Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Procedure by Adrian Magson

England’s Adrian Magson writes for various mainstream magazines in the U.K. and overseas, and is a columnist for Writers’ News/Writing Magazine. We welcome him not only to EQMM but to the world of crime fiction this month — his previous fiction credits have been with women’s magazines, under the pseudonym Ellen Cleary. Mr. Magson’s first crime novel No Peace for the Wicked (Crème de la Crime) is due out in late 2004.

They smash through my front door at three in the morning. Two of them, dressed in black. The first — Patrick — is carrying a council curbstone he probably found lying around somewhere, and which he uses to tap the lock out of the frame. He uses his other hand to turn on the lights and throw a small side table along the hall. He does things like that to show how big and strong he is. People rarely argue with him.

The second man is tall, slim, and black as night, with shiny dreadlocks hanging around his shoulders. He has a blowtorch in one hand and a Bic lighter in the other. Hooper. He strides catlike to the foot of my bed and thumbs the lighter. The flame snaps the blowtorch into a steady, icy-blue tongue of fire which hisses like a dragon in the silence. I can feel the heat from six feet away. Hooper smiles.

I hope it’s a social call. Hooper is so far off the wall even the Yardies threw him out for being too violent. Now here he is in my bedroom.

“I suppose knocking’s too much to ask?” I say. I don’t know these two all that well, but I’ve heard it’s best not to back down too quick. They respect that, for some insane reason.

Patrick drops the curbstone on the bed and jerks a massive thumb towards the door. “The Chairman wants to see you.”

“It’s three in the morning,” I point out.

The flame comes nearer as Hooper advances round the bed.

“I’ll get dressed.”

I hop around looking for socks and stuff while Patrick watches and Hooper plays the flame of his toy across a glass-fronted picture of a Paris street scene. It was a present from a former girlfriend who thought I needed cultural improvement. For some reason, she thought I was artistically bland. She didn’t last long after that, but the picture stayed. I like it, actually. Very... moody.

The glass pops and cracks while I pull on my shoes, and I figure I’ll get Hooper back for that. One day when he isn’t looking.

“What does he want?” I ask conversationally as we drive west towards the Chairman’s office. We’re in a black Toyota Land Cruiser, which is inappropriate for the city, but Patrick needs a big vehicle, otherwise he’d have nowhere to keep his collection of curbstones.

“He’s got a job for you.” Hooper turns round in the passenger seat and stares at me. “Gainful employment.” The words come out slow and singsong, and a gold tooth glints in his mouth, reflecting the streetlights. I reckon he’s pissed I didn’t put up a fight.

“I’ve already got a job,” I tell him. I do, too. I deliver things for people. Small packages, mostly; papers, diskettes, certificates, contracts, that sort of thing. Anything small, light, and of high-value importance. You want it there, I’m your man. Guaranteed. Not drugs, though. I don’t touch drugs. I’m old-fashioned about wanting to keep my freedom.

Hooper sneers. “Courier shit, man? Don’t make me laugh. That’s for pussies.”

I debate shoving Hooper’s gold tooth down his throat, but decide it will keep. Patrick would probably take a spare curbstone out of his top pocket and cuff me with it.

Instead I sit back and ignore them both, and consider what I’m about to get into.

The Chairman — if he has a real name nobody uses it — is a fat slug who runs a business and criminal empire said to stretch across half of Europe. Some say he’s Dutch, and was kicked out of Rotterdam because he gave the local crims a bad name. He set himself up in London instead and proceeded to knock out every other syndicate in the place, allowing only a tiny network of small-time gangs to remain. It was a clever move; in return for letting them be, he allows them to tender for doing his dirty work. He has a small group of direct employees — people like Hooper and Patrick, to protect his back from anyone who thinks he might be easy meat — but other than that, he believes in lean and mean. Especially mean.

Like I say, clever move. He controls the whole criminal shebang, while letting some of the dumber members think they’re important. It’s a franchise, only the penalties for infringing the rules are more permanent.

