A Good day to die

20

An hour and a half later, I was standing outside the entrance to a Spanish restaurant in the bright orange glow of the Charing Cross Road, a black 'I love London' cap pulled low over my face. It was raining steadily and the streets were quieter than usual. Across the road, the Cambridge Arms was busy with theatre-goers taking shelter from the inclement conditions. Pope had yet to arrive.

I stepped back under the restaurant's canopy and lit a cigarette to pass the time. It was my seventh of the day; I was counting. A couple in evening dress, sharing an umbrella that was too small for them both, hurried across the road and in the direction of Soho, dodging between the traffic. A bus appeared, slowing down and obscuring my view of them. When it sped up again, they were gone.

All the way here, I'd been thinking about one thing. What did Richard Blacklip, a small-time paedophile, have to do with Malik's death? Maybe nothing of course, but something about it didn't seem right. Blacklip had been arrested for abusing his daughter — I'd seen that from a newspaper clipping that Pope had sent Tomboy, as well as from trawling the Net. But he'd also known Pope, and had presumably trusted him enough to reveal that he was going to Manila. Whereas Pope, for whatever reason, had wanted him dead.

I dragged slowly on the smoke, conscious that water was dripping from the canopy above my head onto the cap and running slowly down my neck. Shifting my position so that I was no longer in the firing line, I looked back at the street and suddenly saw Les Pope no more than five feet away, hurrying past with another man. Neither of them noticed me. Instead, they turned and crossed the road, and as they reached the door of the pub, the man with Pope turned to say something to him and I saw the long cut running like a tribal marking down the middle of his face. It was the Scotsman from the previous morning's little incident. I figured that I still owed him. And owed Pope too, since he'd disobeyed all instructions by turning up accompanied.

I retreated into the shadows and watched as they disappeared inside, ten minutes early.

There was no desperate hurry so I finished my cigarette, then meandered across the road and took up position a few yards down from the front door. I knew Pope's number by heart now, so I pulled the mobile from my pocket and called it.

He answered to the sound of pub noise. 'Yes?'

'Change of venue, Mr Pope.'

'Look, what is this? I'm-'

'There's a pub called the Three Greyhounds just up the road from the Cambridge Arms, in Moor Street. It's safer there.'

'What do you mean, safer?'

'The Cambridge is under police surveillance. I assume you're there. Go out, turn right, then right again. Walk for thirty yards and you'll see it. Meet me in five minutes.'

I rang off immediately, counted to twenty, and moved over to the Cambridge's front door. Further down the street, I could see a group of students approaching, but they were still some way off and larking about in a manner that suggested they weren't likely to notice anything untoward.

The door opened and the Scotsman appeared, looking across the street to where I'd been standing until two minutes ago. He was probably on the hunt for the non-existent surveillance. I stepped forward and lifted the.45, smacking him on the bridge of the nose with the handle. It was a perfect shot, his nose breaking with an angry crunch. There was a second's delay and then twin waterfalls of blood came pouring out of his nostrils. I smacked him again on the top of the head before yanking him out of the way. He fell awkwardly on the pavement, moaning in pain and clutching what was left of his nose.

Pope appeared in the doorway. 'Oh dear,' he said with admirable understatement, and turned back to go inside.

But he was neither the speediest nor the most dexterous of individuals, and I'd grabbed him by the collar and pulled him backwards before he'd even made it round ninety degrees. I turned the gun in my hand and shoved the barrel into his ample midriff.

'Make a fuss and I'll put a bullet in your gut right here, right now. Understand?'

He mumbled something unintelligible and I could tell from his tone and body language that he understood all right. With a face like his, he definitely wasn't a lover but it didn't look like he was much of a fighter either. A typical defence lawyer, really. Good at making money. Good for nothing else.

I brought him away from the door and pulled him nice and close. Then took a brief look down at Scotsman. He was sitting up, but his hands and face were a bloody mess and his eyes didn't appear to be focusing properly, courtesy of the blow to the head. Now he'd have some idea what it felt like to get a whack when you weren't expecting it.

'Hey, what's going on?'

The accent was American.

A young couple in their late teens were approaching, the girl with far more confidence than the man. She looked a feisty sort, not afraid to intervene in disputes that weren't her own, which would have been an admirable trait on any other day but this.

The expression I fixed her with was one of utter mortification. 'Oh Jesus, I can't believe this. I'm sorry but please can you get out of the way? We're filming here.' I motioned towards an undefined spot across the road and she stepped back instinctively, out of the way of the imaginary camera. At the same time, I pushed the gun harder against Pope's belly just in case he got any ideas of escape.

