bungee jumpers must feel as they readied themselves to leap into space from a high bridge or crane.

Gary didn't go down to let her in this time. Just told her to come on up, and pressed the button to unlock the outer door to the building. Wearing just shorts, he went out onto the landing and watched her plod up the stairs, grunting as she laboured.

Jesus! If her eyes had teeth they would have eaten him alive. As she reached him, he put his arms around her, cupping her sagging buttocks with his hands and pulling her tight up against him.

She responded, ground herself against him and slipped a chubby hand down the back of his shorts.

Gary backed up, kicking the flat door closed when they were inside.

"Can I get you anything, Marion?" he asked. "Maybe a nice cup of tea?"

"Later," she gasped, kissing him hungrily on the lips before pushing her tongue into his mouth, jabbing it in and out as she tilted her hips up and pressed even closer. Oh, yes...yes! She felt like a bitch in heat; wanton and consumed by need.

He led her through to the bedroom, slipped off his shorts, and helped her to remove her blouse and skirt.

"You look gorgeous and sexy," he said, surveying her stood before him in her new black bra, matching panties, suspender belt and smoke-grey nylons. He smiled at the obvious pleasure his words generated. The insincere flattery raised bright patches of colour on her distended cheeks. She now looked like an overfed gerbil with high blood pressure. And yet, knowing that every second was being captured on videotape added a new dimension to the proceedings. Truth was, if Marion had worn a tutu, she could have been one of the hippos in _The Dance of Hours_ sequence from Disney's _Fantasia_. In bed, she came into her own, though. For her size, she was extraordinarily athletic and able. She actually turned him on, knowing exactly which buttons to press. He had the fleeting notion that if she cut out the garlic and slimmed down, their relationship could be a long-term and mutually satisfying venture. Being wanted and needed inspired a profound and meaningful sense of belonging that he had never previously experienced. It was disturbing.

He would enjoy watching the action replay. Maybe he would let her see it, but not yet, not today. Secretly filming their antics was another aspect of control to relish.

"Would you like to visit my place, Gary?" Marion asked, later, as they sat unclothed in the kitchen, talking and drinking tea.

"I'm not sure," he said. "Do you think that would be wise? What would happen if it was found out you were screwing around with a patient? I don't want you to lose your job because of me."

"No one would know. You could stay the weekend. Please say you will, Gary."

"All right, I will," he said at length, making her wait for his reply. "But I still think it's risky."

She came to him, knelt on the floor and buried her face in his lap, which led to further activity that he passively enjoyed. He decided that the relationship could be much more than just an insurance of exemplary reports as to the state of his mental health. Over a period, Marion could be trained to enjoy a certain amount of pain, to enhance the pleasure of their lovemaking. He would enlighten her; teach her to need the prick of the thorn as much as the bouquet of the rose.

When she had squeezed her bulk into the little Honda and driven away, he fed Simon, using his fingers to select one of the crickets, all but crushing it as he transferred it from the prey tank to the vivarium. The insect chirruped, its back legs rubbing together as it prepared to jump away from danger. The large arachnid appeared from the dark entrance of its bark tunnel to appraise the living meal. Simon stayed still until the cricket settled, then rushed forward to envelop the hapless creature and drag it back to the shelter of its lair.

Enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and snacking on a plate of chocolate digestives, Gary watched the video, amazed to see the spectacle from a totally different viewpoint. He felt like a third person; a voyeur surreptitiously spying on strangers making out, which was a pastime he had enjoyed as a teenager, frequenting lovers' lanes under cover of darkness. It had been his favourite undertaking for a while. Sneaking up on couples who spent summer nights on a blanket in the bracken, he would find unparalleled relief as he watched and listened to their clandestine activities. Once in a while, he would still frequent wooded areas, where lovers with nowhere else to go would – ignorant to his near presence – put on an uninhibited display, which gave him as much gratification as they were undoubtedly enjoying. To be like a fly on the wall was an addictive, dramatic pursuit, almost as rewarding as killing in its own way. And some of the lovers _had_ died where they lay, bludgeoned unmercifully, to add agony to their prior ecstasy. His mood at the time determined their fate. The masses got off by watching the escapades of exhibitionists on Big Brother and similar tacky reality shows on the box, which amounted to the same thing in his book. Although the participants always got out alive. The world was full of closet perverts. No one was who they purported to be. Everyone had secrets, and like onions, were many-layered.

After showering, he donned a thin cotton robe, went through to the kitchen and ate tuna sandwiches and drank milk while he watched the main ITN news. The cop shootings were not even mentioned. It was old and cold news now, superseded by other fresh atrocities and political intrigue. Today's main events were the discovery of a teenage girl's body that had popped up in a reservoir near Croydon. She had been snatched on her way home from school, three months prior to washing up on the shore in her rotting birthday suit. Next up were details of more killing in the Middle East; boring, repetitious crap. Would the west, and in particular the Yanks, give a flying fuck what happened out there if oil was taken out of the equation? No way, Jose.

After watching the dumb-looking weather girl wave her hands about and give details of the expected high pollen count, he turned the set off. It was obvious that the cop who had survived the shooting could not have seen him. Their investigation was a non-starter.

"Don't count on it," a voice said, startling him with its loudness, even though it came from within his own mind. He dropped the tumbler, heard it shatter, and felt fragments of the glass sting his legs, as they and the chilled milk splashed off the vinyl floor covering.

"You clumsy, pitiful, disgusting little boy," the voice rasped. It was his mother speaking. She was dead, but had taken up residence in his head – which was a crowded place – where so many voices were a constant background static. He would take his medication and be rid of her.

"What do you mean, don't count on it?" he asked himself.

"I mean that the police won't let go of this. You murdered six people, four of them cops. And the one who lived did see you. Remember? He looked straight into your eyes before you shot at him. And the woman from the house next door knows exactly what you look like. They'll convince her to talk and describe you."

"That wouldn't help them. Outwardly I look average. And I have no criminal record. If the bitch had talked, or the cop had got a good look at me, they would have been showing photofits on the box."

"That's it, Gary. Put your head in the sand like a fucking ostrich, and you won't see any bad shit coming till it bites you in the arse."

"You're dead, you stupid bitch. I don't have to listen to this crap."

He got up, turned on the tuner of his midi-system, cranked up the volume and sang along to the old Beatles' number that was playing; "I NEVER NEEDED ANYBODY'S HELP IN ANY WAY," he shouted, drowning out the voice of John Lennon. The lyrics of the Fab Four's song were true. He needed no one, or any help. He opened a wall unit cupboard and took out the box containing his clozapine tablets. Popped a couple from their foil blisters, swallowed them and washed them down with water that he drank straight from the tap. That would shut his mother's and all the other voices up.

After cleaning up the glass and mopping the floor, he waited for the drug to kick in and mollify him.

His mother was up front in his thoughts now. One of the best days' work he had ever done was to push her down the stairs of their terrace house at Streatham. The incident coalesced in his mind. He was back there, a fourteen year old again, standing at his bedroom door, listening to the grunts and moans and heavy breathing.

His mother finished up with the punter, led him down to the front door and saw him out, before locking up for the night. She trudged back up to the landing, wearing only a flimsy red nightdress and fluffy, pink slippers. He despised her. His father had been one of her countless clients, who she had obviously allowed to ride her bareback, so to speak. To know that he was the result of a quickie for money with a total stranger was not conducive to a healthy, balanced state of mind or the basis for a normal mother and son relationship.

"Do it," an authorative voice in his brain had insisted. "DO IT, NOW!"

It was as if the act had been sanctioned by a higher power. He ran across the small landing, to meet her as she reached the top. And as she gave him a lopsided, drunken smile, he stuck both arms out straight, to feel her soft breasts compress under his palms as he pushed hard, causing her to fall back into space. She wind milled her arms, teetered for a second, let out a shriek of terror, and then appeared to perform an ungainly back flip that resulted in a loud crack as her head hit a stair and her neck snapped. She came to rest in an unnatural, contorted position; her head at an impossible angle for anyone alive to adopt.

Gary allowed himself to be there, crouched on the bottom stair, looking down into the slack face and unseeing eyes. The makeup was too thick, the glossy lipstick too red. She could have been a child's doll, cast aside and broken beyond repair. It had been so simple. The exercise made it clear that anything undesirable could easily be eradicated; made to go away forever.

After pulling the nightdress down to cover the shaven centre of what had been her sole means of income, he called the emergency services, then ran next door screaming for help. He was shaking and crying as he told the neighbour that his mother had fallen down the stairs, and that he could not wake her up.

Due to the level of alcohol in her blood, the coroner's verdict on Tracy Noon was death by misadventure, which to Gary's mind was exactly what it had been.

Back in the present, he sighed. The voices had faded to become a low and unintelligible murmur. He went through to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. Marion had worn him out. Resting on the cool, cotton cover of the duvet, he closed his eyes. He would have to change the bedding later. He could smell Miss Piggy's garlic-laden sweat and the musk of her sex. The stink was contaminating his private space.

# CHAPTER TEN

" **I** want you to work with Beth Holder, Tom. See what she can contribute," Detective Chief Superintendent Jack McClane said in a way that Tom knew was not a request or suggestion.

"We've got leads to follow up, Jack. Isn't it a bit soon to start involving a bloody shrink?"

"She's not a shrink, Tom, and you know it. She's a criminal psychologist, who might just be able to give us a handle on what turns this guy's wheels."

Tom shifted restlessly on the small but heavy chair that was placed strategically in front of his super's desk. It was far enough away to prevent visitors from leaning forward and resting their elbows on the polished surface, and was intended to be disconcerting. The space was a buffer. Tom shook his head. He didn't like civilians on the team, or in his face. Especially women with an attitude, which was what he considered Dr. Beth Holder to be. "I just don't think―"

"Then don't, Tom. This isn't open for debate. I've already briefed her. She'll be in your office within the hour, and I want her to see everything you've got."

Tom managed a smile, and Jack allowed himself a wry grin. "You know what I mean, you perv. Mind you, she is a looker."

"Too self-opinionated and imperious for my taste, Jack."

"Yeah, but she's good at what she does. We need closure on this, Tom. If she can give us a pointer that helps, then I want it. We need to break this. Okay?"

Tom nodded, resigned to having to work alongside a woman who talked in riddles and came up with probabilities, which to him were little more than educated guesses wrapped up in supposition.

"Good," Jack said. "How's Barnes doing?"

"He's on the mend, but hurting over what went down. I'm keeping him up to speed with developments."

Jack sucked at his teeth. "That might not be such a good idea. He's too close to it. It could give him an agenda we don't need."

"He's an integral part of what happened. He saw the perp, Jack. He deserves to be on the inside. We've talked it through. He'll be fine."

"I hope so. Don't underestimate human nature, Tom. This will be personal in Barnes' book. He's always been the squad's answer to Harry Callaghan. I think he watched too many Eastwood movies as a kid."

Jack got up and walked over to a large fish tank that was set into a teak unit on the back wall. He took the top off a cylindrical container and sprinkled what looked to be ground pepper or fine sawdust onto the surface of the water, and watched as the light glinted off the brightly coloured tropical fish that darted up to gulp at the food.

Tom was convinced that McClane was a control freak. The rotund little Jock even held dominion over his bloody fish, and treated most of his minions as if they were no more than pawns on a chessboard. The troops' nickname for him was Chairman Mac, in part due to the little red book he filled with copious notes. If someone slighted him, even unintentionally, the misdemeanour was duly recorded, to be acted on weeks, months or in some cases years later. Promotion was a lost cause if an adverse entry had been made. Tom held back a smile as he remembered the far-reaching internal inquiry a decade ago, which had been instigated by Jack following the theft of his diary. Having gone for a dump in a fourth floor men's room, he had hung his jacket outside the stall, only to find his pockets as empty as his bowels when he'd finished up. There had been so many entries in the purloined diary that he couldn't narrow his field of suspects, but had interrogated everyone of lesser rank whom he suspected. It was believed that these days he transferred his notes to disk, with a backup copy on a flash drive. Tom knew the identity of the diary thief, and might even tell Jack who it was, on the day the super retired and could not take his revenge.

"Is that it, Jack?" Tom asked, standing and waiting to be dismissed.

"Yes, Tom. But keep me posted. I need this shooter roasting on a spit. The brass is pissed over losing the Santini case, and so am I."

"I'm more pissed at losing four officers."

"That goes without saying, Tom. But all we can do for them is find the bastard and put him and Santini away for life."

"And the mole who served Matt and the team up on a plate."

"That's still an assumption. We have no proof of an officer's involvement."

"No, but everything points to it. And if one of our own did sell us out, then I wouldn't give him a turkey's prayer of seeing another Christmas."

"That's dangerous talk, Tom."

"It's _straight_ talk, Jack. He'll go down resisting arrest, or maybe top himself in a holding cell. But his chances of reaching court are slim to none."

Tom took the stairs down to the incident room, told the team that they were about to have a civvy psychologist on board, and instructed them to like it or lump it, but to be civil and offer up any information that she requested from them. He then went to his own shoe box of an office and fired up the coffee maker.

Beth was early. Tom knew she would be. Everyone had their idiosyncrasies, and Beth Holder's was getting ahead of herself, and usually everyone else.

"Hi, Tom. Pleased to see me?" Beth said, knowing that the hard-nosed DCI had little respect for her skills.

"You know it," he said. "Coffee?"

"Black, no sugar, please," she said, delving into her shoulder bag for sweeteners.

"So take a pew, why don't you?" Tom said, a little intimidated by the tall, sable-haired doctor, who wore a navy power suit over a high-necked oyster-coloured blouse, that he had no doubt was a designer number. He always felt she was trying to evaluate him, and didn't like it.

"You don't think this is one for me, do you, Tom?" she asked, sliding onto the chair and crossing her legs.

"No, Beth, I don't. I was surprised Jack asked you to consult, and that you accepted. This isn't a serial killer. We're after a professional hitman."

"He may get paid to kill specific individuals, but he obviously enjoys his chosen profession. As a stranger-on-stranger killer, he fits loosely into the same frame."

"You reckon?"

"Yes, definitely. He gets off on repeat killing, so he's a serial murderer in my book."

Tom saw the correlation. Had to admit to himself that she was not just a pretty face.

They went through all the paperwork. Beth made notes in the margins of the copies he ran off for her. Two coffees later, she squared the thick sheaf off and put it in her briefcase.

"I need to talk to Penny Page and DI Barnes," she said, up on her feet, waiting.

"No problem. Any order?"

"Yes, the woman first."

"And let me guess. You want to do it now."

"No time like the present."

"So let's do it." Tom said, wanting to be done with it, convinced that the psychologist would not be able to shed more light on what they already had.

"You didn't release the description of the suspect, why?" Beth asked, walking shoulder to shoulder across the basement garage to Tom's unmarked Cosworth.

"Matt...DI Barnes thought it would do more harm than good at this stage. I'm holding off for a couple of days. I agree with him that it's best for our boy to think he's home free. What's your view?"

"I'm of the same opinion. He'll cover his tracks if you spread his likeness all over the front pages. Have you got flyers out, though?"

"Yeah. Every cop on the street has one."

"There is nothing else I can tell you," Penny said to Beth, after she had talked through her recollections of the hostage situation at length with Beth.

"Tell me how you found him as a person," Beth pushed. "Was he tense and aggressive in his attitude?"

"Not all the time. He laughed and talked. Acted as if he was a house guest. But it all seemed false. It was as if he was...empty somehow, putting on an act. I had the feeling he was pretending to show emotions. And he spoke to himself once or twice, as though someone else was present. He was strange."

"Thank you, Penny. That helps, believe me," Beth said, making a quick exit before the distressed young woman could gather her thoughts and ask questions for which, as yet, Beth had no answers.

"Well?" Tom said when they were outside the room in which Penny and her baby were ensconced under heavy guard.

"That told me a lot. Faking emotions, self mutilation and talking to his self are pointers. I'm all but sure he suffers from a mental disorder. I believe we have a seriously disturbed individual out there."

"I don't think my DI will be able to give any additional info. He only got a glimpse of the guy before he took two bullets."

"Is he having emotional problems, due to what happened to him?"

"If he isn't, he wouldn't be human, Doctor," Tom said with undisguised irritability. "He almost died. His colleagues did. Believe me, he isn't a happy camper."

Beth stopped and faced Tom. She was so close he could smell her minty breath and see flecks of almost red ochre in her dark irises. Her gaze seemed to pin him to the spot, and was by design, disconcerting.

"I'm on your side, Tom. Remember that, please," Beth said. "You have no need to act defensively. I appreciate that you give little credence to what I do, but it's pretty basic investigative procedure. I take all known behavioural aspects and just extrapolate them. Anything I come up with might just help. Do you have a problem with that?"

Tom frowned. "Forgive me if my scepticism shows. Truth is, I expect you to come up with a thumbnail sketch of a young white guy who probably lives alone, was abused as a kid, and went on to mistreat animals and burn buildings down before he found his true vocation. And even if you're on the money, It won't help us collar him, unless your findings include a name and address."

"I'll try to rise above your low expectation of my profession, Chief Inspector. I just look at a different set of clues. Understanding someone's personality can in some cases narrow the field. If between us we can home in on this man, then it won't matter how we got there. It isn't a competition. And be aware that I'm not looking for brownie points. I don't need this work. The pay is cheap."

"So why do you put yourself up for it?"

"To make a difference. Isn't that why you're a cop?"

"I don't know why I'm a cop. It just happened, a lifetime ago. Let's start over. I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I'm open to any input."

"Good. Tell me how you think this has affected DI Barnes. It will help if I know where he's coming from."

"He's dedicated. One of the best at what he does," Tom said, breaking the eye contact and walking to the car. He said nothing else until they were both belted up and he was driving out of the clinic's gates. "Matt comes across as a hard-nosed individual who doesn't suffer fools gladly. He isn't a diplomat. He tells it how it is, and if you don't like it, he doesn't give a toss. The slaughter at the safe house has shaken him up a lot more than he would ever admit...even to me. He was the OIC...officer in charge, so in his book he's responsible. It went down on his watch."

"But it would have happened whoever―"

"But it didn't. The buck stopped with him, so he considers himself responsible for the baby getting thrown out with the bath water. It isn't something you can rationalise. You had to be there, and neither of us was."

"How badly hurt was he?"

"It was touch and go for a while. Another few minutes at the scene and he wouldn't have made it. He lost a kidney, got his leg broken, and almost bled out. But it's not just the physical injuries that are paining him. And between us, his significant other walked out on him, which I reckon added to his overall sense of failure."

"Why did she or he leave?"

"She, Doctor. Matt is many things, but queer isn't one of them."

"You sound a little homophobic."

"Maybe I am. And as long as I don't let it get in the way of my work, I can choose to believe that God or nature intended sex to be a way for males and females to procreate, and gave them the appropriate genitalia to get the job done. Anything else is abnormal in my book. Grey isn't a colour I have a lot of time for. I like black and white.

"Linda left Matt because he was a stranger passing through. I don't think he's the type of man who has the capacity to be emotionally involved enough for a woman. They want more than he can give. There's not enough room in him for a permanent relationship. He was army, then cop. He doesn't see it as a job. I think he's on a mission. But Christ knows what really drives him. He doesn't show a lot. It's all inside...and lead-lined."

"Thanks for sharing that," Beth said. "I imagine him to be a lot like you."

"We tend to see certain things in the same light. But he's _nothing_ like me. I've known him for years, and yet I sometimes think I don't know him at all."

"Is he aware that I'm consulting on this case?"

"Yeah. I gave him a bell, to give him time to get his head around it."

"You mean he's another non-believer?"

"No. He has an open mind. He even took a course on this behavioural science stuff. You might find he has his own idea of what makes our shooter tick. Don't mistake him for some plod who doesn't know where you're coming from. He's as sharp as broken glass."

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

**MATT** was fully aware of Dr. Beth Holder's reputation, and had even met her once. He knew that she had developed her own Criminal Personality Programme, and that she was highly regarded as being one of the best evaluators of human behaviour outside of the underground warren below the US Marine base at Quantico: The FBI academy over the pond in Virginia.

After Tom rang and told him that he was driving out to see him, accompanied by Beth, Matt opened a couple of windows front and back to create a through draught, and sprayed the kitchen and lounge with air freshener to nullify the stink of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and Scotch. He even washed up the pile of plates and cutlery he'd dumped in the sink, and closed up the sofa bed. Lastly, he got Des – the cop who was on duty outside, guarding him – to go upstairs and find him a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans. He then cut the left leg out of the jeans and slit the side of them open so that he could fit them around the cast and fasten them up with safety pins. A cruel waste of a good pair of Levi's that were only five or six years old.

He had washed, combed his hair, but not shaved, when a car pulled up outside. He limped through to the front door before the bell rang.

"I'll get the coffee going," Tom said after the introductions were done with and Matt was sitting on the sofa. Beth took an easy chair, facing him across an Ikea coffee table.

"We met briefly on the Gentleman Killer case three years ago," Matt said.

Beth remembered his face. "You've lost a little weight since then," she said. "It doesn't suit you. And I'm not so sure about the designer stubble."

"Thanks. I'll go on a junk food binge and shave."

They smiled. Both had the simultaneous thought that they could probably work together.

"Isn't your forte serial murderers, Beth?" Matt asked.

"Yes, but Jack McClane asked me to look at this one. And I get the feeling that your hitman falls into the same category. A career choice of killing people for money _is_ serial to me on one level."

Matt shrugged. "I think they have a different mindset."

"More disciplined, Matt. And channelled in a way that on the surface might appear to be wholly different. But the bottom line is that they are repeat killers."

"So you'd compare this guy to say, the Gentleman?"

Beth frowned and pursed her lips for a second. "To a degree, yes. Karl Mason committed up-close acts of barbarism on his victims, and left them covered by a sheet with a 'thank you' card and a rose on their chests. In each case, he had stalked the women after careful selection. They had to conform specifically. All seven of them were approximately the same age and colouring. They physically resembled his ex-wife, who had left him for another man. But not all ritual or pattern murderers are reacting to one traumatic event that has triggered their actions. This guy kills for the thrill of it. I have no doubt that although he does it professionally, he will also do it for pleasure. The bottom line is that behaviour always reflects personality. Something started him off. Maybe contract killing is grandstanding. His actions impress the people that hire him. The payment is reward for a job well done. It will bolster his self esteem as well as his bank account."

Tom brought three mugs of coffee through on a tray and set it down on the table.

"Are you saying that one incident can blow their circuits and send them down a certain path?" Matt asked Beth.

Beth shook her head. "No. It's never usually as simple as that. I think it's an accumulation of things, culminating in one event too many. Research shows that a typical serial killer has been disturbed as a child. They become apart from the society they live among, introverted, and vent their pain by making others suffer."

"You don't accept that some apples just go bad without any outside stimulus to account for it?" Tom asked.

"Yes, as an exception, but not the rule. From what I already know, this man has mental problems. He self mutilates and talks to himself. He might be a homicidal psychopath who also suffers from schizophrenia. At the very least, he may well be dysfunctional, unable to form relationships, and have a host of other symptoms."

"Does that help us?" Matt asked.

"It should. He may have spent some time in an institution. And even if not, he could be under the supervision of a community mental health team."

"What would that entail?" Tom asked.

"It would depend on his needs and the severity of his symptoms. The therapies may well include drugs and counselling. Most patients would see a social worker or community psychiatric nurse on a regular basis, who would in turn feedback to a consultant psychiatrist, psychologist, and the patient's GP. There would be quarterly or six monthly reviews to assess progress, treatment and care."

"I'll arrange for flyers to be sent to all councils who operate these teams. It might just winkle him out." Tom said.

"It's a long shot, but worth trying," Beth said. "Even if he was suffering from...say, schizophrenia, he might not warrant close supervision. The majority manage their symptoms with antipsychotic drugs and only see their doctor infrequently. You would have to run the mugshot past every GP in the Greater London area. And at the moment I'm not a hundred percent sure that he is schizophrenic. I just think he could be."

"And how do you suppose I can help you?" Matt asked. "I saw him for maybe half a second."

"Close your eyes and replay that glimpse in your mind. Forget about what he was wearing. Just see his face," Beth said.

Matt closed his eyes and concentrated on being back in the hallway of the bungalow. As the killer appeared to him, Beth spoke again, as if sensing the moment. "Now hold that scene," she said, "in the same way that you would freeze-frame a video on replay.

"Okay," Matt said "I've got it."

"Are his eyes wide open or narrowed, Matt?"

"Wide, staring."

"Is he looking edgy...under pressure?"

"No. There's a slight smile on his face. He appears to be relaxed, without a care in the world. As cool as ice."

"That's interesting," Beth observed, making notes as she spoke.

"In what way?" Matt asked.

"If you had just shot a young couple, then two armed policemen, before breaking into a house where you knew there were more armed police, would you feel relaxed and as cool as ice?"

"No I would be tense and totally concentrated," Matt replied.

Beth continued. "From what you saw, and having spoken to Penny Page, I think the young man we are looking for shows inappropriate behaviour."

"Killing people in cold blood _is_ inappropriate behaviour, Beth," Matt said.

"I mean that his manner was unusual. A person in his position, say a soldier on the front line for example, would be keyed up and operating under a great deal of nervous tension, definitely not noticeably laid-back. But this perpetrator was in a life and death situation, which he obviously found to be pleasurable and stimulating. He has no fear of death."

"Are you saying he has a death wish?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly. I sense he feels almost invulnerable and in total control. It may not even cross his mind that there is the slightest chance of him being hurt or apprehended.

"I'll take everything I've got and work up a profile. The bottom line is that you are looking for a man with a heart of stone. What the Yanks would quite appropriately call a stone killer. And more. He is a serial murderer who allows others to select his prey. There are no ritual or pattern aspects. Evaluating the act itself doesn't take us anywhere. He will employ whatever means he thinks necessary to accomplish the deed. Predicting his next move is impossible at this time. You're looking for a sociopath who doesn't present measurable specifics. Without a recognisable signature aspect, his personality is unknown, and there is no insight to his post-offence behaviour."

"You could be totally wrong," Matt said, making eye contact with Beth and holding it until she broke away. There was a fleeting frisson between them, that both found a little unsettling. Matt continued. "He could be an ex-forces type who kills purely for money. If he's seen enough action and corpses, then murdering for profit instead of Queen and country might seem a good career move."

Beth didn't agree with that premise. "I wouldn't rule anything out. But I don't see him being part of a structured organisation like the armed forces. I believe he is a loner. Hopefully time will tell."

When Beth and Tom left, Matt felt somehow less empty and alone. He could still smell Beth's perfume. The fragrance had circulated throughout the ground floor. He wondered if she was involved with anyone. She had not been wearing an engagement or wedding ring. He saw an independence and apartness in her that he could empathise with. Decided that she may be like him, to a degree.

After pouring more coffee, he took a notepad from next to the phone and wrote up everything he could remember Beth saying about the perp. He respected her approach. He had seen how successful profiling could be. Flipping the page over, he made observations of his own:

Evaluation of the criminal act.

Contract killing: Well planned and executed. The perpetrator

was focused and unconcerned as to how many other casualties

were involved. The incursion was carried out with surgical

precision. The prime target was executed, and an attempt

was made to eradicate all witnesses.

Specifics of crime scene/scenes.

Main crime scene was in bungalow where witness was under

protection of armed officers. Secondary crime scenes were

a van outside safe house and house next door.

Victims.

LESTER LITTLE― in protective custody. Due to appear as

prosecution witness against his employer, Frank Santini.

DS DONNY CAMPBELL

DC BERNIE MELLORS

DC KEITH COLLINS

DC TONY DELGADO

Protection officers on duty at time of attack.

JERRY PAGE― next door neighbour.

Matt stopped and found himself picturing his late colleagues as they had been in life. Each had been a first class officer, and together they had constituted a highly efficient and close-knit team. It still seemed impossible to him that they could have been taken out so easily by a lone gunman. Total confidence and the element of surprise were all that the unknown subject had needed. It was obvious to Matt that they had all died as a direct result of a rogue cop passing intelligence to Santini. It could have feasibly been one of his own team, but he strongly doubted that. He hoped that it wasn't. If it had been, then his ability to judge people was not as finely tuned as he believed it to be. If it had been one of his own, then surely he would have shown at least some small degree of edginess, knowing that the hit was about to go down. He would also have been ready to protect himself. Matt imagined a scenario in which Santini had threatened and manipulated an insider. Maybe taken a family member hostage. The threat of a wife or child being fed to a wood chipper, or being tortured in any number of ways, was a strong enough incentive to ensure that most men would sell out. He may have believed that only Little would have been hit; no loss. The fact was, a cop, the gangster, and the killer were all now on Matt's personal list of people to hunt down and settle his account with.

Tossing the pencil onto the pad, Matt got up and went for yet more coffee. He was done with writing. He would leave that to Beth Holder. The best chance he and Tom had was to find the bent cop. But without a suspect to investigate, as yet, that was also a dead end. What other pressures would make a cop set-up his colleagues and be in Santini's pocket? Cash. Being indebted to the scumbag. Santini ran gaming clubs. If a cop got himself in too deep and was allowed to keep going, then he would be wide open to coercion. Maybe that was it. A gambler who was still rolling the dice, trying to get out from Santini's clutches. He had probably been promised that his marker would be torn up if he came through with Little's location. Whoever it was should have had the nous to know that you can't deal with the likes of Santini; ever. It was a one-way street, and once you were on it there was no stopping or turning back. He would now be on the gangster's payroll for keeps. To Matt, the cop was the starting line. An enemy within their ranks was a frightening proposition. The team's every move would be being monitored. He determined to follow this line as a priority. God forbid, he would look at everyone, including the officers who had died, and even Tom Bartlett. He would make a list of every cop who could have known of Little's whereabouts, and dig out the son of a bitch who had gone over.

# CHAPTER TWELVE

**BETH** parked her midnight-blue Lexus in the private car park of Hawksworth House, which was a modern apartment building in Roehampton. Her top floor flat had fine views over Richmond Park.

Taking the lift up, Beth tried to comprehend the complicated look that Matt Barnes had virtually nailed her to the spot with for a few seconds. There had been mixed emotions in those intense blue/grey eyes; a certain melancholy, depth of compassion, and a resoluteness born of abrasive life experience and daily confrontation. Just that one penetrating look had revealed a complex and interesting...enigmatic character. In Matt, she had seen qualities of dependability, stoicism, and a capacity to win out over adversity. She had also recognised a propensity for violence; a necessary if unsavoury trait, born of experiences in his chosen professions.

After changing into shorts and a sleeveless top, Beth went out onto the small balcony, taking with her a spiral-bound notebook, pen, and a glass of chilled white wine. She pulled a chair up to the round, cast-iron table and mentally ran through the salient points. This was not a crime she could compare in relation to others committed by the same perpetrator. It was unusual, in that her expertise was in evaluating similar offences with ritual or behavioural aspects to assist in building up a picture of a killer. She had told Jack McClane that she would not be able to produce much with only one crime to study. He knew how she worked, but asked her to come on board anyway and lend her skills to the investigation. It was a challenge. But she was frustrated not to have more. A comprehensive report to the level she was accustomed to working-up would not be forthcoming, yet.

Damn! Her mind had wandered. An hour had slipped by and the page in front of her was still blank. Wool-gathering, as her mother called it. She had always been prone to drifting off. Her focus was not constant; it manifested in short, intense bursts. Barnes had unsettled her. Why? Was she attracted to the unshaven cop? It was over seven years since her divorce. She was thirty-three, independent, and secure in both her field of work and single lifestyle. She needed a man like she needed toothache. Or so she liked to think. Why even consider complicating what she had? Truth being, she didn't really have a damn thing. Being alone gave her a great deal of freedom and choice. But what did she do with it? Filled the time with work, eating out most evenings, and kidding herself that she was happy with her lot. She had grown into a role that was beginning to grate...Beginning to weigh heavy. There was a niggling fear that she might easily become an old woman in this flat. Maybe with a cat: stagnating as life rushed by around her. There had to be more to it than that.

She went into the lounge and looked about her as if for the first time. The place was minimalist; an environment that gave no hint as to the person who inhabited its almost barren confines. A TV and VCR/DVD in one corner of the lounge; small desk with computer and all necessary components in another; a dark Persian rug over smooth varnished floorboards that had never been contaminated by outdoor footwear; a leather hide ivory three-seater sofa, one easy chair, a dining set, a colonial-style beech wood coffee table and matching bookcase were the only other furniture. There were no photographs on view, just a large framed print on one of the apple white walls, which could have been purloined from any Best Western motel room on the planet.

Beth realised that a stranger walking into her home would gain no insight as to even the gender of its occupant. Only the books would give a hint as to the connection with psychology. The packed shelves were bereft of fiction. _Sad bitch_!

Refilling her glass with Merlot, she powered up the computer and redirected her thoughts back to the case, opening a new file and initially setting down all the known facts of the methodology employed by the perpetrator at the Page's house, and his subsequent actions. Her main sources of information had been Penny Page and Matt Barnes, who had both survived the event and furnished her with what details they could. There was not a lot to give her the insight required to determine the precise personality disorder the killer was suffering from. She believed that he was in essence a repeat murderer; a schizoid type who would tend to be indifferent to forming social relationships. He would be introverted, unable to show affection in recognised and acceptable ways. He was probably a classic loner. Penny Page had noticed his shift from friendly to threatening behaviour, and found him detached, as though his attempt to be sociable was false. He had also talked to himself, which was significant. This was a psychopathic killer with a deeply rooted mental health problem. It was possible that he did not fit one recognised disorder, but was a breed apart. He had made no attempt to hide his face from the Pages, so had pre-planned on murdering them from the outset. It was conceivable that he needed to habitually use violence, and was obsessed with inflicting both psychological and physical pain, only feeling adequate when dominating and controlling others. The freak fed off it, and lacked the capability to feel guilt or remorse. This type had no conscience.

Beth saved the file and went back out onto the balcony. It was going to be very difficult to build a reliable profile, or be in a position to suggest a proactive strategy that the investigators might use to initiate the perpetrator making a move that would lead to his apprehension. The professionalism with which he had carried out the multiple killings suggested that he was a seasoned repeat offender, and so the main thrust of the profile would have to be an interpretation of Matt's and Penny's statements. She could sense his intellectual vanity, though, and would have to think her way into his mind and make the right jumps and connections. She had the feeling that this might be her toughest case to date. The only apparent motive for the crime was profit. It was beyond doubt that he had been hired to kill Lester Little. But he had, without compunction, murdered several others in furtherance of that goal. That he had used a handgun was irrelevant. He would employ whatever weapon or method necessary to get the job done. On this occasion, knowing that he would be facing armed resistance, he had opted for a firearm. Had the proposed victim not been protected, then the specifics of the crime scene might have been very different.

Beth went back to the computer and did more work on the profile, with a copy of the artist's sketch of the gunman pinned up on a small cork notice board in front of her, for inspiration. Gut feeling was kicking in as she gave the bare skeleton of the schematic description of the unknown subject a little more depth and fleshed it out. She still had no more to work with apart from the two statements and the details of the shootings. Tangible forensic clues such as DNA, fibres, hair and prints were of little concern to her. Not that any had been found. To Beth, the way in which a victim had been killed, and the location and presentation of the body were all-important. She needed repeat performances to fully attune herself to the mind of the offender, if she were to be able to zero in. She was accustomed to using her training and uncanny instincts to steep herself in a perpetrator's psyche and understand what drove the hidden wheels. One thing she was certain of; this killer was unstable and unpredictable, and would suffer from paranoid delusions. He would not be able to cope with the knowledge that two survivors of his massacre were able to identify him. At some stage he would make a further attempt on their lives. That was not an if, but a definite when.

Beth paced barefoot around the apartment, prowling, unconsciously taking pleasure from the textures of the carpet and varnished boards against her soles. Would Barnes fully appreciate the danger he was in? She thought not, and it concerned her. She went into the kitchen, rang the Yard and asked to speak to Tom Bartlett. Tom was off duty, but a DS Pete Deakin took her details and phoned back five minutes later with Matt's number.

Matt was restless. He was not used to inactivity. He felt how he imagined a caged lion must. The house was a prison to him; his injuries the bars that confined him. Subtlety was not one of his strongest points at the best of times. He had always found it difficult to play by the rules, and had often made sorties across the fine line that the letter of the law bridged. He liked to go in quick and hard and get results. At the moment, as a semi cripple, he could not function effectively, and it was shredding his nerves. He knew that Frank Santini was the hub of a wheel, from which, like spokes, all roads led out from. And the crime lord was going to pay dearly for pointing his hired gun in Matt's direction.

Attending funerals was not on Matt's list of things to do, and even though seriously injured, he felt a survivor's guilt, in having avoided the fate that his comrades hadn't. He was sure that the families of his dead team members would – to some extent – hold him responsible. Everybody needs somebody to blame, it was human nature. And he was it: The man they could cast dark glances at and secretly loathe for still being alive when their nearest and dearest were gone. He could have pleaded that he was not fit enough to turn up at the services, but that would have been hard to live with. It was more psychological pain that he had to go through, get beyond, and use as added fuel to the fire within, which would not be extinguished until all guilty parties were dealt with. He was entering what he appreciated was the most seminal phase of his life to date. Everything that had gone before was impersonal compared with this; just part of the job. Now, he was centred and had a clearly defined focal point.

As he poured a large Scotch over ice, the phone rang. He finished pouring, screwed the top back on the bottle, and then picked up.

"Barnes."

"It's Beth Holder. Is this a good time?"

"A good time for what?"

"To talk."

"I was about to hit the street for a five mile run, but it can wait."

Beth ignored the flippant comment. The humour had not reached his voice. "I phoned because I came to the conclusion that you and Penny Page are in great danger, Matt."

Matt swirled the contents of the glass and took a sip of the whisky as Beth spoke. "We realise he might consider us as being loose ends," he said. "That's why there's an armed cop outside my place, and others protecting Penny."

"There's no _might_ about it. He _will_ try to kill you both. That is a definite in a world of uncertainty."

"Because you think his paranoia will drive him to make a play?"

"Yes. Logic will tell him that you couldn't possibly have seen him as you dived out of the way. But his misgivings will win out. After a while the anxiety will reach such a fever pitch that he will have to act on it. Penny will be first. The threat to her is imminent. She spent time with him, talked to him. He thought he'd killed her, and will feel cheated as well as threatened by the knowledge she is still alive."

"He must know that we'll expect an attempt," Matt said. "The risk factor is too high."

"That won't deter him. He's too damn arrogant to believe he can be taken. He found out where Little was being held, so how safe is Penny? If you've got an insider involved, then you have to assume that however few people are aware of her location, he might know it too. As for you, he could take you out on your doorstep from any high point in the immediate area. I think he is adaptable enough to employ whatever is needed to get the job done. A cop outside in the street won't be much protection against a sniper's rifle."

"I think you must read too many thrillers, Beth."

"The last fiction I read was Enid Blyton, when I was a kid. I mean it, Matt, you need to move Penny again, now, and not let anyone know where to. And if I was you, I'd move out of your home until this is resolved. Do a Lord Lucan."

"I'll take on board what you've said, Beth."

"That means you'll probably do nothing. You're not taking him seriously enough. After what happened at the bungalow, you should. This is a pro that has carried out God knows how many hits, and was hired to nail Little because Santini knows how good he is. Try to picture him as a machine. He will be relentless in accomplishing whatever challenges he sets himself. Once programmed, he won't let anything or anyone get in his way."

"I'm not convinced," Matt said after a five second period of silence became uncomfortable.

"What else do you need to hear to make you change your mind?"

"I think you should drive over to my place and we can go through it. I've made a few notes myself and come up with a rough evaluation, and even developed a profile of sorts."

"What, now?" Beth said, the invitation coming out of left field, blind siding her.

"Seems like a good idea," Matt replied. "Unless you were going to call it a night and snuggle up with a _Secret Seven_ book."

Beth was momentarily lost for words. She was a thinker and planner. Spontaneity was not one of her strong points.

Matt said, "Shall I put the coffee on?"

Her stomach cramped. Could he be hitting on her? No. He had barely survived being gunned down, was convalescing from serious injuries, and had just been dumped by a long-standing partner.

"I'll be at your place in an hour," she said. It was a challenge, and she would not give him the satisfaction of being right in assuming that she would not have the balls to meet it. "Have you eaten?"

"Not recently. Why?"

"Neither have I. Do you fancy a takeout?"

"Sounds good."

"Chinese or Indian?"

"Surprise me."

Beth hung up and felt exactly like she had as a fifteen-year-old, getting all dressed up to go on her first real date. It was a mixture of apprehension and elation. She felt stimulated and perturbed in equal amounts. Her hands were trembling. Christ! Every inch of her was trembling, and she didn't know why. Or did, and refused to acknowledge the reason. This was outside her normal parameters. It felt good but scary to do something impulsive. She had been too controlled and hesitant since the divorce; had put up a barrier; a force field around herself as protection against being emotionally hurt. Her whole demeanour said, 'keep at arms' length, out of my space, there's nothing here for you'. But it hadn't worked with Barnes. He had ignored the warning signs and somehow breached her defences.

What should she wear? That was so crass. She decided on a T-shirt, stone washed jeans, trainers and a lightweight blouson. She slipped hard copy of her speculative profile into a buff folder, grabbed her keys and left the flat. Damn it, she was looking forward to being in Matt Barnes's company, although a little voice inside told her that what she was about to do was not a good idea. She sat in the car with the ignition key in her hand. Knew that she should get back to him and call it off. Thought it over, but started the car and drove off.

The cop was not obvious. She scanned the cars in the street but could not spot him. Barnes had no doubt told him to expect her, so he was not about to break cover.

She rang the bell and had the urge to turn tail and run away. Remembered doing just that, many years ago as a teenager, having turned up for an appointment at a dentist who operated out of a bungalow, only to flee after ringing the doorbell. She took deep breaths and regained her composure as the door opened.

"Hi," Matt said. "Come on in, quick, before I get blasted by some Lee Harvey Oswald type."

"Not funny," Beth said, weaving her way past him without making physical contact, heading for the kitchen with a carrier bag full of steaming cartons.

"That smells terrific. You want a Scotch to go with it?" Matt asked.

Beth shook her head. "Coffee, please. I've already had a couple of glasses of wine this evening. I shouldn't really have driven over here."

"Living on the edge, eh?"

She ignored the comment. Wouldn't allow him to draw her out. They ate slowly and talked work. Matt picked at his food. In the main he just pushed it around the plate with his fork

"You lost your appetite?" Beth asked.

"A little. I need to get back in the habit. I tend to just open a can, microwave stuff, or make the odd sandwich when I remember to, or if my stomach starts to really complain. Most cops eat on the run. And Jamie Oliver I'm not."

"What do you do to relax?"

"Sleep," Matt said, getting up awkwardly and dumping the plates and cutlery in the sink, after scraping what he had left into the pedal-operated waste bin.

"You don't have any other interests?"

"I don't collect anything. Don't care for sport, and avoid TV. I detest politics, am an atheist, and probably need to get a life. Trouble is, I get off on what I do. Ruining a villain's day hits the spot. What about you?"

"I suppose you just answered for me. Although I am religious after a fashion, and I sometimes enjoy watching a good movie. Apart from that, I guess I'm running fast and getting nowhere in a hurry.

There followed an awkward silence. Matt broke it by turning the conversation back to the case. "He's got a lot of bottle if nothing else. He gambled everything on wearing Jerry Page's cap and jacket, and just walked up to two armed officers and capped them."

Beth nodded. "He's intelligent, Matt. He understands human nature. He knew that they would see what they expected to."

"They were complacent. Their oversight cost lives, including their own, and blew the case against Santini."

"That's harsh. They were set up. He came out of the house at the right time and looking the part. Anyone would have thought it was Page walking his dog."

"They weren't just _anyone_ , Beth. They were trained to take nothing at face value. Misdirection and subterfuge are the expected ploys to get near intended marks. They fucked up."

"Are you so sure that _you_ would have seen it coming?"

Matt thought about it for a few seconds. "Maybe not. But I choose to believe that I would have."

"What do you intend to do now? There are no apparent leads to follow."

"Santini is the lead."

"Would he know who the shooter is? I thought they liked to remain anonymous."

"He might. It could be one of his own men. And even if it isn't, he has to be able to contact him. There's always a trail, Beth. You just have to find the end of it and work back to the beginning."

"Santini won't talk."

"True. But the cop who's in his pocket will."

"If you ever find out who it is."

"I will. That's something you can bet the farm on."

"How do professional killers operate, Matt? They can't be hired if no one knows their identity."

"By reputation, on the Internet, or through an intermediary who will have a phone number. There are a dozen ways to make contact, including ads in newspapers and using post office box numbers.

"How do you get to him, then?"

"Find the contact and convince him that it would be in his best interest to work with us on this."

"And if he acts dumb or refuses?"

"I might forget I'm a cop for a minute or two. My request for assistance would be nonnegotiable. He would see the light and be public-spirited."

"You mean you would threaten him?"

"Or her, yes. I'll do whatever it takes. This isn't some Playstation game. People have died violently, and their loved ones have had their lives turned to shit on a stick. Any go-between is as guilty as Santini and the killer. One way or another, they all have to answer for it."

"You're making it personal, Matt."

"Damn right I am. Try getting shot and having friends gunned down around you and _not_ take it personally."

"But the law―"

"The law is payback; legal revenge. It seeks retribution, Beth. Justice needs to be seen to be done if it is to maintain credibility and be effective, or deter others from offending. But the bottom line is an eye for an eye."

"And you think you have the right to use any means to enforce it?"

"On occasion, yes."

"You sound like a vigilante."

"In the real world, rules get bent every day and at all levels."

"And the contravention of peoples civil and human rights is part of it?"

"I'm not an advocate of rights for lowlifes who rob, rape, kill, and threaten innocent people. I have zero tolerance for scumbags."

"Without law we don't have civilisation. It might not be perfect, but it's all we've got."

"I agree. I'm not a one-man lynch mob. I just intend to get results."

Beth got to her feet. "I can't condone that viewpoint. I'll see myself out."

"Hey, don't leave angry, Beth, just because I don't share your outlook. Work with me on this. I thought that you of all people would appreciate honesty."

"I am working on this, with Jack McClane and Tom Bartlett."

"So why come? And why the Chinese meal?"

"Coming here was a bad idea. I wanted you to _appreciate_ the danger you're in."

"Like I said, Penny Page will be his number one priority, if you're right about his intentions."

"Don't decide what his intentions are, Matt. This is a man that self mutilates, talks to himself, kills people for his livelihood, and God knows what else. His reasoning is undeterminable. You might as well try and get into the mind of a Nile crocodile. If a voice in his head tells him to hit you tonight, then he will. You need to remember that he doesn't think like you."

"You're right. I'm not a psychologist. I've read up on profiling, even attended a course, but I don't have the practical experience of dealing with these creeps on a cerebral level. I'm used to collaring bad guys, not mad guys. What's the bottom line, Beth? Why do you think a person murders total strangers for the hell of it?"

"In most instances, thrill killers are the product of cruelty. They've been abused and starved of affection in the majority of cases. It can be a learned syndrome. Same as if a young boy grows up watching his father beat his mother regularly, then there is a much higher risk of him becoming a wife beater than a boy from a loving home. A lot of bullies are the same. They suffer at the hands of their fathers and can only off-load the hurt and fear by picking on someone weaker than themselves."

"A vicious circle, eh?"

"Exactly".

"You make it sound as if these psychos are victims, not criminals."

"I'm not trying to excuse their actions, Matt. But I understand that there are forces in play that cannot be suppressed. You smoke, right?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Do one or both of your parents smoke?"

"My dad does. My mother's dead. She didn't."

"Do you accept that it damages health and thereby shortens life expectancy?"

"Yes. And the answer to your next question is also yes. I've tried to stop dozens of times."

"It's the same with most addictions. It doesn't matter if it's booze, heroin, tobacco, gambling, or even overeating. Wanting to stop doesn't mean you can. In many instances it's a comfort thing. It suppresses all sorts of inner demons."

"Are you trying to tell me that killing is just another bad habit?"

"In simple terms, yes. It's a part of what we are. Men have been killing each other since we crawled out of the swamp. Look at the arms trade. Even our own government sells weapons to today's friends, who may be tomorrow's enemies and use what we furnish them with against us."

"And yet you condemn me for implying that I would use whatever means necessary to catch a killer."

"I've always tried to believe that two wrongs don't make something right."

"Do you believe that the death penalty should be reinstated?"

"No."

"And yet it was common practise in Britain until the sixties, and is still employed in many countries. Does that make the law wrong?"

"The law here has moved on."

"Don't be ambiguous. Do you think it was wrong to hang people?"

"Yes."

"But you advocate that a defective system should be obeyed to the letter."

"I think that you're trying to put words in my mouth."

"Not true. I'm just looking at it from outside the box. In many instances, the law only changes when pressure is put on it. Sometimes people have to break it to force reform. If they didn't, we would still have slavery, and hang minors for stealing cabbages."

"I think there has to be a line, Matt. As an individual, I have to believe that change should come through democratic, peaceful process."

"And how do you use that against fanatics, terrorists, or murderers who have an unacceptable agenda? If you don't sometimes meet force with greater force, you can't preserve democracy. What action would you take against someone trying to rape or kill you? If you had to kill to protect yourself, would you?"

"Cut to the chase, Matt."

"I suppose I'm just trying to defend my corner. I think that if leaning on someone hard to save other people like Penny Page and her husband from being shot like dogs in their own home is wrong, then I'm the bad cop you seem to think I am."

"I don't think that you're a bad cop. And I'm not naïve. I see your point. I'm a little surprised that you find it necessary to justify your way of thinking to me, though."

"I'm not. I was just letting you know where I'm coming from. Sometimes medicine doesn't cure a disease. You have to be more invasive and use a scalpel."

"So let's call it a draw. It's late. I'm going home."

"Okay. Thanks for coming over. It took my mind off things. And I owe you a meal."

Beth smiled. "Don't get up, I'll see myself out."

"Keep in touch," he said to her back as she vanished from view into the hallway. There was no reply, just the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Shit! He'd scared her off. A certain curiosity as much as anything else had prompted her to accept his invitation. And he had said the wrong things, antagonised her a little, and certainly hadn't measured up to whatever preconceived idea she had of him. For some reason, he cared what she thought. The hell with it! He had more important and bigger fish to fry.

It took Beth a long time to find sleep. Matt Barnes had rocked her with the force of an earthquake. He was impossible to dismiss. She found him interesting, unconventional, highly individual, and decidedly dangerous. He was definitely not the sort of man she needed to know on any other than a purely professional level. So why were her hormones jumping all over the place like popcorn in a microwave? Damn him! She was attracted to him like filings to a magnet. Psychologically, he came across as a composed, level-headed guy, set in his ways and geared to react confidently in the face of adversity. But there were deeper, unseen currents swirling under the macho surface. He was much more than she had first thought him to be. Maybe it was the ambiguity that she could not ignore. He had discomposed her. He was a cop through and through, and had lost at least one partner in love, due to being driven. He was detached and unattached, which held a certain fascination. And his eyes had been speaking to her. It had been as if two conversations had taken place simultaneously. Bottom line was, he fancied her. Even if he didn't know it yet.

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

" **WHAT** the fuck are you doing here?" Tom asked, looking up as Matt lumbered into his office at eight-thirty the following morning.

"We need to talk," Matt replied, taking a seat and tossing the walking cane he had opted to use instead of crutches onto Tom's desk.

"You could have given me a bell. You should be taking it easy."

"I'm fine, Tom. Stop treating me like a bloody invalid."

Tom went over to the small table in the corner and poured them both coffees. "You are a bloody invalid, he said. "What's so important?"

"I talked to Beth Holder last night. She'll be contacting you."

"About what?"

"She reckons that Penny Page will almost certainly be hit if she isn't moved again, and I agree with her. Whoever is taking blood money off Santini will have told him where she's stashed. And that she's recovering. You need to relocate her, now, Tom. Every minute she's in that clinic could be her last."

"I'll run it past McClane."

"Impress on him that it needs to be done on the QT, without a paper trail. And I think you should arrange for a team from outside the Met to handle the move and look after her."

As Tom imagined the cost and resources, his phone trilled. He picked up.

"Bartlett."

"It's Beth Holder, Tom."

"A two-pronged attack, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

"I've got Barnes perched on a chair in front of me, telling me to move the Page woman. I believe you two had a tête-à-tête last night and made a few decisions."

"We came up with some ideas. The man you are looking for attempted to kill Penny. He can't afford to let her live. I believe he'll try again, sooner rather than later. And Matt should move out of his place. He's also a prime target."

"Anything else, Beth?"

"I'll drop by. I have a profile of sorts, based on available data."

"Good. But hold off until later. I'll be out and about till late afternoon. Will you be in town, then?"

"Yes, until about five-thirty."

"I'll drop by your office and pick it up. Okay?"

"Fine."

You want a word with Matt?"

There was a pause. "No. I think we covered everything."

"She's at the Whitfield Clinic in Wood Green. Room 203. There's one armed officer protecting her. She can identify the hitman. They think it's secure. She's a soft target."

"Understood," Tiny said, and then racked the phone.

Frank inspected his freshly manicured fingernails and waited.

