Dead Heat

Thirteen

The mobile-phone gun was one of several toys that Verner liked to have at his disposal. Always useful in case of emergencies, such as being arrested. He would never have used such a weapon for an actual contract killing because they were unreliable and apt to explode in the hand, which would never do when face to face with someone you have been contracted to assassinate. On those occasions a proper weapon would always be used as unreliability was not an option. But as a standby, to have a mobile-phone gun or a cigarette-packet gun or even a belt-buckle gun was very reassuring. They came in handy if you didn’t want to be in police custody.

Verner knew that on the continent of Europe, the police were very aware of disguised weapons, but that British cops, being the smug island race they were, still thought they were the stuff of fiction and did not expect to find them pointed in their face in the same way, say, French cops did.

That was how Verner had been able to get underneath the guard of the two armed officers who had been escorting him at the hospital.

By playing on the British sense of fair play, which still existed within the police, he had been able to persuade the officers to let him make a phone call on the understanding they could record the number dialled and then listen in to the conversation. Except their sense of fair play had ended up with them dead. He had then been able to coerce the petrified X-ray nurse to get the handcuff key from one of the dead cops and release him.

It had seemed almost surreal to him to be pointing a mobile phone at someone and threatening them with death.

When free, he had of course been obliged to kill her too. Verner did not like leaving witnesses, even innocent ones. He had actually felt a tinge of remorse for that, for a few minutes, but having to apply his mind to escaping had flushed that idiotic emotion right out of him.

Getting away had been a breeze.

Within an hour he had been in Manchester, dressed in clothing stripped from a poor soul unfortunate enough to be about his size and build. He had left the guy stripped naked and trussed up like a turkey in an empty room. He hadn’t even seen Verner hit him, which is why he was allowed to live. He had stolen a Ford Focus from the staff car park and tootled unchallenged away from the hospital.

He dumped the car on a side street near Manchester city centre and made his way to the Radisson Hotel on Deansgate, booking in for a couple of nights under an assumed name. Using a credit card, also in a false name, which had been taped to his inner thigh, together with?150 in ten pound notes — Verner rarely left anything to chance — he visited Marks and Spencer and was reclothed, fed, re-moneyed through cashback and a cash machine and feeling good within an hour. He also visited Boots the Chemist for some ointment for the dog bites on his arms.

His next port of call was the bed in his hotel room where, after taking some aspirin, he lay down and slept for a few hours.

He woke at 5 p.m. that day, feeling stiff and sore, but rejoicing in his freedom. It had been a close run thing for him, probably the nearest he had come to being incarcerated in a dozen years.

He showered and shaved and dressed himself in his new M amp;S gear, smart, casual and practical. He left the hotel and walked across to the Arndale Shopping Centre and bought a pay-as-you-go mobile phone (a real one this time) and a couple of SIM cards from the Carphone Warehouse.

Manchester actually felt quite warm. He strolled up Deansgate and called his controller.

‘Things went slightly awry for me,’ he admitted to the man. ‘I did the job, conveyed the message, but I got caught by the police. I got away, though.’

‘I know. It’s all over the news.’

‘Have I been named?’

‘Not yet. . Do you think you will be?’

Verner thought about the question. ‘It’s possible. . I usually leave no traces, but I didn’t have time to clean up behind myself this time.’ His teeth were grinding as he remembered how things had panned out for him. His job had been simply to frighten the life out of John Lloyd Wickson. Wickson, he knew, had become involved with the importation of drugs for the Mafia and was now trying to extricate himself from any obligation to them. But the Mob did not allow such things. Once they got their hooks into you, they did not let go until the funeral was over. All Verner had been tasked to do was bring Wickson, and his hard-arsed sidekick, Jake Coulton, back into line. It would have all gone OK if not for the interfering of Henry Christie, a man Verner now had a grudging respect for.

‘It’s possible then, you may be of no further use to us,’ Verner’s controller said. ‘One of your attributes was your ability to remain undetected. If the police get to know who you are. .’

The words chilled Verner’s spine. ‘It’s true I may need to move back to mainland Europe, but I will still be of great value to you. I offer a service that is second to none.’

There was a beat of silence over the phone which again had a physical effect on Verner.

‘Yes, you are good,’ the man conceded, ‘still. . we would like you to carry out one more task for us, then withdraw to Spain where your role will be reassessed.’