I’ve done a couple of jobs for the Chairman before, but only out of desperation. They were simple fetch-and-carry assignments, the main risk being if I failed to deliver. I didn’t enjoy them because I didn’t feel clean afterwards, and the last time he’d called, which was about a month ago, I’d declined. Politely.

I wish I had Malcolm with me.

Malcolm’s my little brother. I use the word little only in the age sense; he’s three years younger than me, but way, way bigger. He caught our grandfather’s bit of the gene pool, while I’ve been blessed with Grandma’s. Granddad — a rough, tough stevedore back in the days when they still had them — was apparently a shade under six-ten, with shoulders and hands to match, while Grandma was normal.

At six-eight, and weighing in at two fifty, Malcolm can pick me up with one hand. He’s also good-looking, with twin rows of pearly-white teeth, naturally swarthy skin, and eyes which can bore right through you. Apparently it works wonders with the girls and means he never gets to go home alone.

The downside is, he’s disturbingly honest, and has never been known to tell a lie or get in a fight. At school, he was left well alone from an early age, especially when they saw how much he could lift with one hand. And if anyone gave me grief, all I had to do was mention his name and I got swift apologies and a promise of immunity from the scummies who liked to prey on smaller kids for their lunch money. Not great for my self-esteem, but if you went to the sort of school I went to, you used whatever means you had to keep afloat, even if it was your kid brother.

As the Americans say, go figure.

The Chairman’s office is in a smart, glass-fronted block in the West End, rubbing shoulders with a team of showbiz lawyers on one side and a well-known film company on the other. Like many top crims, the Chairman believes respectability comes from who you know, not what you do.

We troop upstairs with me sandwiched in the middle, through a set of armoured-glass doors into a plush foyer with carpets like a grass savanna. An office at one end has the lights on and the door open.

“Ah, there you are, Stephen,” the Chairman says, like we’re old buddies. His English is faultless. He’s studying some spreadsheets under a desk lamp and hitting the keyboard of a Compaq with quick fingers, like the accountant he’s rumoured to have been before he went sly. “Sit down. Coffee?”

The offer and the first-name familiarity are all part of the game of being in charge. Patrick pours me a coffee from a jug in one corner and hands me the cup. It looks like a thimble in his hand.

“I’d prefer to be home in bed,” I say tiredly. “Without the curbstone for company.”

The Chairman looks up from his figures and seeks out Patrick with a look of reproof. “Say what? Have you been using those things again? Patrick, didn’t I tell you there are people you don’t need them for? Mr. Connelly, here, is one of them.” He shakes his head the way you would with a small child. “You’d better get the door repaired.”

“Okay,” Patrick mutters, totally unconcerned. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“No, you’ll do it now. Wake someone.” He says it nice and soft, while tapping away on the keyboard once more, but there’s suddenly a chill in the air.

Patrick lumbers out, leaving Hooper to watch over me.

“How’s that’s nice brother of yours?” The Chairman sits back and smiles. Like he cares. If he ever met Malcolm, it must have been by accident.

“He’s fine,” I say, and wonder where this is leading. Malcolm doesn’t approve of my life, other than agreeing to the occasional meal round my flat when he’s up in London. He thinks all criminals should be locked up, sometimes me included. It’s not that I do anything overtly illegal, but he thinks anyone who doesn’t use Her Majesty’s Post Office to send letters and stuff must be pulling some serious strokes, and by association, I’m tainted by their guilt.

“Good. And your Auntie Ellen. How’s her husband — is he any better?”

Now I’m seriously worried. Nobody knows about Auntie Ellen or Uncle Howard, for the simple reason that they live down in Devon and I don’t talk about them. A nicer pair of old folks you’ll never meet, and I owe them a lot. They were instrumental in our upbringing after our parents died when Malcolm and I were kids.

“Say again?”

“Oh, come now.” The Chairman picks up a photo from his desk and shows it to me. It’s a shot of a familiar white-haired old lady in her garden, innocently pruning her roses. In the background, made fuzzy by the distance but still recognisable, is the gangly figure of Uncle Howard. I can’t see what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s talking to himself. He does a lot of that, bless him. Early Alzheimer’s, according to the doctors. “I know all about your family, Stephen. Your aunt and your loopy uncle. I make it my business, you know that. It gives me leverage. If I need it.”