"We know where the woman is, boss," Tiny said. "What do you want I should do about it?"

"Get a message to the shooter and give him the details. He'll do the rest."

Tiny smiled. The light sparked off his gold caps. He called the answering service number they had and left a message.

* * *

Gus Devane made a good living from his small office in Hackney. He relayed messages and held mail for collection, or redirected it. A lot of people had very private business that they wished to conduct without their true identity or address being known. Nine tenths of it was of a sexual nature: Mostly married men, who contacted post office box numbers in stroke mags and needed to give an address for a reply. They didn't all feel comfortable using sites on the Net. Gus was not inquisitive. It was strictly cash up front for his confidential service. His wife, Marsha, worked alongside him on an 098 line, talking dirty to sad prats who got off as she moaned theatrically and played along with their fantasies. It was a nice little earner. Marsha had a husky come-to-bed voice, courtesy of the forty Superkings she got through each day. She told punters that she was nineteen, had breasts like melons, and looked like Carrie Underwood. In reality, she was fifty-nine, dumpy and plain. A greying version of Pauline Quirk.

The red light flashed on one of the units that received messages very infrequently. Gus looked up the cell phone number of the customer who paid handsomely for exclusive use of the line. Rang it.

"Yes?"

"You got a message." Gus said.

"Thanks." Gary ended the call, then tapped in his personal security code to access the system, listened to the three word message, 'Contact Mr. S', and erased it.

Ten minutes later, he climbed out of his car and phoned Rocco's from a call box. He was put through to Frank's office, and Tiny spoke to him on a secure line.

"The skirt's at the Whitfield Clinic in Wood Green. Room 203. And she can finger you. There's one pig watchin' her back."

"Okay. I'll deal with it," Gary said, wiping the receiver before putting it back in its cradle. There was now a pressure within. The woman would have no doubt given the plods a very detailed description of him. No sweat. The only danger would be if she was ever in a position to formally identify him. She had to go. The stupid fucking bitch had used up all her luck surviving what he had been sure was a fatal head shot. There would be no second miracle. Her good fortune reminded him of some soldier in Afghanistan. The guy had taken three bullets to the head. They all hit his helmet, and he suffered no more than a severe headache. Not all British army issue was crap.

He waited until dark, and then satisfied himself that there was no police presence on the avenue at the rear of the compact, four-storey Victorian clinic. Parking the car three streets away, he walked in. A quick glance both ways to ensure the coast was clear, then over the six-foot-high wall, to hunker down behind a screen of rhododendron bushes and let his eyes adjust to the deeper gloom. Twenty minutes passed. There was no sign of any cops in the grounds.

He moved fast across a large lawn, tree to tree, until he was standing with his back against cold brickwork. To his left, less than twenty feet away were stairs that he assumed led down to a basement. He went over to them, descended and forced a window to gain entry.

He was now in full killing mode, his senses heightened as he made his way through an underground network of passages with store rooms off them piled high with outmoded equipment, bedsteads, mattresses and furniture. It smelled of damp, and the whitewash on the walls was flaking from the crumbling brickwork beneath it.

A flight of stone steps led him up to a locked door fitted with a cheap lock that took all of ten seconds to disengage with the blade of a knife. At the end of the narrow corridor was a stairwell. He went up to the second floor and looked through the wire mesh reinforced glass of a porthole window. The corridor was brightly illuminated by concealed fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. Opposite him was a robin's egg-blue door with 209 stencilled on it in black lettering. He smiled. There was no movement. Staffing levels would be minimal at night. Maybe one nurse per floor, maximum. And there was no sign of a cop.

With the silenced Glock held two-handed, he exited the stairwell and made his way along the vinyl-floored corridor. His rubber-soled trainers squeaked on the highly polished surface, sounding loud in the crowding silence. No matter. Anyone who had the misfortune to appear now would be shot dead.

207...205...Yes, 203. Would the cop be inside? There was no empty chair outside the door, which would have suggested that her guardian had gone for a leak or to rustle up a coffee. Maybe the door was locked from the inside. Suck it and see.

The door was not locked. He opened it silently. Crouched low and moved to his left, searching for a target in the gloom. Nothing. The en suite bathroom door was open, and that was also clear. There were no sheets on the bed. The fucking room was empty. Out. Into the next room. Heart rate increased with the building tension. He closed the door behind him. No cop here either, but a woman in the bed. Santini's dumb muscle must have given him the wrong room number, but all's well that ends well.

Penny woke up with a start. She was bathed in sweat. Consciousness brought back the crushing loss with renewed force as she reached out to touch Jerry, even as she realised he was not lying next to her and never would be again. They had made plans; looked forward to the new role they had as parents. They had been euphoric at being a family. Raising Michael to the best of their ability was to have been a joy-filled, lifelong adventure. She began to cry for the thousandth time. Now, the responsibility for their son's future was all on her shoulders. He would grow up never knowing the kind, gentle man who had been his father. Life was so fucking cruel. She was past denial, accepting that Jerry was gone forever, and yet on some level still expected him to be there. It was as if he were the phantom pains of an amputated limb that, though missing, could still be felt. She would have to adjust for Michael's sake, but knew that she would never truly recover. Nothing could ever fill the aching, bottomless chasm of a wound that only Jerry's presence would heal. It would have been better if she had died with him. To have survived without him was a fate worse than the death she had somehow cheated. The incident had taken away the point to it all. To have to carry on was an overwhelming, daunting challenge, and she determined to never again make plans for a tomorrow that could not be guaranteed; plans that could so easily dry up and blow away like straw in the wind.

A noise. She listened and turned towards the door.

He levelled the gun at her face as she raised her head up off the pillow. His hands froze. Her skin was lined and ashen, eyes milky with cataracts, hair thin, lifeless looking and yellow-white. Her lips were purple, sunk back against toothless gums.

"Who are you?" a reedy, slushy voice.

"Your salvation, old woman," he said, regaining his composure.

A dull clap reverberated around the room as the bullet was expelled from the silencer and punched a perfectly round hole the size of a one pence piece in her forehead.

Nancy Worthington was eighty-three, terminally ill with cancer, and would have died within the next few days, had her departure date not been brought forward by the few grams of hot lead that took out the back of her skull in a bloody cloud of brain tissue and bone fragments.

He watched as one of the old girl's gnarled hands came up off the light green counterpane. The gnarled fingers twitched as though she was waving at him, and then the hand dropped back down and only stillness and the sharp smell of cordite filled the air.

He marched out of the room and along the corridor until he came to the nurses' station. He was pissed, and had no intention of looking in any more rooms for his intended target. Maybe she was in 103, or 303.

The nurse looked up at hearing his footsteps. Watched him stride up to the desk, stiffening with fright at the sight of the gun he was pointing at her.

Leaning forward, he jammed the still warm muzzle of the silencer into her left cheek. "Penny Page," he said. "What room is the bitch in?"

Nurse Maureen O'Brien looked into the young man's eyes and saw her own death in the liquid pitch stare.

"They m...moved her. Took her away at f...four this afternoon," she stammered.

"Where to?"

"I...I don't know. I wasn't on duty. Please believe me."

"I do," he said, smiling as he pulled the trigger.

Maureen shot back out of her chair, hit the wall and sprawled on the floor in a tangled heap. He leaned forward over the counter and put another round through her right eye. There would be no more cock-ups. No more witnesses. No more fucking problems to deal with.

Making his way back down the stairwell, he could hardly contain his burgeoning anger. Santini had given him out of date information, which had occasioned him taking an unnecessary risk. The wop lowlife was trying his patience. Didn't realise who he was fucking with.

Back at the flat, after replacing the gun in the hidey-hole behind the drier in the laundry room, he showered, dressed in fresh clothes, then went out again, on foot this time, to walk off his rage and consider what action to take.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**TINY** picked up the phone. "Yeah," he said.

"You fed me shit, you no-good overgrown nigger. Put Santini on. I don't want to speak to his hired help."

Tiny's face set like stone. But he made no reply. "It's for you, boss," he said, turning to Frank and holding out the receiver, which looked like a kid's toy in his shovel-sized hand. "It's the honkey hitter."

"Santini," Frank said. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. You do, you wop bastard. Your lackey sent me on a fool's errand. Was that a mistake? Or were you trying to set me up?"

"You've got a bad mouth on you," Frank hissed. "We were given that information by a reliable source."

"Believe me, it was _not_ reliable. The woman was moved at four o'clock this afternoon. I need you to find out where she is. I think you owe me that much."

"I don't owe you the time of day, son. I pay you well for your services, end of story. If you'd done the bitch properly at the scene, you wouldn't have a problem now."

"Don't make the mistake of getting on the wrong side of me, Santini."

Frank almost choked. "Do you realise who you're talkin' to?"

"Yeah. An over-the-hill two-bit gangster who thinks he's London's answer to Al Capone, and runs a sloppy outfit. I want the woman's present location within two hours. I'll call you back. And be smart, Santini. Don't make an enemy of me. You really wouldn't want me on your case."

As a surge of blood darkened Frank's face, the line went dead.

Tiny side-stepped to let the phone fly past his head and smash to pieces against the far wall. Frank went to the bar and poured himself a very large Jack Daniel's.

"What's wrong, boss?" Tiny asked. He had rarely seen Frank so enraged.

"The filth has moved the Page woman. That's what's wrong. Now we've got a pissed-off psycho with an attitude, who wants to know where she is."

"So what do we do?"

"You take Eddie and go see Pender. Find out where she's stashed, and phone me within two hours. And hurt Pender, Tiny."

"How hurt do you want him, boss?"

"Not so much that he's of no further use. He needs to be able to work for us."

Tiny nodded and left the office to go and find Eddie downstairs in the casino.

"We got a job," Tiny said to Eddie. "Get Ray Lansky to bring the car round to the front."

Thirty minutes later they were parked three doors up from the cop's house. Tiny used a pre-paid mobile to phone him.

"Hello."

"Hello back, Vic, it's Tiny. Come outside, now. We need to talk, man."

"But―"

"Just do it, Vic. I'm waitin'."

Vic hung up. Went out into the hall, kicked off his slippers, put on his shoes and pulled on a windbreaker over his short sleeved shirt. His wife and daughter were in bed, asleep he hoped.

"Get in," Eddie said, already standing outside the car with the rear nearside door held open as Vic walked slowly towards him.

Vic obeyed. Climbed in next to Tiny. Eddie got in and shut the door, sandwiching him between the two goons.

"Something wrong?" Vic asked.

"Yeah, you," Tiny said, folding Vic in half with a punch to the stomach that forced the air and a loud wail of pain from him. "You made us look like fuckin' amateurs. We told a certain party that the Page woman was where you said she'd be. And guess what, assehole? The bird had flown."

"I...I don't understand," Vic wheezed, still bent over double with his head almost wedged between the front seats.

Eddie grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him back up straight.

"All you need to understand is that Mr Santini wants to know where she is, and within the hour."

"There was no plan to move her," Vic whined. "I wasn't told."

"So you'd better make some calls, and find out where the cunt is," Tiny said. He then began to hit Vic repeatedly in the stomach and ribs with short, measured, powerful jabs of his hard fist.

When Vic slumped forward again, Eddie took over and worked on the cop's left kidney and spine. The assault was over in less than thirty seconds. Eddie climbed out of the car, dragging Vic behind him, to dump him face down on the street.

Vic felt his cheekbone fracture and heard Tiny's voice boom from the open door. "Call us," he said. "If we don't hear from you, we come back, and you really don't want to put us to that trouble, man."

Eddie got back into the car and nodded to Ray Lansky, who drove off, eager to be back at the club, where he could find some privacy to phone Tom Bartlett and report what had happened, and that Pender was the leak.

Vic had not cried for a long time. The tears he shed were not as a result of the exhaust fumes that burned his eyes as the car left the scene, nor the terrible pain that the beating had left him in. They were induced by his not knowing what to do, and out of fear for his wife's and daughter's safety. Panic was setting in, chilling his marrow.

Pushing himself up on to his hands and knees, Vic threw-up in the gutter, then climbed to his feet and staggered back along the pavement to the house, hunched over, his arms wrapped around his aching, bruised body.

It took time to stop shaking enough to use the phone. He waited until he had regained a little composure. His cheek was pulsating, but he could open and close his jaws. He phoned the incident room and asked for Tom.

"He's called it a night, guv. Went home about an hour ago," DS Pete Deakin said. "Anything I can help you with?"

"It was nothing specific," Vic said. "Any breaks yet?"

"No."

"How's the Page woman?"

"Still on ice at the clinic we moved her to. Why, was there something in particular―?"

"No. I just got to thinking about how lucky and unlucky she'd been. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, guv."

Vic went through to the kitchen and poured himself a large brandy. What the fuck was going on? Bartlett had moved the woman again. Even his DS didn't know where to. Or did he? Was this wheels within wheels? He felt as though he was being locked out. Tom Bartlett knew that the location of the safe house in Finchley had been given up by someone on the inside. But he was a DI for Christ's sake. Surely he was above suspicion. There seemed no way out of the shit he was in. He couldn't very well give Bartlett a bell at home and ask where the cow was. And time was a commodity he was rapidly running short of. The predicament called for immediate action. Trouble being, he hadn't the faintest idea what action to take.

There was a low, long rumble of thunder. Summer rain pattered against the window and sheet lightning had seconds earlier penetrated the thin cotton curtains and lit the room in a photoflash of light.

Penny got up and leaned over the cot. Michael was fast asleep, blissfully unaware of all that was happening; of the events that had already reshaped the future he would grow up in. She went across to the window. Her protectors had told her to keep away from it. But with no light on, she felt safe to pull one of the curtains back a couple of inches and look out. The city was a blurry abstract wash of yellow, orange and white lights through the veins of rain that forged passage down the grimy window of the third floor flat.

She was in a rundown Georgian terrace property in Paddington. The flat was small and clean; the furniture tired and cheap. It was basic, comprising of one bedroom, a living room/kitchen, and a bathroom with a lidless toilet, cracked hand basin, and a shower stall with several tiles missing from one wall. There was an underlying smell of nicotine, fried food and sweat, which seemed to have been absorbed into the very fabric of the building and was leaching back out to taint the stale air.

An armed officer was in the flat with her at all times. And any movement in or out was arranged by radio. Other police were nearby, monitoring the comings and goings of other tenants. Her life was on hold at the worst possible time. Within these depressing surroundings she was cut off from even her parents and other family members, who it was considered too dangerous to allow her contact with.

The big bear of a cop, Bartlett, had explained to her that the organisation that had hired the killer would in all probability make a further attempt on her life if they could ascertain her whereabouts.

For her son's sake, Penny allowed herself to be stage-managed. She thought that the bedroom of the flat was like a cocoon, in which she spent the greater part of her time. She did not have the fortitude to be sociable or communicative with the officers who she considered as little more than gaolers. The hell that she now found herself in would have been unendurable, had it not been for Michael. Her baby gave her focus, and a reason to withstand the intolerable plight she was in. Without his need for her, she would have almost certainly found a way to end it all and save those that wished to kill her the trouble.

Staff nurse Veronica Tate made ready to leave her office on the ground floor and begin her rounds. She changed from her outdoor shoes into comfortable moccasins, tuned her portable radio to the World Service, and placed a copy of Josephine Cox's latest novel open, face down on the desktop. Nights to Veronica were almost a holiday, giving her the time to recharge her batteries. It was a pleasant change from the grinding day routine of the clinic: respite from the hectic demands of both staff and patients.

Filling and switching on the kettle, Veronica went out into the corridor and headed for the stairs. She made a point of seeing each of the three nurses on duty at irregular intervals throughout the night. No one slept when she was at the helm.

"All quiet?" Veronica asked nurse Natalie Callard on the first floor.

"So far, so good," Natalie replied.

"How's the old goat in 106?"

"Sleeping like a baby."

The old goat in question was one Lewis King, an ageing actor of the lovey variety, who spouted Shakespeare endlessly, though had not trodden the boards for at least a Decade. He was a terminal case, and although they would not be too sad to be rid of him, they hoped he would not turn up his toes on their watch. It made for a lot of paperwork.

"Okay, I'll see you later," Veronica said.

"Did you hear those popping sounds?" Natalie asked.

"No. What kind of popping sounds?"

"It sounded a little bit like light bulbs exploding."

Veronica shook her head. "Probably just air in the pipes."

As she pushed through the swing doors to the second floor, Veronica was met by a sulphurous smell that reminded her of the fumes left in the air after a firework display.

Maureen O'Brien was not at her desk, or to be seen on the corridor. Maybe she had gone for a pee, or was with a restless patient. She would wait.

Moving behind the counter, it took a few numbing seconds for Veronica to assimilate and react to the sight that met her. Maureen was lying in a pool of blood, and more of it spattered the wall behind her in spotted lines that looked as if a loaded paint brush had been whipped through the air to create them. She studied the body. The young nurse's right eye was a crimson crater; the left was wide open and stared up towards the ceiling.

Veronica snapped free from invisible constraint and went to the body; to feel for a pulse that she knew would not be present. She then rushed back downstairs to her office to call the clinic's director, before ringing the police. The soles of her moccasins were tacky on the vinyl, and left pillar box red footprints in her wake.

Tom looked at the display on the radio alarm as he picked up the phone from his bedside table. It glowed: 1.06 AM.

"This had better be good," he said into the mouthpiece, before the caller could speak.

"It's Pete Deakin, boss," the DS said. "The Whitfield Clinic got hit. A nurse and an elderly female patient were shot. Both dead."

"Fuck!"

Pete continued undaunted. "Uniforms are at the scene. What do you want me to do? I've jacked up a forensic team and contacted the duty pathologist."

"Get over there. I'm on my way."

What about the Page woman, boss?"

"I moved her, Pete. I'll explain when I get there," Tom said before hanging up.

"What is it, Tom?" his wife asked as he dressed in the dark.

"Just work, love," he replied.

Jean Bartlett turned on the bedside lamp. "You got time for a coffee?"

"Yeah, instant, and not too hot."

Jean got up, pulled a dressing gown on over her nightdress. Went downstairs and put the kettle on.

Tom counted his blessings. Matt and Beth Holder had convinced him that Penny Page had to be moved. If he hadn't gone along with it, then the only person who could identify the killer with any certainty – apart from Matt, who only got a fleeting glance – would now be dead. Whoever was on the inside had attempted to sell them out...again.

As Tom joined Jean in the kitchen and picked up his mobile to phone Matt, it rang.

"Bartlett."

"It's Nick, boss. I just got back from driving two of Santini's gorillas to Vic Pender's house. He's your man. They roughed him up a bit and told him to find out where you'd moved the woman to. He thought she was still at the clinic."

"Ace, Nick. What do you expect will happen when he can't come through for them?"

"I reckon I'll get to witness a bad cop get whacked, boss. How do you want me to play it?"

"Keep with the programme. We need you on the inside as Lansky. I'll deal with Pender."

"Better make it quick, boss. Pender's on the clock. They're expecting him to call with an address within the hour."

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

**MATT** was on the edge of sleep. His thoughts were almost dreams, taking shape and then melting, skipping from one disparate scene to another like a reel of film edited together badly from separate movies, with no continuity. Linda appeared. She was walking away from him along a dusty blacktop road that could have been in Arizona or Utah. Maybe Monument Valley. Red buttes towered above the desert floor. If Robert Blake had ridden up in the cop uniform he wore in the cult movie _Electraglide in Blue_ , he would not have been surprised. And then he was at the kitchen table eating Chinese food with Beth. The killer in the baseball cap appeared behind her, smiled at Matt, and shot Beth in the back of the head. Her face snapped forward and down into a plate of steaming sweet and sour chicken and noodles.

Matt came fully awake. His leg hurt. It was itching as it healed, and the coiled springs in the thin mattress of the sofa bed were pressing through, probably leaving circular imprints on his back. The pain and the sudden chirp of the phone brought him out of what had been stacking up to be a full-blown nightmare.

He reached out and picked up.

"I can't get to the phone at the moment. If you'd like to leave a mess―"

"You don't have an answering machine, Matt. Remember?" Tom said.

"You know that, and I know that, but most people don't. What depressing news do you have for me?"

"That it's official, you're not safe there, Matt. I want you out within the hour."

"Convince me."

"The clinic just got hit. Two dead. I'm sending a team to extract you, so get dressed. And this isn't a request."

"I'll be ready. Give me some details."

"The perp popped an elderly female patient and a nurse. Main thing you need to know is that we found out who's in bed with Santini. You won't believe it."

"Try me."

"Vic Pender."

"You're joking."

"I wish. Our inside man just drove some muscle over to his place. They slapped Vic around and told him to get back to them with Penny Page's current location."

"So you _did_ move her again?"

"Yeah. You and Beth put up a good argument. She's safe. We're going to lift Pender now, before he gets himself offed for not being able to give them what they want. He can help us set Santini up."

"You can't seriously be considering cutting him any slack."

"Do me a favour, Matt. He's going down for his part in what happened to Donny and the others. I'll just give him the choice of talking to me or being fed to Santini."

Vic knew that it was over. If he came clean, then his family would pay the price. The scene of Joey Demaris being clubbed to a pulp before having his throat cut was still vivid in his mind. And anyway, he couldn't harm Santini. His word alone without any corroboration wouldn't be enough to get the CPS to take it to court. He was between a rock and a hard place. And he couldn't face the prospect of doing time. How long could he expect to last before he was knifed in the shower, or held down in a cell and shot-up with an overdose of bad shit? Santini could reach inside and have anything done. The gangster may even make an example of his wife and daughter, and let him rot in prison with yet another even more personal atrocity on his conscience.

Fear and self-loathing for his weakness and past actions overwhelmed Vic. Had he known the woman's new location, he was sickened to admit to himself that he would have given her up. It had to end. He needed a way out that would ensure his family's and other peoples' safety.

Time passed. He drank a lot more brandy, too quickly, as if it was water he was chugging down, which didn't help or change anything, but numbed the mental anguish a little. After a while he phoned the casino and asked for Frank.

"Give me good news." Frank said.

"I can't," Vic slurred. "A DCI, Tom Bartlett, is heading up the case, and he's moved her without even telling his own team."

"You expect me to buy that?"

"Yes. I'm shit-scared for my family. If I could give you an address, I would, you know that. Bartlett isn't stupid. He knows it was inside information that led you to Little."

Frank gave the situation all of five seconds intense consideration. He believed Pender. The cop had everything to lose and nothing to gain by holding out. He was already in far too deep to start playing games.

"I'm disappointed. If you were my only source, then I'd be in big trouble. Just sit tight. We'll be in touch."

Vic's mind raced as the phone clicked and purred. The gambler in him studied the odds and various permutations of the game he was playing. The cards he held were never going to be a winning hand. For the first time in his life, he knew when to fold and walk away from the table.

* * *

Tom prioritised. Lifting Pender was more important than his attending the crime scene at the clinic. Deakin could mop up there.

When they arrived, the house was in darkness. They covered it front and back, and Tom pounded on the front door. A bedroom light came on, and within seconds Tom saw the shape of someone coming down the stairs as he peered through the frosted window set in the top half of the door.

Pender's wife opened the door and stared at Tom with a confused expression on her face.

"Where's Vic?" Tom asked.

"I...I don't know. I thought he was in the lounge," she replied.

"I need to talk to him urgently, Mrs. Pender."

"I don't understand. When I went to bed he was watching television."

"Let's go inside," Tom said. "No point putting on a show for the neighbours."

Sonia Pender stepped back woodenly and allowed Tom and other officers to enter. Before they reached the lounge, DC Marci Clark tugged Tom by the sleeve of his jacket. He turned. His DC's expression, pale face, and her overall demeanour conspired to relay unspoken bad news.

"I need a word, boss," she said. "Outside."

Vic was in the garage. He'd strung himself up with a short length of blue nylon rope that was tied off to a crossbeam. An old plastic crate lay a foot away from where his feet hung barely an inch above the concrete floor. There was little doubt that he had stood on the crate, secured the noose around his neck and then kicked the makeshift platform away.

It didn't look much like Vic anymore. His face was almost purple, and his eyes were bugging out. But it was his tongue that Tom had difficulty in looking away from. It was blue now, not pink, and hung out and down over his bottom lip and chin, impossibly long. The front of the dead cop's trousers were wet, and drops of liquid dripped from one shoe to ripple the puddle of piss beneath it. Tom took a deep breath, and then another. Vic was no longer tense with guilt, shame and fear. All his muscles had relaxed. The malodorous stink that permeated throughout the garage vouched safe for that. He had found a way out of one mess; to leave another that he didn't give a rat's arse about.

In the last few seconds, as he had jerked in his death throes and clawed at the rope biting into his throat, Vic found the optimism to believe that his self sacrifice would go some way to absolving him of his actions. He was also sure that his wife and daughter would now be safe. It would serve no useful purpose for Santini to harm them with Vic gone. It was true that flogging a dead horse was pointless.

Ballistics made the recovered slugs from the clinic shootings a priority.

Matt was in Tom's office when the call came through the following afternoon.

"The bullets that killed the nurse and patient were a match, Matt," Tom said. "The same gun was used on you and the others at the safe house."

"Pender got off too lightly," Matt said. "I hope he lasted a long time. I'd hate to think it was quick."

"It's the wife and daughter I feel for, Matt. As far as they knew, he was a good husband, father and cop. Santini must have had him by the short and―"

"I don't want to hear excuses for him, Tom. Whatever shit he was in wasn't a good enough reason to sell out. Now we know who fingered Joey Demaris as well. Christ knows what else he was responsible for. He should've come clean as soon as Santini braced him."

"You think it was just for money?"

"Who knows? Maybe he gambled himself into a deep fucking hole. Santini could have offered to tear up his marker if he played ball. It might have just been small stuff to begin with, but once he'd crossed over, there was no turning back. His family would've also been under threat. He got boxed in, but it was his choice. It can only happen if you say yes."

"Whatever. It puts us back to square one. Unless my guy on the inside hears anything else."

"We've still got Penny Page. And the hitter obviously wants Santini to locate her, but he won't be able to. Now we can use the situation to put them head to head. With a little encouragement, both parties might think it would be safer if the other was eliminated. Paranoia is a powerful weapon, and I think both of these sickos' suffer from it by the bucketful."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"We set it up. Push hard and play dirty."

"How?"

"I meet with Santini. Show him the artist's impression of the killer. Let him know that we know who the shooter is, and that it's only a matter of time before we lift him, and that when we do, we'll deal with the guy to finger Santini as the contractor. He knows that the Page woman can ID the killer."

"That's not by the book, Matt. We could foul up any case that comes out of it."

"Fuck the book, Tom. We need to make things happen. You got a better idea?"

"No. But you may not survive a meet with Santini."

"I'm already a target. Give me the okay to put the cat among the pigeons, and let's watch the feathers fly. If it works out, they'll solve our problem for us. We need to flush them out. And at worst we'll have lost nothing."

Tom poured coffee that was thick and bitter from being reheated too often. He lit a cigarette, breaking another rule, and smoked it halfway down before nodding to Matt.

"You tell Santini that your back is covered. No heroics, right?"

"You got it."

"So do it."

Matt used his mobile to call Rocco's, gave his name, asked for Frank, and was put on hold for over three minutes.

"This is Dominic Santini. What can I do for you?"

"I asked to speak to Frank," Matt said.

"Asking for something and getting it are two different things. My father is away on business for a couple of days. You got anything to say, say it, and stop wasting my time."

"I wanted to discuss a friend of mine, Vic Pender. He told me a lot of stuff. I'm in a hole. I thought you might want to help me out of it."

"I've never heard of a cop by the name of Pender."

"Have you heard of me? I'm Barnes, the cop who survived the hit on one of your late employees...Lester little."

"You've lost me, Barnes. I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"I need the hitter off my back, Santini. And so will you, soon. I've got an address you might be interested in, to show good faith."

"You've got your wires crossed somewhere along the way. I run a legit club, not Murder Incorporated."

"That's not what Vic said, before he checked out."

A long pause. "Drop by the club tonight at about ten. I'm sure I can set you straight on a few points and clear the air. I'm all for co-operating with the law."

"I'll be there," Matt said.

"Well?" Tom asked as Matt closed his phone.

Matt smiled. "He bit. He obviously played dumb over the phone, but I got an invite to call in at Rocco's this evening."

"I'll have a team outside, just in case he plans on taking you on a one-way ride. Don't forget what happened to Joey.

Matt took a cab back to within limping distance of the no frills hotel he had moved into. It was on a side street off Tottenham Court Road. He cut through a mews and entered the Kenton Court Hotel by the rear door. It was basic. The antiquated lift groaned up to the second floor and jerked to a spine-jarring stop. Once in his room, Matt peeled off his clothes and put his cigarettes, lighter and mobile on the cabinet next to the bed. Lying down on top of the faded bedspread, he interlocked his fingers at the back of his head and stared up at the ceiling. He was hot. The room was stuffy, had no amenities, but was adequate for his needs. He had registered as John Gabriel, and had a driving licence in that name, courtesy of the Yard's Document Section.

The hotel owner, Ron Quinn, was a soft-spoken west countryman with a ruddy face, red hair and matching beard. Matt adjudged him to be in his early fifties, over six-four, and to have been either a boxer or rugby player in his younger days, judging by the shape of his nose and slightly cauliflower ears. Matt liked him. He was polite, didn't ask awkward questions, and more importantly kept the small residents' bar open _very_ late.

Matt let his thoughts drift. The bed was a little short, but more comfortable than the sofa bed at home. He had no real wish to ever return to the maisonette at Harrow. There was nothing there for him but bad memories. Linda had been the reason he had played house. He didn't need the space. Up until buying the place for the two of them, he had rented a basement flat in Dulwich, and even paid the Hungarian woman in the ground floor flat above him to muck it out once a week and do his laundry. Being alone again had its advantages. He wasn't good at all the small stuff that was needed to make a relationship work. It struck him that he just hadn't met the right woman, or that he was too damn selfish to make the necessary adaptations to be able to find middle ground and learn to, or want to compromise. Maybe it was a combination of the two. He had always been a loner at heart.

The weekly rate for the hotel room was reasonable. He would ask Quinn to work out an even more attractive monthly rate, and stay for awhile. Put the house on the market. Another beginning.

He didn't dream. His phone woke him after three hours that could have been three seconds or an eternity.

"Yeah, Tom?"

"It's Beth."

"Hi, Beth. You talked to Tom?"

"Not yet. I just heard the news. What happened at the clinic?"

"The hired gun went for Penny. Tom had moved her. An old woman in the next room got hit. And a nurse."

"You know for sure it was him?"

"No doubt. The bullets were from the same gun used at the safe house. The other development is that we ID'd the cop who worked for Santini."

"Is he talking?"

"No, Beth. He got leaned on for Penny's new address, which he didn't know. We found him strung up in his garage."

"They murdered him?"

"No. It was all his own work. He found a way out from under the cosh."

"You've got to move out of your place, Matt."

"That's a done deal. I packed a case and moved into a hotel of sorts off Tottenham Court Road."

"Who knows where you are?"

"No one. I'm just a telephone number, even to Tom. I feel like the Invisible Man."

"Where do you go from here?"

"I've arranged a meet with Frank Santini's son. I aim to shake him up a bit and put the family head to head with the shooter."

"That could be dangerous."

"Crossing the street is potentially dangerous."

"Not if you look left and right."

"What about up. I remember reading of how a guy in Toronto got hit by a fridge-sized block of frozen effluent dumped from a high-flying 747."

"Is that where the saying 'being shit on from a great height' comes from?"

Matt smiled. "If not, it should be. But it tells me that it's the unexpected that usually gets you. Tom knows what I'm doing. My back's covered."

"What happened to the guy in Toronto?"

"It was only a glancing blow. He recovered from a broken shoulder, then got hit and killed by a bus two months later. Seems he was looking up instead of left and right when he stepped off the kerb."

Beth laughed.

"Shame on you, Beth Holder. The poor slob got squished like a bug."

"You seem in good humour, Matt."

"Losing colleagues, friends, a kidney, being up to my crotch in a cast, and having to move out of my house has given me new perspective on life. I reckon I was getting complacent. This is my wake-up call to start over."

"Be careful. Call me later, after you've met with Santini."

"It could be late."

"I'll be up."

"Okay. Bye for now."

Matt put the phone back on the cigarette-scarred locker and went into the cubby-hole of a bathroom. The shower was weak and the water tepid, but it did the job. Why had Beth phoned him instead of Tom? he thought as he lathered up. She was attracted to him. Did he really need to get involved, especially now? It was all part of life's rich tapestry. He would let it unravel thread by thread and take it one step at a time. As long as she knew up front that he had no intention of getting into something permanent, then no one would get hurt. She was a big girl, and a psychologist to boot. She had taken a close look at his character, knew where he was coming from, or thought she did, and it hadn't put her off. Maybe she also wanted a relationship that stopped short of being too serious. If more people could put the components of their lives into separate boxes, then there might be less strife. The truth of it was that Beth made him feel good. More than good. Just talking to her on the phone had boosted his morale. Some people draw each other like two halves of something that should be whole. He didn't understand it, but knew that they were destined to be together in some capacity. Knowing that infused him with a warm glow and sense of anticipation. He felt guilty, again. He had never experienced this magnetism with Linda. Maybe that was why she couldn't stay. She knew that something fundamental was missing. Things are supposed to work out for the best. He didn't believe that. They just worked out differently, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. In fact always for the worse, given enough time.

He rinsed off and towelled himself dry. Taking a shower with one leg stuck outside the cubicle was not easy. His back ached, and some of the water had run down the top of the cast. No sweat. He had survived. A certain level of inconvenience was a small price to pay. Anger and aggression built up inside him again. Adrenalin flowed through his muscles. He reined his feelings in and took deep breaths. At the right time, he would allow the wild side its head. He was Dr. David Banner and the Hulk. A part of him could break free and be destructive. The trick was in knowing when to let it out, and having the ability to channel it. If there was any natural justice, then he would get a chance to deal with Santini and his hired gun personally. It would go a long way to setting things right.

He didn't own a suit. He left the room in a pair of charcoal grey slacks; – with one leg cut off for the bulky cast – an oatmeal V-necked T-shirt and black leather jacket. He didn't take the Beretta. It was under the plastic liner of the small waste bin in the bathroom. He'd blown his nose on a wad of toilet tissue and thrown it in the bin. It was a place where only pros would think to look. Outside the room, he pulled a single hair from his head, licked it and pressed it from door to jamb, where it stuck. He wasn't going to be complacent. After phoning for a cab, he went down to the bar and ordered a Scotch.

"Don't bring it back here," Ron said.

Matt frowned and met the big man's calculating stare. "Come again."

"You heard. I can smell trouble. I don't care what it is, but leave it outside my hotel."

"It shows?"

"To me it does, Mr. Gabriel. Don't compound whatever shit you're in by pissing me off. I run a dump, but a quiet, decent one."

"I'll bear that in mind, Mr. Quinn."

Ron nodded. He sensed that his latest guest was potentially a dangerous man. He had seen the same look in the eyes of some of the guys out in the Falklands, and later in Kosova. This man was not afraid, of anything, and that was scary. He saw an attitude in those cold blue eyes. It was unequivocal and undisguised. The man had faced the fear of fear itself and come through it.

Ron watched as Matt limped away through the small foyer to the front door. He had the feeling he had seen the man before, but couldn't place him, yet.

Matt grunted, lifted his plaster-encrusted leg out of the cab and pulled himself up by gripping the top of the door. He was going into the lion's cage without a whip or chair to keep them off him. Strange that he felt so fired-up about it. He had phoned Tom on the way, and knew that a team was in place, watching as he struggled up the steps of Rocco's.

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

**DID** they think he was a retard or something? If the dago father and son double act thought they could send him on a fool's errand and shrug it off as no big deal, then they were sadly mistaken. He had given them a chance, phoned back, and in return had been given the bum's rush. The dumb ox of a son had said they needed more time.

It was a long night. The voices in his head were relentless, urging him to just get in the car, drive to Rocco's and gut shoot the two greaseballs.

After a fitful sleep, he got up, took his medication and soaked in the bath for an hour until dawn had fully broken and the sun was shining through the window. He added two fresh cuts to the inside of his left wrist, being sure not to sever tendons. It was as if the bloodletting released the pressure. His rage subsided as the crimson outflow mingled with the water and tinged it a rich rose pink; the exact shade of his mother's cheeks, he recalled. Everything was clearer in his mind. He rang the club again, spoke to Frank, and gave his final ultimatum; to come up with the address by noon, or he would assume they were holding out on him for some reason, and would take whatever retaliatory action he considered necessary.

At exactly midday he called Rocco's from a phone box in Wandsworth. The son came to the phone.

"Put your old man on," Gary said. "I want to talk to the organ grinder, not his dumbfuck monkey."

"Don't push it, arsehole," Dom said. "I've got an address for you, and some advice. If you ever contact us again, we'll find you and cut your fucking eyes out."

"You couldn't find your way to the bathroom without a map. Just give me the address."

Dom read it out off the scrap of paper it was written on.

"Okay, Mussolini. If this is a set-up, you get to meet me up close, just the once, and very briefly. Your old man should have more sense than to jerk me around. He has a lot to lose. He hires me because I _always_ get the job done. I know where you live, what restaurants you frequent, everything. If I even think you could be a threat, then I'll take your whole crummy organisation apart." He wiped the receiver as he talked, hung up before Dom could answer, and left the sweltering heat of the foul-smelling booth.

Sitting on a bench in a small public park nearby, Gary assessed the situation. Frank Santini had – until very recently – believed that his hired hit man was no threat to him. Just a guy providing a service. Now he would feel vulnerable. Whatever happened to the woman and cop would not be the end of it. If he was in Santini's shoes he would want Gary found and got rid of, to eliminate the connection between himself and the capping of Lester Little and the others. Gary smiled. The best form of defence was always attack.

He chilled. Watched children play on the swings, slide and monkey bars. After a while he got up and walked over to where an elderly couple were feeding bread to raucous, begging ducks at the edge of a small concrete-lined pond. It was like looking through glass at ants in a formicary. He did not see people as being any more important than mindless insects. They were just bugs to him, no more significant than those that flew into his windscreen to become smears on the polished glass.

On the drive back to the flat, he decided that as well as the woman and cop, the Santinis' would have to go. There was nothing better than a clean slate. He would be like a teacher, wiping the blackboard at the end of the last lesson of the day. It would be like an artist starting with a blank canvas; fresh tubes of paint and new brushes.

Shit! Marion's Honda was outside the flat, and the Blob herself was standing next to it, patting at her forehead with a handkerchief. Even from fifty yards away he could see the dark patch at her armpit on the pale lemon material of the loose top she wore.

He pulled up next to her and got out.

"Hi, Marion," he said, manufacturing a 'so pleased to see you' expression on his face. "I didn't know we had an appointment."

"I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd pop in for a cuppa. Is that a problem?"

"Of course not. It's a nice surprise," he lied, walking across to the entrance door and swiping his key card to unlock it.

He ushered her in and followed her up the stairs. Her massive thighs were bare, slick with sweat and slipping against each other under her skirt. She was gross, so why did he feel aroused?

As they entered the flat, she was all over him like a rash. The garlic hit him and he pulled away.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm just feeling a little on edge," he said. "I've not been sleeping, and the medication has made me irritable."

"Poor baby. You sit down. I'll make us a cup of tea while you relax."

"Thanks, Marion," he said, somehow repressing the urge to just kill her. He had enough to keep him busy for a few days. He didn't need the extra unrelated complication. He had to remind himself that she was worth much more to him alive. And in any case, it was broad daylight and her car was at the door. No doubt the scheming, inquisitive neighbours had watched them enter the building together.

"You haven't forgotten about tomorrow, have you?" Marion asked him as she poured boiling water into the teapot and left the brew to infuse for a minute.

He looked up and frowned.

"It's Saturday tomorrow, Gary. You're coming to stay at my place for the weekend. Remember?"

"I can't make it this weekend, Marion. We'll have to do it another time."

She fisted her pudgy hands on the approximate place her hips were located under rolls of fat. Stared at him with undisguised frustration and displeasure. _Couldn't make it! Had he suddenly got a fucking life?_ "I don't understand, Gary. I thought after what we did, and how we felt about each other, that you were looking forward to it."

"I was, Marion, but something has come up that I have to take care of. Let's do it next weekend. Okay?"

"What exactly has come up? You don't work, don't have any friends. I think I deserve an explanation for your suddenly cancelling our arrangements."

Typical woman. She just wouldn't leave it be. Had to push. He leapt to his feet and backhanded her across the face, hard. Her head flew to the side, and her doughy cheek was emblazoned with a glowing hand print as she stutter-stepped along the units.

"You deserve fuck all, you stupid bitch. It's time you realised that I'm not some pathetic lame-brain patient who you can manipulate to suit your own needs."

Marion's face purpled. "You bastard," she hissed, steadying herself, cupping her smarting cheek with a trembling hand.

"Yes, I am, in every sense of the word," he said, stepping forward, gripping her wrist and dragging her through to the lounge, where he pushed her down on to the sofa.

She didn't move as he turned on the TV, rammed a videocam cassette into a VHS adapter, and slotted it into the VCR.

"Watch," he said, sitting next to her.

Her mouth dropped open as the sight of her own nude body appeared on the screen. What followed was as graphic as any hard-core porn movie. Every action, moan, grunt and scream was faithfully reproduced in living colour and Dolby sound. The light could have been a little better, but there was no mistaking who the two writhing figures were. And it was clear that she was voluntarily and energetically taking part in the proceedings. Had the implications not been so serious, she would have been stimulated at the sight of their antics.

"Why did you do that?" she asked in a whisper that was almost drowned by the outcry of relief that the recorded version of herself emitted.

"Because I'm not a chess piece to be moved around at someone else's whim, or sacrificed if push comes to shove."

"What do you plan on doing with it?"

"That depends entirely on you, Marion. I'm happy for us to have a personal relationship. But on the understanding that you don't choreograph it, or my life. I expect you to write me up as a model patient and keep the system off my back. I want to be treated with respect. I'm not a headcase who you can jump in and out of the sack with until you get bored."

"I had no intention of causing you any problems, Gary. I care for you. It isn't just the sex."

"That's good to hear, Marion. But with my paranoia, you of all people should be able to understand my need to feel safe. Let's just call the video insurance. Consider it as being my security blanket. There's no reason for anyone else to ever see it. I need for you to know that no one pulls my strings. That's all. I don't think your colleagues and employers would understand or forgive you for taking advantage of a patient. It would cost you your job, and effectively stop you applying for another position in mental health work."

Marion nodded. She did understand that his illness incorporated paranoid delusions. On one level his actions were no real surprise to her. He thought she was trying to control his thoughts, feelings and actions. And in a sense, she had been.

"So let's go and have that cup of tea," she said. "Then if you're in the mood we can fool around. You can film it again if you want. It's a turn on."

He was astonished "You mean it? You're not angry with me?"

"I'm a little disappointed, and my cheek smarts. But I know how you must feel, Gary. Just don't hit me again. And the truth is I don't really give a shit about my job. It would be no big deal to lose it. I want us to be long term. But I don't like pain. Let's just forget about the last few minutes and start over."

They skipped the tea, and after performing with the video camera repositioned on its tripod at the foot of the bed, they showered, made fresh tea and watched the new footage, to enjoy the sight of their efforts from an unusual and highly intimate point of view.

"God, my arse looks huge," Marion said.

"It looks gorgeous," Gary opined. "I love you just the way you are, with only one small reservation."

"What? Tell me," she said.

"The garlic. I can smell it on your breath and in your sweat, sweetheart. It reminds me of my mother. And that upsets me."

"My poor baby. I'm so sorry. I'll never touch the stuff again, I promise," Marion said as she cradled his head to her breasts and rocked him. She knew all about his mother, or thought she did. She had been a whore, who fell down the stairs in a drunken stupor one night many years ago, and Gary had watched it happen. No wonder he had emotional problems.

After they had drained the teapot, Gary walked her down to her car.

"I'll call by on Wednesday afternoon...if that's all right," Marion said after fastening her seat belt and winding the window down.

Gary smiled. "Look forward to it. And next weekend I'll definitely stay at your place."

"Bring the camera," she said, blowing him a kiss before driving out to the main road.

He waved until she was out of sight, and then went back up to his flat, to wait.

It was midnight. Humid. He drove through Paddington, turned into a narrow street, not pausing as he passed the house where Penny Page was no doubt under armed guard. The cops would be alert and trigger happy after recent events. Couldn't blame them. The parked cars on both sides of the street were unoccupied, and yet he felt at risk. Maybe the woman wasn't here. Santini could have set a trap. Might have his men waiting, ready to shoot him on sight.

He drove to the end of the street, made a left and didn't stop until he felt far enough away from whatever threat may exist. He put his head back on the rest, closed his eyes and thought it through. Commonsense told him to back off and take heed of his gut feeling. But he needed to investigate. Decision time. With the silenced Glock tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, he made his way back to an alley that was at the rear of the row of terrace. He climbed over a wood panel fence into a garden four up from his intended destination and quickly made his way over dividing fences until he was at the kitchen door of the house next to where he would overcome any adversity.

High cloud cover abetted him. The moon's light was reflected back from it to afford him the cloak of invisibility needed to strike unseen.

The house was in darkness. Slipping the catch of a window with the blade of his knife, he gained entry. The kitchen led through to a short hallway. There were three open doors. Gary checked them. A living room, bedroom and bathroom. He was in a flat. A single occupant was asleep in the bedroom; a grey-haired old man, curled up on his side, snoring, his mouth hanging open.

Gary wore latex gloves. He removed a woollen Balaclava from his jerkin pocket and pulled it over his head, drew the pistol and shook the old man by the shoulder to wake him up.

Jacob Goldman snorted and narrowed his eyes to slits as Gary switched on the bedside lamp.

"Uh! What?" he exclaimed, and sat bolt upright as he saw the hooded figure sitting next to him.

"Nice and easy, old man," Gary whispered. "Don't do anything you wouldn't live to regret."

"What d...do you want?" Jacob asked. He felt dizzy and his heart was aching, hammering against his narrow ribcage. "Money? You are here to rob me?"

"No. I'm not a thief. I want information. If you co-operate, I won't harm you."

"What is it you think an old man who hardly ever goes out can tell you?"

"First, who are you?" Gary asked.

"My name is Jacob. Jacob Goldman."

"You a tenant, Jake?"

"No. I own the house."

"A live-in landlord?"

"Yes."

"Perfect. I need to know the layout of the house, and whether there is a firewall in the loft that separates it from the one next door," Gary said, inclining his head to the right, so that Jacob would know which property he meant. "And you need to know that if you tell me one single lie, I'll core you like an apple."

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

**THE** doorman stepped forward and raised his hand up like a cop stopping traffic.

"Not dressed like that, sir," he said, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And it's members only."

Matt produced his ID. "This is my membership card. Your boss is expecting me."

The maroon-suited bouncer gave the warrant card a hard look and dropped all trace of geniality. "Wait here," he said, and went inside the door to pluck the receiver from a wall-mounted phone. He returned almost immediately. "Okay. Up those stairs," and he jerked his head to the left, smirking at the implications as he pointedly looked at Matt's full leg cast. "Someone will meet you at the top, if you make it."

Holding the wide, lacquered banister rail, and heavily supported by the walking cane he carried, Matt made his way up the sweeping staircase. He felt like Ahab out of Moby Dick. Had to swing his stiff leg out and up to slowly negotiate every riser. He recognised the giant black who met him at the top. It was Luthor Tyrell, an ex-pro boxer who had been hard as nails, but too slow. He was now an enforcer for Santini; an emissary who kept people sweet, or chastised them for offending his master. He was over three hundred pounds of muscle that could be sicked on anyone who didn't walk the line.

"Follow me, cop," ordered Tiny in a deep Barry White rumble.

Matt could feel the sweat beading at his hairline, under his arms and on his back. His leg was alive with pain, and his side was rhythmically pounding with a dull, aching beat. He was led through a door marked Staff Only, which opened onto a narrow corridor. Came to a lurching stop as Tiny turned to face him.

"I need to check you out. Assume the position."

Matt put his hands on the oak panelled wall and spread his legs as far as he was able to. The rub down search was thorough. Tiny even examined the leg cast, and the cane Matt still held in his hand.

"Happy?" Matt asked.

Tiny did not reply, just thumbed an intercom on the wall next to a door, bent down to speak into it, and moved aside to let Matt enter first as the lock mechanism clicked open.

Dom didn't stand up to greet him, just motioned to a dark green wing back chair that was upholstered in shiny leather and faced his desk.

Matt went to it and eased himself down, using both hands to position his leg.

"Okay, Barnes. Say what's on your mind, and then get out," Dom said.

Matt took a flyer of the artist's work-up out of a pocket, unfolded it and pushed it across the desktop to Santini. "That's the hit man that you or your father hired to whack Lester Little. I doubt you've ever met him, but you need to know we have a lot on him. We even have his name. When he's lifted, we'll offer him a deal that he can't and won't refuse." Matt was bluffing, but on a roll. "He probably makes tapes of all his calls. I'm sure he'll want to cut himself some slack by selling you out."

Dom's bland expression did not falter. He pushed the flyer back, after first motioning for Tiny to study it.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Barnes," he said. "You're wasting my time. I've never seen this punk before in my life."

"I'm talking about give and take. You don't need to have seen him to hire him. You heard the news about Pender?"

"Who?"

"C'mon, Dom. No need to act stupid. I'm not wired. DI Vic Pender. He topped himself last night, after giving me a call and―"

"Whatever he said to you is hearsay. Nothing you've got would count for shit in a courtroom," Dom said. He clicked his fingers and Tiny went over to the bar and fixed him a drink. "Just get to the point. Why're you here?"

"I want this psycho off my back. Apart from the Page woman, only I could finger him. And he intends to make sure neither of us gets a chance to. I want to ensure he's lifted or taken out. Every day he's on the loose is a day too many. I can give you the address of where the woman is holed up. You can come through for him, and he'll walk into a trap."

"No deal," Dom said. "I don't need anything from you. I hope you get capped. I did my homework, Barnes. You're one of those hard-nosed cops on a mission. You want revenge for what went down at the bungalow. You're sore physically and mentally, and you intend to make someone pay for the other filth who got taken out. Even your woman walked. You're obsessed, Barnes. Why don't you take fair warning and keep out of it? You might even want to consider a career change."

Matt didn't bite. "Why did you see me if you believe that?"

"Curiosity. It pays to keep up with the opposition. You don't have anything solid or you would have come in here mob-handed and bust me. And the last thing you would do is ask the people you believe to be responsible for what happened at Finchley to help you out. If I thought for a second you'd walked in here without backup, I'd have Tiny rip that crocked leg off and beat you to death with it."

The meeting was over. Tiny gripped Matt by the collar of his jacket and lifted him roughly to his feet.

Matt reacted. He snatched at the huge hand that held him, peeled the middle finger back and jerked with all his strength. There was a dry twig crack as the digit snapped.

Tiny screamed. Was forced down onto his knees, and silenced as Matt scythed him across the temple with the brass handle of the heavy cane. The giant made a faltering attempt to come up off the floor, so Matt swung the cane again and Tiny toppled sideways and stayed down. Blood sprayed onto the carpet from a deep scalp wound.

Dom reached for the top drawer of his desk.

"If you open that, I'll put the end of this stick through your eye and poke out whatever crap is inside your skull masquerading as brains," Matt hissed.

Dom put his hands palm down on the desktop. "You'll pay for this, Barnes. That's a promise. If the hitter doesn't get you, then we will."

"Don't bank on it, Santini. You got it right when you said I was a loner on a mission. You and your no-good father have got the police, a deranged shooter and me on your case. One way or another you're going down. And don't expect me to play by the rules, or wait for you to make the moves. From the second I walk out of here, you're on borrowed time. And if anyone even looks at me sideways on my way out, I'll have this dump raided, and guarantee they'll find enough dope to close you down."

"You don't act like a cop, Barnes."

"I've always been a loose cannon, junior. I use what works to deal with scum like you."

"I'll be sure to make time to drop by and piss on your grave, cop," Dom said. "Because as the Yanks would say, you're a dead man walking."

"Everybody dies, Santini. Just take a look at the photos on these walls. Then remember what happened to all the lowlife gangsters in them."

"Talk's cheap, Barnes. You know that we're like fucking Teflon, nothing sticks to us. We're connected. It's you that's going down, and soon."

The car pulled up next to him as he limped along the pavement a hundred yards from Rocco's.

Tom leaned across and opened the passenger door. "Get in," he said.

Matt manoeuvred himself into the car and lit a cigarette as Tom drove off.

"Anything?"

Matt hiked his shoulders. "He didn't bite. But he took in every word. I don't think I made any new friends."

"Meaning?"

"The big black, Tyrell, manhandled me. I couldn't sit back and let him abuse an invalid."

"You got in a tussle with that freak? He's the best part of seven feet tall, and built like a fucking battleship."

"He didn't look that big when I left him curled up and bleeding on Santini's carpet."

"Jesus, Matt. Apart from beating the shit out of the help, did you learn anything?"

"Yeah, that we may have another rat on the inside. I offered to give the spaghetti-sucker the address where Penny is holed-up. He wasn't interested. That tells me he knows where she is."