'Man, that's realistic,' she said, gazing round in an effort to see the hidden camera.

'That guy's good, too,' said her friend, looking down at Scotsman.

'He's great,' I said, giving Pope a push and starting up the street. I kept my head down as we passed the group of students, who were all staring at the bloodied Scotsman sitting in the middle of the pavement.

I heard the American girl asking her companion if he could see the camera crew, before the Scotsman interrupted by shouting out angrily that there were 'nae fucking cameras!' Then I'd turned the corner and that was the end of that.

'Where are we going?' demanded Pope, trying to put some authority into his voice.

'Somewhere nice and quiet where we can talk. Just keep walking. I'll tell you when to stop. I'm going to let go of you now, but if you try and make a break for it, you'll be telling me what I want to know with your dying breaths.'

I released my grip on his arm and put the gun back in my pocket, as we walked side by side into the narrow streets of Soho, the West End's sleazy heart. It was busier here, thanks to the profusion of bars and restaurants, but we were heading further in towards the peep shows and sex shops. Away from the bright lights.

'I don't know what it is you're after,' he said, looking my way.

I had to step aside to avoid a group of wet but giggling Japanese tourists, so I didn't answer him immediately. I half thought he might make a dash for it, since for a couple of seconds we were separated by two or three yards and several people, but it seemed my threats had scared him enough because he didn't try anything, even going so far as to slow down so I could keep up.

'I think you might have made a mistake,' he continued. 'I'm not really involved in all this.'

I smiled at him. 'I don't think I have. Now, who did you organize Billy West's murder on behalf of?'

'I didn't have anything to do with it, I promise. All I did was make some calls to Thomas Darke on behalf of another client of mine.'

'Who?'

'You know I can't tell you that.'

'All right, have it your own way.' I took him by the arm again and steered him across the road.

He continued to protest his innocence and I told him to save his breath.

Up ahead there was a narrow pedestrian walkway that led through to Rupert Street. We turned into it and I felt Pope stiffen. It was darker here and there were fewer people about. We walked past the entrance to one of Soho's infamous clip joints, where unsuspecting male punters were lured in on the pretext of having some sort of relationship with a pretty, semi-naked girl, only to find that this relationship was very much of the platonic kind and the obligatory drink was going to cost him the best part of a week's salary. The girl at the door of this one had the body of an East German shotputter and a face to match, and would have had difficulty enticing a sex-mad adolescent OD-ing on Viagra into her establishment, but she gamely tried anyway, and even winked at Pope.

Just past the clip joint was a small porn cinema offering 'XXX' films, a rarity in these parts now with the proliferation of DVDs and the Internet. 'In here,' I told Pope, bringing him to a halt and opening the door. 'After you.'

He stepped reluctantly into a shoebox-sized foyer that smelt of damp. I squeezed in after him, managing to find enough space to stand in. A small, weaselly-looking bloke in a threadbare cardigan who'd probably been here since the place opened in the Sixties sat behind a chipped wooden counter a couple of feet away. He stared at us blankly from behind glasses that were far too big for his face.

'Go on then, Leslie,' I said, 'pay the man.'

Pope sighed, then asked how much he wanted.

The bloke told him it was twenty-four quid for two and Pope sighed again, more loudly this time. 'That seems an awful lot,' he complained.

'It seems very reasonable to me,' I said. 'Give him the money.'

Reluctantly, he pulled a bulging black wallet from the pocket of his Savile Row suit and removed two crisp, clean twenties from the end of the half-inch-thick wad. He had to force himself to give them over, and he kept his hand there while the change was counted out and handed back with an equal lack of enthusiasm. It was like watching a bad comedy sketch about two ageing tightwads.

Pope was really beginning to annoy me now, and before he could return the change to his wallet, I gave him a push and manoeuvred him through the door that led into the cinema.

We were greeted by the sight of a naked woman on the screen as she serviced three men at the same time amidst a lot of grunting, groaning and muffled wails. The theatre itself was small, with no more than a couple of hundred seats. There were only three other people in there, all middle-aged men by the look of the backs of their heads, and they were spaced well apart. No one turned round as the door clunked shut behind us.

Ignoring the stale smell in the air and the telltale arm movements of the men in front, I guided Pope along a row near the back and shoved him all the way into the far corner, pushing him down in the last seat. I took the seat next to him, returned the.45 to its earlier position against his midriff, and used my other hand to locate the Swiss Army knife. Flicking open the main blade, I jabbed it gently against his crotch.