Verner did not like the sound of that. His enthusiasm waned. ‘What is it?’

‘We feel that the target has stretched our patience too far for his own good. He has made contact and made threats. We would like to terminate our correspondence with him, and that of his head of security. Is this something you could achieve with a business deal?’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly.

‘Ensure he knows what he has done wrong prior to terminating the contract, please.’

‘Leave it with me.’

Verner did not care why his employers suddenly wanted Wickson out of the picture. All he was concerned about was doing the job well, getting paid for it and then doing a runner. He had banked over half a million dollars and that would keep him going until he decided he could reappear and resume work. He even knew where he would hide out: India was very cheap.

He ate in a pizza place on Deansgate whilst he worked out his plan. The first necessity was to rearm himself. It would be far too difficult to source a reliable rifle, so it would have to be a handgun. He actually liked close-quarter work best anyway. It was far more satisfying than looking down telescopic sights and seeing somebody fall over. The problem with a handgun, though, because of the distance involved was that it was easier to leave physical evidence behind: DNA, fingerprints, eyewitnesses. All these things were a possibility being near to the victim, but they were not insurmountable by any means.

After he had found himself a gun, he would find the correct clothing.

The last slice of pizza marinara slid into his mouth, complemented by the last swig of the one glass of red wine he allowed himself. He paid cash and left the restaurant, emerging back into the mid-evening streets of Manchester.

It was time to mix business with pleasure.

He found his pleasure in a basement club on the edge of Chinatown. It was an expensive place, populated by business types and classy-looking hookers drinking pricey cocktails at the bar.

The one he hit on was in her mid-twenties.

He watched her for a while before making his move. She looked drug clean, which was always a factor for him, and seemed pretty much in control of herself, although he knew both things were unlikely.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Verner asked her, sliding in next to her.

She was sipping a brightly coloured concoction through a twirly straw. She removed her lips from the top of the straw and smiled at him. ‘You can. A Long-Hard Screw, please,’ she said, naming the chosen cocktail and, less than subtly, providing Verner with her job description.

Verner almost choked, but ordered one and a beer for himself. Cost:?15.

He watched the money disappear into a till.

Lifting his glass, he said, ‘Cheap at half the price. Cheers.’

‘Cheers to you.’ Her red-lipsticked lips surrounded the top of the straw of her new drink and she drew some into her mouth. ‘Nice,’ she said, eyeing him suggestively. ‘You want some action?’

Verner nodded. ‘Just a fuck.’

‘I’m sure I can accommodate that.’

‘How much?’

‘Two-fifty.’ He did not even blink. ‘Half up front.’

‘What’s your percentage?’

‘None of your business.’

‘OK at my hotel — the Radisson?’

‘Fine by me.’

When it was over, Verner lay spread-eagled and naked on the double bed in his hotel room. Aggie, as she told him she was called, started to get dressed. The whole sex act had taken just over four minutes, from the second she got hold of him, slid a ribbed condom on to his highly sensitive prick, to entry, to ejaculation. Short and sweet, but Verner did not care. It satisfied his needs. She had moaned and writhed in all the right places, told him she loved him, and that was OK with him. He loved her for about six seconds.

She pulled on her tiny knickers, not much more than a thong. Her eyes looked at his body. ‘You really needed that, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I could stay the night, you know? You could recover and we could have a long fuck, a really good session. Only cost one-fifty more.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘OK.’ She hooked her skimpy bra on, her eyes still on his wiry body. ‘Got a lot of bruises on you.’ She bent down and placed a finger on a large bruise on his thigh. He winced. ‘Been beaten up?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And your arms — they look a mess, too.’

She got no response and could tell he did not want to do small talk. That was fine with her. She could go any way the client wanted: chatter or silence, brains or dumb. She was out to make money, offer a service and then leave.

‘You don’t do drugs,’ he said. He had been watching her all the time for the giveaway signs. There were none.

She shook her head. ‘Did once, don’t now. Got a three-year-old kid to bring up. Clean as a whistle now. It fucks you up.’

‘Good for you.’

‘But I can get you something if you want.’ She turned to him and curled her fingers around his penis, now limp and damp, and quite small. He removed her hand.

‘No thanks.’

‘Whatever,’ she shrugged.

Verner sat up, watching her complete her dressing. ‘Is he waiting down in reception for you?’

‘Who?’