"That's Impossible."

"Is it, Tom?"

"Yes. Apart from you, me and McClane, no one knows where we moved her to. And the cops guarding her are all outsiders."

"Do they expect to be hit?"

"Yeah. I briefed them. They know the background. I told them it was almost a given that there would be a further attempt on her life. But I don't believe it."

"I wish I was that confident."

"She's safe, Matt."

"I daresay that's what the Secret Service thought, right up until JFK got his brains blown out. Unless it was them that had him capped."

"I'm releasing the artist's impression of the hitter to the media in the morning. With any luck, someone will recognise him and call it in."

Matt didn't argue. They needed to use all they had, now. Events dictated the direction of an investigation. It might flush him out.

"You want dropped off somewhere?" Tom asked.

"Here will do."

"Does that mean you don't want me to know where you're staying?"

"It means we could have a tail, Tom. No good me dropping out of sight, only to lead them straight to my door. You've got my mobile number."

Tom signalled and pulled into the kerb. "Don't do anything without checking with me first, Matt. I've got the feeling you're starting a one man war, and that's bang out of order."

"I'll call by the office in the morning," Matt said. "I want to run through the autopsy reports on all the vics again."

Climbing out of the car, Matt walked away, leaning more heavily than ever on the cane. He felt as weak as a kitten. When his injuries healed up, he would have to get in the gym and work out. His muscles were going soft. He hadn't been so out of condition in his life. He was a little frail, and didn't like the feeling.

I thought that you'd forgotten," Beth said. She had fallen asleep in front of the television. The late movie was finished, and Jools Holland was now on, tinkling the ivories to produce a jazzed-up version of an old standard. She had hit the standby button on the remote and picked up the phone.

"I just got back to my new digs," Matt said. He was stretched out on top of the bed wearing nothing but his cast and a film of sweat. The air in the room was stuffy and hot, even with the window open. But he felt safe. The hair on the door had not been displaced, and his gun in exactly the position he had left it.

"Did you meet with Santini?"

"Yeah, he's a poser. Diamond in his ear like the rock of Gibralter, wears his hair in a ponytail like Francis Rossi used to, and has a bad attitude."

"Francis who?"

"You can't be a Quo fan."

"Oh, him. I take it you didn't hit it off with Santini."

"I ruffled his feathers. Only time will tell if it was worth it. He isn't stupid. He acted dumb, but hung onto every word I said. I could almost see his brain racing."

"At least you got out in one piece."

"He would've loved to break my other leg, but held off. He didn't buy that I was operating on my own. He's not a very trusting soul."

"So it was uneventful?"

"Yeah. Very civilised," Matt said, not mentioning the altercation with Tiny.

"Where are you staying?"

"I told you, in a small hotel off Tottenham Court Road. There's no room service, TV, or air conditioning. But it has a bar, and the rates are cheap."

"Are you allowed room guests?"

"Only the roaches."

"Is that a polite way of telling me I'm not welcome?"

"Absolutely. I've got at least two parties who would use any leverage or anyone close to me to ruin my day, if not cancel it altogether. Just being seen with me could put you in real danger. You can meet me for coffee in Tom's office in the morning, though. I plan to go through all the crime scene stuff again."

"Why? Nothing was recovered apart from a few bullets and casings that led nowhere."

"We might have missed something. And I haven't even seen the reports on the nurse and patient who were shot at the clinic."

"Four eyes are better than two. I'll look through it with you."

"Good. Bring some doughnuts."

"Doesn't your hotel serve breakfast?"

"No. It makes the 'Y' look like the Savoy."

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

" **I** need a cigarette. Can I get one?" Jacob asked.

Gary shrugged. "Go ahead."

They were sitting at a Formica-topped table in the kitchen. Jacob was trembling. He had Parkinson's disease. His head shook from side to side as though he was perpetually denying something, and his fingers trembled like tree branches in a high wind. He fumbled a cigarette out of the pack, located it between his lips and then chased the end of it with the flame of his Bic lighter until the two met briefly and he was able to suck the cigarette alight. Simple tasks were becoming problematical. A large blister on the back of his hand was the result of pouring boiling water from kettle to teapot. Such was life.

Jacob faced the masked man who was pointing a gun at his chest. It wasn't lost on him that the gloved hand holding the pistol was rock steady. And all he could see of his assailant's face were unblinking eyes. They were as black as the Balaclava he wore.

"So talk to me, Jake. Is next door the same layout as this shithole?"

"Yes."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I own it, and two others in the street."

"You must be raking it in. Why do you live in this poxy flat? Surely you can afford something upmarket."

"I've got everything I want here. I used to live out in the sticks in a big house with a swimming pool. Then, five years ago my wife, Alma, died. I sold the place and moved back here. I was born in this street. I thought I might as well die in it."

Gary nodded. He could relate to that. The little guy was older than he had first thought. Mid-seventies at a guess. He was bony. Looked how a live chicken felt when you picked one up. The string vest and boxer shorts he wore were old, grey, over washed, not dirty. His eyes were rheumy with deep purple pockets beneath them. And there was a bristly cyst the size of a golf ball under his chin, stretching the pale skin. Why wouldn't he have it removed? Because he didn't care.

"Here's the deal, Jake. You answer me a few questions, and I tie you up and leave. How does that sound?"

"Like probably the best deal I'm going to get."

"It is, believe me," Gary said. "Who's renting the top floor next door? And remember, don't lie to me, old man, or you'll be joining Alma tonight."

"The police rent it. They pay over the top, to make sure I keep my mouth shut."

"Is it occupied now?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"A woman and baby."

"How many cops in the house?"

"Two, I think."

"Do the lofts have fire walls separating them?"

"Yes, but they don't reach the eaves. There's a gap."

"Big enough for me to get through?"

"I suppose. Yes."

"I think that does it, Jake. Do you have any duct tape?"

"In the cupboard, under the sink."

"Go get it," Gary ordered. For a second he considered putting a bullet through Jacob's head, as the man groaned as he squatted down and rummaged on crowded shelves. But, no. Let the old fart get older and thinner as his cyst grew bigger and his shaking became even more pronounced. Nature was doing just fine without his hastening the process.

He used all the remaining silver tape on the wide roll. Jacob was trussed up like an Egyptian mummy to the chair. He also had a piece of tea towel balled in his mouth and taped over.

Gary opened the larder door, held the back of the chair and walked it forward. There was just enough room. He closed the door to leave Jacob sat in inky blackness. And after bracing the back of another chair under the door knob, he made his way out of the flat and up the stairs to the top landing.

It was a little awkward without a pair of stepladders. Standing on the banister rail, he managed to push the loft hatch back and pull himself up into the roof space.

There were chinks in the felt, and gaps between the tiles above it showed that the cloud had moved farther west allowing moonlight to pierce through in dozens of places, giving him enough light to negotiate the water tanks as he stepped from rafter to rafter on the unboarded floor. He hadn't thought to ask Jacob for a torch. A little remiss. If the cloud cover had not passed, then he would have been reduced to feeling his way on hands and knees.

The top of the breeze block wall was well short of the roof's apex. He removed the Balaclava and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He wanted to giggle. They would not expect anyone to even know the woman's whereabouts; much less launch an attack from within the house itself. All being well, he would be finished up and away from the area before anyone even knew what had taken place, bar his targets.

He pulled himself up the rough breeze block wall, eased over it and made his way toward the hatch in the other loft. Kneeling on a boarded area adjacent to it, he raised the cover just enough to have a view of the landing below. No one. He set the trapdoor aside and lowered himself down, to hang by his hands before dropping the last couple of feet to the carpeted floor. With knees bent, he landed as lightly as a stalking cat.

The flat's door would be locked. This part was mind-blowing. He was on a high. The next few seconds could not be one hundred percent risk free, even though he had the element of surprise on his side, and resolute purpose. He tiptoed up to the side of the door. There was a line of light escaping the gap at the bottom of it. He settled, took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He became calm, totally focused. His heart rate was low, and he was ready to face whatever the near future held.

Two pops, not loud. The wood around the lock disintegrated. He rushed into the room as the door was blown open by the impact of the bullets. He crouched, held the gun in a practised two-handed shooter's grip and let the muzzle follow his searching eyes.

DC Karl Fleming had just poured himself a cupful of black coffee from the six pint pump flask that stood on the low table in front of him. When the door flew back, his hands were full. His last three seconds seemed endless. It was like slow motion as time became elastic and almost stopped. He dropped the plastic cup and tried to react, even though he knew he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of the sudden shit he was in. The figure was taking aim; was smiling at him.

The cop's face was a picture. Gary watched as he dropped the cup he was holding and made a futile attempt to reach for the gun that was holstered beneath his left armpit. He took in the whole scenario, to remember in detail and savour later. The cop was in his late twenties, maybe a year or two older than himself. He was blond, blue-eyed, and his mouth was forming a perfect O. He wore a white T-shirt. He was tanned. There was a tattoo – some Tribal design – on his right forearm that presented itself as his hand gripped the butt of the gun he would never draw.

Karl was blown backwards into the soft cushions of the sofa. There was no pain, just a sense of having been hit in the chest by a fist. He looked down, saw the floret of blood erupt through the cotton. He thought it looked like a Rorschach blot; maybe a flower, a red rose opening its petals to meet the sunlight. The next two shots took away any lingering ruminations.

Gary opened the bedroom door and was met by the sight of Penny Page sitting up, facing him. He paused. There was an acceptance in her expression that unsettled him. The absence of fear was unnerving. It wasn't natural to look into the face of death and appear to pay it no due. She _wanted_ him to kill her, and although he would, it lessened the pleasure of the act.

"Not the baby, please," she said in a quiet voice. She could have been saying 'no sugar, please' to a waitress in a café.

He did not reply, but inclined his head as if to allay her fears for her child. He waited until she closed her eyes and lowered her head, and then finished it. There was a beauty in the act. It was regal. He felt as the axe man who had beheaded Mary Queen of Scots might have. It was a barbaric act, but lent a certain degree of grace by the way in which it was carried out and received. He thought the baby would be fine. There were many orphans in the world. This infant was now just one more.

Back in the loft, moving quickly, retracing his steps. Less than ninety seconds since he had shot the lock out of the door.

He was walking on air, clear of the scene and approaching his car. He got in and headed for home. Only the woman's approbation was niggling. She had, to a degree, used him to curtail the grief that he was responsible for. The sense of achievement was dampened by her near serene capitulation. He did not do mercy killing. And yet that was in effect what had taken place. No matter. The cop next, and then the Santinis. He smiled. Santinis. They sounded like a fucking circus act: _The Amazing Santinis_ , or _The Flying Santinis_. It made him think back to a movie he'd seen on TV as a kid, and had watched again several times since. _Trapeze_. He had always liked Burt Lancaster. Behind the actor's tooth-filled grin was a coldness that the camera could not mask. He made a mental list of all the Lancaster films he could remember. It was a game he played a lot. He got up to fifteen, including such notable offerings as: _The Birdman of Alcatraz_ , _Elmer Gantry_ , _From Here to Eternity_ , _Gunfight at OK Corral,_ and _The Swimmer_.

Almost home. He was on a roll. What he had just accomplished would make all of the insects sit up and take notice. He was unstoppable. As deadly as a plague that has no cure. He was the pale rider.

After stashing the gun and Balaclava in the laundry room, he went up to the flat, ate a full packet of chocolate digestive biscuits and washed them down with milk. Killing always made him hungry. He would sleep well, with brand new memories to feed off. The only person who could have identified him without reservation, no longer existed. The cop was, in reality, a minor consideration. He could not feasibly recognise him. He and Barnes had seen each other for the same instant, and he could only remember a blur of dark hair and a square-jawed face as the cop dived for cover. Trouble was, doubt would not let him rest easy. Not leaving loose ends had kept him ahead of the game. He was not about to start being careless. He should have made sure that Barnes was dead before leaving the bungalow in Finchley, but that would have been too risky. And maybe Santini and his son were the bigger threat to him. It might be more judicious to do what the police couldn't. He knew that he could take out the kingpins of one of the biggest firms in London.

He sat and watched the video of himself and Marion. God! Didn't they move well together? She was good for him. In some way she calmed his inner demons and understood him better than anyone else ever had or probably would. He didn't love her. Love was one of the emotions he could not quite perceive. In theory, he understood the mechanics of the condition, but had no sense of how to feel it. Hate and anger were real to him. If love was the antithesis of hate, then it must be a powerful sentiment.

In bed, he began humming a tune. It was _Imagine_. His mother had sung the old Lennon song to him when he was a small boy. He _could_ imagine there was no heaven. In fact he was sure that no such place existed. And even if it did, he would not be granted admission to it. He was destined to spend eternity in a far more interesting place. The devil's playground would no doubt be frequented by every infamous character that had ever walked the earth. He would fit in just fine.

Sleep took him into that suspended state where his subconscious was given free rein to produce an alternative reality. His most vivid and frequent nightmare ran its course. In it, he rushed forward to the head of the stairs, stuck his arms out and felt the softness of his mother's breasts. He fondled them, before pushing her backwards and watching her eyes widen to the size of saucers. Her mouth stretched open in a soundless scream, and she tumbled away from him, down an endless flight of stairs, to eventually vanish into a black vacuum.

Waking slowly to the brightness of a new day, Gary knew exactly what he would do. And he needed specialist equipment to make his next kill.

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

**GOOD** or ill fortune has its part to play in almost if not every aspect of life. That had been the case when Gary had made his assault on the top floor flat where Penny Page had been ensconced.

It was lucky for Gary or DC Andy Williams – no relation to the late crooner – or perhaps for both of them that a car in desperate need of a new tail pipe was driven by the house at precisely the time Gary struck.

The roar of noise escaping through the rusted exhaust overlaid the sound of the silenced shots and splintering of wood.

Andy was sitting in darkness at the side of the stairs on the ground floor, with a clear view of the front door. A street light illuminated the corrugated glass panel in it. No one could enter without him being forewarned.

Andy was not happy with the gig. They had been drafted in from Romford, not been given any background on the case, or even the ID of the woman upstairs. All the Serious Crimes DCI told them was, to speak to no one but him. He also advised them that there was a likelihood of an attempt to kill the woman, which would be made by a professional hitman.

"You still awake up there?" he whispered into the radio.

No reply.

"Karl, you okay?"

Still silence.

The voice of DC Craig Lodge cut in. "What's the problem?" he asked. He was in a car up the street, on the opposite side, watching all comings and goings.

"I can't raise Karl," Andy answered.

"I'm coming over. Get up there."

Andy drew his Heckler & Koch USP, pushed off the safety and chambered a round. He ran to the front door, unlocked it and then turned and made his way quickly but warily up the stairs. As he reached the top landing, he saw the flat's door open and damaged. He swallowed hard, approached the door and pressed up close to the wall, cautiously edging along. He waited, heard Craig in the house, bounding up the stairs two at a time to join him.

One each side of the door. Andy mouthed "On three," to Craig, and nodded twice before they both entered fast and low. Neither uttered a word until they were positive the flat was clear.

Didn't you hear anything?" Craig asked.

Andy didn't answer. He was standing, gun hung loosely in one hand, checking Karl's neck with two fingers of the other for a pulse. There was a lot of blood.

"You must have heard something, for fuck's sake," Craig insisted.

"He had to have used a silencer," Andy replied woodenly. "Call the DCI, Bartlett, and ruin his night.

Craig took a deep breath as he took out his cell and phoned the contact number they had been given.

Tom was too shocked to lose his temper. "How did he get past you?" he asked.

"He didn't, guv," Craig answered. "He had to have been in the house."

Tom was at home. He said that he would attend, and then rang DS Pete Deakin. Told him to get the crime scene team and duty pathologist rolling, as he dressed and headed for the door.

Andy met him on the landing, pointed out the gunshot-damaged door before leading him into the flat to see the vics. It was like a mini guided tour of a chamber of horrors.

Tom felt a crushing sensation of guilt. Penny Page's body was supine on the top of the bed. Her eyes were wide open. He imagined an expression of accusation in them. He had failed her, totally. With all the careful planning, the killer had still somehow found her; just walked in and blown her away. The hole in her forehead was neat, but he could see by the mess on the light blue bedspread that the shot was through and through, and had no doubt removed a large portion of her skull's contents. He checked the cot. The baby was unharmed. The drying spots of blood on its face were spatter from Penny.

"Get hold of child services or whoever the hell it is we need to look after the baby," he said. It was heartbreaking. The little feller was still asleep. He would never know his mother or father. Life was capricious. It was as if every event was part of an unstable, ongoing chain reaction. One domino pushed over to topple millions of others that had been set up in a complex pattern. Either that or just fickle fate. Once informed, the baby's grandparents would in all probability take the child and raise it.

Tom phoned Matt and then Beth as he waited for the techies and the pathologist to arrive. His DI and the psychologist would want to walk the crime scene. They may see more than was immediately evident.

Craig Lawson had been investigating. He knocked on the jamb next to the open flat door before entering, not wanting to startle his partner. The situation was tense, and he knew that Andy was wired. He was not about to risk looking down the barrel of a hair-triggered cannon.

"He came in from next door," Craig said to Tom. "I found a kitchen window forced and the back door unlocked. Inside, there was a larder door wedged shut with a chair. There was an old guy bound and gagged inside it. He's the landlord, who also owns this place. He said the shooter wore a Balaclava, and that the gun he had was fitted with a silencer."

"How did he get in here?" Tom asked.

"Loft to loft. He came at us through the roof, guv."

"Shit!" Tom's brain produced the picture of a man in black dropping down on a line like a fucking spider.

"I called an ambulance for the guy. He looks crap. In shock."

Tom nodded. "Go and stay with him until it arrives. See what else he can tell you."

Beth arrived before Matt. She studied the scene, absorbing the residue of the double murder. Felt sadness for the cop, and something akin to devastation at the loss of the young mother, who had survived one murderous attack, but lost her husband, and had been targeted again and murdered in cold blood.

Tom left Beth to it, stepped outside onto the landing away from the door and lit a cigarette. He thought of the attack as a Special Forces-style assault on a hostile position. The hitter had executed a perfect operation, disposed of the cop and his prime target, and made egress without further confrontation. A lot of questions begged answering. He'd had the intel and the advantage of surprise to make the kill. The officer and Penny had proved easy prey.

Matt needed to climb three flights of stairs about as much as he needed a malignant tumour. Even with the cane, he only made it up to the top with the help of Pete Deakin.

Tom told him how it appeared to have gone down as Matt studied the dead cop, then Penny.

"He's good," Tom said.

"He's a lot better than just good," Matt observed. "We've got an expert shot who doesn't seem to know what fear is, or if he does, thrives on it. He plans, prepares, and carries out his hits like an iceman."

"He doesn't necessarily have to be an expert shot," Beth said.

"Yes, he _does_ ," Matt replied sharply. "The cop's hand is still on the butt of his gun. When the door was blown open, he will have reacted immediately. That means the perp fired from at least eight feet away and without hesitation as he entered the room. And a silencer greatly reduces accuracy."

"He may have got closer than that. He had the element of surprise going for him."

"No, Beth. Look at the wound. Tell me what you see."

Beth approached the corpse of the young cop and examined the hole above his left eyebrow, not the body shots. The wounds to the chest were all but invisible due to the amount of blood that saturated the T-shirt.

"It's a clean, round bullet hole," she said, surprising herself by being able to view the dead man with such detachment: remembering how a decade earlier she had almost freaked out when viewing the body of her grandfather in his coffin. It's always harder with someone that was close to you, that you loved, she mused.

Matt nodded. "Right. If it had been from close up there would be a contact wound. There's no tearing of the skin from the initial explosion of gas. No burning. No soot. No particles of gunpowder. The shooter had to be at least four to six feet away, and I believe double that because of the absence of gunshot residue. He would have entered the room, searched out his target and fired from a stationary position. As cool as a fucking cucumber."

"If he's that good, then he must have had training," Tom speculated. "Could be he is ex-forces."

"I very much doubt that," Beth argued. "He wouldn't have got through the physical with self-inflicted scars on his wrists. Never mind the psychological tests. This man is unstable. He could not project the level of competence required to fool anyone for long."

"He could have lost the plot and started self-mutilating after he left the army. Or maybe he's a member of a private gun club," Matt offered. "His proficiency isn't just natural ability. He knows his way around firearms."

"That would be more likely," Beth agreed. "For short periods of time he could affect a superficial personality that would appear to be within normal parameters."

"How will he react to his likeness being splashed all over the late editions, and on TV?" Tom asked.

Beth winced. "His paranoid delusions of being persecuted will go off the chart. He will already have an abnormal tendency to suspect and mistrust everyone. Add to that seeing the artist's impression of himself and hearing details of what he has done, and something might pop in his brain."

"An artery, I hope," Matt growled.

"Forget the artist's sketch," Tom said, reaching into a pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of A4 and opening it up. "What do you make of this, Matt?"

Matt stared at the full colour digitally-generated image that had been created from the original drawings made by Dick Curtis, the police artist. "I thought that what Dick came up with was as close to the mark as anyone could get, but this is awesome."

"Somebody has to recognise him from this," Tom said. "With any luck, the phones'll be ringing off the wall sixty seconds after it goes out."

"He'll drop out of sight," Beth said. "This will force him to run."

Tom shrugged. "I know. But I'd rather have him concentrating on saving his own skin, than feeling free to carry on killing with impunity. What do you think, Matt?"

"Beth is the expert on these psychos," Matt replied, looking to her to expand her theory.

"I can only predicate an assertion of the subject based on known symptoms that I'm confident he suffers from. He'll go to ground, change his appearance and hit back at whatever or whoever he decides is to blame for the adverse attention. If he lives with someone, and I doubt he does, then there is every likelihood he will kill that person. I suggest he has had plans in place for just such an eventuality as this. A few days growth of beard, contact lenses and a change of hairstyle, backed up with paperwork, and he could travel to anywhere in the world."

"I don't think he'll run," Matt said. "He'll wait, grind it out and try to finish what he started."

"Finish what?" Tom asked. "He hit Penny because she could ID him. Once we show the picture, he needs to try to cover his arse."

"No. He'll be even more motivated to find me. I'm the only person who can stand up in a witness box and put him away. A picture by itself isn't enough to get a conviction. I'm the only bait we've got left."

The three of them looked at one another but said nothing. Matt was right. They may need to hang him out, and do a better job of watching his back than they had done for Penny.

"I need a cup of coffee," Matt said, standing to one side as the forensic team filed into the room looking all dressed up for a Klan meeting in their white jump-suits, but carrying aluminium cases, not lit torches. The Home Office pathologist followed up the rear, looking decidedly pissed-off at being called out.

"They're both fresh. Gunshot victims," Tom said to the sour-faced little man who nodded at him and Matt in recognition.

"So I should be out of here in ten minutes," Richard Burke said.

"Where's Hare?" quizzed Matt. "You left him with the pickaxes and shovels in some graveyard?"

"Comments like that weren't even funny twenty years ago, Barnes," the pathologist said, but gave him the hint of a smile.

"So change your name."

"And spoil a copper's chance to be a poor stand-up comic?"

Tom's phone chirped. "Okay," was all he said into it. Then to Matt and Beth, "Let's go next door and visit with the landlord. He refused to go to the hospital for a check-up."

Jacob was over the initial shock. He was getting too old and life-weary to be fazed by being tied-up and stuck in a larder for a short period of time.

"Take a seat, why don't you?" he said to Tom, Beth and Matt. "I'm sorry about whatever has happened. The other policeman would not tell me anything, but I have a bad feeling. Did someone get killed because of me?"

"Why because of you, sir?" Tom asked.

"A masked man with a gun breaks in and quizzes me about a woman who is being guarded by police. Reluctantly, I tell him what he wants to know. And now I believe I am an accessory to some violent act."

"He already knew she was there, Mr. Goldman," Tom said. "That's why he was here. With or without what you told him, he would have got done what he came here to do."

Jacob's head dropped low between his narrow, bony shoulders. He had put a shirt and trousers on, but they were three sizes too large for his slight frame. He looked as though he was shrinking within them.

"You got coffee?" Matt asked.

Jacob nodded, but didn't move from his chair.

"I'll make it," Beth said. She went over to the grimy units and found the kettle next to three canisters labelled coffee, tea and sugar.

"We need to know exactly what he said to you." Tom said to Jacob.

Jacob gave a detailed account of the conversation that had taken place.

"Is there anything else you can tell us, Mr. Goldman? Anything you noticed about him that could help?" Matt asked.

"Jacob. Please call me Jacob. And I can tell you that he sounded rational, but was like a golem."

Tom's brow furrowed. "A what?"

"From the Yiddish, goylem," Jacob explained. "It's a Jewish legend. A golem is a clay figure; a supernatural being brought to life. Like a robot, not human."

"Why'd you say he's like one?" Matt asked.

"His eyes. Have you ever been to a zoo and stood in front of a gorilla's cage? I used to go to the zoo a lot. There was a famous gorilla at Regent's Park. He was called Guy: a real crowd-puller. He died many years ago. Well, anyway, Guy would look into your eyes, and it was as if he knew your life and your thoughts. I used to feel that I was the exhibit, and that he was studying me. The man who came tonight had the same look. If I had lied to him, he would have known, and would have killed me with less thought than it takes to swallow. He is without pity."

Beth set mugs of black coffee in front of them. She had said nothing, just listened to every word.

"Anything else?" Tom asked Jacob.

"The gun. It was a Glock 17, fitted with a silencer."

Matt's eyes narrowed. "And just how would you know that?"

"I used to sell replica firearms by mail order. I got to be able to recognise the models. And another thing. He wore rubber gloves, and his left wrist was bound up. There was blood on the bandage."

"Thanks, Jacob," Tom said. "We'll leave an officer to take an official statement. And other officers will need to process...to examine the house and look for clues."

"Did the woman...?"

"Yes, Jacob," Matt said. "The woman and an officer were shot. Neither survived. But the baby was spared."

"I hope you get him."

"We will."

"He's a sick animal," Jacob mused. "He needs putting down."

"I won't argue with that," Matt said.

Matt elected to ride with Tom, refusing Beth's offer of a lift to the Yard. "You know why," he said to her.

"I think you're overreacting to a situation that might not exist," she replied as she climbed into her Lexus.

"You think?" Matt said. "That implies you're not sure, so humour me."

"What was all that about?" Tom asked as Matt buckled up and he pulled away from the kerb, with Beth following.

"Common-sense, Tom. I now choose to believe that I'm in real danger. I don't want someone to see me with Beth, put two and two together and come up with five. Protecting my own back will be enough of a challenge."

"Once the TV and papers roll, you should be in the clear. He'll be preoccupied with staying out of our clutches."

"Until he's in a cell, or tagged and bagged, I'll hold on to the belief that he considers me as unfinished business."

"You really think he'll keep coming?"

"Yeah. Anything put in his way will be just another hurdle to leap over. I don't know if anything really frightens him. Maybe he's more like that golem Jacob was talking about, than a human being. I'm suspending all logical thought and going with instinct. Beth's insight and psychological profile point to him being driven. His type don't just cut their losses and quit while they're ahead. He'll keep coming until it's over, one way or the other."

"And are you and Beth an item?"

"No, Tom. Not that it's any of your damn business."

"Anything that impacts on this case _is_ my business, Matt. And I've got instincts as well. When you two are in the same room, the light seems to brighten. I see the way you look at each other, so don't take me for stupid."

"Nothing has happened, Tom. That's the God's honest truth."

"But it will, Matt. It's just a matter of time. Tell me you don't fancy her something rotten."

"Okay, so I'm interested. But I'm keeping it under wraps, at least until this is put to bed."

Tom grinned.

"What?" Matt demanded.

"Put to bed. A Freudian slip. Even the threat of a maniac hitman on your tail won't stop you and Beth from getting it on. Love – or lust – overrules prudence. Always has. Always will."

"Bollocks!" Matt said without much conviction.

# CHAPTER TWENTY

**GARY** almost choked on the ham and cheese sandwich he was eating. He had put the news on to get an update on the murders of the woman and cop in Paddington, only to be confronted with an almost perfect facsimile of his own face. Dropping the sandwich, he went into automatic mode, putting into effect a plan he had never thought would have to be employed.

Ten minutes later he was driving away from the flat, never to return. Everything he would need was in the boot of the Mondeo.

He stopped once in a narrow and deserted lane to change the car's plates, and then headed west towards Heathrow.

Sentinel Storage Services was an acre-sized site comprising rows of single storey buildings. Each garage-sized unit was accessed by a roll-up overhead door. The facility was surrounded by a high, razor wire-topped hurricane fence, and there was only one entrance/exit.

Gary pulled up to the gate, opened his window and held up the key with a large plastic fob inscribed with S.S.S. attached to it. A young Indian guy, with gelled hair and a wrinkled open neck uniform shirt, glanced at the distinctive yellow fob, logged the Mondeo's registration in his gate book, and then fingered a button on the console in front of him. The gate rattled back on squeaky wheels. Gary raised his hand and smiled. The security guard did not respond, just waited until the Mondeo's rear end passed over the steel track set into concrete, before thumbing the button to close the gate behind it.

It was a cheaply run set-up. Gary paid for a yearly rental under the name of Derek Clifford. The false car registration and equally fictitious address were all he had needed to rent the overpriced, damp cement box. As now, he had always worn a baseball cap and shades when visiting the site.

He turned into row G and drove halfway down it, stopping outside the storage unit that had the number 26 stencilled in six-inch black numerals on the door.

Unlocking the padlock, he pulled the door up and unloaded the contents of the boot into the cold, dim interior. Ten minutes later, he was driving back out past the morose gatekeeper. He would have to dump the car, after first removing the false plates, then wait for cover of night before returning and scaling the fence at the rear of the complex. It was a shoddy outfit. That was why he had chosen it. There were no patrols made, and the only CCTV coverage was of the main gate.

He drove the Mondeo up onto the third floor of the Terminal 2 car park at Heathrow and parked in a shadow-filled corner. He then removed the plates and put them in a suitcase that held only a plaid blanket.

Tagging onto a group who where walking across to departures, Gary entered the terminal, mingled with a crowd of holidaymakers, left by another door farther along, and climbed into the first available cab.

At an address he had given in Brixton, he got out of the cab, and within ten minutes was in another, heading back out to another address only a ten minute walk from the storage site.

A dry ditch faced by a tall hedge at the east side of the compound was where he settled to wait. He dozed with his head resting on the soft leather suitcase. He had all but erased Gary Noon. The dumb bastards who sought him would no doubt find the car. They would assume that he had used a false passport to quit the country. It would take them forever to check out every possible passenger on hundreds of flights to countless destinations. He had fake documents to start over, and once his appearance was changed he would be home free.

The perimeter lights were too far apart to properly illuminate the length of the fence, leaving deep areas of gloom to move in unseen. He removed the blanket from the suitcase, threw the piece of luggage over the fence, then scaled the barrier with ease, using the blanket to cushion himself against the rusted razor wire, and ripping it free as he dropped down to the ground, before stealthily making his way to the storage unit.

He saw no one. Unlocking the padlock, he carefully raised the door just high enough to roll under, after first pushing the suitcase inside. Now came the hard part. He pulled the door back down, leaving a gap for his hand to manipulate the padlock. The steel staple was welded to a runner set into concrete. There was just enough leeway to force the pivoted hook of the lock into it and gently push it tight enough to appear secure. It took him five minutes and several attempts to perform the exercise. Now, from outside, nothing would look untoward. Only a close physical inspection would disclose the deception, and that wasn't on the cards. He hadn't picked Sentinel for their professionalism.

Standing up in the darkness, he breathed in the cold, stale air. This was his bolthole; a concrete womb from within which he would be reborn. It was not something he had ever foreseen having to do, but his paranoia had made it necessary to have an escape plan in place. Foresight had paid off.

Feeling for the wall, he found it, and with his back against it, slid down into a sitting position. The sudden release of built-up tension drained him. He needed a few minutes to regroup. It had been so sudden. If he had not switched on the TV, he may have been caught cold. How much _had_ the photofit actually looked like him? On reflection, the nose had been a fraction too narrow; chin a tad more pointed than his, and the receding hairline too far back, exaggerated. Penny's memory had been good, but not perfect. Her description was flawed, but still unmistakably of him. He should have shot the rug rat first, before dispatching her. The traitorous bitch had promised not to talk. That he had murdered her husband, and thought he had capped her, was not the point. She should have known better than to describe him to the police.

Absently fingering the Glock, he found solace from the smooth, cold steel. The filth had bullets and shell cases from it, which were his calling cards. They would be in receipt of more before he was done with the weapon. The voices in his mind were ranting, shouting. He would have to take his meds. Jesus! It was like having a football crowd in his fucking head.

Another thought swirled to the surface. No doubt Marion had already called the police and given them his name and address. Well, she would get hers. 'Trust no one' was a saying he had heard years before on some TV show and taken to heart. You couldn't rely on people. They were unpredictable, undependable, and therefore dispensable.

Climbing to his feet, he went over to where he'd stacked the contents of the boot. Found everything by touch, unwilling to use the torch he had brought with him.

He popped two tablets into his mouth and washed them down with water from one of the three plastic gallon containers he had filled. With a selection of tinned food, biscuits and fruit, the plan was to stay in the unit for several days. Only when the water ran low would he have to leave to replenish it.

He unfolded and set up a camp bed next to his other possessions. Settling on it still clothed and covered by the now torn blanket, he felt secure in the darkness. Sleep would provide all the answers; what he had to do and in what order. It would all be reconciled in his subconscious. It had been a very hectic time. He was suddenly totally exhausted: needed to relax. He snuggled down and concentrated on Charlton Heston. For the hundredth time he began to mentally list the movies that the actor had appeared in. It was his equivalent of counting sheep: _El Cid, Planet of the Apes, The Agony and the Ecstasy, The Big Country, The Omega Man, Major Dundee, Earthquake_...er, shit, must get to at least ten. _Soylent Green_. Was that nine? He went through them again, counted them off on his fingers. Only eight. _Ben Hur_. One more. Just one more. He fell asleep satisfied as _Will Penny_ came to mind.

Marion called in at the supermarket on her way home from work. It was almost five o'clock, but the air was still hot and muggy. She collected a cart and headed for the doors. Her lime-coloured dress was wet and clinging to her; hair matted in dripping ringlets, and face flushed and glistening from sweating in the humid heat.

The air-conditioning inside the store chilled her, in a good way. She plucked at the wet material that clung to her skin. Today was the day she intended to start a diet in earnest. She had made a list, and would load the cart with salad, fruit and chicken and fish. She determined to forego full fat cheese and milk and butter, and would opt for skimmed milk and half fat cheese and diet Coke. Getting past the pastries was the problem. The shelves laden with mouth-watering cream cakes seemed to call out to her and broke her resolve. Next week, she thought, quickly depositing a packet of chocolate coated cream-filled éclairs into the cart, deciding to have one last glorious fling and eat whatever the hell she fancied, apart from garlic. If the smell of garlic offended Gary, then she would never eat it again. By Wednesday, her body would have exuded all traces of it from her system. Christ! If this heat wave kept up, she would sweat it out before reaching home.

She was soaked again as she transferred the calorie-packed carrier bags from the cart into the Honda's boot. There was a temptation to go back inside the store and stretch out in a freezer cabinet to luxuriate among the frozen vegetables, but she knew that doing so would no doubt be frowned upon.

At last, she was home. She took her dress and tights off and opened the fridge door. The chill air tightened her skin and hardened her nipples under the damp bra. She undid the enormous garment and tossed it onto the table, then put her meaty arms on top of the fridge and absorbed the coldness, remaining there until her front was numb, before turning to give her back and buttocks the same treat.

Better, much better. She poured a glassful of Coke, turned on the portable television and sat on a cool pine chair.

She gasped with her mouth full of Coke, causing her to have a coughing fit as the fizzy cola backed-up and bubbled out of her mouth and nostrils. The image of Gary's face had appeared on the screen, with the words COP KILLER underneath it.

Still coughing, retching, her eyes misty with tears, she cranked up the volume.

"Do you know this man?" the talking head that replaced Gary's asked. It was Carolyn Kirby, a blond, Madonna type, who could fix an appropriate expression on her face to suit every news item. She was as plausible as the average daytime soap star. Marion believed that as well as words, directions of when to smile, frown and look suitably concerned came up on the smug cow's auto cue.

It didn't make sense or sink in at first. But when it cut to a cop standing outside New Scotland Yard, Marion listened attentively.

"The man responsible for the cold-blooded shootings of several police officers and members of the public is extremely dangerous, armed, and should not be approached under any circumstances," the spokesman said. "We have reason to believe that he is mentally ill, and may be undergoing out patient treatment. He is known to cut his wrists, which are scarred from repeated self-mutilation. If you know this man, call our incident room number now," (it appeared at the bottom of the screen), "or contact any police station."

The picture of Gary reappeared. Marion felt traumatised. Too stunned to move a muscle. Unable to react. And yet she was not shocked in the sense that the revelation was beyond belief. It _was_ Gary. Of that there was not a shred of doubt in her mind. The self-mutilation was just an added but unnecessary detail. She had to do something. Other members of the mental health team would also have recognised him, and might already be phoning the police. If she did nothing, then it would appear she was covering for him. The thought of the videotape made her feel sick. No matter, it was of no consequence, not if she told the truth, now, and did the right thing.

"My name is Marion Peterson. I am a community psychiatric nurse, and the man who was just shown on the television and is wanted for murder, is one of my patients."

The officer took her address and phone number. Asked her to hold while he transferred the call to the incident room dealing with the case.

"Hello, Ms. Peterson. I'm Detective Sergeant Deakin. Thank you for calling. I understand you think you know the man we need to contact."

"If I only _thought_ I knew him, I might not have phoned. The picture you showed on the television is of a man called Gary Noon. I can give you his address and phone number."

"Please do," Pete said, and wrote down the details. "We need to talk to you, Ms. Peterson."

"You are talking to me."

"Er, yes. I mean interview you."

"You've got my address."

"We'll be with you shortly."

"I don't doubt that," Marion said before hanging up.

Tom contacted Jack McClane at home and informed him that he was deploying an Armed Response Unit. They had received another call from a consultant psychiatrist, who verified Marion's identification of the suspect. Pete Deakin and Marci Clark were sent to the address at Hornsey to interview Marion.

Within thirty minutes, the block of flats in Putney was ringed. Plainclothes officers went door-to-door and extricated the tenants quietly and swiftly, to lead them away from the immediate area.

"I've just phoned you lot," an elderly woman clutching a writhing cat to her chest said to the DC who was escorting her to safety. "It's the man in the flat opposite mine who was on the news."

Tom phoned Gary Noon's number. It just kept ringing. He was either out or not answering. A neighbour told them that Noon drove a black Mondeo, and that if he had been at home, it would have been in the residents' car park. It was not.

Tom made the decision to hold off and secure the area. If Noon returned he would be arrested as he exited his car. The area was sealed. The other tenants were relocated to a nearby council-run day care centre for the duration. DVLA were contacted, and although outside normal office hours, Tom had all the details of the Mondeo and verification of ownership within ten minutes. The registration, make, model and colour were circulated to all units in the Metropolitan area.

It was a waiting game. Tom gave Matt a call and arranged to send a car. Matt gave a location a couple of minutes walk from the hotel, to be picked up at. By the time he arrived at the scene, every wheel was in motion. Tom briefed him.

"He won't come back," Matt stated.

"If he hasn't seen a newspaper or the TV, he might," Tom said.

"Wishful thinking. How long are you going to give it?"

"Until midnight. If he doesn't show by then, we'll go in."

"Go in now," Matt said. "You've got him cold if he does turn up. He won't know we've been inside."

Tom saw the logic and gave the leader of the ARU the green light.

Within a minute of the flat door being forced open, the all clear was given.

Tom, Matt and two DCs entered and searched the place. Nothing incriminating was apparent.

"The techies will no doubt find hair and fibres to tie him to the crime scenes," Tom said.

"That'll be helpful if it ever gets to court. We know who he is," Matt said. "What we need to know is _where_ he is. If he had an address book, it's gone. There are no clues as to family or friends. Nothing. I think he's cleared out."

Matt was standing in the lounge in front of what looked to be a lit and lidded fish tank on top of a credenza. Instead of water and goldfish, it had sand, a bark tunnel, and a few large pebbles on the bottom. He put his face up to the glass. It was warm. Maybe there was a lizard or a small snake inside. He slipped the catch that secured the lid, lifted it up and reached in. He intended to flip the piece of bark over, which was the only place for anything to hide, or be hidden from sight. As he gripped the Nissan hut-shaped length of cork and raised it up off the sand, a brown blur of movement shot from the end of it and fastened onto his wrist like a living bracelet.

"Shit!" He jerked backwards and sucked in air at the sudden, hot, needle sharp pain. Gripping the hairy mass with his other hand, he pulled it off, tossed it back into the tank and slammed the lid down.

"What the hell was that?" Tom asked.

"A fucking spider the size of a dinner plate," Matt exaggerated. "The bastard just bit me."

The puncture marks on the inside of his wrist were oozing twin streams of blood.

"It's a tarantula, or to be more precise, a mygalomorph," DC 'Spike' Connelly said, bending to peer through the glass at the spider, which was poised with two of its front legs raised, ready to bite again should it be threatened.

"Is it poisonous?" Matt asked, watching as the spider dropped down and leisurely retreated back under the bark.

"Not really," Spike said. "But I'd get some antiseptic on it. Who knows what's in the junk it injects into its food prey? Some sort of paralysing agent."

"Marvellous," Matt said.

"Could be a lot worse, guv," Spike added. "The guy might have had a white-back."

"What's that?"

"An Australian spider you don't want to get bitten by. The venom rots the flesh. There's no cure. They usually have to amputate the infected limb."

"You an expert or something?"

"No, guv. But I kept one of these little guys and studied spiders in general when I was a kid. The one that just chewed on you is a Mexican Red Kneed. They're quite docile. It must be hungry."

"What do they eat, apart from DIs?" Tom asked, unable to suppress a grin.

"Mainly insects. This one has been fed on crickets. You can see a few wing parts and legs on the sand."

The phone rang as they filed out of the flat. Tom went back in and answered it. The line was being monitored. The call would be traced.

"What's your name, cop?"

"Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett. Who am I talking to?"

"You know who I am, Bartlett."

"We need to speak to you, Gary."

"I don't need to speak to you. Is Barnes there?"

"Yes, but―"

"Put him on, or I end the call."

Tom motioned to Matt, mouthed that it was Noon, and handed him the receiver.

"Barnes."

"Hi, cop. How're you doing?"

"On the mend. Looking forward to meeting up with you."

"Believe me, you don't want to meet me again. Experiences are best learned from, Matt. You were one lucky son of a gun at the bungalow."

"So why the call?"

"To deal. If you make sure Simon goes to a good home, I might not kill you."

"Who the fuck is Simon?"

"My tarantula. You must have noticed him while you were searching the flat."

"Yeah. He's almost as crazy as you, Noon. He bit me."

"You'll live."

"Can't say the same for Simon. I squished the ugly little brute."

The line went silent for a few seconds.

"You just made a very big mistake, Barnes. I was prepared to cross you off my list. Now you get a gold star next to your name for special treatment."

"You're full of shit, Noon. When you surface, we'll pick you up. There's a hutch at Broadmoor reserved and waiting for you."

"Dream on, Barnes. You think I didn't plan for the day when you pigs got lucky? You're looking for someone who no longer exists."

Matt didn't get chance to reply. The connection was terminated. They didn't get a trace.

"What did he want?" Tom asked.

"A deal. He said he'd let me live if I found Simon the spider a good home."

"And you told him you'd topped it."

"Yeah. He got a little sulky."

"It might have been a bad idea...releasing the picture of him."

"It wasn't. We know who he is. And if he was paranoid before, he'll be trying to run away from his own shadow now. It's about containment. We've disrupted his life and forced him to take evasive action. While he tries to stay hidden, we can build a cast iron case against him. I like the idea of him already being a prisoner in his own mind."

"What do you suppose he'll do now?"

"Stay low for a while, change his appearance, make plans to do a bunk out of the area, and then try to kill me to prove a point, before he moves on."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

**BETH** was invited to attend the address at Hornsey and be present when Marion Peterson was interviewed. Tom was using all the ammunition he'd got.

It was slow going. Marion confirmed that the wanted murderer was a twenty-six-year-old man, who was in simple terms, schizoid. She was reluctant to talk about him in any detail.

"It's the same as doctor/patient confidentiality," Marion said, directing the comment to Beth. "Surely you realise that I'm not at liberty to discuss his mental health or ongoing treatment."

There was more to it than that. Beth thought that the nurse's manner was too defensive. Marion was looking slightly down to a point somewhere near Beth's chin, avoiding eye contact. She was almost squirming in her seat. That in itself was a 'tell', in that the woman was hiding something, and was prepared to lie.

"Do you know exactly what Gary Noon has done?" Beth asked.

A muscle began to twitch in Marion's right cheek. She was under a great deal of self-imposed stress.

"I saw the news," she replied.

"And did it surprise you?"

"Of course it did. I thought that Gary was being well managed. He responded to his treatment and had never shown any aggression towards anybody but himself."

Beth said nothing for ten long seconds. The silence was like static in air that needed to be broken and released by a storm. Tom had given Beth the go ahead to push Marion. Pete Deakin and Marci Clark had got nothing from the woman, apart from the fact that Noon was one of her out patients.

Beth continued. "I think you should know that Gary is a professional killer; a hitman. He provides a cold-blooded service, and has murdered at least ten people, that we know of, including an elderly female patient and nurse at a clinic, and a young couple who had a baby. God knows how long he's been doing it. He may well have killed dozens or even scores of people. I need to know everything about him that you do, or others may die."

"He's a patient for Christ's sake!" Marion shouted. "I didn't believe he was capable of what you say he's done. This will come as a shock to all of the support team. If we had thought for a second that he presented a real danger to himself or anybody else, he would have been sectioned under the Mental Health Act."

"You were his main contact, Marion. I believe your judgement was clouded. Were you fucking him?"

Marion sat bolt upright and looked Beth straight in the eye. It was a gaze comprising anger and guilt and fear in equal parts. The shock tactics revitalised her.

"You have absolutely no right to even suggest that," she said. "I want you to leave, now. I have nothing more to say to you. I phoned the police with what I knew, and you are insinuating that I am in some way involved. Get out of my house."

Beth stayed put. "Would you rather everything came out inchmeal and ended up making it look as though there was some level of complicity between yourself and a homicidal psychopath? Because we will get to the truth, Marion."

Marion thrust out her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Her expression remained fixed for long seconds and then visibly collapsed. Her whole demeanour altered. The dam had given way. She lowered her head and began to sob.

Beth looked across to the two cops. They read her unspoken request.

"We'll be outside," Pete Deakin said.

Beth nodded.

Nothing more was said for awhile. Marion regained a little composure, wiped at her eyes with pudgy fingers. Took a wad of tissues from a box on the table and noisily blew her nose. Lit a cigarette before asking, "What's your first name?"

"Beth."

"Well, Beth. I've only knowingly made one truly lousy mistake in my career, and it had to be with Gary Noon. I'm in deep shit."

"Maybe not," Beth said. "The objective is to apprehend Noon, not to cause you any unnecessary grief. All I'm here for is to find out what makes Noon tick."

Marion looked about the room. "I've lived here forever," she said, digressing. "This was my late mother's house. I've never had a life, because I've always been a fat, unattractive cow."

"I wouldn't say―"

"Don't, Beth. You need to have walked a few miles in my shoes to be qualified to say anything about what I am or aren't. I just want you to have a little background; to know that I've never felt loved or wanted or happy. Not for one single second, until I got the hots for Gary. He seemed vulnerable, like me in a way. It just happened. It wasn't planned, and it didn't seem wrong...at first."

She paused.

"Go on, Marion. Finish it."

"He set me up, I think. He secretly took video of what we did. When we had an argument a week later, he hit me, and then showed me the tape."

"So there was a shift of control?"

"Yes. But even then, he fooled me. Maybe I wanted to be duped. He said he had only filmed us to protect himself. I made the decision to accept that his illness would account for that. He made me believe that he really cared for me. I thought I might at last have something I've never had; companionship and a love life. Somebody who could accept and want me for who I am."

"Is that it, Marion?"

"Yes. I had no idea he was doing anything criminal. He portrayed a lonely, troubled individual. It seems inconceivable that he was capable of leading such a complex and separate life. I should have recognised him for what he is."

"Do you think he might contact you?"

"I doubt that very much. I'm obviously of no further use to him."

"You do realise that I'll have to tell the officer in charge of the case everything you've told me, Marion. But I see no reason why what you did should be made public knowledge. Though I obviously can't guarantee confidentiality."

"But the tape. People will see it."

"If it's found, then only myself and a couple of the crime team will view it."

Marion rubbed at her right temple with blocky, short-nailed fingers. "You reap what you sow, I suppose."

"So use it as a stepping stone. Don't let life dictate, Marion. Set yourself goals and go for them. Everybody has problems."

Marion stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another.

Beth's thoughts turned inward to examine her own life. She was a thirty-three-year-old divorced workaholic, who may just be falling in love with a cop who might not feel the same way, or have the ability to reciprocate. Everything seemed to be linked. Gary Noon's actions had affected a lot of people one way or another. He had shot Matt, who survived, just, minus a kidney. She had got asked to consult on the case and met the DI. It was as if so many things that had and may yet happen, could and would lead back to the wanted sociopath. There was a part of her that wondered if anything good could come out of something with such fundamentally evil origins. She had just told the distressed nurse to set goals and to use this experience as a stepping stone. Now, she was raining on her own parade. She sympathised with Marion. Could sense the woman's emotional pain.

"You're right," Marion said, now more composed. "We all have to look at the menu in front of us, make choices, and hope that what we order is palatable. I'm glad you came, Beth. I needed to talk to someone. I just didn't know it. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?"

"Yes, tea please. I'll make a call while you fix it."

The Villa Venice was a majestic Mediterranean-style house that would have graced a cliff top on Capri. Instead of being in the bay of Naples, it was situated in Essex, north and east of Cheshunt, off the A194. The estate and the twenty-five room villa at the approximate centre of the fifty acres it occupied were out of sight from the road. Frank Santini had named it after a restaurant in Cook County, north of Chicago, which had at one time been owned in part by the gangster Sam Giancana. The joint had been pure Italian; even had a river snaking through the main room, with gondoliers poling their craft through it. And Sinatra, Eddie Fisher and other headliners of the day attracted high-rollers in to use the gambling facilities.

There was only one entrance to the Essex Villa Venice. On the inside of the massive and ornate wrought iron gates was a marble chip-covered main drive lined on both sides with mature lime trees. A secondary loop road ran through a copse of firs to the rear of the house, for tradesmen. Within the property, armed dog handlers patrolled the inside of a sixteen-foot-high electrified fence.

Frank Santini was at home, swimming in the indoor pool when Tiny came through to him with news that immediately darkened his mood.

"The Old Bill have just put out more details on the hitter, boss. His name is Gary Noon. He's a bona fide nutter, and they expect to make an early arrest."

Frank was doing a clumsy breaststroke, head held high to keep his toupee above water. He found the non slip bottom of the pool with his feet and waded up the steps at the shallow end.

"I don't need this, Tiny. Get me a drink," he said, snatching the bath towel that Tiny held out to him.

Frank had been mellow. He had flown across the pond to the Big Apple and opened a new night club – Capo Peloro – on West 53rd Street in Midtown, just a spit from Broadway. The club was a joint venture. Benny Andretti had fifty percent of it. Benny lived out at Eastchester and, through spring and summer, conducted much of his daily business from the deep porch of the Larchmont Yacht Club, which offered a fine view of Long Island Sound. Benny had not sailed once in his sixty-seven years, but enjoyed the old money ambience and the setting of the Larchmont. And come Labor Day every year, he moved down to his Boca Raton location in Florida, to spend the late fall and winter in warmer climes.

On his return from New York, Frank had been up. Not even the news of Dom's meeting with the cop had dampened his spirits. Now, the sense of well-being had evaporated. It was obvious that the hitter was a certifiable head case, unstable and dangerous. That in itself was no big deal. What really concerned him was, that if the filth lifted him, he would no doubt confirm that Frank had hired him to hit Little. It was an unwelcome development.

"If they pick him up, we can make sure he never gives evidence, boss," Tiny said. "He can be dealt with while he's on remand."

Frank clenched his teeth. "If he's prepared to sell me out, they won't put him inside, dummy. He'll be protected, same as they tried with Lester. Only difference is, they'll do it properly with this wanker, and make sure he keeps breathin'. I doubt he'll appear in court. They'll set up a fuckin' video-link from wherever he's stashed."

"So what do we do, boss?"

"Find him before the plods do. Or have somebody ready to move in and whack him when he's picked up. I still have a cop at the Yard who'll keep me in the picture. This has just got messy, and I like things neat, Tiny. I could do without these distractions."

"Who would you use to hit a hitter, boss?"

"Another pro. Benny Andretti uses a guy based in Miami to take care of problems like this. We discussed the affair. If necessary, Benny will get him to fly over and be on standby for as long as it takes. He don't come cheap, but he's supposed to be as good as money can buy."