He looked down and took a sharp intake of breath. I jabbed him again, a little harder this time.

'My God,' he hissed, his voice cracking. 'Be careful. Please.'

I leaned close to him, my mouth inches from his ear. He had a musty, unwashed smell that was only partly disguised by the expensive cologne he was wearing. When I spoke, it was in a whisper. 'Now that I've got your undivided attention, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I'm going to ask you a series of questions and you're going to give me nothing but honest answers, and without any hesitation. If you lie, or pause for more than one second, I'm going to start cutting you with the knife.'

'Please, you're-'

'Do you understand?'

He tried to protest again but I pushed the knife hard against his balls, not enough to break the skin, but not far off it either. He let out a little squeak which was all but drowned out by the ecstatic noises on the screen, and nodded frantically. 'Yes, yes, I understand.'

'Who's the client? The one you hired Billy West for, and the one who got you to organize the hit on him?'

'His name's Nicholas Tyndall. For God's sake, don't tell him it was me who told you. He'd have me skinned.'

'Who is Nicholas Tyndall?'

'He's a gangster, a real thug. I've done work for him before. I-'

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?'

'I don't know anything about that…'

I brought the knife up to his face with a rapid movement and jabbed him in the cheek with it, creating a shallow wound half an inch across. He flinched and this time cried out properly, but once again the sound was all but drowned out. A thin line of blood appeared, getting thicker as I watched. I didn't like having to do this, but I couldn't afford to listen to bullshit. I also couldn't afford to keep making threats without being seen to carry them out. I returned the knife to his crotch while he wiped the blood from his cheek and stared at it on his fingers. He looked pale.

'Why did he use you to set up the hit on Malik and Khan?' I repeated, leaning close to his ear again.

'Because he didn't want it carried out by any of his own people, and he wanted it kept as quiet as possible.'

'What's Nicholas Tyndall got to do with Richard Blacklip?'

He tried looking at me blankly, one hand still on his face where I'd cut him, but it didn't work. 'Who?'

'Don't fuck me about,' I snarled, bringing the knife back up to his cheek again and slicing it across three of his fingers.

He shrieked in pain and quickly shoved the fingers into his mouth. I pulled the knife away and out of sight, just as one of the other punters turned round and gave us both a dirty look.

I gave him one back and mine must have been dirtier because he quickly turned away.

'Him,' I said, dropping the knife into my lap and producing the photo of the men at the golf course. I stuck it right in front of his eyes so that he had no choice but to look, using my index finger to point out Blacklip somewhere in the middle.

What colour there was drained from his face.

'No hesitation, Pope.'

'He was different,' he answered between pursed lips. 'He owed me money.'

'Then how did you know where to find him in Manila?'

Again he hesitated, and I was just about to give him another warning when a strange thing happened.

His face broke into a sly, confident smile, a sight made all the more odd by the blood dribbling down the side of his face. 'I don't think I'm going to tell you that,' he said, still smiling, and then there was a popping sound not unlike a champagne cork being dislodged and Pope's head snapped back against the wall, a black mark appearing in the centre of his forehead. Dark liquid splashed against the paintwork. Two more popping sounds followed in rapid succession and he slumped sidewards in his seat, blood pouring down his face. His body immediately went into wild spasms, the legs kicking out against the seat in front.

For a second I was too shocked to move as I watched him die in front of my eyes, then instinct took over and I tumbled out of my seat, rolling over so that I was crouching with my back to his corpse.

I caught sight of the assassins immediately. There were two of them, both dressed from head to toe in black, with flat caps on their heads and scarves pulled over their faces. They were standing purposefully in the aisle, no more than fifteen feet away, each armed with a silencer-equipped pistol that was pointed in my direction.

I scrambled backwards in the narrow space between the rows of seats, trying to make myself as small and as difficult a target as possible, but Pope's legs blocked my retreat. At the same time, I desperately worked to manoeuvre my.45 up into a firing position. One of the gunmen fired, a flash of light shooting out of the silencer, but the bullet ricocheted up off a seat and pinged into the ceiling.

A second bullet hissed above my head and there was a dull thwack as it hit Pope. Then the two gunmen were making for the door.

Sitting up as fast as I could, I pulled the trigger on the.45 before realizing that I was only holding it one-handed. There was a deafening explosion as the bullet roared out and the gun bucked dramatically in my hand, the kick from the shot surging right up to my shoulder with a pain that made my arm feel like it was on fire. A huge white hole appeared in the far wall of the theatre as the bullet struck it, way above the heads of the fleeing assassins, sending bits of plaster flying off in all directions. One of the punters cried out in panic.