‘Your pimp.’

‘Not your business. I fuck, that’s all you need to know.’

‘But he knows you’re up here, doesn’t he?’

‘Look, don’t start getting all weird on me.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’ve been a good client, OK. Time for me to go.’ She eased herself finally into her tight, short, body-gripping dress, picked up her shoulder bag and trotted to the door.

As it closed behind her, Verner quickly scurried around the room, dressing fast. Then he was out, down the corridor, running down the stairs towards the reception area, easily beating the lift down which he knew Aggie would be using. He was on the ground floor twenty seconds before the lift doors opened. Aggie stepped regally out as though she owned the place.

Verner hid behind a wide pillar and watched her teeter on her high heels towards the revolving doors of the hotel. She stopped to light a cigarette, then picked her mobile phone out of her bag and made a quick call. Instead of leaving the hotel, she dropped into a leather sofa by the door, crossing her long legs, displaying her stocking tops, and bouncing her feet angrily. It would seem she had been told to wait.

Verner sat down too, out of her sight.

A few minutes later a smooth-looking black guy shouldered his way into the foyer.

Aggie stood to meet him. She handed over the wad of notes that Verner had given her. The black man counted them carefully there and then, not bothering about who might have been watching him. He smiled, nodded and gave Aggie a hard kiss on the lips, steering her out of the door — probably en route to her next assignation. On a poor night, Verner reckoned she would be earning her pimp at least two grand and taking less than ten per cent of it for herself. Slave labour.

Verner moved swiftly across the foyer. As Aggie and her pimp stepped on to the pavement outside the hotel, he was only feet behind them. An old, but beautifully maintained Ford Granada was parked on the kerb on the double yellows, a driver ready and waiting. Aggie opened the back door and glided in. The pimp went to the passenger door.

Verner was behind him.

‘I want to talk business,’ he said to the man’s back.

The black man rose slowly to his full height — six-three — and rotated slowly, his eyes wide at the gall of someone approaching him like this.

‘I don’t do business.’ He had a deep, booming voice with a Manchester accent, which even when spoken normally had the power to intimidate. He had a cut across the upper part of his left cheek that had been stitched badly. He was not a stranger to blades.

Verner held up his hands and stepped back. ‘I need something and I’m willing to pay for it. I’m a stranger in town and I need help.’

The black man towered over Verner. As well as being tall, he was wide and looked dangerous. In spite of that, Verner was not awed. He knew he could have taken him down within a second.

‘What is it you want, stranger?’

‘A gun.’

‘Fuck off,’ he laughed loudly.

The pimp turned away and reached for the door handle.

‘I’ll be in the Printer’s Arms,’ Verner said, giving him the name of a pub he’d seen on a dark side street off Deansgate. ‘I’ll be in the bar until eleven. I mean what I say. I’m not a cop or anything. I’ll pay good cash for the right one — a handgun, preferably a pistol. Five hundred for the right one.’

The pimp regarded him unsmiling. He blinked and got into the Granada. The car swished away into the night. Aggie craned her neck to look round through the back window. Verner waved. He knew he was in business.

As the name suggested, the Printer’s Arms had once been the haunt of members of that profession, particularly in the days when Deansgate housed the massive regional offices of newspapers like the Daily Mail. It had been frequented by typesetters and journalists alike and was not unlike the pubs that once used to be found off Fleet Street during its heyday. It was small, crowded, noisy and friendly and still retained that atmosphere, although the clientele now frequenting it consisted mainly of the middle-aged denizens of Manchester who knew a good pub when they tasted one. Its media history was just that — history.

Verner struggled hard to find a place at the bar.

He ordered a pint of Guinness, very cold, very black and wonderful. He sipped it as he leaned on the bar.

The sex with Aggie had been a good relief for him. It was just what he had needed: quick and straight to the point.

Now what he needed was a gun. He wanted that to be quick and straight to the point, too. He knew Manchester’s underworld was flooded with illegal firearms and that getting hold of one was easy, if you knew who to ask. Verner did not, but guessed that a pimp would know or would, in fact, be able to supply one. It had been a risk, but calculated.

A small man with a round, pock-marked face squirmed into the bar alongside him and ordered a short. He was mid to late thirties and Verner knew he was it.