Tiny attempted a smile, but his face still hurt. The pained expression was more of a scowl. He held the leaded crystal glass awkwardly and cursed under his breath as he poured Frank a large Jack Daniel's. His splinted finger throbbed. The cop, Barnes, had taken him by surprise, but Tiny had patience. Every dog has its day. He would catch up with him and put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Dominic helped keep his hate for the cop as fresh as new mown grass. He wouldn't leave it be, taking the piss by reminding Tiny that an invalid who couldn't walk without a cane had taken him with ease. The physical injuries were far less painful than the bruising of his ego.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

**HE** slept a lot. At times he switched on the small portable radio with the volume set very low, to keep abreast of the news. He had spare batteries, should he need them.

By the fourth night he was out of water. It was time to replenish his supply and also empty the large plastic chemiloo. The storage unit stank like a cesspool, even though he had used plenty of strong-smelling disinfectant. He felt as though he had been incarcerated in a crypt with corpses corrupting all around him. Darkness was both friend and foe under these abnormal circumstances. He was hidden and safe, and yet his immediate surroundings gave rise to a hardly tolerable increase in horrific delusions that conspired to weaken his grip on reality. At one point he had woken up and believed himself to be in a vast graveyard. The camp bed had become a mound of damp earth. He was somehow a part of George A Romero's seminal cult classic: _Night of the Living Dead_. Cannibalistic zombies broke out of their coffins to erupt mole-like from the grass. His stomach clenched. He was at once encircled by dozens of lumbering skeletal figures, their clothing was tattered shrouds, and the flesh mouldered and peeled off them like mildewed wallpaper. One leathery hand reached out, and long black fingernails gouged his cheek.

He screamed, and the hallucinatory hell dissolved. No greater challenge could have been set him than to stay and face the fear that his own troubled mind created to terrify him. He took double the prescribed dose of antipsychotic pills to dull the demons. At times it was only the faint crack of light that seeped under the bottom of the door that provided a lifeline to the outside world, alleviating the surreal creations of his subconscious. The otherwise Delphic gloom was a canvas that his paranoia used to paint his darkest, innermost nightmares on. Why people would pay to be placed in sensory depravation tanks was unfathomable. The mind would, if deprived of outside stimuli, create another reality. It might be like a trip on acid, good or bad. Who would want to risk facing their worst fears? And _he_ was considered to be suffering from mental illness. Do me a favour! Everyone had bad shit in their heads. They might be able to cloak it, but they were all riddled with doubts, fears and fantasies. The three-dimensional known world was only one aspect of existence. Aliens might exist. The mild-mannered next door neighbour could quite easily be an axe murderer. He, Gary Noon, was in all probability the sanest person on the planet, surrounded by vast hordes of crazy morons, of whom only a very few had the guts to be individuals and realise their dreams and potential. Life for most of the insects was spent working in jobs they would rather not do, to pay bills and sustain them to continue at their meaningless labours. They did not have the will to break out and let their natures roam free. The masses were puppets of the few, controlled, programmed and set on a course that would eventually take them over a cliff edge. _Fucking lemmings_! He pushed the button on the rubber-jacketed torch and shone the beam onto the face of his wristwatch. Eleven p.m.

With the empty water containers and the stinking, overflowing portable loo next to him, he raised the door just far enough to be able to reach out and remove the padlock. He then eased the door up a few more inches, and lying flat, looked out to check that the coast was clear. It was, and he rolled out into the cool, night air. Took great gulps of it, until he felt dizzy.

There was no need to leave the storage facility. There was a water tap bracketed to the wall at the end of the row. He filled his containers, left them, and went across to the perimeter fence to empty his waste into thigh-high weeds and grass that had grown through the wire mesh and been allowed to proliferate.

Back in the unit, he settled on the camp bed. Another day or two would be prudent. The news coverage of the hunt for him was encouraging. They had found the Mondeo at Heathrow, and as the days went by, were considering it a likely probability that he had left the country using a fake passport. It amazed him that so many members of the public had reported seeing him in locations as far apart as Inverness and Portsmouth. There had also been one sighting in Spain, and another in Thailand. It all helped his cause.

He chuckled in the darkness. The police had no idea. He was like a hibernating animal in its den, under their noses but invisible to them. When the time felt right, he would emerge. That brought Simon to mind. His pet mygalomorph grew by moulting. The spider would stop eating for a week or so, lie on its back and split off its old exoskeleton, then flip back right side up, bigger and more resplendent in a new and fully hardened outer covering. The thought of Barnes putting his foot on Simon and grinding him into the carpet, was almost unbearable. He couldn't cry, but felt his throat constrict with something akin to emotion. The cop would not enjoy a quick and clean death. When the time came, Barnes would have to face a prolonged and agonising end. Imagining the various acts he looked forward to committing was heart-warming. Ultimately, anyone who wished him harm or knew him for what he was would be dealt with. He thought of his intentions as a quest; a crusade against his enemies.

No mention of him on the latest news. It was all about yet more floods. If anything, people were more stupid than insects, courting havoc and death by living in areas that were known to be in flood plains, and then having the cheek to moan when disaster struck. The same could be said of idiots who lived in the proximity of active volcanoes, or the inhabitants of cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco, who knew all too well that the big quake was going to happen, but stuck their heads in the sand and waited for tragedy to strike. In the main, people deserved everything they got. In parts of Africa, a child was dying of thirst or disease every three seconds, and no one really gave a shit. And yet the odd life he took was taken out of all proportion and given unwarranted gravitas.

Turning over onto his side, calmed by the drugs, Gary thought good thoughts and slept like a baby.

Matt inserted a translucent, shatter resistant ruler down the top of his cast and manoeuvred it round to the spot on his thigh that was itching.

"Aahh, yes!" he said, finding the offending patch of skin and working the ruler up and down over it.

Beth tapped on the open office door.

"Morning," Tom said. "What've you got there?"

Beth entered waving a brown paper bag in the air, smiling at Matt as he removed the ruler in the manner of a musketeer drawing his sword from its scabbard.

"I thought you guys might not say no to some doughnuts," she said, placing the bag on Tom's desk, atop the mound of files that covered it.

They drank coffee and ate the pastries, licking the sugar from their fingers and lips before speaking.

"That took me back," Tom said, rubbing his hands together.

"To where?" Beth asked, as she passed Matt and Tom tissues.

"The summer of sixty-nine," Tom said, wiping his mouth and hands. "I used to meet up with two pals every morning; Johnny Leach and Julie Cracknell. One day in the tree house in Johnny's back garden, Julie turned up with doughnuts. We drank orangeade, passing the bottle to each other, not even wiping the top of it. This was almost a replay. Same finger licking after scoffing the cakes. I sometimes think that it was the best summer of my life. So much happened during those six weeks off school. It was perfect, and yet I didn't know it, not then. If there was a way of going back to those days and stopping time, I think I'd do it."

"Nostalgia. A sentimental yearning for the past," Beth mused. "I think everyone has a favourite memory of a time gone by that they would like to return to."

"I don't," Matt said. "I kid myself that the best is yet to come. I can have good thoughts about isolated incidents. But it wouldn't be the same to revisit them. You couldn't recapture the magic. I think that memory tricks us into believing things were better than they really were. I'd only want to go back if I could alter the bad and sad stuff that I knew was going to happen."

The conversation meandered like a lazy river, before eventually turning to the ongoing case.

"I take it we've still got nothing," Beth said.

"Another match on bullets from the gun," Tom said, sifting through a drift of paper and picking up a printout. "That's four other unrelated killings committed with Noon's nine millimetre, so far."

"Who was the latest?" Beth asked.

"Before the hit at Finchley, an investigative journalist, Tony Cameron. He was digging into illegal immigration. He obviously got too close to some scumbag on the other side of the channel that was organising one way trips to the UK in the backs of lorries. The French police found Cameron floating in a Calais dock, covered in shrimps and jellyfish. He'd been shot twice in the back of the head. That was four months ago."

"We know everything about Noon," Matt said. "Even that his mother was a whore, who supposedly fell down the stairs and broke her neck."

"Supposedly?" Beth said.

Matt nodded. "Yeah. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he gave her a helping hand."

"But he would only have been a young boy."

"Not that young, Beth. A teenager. There's no record of a father, who was most likely a punter. Noon got old enough to realise just what his mother was, and that he was a bastard; maybe the result of a quickie in a dark alley. My guess is he hated her for it. The coroner's verdict was misadventure while under the influence of alcohol. I choose to believe that Tracy Noon was the first victim of a youth who was already mentally disturbed, as well as being ashamed of and angry at his mother. He got away with her murder and reckoned that not only was it easy to dispose of someone, but enjoyable. The kid got hooked. He's basically a thrill killer."

"How do you suppose he got into doing it professionally?" Beth asked.

"I would imagine he was violent and ruthless. A young man who had a lot of aggression to get out of his system. It wouldn't have taken long for him to gain the reputation of being someone prepared to hurt people for a few quid. Murder would just be a natural progression for someone like him."

"Do you believe he's done a bunk and left the country?" Tom asked.

Matt shook his head. "I doubt he'd feel safe in strange surroundings. My guess is he's holed-up and waiting for the heat to die down."

"What about his car being found at Heathrow?" Beth asked.

"Just a move to throw us off the scent. There's an outside chance he took a flight. The CCTV footage from one of the cameras shows someone who could have been him entering Terminal two. But that doesn't prove he got on a plane. There was no other footage of him, and there would have been."

"He did what he set out to," Tom said. "We've had to use a lot of man hours checking flight lists and eliminating all men flying alone. The task is monumental. And none of the sightings have checked out. It's over a week now, and it's as though the earth opened up and swallowed him."

"What do you think, Beth?" Matt asked.

"I do all the extrapolation, use all the regular methodology, and then go with instinct, Matt. He no doubt blames you and the Santinis' for the predicament he's in. Especially you. He might even add Marion Peterson to his list of least favourite people. He will have decided that she shopped him after seeing the television coverage. If he does plan on moving away from the city to start a new life, it won't be until he feels he has settled the score. I have to assume that you're still at risk. He will definitely want you dead."

He looked a few years older. A week's growth of beard and the loss of a few pounds in weight had transformed him. His cheekbones were more pronounced, and his eyes had a slightly sunken look to them.

Wearing a green open neck sport shirt, grey cargo pants, trainers, and a lightweight windbreaker, he felt clean and refreshed as he parked the stolen Rover at the front of E. Parker Electrical Contractors, which was located under a railway arch in Poplar. The storefront was drab, and the plate glass windows were filthy with a build-up of grime that had been fostered over many years, making it all but impossible to see through them. The paint work of the frames and door was crazed, peeling in places. He rapped hard on the glass with his fist.

Gary had left the storage unit well before dawn, scaled the fence and walked to the nearest houses in Longford. Broke into the first one that had a car standing in the drive, and with little caution checked every room. There was a middle-aged couple, both fast asleep upstairs in the master bedroom. No one else was in the house. He pulled the pillow from beneath the woman's head, held it over her face and pushed the muzzle of the Glock into it. One shot. She hadn't had time to wake up. The noise was louder than a sharp hand clap, signifying that it was time the baffles on the silencer were replaced.

"Where are your car keys?" Gary asked the man next to her, who sat up quickly, but was confused and had no idea that his wife was already dead.

"They...they're in the k...kitchen, on a hook next to the wall phone," Gerald Hill said, and then died.

It was an impersonal and expedient act. A quick double-header, executed without ceremony. He checked the corpses to satisfy himself that they were both beyond help, before going through to the bathroom, where he found scissors, cut his hair short and trimmed his beard. Next, he used the toilet, sighing with pleasure at the truly exquisite experience, after having spent so many days squatting in the dark over a glorified bucket. He showered using fragrant soap, and then went downstairs, into the kitchen, took the time to make a cheese and pickle sandwich, found the car keys, and left the house to drive his new acquisition over to Poplar, finishing up the sandwich as he drove.

He smiled as the swarthy electrician opened the door and waved him inside.

Ed Parker leaned forward and looked both ways, to satisfy himself that no other vehicles were in sight, then closed and locked the door.

"Through the back," he said to Gary, leading him across the shop to a door that opened onto a large storeroom.

The room was a jumble of electrical components, crates, cardboard boxes and reels of electrical flex. Ed went to the back wall. It was fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full of old motors and assorted parts. He reached behind a carton of plugs and fuses and pressed a hidden switch. Part of the wall was a door. It swung back a couple of inches. Ed pulled it open and stepped into a small armoury; an Aladdin's cave of weaponry that gave off a pungent smell of gun oil.

Gary surveyed the racks of rifles, shotguns and submachine guns, and the shelves that were crowded with handguns and boxes of ammunition. He had known Ed for six years, had purchased the Glock from him, and on occasion other more expensive, specialist weapons to suit a specific job. He had returned some to be sold on. None of the hardware bore serial numbers.

"You should get out of the country, Gary," Ed said. "They never give up on a cop killer. It stays high priority, permanently."

Gary's eyes narrowed. "I came to buy a weapon, Ed, not advice."

Ed smiled. "The advice is free. What do you need?"

"Something for long range."

"A rifle?"

"Yeah. What do you recommend?"

Ed went over to a rack and ran his fingers lovingly along the rifles, as though they were the spines of favourite books. He selected an M16.

Gary shook his head.

Ed put it back, picked out another and handed it to him. "That's a Heckler & Koch HK91. It has both long range accuracy and knock down power. It's the ultimate .30 assault rifle. Comes as is with a stainless steel barrel fluted with a factory supplied accubrake floated in a hand laminated Kevlar/fibreglass stock with aluminium bedding plate."

Gary liked the feel and weight of it. The balance was right. "Fit it with a decent night scope," he said

"Anything else?"

"Some heavy duty ammo. And have you got any camo gear?"

"Through that door," Ed said, pointing to the far end of the narrow, concealed room.

Once business was done, Gary paid in cash. For an extra hundred, Ed let him crash out in an upstairs room till dusk fell. Even changed the plates on the stolen Rover and covered it with a tarp. Ed had also tucked a Ruger pistol under the loose Hawaiian-style shirt he wore outside his pants, next to his belly with the safety off. He stayed nervous and very uneasy until Gary left. The guy had the reputation of being an 'A list' hitman. But now he was more than that. He had killed cops. Ed erred on the side of caution. Noon's eyes had a manic glitter that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He believed that the young man was on the slide; basically a fucking lunatic, who was more than prepared to go out in a blaze of what he may think of as glory.

The gates swung open. Chippings crackled under hot tyres as the black Mercedes sped up the drive to the well-lit house.

Nick Marino – alias Ray Lansky – braked to a gentle stop at the front of Villa Venice, exited the car and opened the rear door for Frank to get out.

"Stay over. You can drive me back to town in the mornin'," Frank said. "Be ready to go at seven."

It was already one a.m.

"Okay, boss," Nick said, waiting until Frank had been escorted into the house before garaging the Merc and making his way along a path to the long, single storey brick building that was in all but name a bunkhouse.

Nick's loyal attitude and solid personality was now beginning to pay off. This was the first time that he had been selected to drive Frank. He was slowly being assimilated into the entity that was Santini's organisation. Both Tiny Tyrell and Eddie Costello liked and trusted him, and so the word had been passed up.

Moths circled and intermittently head butted the light above the bunkhouse door. He knocked before entering. Inside, two of Santini's men were on stand down, sitting in a large kitchen/living area, drinking coffee, smoking, and watching a large, flat screen TV.

"Howya doin', Ray?" Chip Martin – a tall, rangy Texan with a deeply scarred cheek and muddy eyes – asked.

Nick raised his hand in greeting. "Doin' good, Chip."

The other guy, who Nick had not seen before, did not take his eyes off the World Wrestling he was watching on Satellite.

"Don't mind Sal," Chip said. "He ain't a social animal."

Ray (as he tried to think of himself at all times) just hiked his shoulders. "I'm cream-crackered," he said. "Where do I crash out? Its been a long day."

"Door at the end," Chip said, inclining his head.

Nick went into a room with six beds either side of a centre aisle. There was a locker next to each bed. He could have been in a school dormitory or a hospital ward. At the far end of the sleeping quarters was a bathroom with two stalls, two wall-mounted urinals, two wash hand basins and a shower cubicle. It wasn't the Hilton, but as accommodation goes, it was better than a lot of places he'd had to lay his head.

He took a leak, rinsed his hands and face, went back into the dorm, undressed and climbed into bed. This was acceptance. Only the most trusted employees were allowed this close to the hub of Santini's empire.

Nick slept like a baby, unaware that outside, less than two hundred yards from the house, a sniper lay patiently in wait. Everyone at Villa Venice was potentially in mortal danger.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

" **IS** that a gun, or are you just pleased to see me?" Ron Quinn said as Matt walked up to the bar.

"That's a much overused line," Matt replied.

"And that's no answer."

"Does it show?" Matt asked.

"Not really, Mr Gabriel. Or should I call you Detective Inspector Barnes?"

"Who told you?"

"Nobody. I thought I recognised you when you first booked in. Its been bothering me. Then I remembered. You're the cop who got shot-up a few weeks ago. The leg cast gave me it."

"And you want me to pack my toothbrush and settle the bill, right?"

"Hell, no. I'm just curious as to why you're in my humble hostelry."

Matt propped a buttock on one of the red vinyl-topped stools, half sitting on it, sideways, with his leg straight out, sweating and itching inside the plaster of Paris.

"Pour me a large Scotch and I'll tell you what I can," he said.

There was nobody else in the bar. Ron pressed first one, then a second glass up to the optic that held a bottle of Glenmorangie. He filled each with three shots of the ten year old single malt.

"On the house," he said, coming out from behind the bar and handing Matt the glass.

At five-eleven, Matt felt a little vertically challenged as he looked up into the big man's eyes. He liked Ron. Maybe because the hotelier reminded him of Pat Roach, the ex-wrestler, now dead, who had played the part of Bomber in the TV series _Auf Wiedersehen, Pet._ Ron had the same quiet, strong, dependable demeanour.

"I was heading up a team babysitting a CPS witness," Matt said. The safe house was hit and everyone died, apart from me and the hired gun."

"I read about it," Ron said. "But that doesn't tell me why you're staying here incognito, unless..."

"You got it, Ron. I saw the perp. I'm a loose end. Not even my DCI knows where I'm at."

"You think the killer will be on the lookout for you?"

"It's on the cards. He's a psycho. If you'd rather I moved out, I will."

Ron shook his head. "No. Stay as long as you need to. I doubt he'll be able to find you here."

"Thanks. But don't bank on it being without risk. Among other things, he's a hunter/killer. It's what he does. Finds people and kills them."

"How do you plan on catching him and getting your life back?"

"We just keep digging and hoping he makes a mistake. We know who he is. Someone might hand him to us. Did you see his mug shot on TV?"

"Yeah. If he walks in here, I'll smile, put a bottle across his head, and give you a shout."

"No, Ron. It's not your problem. He's a pro. Best not to tangle with him. He would shoot you as soon as look at you, if he thought you'd recognised him."

"I was a Para for twelve years, Inspector―"

"Stick with Mr Gabriel, or John, okay?"

"Sorry...John. Let's just hope he gets picked up before he homes in on you."

"Chances are, he won't be able to pick up my trail."

"When I fought for Queen and country, we always used to examine the worst case scenario, and plan for it. Don't you work on that premise?"

"Maybe not enough. I'll be sure to look at it that way."

"Good. I haven't lost a paying guest yet to enemy action. One old guy had a heart attack in the room next to yours. But that was natural causes."

"He died?"

"Yeah. And his bill never got settled. You win some, you lose some. But I can live without you getting wasted on the premises. It would keep me out of the good hotel guide."

They both laughed. Ron took Matt's glass and refilled it. They had bonded.

Beth was giving far more time to the case than she could warrant. Knowing that Matt was back on light duties and working alongside Tom and the team, drew her to the Yard every morning, to be a part of the briefings and keep up to speed with developments. Plus, Noon was a challenge. She now knew so much about the man; his background, illness, and the specifics of the crimes he had committed. And yet she was unable to forecast his actions or ascertain his whereabouts. There was no pattern to examine, and that was pissing her off.

They watched a videotape that had been found at Noon's flat. Pete Deakin had been fast forwarding through the collection they'd lifted, and was more than pleasantly surprised to come across Noon and the psychiatric nurse fooling around.

Tom had set up a prehistoric combined TV/VCR on the top of a filing cabinet, and then lowered the blind at the window to cut out glare.

Beth tried to stay detached; an observer. It was impossible. She felt aroused, not only by the graphic, abandoned sexual acts played out by Noon and Marion Peterson, but also because Matt was sitting next to her. Thank God the blind was down and the light out. She was unable to help but imagine herself and Matt in the copulating couples' place. Being intimate with Matt was like Christmas...it was coming. They were on a collision course, and she found herself actually looking forward to the impact of it. She felt damp, hardly able to keep still in her chair, as Marion moaned and thrashed about enthusiastically on top of the bed.

When fizzing snow replaced what was nothing short of pornography on the tape, Tom turned off the machine and raised the blind, momentarily blinding them with sunlight.

"I don't know whether I need a cold shower or a coffee," Tom said. "Did watching that porn give you any pointers?"

"It helped to see Noon," Matt said, not mentioning the fact that the strongest pointer it had given him was of the kind that strained against the material of his jeans.

"In what way?" Beth asked.

"I know what he really looks like, now. And how he moves. Just walking when he got off the bed; the roll of his shoulders and bearing. It was natural. Something that defines him as an individual. No two people move the same."

"And we can have a close-up of his face taken from this and put out," Tom said. "He looks subtly different to the generated image we used."

Seven days after the raid on Noon's flat, they were no further on, until Pete Deakin interrupted another coffee and doughnut session.

"Looks as if he might have surfaced," Pete said to Tom. "A couple were found shot to death in bed at an address in Longford, out near the airport. Their car was taken."

"You got details?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, boss. The car is a dark green Rover 1-6i. Only a couple of years old. I'll put the registration out, but he'll have changed the plates, or even ditched the motor already."

Beth said. "Maybe he's been staying at the house since he vanished."

"And now he's on the move again," Matt said, "and we have no idea what warped plan he might be working to."

"At least we know for a fact that he didn't skip the country," Tom said. "He chose not to run."

"Taking it that it was him, before we have a positive match of the bullets used, then it's a good sign," Matt said. "If he didn't have an agenda, he would have done a vanishing act. We need to work out how to lead him in."

"With you as the bait?" Beth asked.

Matt nodded. "I'm one of the main reasons he hasn't just stayed in hiding. He'll be trying to find me."

Tom shook his head. "It's too risky, Matt."

"So is mountain climbing and a thousand other things. It's the only way to nail him. Better we orchestrate proceedings and try to call the shots than sit back and give him free reign."

He hid the car half a mile away. Had found a rutted lane leading into a wood, parked the Rover in high bracken off the beaten track and covered it with the tarp – that Ed had let him keep – and a few leaf-laden branches and vegetation. From only a few feet away the vehicle was almost invisible. That it was green helped.

He felt like a backpacker as he made his way along deer trails to the edge of the woods that bordered the west side of Santini's estate. He was prepared for any eventuality, but expected that he would have to make a long shot from outside the fence. His plan was modified as he saw how close the trees were to the alarmed and electrified barrier. The world was full of idiots going through the motions, not properly primed. Complacency was alive and well and flourishing in the Essex countryside. Fortress Santini was a piggy bank waiting to be broken into.

Shucking a coil of rope from his shoulder, Gary unslung the covered rifle and removed his backpack before hunkering down among the tall ferns to wait. He had everything to sustain him for days if necessary, including a large water bottle, dry rations and a sleeping bag.

After darkness fell, he used the night vision scope to survey the target area. He could see the house and several outbuildings glowing green through the infra-red transmission coating. There was little sign of movement. Almost an hour went by before a guard strolled leisurely past just forty feet from him, along the concrete path on the inside of the fence. A burst of static disclosed that he was carrying a two-way radio. A German shepherd was at his heel, sniffing at the ground and no doubt visualising animal species by the scents they had left. The guard was smoking. He had a submachine gun hung from his shoulder, which Gary thought might be an Israeli Uzi.

Two hours later, a dark-coloured Mercedes swept up the drive and stopped at the front of the house. The driver got out, opened the offside rear door, and Frank Santini stepped from the car into the moonlight.

Gary's heart pounded. A part of him wanted to try and snatch a quick shot, but he contained the impulse. There was neither the time nor certainty of making a clean kill. No sweat. There was no pressure to hurry. At regular intervals he pushed back the olive drab cuff of the camo jacket and checked his watch. Waited until almost four o'clock. Dawn was already breaking, and a layer of knee-high fog hugged the ground. The distant house appeared to float on a cloud. He made the decision to make his move.

The hourly patrol ambled past. He let another five minutes tick by before going to the foot of a lofty spruce. Climbed it to a point higher than the top of the adjacent fence and sat astride a waist-thick branch and shunted himself out along it, over the razor wire that was only scant inches below his dangling combat-booted feet.

With the rope over the branch and hanging to the ground from either side of it, Gary lowered himself down, pulled the rope free and rewound it.

The house was set in a large, shallow basin of land. As he jogged towards it, the fog deepened and totally hid him from sight. Only a hundred yards from the house was a copse of trees. At its centre in a clearing stood a large timber-built shed. He approached cautiously, the silenced Glock (fitted with new baffles) drawn, a bullet chambered. He did not want a war. This was to be an incisive, clinical strike, followed by a judicious and swift withdrawal. Though if it came to it, he would engage with the enemy, overcome them, and turn the property into a killing field.

Cupping his hand to a begrimed window at the rear of the shed, he saw that it was a groundsman's store. There were tools hanging from nails on the walls, two ride-on lawnmowers, and all the paraphernalia associated with the maintenance of a large estate.

Edging around to the front, he tried the door. It was not locked. Inside, he saw rough wooden stairs at one end of the long building. At the top was a boarded roof space that was not high enough to stand up straight in, but perfect as a place to wait.

Unrolling his sleeping bag behind a row of large plastic sacks labelled fertiliser; he stretched out on his back. As always, this was the most exhilarating part. It was a period of anticipation. A time to fine-tune plans and play them out in his mind a dozen ways, taking into account the variables that could change everything in an instant. The best laid plans could go pear-shaped. Mentally acting out the many possible scenarios would enable him to switch and adapt without having to think. When the time came – probably that evening – he would be ready for anything. The objective was simple: blow Santini's head up like the melon that the character played by Edward Fox had shot in _The Day of the Jackal_ , as he prepared to assassinate De Gaulle. He envisaged the confusion and panic that would ensue after the hit. Maybe he would take out one or two of Santini's men as they rushed to their boss's aid. That would pin others down for a few seconds as he slipped away in the darkness. The gangster's paid help were not in his league. They were armed, but had almost certainly never had to protect Santini against anyone like him. They would mill about like blind skaters on an ice rink, not even sure where the attack had come from, or what force they were up against. He would be clear of the area while they took cover and tried to consolidate. And with any luck the night sky would be full of cloud to obscure the light of the moon.

He dozed, his subconscious on red alert for any noise that could signal danger. The voices in his head were just an unintelligible buzz. He was too preoccupied to be bothered by them. When in killing mode, all other considerations were consigned to a back burner. His nerves were singing like harp strings; his awareness heightened to such a level that he could hardly contain himself. The expectation was almost too much to contain. Waiting to strike was an amalgam of pleasure and pain; a delicious torment that clawed at his very soul.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

**MATT'S** side was all healed up, but still a little tender. He felt well, but out of condition. His strength would return when he could start in on a proper fitness programme. He intended to take up jogging, when the pot on his leg that was slowing him down was removed. He would also have to buy some new jeans and chinos. Almost all of his pants were one-legged, now. He had bought some oversize and baggy cargo pants that he could put on without drastic alteration. But they made him feel like some kid rapper off MTV. He was sure his encased leg would be bone white and withered when finally liberated.

Stopping at a street side eatery, he ordered a chicken curry and coffee. The meal was good, the coffee strong, black and overpriced. He was getting miserly. The cost of everything seemed to be extortionate, and rose almost weekly. Living and working in London was an expensive enterprise. He began to envy Cal Turner, a DCI who had recently retired, sold up and gone to live in Spain. Wondered whether _his_ golf clubs would get more use if he lived on the Costa Blanca. But retirement was a long way off, and he wasn't one to sit around without a challenge. He needed regular adrenaline fixes, and above all, purpose. And he had no shortage of purpose. The deaths of Donny and the others was still gnawing at him like a dog worrying a bone, intent on breaking it up to get at the marrow. He had often thought that he hated certain people, or things that drove him to distraction for the wrong reasons. He now knew that he hadn't. Hatred was as valid as love. But it was heavy; had a colour; the brown-yellow of bile, and grew like rogue cells mutating and transforming healthy tissue to malignant growths. Cop or not, he wanted to kill Gary Noon, and also Frank Santini, who had pointed the hitman their way. Was that wrong? A part of him said yes, but with no conviction. He would sleep easier with Noon and Santini in Hell, where they both belonged.

The sun was big and low, but the concrete jungle that was the city held the heat of the day like a giant storage heater, to release back out into the night by degrees.

Some diners sat at pavement tables, but Matt ate inside, at a table near the back of the café. He felt exactly as he believed James Butler – Wild Bill – Hickok must have. Hickok had always faced the door when playing poker in a saloon. The shootist had feared being bushwhacked from behind. His paranoia was not without substance. The first time he sat with his back to the bat wing doors of the No. 10 Saloon in Deadwood, a young drifter, Jack McCall, put a bullet through the back of his head with a .45 Colt revolver. You've got to go with your instincts.

Matt searched every face. It was irrational. And yet he could not shake off the sense of imminent danger. Common-sense decreed that even in the unlikely event that Noon could locate him, he would not be stupid enough to gun him down in broad daylight in a crowded environment. Logic, however, did not lessen the underlying apprehension. It was on a par with being told and believing that flying was the safest form of transport. Knowing that very few planes dropped from the skies to impact on land or in the ocean, was of little comfort. You could be in one of the miniscule percentage that did. And in theory there was no reason why Noon could not appear at any second, empty a clip at him, then stroll off into the early evening shadows.

Pushing the unfinished meal away, he drained the coffee cup and phoned for a cab, to go through the same procedure as usual and take a protracted and circuitous route to the vicinity of the hotel. He spent the journey snatching glances back over his shoulder through the rear window, watching for a tail. Almost being killed had concentrated his mind and given rise to a heightened awareness and appreciation of his own mortality. And with enemies such as Noon and the Santinis', he felt justified in being as cautious as any cat. He also appreciated how powerful the sense of paranoia could be. But in his case, it was not the product of a disturbed mind. People really were out to get him.

In Ron Quinn, he had found an unexpected ally. They had set up a simple yet effective safeguard. Matt phoned the hotel from the cab.

"John Gabriel," was all he said when Ron picked up.

"Come on in Mr G, the water's fine," Ron answered. If anything had been amiss, he would have told Matt. And if there had been anybody suspicious within earshot, he would have said, 'Yes, sir, we do have a vacancy', and given the rates.

Matt called in the bar and had a swift Scotch before going up to his room. Inside, he used the old but reliable ploy of wedging a chair under the door knob. Any attempt to enter would at least be delayed long enough for Matt to pick up his Beretta from the top of the bed and be ready for all comers. He was confidant in his ability to meet any trespasser with extreme prejudice if need be.

Lying back on the sagging mattress, Matt reviewed the week in general. The images from the video of Noon and Marion Peterson filtered through to the front of his mind. The couple metamorphosed to become Beth and him. Sat next to her in Tom's office, he had been transported back to teenage days, to his first real date with a girl. She had been Helen Locklin, a busty fourteen-year-old in his class at school. They had gone to the cinema and made a beeline for the back row. He had spent more than an hour summing up the courage to put an arm around her shoulder. She cuddled up to him, and both his confidence and penis grew. He had eventually leaned across and kissed her on the lips; even summoned up the courage to place a hand over one of her large, soft breasts, only to be thwarted as the credits rolled and the lights came up, to leave him trembling, overexcited, and more frustrated than he had ever been before or since.

Matt smiled as he recalled the sensation of his bones melting, and the resulting liquid settling in the pit of his stomach, and lower. He had felt exactly the same sitting next to Beth, watching the home-made blue movie.

Picking up his mobile, he tapped in Beth's number. After five or six rings: 'Hello, this is Beth. I can't get to the phone at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you'.

He waited for the bleep. "It's Matt, Beth. I just―"

"I'm here," Beth said, picking up. "Are you okay?"

"I could be better. My leg is itching like crazy. I need one of those old-fashioned back scratchers to get at it."

"I've got one. Tell me where you're hiding out and I'll bring it over and relieve your discomfort."

"That's the best offer I've had all day, but I'm going to have to pass."

"So why did you call? Has something happened?"

"No. I just got round to thinking, and decided I wanted to hear your voice."

"Meaning?"

He took a deep breath and went for broke. "That I like being with you, Beth."

"We only get to meet at the Yard. And that's with Tom as chaperone. So how can you like being with me?"

"We had Chinese take away at my place, and even watched a dirty movie together."

"And you believe that those two meetings constitute a relationship?"

"Stop being a psychologist for a few minutes, Beth. It's chemistry. I got the feeling you felt it too. Was I wrong?"

"...No. I think we may have to let whatever is between us find its own level." "Sounds good to me. Although I might not be what you need in your life. My track record with relationships is...is―"

"Scared of getting your fingers burnt, eh?"

"Maybe. I've been there and got the T-shirt."

"Haven't we all?"

"We might have learned something, then."

"What do you think you've learned, Matt?"

"Enough. After I got shot, I watched my life leaking out onto the carpet and thought I was a goner. It concentrates the mind. When I woke up in hospital, I started to re-examine priorities. Take stock. I'd been living like a runaway train, speeding along a track out of control. I hit the buffers and realised I'd never bothered to look at the scenery I was passing through. I'm a cop down to the bone, Beth. But there's a part of me that's coming to accept it's not the be all and end all. I need to have a life away from it that matters. I don't have any balance."

"That's how I feel, Matt. I'm on my own because I got to see too many people's relationships slide down the pan, including my own. I decided to insulate myself from it. But it's like opting out of life. It might be risk free, emotionally, but it's as boring as hell, and unfulfilling."

"I want to see you."

"So make your way here without being followed."

"I'll be there in an hour."

Matt looked down the list of names that were printed on labels behind acetate next to the appropriate flat numbers. He pressed the button next to B HOLDER.

"Yes?"

"It's me," he said.

"Come on up."

He heard the door lock mechanism disengage. He had the sudden feeling that this might not be one of his better ideas. The brightly lit doorway made him nervous. Anybody could be watching him. What if he had inadvertently put Beth at risk? He felt twitchy. Looked about him for what seemed the hundredth time. Damn it! He _knew_ he hadn't been tailed. He had left the hotel by the rear emergency exit, taken one cab, then another, to be dropped off at the apartment block next to Beth's. Stood under some trees and waited ten minutes, monitoring all movement. His fear was wholly for her, but seemed unfounded. Though what held the promise of being the Garden of Eden could easily be turned into a briar patch or wasteland if he was under surveillance. The spectre of Noon was an oppressive force, instilling him with an almost irrational premonition. Primeval intuition caused him to feel as skittish as a prey animal being stalked by a predator he could not see, hear or smell, but that he felt positive was crouching nearby, waiting to pounce.

He hesitated too long and the door automatically locked. He thumbed the button again.

"Matt?"

"Yeah. I waited too long and got locked out."

"Second thoughts?"

"Slightly cold feet."

"You got this far."

The buzzer sounded again. Matt pushed the door open and entered. Waited until he heard the lock engage again, and then went across the foyer to the lift.

Beth was waiting for him as the door slid open on the top floor.

God, she was beautiful. Her glossy, raven hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tan, sleeveless top and tight blue jeans. Her feet were bare.

Beth reached out and took his hand. The touch was electric. He used his free hand to lightly brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. A small gesture, but it was a breathtaking and somehow momentous occasion. Beth tilted her face up and grazed his cheek at the corner of his mouth with her lips. Bubbles of pleasure seemed to pop in his brain. He couldn't move.

"You've shaved," she said approvingly. "Come on, let's go inside before Mrs. Kominsky comes out to investigate. I only have female colleagues back for a meal, and that's not often. I'm sure the old bat thinks I'm gay. I don't want her to catch me in a clinch with a hunk. It might confuse her."

Matt allowed himself to be steered into the flat, along the short hall and into the lounge. Beth's comment was significant. She was informing him that she was completely unattached, and did not have male callers. It was – he decided – her way of conveying to him how singular and therefore special the invitation into her personal life and space was. He felt flattered.

"Do you like wine?" Beth asked.

"Only red," he said.

"I've got a bottle of Californian Cabernet."

"If it's red, it'll be fine."

"Why don't you put some music on while I go and open it?"

As Beth went through to the kitchen, he walked over to the midi system and ran his fingers over the tower stack of CDs next to it. The collection was heavy on classical. Matt had never really been into music. He liked Elvis, The Beatles, and some middle-of-the-road stuff, but could live with silence. He found an Iglesias – Julio, not his son, Enrique – disc: _Starry Night_.

"Have you ever noticed that Julio always sings with his eyes shut?" Beth said, re-entering the lounge and handing him a glass of the dark red wine as Iglesias started in on _Can't Help Falling in Love_.

"Can't say I have. It's hard to tell on disc."

"I saw him in concert once. He handled the microphone as if it was a beautiful woman."

"All the right moves, eh?"

"Superficially, yes."

"Did you manage to profile him?"

"No. I just let his voice do the talking."

Matt felt a little unworthy. He was a rough diamond of a cop with no special skills outside of his career. What attracted Beth to him was obscure. She was everything he was not; refined and well-educated.

Julio was now purring his way through _And I Love Her_ in the broken English that wooed millions of women world-wide.

Matt and Beth locked eyes, read volumes in each others gaze, and were then together, embracing. Matt found her lips with his and tenderly kissed them. He could smell the freshness of her. Far better than perfume and lipstick. _Au naturel_.

Oh, Jesus! He could feel her breasts rising and falling against his chest. Her tongue eased between his parted lips. They were sharing the very air they breathed. Everything was expanding out like the universe, leaving them hanging in space at its centre, floating, totally absorbed by each other.

Julio was halfway through _When I Need You_ , when they both returned from a place that anyone falling head over heels in love has visited, and been enthralled by.

They did not speak. No words were necessary, and may have broken the spell. Putting her wine glass down, Beth released her hair to let it tumble onto her shoulders, and once more led Matt by the hand, this time out into the hallway, towards the bedroom.

There was a metallic click.

For a man in a full leg cast, Matt pivoted almost effortlessly, drawing the pistol from its shoulder holster and jacking a bullet into the chamber as he pointed the weapon at the door.

"It was the thermostat on the freezer, Matt," Beth said, amazed at the speed with which he had reacted.

Matt lowered the gun and took a deep breath as he turned back to her. "I'm sorry, Beth. Noon's got me a little jumpy."

"No problem."

The moment could have been so easily ruined. But the fire between them was ignited, too ablaze to be dampened.

At first it proved a little awkward. Matt's leg was a handicap. They undressed clumsily and lay on top of the bed, touching, kissing, becoming more aroused. It was as if the air around them was charged, to envelop the couple in a warm, protective pocket, separate from all else.

At a point of mutual readiness, Beth moved up over Matt, lowered herself onto him, and gasped aloud with unbridled pleasure. They were both quickly overcome by the power generated and then released by the union. Still sitting on him, Beth bent from the waist to kiss his lips. Her damp hair hung down, tenting their faces.

Matt encircled her waist with his arms and crushed her slick breasts to him. Their bodies slipped against one another, wet with perspiration. He cherished each moment. Whatever else might happen, he felt that he could now die happy. It was hard to foresee any future act being capable of giving him more combined pleasure and fulfilment. A part of him, that he now realised had been dormant, even with Linda, had awakened. The sense of being truly alive for the first time in his life was an awesome revelation.

"I think I love you," he said, unable to bite back the words.

Beth put her hands on his shoulders, raised her head and looked into his eyes.

"So soon?" she said.

"Yeah."

"And you only think you do?"

"Okay. I know I do."

"It's scary."

"What, my loving you?"

"No. That I love you, too."

"Why?"

"Because it means I now have something I couldn't bear to lose."

"Does that mean you think I'm a bad risk?"

"The worst. People want you dead, Matt. Your job puts you in the firing line. And the law of averages says you can't beat the bank."

"I don't believe in averages. Every spin of the wheel is a whole new game. I can't accept that what has gone before is somehow added up against you."

"You deal with very violent people. Look what happened at the bungalow. You were lucky to survive it."

"You shouldn't believe in luck, Beth. You make your own."

"That's right. But you pit yourself against danger every day. You invite disaster by doing what you do. Your occupation dictates the odds. Most people don't spend all their time chasing down gangsters and murderers."

"I wouldn't be happy sat behind a desk pushing a pen and getting as fat and lazy as a well fed cat. Or working in any other profession I can think of. My dad was a cop. I think it's in the blood. I knew from being a kid that I'd be one. I'm front-line material, Beth. If you love me, it's because of who I am. The whole package."

"I don't want temporary, Matt. However good it could be."

"Everything is temporary, Beth. I can't think of one thing that doesn't have a beginning, middle and ending. It's all about now. You either take what you can from life, or stay on the sidelines, get old and look back with regrets, wishing you'd done things when you had the chance."

"You sound more like a therapist than a cop."

"Cops see a lot of grief and untimely death. It concentrates the mind. Nobody should feel too secure, or believe that they somehow have right of passage for even another day. It can all end in a heartbeat."

"That's fatalistic."

"Another of my dubious qualities."

"I know that you're right. Maybe that's why I don't collect stuff and clutter up my life with material things. Everyone's life ends up being the sum of what they have amassed, to be shared out, sold, bagged up for charity or the dump. Or burned."

"And you have the cheek to call me fatalistic."

They laughed, made love again, and dozed in each other's arms. It crossed Matt's mind that he might have died and gone to heaven. That's how good he felt.

He left on the grey side of dawn. Refused a lift from Beth.

As the cab headed back across the river, he luxuriated in the knowledge that he and Beth were at the beginning of what he hoped would be an incredible journey together. It had happened so fast, overwhelming them like a fever. Perhaps not love at first sight, but a mutual attraction that had been too strong to deny. It was as if they had both been panning for gold and struck the motherlode. There was a sense of awe at finding something incredibly valuable, which he had not thought existed, or even known he had needed or wanted. Now, he was consumed by the magnitude of being more than merely the sum of his own individuality.

Preoccupied with the impact of what had transpired, Matt hardly glanced out of the cab's rear window. Had he been more vigilant, he may have noticed the blue Laguna that kept well back, following the cab back to the city.

As he let himself into the Kenton Court Hotel, the car sped past into what remained of the night. Matt's location was no longer a secret. Unbeknown to him, a net was closing in on both himself and Beth.

Dean Harper had a wide grin on his face as he drove past the small hotel, to pull into a side street and make a phone call that he believed would guarantee quick promotion. It was all hush-hush. He reported to one man only. Nobody else knew what he was working on. Barnes was good, but not as good as rumour had it. Dean had followed him from the Yard to a cafe, waited, then stayed with him until he got back to the hotel. He had reported in, and been told to stay put. It had paid off. The DI left by the back door, late. He changed cabs, but Dean was not shaken off. After Barnes had entered a swish apartment building in Roehampton, Dean risked approaching the door and making a note of the residents' names from the panel next to it. It was several hours before Barnes left and made his way back to the hotel.

The phone was picked up after two rings. "Yes?"

"It's Harper, sir. I followed the subject to an apartment block at Roehampton. He stayed most of the night, but is now back at the hotel."

"Who did he visit?"

"I got a list of the residents. One of them is that psychologist, Dr. Beth Holder."

"Good work, Harper. Remember, this is highly sensitive. I don't want anything in writing, yet. You can back off, now that we know where he's staying."

"Okay, sir."

"And say nothing to anyone, Dean. We believe others are involved."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

Dean waited until the line went dead, then closed the phone and pocketed it. He was part of a very important internal investigation. He had been told that the survival of Barnes may not have been just good fortune. It was known that the hit on Lester Little was made with the aid of inside information. They needed to know if Barnes was tied to Santini. But Dean was a little disappointed and perplexed. Why was he being told to back off? Surely they would want the DI watched until he made contact with the gangster. That would seal it. No matter. His was not to reason why. He had done his bit. When it all came out, he would be acclaimed for his part in it. Should be made Detective sergeant at the very least.

"It's six in the fucking morning," Carlo Falco hissed into the phone.

"I don't give a fuck what time it is. Just put Frank on. This is important."

"The boss is asleep."

"So wake him up, dickhead, or you'll be back on a scooter in Rome, snatching women's handbags for a living."

"Wait," Carlo seethed.

"Who?" Frank said, turning on the bedside lamp as he levered himself up on one elbow and glared at Carlo, who was standing at the open bedroom door.

"The cop, boss. He says it's important. I couldn't get rid of him."

Frank yawned. "Put it through."

Carlo backed up, shut the door and went back downstairs to transfer the call. When Frank picked up the bedroom extension, he hung up.

Frank said. "What the fuck is so important that you have to phone at this time of day?"

"I know where Barnes is hiding. You can contact the shooter and give him up. Then make sure that when it goes down, nobody walks away. And Barnes has the hots for the profiler who is consulting on the case. That might prove useful."

"That's good news. Leave it with me."

"Oh I will, Frank. But let's move fast on this. The sooner Barnes and this guy Noon are taken out, the happier I'll be. I don't need you going down and taking me with you."

"You get well paid. Big bucks come with a risk. Just think of what you can do when you retire to the Cayman Islands with a fat bank account."

"That day can't come soon enough."

"So keep the faith and live to see it."

Frank took down the details and hung up. He would sleep for another hour, then call the answering service that Noon used, leave a message and hope that the killer was still checking in. There was no other way to contact him. With any luck it would all be smoothed out soon. Frank had stayed on top by always negating any potential threat, however tenuous. And he would feel a lot better when the hitter and Barnes were both out of the picture, permanently.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

**HE** awoke in an instant, opened his eyes, but did not move. Something was wrong. The heaviness he could feel on his leg shifted.

The rat's hindquarters were bunched, its whole body tensed, quivering as it readied itself to leap off him.

He could have ignored it. It would have scurried away to its lair. Instead, he shot his hand out as he rose up, grabbed the rat by the throat and squeezed unmercifully.

The muscular rodent squirmed in his grasp; raked ineffectually at his sleeve with its back legs, and emitted a high-pitched squeak of surprise, shock and fear. Even as he attempted to crush the life from it, it twisted its head and sank razor-sharp incisors into the soft tissue of his hand between index finger and thumb. He smiled and swung the bristling dark-grey vermin against the timbered wall with all the force he could muster. There was a sharp crack as its backbone snapped.

Letting go, Gary watched as the mortally injured rat slowly dragged itself across the rough floorboards. It had drawn blood, so could suffer a lingering death in some dark corner. Self-mutilation was one thing. Being bitten by a fucking rat was another. The pain was of no concern to him. But rats were disease-ridden creatures.

He poured water over his hand, sucked the puncture wounds and spat out blood. Dismissing the incident, he looked at his watch. Almost six a.m. Moving to the end of the low loft, he squinted through a crack between two planks of the wall. He could see most of the front of the house between gaps in the trees.

Curtains at an upstairs window were drawn back. Frank must be an early riser. But he would not whack him in daylight. That would be simple enough to do, but would make the prospect of a clean getaway extremely unlikely. He would stay put and tend to business when Santini returned from the club that evening. Or from wherever he chose to spend his last few hours on earth.

Frank showered and shaved, then went back into the bedroom, lifted his toupee off the poly head on the credenza and took several minutes to carefully position and affix it to his scalp with double-sided tape. He slipped a robe on, picked up his cell phone and went out onto the small balcony, to stand in the cool morning air, hands on the rail-topped balustrade. He took several deep breaths and surveyed the landscaped frontage of his estate, before punching in the contact number of the killer. He left a message: "Barnes is stayin' at the Kenton Court Hotel off Tottenham Court Road. Not even his team know his location. He's out on his own. And he's fuckin' a piece of skirt that lives on the top floor of Hawksworth House at Roehampton. Her name is Beth Holder. I trust this information squares things between us." He ended the call. If Noon didn't get the message, then he would send Tiny and Eddie to deal with Barnes. Or better still, have them go and hurt the woman. Let the cop know that no one was out of reach. He would make a decision over the next twenty-four hours. If Noon got back to him and gave any clue as to when he would hit Barnes, then Tiny could make sure that the killer didn't walk away. He would have the hotel staked out.

Frank felt more relaxed as he dressed and went down for breakfast. Within a couple of days he would be able to forget all about this affair and concentrate wholly on other more profitable business.

Carlo phoned the bunkhouse and told Ray to have the Merc outside the front door in two minutes.

Nearby, Gary used the Spyderco knife he carried to widen the crack in the timber. His present location was ideal to take the shot from. He watched as the black Mercedes pulled out of the garage block and parked at the bottom of steps that led up to a covered porch at the front of the house. Seconds later, Santini came out. The driver exited the car and opened the rear door for him. The wop acted like fucking royalty, or a celebrity. It would be a pleasure to splash his brains all over the drive when he returned that evening.

After Santini left, Gary settled back down to wait. He felt safe. Not one other person in the world knew where he was. And the last place anybody would expect him to be was at the very heart of the gangster's stronghold. Should any groundsman enter the shed and come upstairs for anything, then the serrated blade of the knife would be employed to ensure his continued concealment.

By midmorning, after keeping watch on the house and feasting on a packet of biscuits, he turned on his cell and phoned his answer service number, not expecting to have any messages, but for something to do.

Santini's recorded voice spoke, giving him Barnes's location, and more, the address of some tart who the cop was tight with. What a result. He gave the unexpected information some thought, and with time as well as people to kill, he phoned Rocco's.

"Put Frank on."

"Who's speaking?" Eddie Costello asked.

"Noon."

"Who?"

"Don't you goons read the papers or watch the news?"

No answer. Three seconds later, Frank's voice. "You got my message?"

"Yeah, Frank. I just thought I'd give you a bell and thank you for the information."

"So you and me don't have a problem, right?"

"Right. No hard feelings. I'll take care of Barnes tonight, and then leave the country for a while. Things are getting a little hot."

"You need any help?"

"No. A pilot I know will fly me across the channel. And I have new ID."

"Keep in touch. Maybe we can do business again, if you come back."

"Okay, Frank. See you around," Gary said, then pressed END. He smiled for a long time. The lies slid off his tongue like a silk scarf from a woman's freshly waxed leg. No doubt Frank's goons would be waiting at the cop's hotel to make sure that neither of them survived the night. Trust no one, remember? He hadn't gotten this far by taking anybody's word for anything. The best you could expect from anyone was half truths. As a rule, if somebody told him it was night, he would believe it to be day. The only way he could operate was by assuming nothing and questioning everything.

"Get Tiny in here," Frank said.

Eddie phoned down to the casino, while Frank poured himself a large JD. When Tiny came into the office, Frank spelled out what he wanted done.

"Repeat it, Tiny," Frank ordered.

"You want us to be at the hotel. When the psycho has capped Barnes, we do him, then make it look as if they shot each other."

"Exactly," Frank said. "Nice and neat. This Noon character gets whacked by Barnes, but manages to get off a lucky shot. It needs to look as though they blew each other away, with no other party involved."

* * *

Matt spent most of the day with Tom, Beth and the team. They had nothing new, although Beth's psych profile on Noon gave more insight than the information they had got from Marion Peterson, or the report submitted to them by the consultant psychiatrist who headed up the care team that had supervised him. Noon had conned everyone into believing he was being managed. He had the ability to suppress his symptoms and hide the homicidal urge that drove him.

"What else can we do, Beth?" Tom asked.

"Use his vulnerabilities against him. He believes he is far more superior to everyone else, and is disdainful of other people's capabilities. Being outsmarted or caught will not be a part of his mindset. He recognises his shortcomings, knows that he is paranoid, and has come to understand his illness. I have no doubt that he can keep a tight rein on his delusions and hallucinations. Overall, he is of above average intelligence. I would surmise he has studied his condition and knows as much about it as so-called experts."

"So-called?" Matt said.

"Yes. Scientists don't even know what causes schizophrenia, if that is what he really suffers from. All they have is a bucketful of theories. Some believe that the illness is primarily a product of traits such as contradictory expectations and covert rejection. There are many hypotheses. The overview is that it is not an inherited disease; rather a composite one which may have a variety of triggers."

"What do you mean by triggers?" Tom asked.

"That symptoms begin to show in many people after they have suffered a particularly distressing or stressful incident. If Gary Noon did push his mother down the stairs, then that single traumatic experience could have been the trigger to set the process in motion. It gets very complex. The brain has certain types of cells called inhibitory interneurons. They're like dampers that prevent other nerve cells from being overwhelmed with sensory input from the environment. Whatever the cause, the symptoms are varied.

"We know from what Penny Page told us that Noon talks to himself, ergo, he hears voices. And self-mutilation and murder is obviously inappropriate behaviour. Other people's feelings are of no consequence to him, and I wouldn't rule out the possibility of him having paranoid delusions. He may even believe he has special powers."