Ignoring the pain in my arm, I pulled myself to my feet, which was the moment I saw the shock of blond hair sticking out from under the cap of the assassin nearest the door, just before he disappeared from view.

The man who'd claimed to be Pope. Blondie. Like a bad penny, he kept coming back.

But how the hell had he known we were here?

No time to think about that. I took aim, two-handed this time, and pulled the trigger as the second gunman reached the doorway.

There was another deafening blast of noise and the gun kicked wildly, but now I was better prepared and I held it steady. I heard the second gunman yell and stumble, his hand going up to his left shoulder. I'd hit him but not with a direct shot because he kept on moving and was gone from sight before I could fire again. But even a graze from a.45 calibre bullet would be enough to slow him down.

On the screen, the action was building to a noisy finale, but unfortunately it was being played out without the participation of the audience, who'd all sensibly hit the decks, not wanting to get involved.

Pulling the cap down over my face, I hurried along the seats to the aisle and ran in the direction they'd taken. You have to take snap decisions in a situation like this. There's no time for thinking things through. The shooters might be waiting to ambush me in the foyer, but if I went through slowly, listening out for them, I'd risk giving them time to get away, and I couldn't have that — not now my main lead was missing most of his brains. So I yanked open the door and charged through. To my right, the proprietor with the cardie and the big glasses was sprawled back in his seat, spindly arms hanging limply by his sides, a bullet hole slap bang in the middle of his head. Aside from him, the foyer was empty.

I hit the street at a run, almost slipping on the pavement's slick surface, and spotted them straight away, running out of the passageway and into Rupert Street. They rounded the corner and disappeared from view before I could fire and I ran after them, knowing that if they got away then that was it, I was back to square one.

As I came out the end of the passageway, I saw that the trailing gunman — the one I'd hit — was clutching his shoulder, although he still had hold of his weapon. He must have heard my pursuit because he swung round, the scarf still covering his face, and saw me stride out into the road, the.45 raised to fire.

He pulled the trigger first and I heard a loud female scream from somewhere behind me, but he was running and he was injured, and that put him at a serious disadvantage. He missed. He fired again and missed with the second bullet too, though not by so much this time.

It's strange to recount, but I had no time to feel fear as I stopped, took aim and pulled the trigger for the third time in less than a minute. In that sort of confrontation, when everything begins and ends at such speed, you've got no time for anything bar the physical actions needed to stay alive. And mine, it turned out, were more effective than his.

He was maybe two yards from the junction with Brewer Street when the bullet hit him somewhere in the upper chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him spinning out of control.

Blondie, now right at the corner, swung round and fired off four rounds in quick succession, moving his arm in a careful, controlled arc.

A window shattered behind me; someone screamed again and I threw myself to the pavement, managing to get off another shot from my hip as I did so. It was inaccurate, hopelessly so, and I could tell this because it hit a garish blue-and-pink neon sign saying 'JOE'S ADULT VIDEOS' at least ten feet above Blondie's head. The sign exploded in a shower of sparks and the lights went out. Blondie took this as a cue to make good his escape, disappearing onto Brewer Street, where, as far as I could see, all the pedestrians were huddled in the doorways of the various establishments, taking shelter from the battle in their midst.

From somewhere in the distance came the inevitable sound of police sirens. Knowing that time was short, I got up and ran over to where the first assassin lay motionless, rifling through the pockets of his leather jacket with one hand while clutching the.45 with the other, trying to ignore the sound of my heart hammering in my chest.

Nothing. Not a thing. I stopped to look around me and saw the woman from the clip joint had come out from her kiosk and was now at the bottom of the passageway, staring over at me, eyes wide. There was a big bloke in a suit with her who looked like he might be going to do something, so keeping my face as obscured as possible beneath my cap, I pointed the.45 straight at him and the two of them jumped for cover into separate doorways.

The assassin's scarf had come loose and hung limply round his neck. His mouth was open and a thin trail of blood was leaking out the side of it. He was young — no more than late twenties, at a guess — and wearing a plain black sweater and trousers of the same colour. I patted the trouser pockets hurriedly. Keys in the left, nothing else.

Something in the right, though. It felt like a wallet. I pulled it out. It was.

Thrusting it into my pocket along with the gun, I got to my feet and began to run down Rupert Street as fast as I could, in the opposite direction to Blondie, heading for Shaftesbury Avenue and the crowded safety of Piccadilly Circus.

But if I thought that was the end of the evening's drama, I was sorely mistaken.