He waited for the approach, sipping the Guinness, not taking any notice of the man. He had an urge to sink the drink in one, but held back. He had to have full control of his faculties and even one pint of the black stuff could be a deciding factor in business like this.

The small man sniffed his whisky. Without looking at Verner, his nose hovering over the rim of the glass, he said, ‘I hear you’re looking.’

‘Depends what for,’ Verner answered, knowing that the conversation would be in code, just in case they were being listened to by the cops.

‘What do you need?’

‘Something small, light, compact, reliable.’ He could have been describing a condom. ‘And never used.’

‘Could be difficult. Secondhand is usual.’

‘I have the right amount.’

‘I might be able to find what you need.’ He tossed his drink down the back of his throat and shivered as it hit the spot. He slammed his glass on the bar. ‘One for the road,’ he told the barman. For the first time he looked at Verner, who saw that the guy’s complexion was atrocious. He quickly drank the second whisky. ‘I’ll be outside the door. Give me five minutes. . Oh,’ he checked himself, as though this was an afterthought, ‘show me the colour of it.’

Verner placed his pint down, opened his jacket and let the small man see the contents of his inside pocket.

‘Good enough,’ he said and then was gone.

A moment later, Verner quit the bar too.

By the time he stepped outside, the gun dealer was nowhere to be seen, having vanished like a rat into the darkness. Yeah, vermin, Verner thought with a mental sneer. He disliked having to deal with such people, but necessity was driving him here. He dashed across Deansgate, dodging the traffic, and backed into the shadow of a shop doorway from where he could see the main door of the Printer’s Arms.

A few legitimate customers came and went.

Fifty metres down Deansgate, a car stopped and the pockmarked man who had just been in the bar got out. He leaned back into the car and conversed with the driver before slamming the door shut. The car set off, then turned down by the Printer’s Arms, disappearing up the poorly lit side street. It was being driven by Aggie’s pimp.

The small man walked to the door of the pub.

Verner walked back across the road, coming up behind the small man, who was no wiser that he had been across the road, watching.

‘This way.’ He indicated to Verner that he should follow him down the side street.

‘Can I trust you?’

The small man sniggered, but said nothing.

Verner followed. Within metres, the brightness of Deansgate had been replaced by the dark of the narrow street, the sound of vehicular and pedestrian traffic just a background murmur.

He led Verner to a small car park at the rear of what could have been an office building. There was one car on it, the one Verner had seen drop the small man off a few minutes earlier, the one driven by Aggie’s pimp. Verner’s senses were acute. He could sniff the danger in the air and was ready for anything, supremely confident of his abilities, no matter what might come his way.

‘Stop here,’ the small man said. He took a small torch out of his pocket and flashed it a couple of times, then said, ‘Come on.’ He walked towards three huge metallic dustbins on wheels on the car park, pushed right up to the building. They were due to be emptied soon. The smell said that.

As they approached the bins, the black pimp, together with another man, a white one, stepped out and revealed themselves.

Verner took stock of the situation.

‘I thought you might be able to help me,’ he said to the pimp.

The black man’s wide smile flashed in the darkness and Verner almost giggled at the stereotype.

‘What have you got?’

‘Come over here, back here.’ The black man took a pace backwards and to one side. He also had a torch in his hand, which he flashed down to the ground. There was a large piece of oily rag spread out, once part of a blanket, with two pistols on it and four magazines. Verner recognized the makes and models immediately.

One was a mass-produced Eastern Bloc monstrosity, the other a reasonable-looking Glock.

‘How clean are they?’

‘Does it really matter?’

‘To me it does. How reliable are they?’

‘Sold as seen,’ said the black man.

Verner felt the presence of the other two men who had quietly moved round to be behind him.

‘Ammunition?’

‘Two spare magazines with each. Forty-five rounds in total.’

‘How much?’

‘The Glock is five hundred; the other is two.’

‘Not cheap.’

‘I guess a man like you needs a gun,’ said the pimp, ‘and would be prepared to pay whatever the cost.’

Verner nodded, knowing full well he would not be paying a penny for either gun. Had it been a straightforward, trustworthy transaction, he would have bartered and gladly paid, but he instinctively knew this was going to turn sour. ‘But you’re wrong, actually, the gun isn’t for me. I need to make a call to my boss, just for the nod.’ He already had his mobile phone in his hand, one bullet left in it.

‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ the pimp said. He nodded to his compatriots.