"How can he keep his shit together if he's so scrambled?" Tom asked.

"I could only guess," Beth replied.

Tom and Matt said nothing, just waited for her to continue.

"Okay," she said. "I believe he can use detachment to be able to think outside the box. He understands his own particular psychosis. If it gets too oppressive, he no doubt takes the prescribed antipsychotic drugs he is on. This is an individual who can adapt and is able to cloak his true personality."

"You really think that's possible?" Matt asked.

"He fooled Marion, and she is a highly experienced community psychiatric nurse who thought she knew him. I know of cases that involve patients who have no capacity to feel emotions, but can learn to produce appropriate facial expressions and body language. It's hard to socialise without being able to respond and react to others. I liken it to an actor learning his lines. Noon has to memorize them and adopt the correct physical responses. But his ability to feel the full gamut of normal emotions is restricted. He will not be able to...to care for anyone. One of my colleagues at the hospital says that Noon's type have no soul. That a part of them is missing or so impaired or diminished that they can't properly relate to it."

"Do you believe that Noon's illness and his desire or reason to kill are correlated?" Tom asked.

"I don't think so. Killing is power to him. I get the feeling that it gives him a warped sense of self worth, or dissipates an inner rage at society as a whole. I do believe that his illness helps him murder in a clinical manner. Though he obviously derives pleasure from the acts. You...we are hunting someone who doesn't properly fit into any recognised category."

Matt got up and went to pour more coffee. His leg was aching. "Then why didn't he kill the Page's baby and the old man?" he asked, unable to fully understand the character of the man they sought.

Beth shrugged. "I haven't got a clue. Maybe because neither of them could identify him. The baby was no threat, and he wore a mask when he was with the old man."

Tom asked, "Could he have empathised with them, especially the baby, given that he appeared to have suffered such an unhappy childhood?"

Beth shook her head, and then combed a drift of hair back behind an ear with her fingers. "I wouldn't think he is able to show any empathy. If the baby had screamed, or the old man proved awkward, you would have had two more victims. He most likely spared them on a whim, nothing more. Like I said, it's a power thing. He chose to let a child he had made an orphan, live. And the old man is ill, alone, and basically unhappy. He probably thought that not murdering them was a more cruel punishment."

"I need to draw him out," Matt said to Tom after Beth had left to attend a meeting at the hospital.

"How?"

"Move back home. And travel openly to the Yard and back every day. When he's ready, he'll make his move."

"Noon and the Santinis are serious players, Matt. There's no way we can ensure your safety."

"I know that, Tom. But it's all we've got. It might be the only way to take them off the street."

"There has to be a better way."

"Can you come up with one? If I could, I wouldn't put myself in the frame."

Tom scrunched his face up in reluctant submission. Matt was right. They had nowhere to go. They needed to bring Noon to them.

"Okay, Matt. My rules, though. We put our best man in your house before you go back. We'll also have a welcome committee in the neighbourhood. If Noon makes his play, we should be able to lift him before he gets anywhere near you."

Matt frowned. "Remember, he's paranoid and very clever. If he even thinks that some guy walking a dog is a cop, he'll back off. We'll lose him."

"That's how it's going to be, Matt. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it. Let's set it up for tomorrow. I'll check out of my hotel in the morning."

Tom nodded.

They left the Yard at eight p.m. and went to a local waterhole for a few drinks.

"You and Beth are getting it on, right?" Tom said as they settled at a small table in the corner of the bar.

Matt grinned. "You reckon?"

"Yeah. I saw the looks you were giving each other this morning. Though what she sees in you is beyond me."

"She's a psychologist, Tom. She can look beyond the dour, cast-iron exterior to the gentle, loving man inside. She knows a good thing when she sees it."

"Bollocks!"

"You're right. I have no idea why Beth would want to be in a relationship with a lost cause like me. But I'm not going to try to fathom it out. And I'm not going to tell you jack shit, so change the subject. Okay?"

It was dark when Matt returned to the hotel. He let Tom drop him nearby. The need to keep his location a secret was past.

Tiny pressed his large frame back into the recessed doorway on the opposite side of the narrow street and watched as the cop limped along the pavement to the rear of the building. He smiled broadly as Barnes looked furtively around before entering. When the cop closed the door behind him, Tiny used his mobile to contact Eddie, who was parked-up at the front.

"He's in," Tiny said. "All we need now is for Noon to show up, and we can finish it."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

**DOM** inserted the short gold tube into his left nostril, hunched over the desk and snorted the second line of glittering nose candy. He breathed out through his mouth, leant back and closed his eyes as the rush sparked in his brain. He was not a regular user. This was a special occasion. The stress over the last week or two had weakened his resolve. Just a toot or two wouldn't harm. Everything in moderation, with the exception of sex. "Oh, yes, yeesss!" He whispered. What a sensation. He wasn't just high; he was on the fucking ceiling. His heart was pounding like a wild animal throwing itself at the bars of a cage. It was time to rock 'n' roll. The new cloakroom attendant had been coming on to him, flashing her baby-blues, fluttering her eye lashes like a china doll as she ran the tip of her tongue over glossed lips and appraised him. Well, she'd got his attention. He was as hard as rock. It hurt. He needed to fuck her stupid.

Eddie and Tiny had been sent to clean up the cop and hitter mess, and the old man had gone home. It was playtime.

'Red' Sevano – whose Italian father had married an Irish showgirl, resulting in his flame hair and nickname – was Dom's personal fixer. Whatever Dom wanted, Red provided.

"Ring-a-ding-ding, Red," Dom said, giving his aide a toothy grin. "Go get that new girl from the cloakroom to come up. I'll be in my suite."

"You got it, boss," Red said.

Dom was obsessed with women. Fresh, young, attractive women, that he had not had the pleasure of being intimate with. He loved them collectively, not as individuals, but as a seductive breed apart. Had he not been wealthy, powerful, and in a position to attract willing partners, then he faced up to the fact that he would have been a serial rapist. Fantasising was not enough. He had to partake, and frequently.

Her name was Naomi.

Red showed her into Dom's private apartment on the top floor of the club and discreetly took his leave.

Dom turned on the charm offensive, all but stripping Naomi with a lustful stare that left her in no doubt as to why she had been invited up.

She felt comfortable in his company. He reminded her of a favourite uncle she had fooled around with years ago. Her uncle had not been a paedophile in the accepted sense of the word. It had been her who'd seduced him. She had been staying with her Aunt Barbara and Uncle Roy at their house in Southend for a week, back in 2003. Her aunt had gone out pubbing it with girlfriends, leaving Roy to baby-sit their teenage niece.

She smiled at Dom as fond memories of being with her uncle flashed through her mind. She had snuggled up to Roy on the settee to watch TV. Her hand was on his lap, and she felt him begin to squirm as he became aroused. She let her fingers do the walking, to the fork of his thighs, and heard his sharp intake of breath as she fondled him. Within minutes he was stroking her through her panties, and then they were up in her room, almost ripping the clothes off each other...

..."No," Roy had said. "We can't do this, Naomi." But there was no conviction in his voice, and she had gently guided him into her.

"It's all right," she'd said. "I've done it before. No one will ever know. Please, do it...Fuck me, Uncle."

And so he had, at every opportunity during that week.

Dom's eyes latched onto hers, and the look in them made her feel special. This could be the start of something big. She was ambitious, and determined to use her physical attributes to turn her life around. Dominic Santini might well be her salvation; a prize catch. Whatever had to be done to land him, she was up for it, and could live with.

Naomi Lynch had run away from the council house and her parents and siblings over four years ago, and had not returned to the hovel on the estate at Dagenham. She'd phoned her mother, just once, to let the old cow know that she hadn't been abducted or murdered. Living rough had not been so bad. She had given blowjobs to kerb-crawlers to make ends meet, before she had been looked after properly by a pimp who knew a good thing when he saw it. Being freelance in the city was not an option. But she was bright, always looking for a better life. It had been a goon who worked for the Santinis' who'd got her the job at Rocco's. The dumb bastard thought she loved him. He didn't want anybody else touching her, so had pulled strings to get her off the street. Now she was setting her sights higher. If Dominic liked what she had to offer, then she reckoned her future might be secure. Had Naomi been more astute, then she would have realised that men like Dom did not get serious with the help. She was recognised for what she was, a brass. Sex on legs. A young working girl who would end up an old whore on the docks, back to giving head in the shadows to men that paid cheap for a warm mouth to get them off.

They snorted coke, and Dom plied her with champagne. Before too long she was both giggly and giddy.

"I feel so light-headed," Naomi said.

"Better lay down for awhile, then," Dom suggested.

"Mmm, that might help."

He lifted her up off the sofa, one hand curled round over a breast, the other up her skirt against the bare flesh of her thighs. She looped her arms round his neck and nuzzled his ear as she was carried into the bedroom.

As Dom lowered her onto the top of the king-size bed, she pulled him down and found his lips with hers.

The room was spinning. Naomi felt detached, separate from her body. Too much coke and bubbly. She was spaced out. Dom slowly removed all her clothes, kissing every inch of her body as each item was cast aside. She opened herself to first his mouth, crying out as his tongue pleasured her. And when he was ready and shifted over her, she raised her legs, hooked her ankles over his thighs and moaned as he entered her. She responded, met his deep thrusts, and marvelled at his drug-induced stamina. He brought her to the edge, then over it and into a realm where she had rarely been. Dom was insatiable, and became violent.

The cocaine acted as a buffer to the pain. Naomi hardly felt the grasping-tearing-pummelling hands that bruised her flesh. Or the teeth as they bit her lips and nipples.

Much later, she came to, shivering. He was beneath the bedclothes next to her, fast asleep. She had passed out. The session had left her aching and sore. Even her back passage felt torn and wet. Had he...She reached down between her legs. When she looked at her fingers, they were bloody. This was not what she had planned on. And yet she determined not to follow her instincts and run. The experience had been extreme, but not beyond repeating. She was hurting, but also satisfied in some fundamental kinky way she could not understand.

After tending to herself in the bathroom, Naomi climbed back into bed next to Dom, put her arm around his waist and went back to sleep.

One-thirty in the morning. Not a whisper of a breeze, and the moon's cold light was shrouded by cloud. Perfect. All that was missing was the star of the show, who would shortly be making his final live appearance.

Gary had seen only eight people throughout the day. No doubt there was staff in the house, including a live-in cook or housekeeper. The dog patrols and other muscle were the only relevant threat to him. There was a separate building where they stood down from duty. It appeared that they were on four-hour shifts. Not too long to get complacent. Good thinking. Santini wasn't completely thick.

Shafts of light glancing off trees. He sighted the scope on the drive and followed the Merc in. This was it. Many hours of physical inertia, to soon be followed by sudden, explosive action. All hell would break loose a second after he pulled the trigger.

The car slowed to a stop at the front of the house. He brought the space above the rear door area of the vehicle into sharp focus. Worked on his breathing. He was ready.

Nick left the engine running, got out and went back to open the door for Santini. Frank swung his legs out, and as he pushed himself up, Nick moved behind him and closed the door. No one came out of the house, so Nick followed his 'boss' up the steps, only turning back when the door opened and Carlo appeared.

"Thanks Ray. See you in the morning," Frank said.

"Yeah. Goodnight, boss," Nick replied.

Jesus fucking Christ! He had no shot. The driver was in the way. He may well have been able to shoot through the dummy who was unknowingly shielding Santini, taking both of them out with one bullet, or maybe not. He hadn't gone to all this trouble just to waste one of the hirelings.

It was to have been a straightforward kill. A soft hit. He had been stymied. He should have taken the shot, but had hesitated. The bullet _would_ have gone through both of them, but might not have killed Santini. And the last thing he wanted to do was put the wind up the guy, or deliver a warning. The no good bastard had to die. The prospect of waiting another day was frustrating. He was shaking with rage, and the voices were starting up in his head; cajoling, mocking and lambasting him for his failure. This wasn't a subject open for debate with his demons. The incident had left him a little unnerved. But he hadn't blown it, just needed to settle back and think it through. A full frontal assault on the house might be the way to go. He was already on the inside; an enemy in the camp. The element of surprise would be wholly his. He could hold fire – literally – for an hour or so, then break in, walk into Santini's bedroom and have a little chat with the wop before popping him.

As he procrastinated and the minutes ticked by, a light came on at an upstairs window. He sighted-in on it and saw a glimpse of Santini through the open curtains. Maybe he wouldn't have to wait, after all.

He was relaxed, at one with his surroundings. Drew his left leg up and braced his right foot against one of the heavy fertiliser bags. The strap of the Heckler & Koch HK91 was tightly wound around his arm, making the weapon an extension of himself. The assault rifle was effective at three times the distance he was from his target, and was extremely accurate, deserving its reputation as being one of the finest combat rifles ever produced. He planned to put one 7.62 NATO round into Santini, which would punch through him and maybe two brick walls behind him, such was the power of the full metal-jacketed shells.

Putting his eye to the scope, he zeroed in. The adrenaline started to pump through his muscles as excitement and expectation mounted.

* * *

Frank was feeling more like his old self, though doubted he would sleep until Tiny phoned to confirm that the 'job' had been satisfactorily completed. He undressed, pulled his robe on and went over to the small wet bar to fill a tumbler with JD and ice. Looking up, he studied the large, framed print on the wall behind the bar in the corner of his bedroom. In it, he was standing next to Reggie Kray. The photograph had been taken at Charlie Kray's funeral, before Reg's health had deteriorated and he had been diagnosed as having terminal cancer. It was signed: To Frankie. I know that I have your goodwill, Reg.

Frank remembered the October day he had attended Reggie's funeral. It had been a lavish send-off, but he had been saddened by the sight of so many ageing gangsters, who were now reduced to selling ghost-written books of their seedy past, living off old, exaggerated and half forgotten memories that a certain section of society were titillated by. The lowering of Kray's coffin into the cold ground alongside his two brothers – Charlie and Ronnie – signalled the end of an era in the history of crime. Time had moved on. Younger faces had been waiting in the wings to take over.

Frank walked across the room and opened the balcony doors. Stood out in the fresh air of a tranquil night, sipped his whisky and watched a distant guard pause while his Doberman took a leak. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted as...

...Gary took a deep breath, becoming one with the rifle as he squinted through the telescopic sight. Santini's swarthy head almost filled the viewing field. He played the cross hairs across the broad face. This was almost too easy, and detached. He would much rather have dealt with the greaseball in a more close up and personal manner for maximum reward. Killing from a distance was not as satisfying. He was affording Santini a quick and easy way out. But it would deliver a message. Give the gangster's son something to think about.

He inhaled again, smoothly eased the trigger back, and exhaled. There was a second of perfect, absolute stillness; of sweet synchronisation between mind and body.

The sound of the shot was almost deafening, splitting the silence like a clap of thunder as the bullet flew straight and true, to smash through Frank's forehead, tunnel through his brain and create a fist-sized hole as it emerged from the back of his skull to continue on its journey, through the far bedroom wall, to lodge deep inside the brickwork at the rear of the house. Blood, bone, and brains flew back in a gusher that left a trail across both the carpet and the lilac-coloured duvet that covered the bed.

Francis Mario Santini had no last thoughts, and felt no pain. Death had taken him with a swiftness that resulted in an almost instantaneous cessation of being. The corpse was not blown backwards, it remained standing for a second – as if unsure of what to do next in this unrehearsed, singular situation – then toppled forward into the balustrade like a felled tree, hitting the wrought-iron handrail at waist level, to jack-knife over it and somersault to the paved area below. The cut glass tumbler spun from Frank's hand, up into the night air, spraying Jack Daniel's in golden droplets as it followed him down and shattered next to his blasted head.

Gary was already moving, chuckling aloud as he reran the picture of Santini's dramatic if too quick demise, and the dive that left him laying twisted and broken, his dressing gown up across his back, bare arse shining as white as chalk under the bright security lights, and his toupee on the ground a yard or two away, looking like some small and furry nocturnal animal.

Up on his feet, moving fast, Gary left the shed on the run, darted through the trees to the open ground that he had no choice but to cross. He was almost back to the fence before he heard the distant shout of a nervous guard. So much for Frank's fortress mentality, and his army of second-rate goons. No one was safe. Once targeted, his mark had been on borrowed time. Santini would have presumed that only an imbecile would attempt an attack on his well-guarded stronghold. Sooo wrong. And now that he had taken care of Santini he would employ his full efforts on dealing with Barnes. Or maybe visit the cop's girlfriend and formally introduce his self. The couple were just like two overdue library books, and the penalty was much more than either could afford.

With one end of the rope tied around the rifle, he swung the weapon underhand, up into the air, over the branch that jutted out above the razor wire.

The deep, throaty growl of the dog almost certainly saved his life. Even as the torch beam found him, he had drawn the Glock. The guard might as well have stuck a target on himself. Gary fired three shots at the wavering disc of light, and a strangled cry told him his aim had been accurate. The torch fell, and its powerful white shaft backlit the German shepherd as it launched itself into the air, hackles raised as it attacked.

Even as he pulled the trigger, the dog's front paws hit him full force in the chest, knocking him onto his back. His lungs cramped under the impact. He fought for breath as the slavering jaws came together on his wrist; sharp canines biting to the bone; broad head scything from side to side, powered by taut, bulging neck muscles.

_Wrong hand, you brain dead shit machine!_ he thought, raising the gun, pressing it into the dog's ear and pulling the trigger.

The shepherd didn't make a sound, just shuddered and went limp across his chest. He inhaled its final, hot, fetid exhalation, and felt the warm blood run from its mouth and nostrils onto his mangled wrist. It was dead, but its jaws were clamped in place.

Distant, muffled voices. The search for the assassin was on. More torch beams cut through the gloom; long blades of light darting, dancing, raking the darkness.

Tucking the Glock in his waistband, Gary gripped the dead dog's bloody snout and tried to pull the jaws apart. They were locked and wouldn't budge. Time was running out. He couldn't climb the rope one-handed with the dead-weight of a fucking eighty or ninety pound guard dog hanging from his arm.

He withdrew the handgun again, forced the end of the silencer into the animal's mouth like a jemmy, and prised it open. The teeth came out like gleaming nails from a packing crate. Fuck! That brought tears to his eyes.

Free of the burden, he looked around. As yet, he had not been seen. No one was hurrying towards him or shouting out his position to others. He pushed the gun back under his belt, grabbed both lengths of the rope and hauled himself up, sucking in air and grimacing as white-hot pain shot up his arm from the site of the bite. His left hand was numb. He could hardly grip with it, but somehow reached the branch and hauled himself up to straddle it and bump himself along, above the fence to the thick trunk of the spruce. He scrambled down to the ground and dropped flat as bullets thudded into the tree. The chatter of submachine gun fire split the silence. Once more he drew the Glock, took careful aim at the shape behind the now crackling electrified fence, and loosed off two shots.

Chip Martin grinned. He was sure he had all but cut the intruder in half with a hail of bullets from the Uzi. No one was near enough to see the look of shock and surprise on the tall Texan's face as a hollow point slug slammed into his neck, blowing him off his feet, even as a second bullet shattered his sternum. Chip had all of five seconds – that seemed to last forever – to be traumatised by the awful realisation that he was dying.

Santini's men did not follow. They were not about to wage war outside the estate. This was Essex, not Afghanistan. Their weapons were illegal.

Gary made it back to the car without incident. The plan had been to return to the storage facility, but he decided against it. The stinking, confined space had served its purpose. It was time to move on. And he needed to treat his swollen, pounding wrist.

He drove back into London and abandoned the car, leaving the keys in the ignition to make life easier for the next joy rider who happened along.

Keeping to back streets, away from main roads, he walked for almost two miles. He needed another safe haven. One where no one would search for him. He smiled. He knew just the place to lay low for a while.

Red Sevano got the call from Carlo Falco. He listened, knew that what he was being told had to be true, but found the facts hard to assimilate. An unexpected catastrophe is a shock to the system. The mind finds the event untenable and puts up a barrier of denial. After Carlo hung up, Red let the conversation repeat, picking out the salient points as he walked with leaden steps to Dom's suite, dismayed that it had fallen to him to break the news.

It was almost two minutes before the door opened. Dom was glaring, enraged at being woken up.

"What the fuck do you want, Red?"

"I got bad news, boss," Red said. He had taken two paces back from the threshold, uncertain as to how Dom might react.

"Which is?"

"The house got hit."

Dom's face darkened. He assumed that Red meant the club had been robbed.

"For how much?"

Red frowned. Then cottoned-on to his boss's line of thought. "No, boss, Villa Venice."

Dom went cold inside. Red's eyes held the gravitas of impending news that he knew he would not want to hear.

"Say it."

"Carlo just called. Your papa was the target, boss. He didn't make it."

Dom swallowed hard. His mind greyed, became a swirling column that made him rock on his feet as he fought to maintain composure. The two men faced each other, and for a few seconds Red thought that Dom might faint. He was ready to catch him if he fell.

"How?" Dom asked in a whisper

"After he got home, he went out on the balcony of his bedroom. It was one bullet. He didn't know what hit him, boss. The shooter was in the grounds. He took two of the guards and a dog out."

Dom experienced a landslide of emotions. He was the 'Man' now, out from beneath the long shadow of his father. _The king is dead, long live the king_. Molten anger and a thin, cold sliver of fear also vied for his attention. The fucking psycho hitman had reached into the very centre of the organisation. Noon had set them up. He was supposed to be nailing the cop, Barnes, tonight. That had been a diversion. He needed to think fast.

"Okay, Red. Here's what you do. Get the girl outta here while I dress. Then phone Tiny. I want him and Eddie back here, now. And tell Carlo to have my father moved. We need to make it look like he was capped outside the estate. I don't want the filth crawling all over the place. Capisci?"

"Yeah, boss."

Red gave Naomi sixty seconds to get her shit together and vanish. She said nothing, just complied. She could feel the tension, and was astute enough to know that something big had gone down.

Red phoned Tiny. Told him that the operation was off, and that he and Eddie were needed back at Rocco's, pronto. He finished up by calling Carlo and relaying Dom's plan.

"That's gonna be a bitch, Red," Carlo said. "The boss was blown off the balcony. It's not just a case of half his head missing. He got broken up when he hit the deck."

"So arrange for it to look like he never made it home from the club. Have the Merc go off a bridge and explode. If the driver is dead at the wheel and the boss is in the back, it'll look like the car got shot at. The crash will explain the other damage. And do it now."

"The driver, Lansky, is out in the grounds. There's only Sal with me."

"So use Sal. He never was the sharpest knife in the rack."

"Okay, Red."

"Good. I'll be coming in with Dom, soon. And Carlo, he's pissed over this. He'll want to know how the shooter got inside. I get the feeling someone will have to take the fall for the fuck-up in security."

# CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

**MARION** caved in under the pressure. She couldn't handle it. Waiting for the truth to out – as in her experience it inevitably did, sooner or later – made her feel ill. She had even lost almost a stone in weight. Unbearable stress had achieved what dozens of diets had failed to. She set off to work with her resignation written out, ready to hand to Dr. Stephen Barlow, who was in overall charge of the community mental health centre.

For over a week she had been living on frayed nerves. Her relationship with Gary would be revealed at some point, and she could not wait any longer for the resulting humiliating facts to become public knowledge.

Another shed. This time of the standard garden variety, with the expected smells of sacking, stale soil, petrol from the mower, and creosote.

He moved a stack of empty seed trays, crawled under a table that had been utilised as a bench, and pulled the tower of wooden trays back to shield him from view. Sitting with his knees up and feet against rows of terracotta plant pots, Gary cradled his injured, throbbing arm and made short-term plans as he waited. Apart from being bitten by a fucking rat, and then a dog, the mission had been a complete success. The police would no doubt soon be swarming all over Santini's Little Italy. And Dominic would be scared shitless. His father had enjoyed more protection than the bloody Queen, but had been taken out in his own house. It was obvious that Dom would adopt a siege mentality and be out of circulation for the foreseeable future. Good. Let the scumbag sweat. He would be dealt with at a later date. Gary felt that there had to be a footnote to Frank's passing. He found the piece of paper on which he had jotted down a few phone numbers, risked switching the torch on for a second, and phoned the gangster's stronghold.

Tiny answered the phone.

Gary said, "Put Dom the new Don on."

"Who wants him?" Tiny asked.

"You know who, you dumb nigger. Just do as you're told, boy."

"You got no respect, you mad motherfucker. We'll find you, and when we do, I'll teach you some manners before I tear your lungs out with my bare hands."

"Dream on, you sad bastard. Now put pizza-face on the line, or I'll hang up."

Tiny turned to where Dom was talking animatedly to Carlo and Eddie. "Boss, I got the piece of shit who hit your father on the phone."

Dom snatched the phone from Tiny. "You stupid fuck, Noon. Do you really think you can get away with this?"

"I _did_ get away with it, Dom. And that makes you top dog, now. I did you a favour. Aren't you going to thank me?"

Dom screamed down the phone. "THANK YOU! I'm gonna find you and skin you alive, Noon. That's what I'm gonna do. You know all about contracts. Well now there's an open one on you. I'm gonna pay a million in cash to anybody who serves you up, alive. You're the mark, now. But what you got coming won't be quick or painless."

"I'm too good, Santini. Your late and not lamented father now knows that. And you need to know that you're going down. You can't move without me knowing where you are. I might get to you at the old man's funeral, or in a year's time. Just be aware that I never, ever fail. If I were you, I'd be very scared."

"You don't frigh―"

Gary ended the call. What a fine time he was having. This was as good as a day at the circus. Christ, what had brought that to mind. His mother had once taken him to one. He'd sat on a wooden bench, high up, looking down on the sawdust-covered ring. He'd been seven or eight years old, and the few hours spent under the big top had been the most thrilling time of his life, at that time. The colours, smells, and the roar of the crowd. And the clowns, animals, trapeze artists. And...And just everything had kept him on the edge of his seat, awestruck, wide-eyed, and with his mouth hanging open like a retard's. His clearest memories were those of a lion tamer putting his head in one of the big cats' mouths, of an elephant taking a dump, and of a woman in a sequinned leotard, who was pinioned to a spinning wooden wheel, that a blindfolded man was throwing knives at. How did they do that? He still didn't know. Funny how past events can grip your heart and squeeze it. He'd loved his mum, then, back before he knew what she was, and what he was. Aw, well, enough reminiscing. It was always now that counted. The present situation was that everybody wanted him. He had generated such animosity that he could almost feel and taste the hatred thick and sweet in the air around him.

At nine a.m. he made his move. The narrow back garden was screened from its neighbours' on both sides by a high panel fence and trees and bushes. The privacy protected him from being seen.

Using a rusted claw hammer – that he had found in the shed – he prised open a kitchen window, crawled in over the sill and sink and dropped to the floor. With the window pushed back to appear untouched (if not examined too closely), he searched the house, gun drawn, just in case she was at home. The house was empty. He went back to the kitchen, searched the units and found a first aid box. He stripped to the waist, washed and dried off, then poured iodine into the bite wounds before bandaging them. He was suddenly exhausted. The act of murder was a satisfying but draining experience. The fulfilment after each hit left him strangely calm and listless. Each kill was a rebellion against the society he was trapped within. All the insects out there were brainwashed into believing that life was precious and full of meaning, whereas he considered it to be a totally meaningless state, without the possibility of any redemption. Nobody was going to be delivered from sin and damnation as a result of Christ's atonement. Humanity was cheap and worthless. It was a producer of stinking waste; a polluter and enemy of the environment. All that mattered was the gratification in satisfying his personal desires by culling the population for personal and uncomplicated stimulation. The law was merely a perfunctory institution that was beneath his consideration. The stupid and enslaved masses plodded mindlessly through life, following senseless rules of a game that politicians and moguls made up to further their personal ambitions. He was above all that. Killing liberated his spirit. The ability to end life without compunction was his power, which he exercised at will and was invigorated by.

He closed his eyes and let his inner radar reach out. He felt safe. Marion did not warrant heavy protection. Maybe there was a cop out front. If so, then good. Who would ever think he was inside a house that was being guarded? The problem now was that he could not trust Marion. She knew him for who he was, and would undoubtedly summon help if given the opportunity. He would force her to phone work and report herself sick, and then spend a couple of days here, before killing her and moving on.

Upstairs. He undressed and stretched out on her bed. He could smell her on the pillow. The scent reminded him of their abandoned lovemaking. He sighed. Heaven; a real bed again. Comfort could so easily be taken for granted, until it was absent.

As he rested, he ran through his options. The cop who had survived and claimed to have killed Simon was his new priority. It was a matter of principal. The pig had a bad attitude. Needed to be annihilated. He knew where Barnes was hiding. But also accepted that the cop was far from stupid. It would be a trap, which he had no intention of walking into. The woman was the way to go. Beth Holder would be the pawn in this game. If she was placed in jeopardy, then her knight in shining armour would rush to her rescue. And the bitch deserved his attention. She was taking pieces of silver as she helped his enemies by compiling a profile on him. Not that anything she came up with would help them. She had no way of predicting what he may or may not do next. He was not some flake pattern killer, limited and obsessive like most ritual murderers seemed to be. In contrast, he was versatile, adaptable, and could not be outthought or pigeonholed. Knowing his identity and the details of his background and state of mental health were of no practical value to the inquisitive criminalist. His selection of victims was catholic, his modus operandi varied. Truth was, they were dealing with a hunter whose superiority left them behind like some kind of evolutionary missing link. Maybe Dr. Beth Holder should be graced by his presence, to meet the subject of her pen-picture face to face. The conversation they would have might prove interesting, especially for her. She would no doubt attempt to use her knowledge of him to save her worthless skin. And yet surely she must know that you could not talk a person out of his fundamental nature. Nothing she could say would help her. There was no negotiation technique that would sway him from whatever he chose to do. Although he would enjoy listening to any creative argument she might employ in a vain attempt to prolong the inevitable. He may even give her a glimmer of hope; let her think he was gullible and open to being dissuaded from his path. For a while. It would be fitting to leave her for Barnes to find. Perhaps he'd let him live, to be consumed by grief, guilt and hate. Perhaps cut her eyes out and disembowel her. That would be a suitably shocking scenario for the cop to find. Better still, do it in front of him. Make him watch his slut being dismantled.

He fell asleep with another small sigh of contentment. The world was like a giant playground or theme park, built solely for his personal recreation: Gary World; a mind resort where the sun never sets and the fun never stops.

A noise brought him awake from a dream in which he was being savaged by humpbacked rats and giant red-eyed hell hounds. He instinctively knew that it had been the front door closing that curtailed his ethereal dismemberment. Most people awaken with a jolt if nightmares threaten to engulf them with more pain or fear than can be borne. Gary did not usually escape the fate his subconscious mind conjured up. Trapped in sleep, he had suffered death by burning and drowning and a hundred other fearful ends. He had felt the pain, experienced the mind-numbing fear, and then the release. He had been into the abyss and returned. Faced death, gone through the veil. It was no big deal.

Sitting up, he looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty a.m. Why was she home so early in the day?

Marion felt a great sense of relief. She had not gone into detail, at first, but told her boss that her relationship with a patient might prove embarrassing.

"I'm sure we can work round it, Marion," Stephen Barlow had said. "There's no need for it to become common knowledge. It can't be that bad."

"I fucked Gary Noon, Stephen. Do you really think you can work round that when the papers get hold of the story? 'Mental health nurse in sex romps with patient/killer'. How does that sound for a headline?"

Her resignation was accepted with immediate effect. Barlow obviously wanted to employ damage limitation; disassociate himself and the centre from any revelations of Marion's unprofessional and decidedly unethical conduct.

It was over. She could start afresh. Thank God the house was paid for, and that she had a healthy savings account. She determined to go away somewhere exotic for a few weeks. Maybe try a cruise. And in time she would look for work, but not in psychiatric nursing.

She stopped halfway up the stairs; that strange location which is in neither one place nor another. What was that smell? Antiseptic? She shrugged and carried on up to the landing, only to stop again as her bedroom door opened and Gary appeared. She could not move. He was smiling at her, and holding a gun in his hand, which he raised to point at her face.

When Dom, Tiny and Eddie got to the house, Frank's body was already lying on the back seat of the Merc. Carlo and Sal had dressed him in the same clothes he had worn earlier. The assassin's rifle had been recovered from where it had been left at the perimeter fence with the rope still attached to it, and Carlo had used it to put a bullet through the rear side window. The round had exited the opposite window and travelled over four hundred yards before drilling its way over nine inches into the trunk of a tree.

Dom opened the car door, bobbed inside and kissed his father's cold, bloody cheek. Realigned the rug, which had been carelessly replaced on Frank's head at an angle that made him look like a redheaded drunk, not a corpse.

"We'll get the fucker, Papa," he said, before going over to Eddie and Carlo to give them instructions, while Sal got into the driving seat and started the engine.

Carlo followed in a Jeep Cherokee. Eddie sat next to Sal in the Merc, navigating. They took back roads, and satisfied themselves that no one was tailing them. After several miles they passed a sign that read: DANGER QUARRY.

"Stop and turn back," Eddie ordered.

"Back?" queried Sal.

"Yeah. Its gotta look like the car was heading towards the house, not away from it. I want you to turn round, get some speed up, then brake hard, swerve off the road and leave some rubber. Then park up against the fence. We need to make it appear that when the boss got hit, the car went off the road, broke through the fence and took a header into the quarry."

Sal grinned and followed Eddie's instructions to the letter. He was doing over sixty when he hit the brakes and laid down two black telltale trails.

As the Merc was still braking, bouncing up the high grassy verge, Eddie drew his Ruger pistol and struck Sal full force across the temple.

Sal lost control. His muscles went to mush as his senses reeled. His foot slipped off the brake pedal, and both of his hands dropped from the steering wheel. The car began to slide sideways like Bambi on ice.

Eddie threw himself out of the passenger door and rolled across the grass, coming to a sudden stop against the galvanised netting that ringed the deep, manmade pit.

The Merc crashed into the fence, ploughed through it, and began to topple down the precipitously steep gradient.

Sal's head cleared as the safety belt bit into his chest. He tried to scream, but could not draw breath. Fear and confusion paralysed him. He had no recollection of the last few seconds, or of Eddie striking him.

The grinding, scraping of metal against rock froze his blood. And Frank's slack body was thrown forward over the front passenger seat to impact with the windscreen and slide down, coming to rest with its blasted head in Sal's lap.

Sal prayed, and wet himself, and moaned aloud, hoping that his end would be quick and painless.

_Sweet Jesus! Thank you_. He experienced a flood of overwhelming relief as the car came to an unexpected, bone-jarring stop, canting down at an acute angle. It shuddered, engine roaring, but held. The headlights illuminated the quarry floor over hundred and twenty feet below.

Sal found the belt release, popped it loose and reached for the door handle. He was holding his breath, fighting to maintain composure. He slid out from beneath Frank's head as the door opened. Another second or two and he would be out on the ledge that had stopped the car's descent. He was still dazed. Didn't know what had happened to Eddie, or that his present predicament was anything other than an accident.

"Oh, fucking God, no! Please!" he shouted as the car lurched forward. It gathered speed, and his brain acknowledged that death was scant seconds away. The big car seemed to cling to the vertical wall and race down it. He could have been travelling on a shiny white road, not on a one-way journey to hell. His foot inadvertently depressed the accelerator, as he fell forward and cracked his head on the windscreen. With engine noise drowning his scream, all Sal could do was watch through the glass in horror as the rocky floor appeared to leap up to meet him. The bonnet crumpled and the engine block was shunted back to meld flesh and steel in uneasy union.

Eddie clambered to his feet and walked the few paces to the newly formed break in the fence. He went through it, approached the lip of the quarry and, craning his neck, looked down to be surprised and dismayed at the sight of the car hung up on a wide outcrop of rock. It was balanced precariously and swaying slightly. He watched as the driver's door began to open, and then smiled with relief as weight and gravity conspired to pull it free. It fell away with the speed of a plummeting lift; cables snapped and safety brakes inoperative. He heard Sal's soulful scream. The initial thud was unexceptional, but the following explosion was a joy to behold. A bright orange ball of flame rushed upwards, and Eddie backed away from the blast of heat and the accompanying pall of black smoke.

"Come on," Carlo shouted as the glow from the quarry lit up the sky.

Eddie jogged over to the Cherokee, climbed in, and Carlo drove quickly away, back to the house.

Dom was waiting, pacing at the bottom of the steps as they approached along the drive. Eddie told him what had happened. Dom patted him on the shoulder and nodded. The police would believe that the shooter had intercepted the car and shot Frank. It would appear to them that Sal had skidded, lost control and ended up in the quarry. No doubt someone who lived nearby had heard the explosion and would report the incident. There would be no evidence to tie the hit geographically to Villa Venice. And the bodies of the guards and dog were already being transported to the coast, where they would be taken out to sea and dumped in deep water, suitably weighted with breeze blocks.

Nick drove the white Transit van with the corpses of Chip Martin, the other guard, the dog, and the HK91 assault rifle in the back. He needed to phone Tom Bartlett, but he was not alone. Tiny sat next to him. One way or another, he would have to shake the big guy for a minute or two. Tom needed to know what had really gone down that night.

* * *

Eric Crompton's head kept falling forward as he battled to stay awake and watch the old black and white movie on his 14 inch portable: _The_ _Maltese Falcon_. Eric had been a big fan of Humphrey Bogart for as long as he could remember, and had seen all his films countless times. He never tired of Bogey, Edward G Robinson, Jimmy Cagney and George Raft. As far as he was concerned, they could keep all the new computer-generated garbage that was being churned out nowadays. Give him hard-boiled dialogue and a good gangster yarn every time. Or a western. He liked the Duke and Eastwood.

Eric was reaching out to pick up a can of Coke from the table next to him when a deafening explosion shook the Portakabin. He cried out and leapt to his feet as the window behind the portable TV was lit up by a column of fire that mushroomed up from the quarry floor. He dropped the can of soda as the window imploded, threw himself to the floor and stayed there for a minute, before getting up and going outside to investigate. The initial brightness faded to a glow and then reformed, regaining its effulgence. As he looked on, burning fuel fanned out like fluttering yellow and orange ribbons of silk.

"Fuckin' kids!" Eric muttered, breathing deeply and holding his chest as his heart pounded with the shock of what had happened. It wouldn't be the first time that teenage joy riders had torched a stolen car and pushed it into the quarry. Being a night-watchman wasn't the doddle people imagined it to be. He'd had his moments. It wasn't in the same league as Beachy Head, but there had been six suicides in the fourteen years he had been working here. Even a double-header; a young couple did a Butch and Sundance, without the benefit of water to land in. He had been out doing his rounds when they dropped in on him, literally. The boy died on impact, but the girl wasn't so lucky. She was all twisted and broken up, making hair-raising sounds as she blew bubbles of blood. If she'd been an animal, he would have put her out of her misery with a spade. She had lasted until just before the ambulance arrived, poor cow.

Eric walked as close to the inferno as the heat would permit, hands up to his face, squinting through the gaps between his fingers. God have mercy! Someone was in the car. The top half of a burning figure was hanging out from where the windscreen had been. And it was moving. Eric's nerve ends tingled, itched and squirmed at the horrific sight. It was like watching a living Guy Fawkes on a bonfire. Commonsense told him that the man, or woman – he couldn't tell which – was dead, and that the effects of the heat was contorting the corpse. But what if it _was_ still alive?

This wasn't a dumped, stolen vehicle, Eric surmised. Some drunk driver had probably crashed through the chain link fence high above. But there was nothing he could do. The small extinguisher in the hut would be less effective than pissing on a chip fire. He ran back to the Portakabin and phoned first the emergency services, then the quarry manager. This was one of those nights that he would never forget, and would probably have nightmares about. Thank Christ he was coming up to retirement. He liked his violent death confined to the old movies he was addicted to, not happening in reality, and before his very eyes.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

" **PLEASED** to see me, huh?" Gary asked.

Marion just stared at him and put her hands to her mouth. She was acting as though she had just walked into a house on Elm Street and come face to face with Freddy Krueger.

"Better get your shit together, Marion. You know all about me, now, so will appreciate what position you're in."

Marion lowered her hands to her sides. "Have you come to kill me, Gary?" she asked, surprised that her voice sounded so calm, belying the dread she felt.

"Not if you don't give me reason to. You're the only person who has ever shown me any genuine affection. Can I trust you, Marion?"

"Yes," she answered. "Although the truth is, you find it impossible to trust anybody"

"Wrong, Marion. I trust my instincts. Why are you home so early?"

"Because I just resigned. The police have the video you took of us. I decided to get out before it became an issue."

"What did you tell the police about me?"

"The truth. That we were having an affair."

"What else?"

"Nothing. How could I? I didn't know what you had done. I didn't think you were capable of...of killing."

"Who did you talk to?"

"I gave a statement to the police, and was interviewed by a criminal psychologist."

"Dr. Beth Holder?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

He ignored her question. "Are you being guarded?"

"Yes. There's a policeman outside, about fifty yards down the street in a grey Vectra."

"Only the one?"

"As far as I know. They don't consider me to be in any danger. I think it's just a case of covering all possibilities. One cop told me not to worry, because you wouldn't be stupid enough to turn up here."

Gary grinned. He wasn't the stupid one. "Okay, let's go down and have a nice cup of tea and watch the news. I might just be one of the main stories today."

"Why?"

"You'll see. I've been a busy boy."

Marion turned and went back down the stairs. She knew that she should be terrified, but did not feel in imminent jeopardy. There was no animosity being directed toward her. Gary appeared to be relaxed and in control. And he looked so different compared to the last time she had seen him. His hair was very short, he was a little thinner in the face, and was in the process of growing a beard and moustache. He was almost unrecognisable, apart from the black, staring eyes that marked him with an unmistakable individuality.

"You should wear shades, Gary," she said, switching on the kettle, and then the portable TV. "Your eyes are a dead give-away."

Sitting at the kitchen table, Marion reached into her handbag for her cigarettes and lighter. She withdrew them, and then pulled out a small, white plastic object fastened to a cord. "I could have pressed this," she said, tossing it across the table to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"An alarm. Some kind of battery-operated panic button. I was told that if I pressed it, the house would be surrounded by armed police in minutes."

"Why didn't you use it?"

"Because I'm a selfish bitch. I don't know why you kill, and I've decided I don't really care. What we had was good. I've never been accepted by other people, so why should I be concerned about them now?"

"What are you saying, Marion?"

"That you really _can_ trust me, Gary. Fuck everybody else. I'll do anything you want me to. I'm on your side."

Gary pocketed the gizmo, placed the Glock on the tabletop and went to her. She turned sideways, opening her legs so that he could stand between her thighs, up close to her. He pulled her to him and began to grow hard.

"That's my girl, Marion," he said. "Just you and me against the world. Once I've finished what I have to do, we can go away together and start a new life. I have a lot of money. You'd want for nothing."

They did not move for a while. The slim killer and the dumpy ex-nurse made an odd-looking couple.

He kissed her eager lips. Her breath was fresh, with no hint of garlic. She needed him, he knew that. And in a strange way that he could not fathom, he found succour in her company. Was it possible, feasible, that together they could be truly happy? He broke the embrace as the news came on, pulling his chair around to Marion's side of the table so that they could sit next to each other and watch. They held hands. First up was the inevitable update of the global, ongoing war against terrorism. Funny, Gary thought, how so many innocents died in the continuing battle of opposing ideals. World peace appeared to be as elusive as it had always been. Why didn't the people of the world unite and say, no, enough? The answer was simple. All leaders brainwashed the insect electorate by using a blend of propaganda and downright lies. To paint the selected enemy as a threat to democracy and all that was worth preserving was an age-old ploy. Fear was the key to keeping a nation's mind off the shortfalls of its leadership. All domestic concerns could be put on hold if war was on the near horizon, or being waged.

It was ten minutes later that a photograph of Frank Santini filled the screen. It was reported that while being driven home from one of his city night-clubs in the small hours, the entrepreneur's car apparently left the road, crashed through a fence and dropped over a hundred and forty feet into a quarry, where it exploded. It was not yet known whether any other vehicle had been involved. The police were continuing their investigation.

Gary had to hand it to Dom. He had stage-managed an alternative set of circumstances at short notice. No doubt when the police confirmed that Frank had been shot, Dom would act suitably shocked. That it would appear to have happened away from the estate was the point of the exercise. The Old Bill would have no cause to search the Santini residence. It was a commendable cleanup operation, which would keep the crap away from Dom's door. No bird likes shit in its own nest.

Gary went over to the TV and switched it off. "What happened to the tea?" he asked.

Marion got up and made it. "Did you have something to do with that?" she asked as she returned to the table.

"I had everything to do with it. Do you really want to know who I am, Marion?"

She nodded. Lit another cigarette. Sipped nervously at her tea.

"I've spent years killing people for money. I sometimes do it purely for pleasure. But it's basically my profession."

Marion would have liked to believe that what Gary was telling her was no more than one of his delusions, but knew because of recent events that it was the truth.

"Are you saying that you are a...a contract killer?"

Gary nodded. "I was hired by the guy you just saw on the box to hit a witness who was being kept under wraps in a safe house. I did the job, but was seen. Since then, things have been a little chaotic. They know who I am now, but will never catch me. I have passports and paperwork to adopt one of several new identities."

"So why are you still here? Isn't it risky?"

"What's life without a little risk? I need to take care of some unfinished business. Once that's done, we can go anywhere in the world, if you want to come with me."

"I do," Marion heard herself say. It was as if another person had moved in and taken up residence in her brain. "I want to really live, not just exist. But let's go _now_ , Gary."

"No can do. I've stirred things up and need to see what floats to the top, and deal with it."

"All of a sudden, I feel like Bonnie Parker," Marion said as the enormity of what she was prepared to do struck home.

"Well I'm no Clyde fucking Barrow," Gary said. "He was a dipshit. Got himself and Bonnie turned into colanders for no good reason."

"And you believe you can outsmart everybody?"

"You worked closely with me. I was one of your patients, and yet you bought the mixed-up young man act. Did you ever think it possible that I could be capable of the so-called atrocities you now know I committed?"

"No. You're very clever, Gary. But there's always somebody just as smart around the corner."

"I doubt that. But it would be a novelty to have a challenge. People are such predictable and easy prey."

"What will you do now?"

"You don't need to know. Initially, I thought I might stay here with you for a few days."

Marion was all in favour of that. "Good. What happened to your hand and arm?" she asked, noticing that coins of blood were beginning to show through the bandage.

"I got chewed on by a rat, then a dog. They didn't know who they were fooling around with."

She didn't enquire as to their fate. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Starving."

With renewed appetite, Marion fried bacon, sausages, eggs and tomatoes, and served it up with a stack of thickly-buttered toast and mugs of coffee.

Gary noticed that she had lost some weight. "You look really good, Marion," he said through a mouthful of food. "You must have lost a couple of stone at least. You'll need a whole new wardrobe."

She blushed. "I did it for you, Gary. I might never be a catwalk model, but it won't harm to see if there are a few curves under this blubber."

Christ, she was just about perfect. Being five years older than him lent her a certain maturity that he found almost maternal. She could be a friend, lover, confidante, and the mother he'd wished his own had been. Marion was far removed from Tracy Noon, who had been a cheap whore and poor excuse for a human being.

"I killed my mother," he stated simply. "She was a Tom and a lush, who brought men home to fuck for money. One of her...her punters was my father."

The admission released something. He had never told another living soul of his act of matricide. Just confessing it gave him an almost physical relief. He likened it to when he had suffered almost unbearable pain from an abscess under a tooth. When the dentist pulled it, there was an instant assuagement as the trapped pus was discharged.

To Marion, the disclosure was a thunderbolt. Her stomach rolled. The greasy food she had just eaten threatened to come back up. She pushed her plate away. "Maybe she was desperate, Gary. The drink may have been to dampen her feelings of shame or hopelessness. It's all too easy for a girl to fall―"

"Don't even attempt to make excuses for her, Marion. We all make life choices. She could have found other work; got by without degrading herself and screwing strangers. I spent years watching an endless procession of pathetic men come and go. I would lie awake at night and listen to the creaking of bedsprings and the cries and moans of pleasure. I went to sleep a thousand times with my fingers in my ears. I was left to fend for myself, mostly. In the end something snapped. I hated her for having me, and for then neglecting me. Maybe she hated me. One night, after she'd finished up with some creep, I pushed her down the stairs. And I felt so-o-o good. The problem was suddenly gone."

Marion could not think of anything to say to him. The confession explained so much to her of his personality and subsequent actions. On one level, he probably knew that his mother had cared for him. She could always have had the pregnancy terminated, but had obviously chosen to have him. And she had not given him up for adoption. But the embarrassment of being a young boy with a drunken prostitute for a mother had been too much for him to assimilate and bear. Killing her must have left him very disturbed. Feelings of relief, suppressed guilt, self-condemnation and a sense of loss would take a heavy toll. The boy had lived with the terrible secret, gone unpunished, and had no doubt started mutilating himself as penance, even if he was unaware of the reason he practised self harm. He had also discovered that all dilemmas could be eradicated, erased. She could empathise with that philosophy, to a degree. How many times had she wanted to hurt...even kill somebody? Gary had just taken that giant step over an invisible line and done it, to be changed forever by the experience.

"You understand, don't you?" Gary asked.

"Yes, my love. Let's go to bed. I need you."

They went upstairs, undressed slowly without talking, then lay on the bed and coupled. Marion gripped his buttocks with her hands, rising energetically to meet his hard thrusts. All too soon she climaxed, and then felt him loose himself within her. They kissed, fondled each other intimately, and made love again, moving with less urgency. It was a syncopated act. They enjoyed each other at length, more casually, without the need to rush, savouring, exploring, before eventually releasing together. The physical joining was symbolic. They were connected on several levels.

Another door had opened in Gary's psyche. Maybe there was more to life than he had previously envisaged. He'd thought he might have been on a collision course with destruction; that the world was coming to pieces and he was one of the very last generation that would walk its surface, waiting for inevitable termination. Now, he could foresee a future. His feelings toward Marion transcended violence and sex. He was not just a killer who took life for the sake of the act. He was a connoisseur of death, and would now share that fascination; tutor his new love in the art, so that they could jointly grow and move forward. In Marion, he could see a reflection of his own deepest needs. He would lead her into a new dimension; a marvellous place. Guide her through a portal into a unique world of total freedom, where without hindrance they could explore the dark realm in which he dwelt.

"If the two of us are going to be a real couple, then you'll have to be bloodied, like a youngster at the kill of a fox," he said.

Marion's bladder was suddenly full, cramping with the fear of her own potential. She actually wanted to change, to shed off all preconceived notions of good, bad, right and wrong. In renunciation of all acceptable behaviour, and as if it would affirm that she could eclipse her past and be reborn spiritually, she parted her legs and relaxed, to flood the bed in rebellion against common decency.

Gary watched the act, and then looked into her eyes. He saw the avid gleam of anticipation, and moved over her again, his ardour rekindled by the unspoken pact that they had made. He now had a new-found companion to share in his exploits. The sense of belonging was a new one. He had always been a man apart. Now, he was half of a soon to be double act, though would always be the dominant partner. Oh, what an unstoppable, deadly force they would be. Together, there would be nothing that they could not achieve. The world was suddenly a far more dangerous place for other people to live in.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

**MAYBE** the combination of too much coffee and Scotch was keeping him awake. He'd told Ron that he would be checking out in the morning. He was supine, staring at the ceiling. The bedside lamp was on. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost three-thirty a.m. Turning over, he reached out to switch off the light. Had he been at home, he would have had a shower, then gone down and made a pot of coffee. His mind was too active, overriding the weariness he felt.

The events since the slayings at the bungalow in Finchley kept replaying, gnawing, eating at him, and giving him no respite. His life had radically changed, and a lot of people had died at the instigation of Santini and the subsequent actions of his hired assassin. And yet despite being besieged by an almost debilitating sense of culpability that he could not rid himself of, – even though he knew that his comrades' deaths had been the direct result of a bent cop selling them out – he felt, in contradiction, more alive than he had done in years. He wasn't just living the current case. There were other considerations and dynamics, and Beth was the inspirational force at the centre. Up until very recently he had not thought of the possibility that life had a grand design. It had been little more than a haphazard series of unrelated experiences. Now, he felt more grounded. He had survived near death, and it had changed him. He had become mellower, and concluded that he was truly in love for the first time. And with that knowledge came a sense of vulnerability and weakness that frightened him. His heart was committed to someone. That he once – quite recently – thought he was in love with Linda, could now be recognised for the misconception it had been. He was able to differentiate, and knew that although very fond of her, something unfathomable had been missing from the equation. What that something was, he could not begin to comprehend. He tried to work it out, but gave up. Why one person could magnetically unlock such a powerful emotion in another was a mystery of such magnitude that it was beyond comprehension. Hate, greed, envy and other sentiments could be examined and understood. There was usually a rational explanation for them. But the power of love was as invasive and indefinable as the most potent virus. It was no wonder that writers and poets used such words as smitten when referring to it. It was in some way an affliction, however pleasant. He accepted that he had been struck, seized and infected by it, but was not complaining. Was Beth his Achilles heel? She had the potential to unintentionally bring about his downfall, by weakening his resolve and distracting him from all else.

He snatched his hand back from the light switch as his mobile chirped. It was a few seconds before he answered it. He was sure it would be Beth; in the same instinctive way that he had sometimes been humming a tune, just before turning the car radio on to hear that self-same tune playing.

"Matt?"

So much for premonition. "Yeah, Tom."

"Get dressed."

"You mean this isn't a social call?"

"I don't do social at this time in the morning."

"So who's dead?"

"Frank Santini."

"Hit?"

"Yeah. His car went off the road, through a fence, and nose-dived into a quarry. It went up like a Roman candle."

"Fitting for an Italian."

"You a comedian now?"

"Yeah, a regular Ben Elton."

"He's passé' like platform shoes and kipper ties."

"What about Santini?"

"I'm informed by the local uniforms that he's charcoal. The pathologist is on the way to the scene, but I doubt we'll get spit till he does the cut."

"How can you be sure it's him?"

"Because Nick Marino gave me a call. Santini got shot off his bedroom balcony. Dom arranged for the body to be relocated, to keep us at arms' length."

"Where are you?"

"Two minutes from your hotel, and closing. Meet me out front."

"Where's the scene?"

"A few miles east of Santini's drum. It's meant to look as though it went down before he got home from town. The shooter, who just had to be Noon, also capped two of the muscle and a guard dog as he made his getaway. Nick and Luther Tyrell drove the bodies and a Heckler and Koch assault rifle – that had been left behind – over to the coast. Nick says a couple of fishermen took delivery and were going to dump the bodies out at sea. Luther told Nick that there was a deep trench four miles offshore that they used to 'vanish' people in. He reckoned that there had been at least thirty burials at the site to his knowledge. They get weighted and wrapped in chicken wire, not canvas. None of them get washed ashore."

"Isn't Nick's evidence enough to run with?"

"No, Matt. We've only got his word. He won't come out from cover until he can give us Dominic Santini on a plate, with an apple in his mouth."

The sun was up when they reached the quarry. Tom drove through the now open gateway, down the narrow road that dropped steeply to where the twisted, burnt-out wreck of the Mercedes was lying like a crushed cockroach in an amphitheatre of chalk.

There was already a white Incitent up, almost invisible against the backdrop of the chalk. A forensic team was picking through the surrounding rubble and pieces of the car for evidence. Tom brought the unmarked Cosworth to a halt next to a Portakabin, and he and Matt got out and went inside the prefabricated hut, where an ashen-faced old man was sitting in a grubby easy chair, nursing a mug of tea in his shaking hands. A uniform was with him.

Tom looked to the officer and raised his eyebrows questioningly as he flashed his ID.

"This is the night-watchman, sir," PC Gavin Walsh said. "He's given us a statement."

Tom turned his attention to the trembling man. "What's your name, sir?"

"Eric Crompton."

"What exactly did you see, Eric?"

"Like I told the other copper, er, policeman, I...I 'eard it land. It was like a bleedin' bomb goin' awf. An' then the place lit up like a Christmas tree. Blew the fuckin' window in. I went out, but there was noffink I could do. Some poor bastard was arf out of the windscreen. He was burnin'up, an'...an' he was writhin' about."

"Anything else?"

"Ain't that enough, fer Gawd's sake?"

Tom nodded and followed Matt outside and across to the tent. They could both smell burnt flesh and petrol as they approached. Tom fished his cigarettes out and offered Matt one. They lit up, sucked in the smoke and blew it out of their nostrils to nullify the stink a little, before entering the tent.

The Home Office pathologist, Hugh Foster, looked up from where he was squatting next to the grisly spectacle of the corpse. It was curled in a foetal position. The clothes had been burned off, and the body was an overall black with bright red flesh showing through the cracks in the flame-grilled skin. The heat had contracted the muscles, causing the arms to bend at the elbows in 'begging dog' fashion. The hands were grotesque claws; Twiglet fingers grasping at the air. Worst of all was the head. It reminded Matt of a hairless, wizened Al Jolson. A cascade of what appeared to be melted pink and white nougat protruded from the lip less mouth, and had set on the chin in a thick patina― Santini's reformed dentures. Matt's stomach threatened to unload its contents. He was not normally squeamish, but a lack of food and the stench and sight combined to make him feel nauseous.

"This is the passenger, Tom," Hugh said. "The driver needs to be cut out. He's part of the vehicle at the moment."

"And I suppose there's nothing you can tell me, yet," Tom said.

Hugh pulled the face mask he was wearing down to below his chin and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I can. This, and he pointed a finger of his gloved hand to the cinder-black forehead, is a bullet hole. If you move around to my side of the barbecue, you'll see that the back of the skull has been blown out. Sometimes extreme heat will boil a brain up and the cranium will explode. But this was definitely caused by a gunshot. I would think we'll have problems identifying the remains."

"We know who he was, Hugh," Matt said. "Frank Santini."

"Santini, the gangster?"

"The one and only."

"Give me a bell when you get round to checking out the driver," Tom said. And to Matt. "Come on, let's get the smell of roast pig out of our noses and go break the good news to Dominic. See if he puts on an award-winning act of shock and grief for pops."

Tom drove up to the gates of Villa Venice, opened his window and thumbed the intercom button that was set beneath a grilled plate on a post at the driver's side.

"Yes?" A tinny Dalek voice crackled through the concealed speaker.

"Detective Chief Inspector Bartlett and Detective Inspector Barnes to see Dominic Santini."

"Wait."

Over a minute passed. Without any further communication the gates swung back to admit them. Tom followed the long, tree-lined drive, to eventually arrive at the front of the impressive house.

"And they say crime doesn't pay," Matt said.

Tom grinned. "Frank might know it doesn't, now."

A sallow-skinned, middle-aged guy in a sharp, dark blue mohair suit opened the door before Tom had time to press the bell.

"Follow me," Carlo said, and led them through a large open hall, past a grand staircase and beneath a glittering chandelier that would have graced Buck House. They were directed into a split level lounge of enormous proportions, which was more like the foyer of a swank hotel than the reception room of a private residence.

"Well, if it isn't DI Barnes," Dom said, approaching them from where he had been standing in front of a large, Gothic-style stone fireplace. He wore a blue oxford cloth shirt, cuffs turned back, a pair of navy trousers, and cream loafers. "And you've got your own driver. You must be on the take. A cop's pay don't stretch to that."

"Where's your old man, Santini?" Tom asked.

"How the fuck should I know? I'm his son, not his keeper. Maybe he's at the club. He sometimes stays over. What do you want with him?"

"Nothing, anymore. We just left him about five miles from here. He's brown bread, Dom," Matt said. "In fact he's toast."

"What the fuck are you saying?" Dom shouted. The muscles in his cheeks tensed, his hands clenched into fists, and he fixed a suitable expression of both surprise and distress on his face.

"I'm afraid his car went off the road and ended up at the bottom of a quarry," Matt said with undisguised levity. "It exploded on impact. Frank and his driver look like overcooked Sunday joints."

"And guess what, Santini?" Tom added, taking over smoothly from Matt. "Your dearly departed dad had been shot in the head. So I think it safe to say he was dead before the impromptu cremation."

"You both think this is highly amusing," Dom seethed. "I wonder if you'll still be smirking when I..." He bit his lip.

"Was that going to be a threat, Dom?" Matt asked. "Or are you just lost for words at this sad time?"

"Get the fuck off my property, now. I have nothing else to say to you two morons."

"You're next, Dom," Matt continued. "Gary Noon will get round to you when he's ready. And nowhere is safe. The boy's good at what he does."

"Gary who?" Dom quizzed.

"The shooter who hit Lester Little for your father," Tom said. "I think you must have done or said something to get on his wrong side."

"I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about. But if you think you know the identity of my father's murderer, then do your job and lift him."

"No rush. This way we save a lot of taxpayers' money," Tom said. "Noon can do what we've been trying to for years; make London a Santini-free zone."

Dom took two paces towards Tom, then stopped and reined in his anger.

Tom nodded. "Wise move, you piece of shit. Without a gun in your hand, I'd break you in two."

As prearranged, Tom turned on his heel and made his way back through the house to the front door. Matt stayed.

"Between you and me, Dom, Noon is gunning for both of us," Matt said. "He shot your old man here at the house. Don't bother to deny it. Point is, he was giving a demonstration. If you know how to contact him, or anything about him we don't, get in touch. I'll be back at my own house today, and my number's in the book."

"Why would I phone you, cop?"

"Because on this we should work together. I appreciate how dangerous he is, and so do you, now. The sooner he gets his, the better. Every minute he's on the loose we're both at risk."

"It might not be in my best interest for you lot to pick him up. And after what he's just done, he doesn't get his day in court. He's mine."

"That's fine by me. I had no intention of trying to arrest him."

Dom smiled. "You won't get the chance to. I'll find him and make him wish he'd been stillborn. I might send you his head as a consolation prize. And be advised that if you don't stay out of my face, you could easily wind up the same way. Don't try to be a fucking hero, Barnes. I have ears and eyes everywhere. If I'd given the nod, you would've been hit at that crummy hotel in Tottenham, where you've been lying low."

Matt left. He had been taken aback to be told that Dom knew where he was staying. If he'd been followed, then the tail was much better than just good.

"You think we ruffled his feathers?" Tom said as they headed back to town.

"Yeah. We won't get through those gates again without a warrant," Matt answered. "And he knew where I was staying, Tom. I was a sitting duck and didn't know it."

"You'll be covered back at your place. And now that Nick is tight with them, whatever junior plans to do we have a good chance of finding out about."

"We need hard evidence, Tom. Knowing he's dirty and proving it is poles apart. His type doesn't stay in business by letting any shit stick to them. Look how long it took us to pick up Little and cut a deal. And then we lost him. None of Santini's mob will talk after seeing what happened to him. They'd rather do a long stretch and keep breathing."

"You're sounding defeatist."

"Just saying it how it is, Tom. Remember, he still has a cop on his payroll; most likely a few. We don't know who we can trust."

Jack McClane called Tom, Matt and Beth to his office. They were indulging in more doughnuts and coffee when he phoned down and told them to report to him. A working breakfast was becoming the norm.

"Sit," Jack said as they filed in. He kept his back to them for a minute, just watching his fish angle up to gulp down the food he had sprinkled on the water's surface. When he turned away from the tank, he took a deep breath and slumped down on his chair.

"You first, Tom," he said. "Apart from bodies, what else have we got?"

"We've got a renegade shooter who has now taken out Frank Santini and two of his men. He's doing our job for us, till we close him down. Or until Dominic Santini finds him."

"You said two of his men," Jack said. "I thought there was only one man with him in the car."

"I've got an officer undercover on the inside. He gave me a bell. Told me that Noon shot Frank, then two of his men and a guard dog as he made his escape. Dominic arranged for it to look as though the hit on Frank was done at the quarry, and then had the corpses of the other two men taken over to the coast and dumped at sea."

"You mean you replaced Joey Demaris without my permission?"

"It was the only way to go. Joey got iced because a cop, probably Vic Pender, gave him up. I needed somebody on the inside, and chose to tell no one who I was putting in. I didn't want to lose another officer."

"Out of order, Tom. I'm in overall charge of this squad, and don't appreciate being kept in the fucking dark. We'll discuss it later. How close are you to lifting Noon?"

"We know he'll try to hit Matt, and probably Santini Junior. I've got men sticking like glue to Santini. And Matt is going high profile again to lure Noon in."

"What are your thoughts on it?" Jack said, putting the question to Beth.

"I agree with Tom," she said. "Noon will almost certainly target Matt first, knowing that Santini is on full alert. He may even decide to back off for a while. But I have the feeling that he won't. He'll expect us to think that. And he won't be stupid enough to make his move against Matt at home." Beth shut her eyes and attempted to think herself into the killer's mind. "He'll avoid any scenario that we plan for. The obvious time and place for him to hit Matt is at night and at his house. So he'll do the opposite. During daylight. And surroundings that wouldn't be considered high risk will be his choice. The truth is, he has the upper hand. The attempt – when it takes place – could be made from a car pulling alongside at traffic lights. The possibilities are endless. Matt is very unsafe anywhere outside of here or his home."

"You could be way off, Beth," Jack said. "That sounds off the wall; pure guesswork."

"He is by his very nature, cunning. He doesn't approach anything without careful planning," Beth replied. "Look at the murders that he has committed; the way he stayed next door to the safe house and used Jerry Page's clothes and the pet dog as props to get to the witness. And the assault through the roof to kill Penny. He won't be caught by using logical thought. He doesn't work that way. Think of the most unlikely form of attack, and it will probably be the one he will adopt."

"You could be giving him credit where none's due."

"A Hungarian biochemist, Albert Szent-Gyorgyi, who won the Nobel prize back in the late thirties for isolating vitamin C, once said, 'discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen, and thinking what nobody has thought'. I took that to heart when I started out as a criminal psychologist, and it usually pays off. Gary Noon's unpredictability in some ways makes him predictable. Don't forget that he is paranoid and displays schizophrenic symptoms. He looks for traps in every shadow."

"You make him sound unstoppable, Beth," Matt said. "Should I make a will today?"

"No, that that would be tempting what is already probable fate."

Jack tugged impatiently at the cuffs of his Jacket's sleeves. "I still don't understand this character," he said. "Most contract killers are pros. They don't get emotionally involved. They carry out the hit and vanish back into the woodwork. This guy is getting personal."

"You can't classify him in that way," Beth said. "I believe his sentience is very different to that of most people's. He would be treated as a member of a separate and alien species if his difference was physical rather than neurological. His mind is genetically flawed. The information in his chromosomes is malformed, setting him apart. In essence, he's human, but possesses characteristics which render him psychopathic and homicidal. He is a predator within society, driven by bloodlust, feeding off the fear, anguish and the pain he generates. Accept that he is sneaky, very resourceful, and is devoid of compassion or the ability to feel guilt. He has the arrogance to believe himself singularly immune to any form of retribution for his actions."

"That bad, huh?" Tom said.

"Yes. Mental illness can make people less or more than human. Gary Noon is the embodiment of the monster that most kids at one time or another believe live in their wardrobes or under their beds at night."

"You stay at home, Barnes," Jack said. "We can control the situation there. He'll wait, see that you're staying put, and lose patience. I believe he'll eventually be drawn out and make his play."

"But―" Beth began.

"That's it," Jack said. "Adopt a siege mentality. We'll wait him out and bring him down. Go and make it happen."

As they left the super's office, Jack called Tom back and asked Matt to close the door on leaving.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing holding out on me, Tom? You have no right to run an operation without my knowledge and permission," he barked.

"I used initiative, Jack. After Joey Demaris vanished, and we knew there was probably a mole, the only cop I could fully trust was myself. I put an out-of-town officer in Santini's firm and kept a lid on it. Vic Pender wasn't the only bent cop. Santini still has someone close to us feeding him with what we do. I've hand-picked officers to watch Matt's back, and just hope and pray that one of them isn't on the wop's payroll."

Jack thought long and hard over what his DCI had said. "Okay, Tom. I suppose it's what I would have done. Let's hope your man on the inside gets the cop's name. We're compromised, and we can't be efficient under these circumstances."

"There have always been cops on the take, Jack."

"Yeah, but this is a lot more serious than some vice cop taking a few quid from a pimp and turning a blind eye. People are dying because of this turncoat."

"When we nail Santini, and we will, he'll sell his contacts out for a cell with a view. There's no such thing as honour among scum."

Jack sighed. "I hope you're right, Tom. To date we've lost every round against Santini."

"Not true, Jack. Frank's dead, and his ape of a son hasn't got the old man's brains. He's a minor player in comparison. He'll be easier to bring down."

# CHAPTER THIRTY

**GARY** was sleeping like a baby, enjoying a dream. In it, he was driving a classic bright red Porsche 911 Cabriolet, with the top down. The car was his idea of perfection, with its five-spoke light alloy wheels and distinctive 'whale tail'. He sped through rolling green hills. The sun sparked off the Porsche's bonnet, and a warm breeze caressed his tanned face and arms. The radio was cranked up, and sixties rock was zinging from the speakers: Del Shannon singing _Runaway_. He felt so relaxed, so fine...So fucking alive. This was an idealised world in which his mother was still alive; married, and living in a chocolate box-lid cottage in the Chilterns. Tracy Noon baked, pottered about in the rose garden, and was an active member of the WI. And Gary had a father to be proud of. A kind, honest-as-the-day-is-long, decent, hardworking man; a pillar of the community.

Gary's dream fast forwarded. He pulled to a stop outside the white picket fence, got out of the car and walked to the gate. The guy next door was out front, mowing the lawn, walking slowly up and down, the engine of his lawnmower roaring like an outboard motor, rudely drowning out the sound of birdsong, and the laughter of several children who were out in the lane with skipping-ropes, combining exercise with pleasure.

Gary knew that Jim Patterson always cut the grass on a Saturday morning. It was a long-term habit, as regular as Big Ben's chimes, or a cow's bowels. He waved, but Jim either didn't see him or ignored him. He shrugged and walked up the path to his parents' house.

The front door was locked. There was no answer to his insistent pounding on it. Around back was the same, but the kitchen door gave under the solid impact of a Timberland boot sole, to fly back and rebound off the rubber doorstop that was screwed into the floor.

His 'dad' was sitting at the table, head hanging back, a revolver clenched in his hand. House flies fed in droves from his mouth, the ragged hole that the bullet had forged through the back of his skull, and on the gore that spattered the wall behind him in rose madder and candy pink, with the added texture of bone fragments and drying brains. An almost empty bottle of Grant's whisky and a shot glass stood on the kitchen table in front of the corpse.

Gary found his mother upstairs, slumped face up on the bed, her throat deeply cut and hanging open from ear to ear in semblance of a wide-mouthed grin. The sheets were awash with blood that had escaped her severed arteries, and a single fat, iridescent bluebottle roamed over the surface of her open left eye. The vile, choking stench of defecation combined with the coppery scent of blood made him gag and swallow hard to prevent himself from adding to the mess. He ran from the bedroom, back down the stairs and out into the open air. Sitting in the car, which was no longer a Porsche, but a rusted old banger with slashed tyres and a cracked windscreen, he lit a cigarette and looked back towards the cottage. It was gone, replaced by the terrace house he had grown up in.

The scene shifted. Even in sleep, there was no respite from a certain wretchedness that dogged him. Now, lying on the top of his sleeping bag in the loft space of the timber-built outbuilding, he put the cross hairs of the night scope on Santini's forehead and eased back the trigger. There was just a loud, metallic click that seemed to be a signal for a multitude of rats to swarm over him. He lashed out at the stinking, shrieking abundance of vermin as they blanketed him and tore at his flesh with needle-sharp teeth and hooked claws.

"Gary. Wake up. Wake up!" Marion pleaded, shaking him as he thrashed and moaned next to her.

The images lost form and evaporated. He scrabbled back, pushed himself up into a sitting position and rested against the headboard with his feet drawn up, knees tucked under his chin.

"I had a bad dream," he said. "All my dreams turn to nightmares."

"Poor baby," Marion said. "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

"Yes. But leave the lights off."

They went downstairs to the kitchen. Bright moonlight illuminated their naked bodies as they drank coffee. Gary told Marion of his dream. Of how he sometimes conjured up a better mother, and even a father.

"You subconsciously wish that your childhood had been different, so create an alternative life."

"But it's never right."

"That's because you can't fool yourself. On some level, even in sleep, you know it's not real, that it's just wishful thinking."

"I feel better for having you to talk things through with, Marion."

"Good. We have a lot of living to do. And a lot of new memories to make together."

Dom felt safe at the service, and afterwards at the cemetery. It was now two weeks since Frank had been capped, and Dom didn't move an inch without at least four armed guards shielding him from possible attack. He had doubled the patrols on the estate, and had ordered a new Mercedes with armour-plated bodywork and bullet-proof windows. He also avoided patterns, kept away from Rocco's, and only left Villa Venice when absolutely necessary. The funeral had been one such occasion. The cemetery and surrounding area had been searched, and his men ringed it. There was no high ground for a shooter to set up a shot, bar the church tower, which was manned by two of his people.

The only other excursion Dom made was to the Holiday Inn at Heathrow, to meet with the Yank hitman that Benny Andretti had connected his father with. Dom sat at a corner table in the bar and waited. It was fifteen minutes before he was paged to a house phone.

"Dominic Santini?"

"Yeah."

"Come on up to room 108. And leave the muscle at the bar. Okay?"

"I'm on my way," Dom said.

He reached the room, paused and raised his hand to knock. Before he could, the door to 107 opened. He looked sideways.

"In here," a slim guy with collar-length steel-grey hair said, giving him a thin smile. It was the same American drawl he had heard over the phone.

"You said 108," Dom said.

"I lied. You can't be too careful."

Kyle Macy, AKA Maurice Wilde, William Akins and Alan Roberts among many other aliases, reminded Dom of a younger, chisel-faced Charles Bronson, back before the late hard man actor had got old and a bit podgy-looking. Macy was the type of man who exuded lethal potential without saying a word or altering his expression. It was just a built-in quality that could not be manufactured. Some people had 'presence'. Macy had it in abundance.

"Take a seat," Kyle said. "And tell me everything you know about the mark."

Dom perched on the edge of a mushroom coloured faux-leather easy chair and took newspaper cuttings including pictures of Noon from his pocket, along with typed-out details of the recent killings he knew the psycho had carried out, starting with Lester Little and ending with Frank and the guards. He had also included the address of the hotel Barnes had stayed at, the cop's home address and the name and address of the psychologist, Beth Holder.

Kyle appeared to flip almost casually through the information, but had the ability to pick out the pertinent points without being bogged down with irrelevant data. "Where does the broad fit in this?" he asked.

"Noon intends to hit Barnes. And Barnes has supposedly got a thing going with her," Dom answered.

"Is this everything?" Kyle asked, tapping the paperwork as he spoke.

"Yeah. Do you think you can find Noon and bring him to me?"

"Sure. But don't expect it to happen like that," Kyle said, snapping middle finger and thumb off each other to produce a loud click. "This guy might be a wacko, but he gets the job done and knows how to duck and weave. He ain't no schmuck."

"I want him in one piece," Dom said. "He capped my father. I need to make him wish he hadn't."

"I don't usually lift people. I would have to adjust my rates accordingly for customised work," Kyle said.

"Cash isn't an issue," Dom said, pulling a bulging envelope from the inside pocket of his Saville Row suit. "There's fifty thousand US dollars here."

Kyle shook his head. "I don't work like that. Give me a few grand in Sterling to cover my expenses. I'll give you an offshore account number to transfer my fee to, when I deliver."

Dom put the envelope away. Withdrew his wallet to remove a generous wedge of crisp bank notes and hand it to the impassive-looking American. "There. And if the cop goes down, I wouldn't be sorry," he added.

"I'll work it into the mix. Now, sit tight and give me two minutes before you leave the room. And Mr Santini, don't be tempted to have me followed. I work strictly on my own, with no strings. You won't see me again. I'll call and let you know when and where you can pick up Noon."

Dom got up and reached out to shake Kyle's hand, but the American ignored the gesture and left without saying another word.

Kyle slipped out of the Holiday Inn by a rear door that led into the car park. Climbing into a Hertz rental, he headed into the city, watchful for a tail. He was no stranger to London, having visited more than a dozen times over the years to conduct 'business'.

At fifty-two, Kyle was a veteran in the shadowy world of professional mechanics; an ex-Special Forces sniper who had adapted his uncommon talent to serve him well throughout the years. He had more hits to his credit than Elvis and The Beatles combined. He was the trigger who had brought an abrupt end to over sixty citizens, including politicians, gangsters, civil rights leaders, captains of industry, a Las Vegas casino owner – who was in partnership with the mob and got greedy – and rich husbands and wives who wanted rid of their spouses, permanently. Kyle only drew the line at children and babies. He had never taken a contract on a minor. He had _some_ principles. Married with two grown-up daughters, Kyle led a double life. In his persona as a successful player of the markets, his portfolio was genuine, and in reality he had not needed to kill for over a decade. But it was what he did, and excelled at. Of late he'd made the decision to limit himself to two or three hits a year. He even took the location and identity of the marks into consideration these days. He could afford to be picky. He would not have taken this one, had it not been Andretti who'd contacted him. Benny was of the old school; a rare gentleman in the criminal fraternity, more connected than any other racketeer on the east coast. And the job offered was unusual. To hit a fellow pro' was not unheard of, but rarer than the movies would have it. By all accounts, the shooter in question was begging for it. Like a rabid dog, he had turned on the hand that fed him. There was no room in this line of work for a crazy son of a bitch running amok. He would track him down, immobilise him, and deliver him to Santini. The cop would be a nice bonus, if it worked out. Kyle had no love for the law.

Checking in to a midrange, nondescript hotel and registering as David Masters, Kyle ordered a club sandwich and pot of coffee from room service, then slept solidly for three hours before showering, shaving and settling at the writing desk to study at length the information Santini had given him. He began the process of thinking out the best way to locate and abduct Gary Noon.

It was obvious that none of the players would know Noon's whereabouts, but Kyle knew his intentions. The way to run him down was by considering Santini and the cop as his contracts. If Noon was as good as his reputation, then Kyle's mock planning to hit the two men would be the best way to put him in the same location as the rogue shooter. First element to this Gordian knot was selection. Who would he deal with first in Noon's position? Kyle studied the facts. Frank Santini had been sniped at his home. Electrified fences and armed foot patrols with dogs had not deterred Noon. The attack had been ambitious, audacious and unexpected. _What would I do_? Kyle thought as he closed his eyes and went into himself, to become unaware of his surroundings, such was the intensity of his concentration. Dominic Santini was on red alert to the threat, taking all precautions. Surprise was not possible at this time. The cop would be the softer target. He would be first. But not at his home, where he had broadcast he would be. That was a trap. Kyle made mental notes under the three headings of; Opportunity, Method, and Extrication. The best opportunity would be by employing diversionary tactics. He would draw Barnes out, preferably by means of an inducement to make him freely lower his guard. The cop would be armed and dangerous. This was a highly trained pro that worked in the Yard's Serious Crimes Unit and was also experienced in minding potential marks. He had already survived an attack by Noon, and would be as skittish as a virgin in a football team's locker room. Barnes was not to be taken lightly.

The woman! Dr. Beth Holder was the knife blade to cut through the cop's defences, if it was true that they were doing more than just working the case together. That was the opportunity. Method next. Noon bore Barnes malice. It would have to be close up and personal. Perhaps a silenced handgun. Given the chance, he would kill the woman first, maybe in front of the cop. Then perhaps gut shoot Barnes and let him suffer the loss of a loved one and a great deal of pain for awhile, before double-tapping him in the head and quitting the scene. If it was unknown to others where Barnes was, then he could walk away with impunity. And if Noon was paranoid, as the newspaper reports claimed, then he would be ultra careful in selecting the killing site. It would have to be the woman's apartment. Kyle smiled. The perfect venue. Noon would believe he could do the job and leave before anyone realised that the hit had taken place. That was where he could be taken from, as he made his move.

Dressing casually, Kyle left the hotel and drove across town to an address in Forest Gate to meet a gun dealer he had done business with before. Within the hour, he was in possession of a SIG P228, a silencer, a box of Teflon-tipped ammunition, and a shoulder rig. He headed out to the woman's address in Roehampton, hoping that the job would be wrapped up inside a week. It was his daughter Janice's twenty-first in nine days time, and he would have liked to have helped his wife, Terri, with preparation for the outdoor party they planned. He owned a large waterside property in Coral Gables, and wanted to be back in Miami to oversee the erection of the marquee in the backyard, and the setting up of the outdoor lighting and firework display. Nobody got things done right nowadays unless they were stood over and hassled. It promised to be a memorable night, as befitted his youngest princess. There would be a live band, and a surprise guest in the shape of Janice's favourite singer, Ricky Garcia. Kyle played golf with the rock star's father, Tony, and had offed a union official for him several years back. It nearly always came down to not what, but who you knew.

He parked where he had a clear view of the entrance to the apartment block. It was well lit. He settled; ready to do what he had decades of experience of, watching, waiting, and ruining people's day in the extreme.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

**DOM** completed thirty lengths of the pool that abutted the rear of the house. He swam fast, using his powerful arms and shoulders to cleave through the water. His legs and feet hardly moved, giving the top half of his body no assistance as they dragged along in his wake like excess baggage. Swimming was the only sport he indulged in. The activity had a calming influence, soothing him and suppressing the anger that he felt at being almost a prisoner under self-imposed house arrest.

The large patio doors formed a glass wall at one side of the pool. They were open, and Tiny was sitting at a table in the small, cobbled piazza. He had never been to Italy, but supposed that this portico with tiled roof supported by marble columns was what Frank Santini had based on some place he knew in the old country. It was a miniature Venetian Riviera. Tiny would not have been surprised if a couple of gondolas had been moored in the pool for added effect. The whole estate was a shrine to wop architecture and landscaping. It could have been set beside Epcot's World Showcase Lagoon with a small scale version of the coliseum, and a Pizza Hut thrown in for good measure.

Tiny was nervous as he watched his boss. Dom was pissed that no one could locate Noon. His mood was degenerating with every passing day, as internal pressures raged within him. He needed to release the pent-up frustration, and nothing less than dismembering his father's killer would pacify him. Tiny knew that Dom always found murder a satisfying solution. The gratification of personally dealing with Noon would be a special and glorious liberation, incorporating revenge with the riddance of a serious threat to his continued good health.

The wall-mounted extension phone rang. Tiny answered it.

"It's the cop, boss," he shouted as Dom approached the shallow end of the pool and stood up in thigh-deep water.

"So take a message, why don't you?" Dom rasped, combing his long, matted hair back with his fingers.

"He says it's personal," Tiny said, almost apologetically.

Dom nodded, walked up the steps onto the non slip surround of the pool and took the receiver from Tiny.

"Yeah?" he growled, snatching the offered towel from Tiny and wiping his face with it, before draping it around his shoulders.

"You've got another fox in the chicken shed," his contact said.

"Don't speak to me in fucking riddles. My phones are secure."

"Okay. You've got another undercover cop on the inside."

"Who?"

"I don't know, yet."

"So find out."

"I'll try."

"Trying doesn't cut it. When was he planted?"

"Not long after you whacked the other one. I'd check out every guy you've hired over the last twelve months."

"I will. And when I turn him up, he'll be nailed to that stupid fucking revolving sign outside the Yard. Your mob are starting to seriously piss me off." With that, Dom ripped the phone from the wall and hurled it into the pool.

Tiny watched the handset sway back and forth through the water as it sank to the bottom. Braced himself to face the tsunami that was Dominic Santini.

Dom walked back down the steps, unmindful of the towel that floated off his shoulders to become waterlogged and slowly drift down to join the telephone as he set out to swim another ten lengths. Only when he felt capable of speaking without exploding into frenzy, did he once more exit the pool and address Tiny.

"We've got another stinking cop on the firm," he said. "Make a list of all the new faces that have been hired during the past year. Then check their backgrounds and dig out the fucking plod."

Tiny said nothing, just nodded and made to leave.

"First, fix me a drink," Dom said as he pulled on a towelling robe.

Tiny obeyed, but his heart wasn't in it. He was beginning to feel vulnerable, out in the middle of a firing range with nowhere to take cover. Frank had been the boss, and Dom didn't have the old man's acumen to run the show. Tiny had a premonition of disaster. A niggling voice told him to get out while he had the chance to. If the cops lifted Noon before the Yank shooter found him, then Dom and everybody close to him would spend the foreseeable future doing soul-destroying time in the confines of a maximum security dispersal nick. Tiny shuddered inwardly. Truth was, he felt not a shred of loyalty to Dom. Being a glorified – if highly paid – manservant was beginning to pall. He was no slave. He was Luther Tyrell, and didn't need the money enough anymore to be treated like dirt by a lowlife psycho dago who he had no respect for. And yet it wasn't easy to walk away. You didn't just quit as if it was a nine-to-five job. He knew too much about the operation to be allowed out. There were examples that came to mind. Billy Henderson was one. The big Geordie had ducked-out after being on Santini's payroll for eight years. The dumb ox had legged it back to Newcastle, sure that he would be safe. Tiny and Eddie had been sent up to waste him.

It wasn't personal. They'd found Henderson's sister on a council estate east of the city. Donna had been gutsy, like her brother. They slapped her around for a while, knocked a few teeth out, broke an arm, and were about to start in on her two-year-old daughter. It was then that she saw the light and gave Billy up. She swore on her kid's life not to pick the phone up or tell anyone that they had dropped by. Tiny believed her. She wasn't thick. The threat of another visit, and the promise that a pan of boiling water would be poured over the kid, guaranteed her silence.

It had been a cold November night. Billy left a city bar alone and made his way on foot to the flat he rented; his hands stuffed into the deep pockets of a parka, beer-breath steaming the frigid air as he whistled out of tune and wove his way along the pavement.

It was almost too easy. They manhandled the protesting but incapable drunk into the boot of the car and subsequently committed their former co-worker to the murky waters of the Tyne. Tiny recalled the look on Billy's face as his throat was slashed prior to him being pushed over a railing to somersault down and vanish into the freezing river.

No, Tiny determined. Like it or not, he was in for the long haul. It was the lesser of two evils. For a second, he actually considered drawing his gun and emptying the clip into Dom. But as the rest of the house, the area was covered by CCTV cameras. Carlo Falco was loyal, had his finger on the pulse, and was most likely sat watching them now via the bank of monitors in the small control room at the top of the house. Carlo knew everything that happened, and would never, ever turn on Santini. His allegiance to Frank had been transferred to Dom.

"So get to it, Tiny," Dom said, taking the ice-laden glass of Scotch and walking out into the walled-in courtyard.

Tiny masked the growing hatred he felt for his boss, nodded and left. Less than an hour later, he found Dom in the main lounge, sat back in a recliner chair, now dressed in beige polo shirt and cream slacks. He was barefoot, and his large hammer-toed feet moved to the music of The Three Tenors: Pavarotti and co. His eyes were closed, but Tiny said nothing. Dom knew he was there. After a few minutes, when the track had finished, Dom picked up a remote from the chair's arm and paused the CD. He was much calmer. The rich voices had soothed him and repelled the dark spell that the cop's call had cast.

"What have you got, Tiny?" he asked.

"Hard copy of all employees hired since Demaris was taken care of," Tiny said, approaching Dom and offering him the file he held.

"How many?" Dom asked, waving away the file.

"Eighteen. But eleven of them are solid, recommended, with all the right connections. Of the other seven, three are croupiers who could never get close to the business and another two run sex shops in Soho."

"Which leaves?"

"Andy Webb and Ray Lansky."

"Webb was with Herbie Leach for years."

Tiny nodded. Andy had been top muscle for Leach, up until the south London gangster had been shot gunned to death at a meet with a Russian Mafia leader.

"You think it's Lansky?" Dom asked.

"He's favourite, boss. I thought he was sound. But that's where the mud's stickin'."

"Where is he, now?"

"Doin' a patrol of the grounds. He'll be on stand down in half an hour."

"Arrange for him to be in the basement, softened up and ready to sing in forty minutes."

Nick was Feeling good. He now enjoyed a great deal of trust, having assisted in the cover up of Frank's death at the house, and the disposal of the other bodies. He felt that the end of the case was in sight, and that it wouldn't be long before he had enough hard evidence to wrap Dom and his firm up and bring them down.

After being relieved by one of the other men, Nick strolled back through the grounds to the bunkhouse, opened the door and was surprised to see Tiny standing in front of him, his massive body silhouetted against the bright sunlight that shone through a window on the opposite wall. There was no time to even think. The black, knuckle-scarred fist shot out and caught him square on the point of the chin. Nick was out before the back of his head made contact with the ground.

Matt was doing press-ups when the phone rang. With his right leg, he powered himself up from the floor, gripping the arm of the settee for balance as he swung his plastered leg into a vertical position. He picked up the phone.

"Matt?"

He grunted in the affirmative.

"Why the heavy breathing? What have you been up to?" Beth asked.

"Press-ups," he gasped. "I'm trying to get fit. I've spent too much time sat on my arse chain-smoking, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts of late."

"I can think of better ways to exercise."

"You offering to be my personal trainer?"

"Yes. With my fitness plan, you get to enjoy toning-up and losing calories, without even having to get out of bed."

"Put me down for a prolonged course. But until I can attend, I'll just have to do it the hard way."

"I'm missing you, Matt. Can't we meet?"

"No, Beth. It isn't worth the risk."

"But what if nothing happens?"

"It will. Something's got to give. Noon can't just stop. You said that yourself. If we're lucky, Santini will find him and close it out. Or Noon will make a play for me and walk into a trap."

"He'll use distraction, Matt. Expect him to consider every possible avenue, then to employ a means of getting to you that wouldn't even be considered."

"Such as?"

"I wish I knew. Put yourself in his place and think how he will try to develop a plan of attack based on the belief that you are ringed with protection. If you can figure how _you_ would do it, then it could well be what he will attempt."

"Thanks, Beth. I'll give it some thought. I want this to be a done deal, so that we can get down to some serious exercise."

"And I thought it was my mind you admired."

"It's the whole package. Mind, body and spirit. You know I want us to be together...Don't you?"

"Yes, so keep that shot-up body out of harm's way. You're already damaged goods."

"I'll do my best."

"You do that, Matt. Take care."

"I will. I'll call you tonight."

After hanging up, Matt went to the stairs and made his way up one step at a time, cursing his cast as he held the banister rail for support. As per usual, he showered with his able leg inside the bath and the encumbered limb outside it, ramrod straight. Just being able to mount the stairs and shower was progress, though. He could now sleep in his own bed, but had left the sofa bed made up in the lounge for daytime use.

Time was dragging like the hands of a watched clock. It was unnerving and made him jittery. He wanted the present predicament to be resolved, one way or the other. Having his life on hold was an unacceptable state of affairs. He was as much a prisoner as Dominic Santini. Gary Noon had got them both pinned down, with nothing to do but wait until he decided to make his move. It was a war of attrition; one which Matt found hard to come to terms with. In his job, which as with Lester Little sometimes involved the squad doing their own witness protection, he should have been well used to being keyed up, waiting, not knowing if or when a sudden onslaught might be made by an unknown assailant. But this was personal. He was not part of an organised team guarding a witness whose life was in danger. Being the actual subject at risk was a whole new experience. Noon had outwitted him once, almost killed him, and had shown that he was adept at taking out his intended targets and making his escape.

Back downstairs, Matt made fresh coffee and considered what Beth had said. He sat, mug cupped in hands, eyes closed as he reviewed every single scrap of information he had on Noon. He incorporated what he considered to be the other man's personality with his own, clearing his mind of all else as he strove to find, to _be_ Noon. It took a long time. Noon was a complex individual.

When it came, it was with a rush. Matt's body actually jerked as though an electric current had been passed through it. With his eyes still tightly closed, he felt the anger, resentment and frustration that filled his enemy's heart and mind. Gary Noon was unfulfilled. His formative years had been saturated in shame and broken dreams. His childhood experiences had patterned a pitiless, morose and bitter human being. The acts of self-mutilation and destroying other people's lives – and in so doing denying them any future – pacified him and dampened the sense of...of what? The unworthiness he felt? To snuff out the spark of existence in others raised his self-esteem to the point where he considered himself godlike, totally in control and all-powerful. He was a man consumed by violence, venting his own torment in the only way he could find temporary respite and express himself. Thinking as he believed Noon did, Matt considered his options. He, had he been Noon, could wait, back-off, and know that with the passage of time the police and Santini would drop their guard and consider the threat lessened, or even nonexistent. No! Matt felt the psycho's urgency; the deep need to act and respond to the challenge. Noon would watch the watchers, become au fait with the opposition's methodology, and then use that knowledge and find a way through a crack in their defences. The killer was a consummate professional with an impressive c.v. He could adapt, use versatility, and had shown his ingenuity in taking out the safe house, then Penny Page, and most recently, Frank Santini and two of his men. He entered protected territory with frightening ease, and so far had a hundred percent success rate in his malefic endeavours.

Matt opened his eyes, raised the mug of coffee and took a mouthful, grimacing at the taste of the cold beverage. He had been lost in the role of Gary Noon for almost an hour. And yet he still had no definitive answers, only a certain knowledge that he was in great danger from a man who crossed all boundaries and who had survived and profited by being better than those he came up against. Matt had the feeling that holing-up was painting himself into a corner with no way out. Images of a C4 bomb being dropped from a light aircraft to demolish his house flashed through his mind. Nothing could be ruled out, however seemingly preposterous. There were no rules of engagement. Noon was a master of improvisation. The trap set for the man could quite easily work against Matt. Noon had the advantage of knowing where Matt was, and could plan his attack at leisure.

Checking the clip of his Beretta, Matt decided to not just have the pistol close at hand, but to keep it on his person. He donned his shoulder rig and slipped the gun into it. Just the weight against his side, high up under his left armpit, was both comforting and reassuring. Like a kid who had just left a Saturday morning matinee at the local cinema, he practised quick draws. He was fast, had no misgivings as to his accuracy, but did not feel the odds-on-favourite to survive a second encounter with Noon, who would not meet him face on, as the fictional gunfighters of the celluloid screen had done in a thousand hackneyed Western movies of yesteryear. Ambush was the preferred technique of this one-of-a-kind killer. It was simple, Matt thought. Noon would try to draw him out, to stage-manage him into a position of maximum vulnerability. His problem would be to recognise the subterfuge in time to avoid becoming another scalp on the bastard's belt.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

**NICK** could not help but cry out as he regained consciousness. The mind-jarring pain in his fractured jaw reminded him that Tiny had put his lights out. He was face down on cold concrete, and sensed that he was naked. His hands were bound behind him, and flex or rope bit deeply into his wrists, cutting off the circulation. He attempted to move his head, only to suffer a restriction of his airway, making him wheeze as he laboured for breath. He assessed the situation. His legs were bent up at right angles from the knees, tied at the ankles and connected to a noose around his neck, which left him hog-tied and in control of his own fate. The weight of his legs was pulling the noose ever tighter. Rolling onto his side, he found the solid support needed to keep from being the device of his own death by slow strangulation.

"Very good," Dom said, stepping forward and kicking Nick in the stomach.

The sudden pain that flared in his solar plexus caused Nick to double up. His head snapped forward in a reflex action and he choked as the noose constricted. Red spots danced in front of his eyes, and his oxygen-starved brain produced exploding chrysanthemums of golden petals that glittered brightly then dissolved into blackness. Fireworks! Nick thought fleetingly. Somebody's lighting fucking fireworks.

He came to, again, this time spluttering and retching as cold water was thrown on his face. His hands were still tied together behind him, but the noose was gone. He was no longer on the floor, but sitting upright on a straight-backed wooden chair, with duct tape pinioning him to it.

"Wake up, pig, it's time to squeal," Dom said as Nick's eyes flickered open and fought to focus.

Dom was sat facing him, close up. Tiny was standing to one side, casually picking at his teeth with a wood toothpick that looked incongruous in the ham-sized hand wielding it. Dom's right hand rested in his lap, a lock knife held loosely in his grasp; the serrated, stainless steel blade on show for Nick to see.

"What the fuck's happening, boss? Why're you doing this?" Nick asked in a hoarse voice, squeezing out the words against the pain, hardly moving his lips, conscious of the muscles in his neck bunching and twitching.

Dom's hand came up in a blur. The tip of the knife's blade entered Nick's left nostril, to be drawn up and back, laying his nose open to just below the bridge. Nick instinctively pulled back, the front legs of the chair came up off the floor, and the back of his head struck the wall eighteen inches behind him before the chair dropped back down. Nick sucked in air as blood spurted down the lower half of his face and dripped off his chin.

"Give it up, cop," Dom said, his voice cold and dispassionate. "Real name, now. And be aware that if I even think you're lying to me, I'll cut your fucking ears off. Am I making myself clear?"

Nick nodded as he licked at the salty tasting blood that ran down over his upper lip to lubricate his sand-dry mouth. "Nick Marino," he said.

Dom smiled. "That's better," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "Now listen up good, Nick. This is shit or bust time. If you come clean and answer all my questions, Tiny here will end it quickly for you with a bullet. Fuck me around or hold out on me, and you'll still talk before I'm done, but you'll die hard and slow. It's your choice."

"Nothing's ever that simple," Nick said.

Dom raised the knife again, to pause with the point of the blade poised unwavering, a fraction of an inch from Nick's left eyeball. "Explain," he said.

"I've got to call in every twenty-four hours. If I don't, the cavalry come over the hill. They know where I am. And if I go missing, like Joey did, you'll have half the Met in your face."

"When are you due to make contact?"

Nick focused on the bull's eye of a dart board that hung on the wall facing him across the basement. He knew Dom well enough to discount the promise of a quick end if he talked. The bastard liked to see people suffer. He let his mind go back to Hereford, to the training that had served him so well for the six years he was in the SAS. He had been taught to absorb pain, to withdraw within himself and disassociate mind from body. He imagined a room, entered it, swung the heavy vault door closed behind him and isolated himself from his physical surroundings. He became apart from the reality of his circumstances.

Dom could not contain his temper as his questions were met with what he considered to be dumb insolence. He used the knife, and then employed a cordless power drill to bore holes through the back of Nick's hands and then his kneecaps. Over an hour later, he took a break. Nick was unconscious, but not mortally wounded. He had not uttered another word, but had been unable to quash the screams that were an instinctive by-product of such suffering.

"He ain't no ordinary cop, boss," Tiny said, feeling a certain admiration and respect for the naked, blood-coated man, who had somehow turned off an internal switch and resolutely refrained from answering any of Santini's questions.

Dom leaned back, dripping with sweat and spattered with the undercover cop's blood.

"Stop him from bleeding to death, Tiny," Dom said as he got up and walked over to the steps that led up to the ground floor of the house. "I'll try again, later. We need to know what he's told his keepers."

"But how can you break him, boss? Pain doesn't work."

Dom paused on the stairs and smiled. "We try a different approach. I'll be back in half an hour. I want him conscious, ready and waiting for round two."

Nick _had_ almost broken. Santini's mistake had been to inflict too much pain too quickly. After most of his fingernails had been removed, Nick had been left with a reduced capacity to feel much of anything else. He had concentrated on the pulsating agony that travelled up through his hands, arms and shoulders from the raw, bleeding tips of his mutilated finger ends. Feeding off that pain, he found that what followed was no worse, and could be endured.

Now, conscious again, only Tiny was with him, pacing up and down, mopping his perspiring, shaven skull with a handkerchief.

Nick coughed, letting out a loud grunt as his pounding jaw jagged and caused fresh bolts of torment.

"Are you a fuckin' idiot, man?" Tiny asked, wheeling to face him.

Nick raised his head to meet the giant hoodlum's gaze, and shrugged. "No, Tiny," he said, his voice enervated, hardly more than a whisper, yet possessing a quality of resolve. "I'm going to die, so I might as well do it with a little dignity. I wouldn't be happy letting that greaseball force me to give him the right time of day."

"But―"

"Get out, Tiny, while you can," Nick interrupted. "Santini is going down, and soon. There are divers looking for the bodies he's had dumped. With what I've already passed on, he's on borrowed time. It's all closing in on him and everyone on his payroll. It's a ring of fire, Tiny, and by the time he smells the smoke, it'll be too late. Believe me. He's already a cop killer. You don't waste cops and walk away from it. Think of number one and don't get blown to shit for a lost cause. When an Armed Response Unit hits this place, they won't be talking, or be too worried about taking prisoners. Anything that moves will be fair game. And even if you did survive, which I doubt, you'd spend the rest of your days wishing you could go back to this moment in time and change what's about to happen. You're on a sinking ship, and I'm the only lifeboat left."

"Meanin'?" Tiny asked. He believed the cop. Instinct told him that this wasn't just a desperate man grabbing at straws to save his arse. If he didn't make contact, then it figured that they would try to get him out, using whatever measures necessary, however extreme.

"That it's decision time, big guy," Nick replied. "When your numbnut boss comes back, put a bullet in his head. Then you get the chance of a new life. With Santini gone, you're home free. The organisation falls apart without him."

"You haven't got the authority to cut me a deal, cop."

"I'm all you've got, Tiny. Think about it. But don't take too long. This offer dies with me."

Tiny wasn't dumb. His life was littered with what had been a catalogue of hard decisions. As a teenager, boxing had kept him off the streets and away from his peers who, in the main, were now inside, dead, or still back in the old hood, doing whatever had to be done to get the next fix and find a few hours' peace from life's woes. He had escaped by being handy with his fists, spotted by a youth club leader who ran a gym, and given a purpose and the encouragement to stay clean and earn an honest living. It had been Frank Santini who pressed him into throwing a fight, back when he was only two bouts away from coming up against Frank Bruno, who he knew he could take. He would have then got a crack at Tyson and made serious money. But Santini senior had put an arm and a leg on the underdog on that long ago night. Tiny's choice had been simple: take a fat bribe and lay down in the ninth round, or expect to have an accident that would have left him drooling in a care home with yoghurt for brains. He had taken a sucker punch and made Frank a lot of money. The only upside had been that his physical presence and ability to use his fists better than most, got him noticed by the crime lord, who took him on the payroll.

"Nice try, man, but I'm not buyin' it," Tiny said to Nick. "If you think I'm dealin' with a fuckin' dead man, you've got your wires crossed."

"Smarten up, Tiny. Dom hasn't got his father's brains. You're working for a moron who everybody wants out of the way. Get real and pick the winning side. He's history waiting to happen. He just doesn't know it yet."

With each and every second that passed, changing events were leading to an outcome that could not have been predicted.

Jack McClane pulled the plug on the stakeout at Marion Peterson's house. His considered opinion was that she was at minimal risk from Noon. The killer had bigger fish to fry and no viable reason to target her. It was apparent that monitoring Dominic Santini's and DI Barnes's every move was his priority, if Noon had not had second thoughts and managed to skip the country and be lost to them.

The revelation was at once frightening, monumental and life-changing. Gary had unintentionally allowed another person to matter, or to be more specific, had somehow been pervaded by Marion's presence and personality, to the extent that he sensed a drastic modification to the separateness he had sustained for so many years. Marion had become an important element in his thoughts and plans, opening channels that until now had been blocked like furred arteries hardly able to feed blood to a diseased heart. She was the mother he had been denied; the lover who had led him down a fast-flowing river of desire to bathe in a shining sea, and maybe the true friend who he could not have previously imagined. She was the person he now dared to contemplate sharing a future with. He felt a strange blend of new and alien emotions, all overshadowed by a reticence; a fear of possessing something of such worth that its loss was beyond comprehension. Was it possible that he could actually need her?

They had spent the better part of a week together, talking, laughing, and making love until they were both sore, weak at the knees and drained of strength. From the second day, he had known that he would not kill her. She was besotted by him, and to be loved was gratifying and self-indulgent. Love was also power. He allowed her to leave the house, alone, to go shopping, which also kept the watchful plod content in the mistaken belief that all was well.

It was DCI Tom Bartlett that phoned Marion to tell her the police presence outside the house was now considered unnecessary.

"Are you sure I'll be safe?" Marion asked with measured concern, fighting not to gasp as Gary gripped her sagging breasts from behind and teased her nipples to tumescence with his fingers and thumbs.

"His intentions are known to us, Ms. Peterson," Tom said, hoping to Christ that Jack had made the right decision. "He has no reason to wish you any harm. Other people are at far greater risk. I suggest you try to put the episode behind you and get on with your life. If at any time you feel in danger, or if he should contact you, don't hesitate to phone us immediately."

"I'll do that. Thank you for calling."

"Who was it?" Gary asked as Marion disconnected.

"Bartlett, the cop in charge of the case. He says they've called off the guard dog, and that they're sure I'm not in any danger from you."

Gary laughed. "He's right, sweetheart. Let's eat. We have a busy evening ahead of us."

"Doing what?"

"Safeguarding our future, Marion. As long as that cop, Barnes, and Dominic Santini are above ground, I can't relax. With them out of the picture we can chill out and start making plans."

"What are you saying, Gary, that you intend to kill them?"

"Yes. Can you handle that? I need to be sure that when the time comes I can count on you one hundred percent."

"Don't worry," Marion heard herself say. "I'm with you all the way from now on."

They kissed, and then shared the task of making omelettes with fillings of lightly fried onions, diced ham and grated cheese.

Gary felt as though he had been lost on a cold, dark highway, far from any light or warmth. Being with Marion in such intimate, domestic environs gave him the notion of coming home. He was overcome by a strange, mollifying sense of contentment. Over the past several days, he had not needed to take the antipsychotic drugs; had heard only the slightest murmuring of voices, and had no urge to self-mutilate. It was as if Marion's love and attention were all the remedy necessary to alleviate the symptoms that usually beleaguered his disturbed mind. And the house itself was a calming influence; a haven with a soothing homely ambience and very little in the way of plastic, which for some irrational reason agitated him so much. The small terrace property was rich in solid wood furniture that smelled of polish. And the rooms were festooned with rich fabrics illuminated by soft lighting. Even the bathroom was inviting. The toilet seat was smooth pine, matching the door and side panel of the cast iron bath. All the fittings were brass, including the toothbrush holder. And the antique mirror above the wash-handbasin was framed in gilded wood.