Suddenly Verner’s arms were pinned to his side by one of the men behind him. Not the small guy, because he came around the front and yanked open Verner’s jacket.

Verner let it happen, still holding the mobile phone in his hand.

‘Just chill, pal,’ he was told by the small man with the complexion like the face of the moon, ‘and it’ll soon be over.’ His hand went into the inside pocket which Verner had shown him contained the money. Except now there was a bar of soap in it with razor blades stuck into it. The small man’s hand grasped what he thought was going to be a wad of cash. He screamed and pulled his hand away, blood dripping.

Verner stamped his heel down the shin of the man holding him and finished the movement by smashing his heel down hard on the man’s toes. He dug his right elbow back into his ribs, then his hand shot up and he stabbed the antenna of the mobile hard into the man’s eye. He shook the man off, who staggered backwards, holding his injured face.

‘Jesus, Jesus,’ the small man yelped, nursing his lacerated hand between his knees, just in the exact position Verner needed him. He grabbed the back of his head and pounded his face down on to an upcoming knee, bursting his nose beautifully.

Verner pushed him aside, spun quickly on the man who had been holding him — who was tending his injured eye. Verner leapt at him and head butted him hard and accurately on the bridge of his nose.

Broken nose number two.

Like a cat, he turned low, back to the pimp, who had watched Verner’s sudden and unexpected display of violence with shock. But he was a man of the street and was recovering fast. His hand went inside his well-cut jacket.

Verner pointed the mobile phone at him. Just one left. It had to count because the pimp was pulling out a handgun.

There were perhaps four metres between the men. Verner knew that phone guns were pretty inaccurate even over close ranges, so he had to get close enough to ensure it was effective.

He took a step forward, decreased the gap.

The handgun in the black man’s hand was almost out.

Verner aimed the mobile-phone gun at the man’s chest. Go for the large body mass. It might not be fatal, but whatever happened, the man had to be put down. He pressed the button on the keypad. There was a crack and a kick and the bullet fired into the pimp’s wide chest, knocking him down on to his arse. He rolled over and came back up, his own gun now out and in his hand. Verner powered in and kicked the gun out of his hand, then, twisting so he was side on, kicked him flat-footed in the face, sending him rolling across the car park.

Broken nose number three. A record for one night.

This time the pimp did not get up.

Verner picked up the gun, which had skittered away a few feet, then went to stand over him.

He thought about ending the life of all three men there and then.

The black man clutched his chest, trying to stem the blood gushing out from the bullet hole just above his heart.

Verner weighed it up quickly. If he killed them, the cops would dig the bullet out of the pimp’s chest and soon make the link to the ones they had pulled out of two dead cops and a nurse in Preston. But if the pimp and his little gang stayed alive, there would probably be little chance of them going to the cops to report the incident. The problem would be if the pimp died anyway.

‘That’ll teach you a lesson, amateur,’ Verner said. He pointed the gun at him, almost pulled the trigger, decided not to.

He scooped up the Glock and the spare magazines, pocketed them and threw the pimp’s gun into one of the rubbish bins.

He returned briefly to the Radisson, collected his belongings and left. It would have been more than foolhardy to stay there, so he walked down the street and got a room at the Travel Lodge, paid cash, locked himself in, dropped on to the wide double bed, aching and sore.

Time for some recuperation.

He slept for ten hours.

Next morning he walked to Piccadilly Railway Station, grabbing an Egg McMuffin on the way for breakfast. He was in luck — and smiled at the thought of luck — when he gazed up at the departures board. A train for Blackpool was soon to be leaving, calling in at all manner of romantic-sounding places on the way. He noticed that the last-but-one stop was Poulton-le-Fylde. He knew he would not be getting off there. He bought a one-way ticket and found himself a seat in a sparsely populated carriage towards the front of the train.

He enjoyed train travel, liked the perspective it gave on places. He settled comfortably for the journey.

It passed uneventfully and, sooner than he thought, he was alighting in Blackpool. As he emerged, the chill wind of the coast slapped him in the face. He had never quite known anything like it. Bracing, he thought.

He strolled slowly into town and found a nice-looking guest house near to the centre which would be a useful base for a few days. He did not expect to be staying for long. He intended to get his job done quickly and get away. He spent the rest of that day browsing, shopping, and being a tourist.

He even walked past several foot-patrol coppers, but not one gave him a second glance.