He sipped a glass of milk as Marion washed the dishes, and insight exploded like blazing neon in his brain. It came to him like an express train bursting out into the sunlight from a dark tunnel. He hated plastic because of his mother. In his mind's eye, he pictured her standing before him. She was wearing her favourite white plastic boots, carried a gold, plastic handbag, and sported bright red plastic talons that were affixed to the bitten nails beneath them. She dressed in the manner befitting a cheap whore. Strange how he had not realised until now why he could not abide the sight of the synthetic crap. His aversion to it had its foundations in his wretched childhood.

"Are you all right?" Marion asked. She saw that his almost black-filled eyes had a faraway look. He seemed to be focusing midway between where he sat and the back door. His top incisors had bitten into his lower lip, drawing blood.

Blinking rapidly, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded. "I'm fine. I just had a bad memory and a revelation all in one. Let's get ready and go," he said, before standing and offering her a weak smile.

The late evening had filched the light and warmth from the day by the time they had once more made love, then dressed and returned back downstairs to the kitchen.

"I'll go out the back door," Gary said. "Wait half an hour, then drive over to Wood Green, park up and take a tube to Earl's Court. I'll meet you there, if you're not followed."

"Is all this really necessary, Gary? I'm not being watched anymore."

"So the cop told you. I choose to believe my own eyes. You should know that what people say and do are two different things a lot of the time. If I were Bartlett, I'd consider all possibilities, taking into account that we had been lovers. He'd be stupid not to at least suspect that you may cover for me, and get back in touch once you were convinced that no one was monitoring your movements."

Marion felt in a frame of mind unfamiliar to her. She was at once both extremely fearful and highly excited. She had committed herself to an uncertain future with Gary, and was uplifted and stimulated at the prospect of shedding a lifestyle that had always been so mundane and predictable. She had spent so many years unfulfilled and without direction, always wanting more, but unable to pinpoint the element that was missing, and lacking the determination to turn herself around and strive to be the person she felt was trapped inside, trying to get out. Gary had saved her from further discontent. It was as if she had been vaccinated with a drug that unlocked the reticence, to unleash her spirit and a previously unrecognised aspect of her personality. She was liberated, set free from all constraints. Now out on The Far Side, as another Gary, the cartoonist, Larson, had christened his collective work. Danger held a certain fascination. The allure of the unknown was both seductive and exhilarating.

As instructed, Marion had her passport with her, and a few small keepsakes that she cherished. Gary had pointed out that events may make it impossible for them to return to the house. She went out to the car knowing that this was the first small but monumental step in a new direction. It was a new beginning; a bridge that spanned two separate worlds. Her stomach felt alive with unfurling, fluttering wings, and her heart rate doubled and boomed in her ears.

At the station, Gary listened as the rumble increased in volume, before the train burst free from the black maw of the tunnel and rattled to a stop with a heavy sigh. He watched from behind a pillar, lurking in shadow as Marion stepped into a carriage. He studied the faces and demeanour of the other passengers who boarded, and at the last possible moment – as the doors hissed shut – he rushed forward, barely squeezing through the lessening gap. He was almost sure that she had not been tailed.

Everything was going to plan. Before the night was through, both Barnes and Beth Holder would be dead.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

**DOM** dumped his clothes on the black-tiled floor of the bathroom. They were wet and stank of the cop's blood. He then showered before dressing in sweats. The cop had suffered more torture than any other person he had personally dealt with. The guy wasn't normal. Everybody had a fucking breaking point, at which time they would sell even their mother and children out to stop the pain. Not this one. It was apparent that he had some inbuilt fortitude that could not be overcome by physical abuse. His pain threshold was unnatural. But there was always more than one way to skin a cat.

Making his way back downstairs with a ·38 Reck Cobra in his pants pocket, Dom went into the kitchen and asked Yolande, the live-in maid, to accompany him to the basement, which was accessed by way of a door in the hallway. The teenager did not question his order. Maybe her boss needed relief, which was something she was used to providing. He was insatiable, but it was small price to pay for her new life in the UK, which she enjoyed as an illegal immigrant.

"How's he doing?" Dom asked Tiny as he pushed the maid towards the seated and bound cop.

"He's sayin' nothin', boss. Just sufferin' in silence."

"This is Yolande," Dom said to Nick, grasping his face in a vicelike grip and forcing his head up. "She doesn't exist in the legal sense. She has no paperwork, so is just a piece of pussy whose death wouldn't be an issue. Do you get my drift?"

Nick was ahead of Dom. The girl appeared to be sixteen, max. She was agitated; her dark eyes wide with fear as she stared at him and took in the bloody state that Santini had reduced him to. The gangster was making it vividly clear that as an undocumented person, who he had no doubt smuggled into the country, she would not be missed.

"Take off your clothes and kneel on the floor," Dom said to the now whimpering girl.

She obeyed, removing her maid's uniform, bra and panties with shaking hands, before hunkering down on top of the discarded garments.

"She has a twelve-month old daughter," Dom continued as he drew his pistol and pressed the muzzle up against the sobbing girl's right ear. "I'm going to count to three, then blow her fucking brains out if you don't start talking. And if you still want to play dumb, I'll fetch the kid down and wrap cling film round its head. What you have to decide is, how many innocent individuals are you prepared to watch stack up on the floor? It's time to examine your conscience, cop, and to weigh up whether what little you know is worth more than just your own worthless life."

"You rotten bastard!" Nick hissed through swollen lips.

Dom grinned. "Whatever it takes. Start by telling me the name of your handler."

Nick gritted his teeth, glanced up to look at Tiny, then met Dom's gaze but remained silent.

Dom lashed out with the pistol, catching the girl across the face with the barrel. She fell back, cupping her mouth as blood and fragments of broken teeth erupted from split lips.

"You should know that I don't bluff, you piece of shit," Dom said to Nick, a smile on his face. "One...Two..."

The sound of the shot was deafening in the windowless basement. The thunderous report had nowhere to go and reverberated off the walls, ceiling and floor.

Dom staggered backwards with an expression of dumbfounded surprise on his face. Dropping the Reck from limp fingers and falling to his knees, he reached up to clasp the seat of pain in his chest. He coughed once and expelled a bright, frothy torrent of blood, as he somehow found the strength to climb to his feet. The second bullet drilled through his forehead, high up against his receding hairline, and he was blown back by the impact, to half-turn and fall as his legs twisted and buckled under him.

Nick smiled as Santini's face slammed onto the concrete floor with a sickening thud of finality. A gargling sound came from his open mouth. Both of his hands clenched, then relaxed as life deserted him.

"Thanks," Nick said as Tiny moved forward, knelt next to the corpse and felt the neck for a pulse. The artery was inert beneath his fingertips. "You made the right decision," Nick added as the big man rose to his feet.

Tiny glared. "Maybe I did and maybe I didn't, but don't thank me, cop. I'm tryin' to save my own skin, is all."

"So untie me, and―"

The wall phone rang, and Nick, Tiny and the maid turned to stare at it, as if it was a three-headed dog.

Tiny went over and picked up. "Yeah?"

"What the fuck's happening down there? I just heard shots," Carlo Falco said.

"The boss just offed the cop. I need you to help me move the body," Tiny said in a clear, controlled voice.

"I'm on my way," Carlo replied.

Before he reached the bottom of the stairs, Carlo took in the scene. The man who he had believed to be Ray Lansky was tied to a chair, bloody but still alive. The maid was sitting on the floor, naked, her arms clasped over her mouth. Her breasts and stomach were streaked crimson. And he saw that Dom was face down in a spreading pool of blood. The most disturbing turn of events was that Tiny was holding a gun, two-handed, and it was pointing directly at him.

The loyal lieutenant dropped to his right knee and reached under his jacket to grip the butt of his own semiautomatic. He was fast, but had not even cleared leather when the first bullet crashed into him.

Carlo grunted, tipple-tailed down the remaining steps, rolled across the floor and came to a sudden stop up against the breeze block wall. He was still alive, facing Tiny, and made to raise his gun. Tiny fired again, and Carlo slumped back. Tiny didn't even bother to go over and check him out. The hole above Carlo's right eyebrow, and the splash of blood and brains on the wall negated any need to.

Had there been a CCTV camera in the basement, then Carlo would have no doubt observed the preceding events and would not have fallen foul of Tiny's trap. The basement and attics of the house were the only areas not under surveillance.

"That's it, man," Tiny said to Nick. "It's over. The rest of the men will do what I say."

"Cut me loose and help me over to the phone," Nick said. "I've got to make a call."

Tiny nodded, set Nick free, then handed the cop his firearm before putting an arm around his waist and carrying him across the room as though he weighed no more than a sack of straw.

"Ms. Holder? It's Marion Peterson."

"Uh, yes, Marion," Beth said. She felt a stab of disappointment at the call not being from Matt, but also a sense of curiosity. Why would Marion phone her at home?

"I know it's late. I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I needed to talk to someone. I don't have anyone else to turn to."

It was almost eleven. Beth rarely turned-in before midnight; had in fact just poured herself a glass of liebfraumilch, and was about to finish a report on a patient when the phone rang. She could hear the barely controlled distress in Marion's voice.

"Where are you, Marion? At home?"

"No. I've been driving around for hours. I'm parked-up somewhere in Wandsworth."

"Where did you get my number?"

"You're listed in the phone book. I shouldn't have phoned. I―"

"It's all right, Marion. You'd better come over and help me drink the bottle of plonk I've just opened, and tell me what's on your mind."

"Thanks...Beth."

Beth was about to inquire as to the nature of Marion's problem, but the line went dead. She shrugged. The nurse was understandably stressed out following the traumatic experience of her recent association with Noon. She probably needed to off load her anxiety onto someone who knew the details of her ill-fated affair. The least she could do was lend a shoulder for the woman to cry on. She could sense the loneliness, vulnerability and desperation that Marion carried like a laden yoke. She would doubtless be suffering a total loss of self-esteem, and feel a certain amount of shame after acting so unprofessionally. She had been foolhardy. The killer had recognised Marion's fragility and taken full advantage of her. As a psychiatric nurse, she should have known better than to be duped, but love had been a powerful ally in aiding Noon to compromise her. He was skilled at manipulating people.

Beth sipped her wine, then froze with the sudden realisation of a detail which had not crossed her mind, until now; her name and address were in the bloody phone book. She should be ex-directory; would change her number the next day, even though her address would still be in the public domain.

The intercom buzzed. She looked at the wall clock. Over half an hour had slipped by as she had considered selling the apartment, to move elsewhere and regain her privacy. The sense of being at risk was now monumental. How did Matt cope with the constant pressure of his current situation? What must it be like to know that someone who was hell-bent on killing him knew where he lived?

She got up, went over to the door and answered the intercom. "Marion?"

"Yes."

"Come on up."

Marion pushed open the door as the lock was released. She walked across the foyer to the lift and thumbed the button to summon it. Gary held her hand, and kissed her on the neck as they waited. His hot breath, soft lips and darting tongue made her feel weak at the knees. The guilt she felt at tricking Beth was overshadowed by the pact that she had entered into with Gary. It was too late to change anything now. All that mattered was their future together. Whatever he did, she would get past, assimilate, and put behind her. It was time to think solely of her personal happiness. And Gary had promised that he would not hurt Beth. She was just a tool to use in the pursuance of drawing out the cop, Barnes.

Kyle Macy set the flask lid full of coffee down and reached for his binoculars as the couple exited the van and strolled across the car park to the well-lit doorway of the apartment block. After a few seconds, he sighed, tossed the glasses onto the passenger seat and reached down to retrieve his coffee from where it stood in the moulded cup holder behind the gear shift. Just a slim, bearded man and his overweight wife or girlfriend. They entered the building and vanished in the direction of the elevator, or lift, which Kyle thought a quaint UK term. Lifts, to him, were stacked heels on shoes, to give extra height.

He sipped the coffee and settled back to continue his vigil. Time was dragging, wearing him down. He was getting old. And it wasn't just the mirror that reflected that fact each and every morning when he shaved off the greying stubble, but also his body. He tried to keep fit, but time always wins out. He hadn't got the stamina any more. His back and neck were aching, and he was tired. He had to admit to himself that the passing years had dulled his concentration and love of the hunt. He was like an old knife that had lost its edge. He wasn't as bright or sharp anymore. And if he didn't get lucky soon, he was in danger of missing Janice's twenty-first. That was something he didn't even want to contemplate. Maybe it was time to quit while he was ahead. Make this his last job.

Could he have been wrong in his deliberations? Misgivings were beginning to form in his mind. Maybe the young shooter would not use Beth Holder to get to Barnes. No one remotely resembling Noon had entered or left the apartment block since he had staked it out. Although the slim guy who had just entered with a broad was the right height and build. Minus the beard, he could have been worth a second look at. _Jesus H Christ! He was losing his touch_? The beard, baseball cap pulled low to shade his face, and the female companion. It could all have been window-dressing. Closing his eyes, Kyle brought back the image he had seen through the binoculars to perfect clarity. The guy had kept his head low between his shoulders, and had looked ill at ease as he rocked from one foot to the other waiting for the door to open. The glimpsed features were right. Twin flashes of light in dark eyes that looked furtively...yes, furtively about. It _was_ Noon. Clever boy! He, or the piece of skirt, had somehow persuaded the psychologist to open up. Was the dumpy broad someone she knew? Maybe being used by Noon as a way to gain entry?

Kyle's scalp prickled. He was on the money; had just rolled the dice and thrown lucky seven. The only missing piece of the jigsaw was Barnes. And it was no stretch to deduce what would go down. Beth Holder would be coerced into calling the cop and ensuring that he visit, alone. They say that love is blind. Kyle agreed. It was an emotion that fucked-up perfectly good brain cells and played havoc with commonsense. Being pierced by Cupid's arrow could be a blessing or a curse; it had been the ruin of many men and women. Barnes would walk straight into deep shit, and be brought down by the power of love, and Noon.

It was turning out to be a turkey shoot. He would wait for lover boy to arrive, let Noon take care of business, then lift the hitter when he left the building. Sometimes everything came together just right. Then again, it didn't pay to be too brash. There was a flaw in his reasoning. He had personally never left the scene of a hit by the same route. Noon might also be good enough to cover all the bases. Surely his paranoid personality put him in an elite category. He would not discount any possible area of danger. Capping the mark was always only half of it. The job wasn't a done deal until you were home free.

Kyle decided that only by being on site and in total control of the unravelling chain of impending events, could he be sure of the outcome. It all rested on Barnes showing up. If he did, then Kyle would be able to gate crash the soiree and bring things to a satisfactory conclusion.

* * *

There was already one casualty inside Hawksworth House. Kyle had followed an elderly woman into the building the previous evening, slipping through the door before it could self-lock.

Violet Fuller had survived World War Two, outlived three husbands, and was – despite chronic angina – still self-reliant and mobile at the age of eighty-eight.

Violet shared her flat with three cats: Charity, Mrs. Beeton and Tabitha. And although not without a tidy sum of money (untouched and accruing interest in the local branch of the Nationwide), she was thrifty, using teabags several times before disposing of them, and regularly feeding herself with the same cheap, canned meat that she put down to her pets, having determined that if it was good enough for her babies, it was good enough for her. An austere upbringing had patterned Violet's frugal nature. She had been born and raised within earshot of Bow bells, and was proud to be what she considered pure cockney. Harold Barnes, her father, had been a slaughterman; her mother, Constance, a skivvy to a local doctor. The only surviving child of eleven siblings, Violet had long since come to terms with the frangible nature of life. Knowing that she was on the last knockings of her tenure on God's good earth was of little concern to her. Death was not an issue that she was unduly preoccupied with. She lived from one breath to the next, made no plans, and was reconciled to the fact that, as her late and only friend of recent years, Gladys Chalmers, (who had lived next door to her on the fourth floor) she would no doubt be the next tenant to be carried out in a box. My, they thought of everything, she mused. The lower section of the back wall in the lift had a hatch that could be unlocked and opened to facilitate a coffin being removed from the building in a dignified manner.

All that concerned Violet was her beloved cats. She had made it clear in her will that they should be put to sleep after her passing. Mrs. Beeton was nineteen, a little arthritic, and slow to get going in the morning. Tabitha was only fourteen, but had a heart murmur. And Charity, the baby at ten, was highly strung, pining if Violet was away from home for more than an hour or two.

Violet did not recognise the man who followed her into the lift. He was smartly dressed, middle-aged, and gave her a warm smile.

"Which floor?" he asked.

"Four, please, luv," Violet answered, recognising the man's accent as being American. Her first husband, Grant, had been an American from Monfort Heights, a district of Cincinnati in southern Ohio. Grant had been tall and good looking, especially in his uniform. For a few seconds, she was transported back to the forties, to the Tower Ballroom in Shoreditch. As many young women at the time, she had been fascinated by the Yanks, who all appeared to be so outgoing, full of confidence, and in possession of an endless supplies of milk chocolate and nylon stockings.

Greg had a gravely, sexy voice, and the looks of Clark Gable, with his clipped moustache and strong features. She had been lost in his arms, with the local band – The Jimmy Dwyer Orchestra – playing Glen Miller music as the multifaceted, mirrored globe sparkled above them, revolving, casting magical dots of light on all below it.

Violet had become part of the mini exodus of British girls who married GI Joes, to leave Blighty and start a new life across the Atlantic. Only after Grant had died from lung cancer in sixty-eight, after having smoked three packs of Salem a day for thirty-two of his forty-nine years, had Violet realised that, without children – which she was unable to bear due to an anomaly in her internal plumbing that could not be rectified – there was nothing to keep her in America. She sold up and returned, back to her roots, where she was to meet Charlie Palmer and settle to a more humble life as a shipping clerk's wife. Charlie had handled his mid-life crisis badly, and was to fly the coop in nineteen-seventy-five with a waitress from a Kardomah coffee shop, that had – to her way of thinking – been a superior precursor of the modern-day Starbucks and the like.

As Violet brought her last husband, Gerald, to mind, the familiar sound of the bell broke her reverie. The lift door slid open and she walked the ten paces to her flat's door, to withdraw her key, insert it in the lock and open up, unaware of the American who was just a step behind her.

As the door opened, Kyle gently manoeuvred the elderly woman through it and quickly closed it behind them. His only interest was in procuring her key card to the entrance door, though the theft would necessitate unavoidable collateral damage, by way of silencing its lawful holder.

Deep pleats formed in a heavy frown on Violet's mottled brow as she turned to face the intruder. "What do you want? Are you going to rob me?" she asked.

Kyle gave her a reassuring smile, fighting the impulse to grimace as the acidic stench of cats' piss assaulted him. The soles of his wingtips were sticking to the matted carpet. "What's your name, lady?" he asked.

"Violet," she answered.

The fishy smell of her breath backed him up two feet. "Well, Violet," he said, after swallowing hard. "I'm not here to rob or harm you. I just need to borrow your key card to the outside door."

"So that you can burgle other residents?" Violet said, adopting a recalcitrant pose with her hands on her hips and her chin pushed up and out in defiance. "I don't think so, young man."

"Jesus, lady! I was trying to do this in a civilised manner," Kyle said, grasping her by a fleshy upper arm and bundling her through the apartment and into a bedroom.

Violet felt bright anger blossom, which was replaced by fear as she was pushed roughly onto the bed. Charity and Mrs. Beeton growled, leapt down from the duvet and fled the room. Was he going to rape her? She was a very old woman, surely safe from sexual assault. But only last week there had been a report on the news of a pensioner in Romford – supposedly in secure, sheltered accommodation – being raped, then strangled.

"Do you live here alone?" Kyle asked.

Violet did not reply, but the look in her eyes was answer enough. That was all he needed to know. He had chosen wisely. It might be weeks before this reclusive old broad was found. He moved fast, straddling her, pulling a pillow down from the top of the bed to cover her face. He then drew his silenced gun, pressed it firmly up against the feather-filled linen covering and fired twice, putting two low-powered, soft-nosed slugs through her head.

Violet jerked beneath him as though she had been plugged into an electric socket, and then went limp.

He worked quickly, and within ten minutes had left the building with the means to re-enter safely stashed in his wallet behind the photograph of his wife's and daughters' smiling faces.

Violet could not have imagined in her wildest dreams of how her life would end. After dispatching her, Kyle had used two large, black garbage bags to encapsulate the body, taping them together to form an airtight covering, before placing the corpse into the chest freezer in the kitchen. The three cats were on top of their late owner, also bagged-up, their necks broken. He quite liked cats, but could not risk leaving them alive to howl and attract attention.

Now, waiting for the cop to arrive, or for the man he believed to be Noon to leave, Kyle allowed himself to think of his family. He was a self-made man, who through his own enterprise and endeavour had become extremely wealthy; able to care for his wife and daughters in a manner that gave him a great deal of satisfaction. He was the consummate hunter; a provider without equal in his chosen profession. He offered a service, and in common with Noon, had always delivered the goods. Pride supposedly cometh before a fall, but he could not help but feel a certain degree of amour propre. Had there been an official ranking system for contract killers, as there was for golfers, tennis players and the like, then he had no doubt whatsoever that he would have been at the very top of the list. Number one seed.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

**WHEN** Tom and DS Pete Deakin arrived at Villa Venice, Paramedics were stretchering Nick out to the waiting ambulance.

Tom hauled himself out of the car before Pete had brought it to a full stop, to run across and ask one of the medics what Nick's condition was.

"I'm gonna live, guv, thanks to Tiny," Nick answered for himself, raising his head up from the gurney.

"Tyrell?"

"Yeah. He saw the light, blew Santini and another goon away, and then made the call for me. I said we could work out a deal for him, by way of appreciation."

"That's enough," a burly Paramedic said. "You have a man in shock here, who's lost a lot of blood." And with no further hesitation, Nick was transferred into the back of the ambulance, to be driven away with the vehicle's lights flashing and the siren blaring.

Tom and Pete entered the house to find Luther Tyrell sitting in the split-level lounge with four uniforms and a balding guy wearing a leather bomber jacket and blue jeans guarding him. The cop in civvies was a local DI, who in Tom's estimation had watched far too many TV shows. He looked to be an over-the-hill Flying Squad type, who had been brought up on bile like _The Sweeney, Starsky & Hutch,_ and _The Professionals_. His paunch, too-long hair – where it still grew over his collar at the back, to hang in uncombed tawdriness – and greying designer stubble made him look more like a biker, fairground worker, or Greenpeace activist.

Tom beckoned him. "What can you tell me?" he asked the man, trying to ignore the fact that DI John Dale was noisily chewing gum.

John removed the wad of gum, looked round for a waste bin, couldn't find one, so fished a piece of grimy tissue from his pocket, wrapped the sticky glob in it and tucked it away. He grinned. "Try not to judge a book by its cover, guv," he said in a crisp, Oxbridge accent. "I look like a nerd because of the assignment I'm on. My team was in the area, and attended the scene because we are armed."

Tom smiled. His expression had relayed his disdain of the other cop's appearance. He resolved to mask his feelings better in future.

"When we arrived," John continued, "Man Mountain over there told me that there were two bodies in the basement, and that the guy with him, who was drifting in and out a bit, was an undercover cop."

"What have you done, so far?"

"Confirmed that the two vics downstairs are dead, secured the scene, and informed the Home Office pathologist and Forensics that their presence would be greatly appreciated at the earliest convenience. We've rounded up all Santini's men, who had been told by Tyrell to give it up and not start a fire fight."

"Good job," Tom said as he walked over to where Tiny was sitting. "You one of the guys in white hats now, Luther?" he asked the black colossus.

"Yeah, I saw the light. Ray, Nick, or whoever the fuck he is, was persuasive. Said it would be in my best interest to switch teams."

"So you capped your boss and one of your cohorts?"

"Co what?"

"One of your band of merry men."

"Santini was about to off the kitchen maid if the cop didn't talk. Then he would've killed her baby before startin' in on your guy again. I decided that enough was enough. Dom was on his way out. I just brought it to a head, to save unnecessary―"

"To try and save your own skin, Luther. Don't try to lay it on me that you suddenly saw the error of your ways. I'm not about to buy a miraculous reformation. What else can you tell me?"

"Not a lot with these bracelets on. I need a cigarette and some coffee," Tiny said, flashing Tom a wide, toothy grin that brightened his oil-black face.

Tom nodded. "Take them off," he said, directing his order to the officer standing nearest to Tiny.

DC Tony Kellett fumbled the keys from his pocket and obeyed. He believed that had the giant wanted to, he could have pulled the cuffs apart like Plasticine at any time. They barely encircled the man's thick wrists, were on the last teeth of the ratchets, biting into the skin, and looked totally inadequate.

"This way," Tom said to Tiny, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering him one, which was drawn free by fingers that wrongly appeared too cumbersome to be capable of performing such a delicate task. "You make the coffee and tell me everything you know about Gary Noon."

As they entered the kitchen, Tiny bobbed his head down to accept a light from Tom's Zippo, then went over to the central island to fill two mugs from a coffee maker.

"Noon is one seriously dangerous motherfucker," Tiny said, handing one of the steaming mugs to Tom. "The boss was scared shitless of him, especially after the old man was capped. Dom arranged for a stateside hitter to be flown in, not to waste him, but to take him alive. Dom wanted to deal with...Noon himself."

Tom picked up on the hesitation. "Him and who else?" he demanded. "Don't hold out on me, Luther, or you'll be as old as Nelson Mandela when you get to walk on the outside again."

"The cop, Barnes. Dom wanted the Yank to waste the cop, and to deliver Noon up for his personal attention."

"Who is this Yank?"

"I don't know. Only Dom met him. He came highly recommended from one of Frank's business partners in New York. The boss told me that he was maybe in his mid-fifties and a real cold fish. Rumour is, he would hit the Pope, or the President of the United States if the payoff was right. He never fails to get the job done."

Tom reached for his mobile and punched-up Matt's home number.

"Barnes."

"It's Tom. I'm out at Santini's drum. What news do you want first, good or bad?"

"Good," Matt said.

"Dominic Santini got whacked. Tyrell helped our man out of a tight spot by capping him and Falco."

"That's music to my ears. What's the downside?"

"Not only is Noon after your bony arse. There's another player. A Yank shooter who Santini flew in to find Noon and top you."

"Terrific. Do we know him?"

"No. We don't even have a description. All I've got is Tyrell's word that he's reputedly the best. He isn't some young gun like Noon. We've got a real pro out there."

"No problem," Matt said. "Once he knows that Santini is dead, he'll be on the next plane home. He won't fulfil a contract for a corpse who isn't about to pay the balance of his fee."

"I hope you're right. I'll ensure that Santini's misfortune hits the late news, and call a press conference."

"Send a car over. I should be there."

"Not a chance. There's nothing you can do. Stay put, where we have control of the situation."

"I feel like a coconut in a fucking shy, Tom. I have the feeling that Noon will get to me if I sit back and do nothing."

"I don't buy that. We have you covered. If he makes a move, we'll take him."

"He doesn't do what he's expected to. And so far, no one who he made a play for has survived. He gets past any protection that's set up."

"You've already survived him once. Just keep away from windows and sleep with your gun under the pillow. I'll drop by later, when I've finished up here."

Out of habit, Beth looked through the peephole. Marion's moon face was close up to the other side of it, and looked wider and slightly grotesque beyond the distorted magnification of the fisheye lens.

Slipping off the security chain, Beth opened the door. "Come in," she said, before realising that Marion was not alone.

Gary pushed Marion forward, closed the door behind him and pointed the business end of the Glock at Beth.

Beth could not move. Her muscles locked up on her as she appraised and struggled to come to terms with the immediate situation. There was a choice of reasons why Marion would have led Noon to her; either out of fear, under threat, or because she was willingly aiding and abetting the deranged thrill killer. The pained expression of guilt on Marion's face gave Beth her answer. She was Noon's accomplice, lending him her unfailing allegiance.

"You're worse than him," Beth said as Marion looked down at her shoes, unable to face the woman who had held out the hand of friendship to her.

"Shut the fuck up," Gary said. "Go and sit down before I knock you on your cute arse."

Beth found her legs, backed up into the lounge, unable to take her eyes off the black hole at the end of the gun's silencer. When her calves met the front of the settee, she fell back off balance, but sat up quickly to perch on the edge, her back straight and hands on the cushions at her sides for support.

"What do you want?" she asked.

Gary stepped forward and lashed out, to whip her head round as the cold steel smashed into her cheek.

"I told you to shut up," he said. "That means, keep your fucking lips zipped unless I ask you something. You know what I want, Doctor. You're supposedly the smart bitch who worked up a profile on me, so you know exactly what I'm capable of, and where I'm coming from. I strongly suggest that you try very hard not to upset me. You really wouldn't want to see me lose my temper."

Now lying on her side, Beth stayed in that position. Her face burned, and she could feel the skin tightening as the bruised flesh beneath it began to swell.

Gary tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants, and then withdrew a roll of duct tape. Within seconds he had secured Beth's arms behind her back, bound at the wrists. He then grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her upright, back into a sitting position. Sitting next to her, he grabbed a handful of her hair and twisted it, bringing her face up and sideways to meet his gaze.

"You're going to phone Barnes," he said. "You'll tell him to get over here, by himself. Right?"

Beth shook her head. "Wrong," she replied. "His house is under surveillance. He can't move without being seen by a dozen armed police."

"He'll improvise and find a way to cut loose. You need to tell him that Marion is here, and that she knows where I am, but will only talk to him."

Beth jerked her head back and broke his hold. "If you believe for one second that I'm going to help you murder Matt, then you're a lot more unbalanced than I thought."

Gary smiled. "Ah, the voice of true love. Your protestations are commendable, but I promise you, you _will_ call him. The only choice you've got is, whether you do it before I cut off your nipples or put one of your come-to-bed eyes out. Think about it. Do you really want to be mutilated and blinded before you beg to do whatever I say?"

Beth searched the black pools of Noon's eyes. There was no expression in them. They held all the emotion of a reptile's impassive stare. The unblinking, soulless orbs were devoid of all humanity. She knew with utter conviction that this was an individual who was capable of any act, however depraved. But as he talked, she devised a way to warn Matt. He was a match for Noon, knew his capacity, and was trained to deal with extreme situations; sometimes finding it necessary to take life without compunction. On one level, the two men shared the same faculty to inflict extreme violence, though Matt's was reserved wholly for use against individuals such as Noon, who threatened the sanctity that law-abiding citizens had a right to expect.

"Well?" Gary snarled. "Which way do you want to play it, Doc? Are you going to call Supercop, or give me the pleasure of doing things to you that would make dying seem like a dream come true?"

"I...I'll do whatever you say," Beth replied, allowing tears to flow, and for her shoulders to slump in resignation, assuming a posture of defeatism to present him with the outward appearance of a vanquished spirit. Her vocational training and experience of patients/criminals with personality disorders was a boon to the predicament she now found herself in. He expected to be feared, and would believe that she was psychologically cowed by his threats; just so much putty in his hands to shape in whatever way he wished.

"That's better," he said, visibly relaxing as he intimated to Marion that he wanted her cell phone. "What's his number?"

Beth told him.

"Okay. Before I make the call, be advised that if I think you're trying to warn him, I'll peel and core you like an apple. Be very, very careful Dr. Holder, or all he'll find here is cuts of raw meat."

Marion had listened, standing unmoving as the man she had believed she was in love with conversed with Beth. To see the pleasure that even the act of just issuing verbal threats gave him, sickened her. Watching Gary terrorise Beth led to her doubting his feelings toward her, and to regret her participation in what was to be the slaughter of innocent people. He had used her once; blackmailed her with the video of their lovemaking. Was he still manipulating her? She now thought so. Rationality kicked-in with a vengeance, and with a fresh perception as bright and shiny as a new penny, she saw Gary for the rotten, twisted killer he was: A user, who with calculated determination took life for wanton pleasure to feed and pacify some inner demon. She had allowed herself to believe his hollow words; to revel in their energised and frenzied lovemaking, and to be duped and to suspend belief, denying the reality of the situation. He had generated an upheaval of her emotions. But in the final analysis, she was not like him and never could or would be. He was a drug, like heroin, that she had craved for and could not get enough of, but was now ready to give up, recognising it for what it was. She knew that the killing would not stop with Beth and Barnes. Maybe he also planned to murder her before the night was out. She had put her trust in a monster whose only concern was selfish, perverse gratification. He did not have the capacity to love, only hate. She believed that he was consumed by mental agony, and killed in an unachievable attempt to lessen the pain. He was an incorrigible sociopath.

A vivid image sprang into Marion's mind. In it, Beth and the cop were both dead, and Gary was naked, laced with their blood. She was beneath him on the carpet, being taken. He was growling like some wild beast, and as he spent himself, he slashed her throat open. She watched in horror as her lifeblood jetted out and up to paint his already crimson face. Was it a premonition of a possible near future? Maybe. Maybe not. She remembered that her Aunt Pamela – dead for over ten years now – had sometimes felt forebodings that she took notice of. Way back in '74, Pamela became aware that on numerous occasions, when she glanced at clocks, the time would be 7.47 a.m. or p.m. She cancelled a flight out of Heathrow on the strength of what she considered to be a portent, and the Jumbo jet she had been due to catch, a 747, crashed shortly after takeoff, barely missing the centre of Staines as it fell from the sky into a field. There had been no survivors. Pamela always insisted that instinct or premonitions should not be ignored. Marion determined not to let this episode play out, and by doing so risk being too late to modify unfurling events. The thought of trying to somehow stop Gary was enough to cause a hard ball of fear to form in the pit of her stomach. Had she the will, or the ability to intervene? Only time would tell.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Gary asked. "You look as if you're about to throw up or pass out."

Panic closed her throat and threatened to suffocate her. Somehow, she took a breath. "I'm just a little scared, that's all, Gary."

"No need to be, darlin'. We'll soon be finished up here and on our way. Just keep focused on us, what we have, and the future we'll enjoy together. Nothing else matters."

She nodded and forced a smile.

Gary went to her and kissed her on the lips. "Why don't you go and make some coffee while the good doctor makes her phone call?"

Marion appreciated the excuse to leave the room. Beth's ice-cold stare was too much to bear. In it was a melange of hatred, accusation, disappointment, and above all, abject fear.

Once by herself in the kitchen, a small seed of anger germinated in her mind and grew into a controlled rage to consume much of her own state of trepidation. If possible, she would intercede on Beth's and the cop's behalf to prevent another atrocity from taking place. Her dreams of a new life with Gary were now in disarray. It was as if she were recovering from a debilitating fever, to finally regain her senses. How could she have been so easily taken in by him? She filled and switched on the kettle, found mugs and instant coffee, and opened the top drawer of a floor unit to view the contents as potential weapons. Let her fingers play over several knives, but ignoring them, selected and withdrew a crosshatched, metal steak hammer, which she tucked into the back of her jeans, pulling the thick sweater she wore down over it.

Gary tapped in the number and held the phone to Beth's ear so that she could hear the ringing tone. She mentally rehearsed what she would say to Matt. She had to warn him without alarming Noon.

"Barnes."

"It's Elizabeth, Matt," she said. "I've got a visitor who you need to speak with."

There was a pause.

"Where are you?" Matt asked.

"At home. Marion Peterson is with me. She didn't tell us everything. She thinks she knows were Noon might be holed-up."

"Put her on."

"No can do. She won't talk over the phone in case my calls are being monitored. She doesn't want to be officially involved. Thinks it would put her at risk. Can you come to my place, by yourself?"

"Why is she acting like Mata Hari?"

"In case you don't catch him. She's terrified of the man. Can you blame her?"

"Okay. I'll try to slip my minders. I may be a while."

"Make it soon. She may change her mind if she has too long to think about it."

"I'll be as quick as I can."

"Good. I'll open a bottle of your favourite white wine."

"Sounds good." Matt hung up. His mental early warning system went to red alert. He knew that Beth was in danger and had been forced to make the call, which led him to believe that Noon was with her. Was there an alternative? No. She had said: 'It's Elizabeth'. He had never heard her use her full Christian name before. And he didn't have a favourite _white_ wine. She knew he preferred red. He remained standing as still as a statue for a few seconds, brain racing, considering his options. By the book, he should report to Tom. But Beth's life was on the line. He was not prepared to put her at greater risk by having control of the situation taken away from him. Noon would not respond favourably to any attempt at negotiation, or the threat of armed incursion. If he felt vulnerable, he would not hesitate to kill Beth and the Peterson woman, if the nurse was even at the flat.

He had to improvise. The ball was in his hands, and he intended to run with it. An image of Noon harming Beth sprang into his mind. She would be terrified, hoping against hope. But she would remain outwardly calm. She was trained to communicate with disturbed individuals. She knew what Noon was capable of; what triggers to pull to placate him. Black fury and a sense of unfettered outrage chilled his heart. If Noon had touched a hair of Beth's head, he would allow the violence brimming within him to overflow. Hate had its place. It was a powerful fuel if channelled properly. He was now prepared and eager to shoot Noon dead on sight. Part of his heart was as cold and hard as stone. All that he now cared about was in danger of being lost to him. If Beth did not survive, then he was finished. This was literally do or die, with no ambiguity. He drew his Beretta as he schemed. Ejected the magazine and once again satisfied that it was fully loaded, relocated the clip into the butt, smacked it home with the heel of his hand, jacked a round into the chamber and slipped the gun back into the holster. He found some comfort in the power that the weapon gave him. All he needed was the chance to use it. The time for inaction was behind him. If he was to have any hope of saving Beth, then he would have to suppress the swelling madness that threatened to overflow and diminish logical thought. He and Beth had already shared experiences to produce good, sweet memories. But he wanted many more. He could not properly imagine the world now without her in it. Fuck! Sentimentality would not get the job done. He bit soft flesh on the inside of his cheek, hard, and sustained the pressure and let the pain centre him. He needed to be in full cop mode.

Moving as fast as his lameness would allow, Matt went through to the kitchen, unlocked the door to the integral garage and, without switching on the overhead light, found a rusted, web-shrouded hacksaw that hung among other hand tools on nails he had hammered into the timber uprights on first moving into the house.

Back in the kitchen, he lifted his left leg up and placed it on a chair, as if it was an object separate from him, not his own plaster-encased limb.

As he sawed, the effort caused sweat to pop on his scalp and forehead. Beads broke free from his hair to run into his eyes and down his unshaven cheeks. More dripped through his eyebrows. Squeezing his eyelids shut to expel the stinging, briny rivulets, he slowly, carefully sawed around the hard cast, level with his knee. The teeth bit through the tough mould of bandage and plaster of Paris, and as he laboured, the seat of the chair and the floor around it became covered in a fine, white layer of gypsum. Gingerly, he bent his leg for the first time in several weeks. His knee complained with a loud, defiant crack, but soon settled as he gently eased the joint back and forth. Given time, he would have removed the bottom half of the cast, but time was now in short supply. Instead, he went back into the garage, found a pair of pincers and used them to nibble chunks from the cast at the back of his knee, to allow his leg more flexibility.

Ten minutes later he was dressed and ready to go. He edged along the narrow space in the garage between the wall and the Discovery, with only the dim light from the open kitchen door to see by. After climbing into the 4x4, he sat behind the wheel, readied himself, and then turned the cold engine over and waited for it to warm. He could not risk stalling, or his Heath Robinson plan would be in tatters before it was implemented.

The thick plaster sole of the cast made him feel as though he had a club foot. He likened the prospect of using it, to a surgeon trying to perform a delicate operation wearing oven gloves.

Taking deep breaths, Matt concentrated, staring at his own gaunt reflection in the windscreen, which was illuminated by the weak light radiating through from the kitchen. He pressed the remote to activate the up-and-over door, and flooring the accelerator, left the garage like a bat out of hell. The bottom edge of the rising door scraped along the roof of the vehicle with the squeal of fingernails on a blackboard as the tyres laid down rubber on the concrete floor.

Into second gear, over steering, he hit a wheelie bin which went down like a ninepin, spewing its bagged contents out to split open and litter the pavement. He almost lost control, shooting out of the drive to fishtail across the road and come within an inch of sideswiping a neighbour's Rover. He somehow straightened out of the skid, gunned the engine and was in third gear doing fifty, praying that nobody stepped out into the road between parked cars.

"Yeesss!" he hissed, using side streets to make a clean getaway, heading east from Harrow to throw fellow police off the scent.

Ten minutes later, he was cruising on the speed limit, headlights now on as he sped west in the general direction of Richmond Park.

The officers watching his house would have been caught cold. They were geared-up to expect an assault on it by a lone gunman, not a Steve McQueen, Bullitt-style escape by the cop they were safeguarding.

Matt knew that by the time his registration was put out, after the team leader had first contacted Tom for new orders, he would be at Beth's place in Roehampton. It had now come down to one-on-one. At some point, very soon, a split-second of action would determine who lived and who died.

It was a warm, muggy night, and yet Matt felt chilled to the marrow as he switched off the ignition key and the engine noise was replaced by a cloying silence. He waited a minute to settle and gather his wits, before climbing out of the Discovery and walking across the car park to the bright yellow rectangle of Hawksworth House's entrance, praying that he was up to the task. Any worthwhile future depended on him being able to function efficiently to his limit, and beyond. If there was a God, then he needed His company now, to give him the courage to be strong, and the ability to prevail over the evil that was waiting for him, manifested as Gary Noon.

Wiping clammy hands on the sides of his pants, he reached out to press the button that would connect him to Beth's intercom. His tremulous finger stopped a hairsbreadth from its destination.

"Do it!" he whispered, and depressed it with a hard jab.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

" **HE** did what?" Tom shouted into his phone.

"He did a runner, guv," DS Dick Shaw repeated, wincing against the volume of the DCI's voice and jerking the cell away from his ear.

"How?" Tom asked.

"Came out of his garage like a champagne cork and was gone in seconds."

"His leg's in fucking plaster, for Christ's sake. Are you sure it was Barnes driving?"

"Yeah, we eyeballed him. No doubt. And there was no one else in the vehicle, unless they were in the rear and keeping well down, which is impossible, because no one but Barnes was in the house."

"Check the house anyway, and have any incoming calls he's received traced. He must have been contacted."

"What do you think he's up to, guv?"

"Mystic Meg, I'm not," Tom said caustically before ending the call. He slammed the mug he was holding down onto the tabletop with such force that the handle snapped off. Punched up Matt's mobile number. Not available. This was a totally unacceptable fuck-up of a situation. There were loose cannons in the shape of Noon, the Yank shooter, and now Matt, all trigger-happy and looking to blow the living shit out of each other. Tom kept arriving at scenes after the event, with only bodies to greet him. Not true! He had Luther Tyrell. And Nick Marino had survived.

Tom turned his attention to the granite-faced Goliath. "We need to contact Noon or the imported hitter, Luther," he said.

Tiny appreciated being called by his proper name. It made him feel like a real person, not a goon with an infantile nickname. "Not possible," he said, frowning. "Dom didn't know how to run Noon down, or he would've had him taken out. And the Yank's a phantom."

"How did Santini contact him, then?"

"Through a New York mobster. Benny Andretti."

"You got this Andretti guy's number?"

"It'll be on the computer. Carlo dealt with all the technical stuff."

Tom sighed. It was something. Luther led him upstairs to where Carlo had the hardware set up. Tom wasn't going to mess with it. He rang Computer Crime Section and was pleased to find Kenny Ruskin still on duty.

"I'm standing in front of Santini's computer," he said to the ace programmer. "There's a shitload of disks. Can you get over here and dig out some info for me?"

"On my way, Tom. And don't let anyone who doesn't know what they're doing mess with anything. It could have traps laid to wipe data."

"That's why I called you, Kenny."

All Tom could do was wait. There was a chance that a lot of incriminating evidence was stored on the scores of disks that filled the dozen or so cryptically labelled storage boxes, though he doubted that there would be any leads to help them find the players he was after. Even approaching Andretti would be a total waste of time. The gangster would deny any claim of having put Santini together with a shooter. But he had to play with what he'd got. Follow the trail back, as Matt would put it.

On a whim, Tom looked up Beth Holder's number and rang it.

"Yes?"

"Beth?"

"Yes, Tom. What can I do for you?"

"Have you heard from Matt, tonight?"

"No. Why?"

"He's flown the nest."

"What do you mean?"

"He ran, or should I say, drove out from under the noses of the team that were covering his stubborn arse."

"With a plaster cast on his leg?"

"Tell me about it. I think he must have taken it off."

"But why would he do that? What could possibly motivate him to go off by himself?"

"God knows, Beth. I was hoping you'd have an idea. If he gets in touch, let me know. We can't protect him if we don't know where he is."

"I'll do that, Tom. And you let me know if you find him."

He heard the catch in her voice. He had unwittingly worried her. "He'll be fine, Beth. He knows what he's doing, even if we don't. When he surfaces, I'll get him to give you a bell."

Beth thanked him and then ended the call.

"Very good," Gary said. He had been sitting cheek to cheek with Beth, listening to both sides of the conversation. "Your boyfriend is resourceful. I'm really looking forward to meeting up with him."

"Why are you so obsessed with Matt Barnes, Gary?" Beth asked.

Gary moved away from her and reached out to accept the mug of coffee that Marion held out to him. He said nothing.

Beth observed that Marion was more together. Now even able to make eye contact with her. Something significant had happened. Beth sensed the change of mood and dynamics. It was as if Marion had found some inner well of strength. She was more composed and in control of her emotions. It had not been lost on Beth that the ex-nurse was ill at ease with Noon. Knowing what he had done previously was one thing. They were detached events, without substance. Being present and having to watch him murder in cold blood was, potentially, a whole new deal. If Beth's ability to analyse characters was near the mark (and it usually was), then there was a possibility that she might have a reluctant ally. Marion was basically law-abiding, having spent the greater part of her life counselling, involved in talk therapy, attempting to help patients rebuild their lives and become well again. She was programmed to promote the well-being, not the destruction of individuals. Noon's power over her might not be as potent as he believed. The impending blood bath may have brought about the realisation that her infatuation was, to say the least, foolhardy.

Gary turned his attention back to Beth, looking her up and down as though she was a side-show freak, or an unidentifiable exhibit suspended in a jar of formaldehyde.

"I am not obsessed with Barnes, Doctor," he said, his words clipped. "My mind is far from being preoccupied to an unreasonable extent by him. He's just a detail. It's Barnes who has the obsession, and is intent on bringing me to so-called justice for grievously wounding him and dispatching a number of his incompetent comrades in arms. He presents a small risk, which makes it prudent on my part to eradicate him. Also, the fucker killed Simon, which made it personal."

"Simon was your tarantula, right?"

"He was a mygalomorph. There is a difference, but I won't bore either of us by going into it. Barnes boasted that he'd squished him; an act that in itself earned him a bullet."

"He was winding you up," Beth said. "Simon is alive and well."

"That's nice to know. I hope it's true. But it doesn't change anything."

"It should. Unless you have a death wish."

"I don't. Truth is, I'm basically bad, not mad."

"Then why don't you just take off and start afresh somewhere with a new identity."

"You disappoint me," Gary said, fixing Beth with a look that a teacher might give to a child who he expected much more of. "I thought you were a hotshot profiler. It's fundamental to my nature to kill. I consider it both a vocation and the ultimate game, Doctor. And the higher the risk, the greater the emotional and intellectual reward."

"You call killing a game?"

"Of course. The same as any other, but for bigger stakes. I don't do it for the money alone. Do you imagine that any vastly rich sportsman or woman continues to compete for the monitory recompense? They do it because it's what they do; what they are. Take away their reason to exist and they have nothing."

"I find that a poor metaphor. You're trying to say that you were born to kill, and that it's as natural as playing football or tennis. Is that what you think you are, a natural born killer? Do you see that as somehow significant and worthwhile?"

"I don't have to see it as anything. I believe in achieving personal fulfilment in whatever way I see fit. And your views, principles and beliefs are irrelevant. I'm totally self-contained, Beth Holder. You're not a person to me, just a very insignificant detail of a very big picture, no more or less important than a ripe apple I might pluck from a tree to temporarily sate my appetite. Or an ant to crush underfoot, rather than step around."

Beth now saw him for what he truly was; a creature as repugnant to humanity as the fictional monster in the Alien movies. He could not be reasoned with, or even communicated with on any meaningful level. Even though he spoke the same language and bore a deceptive resemblance to the species he dwelt among, he was not, in essence, one of them. This was a genetically malformed being, a faulty product pressed out on an assembly line which should not have passed inspection, but been rejected, returned to the mix and melted down.

Marion felt faint. The blood seemed to be withdrawing from her brain and extremities to leave her feeling light-headed and numbingly cold. She could feel a rash of gooseflesh erupt on her arms. The fear was palpable. She wanted to run from the flat, but her legs were fixed, as if thick roots had sprouted from the soles of her feet and taken hold, to grow down into the floor. ' _I am a tree_ ', a small voice whispered in some dark recess of her mind. She remembered primary school days, when the teacher, Mrs. Walker – who had always dressed in a red, tight-fitting two-piece suit – had have them play charades. The children would pretend to be anything their imagination could create. She, Marion, had always opted to be a tree, crooking her arms out and clawing her fingers, to picture herself as one of the terrifying trees in the forest that Snow White had fled through. Now, it was she who felt the clutching branches of dread that she had been snagged by in countless childhood nightmares that the fairy tale induced.

If there had been any grain of doubt as to Gary's mental state, it was now resolved. His remarks to Beth satisfied Marion that he was incapable of caring for anyone or anything but himself. She would have to somehow gather her wits, pick the moment and end this. How she could have envisaged being party to murder, she could not now imagine. It was as if Gary had possessed her in the way a mind-altering drug or a hypnotist would. She had been under his control; knew at heart that it would be the end of her, but had not cared. Love – or the power of that indefinable but all-conquering emotion – had lulled her into a state far removed from her true nature. It was as if she had been spinning around a sun, being slowly drawn into the waiting conflagration by its gravitational pull, but too beguiled by its warmth and brightness to draw back and break free. She had in some way wanted to be consumed, to suffer both the agony and the ecstasy. But the spell was now broken, and the paralysis of both her mind and body was unlocked. She was returned to being wholly the person she had been before falling under Noon's tenebrous enchantment.

Lighting a cigarette, Marion took deep, calming drags from it, and waited. The next time Gary engaged Beth in conversation and had his back to her, she fully intended to pull the steak hammer from her jeans and club him to death, not relenting until his skull was broken like an egg; his brains mashed to a pulp.

"You would contaminate a sewer, Noon," Beth said. "Even the rats would be repulsed and sickened by you. I hope that―"

Gary lashed out again with the gun, and watched as she fell back with blood erupting to mist the air as her scalp split open.

"You're pushing me, you stupid cunt," he said. "I want Barnes to watch you die, slowly, before he gets his. So be a good girl and don't say another word till he shows up. If you insult me again, I'll cut your fucking tongue out."

Beth struggled back up into a sitting position. Her thick hair had absorbed some of the blow's impact, and although dazed, she met his stare and remained defiant. Fuck sucking up to him and acting like a victim. She wanted to rattle him and see if there were any cracks in his shell. But decided to use a little tact.

As Beth made to again question his motives, without being so disparaging, Marion moved with a speed that her stocky, overweight body did not appear capable of. She tugged the hammer free as she closed on Gary, raised it two-handed, high into the air, and aimed a mighty blow at the crown of his head.

DS Dick Shaw, who had been tagged 'Rickshaw' for twenty-three of his twenty-nine years, braced himself as he waited for the DCI to pick up.

"Bartlett."

"It's Shaw, guv. I'm in Barnes's house."

"And?"

"There's a hacksaw, chunks of plaster, and some ripped-up bandage on his kitchen table and the floor. Looks like he sawed through the leg cast so that he could drive."

"What else?"

"Nada. The last incoming call on his land line was from the Yard."

"So check his mobile number. Someone had to have contacted him. There'll be a record of the call. You'll be able to find out what area it was made from."

"I've got a guy on it."

"Get back to me when you know something. And make it fast."

"Ignorant bastard!" Dick said, once certain that his superior officer had terminated the call. Barnes had made them look like fucking idiots by doing a runner. They owed him one, if he didn't get his ticket punched.

Tom was getting angry. The frustration was building up like shit in a blocked drain. He could feel his cheeks heating up, and knew that bright red patches would be signalling his choler. His recently acquired ulcer was burning in his gut. And his chest hurt. He searched his pockets for antacid tablets, but had chewed his way through them all.

"Get me a glass of milk, would you?" he said to Pete Deakin. "Then have Luther taken in and processed."

Luther looked up from the spots of blood on his black loafers, which he had been gazing fixedly at. He didn't know if it was from the wounded cop, or Dom, and wasn't in the least concerned. "I thought―"

"You thought right, Luthor," Tom cut in, rubbing his sternum with the heel of his hand, hoping that he was not about to suffer another fucking heart attack. "We've got a lot of talking to do, real soon. And after that, we'll work something out that will keep you, me and the suits upstairs at the Yard happy. It'll be a trade-off. You saved a cop's skin, and that goes a long way in my book. But I'll want everything. Understand?"

Luther nodded, and the light from the tube on the ceiling reflected off his shaven skull. He envisaged a token sentence, after he had helped put a lot of people away for a very long time. If he was lucky, and could do his stretch without being sussed as a grass and shivved, then when he came out he would catch a silver bird to Barbados, maybe open a gym and train some of the local kids to box. He had put money by for a rainy day, and black-bellied clouds were now gathering directly overhead, ready to dump on him. He smiled to himself. This was only going to be a summer storm that would quickly pass. His decision to save the cop and subsequently cap Dom and Carlo would bring clear skies soon enough.

Tears of rage and fear dampened Marion's cheeks as she brought her arms down in a full-blooded, sweeping arc, aiming the hammer at the top of Gary's head.

Beth stiffened and attempted to remain composed, not looking away from her antagonist's face. But Gary was attuned to his surroundings, noticed the rigidity in her features, and saw the flash of movement mirrored in Beth's almost imperceptibly widening eyes.

Stoat-quick, half turning, he managed to move slightly to his left, which resulted in the broad hammerhead glancing off his skull, not striking him with the accuracy and impact that Marion had intended.

He reacted instinctively, without thought as to why she would suddenly attack him. He swung his arm round and fired upwards twice from the kneeling position he had assumed as he was bludgeoned to the floor.

Both bullets tore into Marion's stomach with less than half an inch between the two entry holes. The slugs erupted from high up in her back, taking a welter of blood and tissue with them, before embedding into the ceiling amid a crimson spray. She was thrown backwards, to totter across the carpet, bounce off the door jamb and spin into the kitchen on tiptoe, arms flailing. Her back thudded into the refrigerator and she slowly slid down the door onto her fat-cushioned buttocks, to leave a glistening poppy-red trail on the white, enamelled metal.

Sitting, legs apart, hands palm up at her sides on the granite coloured vinyl like a marionette at rest, Marion coughed once and stared in disbelief as a stream of hot gore jetted from her mouth to splash into her lap. Her eyes rolled back to show shining white orbs between the wide-open lids. She felt as though hot pokers had been pushed into and through her. And her heart physically ached, felt swollen, too large for the cavity it occupied. _Oh, Jesus fucking Christ_! She could feel the blood draining from her numbed brain. Knew that life was deserting her. She uttered a single, wet, plaintive moan, before her head fell forward and death took her.

Even as Beth attempted to rise from the settee, Gary redirected his attention to her, shot out his left hand and pushed her back.

"Why would she try to hurt me?" he asked, patting at his now matted hair, and then holding his hand in front of him to stare in disbelief at the blood coating his fingers. "She...she loved me, for fuck's sake."

Beth was stunned at both the sudden explosion of violence that had resulted in Marion's death, and by the behaviour of this homicidal fiend, who was now acting like a grief-stricken little boy, unable to comprehend why his pet dog had snapped at him for pulling on its ears.

"I think she saw you for what you really are, Gary," Beth offered.

She _knew_ who I fucking am," he said, his bottom lip quivering and his eyes shiny with tears. "and loved me in spite of it. She saw us as a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. We'd made plans for the future."

"Knowing that you're a killer is not the same as being present when you do the deed, Gary," Beth said. "Deep down, Marion knew that what you do is wrong; beyond acceptance. She was incapable of seeing any point in killing for the sake of it."

"There's no point to anything, shrink. The same stars shine down that have for millennia, overseeing the rise and fall of empires and the extinction of life in myriad forms. What you, I, or anyone else thinks or does is of absolutely no fucking consequence in the great scheme of things. Don't you know that?"

"I know about you, Gary. That you were emotionally crippled as a youngster, and that your mother had a lot to do with it."

"Leave my fucking whore of a mother out of it!" he bellowed. "What right do you have to make assumptions and try to categorise me? You can't begin to know what motivates me. I think you're like one of those sad film or book critics, full of arty-farty interpretations of what the director or author was trying to convey through his work: scavengers, who can only pick through the leftovers of someone else's meal. The reality is, that sometimes what you see is all there is to it. There doesn't have to be hidden agendas or layers. Not everything is a fucking onion. How can you begin to understand what you've never been...never felt, or never done? You're like a travel writer who produces a guide to somewhere exotic you've never visited, from the safety of your office chair. I detest your arrogance."

Beth sat back under the verbal onslaught. His eyes were bulging like a cartoon toad's, and his free hand was up at his bearded face, first tearing at the hair, then scratching through it, raking at the underlying cheek until it bled. When he pulled his hand free, his fingernails were rimmed with raw flesh and blood.

"I know what I see, Gary," she came back. "I've spent years talking to and treating people with personality disorders. I don't have to be a schizophrenic or sociopath to recognise the symptoms. I've never put my hand in boiling water, but I know the damage and pain that doing it would cause. You're obsessed with violence and death. You need to be in control. You're psychologically damaged, or you wouldn't express yourself with such antisocial behaviour. You resent what other people have, and has eluded you."

He actually smiled, became calmer and nodded, as if he appreciated her response to his outburst.

"You've got spunk, Doctor, I'll give you that. I'm what you say I am, and much, much more. But it's all just words, not worth the amount of breath expended in voicing them. It doesn't change anything. When Barnes arrives, I'm going to let him live long enough to watch me rape, then kill you. He'll welcome his own release, but it won't be quick or clean."

He knelt before her as if to be dubbed, and then roughly parted her legs and shuffled forward between them, up real close and personal; the way he had with Marion.

Beth stiffened. She thought he was about to take her, and knew that with her hands bound up tight behind her back, she could not fight him. The loathing for, and fear of him made her feel physically sick. Her stomach felt as though it was detached from its moorings, rising up to plug her throat from the inside.

He placed the gun on the carpet and used both hands to rip open her blouse. Beth's unfettered breasts greeted him and immediately caused a rising discomfort in his pants.

His touch was repulsive, but Beth was already up against the back of the settee with nowhere to go. The expression on his face as he ogled her, made her think of a punter in a dark and sleazy strip joint, who got his rocks off with one hand feverishly working overtime beneath a stained gabardine coat. Oh Christ! His lips trailed across her left breast, latched on to the rosy nub at its centre and began to suck. She could feel his tongue flicking, attempting...then succeeding to bring her nipple to reluctant yet far from pleasurable erection. And then, worse. He raised his head, enveloped her mouth with his, and pushed his tongue between her lips. She clamped her teeth together and tried to withdraw, but was held fast by strong hands that now gripped both sides of her face. Enough. She would _not_ let him take her. Would open her mouth to his probing tongue, then bite down and not unlock her jaws until it was severed.

They both jumped as the intercom buzzed.

Gary backed off, snatched up the gun and pulled her upright, fingers digging into the underside of her arm as he guided her out into the hall.

"Saved by the bell," Gary gasped. "But not for long. We'll get back to where we left off, real soon. Now, take a deep breath, bitch, and tell Romeo to come on up. And I don't want to hear anything that I think might give him cause for alarm."

Beth closed her eyes as he pressed the button. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself. Matt would have picked up on her obscure but blatant warning. He would be ready to deal with Noon. Please God that he was.

"Matt?" she said into the speaker, amazed that she could produce the semblance of an unconcerned, downbeat voice.

"Who else would it be?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a door-to-door salesman. Or Mormons peddling safe passage to the hereafter."

"At this time of night?"

"Stop using logic. Come in out of the cold," she said as Noon released the lock on the entrance door.

"That was neat," Gary said, opening the flat door just an inch. "Let's go back into the lounge and get ready to surprise him."

Doubt hit Beth between the eyes with the same sharp pain that gulping an iced drink too quickly on a hot day will. What if Matt had not cottoned on, and was about to walk in unprepared, expecting Marion to confide in him and give Noon up? Life was a cruel lottery. Who ever knew when they had eaten their final meal, were stubbing out their last cigarette, or turning off the bedside light, never to see another day dawn? The future she had dared to contemplate sharing with Matt might not exist.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

**KYLE** watched as the car appeared to free wheel into the car park with its lights off. It came to a silent stop under low branches in a murky corner, away from the halogen lamps that blazed from globes atop concrete posts around the perimeter.

He bobbed down so that he could not be seen through the windscreen, snatching glances over the top of the dash. It was the cop who climbed out, to look about him before making a quick phone call and moving away from the SUV.

Good. All the cast was assembled. It was almost time for the curtain to rise for the final act.

The prospect of sleeping in his own bed tomorrow night – an ocean away at the beach house in Boca Raton – warmed Kyle's heart. Within the next thirty minutes, he would have fulfilled his contract, and would be phoning Santini to tell him that the cop was dead, and also where he could pick up Noon, who would be gagged and bound in the trunk of the rental car. Shortly after that, he would be at Heathrow, booking a flight on the next Miami-bound silver bird.

Kyle felt like how he imagined an ageing rock star might; still touring after decades on the road, but doing less gigs than he had performed as a younger man. Carefully, silently, he exited the rental, and staying in the shadows of shrubbery he skirted the car park and made his way the two hundred feet to the door that Barnes had vanished through.

Taking a deep breath, Kyle readied himself, emptied his mind of all else and adopted the detached, focused mindset of the stone killer that he was. He gained entry using the key card that had cost the life of the old woman and her three pissy-assed cats: a fleeting image of the senior citizen, hoar-frosted and stiff as a plank within the freezer flashed through his mind. He took the stairs up to the top floor, lungs burning. Too many cigarettes. _Gotta quit!_

The landing was clear, and the lift had remained quiet as he mounted the stairs. No one had left. He slipped mirrored shades on; a long-standing affectation that had become an almost superstitious act. The Ray-Bans were his good luck charm; a rabbit's foot, St Christopher medal, four-leaf clover and horseshoe all rolled into one and wrapped around his face to give him what had in earlier years been a cool James Dean look.

Reaching the woman's apartment, he could hear voices. It was on-the-spot decision time: Wait for Noon or Barnes – whichever of them survived the confrontation – to leave, and if it was the cop, whack him as he left, or escalate the adrenaline rush by shooting out the lock, joining the party and attending to business. The occupants would be too preoccupied to protect themselves against his sudden, Blitzkrieg-style storming of the place.

Tom's phone trilled again. Caller ID was Matt.

"What the hell are you playing at?" he demanded.

There was no reply. But the line was open. He could hear a voice, and music. It was Eva Cassidy singing _Over the Rainbow_.

"Hello!" he barked, anger rising.

'...Someday I'll wish upon a star...'

"Matt. Talk to me."

'...and wake up where the clouds are far behind me...'

Tom was about to scream down the line, but his cop's instinct cut in. He waited for Eva to finish up. It was a radio station: Capital Gold. What did it mean? It was important, for fuck's sake! Maybe Matt was in trouble, couldn't talk, but had managed to hit the stored number for Tom's cell before...Before what?

"Pete," he said.

"Yeah, boss."

"I've got an open line. It's Matt's mobile. Have it traced," he said, holding out the phone for his DS to take.

Matt had started to get out of the car, and then hesitated. He took his Nokia out, called Tom's number and placed the phone on the driver's seat as he turned on the radio. Quietly closing the door, he could hear an old Judy Garland number, but not being sung by her. Tom was no fool. Matt knew he would catch on, follow the 'yellow brick road', and lead the cavalry to Beth's. But by then it would almost certainly be little more than a mopping-up exercise. The next few minutes held the promise of violent death, with no guarantee of who would survive. It was like a game of roulette, but the loser would lose more than chips, and leave the table in a body bag.

As he approached Beth's door, Matt went through his simple plan step-by-step. Noon would not be expecting a sudden and deadly attack; would assume that his adversary would be eager to talk to Marion, unwary of the reality of the situation.

He drew the Beretta and curled his finger around the trigger. The countless hours spent on the indoor and outdoor ranges were about to be put to the ultimate test. As Beth opened the door, he would kick it back, enter low and fast, sight-in on Noon and shoot without hesitation. However fast the killer was, he was human, and would not be allowed the reaction time needed to return fire.

Fuck! No! The door was already open. A shaft of light from the gap cut across the more dimly lit landing.

The pistol's butt was suddenly slick in his hand.

Noon shouted. "You're making me nervous, Barnes. I've got a gun up against the fragrant Beth's head, and my finger has taken up all the slack on the trigger. I think you'd better come on in, very carefully, holding your piece two-fingered by the barrel."

Pushing the door back, Matt entered the flat and made his way into the lounge. Across the room, Beth was sitting on the settee. Noon was hunkered down behind it. He had his left forearm locked around her neck, and as he'd stated, held a semiautomatic pressed to her temple.

"At last, we get to meet, cop," Gary said. "Now, toss the gun over here, slow and easy."

Matt had always vowed that he would never give up his firearm to a perp. And yet here he was, doing it without argument, going against all his training and principles as he meekly obeyed the command.

"Now take your jacket off and give me a twirl."

Matt shrugged the open car coat off onto the carpet and performed a 360º turn.

Gary noted that the shoulder holster was empty, and that there was no sign of a second concealed weapon. "Looking good," he said. "Lift up your trouser bottoms. I'd hate to think you had a back-up piece strapped to your ankle.

"You must watch all the Yank cop shows," Matt said as he allayed Noon's fears.

Gary smiled. "Better safe than dead. I think we can relax now and get down to business."

"No, Noon. We can't relax. The place is surrounded. My boss gave me ten minutes to get in and out. I either appear at the front door with Beth, or an assault team will storm the place, suitably garbed in Kevlar, and trigger happy."

Gary blinked rapidly. His mouth worked but no sound came out for long seconds.

"Y...You're lying. I'm not buying that crap. You didn't know I was here."

"So why did I have my gun drawn? It's your call, Noon" Matt said with a shrug, trying to sound and look casual, knowing that body language was a powerful tool. "But if you don't deal, you'll leave this room feet first. I'm all you've got to stop that happening. Think about it. You're a cop killer. Do you suppose they're going to try to arrest you? Get real. They _want_ you to try and shoot your way out of the fix you're in."

Several voices started up in Gary's head. He narrowed his eyes to slits and drew his lips back against the shrill, insistent clamour. But they would not be dismissed.

One voice said, "Just fucking top them and be done with it..."

Another said, "No! Give it up, Gary. You can't shoot your way out of this mess..."

A third whispered, "He's right. Live to fight another day. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you go down in a hail of bullets. Where there's life, there's hope."

Yet another opined, "The cop's playing for time. He's desperate. You're in charge of the situation. Don't let him fuck with your mind."

Gary screamed out against the burble. It lessened, and his mother's voice came through loud and clear, to be heard above the others, that had now faded to hollow unintelligible murmurs like a radio playing in another room.

"He's lying to you, my brave little soldier. Ignore him. He's trying to talk his way out of a hole. Fuck his bitch, kill her, then cut his eyes out and leave him to suffer hell on earth. There's nobody outside. They don't know he's here."

"Okay, Mummy," he said, adopting the voice of a young boy.

Beth and Matt frowned at one another. Noon was either approaching meltdown, or was sicker than they had thought.

The tension went from Gary's face and he smiled. His mum's voice had been so firm and sure; a living, breathing voice, not a product of his mind. She had forgiven him for what he had done to her. She knew how unhappy and ashamed he had become; understood how her capricious fornication left him feeling an unworthy bastard, born and trapped in a squalid quagmire of her making.

Clarity returned. He flicked out his tongue to lick away the thread of saliva that had drooled out from the corner of his mouth.

"Nice try, Barnes. But I know better than to believe a scared and desperate man. You're grasping at straws, and you just drew the short one," As he spoke, Gary pushed Beth down so that she was lying on her side on the settee. He then pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. "Catch," he said, tossing it to Matt.

Matt caught it without taking his eyes off Noon.

"Now, pull up a chair," Gary said. "Sit down and tape your ankles to the legs as tight as a whore's corset."

Matt pulled the nearest dining chair to him and did as he was bid.

"Now your right wrist. Wind the tape around it three times. I want to see your hand go white. Then put both hands behind the back of the chair and interlock your fingers."

Matt obeyed.

Gary walked across the room, giving Matt a wide berth and coming up behind him. "I'm going to fasten your wrists together," he said. "Twitch and you take a bullet in that healthy kidney I left you with."

Matt remained still. He was only seconds away from the moment of truth. Noon's overconfidence had presented a slender last chance. Once trussed to the chair it would be game over, with no likelihood of inserting another coin and trying again. He knew that Noon would already have shot him if that had been his only goal. The psycho had more ambitious plans. With a dread hardly bearable, Matt faced the awful fate that waited, not for him, but for Beth, if he failed her now at this last hurdle. Her injured face, torn blouse and uncovered breasts spoke volumes. He would not allow himself to be pinioned in a front row seat and be forced to watch while the woman he loved with such passion was violated and murdered.

Noon's plan was obvious: rape Beth, and almost certainly torture and mutilate her before finally taking her life. Only then would he deal with Matt.

As Gary reached for the dangling reel of tape, Matt lowered his head submissively, and then snapped it back with all the speed and force he could bring to bear. He might have been demonstrating the effects of whiplash after being rear-ended by another vehicle. As he made his move, he threw all of his weight behind it, to tip the chair over. Luck, fate, fluke or whatever fortuitous and intangible forces might exist and have come to his aid, he gave no mind to. The familiar sounding crack of cartilage and the resulting scream of surprise and pain told him that Noon's nose was broken.

Gary fell, instinctively reaching to cup his fractured, bleeding nose. Before his back hit the floor, he fired wildly at the chair as it toppled down towards him. The bullet smashed through the framework, blasting splinters of wood into the air and into Matt's neck and cheek.

Matt was convinced that he had been shot, but did not falter. With his last breath he would do everything he could to negate the threat to Beth. Even as he fell through the air – feeling like a jet pilot who had ejected from his plane just seconds before impact – he felt the full power of love infuse his being: Knew that it and not survival was the most potent instinct of the human condition. Self-sacrifice for others was built into the blueprint of many people, to lie dormant and be triggered in only the most untenable of situations, when it would be activated to override all other considerations and produce acts of heroism from sometimes the most unlikely individuals.

Twisting to the right as the chair landed heavily on Noon, winding him, Matt saw the gun with smoke curling from the black eye of the silencer. Noon was still holding it, bringing it up to fire again. Matt instinctively lunged forward, found the gun hand's thumb, to envelop it with his mouth and bite down, breaking skin, puncturing muscle, until his teeth met bone. For a few seconds he was mindless, trying to tear the digit free. It was as though he were a wild animal feeding on live prey. He brought his hands into play, pulled his mouth free and wrenched the gun from the bloody hand. Noon was going to die where he lay. Matt intended to empty the clip into his face. At that moment, he was totally irrational, driven by a boiling hatred for the man who had gunned down his colleagues: Donny Campbell, Bernie Mellors, Keith Collins and Tony Delgado. It was also for the Page family, who had just been innocent members of the public. But the bottom line was that he was going to execute Noon for targeting his and Beth's lives; for making it personal.

"Matt!" Beth screamed as he gripped Noon by the throat one-handed and brought the Glock up to aim at a point between the moaning man's eyes.

Beth had rolled off the settee an instant after Matt launched his attack. She intended to go across to where the two men thrashed in mortal combat, to use her feet to kick Noon and stamp on his head. But as she got to her feet, a stranger appeared at the lounge door. He was in a crouched firing stance, holding a gun. He wore mirrored shades, and was aiming the pistol at the two struggling combatants. Beth knew that the man was not a cop. It occurred to her that he must be one of Santini's men, and that Matt hadn't got a cat in hell's chance of avoiding being shot where he lay.

# CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

**TOM** gulped down almost a full pint of chilled milk, straight from the container that Pete had taken from one of the two giant stainless steel Whirlpool fridge/freezers that graced the 'Ideal Homes'-style kitchen. The milk numbed Tom's stomach and shocked the complaining ulcer into temporary submission. He belched loudly and wiped at the spillage that was running down his already stained tie. Everything was happening around him, but too damn slow. Kenny Ruskin had hot-footed it over from CCS and was now in his element, lost in cyberspace, dismantling firewalls in Santini's computer and searching for anything that would give Tom a lead to Noon or the imported gunman.

Down in the basement, the Home Office pathologist was examining the two fresh cadavers. Tom wasn't interested. He knew how they'd checked-out. Luther Tyrell had popped Santini and Falco, and would no doubt never do a better day's work in his life, should he live to be a thousand.

The foreign maid was on her way to hospital, suffering from shock. She had begun screaming and frantically rubbing her naked body with both hands, trying to rid herself of her own and her late boss's blood, which had turned her face and breasts pillar-box red and had run in rivulets down her legs. The more she attempted to wipe it away, the more she spread it. She'd had to be restrained as she freaked out.

"Bingo!" Pete said, closing up the cell phone he had been talking into. "They traced the open line, boss."

To where?" Tom demanded.

"Roehampton. And the provider confirms that it's Matt's phone."

"That's where Beth Holder lives. Get a response unit rolling, Pete. And tell them to stay on standby till I arrive. Nobody goes in unless I give the word."

"You think Noon's there, boss?" Pete asked as he made the call.

"Yeah. I think the bastard was there when I spoke to Beth. And Matt wouldn't go to these lengths just to go-a-courtin' Mary Jane."

"Who?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Beth, you prat!"

Pete turned his attention back to the phone and jacked up the ARU. "They're on their way," he said. "But why would Matt go it alone, then phone you and leave the line open? He must have done it knowing we'd trace it and head over there."

"That's right. And he knows it'll be all over by the time we show up. Noon is obviously holding Beth, which makes it even more personal to Matt. There's no way he'd sit back and hope that we could perform a miracle."

"So you think Noon or Beth phoned him?"

"That's the only explanation. He's going head-to-head with a sicko who has given him some sort of ultimatum. Beth's his hostage."

They had been moving toward the front door as they talked. Climbing into the car, Pete belted himself in, advised Tom to do the same, and took off with every intention of making Formula 1 look positively pedestrian.

"I want to live to see my pension," Tom said as they hurtled through the open gates. Pete just smiled and threw the car into a tight curve at dizzying speed.

Tom tried to light a cigarette, but found it impossible to bring the lighter's flame and the end of the cigarette together. His DS was driving like a fucking maniac.

There was maybe three seconds of total stillness and silence. Matt and Noon both looked sideways and up to where Kyle had now straightened and was standing less than ten feet from them. Matt instinctively knew that it was the Yank hit man. Knew that the gun held rock steady in the pro's hand, pointing at his head, was about to belch a bullet that would no doubt blow the back of his head off and transform him into an uncaring corpse.

"WAIT! Dominic Santini was shot dead this evening at his house," Matt said in as clear a voice as he could muster. "His organisation is history. You won't get paid a red cent for fulfilling a contract that died with him."

Kyle saw the truth of it in the cop's eyes. He also heard the distant sirens of police cars. You win some, you lose some, he thought. It was time to go home. This was now a bummer. He could cap the two guys and the broad, or just take a powder. He pondered for a few seconds, before an internal switch clicked off. The part of him that was a killing machine was abrogated. He nodded at Matt.

"Lose the piece, pally," Kyle said, and waited for Matt to throw the gun out of reach. He then backed up, out of the room, covering them until he was through the door. It was clear that they had more on their minds than him. He had walked in and interrupted death in progress. No longer his problem. They could now finish what they'd started. He had a plane to catch.

Gary Noon was the first to rejoin the battle. He brought his knee up into Matt's stomach and scrambled out from beneath him as he was driven backwards. Attempting to retrieve the gun did not even enter his mind. The phantom voices had started up again and were backed by the real wailing and whooping of the police sirens that sounded like banshees heralding approaching doom.

He moved fast on all fours, and Beth thought he looked more like an insect than a human being: a form of life that usually existed out of sight, deep within damp earth, shunning the light and now scurrying to find a dark crevice to hide in.

At the apartment's door, Gary checked that the landing was clear. He heard the lift descending, and climbing to his feet, ran for the stairs, holding his head, tears pricking his eyes as the volume of the voices reached an unprecedented level. They became a confusion of tongues. Babel. A meaningless and indecipherable din that emanated out from his brain. He thought his ear drums might be burst from the inside, such was the imagined pressure.

Almost insane, his broken nose and bitten thumb dripping blood, he made his way down two flights of stairs, and then stopped to regain a little composure and to attempt to think. Barnes would follow him, armed with a gun, and with no intention of arresting him.

Stooping to lift his pants leg, Gary drew a knife from the sheath strapped to his calf and then eased open the door separating the stairwell from the carpeted hallway beyond. The cop would expect him to put as much distance as possible between them; to disappear into the night. But he was not about to do the obvious. He would wait, gut Barnes like a fish, and only then make good his escape.

Matt was winded, fighting for breath as he sat up. Beth went to him.

"Are you okay" he asked, his voice pained, wheezing.

"I'm fine, now," she answered, dropping to her knees next to him. "Get this tape off my wrists."

He reached behind her, quickly found the end of the duct tape and unwound it. Then, with Beth's help, freed his ankles from the chair, crawled over to where his own gun lay, picked it up and got to his feet.

"Lock the door after me," he said, and left, hobbling along, ignoring the gnawing pain in his abdomen. He could not contemplate Noon escaping. Should he, then they would be back to square one and at constant risk from him. It had to be finished with, and now, if they were to have any peace of mind.

Following give-away spots of blood, he reached the stairwell and started down. Even with the cast cut through, it was impossible to hurry. Combined relief and rage consumed him. That Beth was safe and had survived the ordeal was paramount. Now, he wanted revenge against the sick and malignant killer, whose only ambition was to wreak havoc on a world he did not deserve to exist in.

It happened fast, reminding Matt of the old movie, Psycho, and in particular the scene in which the private detective – played by Martin Balsam – climbs the stairs of the old house where Anthony Perkins, dressed in his late mother's clothes and wearing a wig, rushes out of the gloom to repeatedly stab him. The shot, from Perkins point of view, shows the shock-horror expression on Balsam's face as he flails his arms and falls backwards. It was a spine-chilling piece of cinema; vintage Hitchcock.

Gary burst through the door and was almost upon Matt. He was already swinging the knife down in a steep arc. It could have been a choreographed piece of theatre. Matt had seen the coin-size droplets of blood leading to the closed landing door, and anticipated the attack. He had not paused, sure that as he passed, Noon would make his move.

Instinctively dropping back out of range, Matt turned to face his nemesis and fired the gun.

The knife blade glinted as it fell away harmlessly from Gary's hand as the bullet drilled into his shoulder. He spun under the impact, toppled past Matt and curled up defensively like a hedgehog, to go over the edge of the top step and roll...bump...career down the stairs, a stuttering scream echoing in the empty and acoustically receptive space, that stopped abruptly as he crashed into the railings of the first floor landing.

Mind over matter! Gary's singular brain came to his rescue, blocking the messages that tried to storm its neural pathways and relay his body's discomfort. His nerve endings closed down in the same automatic fashion that a seal's nostrils will shut when it submerges under water. The agony was dampened to a negligible level, which he could ignore.

Without a moment's hesitation, he threw himself sideways – heard a second slug split the air next to his head and ricochet off the wall like an enraged hornet – and let his weight take him through the landing door. He was now functioning purely on instinct and was in full flight, determined to survive. He came up off the floor as though leaving the blocks at Crystal Palace, sprinted down the landing and angled towards an apartment door. It burst open as his undamaged shoulder crashed into it. He charged down the hall and entered a bedroom, where he found a double-glazed door fronting a small balcony.

Janice Barker sat bolt upright, clutching the cotton sheet to her small breasts. Fear rendered her incapable of any further movement as the dark shape of a man appeared in front of her. Puzzlement amalgamated with the initial dire dread, as the interloper, paying her no attention whatsoever, rushed over to the balcony door, turned the key in the lock, pulled the door open and staggered out onto the narrow balcony.

Leaning forward, Janice could hardly believe her eyes as the man vaulted over the balustrade and vanished into the darkness. She climbed from the bed, ventured out into the chill air and looked down to where she saw a figure crawling out from the bushes twenty feet below.

A voice boomed behind Janice. "Move! Get out of the fucking way."

Turning, Janice realised that she was naked, and in classic pose put her right arm up to cover her breasts and her left hand down over a timeworn, depleted triangle of salt and pepper pubic hair.

Matt gripped the woman by an arm and swung her round, back into the bedroom, propelling her with more force than he intended to. She fell onto her back, legs wide apart and stuck up in the air to show the soles of her feet, and much more to Matt and the ceiling. Unmindful that she was almost hyperventilating at the sight of the gun in his hand, Matt looked out over the balcony and saw Noon at the same time as a convoy of vehicles streamed into the car park, blue and red lights blinking on and off on roof bars, and sirens winding down to a drawling cessation.

As Matt took careful aim, Noon glanced back over his shoulder. Matt hesitated. Could he shoot a fleeing, unarmed man in the back? His hands began to shake and his finger remained fixed and unmoving on the trigger.

A tight smile formed on Gary's face. Barnes was inferior, not up to the game, unable to put aside his humanity and allow basic instinct to kick in. The dumb cop would not gun down a defenceless man. Now, he turned to face Barnes, grinning broadly, and raised his middle finger in defiance, only to crumple to the ground as his left leg was pierced by a bullet that shattered his shinbone.

Matt had compromised, aimed low and taken the shot. Noon would not be going anywhere in a hurry.

Clem Sherwood was the first ARU officer to exit the black Transit. He saw and recognised Barnes up on the balcony of a first floor flat and followed the line of the handgun the cop held, across to where an unknown subject was standing with his hand raised, next to cover of low, dense shrubbery. A gunshot resulted in the unsub falling to his knees.

Matt shouted, "That's Noon."

Clem shouldered his Heckler & Koch as the wounded man attempted to stand up.

"Armed police officer," he called out. "Lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head. DO. IT. NOW!"

"It's over Gary. You've got nowhere to run and nowhere to hide." His mother's voice raged loud and clear inside his head. "Are you going to let them win? To lock you up in some asylum and pump you so full of drugs that your brain will turn to jam. Is this how you want it to end? WELL, is it?"

"Nooo!" he bellowed at the top of his voice. This was not a scenario he had ever contemplated in his wildest dreams. He was far too superior to them to even begin to accommodate the concept of defeat, humiliation and loss of liberty. He was a free spirit, and as such would not be contained, or give cretins beneath his contempt the satisfaction of outwitting him. Fuck them all. He would engineer the denouement. He was still ultimately in control of the game.

Clem watched as the figure continued to rise up. He was about to give a further warning, but saw the man – who he now recognised as being the cop killer, Gary Noon – reach inside his jacket in a manner that left him in no doubt that Noon was about to draw a weapon.

Two bullets crashed into Gary's chest, snapping him backwards. He fell to the ground and flopped weakly in the shrubbery as though he were in the throws of an epileptic fit. Strange, he felt no pain, just a pressure followed by a sense of fullness. Blood welled up out of ruptured lungs, to rise like floodwater in his throat. He coughed to try and clear the blockage in his airway, but the coppery tasting deluge overwhelmed him.

As life ebbed, his power to deny the pain evaporated. The reality of the situation struck home and froze his heart as he experienced a level of anguish and fear that was in small part commensurate for the suffering he had meted out to others. And in the last instant, that seemed a small eternity before he found escape, Gary looked up as if drawn to where Matt Barnes was still standing high above him on the balcony. He saw no absolution, pity, or even pleasure in the eyes of the man who had in effect been the end of him. There was only an expression of impassive remoteness.

He tried to swallow against the outpouring of blood, but could not stem the flow, and died with the sound of his own liquid, guttural scream ringing in his ears.

# EPILOGUE

**IT** seemed that heaven cried out in blessed relief, matching the sudden sense of deliverance Matt experienced. It was only rain, spearing down to paint every surface. But the canvas of colourful distorted reflections from the car park lights and police vehicles was in some way meaningful; symbolic.

He was too far away, but in his mind he could see the silvered raindrops rebounding as small explosions of spray from the glazing black orbs that were Noon's unseeing eyes. The summer storm was a cleansing interlude; a hiatus to indelibly mark a moment between two points; before and after, or then and now, denoting a significant happening.

Matt felt drained, without an ounce of energy. All the strength had been sucked from him as the adrenaline withdrew from his muscles. This was how he could imagine anybody snatched from the closing jaws of death at the last second must feel. The Yank had appeared from nowhere, got the drop on him, and could have shot them all. Being a true pro, and believing, rightly so, that his contractor was void, he had spared them, not out of any compassion, but because it was no longer a viable venture to conclude.

"Are y...you a policeman?" Janice Barker asked, and he spun round to face her. She had picked herself up, pulled on a robe, and was now standing at the bedroom door, undecided as to whether she should run for her life, or not.

"Uh!" Matt stepped back into the room, gun now held loosely at his side.

Janice swallowed hard. "I said, are you a policeman?"

He nodded. "Yes, love. Sorry if I was a bit rough, but..." He shrugged and walked past her, out of the flat and onto the landing. He went to the lift, pressed the call button and waited. He needed to be with Beth. Everything else was now immaterial.

Tom knocked once and entered the office without waiting to be invited. Jack was standing next to his aquarium, almost silhouetted by sunlight shining through the window. He had his back to the door and was tapping food flakes from a canister. The fancy fishes swam up to the surface. They relied on him for their continued existence within the glass-walled universe they inhabited. Tom saw that it was a control thing. The man enjoyed the power he could exert, even over a tank full of poxy guppies.

Jack turned to face him. "You look tense, Tom. No wonder you've got a bloody ulcer and a dodgy ticker. Lighten up, for God's sake. We just got one hell of a result. How are Barnes and the cop you had on the inside?"

"Barnes is fine. And Nick Marino is stable, but might be in a wheelchair for six months," Tom said stonily.

"He'll be well looked after, and he's earned a promotion if he doesn't take medical retirement and walk. Sit down, Tom, you're making me nervous just standing there and looking like you've got a funeral to go to. It's over. We brought Santini's firm down, and he, his son and the cop killer are history."

Tom remained standing. "There are some loose ends, Jack. You know that," Tom said, flipping a flash drive onto his boss's desk.

Jack frowned. "What's that?" But he knew. Could see the accusatory look in Tom's eyes.

"It's a copy of stuff that was on a disk we lifted from Santini's place. A list of names, dates, offshore bank account details, and a breakdown of services rendered. Frank kept everything on file."

"Spit it out, Tom. Get it off your chest before it chokes you," Jack said, walking across to the windows and looking out at the sun-kissed city skyline as he spoke.

"You're scum, McLane," Tom replied in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone of voice. "You're worse than the lowlife we try to scrape off the streets. At least with the Santinis', what you saw was what you got. You sold out your own. It's arseholes like you and Vic Pender that are our worst enemies. But now it's over. We've got enough to put you and a few other bent cops and politicians away for a long time. And being a cop in Belmarsh won't be a picnic."

Jack was a pragmatist. He hadn't got to be chief superintendent without possessing the ability to assess facts, understand their significance, make hard decisions if need be, and act on them. It would serve no practical purpose to say anything. It had been many years ago that he had withheld some damning evidence against Frank Santini, at a time when ten grand was too much to pass up for a DC with a family to support and a mortgage that was crippling him. It was not as if he had actively colluded in the commission of a crime with the gangster. He'd just sat on a few facts, taken the money, and the rest was history. Call it his private pension fund. Greed is a powerful stimulant. One thing had led to another over time, and he'd got in way above his head. Santini had owned him. When he had – early on – attempted to walk away from it, he'd been told that not only would he go down, but that his wife and children would suffer fatal accidents if he didn't play ball. Once you'd taken the first few coins of Judas' silver, there was no turning back.

Tom waited, expecting a denial, explanation, or some attempt to justify the acts McClane had profited by. The unexpected silence was disconcerting.

Jack hiked his meaty shoulders and gave Tom a wan smile as he slid open the window. The following few seconds would subsequently haunt Tom for the rest of his life, until at the age of seventy-eight, in a rest home near Epping, Alzheimer's would finally steal away all memories, good and bad, leaving him as empty as a freshly squeezed orange skin.

Even as he realised what was about to happen, Tom was too late to intercede.

Jack got up onto the windowsill with the drum of fish food still clutched in his hand and just stepped out, to vanish from sight and plummet down past the office windows of the lower floors.

Tom ran to the window, gripped both sides of the frame and leaned out in time to see Jack hit the pavement far below.

A middle-aged passer-by was confronted with the spectacle of a man compacting in front of him, to be converted into a bloody mound. Jack somehow landed feet first. His thighbones punched through his pelvis to lodge under his armpits, and his backbone was driven up through his skull. He felt and thought nothing as a small cloud of beige-coloured powder drifted down, discharged from the fish food canister to coat his corpse in a fine layer.

Backing away from the window, Tom checked his watch, so that he would be able to correctly state the time, as well as the date and location of the...incident.

"Charming! Fucking charming!" Tom said, knowing that he would be stuck behind his desk making out reports and filling in forms for days. And yet a part of him grudgingly admired McClane for having the balls to do the right thing. Though he hated the man for his duplicity, which had no doubt cost many lives over his years of association with Santini.

The bar of the Kenton Court Hotel was the venue Matt picked for a get-together with Tom, Pete Deakin, Kenny Ruskin from CCS, Nick Marino – who was on the mend – and, of course, Beth.

"Nice to have you back, Mr Gabriel," Ron Quinn quipped as he set a tray of drinks down on the tabletop. "Will I have to check the place for hidden weapons when you all leave?"

Matt grinned at the big, red-bearded Cornishman, who was now his friend.

Ron didn't linger. He would join them later, when invited, for what would prove to be a serious late night session.

Flexing his now unencumbered leg, Matt sipped at the single malt and moved his chair a little closer to Beth's. Over three weeks had passed since the face-off with Noon, and in that time his life had changed considerably, and for the better. He and Beth were making plans together, and he was more content than he had ever been. Marriage, kids, family holidays and old-fashioned Christmases were on the cards, though they had not discussed it, just both knew it was a real possibility. The ties that now bound them were too tightly knotted to be picked free. When something is right, it's right.

As for the immediate future, Matt and Beth would stay the night in Ron's best room. It was Saturday tomorrow, and after a late breakfast they would drive down to Hove. Matt's dad was not well, but had sounded perkier on the phone of late, had cut down on the cigarettes, and was even taking regular walks along the front. Miracles _can_ happen. Arthur Barnes was mellowing, coming to terms with how things were, and not how he wished them to be. It was called adapting. He wanted to meet Beth and chew the fat. And maybe talk shop and do a little overdue bonding with his son.

Ignorance can be bliss. Neither Matt nor Beth could know that even greater tribulation than they had survived lurked on the horizon, primed to blight their lives beyond any rational contemplation. Like all great mysteries, the future unfolds in its own time, to bring with it all manner of joy and misery in its passing.

# # # # #

# About The Author

Michael Kerr is the pseudonym of Mike Smail the author of several crime thrillers and two children's novels. He lives and writes in the Yorkshire Wolds, and has won, been runner-up, and short listed on numerous occasions for short story competitions with Writing Magazine and Writers' News.

After a career of more than twenty years in the Prison Service, Mike now uses his experience in that area to write original, hard-hitting crime novels.

Connect With Michael Kerr and Head Nook Books and discover other great titles.

## Web

www.michaelkerr.org

Michael Kerr's official site

www.headnookbooks.com

Head Nook Books publishing firm

## Facebook

<https://www.facebook.com/MichaelKerrAuthor>

## Twitter

@headnookbooks

Head Nook Books twitter feed

## Smashwords Store:

http://www.michaelkerr.org/smashwords

Michael Kerr at Smashwords

# Other Books By Michael Kerr

## DI Matt Barnes Series

1 - A Reason To Kill Smashwords

2 - Lethal Intent Smashwords

3 - A Need To Kill Smashwords

## The Joe Logan Series

1 - 'A Reacher Kind of Guy' – Aftermath Smashwords

2 - Atonement Smashwords

## Other Crime Thrillers

Deadly Reprisal Smashwords

Deadly Requital Smashwords

Black Rock Bay Smashwords

## Children's Fiction

Adventures in Otherworld – Part One – The Chalice of Hope Smashwords

#

#

# Deadly Reprisal – Sample

# PROLOGUE

THE only safe secret is one that no one else is privy to. Steve Taylor knew that. Maybe he would be safe from retribution, but was going to believe otherwise and keep looking over his shoulder. He'd seen the results of complacency firsthand, and taken full advantage of those that had underestimated him as an enemy. One of his main strengths was that he had no real fear of the hereafter, only the here and now. But that didn't mean he had a death wish. Every day above ground was a bonus.

Leaving the cottage, Steve trudged beneath a canopy of palm fronds, out onto the beach; a cooler full of Coors Light swinging from his left hand. At the small of his back, tucked in the waistband of his shorts – hidden from view under a loose fitting Hawaiian-style shirt – he could feel the comforting pressure of the Browning Hi-power pistol. It gave him what would soon prove to be a false sense of security.

Sitting on the still warm sand, Steve watched a couple of kids throwing a Frisbee to each other in the fading light, as he drained a can of Coors, belched, and lit a cigarette.

A quarter mile distant, a lone figure approached, stopping every few yards to bend down. Steve smiled. They – whoever they were – called it the Sanibel Stoop. Not many tourists could resist picking up the shells that were left high and dry at low tide. He'd done it himself. It was a somehow therapeutic and addictive pastime.

He pondered on events that had conspired to lead him to this time and place in his life. He was on the run from the police, and the mob. However tranquil the present surroundings, he knew that his life expectancy was in serious danger of being explosively curtailed. He had done a deal with the cops; his continued freedom in return for ensuring that when Eddie Moscone went to trial, the crime boss would get life for his hand in at least a dozen killings. But he had slipped his minders in London and flown the coop, to start over in the U.S. He was out of the loop, living one day at a time, knowing that everyone wanted a piece of him.

Buddy Miller thought that he looked the part. He was wearing an oversize, straw cowboy hat, mirrored shades, a baggy pair of knee-length shorts, and plastic sandals. His beer gut and thin, white-skinned legs promoted the appearance of someone no more sinister than a middle-aged guy who'd just hit the beach and was doing what all the other visiting morons did; collect shells.

Less than a hundred yards away from his mark. There was no hurry. Buddy picked up a large conch, examined it, and walked across to where the surf fizzed on the wet sand, to hunker down and rinse the shell before popping it into the white plastic bag, on the bottom of which rested a Glock 17 fitted with a suppressor.

Three pelicans glided by, scant inches above the ocean's surface. The man who now called himself Jerry Mason thought that they looked prehistoric, like pterodactyls. The big, dull orange sun was now slipping quickly over the horizon, making a fitting backdrop to silhouette the large-beaked birds.

"Hey, Taylor?" A voice behind him.

Fuck!  Even as he turned his head, he knew that it was over. How he'd been found didn't matter. He was going to die: Knew that the hand inside the plastic bag was pointing a gun at him, but reacted instinctively, twisting, diving sideways as he reached back under his shirt to grasp the butt of the Browning.

Steve's last image was the reflection of a glorious sunset in the stranger's shades. A split second later he simply ceased to exist as a bullet punched through his forehead to pulverize his brain and take the back of his skull out, blowing his twitching body into the surf. There were no last thoughts, regrets, or even time to feel fear.

Buddy looked both ways. He'd waited until the two kids had run off, after being summoned by an unseen voice. It was mid-November, low season, and until the Thanksgiving holiday brought hordes down to infest Florida, it was relatively quiet. He stepped forward, put another slug in the mark, and released his grip on the pistol in the now holed bag. Spent a couple of seconds watching dozens of half-inch-long fish glint silver as they darted in to gulp down the blood and tissue that was now liberated from the corpse's head, before he ambled up the beach, through a fringe of palms to enter Taylor's cottage and quickly, expertly search it. He found nothing.

Back in the rented Ford Taurus with false plates, Buddy opened his cell phone and made a call to New York City.

"Yeah?"

"It's Buddy."

"And?"

"I made the sale."

"Sweet. See you when you land."

Buddy broke the connection and drove off slowly along West Gulf Drive. Fifteen minutes later he was crossing the causeway to the mainland. Sanibel appeared to be a very pleasant island, all low-rise and laid back; the type of place he would like to revisit someday with Muriel, his wife of thirty-one years.

Picking up I-75 north, Buddy planned to spend the night up in Tampa, and maybe get himself laid before flying back to the Big Apple. This job had made a nice change. Buddy liked to travel, it broadened the mind.

# CHAPTER ONE

"TAYLOR turned up," DS Regina (Reg) Stuart said, placing a mug of black coffee on her boss's desktop, after first pushing a sheaf of papers to one side to make room for it.

"Music to my ears, Reg," DI Ben Drury said, closing and tossing a dog-eared manila file onto a stack of others that were leaning Tower of Pisa fashion on the edge of his desk. "Where is the scumbag?"

"The States. In a morgue at Fort Myers in Florida."

"Uh?"

"He was found with his brains blown out on some beach."

Ben took a sip of coffee. "When?"

"Two days ago. He was staying at a small beach resort under the name of Jerry Mason. The local police put his prints through AFIS – the Automated Fingerprint Identification System – and came up with his real ID. He'd been lifted by Dade-Metro in Miami four years ago for GBH on a nightclub owner at South Beach. Charges weren't filed, due to the complainant being killed in a hit and run. They couldn't tie Taylor to it, but were sure he'd arranged for it to happen."

"Shit! That puts us back to square one with Moscone. Without Taylor's testimony, he's untouchable."

"I wonder how he found Taylor? We couldn't."

Ben sighed. "When he did a runner from Witness Protection, Moscone's boys will have been watching, and followed him. End of story."

"So what do we do now, boss?"

"Confirm that it really was Taylor who got capped. He was a slippery customer. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd faked his own death."

"It's definitely him. We got an attachment of autopsy photos sent through with the report. He'd dyed his hair, shaved off his beard, and the crabs had started in on him, but he was still recognizable. And he had an old SAS tattoo on his right arm. We haven't got the print comparison through yet, but I think it'll be a formality."

"Is that it, Reg?"

"'Fraid so, boss."

"Okay, so let's concentrate on other fish. No good crying over one that got away."

Eddie Moscone was walking on air. The cops – and in particular the pricks in the Serious Crimes Squad, who'd been on his back for over two years – had fucked-up, royally. With Taylor dead, they had zilch. And anyone else who might have been thinking of making a deal with the filth would think twice, now that it was common knowledge of how the rogue hitman was traced to the sunshine state and whacked. It was a demonstration that disloyalty could seriously damage your health. And that running didn't get you very far. The world really was a small place nowadays.

Eddie was in his office at the Raffaella Club. He was talking on a secure line to Joey Farino in New York.

"I owe you, Joey," he said. "You need anythin' taken care of this side of the pond, just name it."

"I was only too happy to help out, Eddie," Joey said. "That's what friends are for. And it was no big deal. When the mark flew in, he got a cab into town and rented a car. All my guy had to do was pick his time and attach a gizmo to it. These satellite trackin' devices are the business. No one can take a powder with technology like that keepin' a fix on 'em."

"It's a changin' world, Joey. I can't even work a fuckin' DVD. I gotta get my daughter to do it for me."

"That's why we pay people to look after business, ain't it, Eddie? Stay well."

"An' you, my friend. Ciao."

Eddie sat back and smiled. Everything was back on an even keel. "Get me a JD, Tommaso," he said to the hulking young man who was sitting in front of a wall-mounted plasma television, watching cartoons with the volume turned down.

Tommaso Corsi leapt to his feet and strode over to the corner bar. Poured three fingers of Jack Daniel's into a lead crystal glass, and used tongs to put several wedges of ice in it. He worshipped Eddie, and would do anything for the man. Eddie Moscone was his half sister's husband, and had taken him in as a thirteen-year-old, to raise as a son. If Eddie said jump, all Tommaso might ask is: 'How high'?

"Now get Nick up here," Eddie said, taking the proffered glass from the enormous hand that held it out rock steady in front of him.

Tommaso relinquished the JD and picked up the phone to ring down to the gaming room and summon Nick Darvo.

"Yeah, boss," Nick said, entering the office after punching a four digit number into the panel on the door to gain entry. Eddie put security, not cleanliness, next to godliness. Even had a bank of wall-mounted monitors facing his desk, to watch all movement within the club and outside the front and rear entrances. CCTV negated any surprise visits by the police or other unwelcome callers. It was just one of the many tools he employed to keep ahead of the game.

"I want you an' Tommaso to go see the bitch that Taylor was shacked up with. I have it on good authority that he kept tapes of telephone conversations I had with him. He didn't give them up to the police, or have them with him in Florida. Maybe she knows where they are. Find out. An' one way or the other, hurt her."

"How hurt do you want her, boss?" Nick asked.

Eddie put a manicured thumbnail to his front teeth and flicked it forward to produce a loud click.

Nick nodded and suppressed a smile. He enjoyed killing women.

Marcy Curtis had heard the news. Knew that Steve was dead. Even knew that it was odds on that Moscone was behind it. She had not known where Steve had gone, and was pissed off that he had not contacted her after he'd done a runner from the police, who were protecting him. She had done a lot of soul-searching; decided that she didn't need him in her life anymore. The eighteen months spent together had been fun. But when the Old Bill had broken into their apartment in the middle of the night and dragged them both out of bed at gun point, she had started to see Steve for what he really was. The police had questioned her for nearly two days, before seemingly accepting that she had no idea of Steve's involvement with Moscone and the mob. Jesus! They'd said that Steve was a contract killer. She didn't want to believe it, but on some level knew that it was probably true. It explained his mysterious trips, and the fact that he would not discuss his business, apart from saying that he was a trouble-shooter for an oil company, whatever that was supposed to mean.

It had been two plainclothes cops that came round to break the news. With no preamble, the DI – a steely-eyed, square-jawed type by the name of Drury – had told her that Steve had been found shot dead on a beach in Florida. Said that if she had been holding out on them over anything, then now was the time to come clean. She had stifled the tears and told him to go to hell.

Now, twenty-four hours after the cops' visit, Marcy had got to grips with the situation. Had even phoned Steve's brother in Durban, who she had never met, but whom Steve had talked about a lot.

Harry Taylor ran a small, elite safari operation, taking the well-heeled up north into the Hluhluwe Game reserve, which was one of the last refuges of the white rhino. Harry was reputedly a gung-ho type, who thrived on adventure and danger.

"Have you heard about Steve?" Marcy had said, after telling Harry who she was.

"What do you mean? Heard what?"

"He...he's dead, Harry. He turned up on a beach, somewhere in Florida. He'd been shot."

"Are you all right?" Harry asked after a long pause.

"What do you think? I thought he was some kind of trouble-shooter in the oil business. Then he gets lifted, and I'm told he's a fucking hitman for people like Eddie Moscone. Did you know what he did?"

"No," Harry said. "I haven't seen Steve for over three years. We talked on the phone regularly, but not about work. Last call I got, he said he wanted to bring you out here to see the sights and the big game."

"He never told me," Marcy said, turning her head as the doorbell rang. "Someone's at the door, Harry."

"Okay. I'll try to find out what's happening, and arrange for Steve to be flown home for burial. I'll call you when I know anything."

After saying good-bye, Marcy went to the door. "Who is it?" she called.

"Police, love. We need to talk to you about Steve Taylor."

Christ, not again. They were hounding her. She would not let them in. Just tell them to leave her the hell alone. She wrenched open the door, ready to call them fascist pigs who got off on intimidating law-abiding citizens, but was confronted by a giant of a man, who gripped her by the throat, lifted her off the floor and entered the apartment, to walk through to the lounge and throw her on to the settee.

Coughing and spluttering, her throat a mass of pain, Marcy pushed herself up into a sitting position to face the man who had hurt her, and a much smaller, older man, who appeared from behind the bulk of her attacker.

"Let me introduce us, Marcy," Nick said, removing a gun from the inside of his jacket and pointing it at her chest. "I'm Nick, and my young associate here is Tommaso. I understand that you are aware of what happened to that piece of shit boyfriend of yours. He got capped for grassing up our employer, Mr. Moscone. And certain incriminating tapes that we believed to be in his possession were not. Do you get my drift?"

"No," Marcy wheezed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's what I hoped you'd say," Nick said, smiling, to show small, yellow teeth. "You might just be telling the truth, but you'll appreciate that we have to be absolutely sure."

Tommaso stepped forward and almost casually clipped her on the point of the chin with his clenched fist.

They searched the apartment thoroughly, and came to the conclusion that the tapes, if they existed, were not hidden there.

Marcy came round and panicked. She had been stripped, and was now laying in the bath, her wrists and ankles bound with silver duct tape. And her mouth was sealed with it. She breathed through her nose and began to cry, in part because of the pain in her head and jaw, but in the main because she knew that the two men were going to kill her.

"You ready to join lover boy?" Nick said, entering the bathroom, now wearing navy-blue overalls buttoned up to the neck over his mohair suit, and latex gloves on his small, slender hands. He was wielding a broad-bladed knife he'd taken from the wood block on the kitchen counter. "Give Taylor hell when you see him. If he'd kept his mouth shut, you wouldn't be about to get sliced and diced."

It was forty-five minutes later when Nick and Tommaso left the apartment. They were now positive that the woman had not been holding out on them. Nick had removed the tape from her mouth and given her a lot of incentive to answer his questions.

Tommaso felt sick to his stomach, but did not show it. Nick was humming Vlore, and was in fine mood. What he had just done seemed to relieve a pressure that only visiting extreme violence on someone could alleviate. He opened the boot of the car and deposited a Harrods bag – containing the now sodden overalls and gloves – into a cardboard box. He would feed them to the furnace in the club's basement when they got back.

Read the remainder of Deadly Reprisal at all good e-book stores, or go direct to the Smashwords at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/268973