The last four words are uttered with meaning, and there’s no misunderstanding; he needs leverage now. It’s still in me to try, though.

“And if I don’t want the job?”

He shrugs and drops the photo in the bin. “Then you’re short one aunt and uncle and the county of Devon is a sadder place.” He picks up a large manilla envelope and flicks it across the desk. “I want that to arrive in Brussels first flight this morning. Kill another passenger for their seat if you have to, but get it there.”

“Why not use Hooper or Patrick?”

He winces with impatience and I get a cool chill across my shoulders. “If I could use them, I would,” he says, as if he’s talking to a particularly dumb child. “I’m using you.”

“For a simple delivery? What’s inside — pictures of the prime minister? Funny money?”

He leans forward into the lamplight and I can see he’s got a bead of sweat across his brow. Only I don’t think it’s the heat. “You refused me once before, Stephen. I don’t like that; it undermines my reputation. You understand about reputations, don’t you?” He sits back, suddenly aware that Hooper’s watching him now, not me. Men like Hooper are always on the lookout for chinks in the armour, and there’s no bigger chink than a boss who shows signs of letting a minor problem get under his skin. Loyalty in his world is a commodity, and can be sold. “There’s a rumour going round that you won’t work for me.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Frankly, I don’t care if it’s true or not — and in any case, as you can see, it’s both false and at the same time, useful.” He smiles coldly. “Ring me the moment you complete. Be back here afterwards to collect a payment. No handover or no return here by three at the latest and Hooper gets to play with his blowtorch in sunny Devon.”

I pick up the envelope as the Chairman goes back to his computer, and turn to find Hooper watching me with dangerous intensity. He’s hoping I’ll fail.

Outside, I breathe deeply and search for a cab. Eventually I pick up one going my way and get back long enough to have a shower, make one important phone call, throw on some respectable clothes, and dig out my passport. Then it’s off to the airport to wait for a plane and blag a ticket.

Brussels airport is all aluminum and zero atmosphere, and there are few people at Arrivals save for a couple of cleaners, a man with a bunch of flowers, and a fat, sweaty individual in a green suit. This last one is carrying a section of brown cardboard with the name Bouillon scrawled across it in large, black letters, and is staring at me with a look of deep melancholy.

I check my instructions and the name matches. When I look up, he’s waddling away fast, his green jacket flapping in the breeze like an elephant’s ears.

“Hey—” I go after him, but the man has a head start and leaves me behind, in spite of his size. What the hell is this?

It’s only when I get a prickly feeling in the back of my neck and turn round that I realise I’m being followed by two men. One of them is the man with the flowers.

Shit, as we say in the courier business. This doesn’t look good.

I stuff the envelope in my pocket and go after Green Suit. I don’t know what his problem is, or what the envelope holds which is so important he’s being tagged by two men. But I really don’t want to get left holding it and have Hooper go after Auntie Ellen just because of some local territorial disagreement by a bunch of Walloons.

Running is out of the question; nobody runs in airports anymore, not unless they want to be brought down by a burly security guard and have a Heckler & Koch stuck in their ear.

I settle for a fast walk, with occasional snatches at my watch, like I’m late for a meeting. Behind me, the two men have split up and veered off at angles, no doubt so as not to appear on the same security monitors as me. One man hurrying, fine; three men hurrying, cause for alarm.

I end up out by the taxi rank, and catch a glimpse of Green Suit across the road, panting his way up the stairs to the upper levels of the multistorey. The place is bedlam, as usual, with taxis and cars streaking by without paying too much attention to the pedestrian crossing, but I risk it and race across after him. I leave a trail of burnt rubber and angry horn blasts in my wake, but at least I make it.

I hit the top level to find him about to squeeze his way into a tan Mercedes.

“What,” I gasp, throat dry, “is your pigging problem?”

For some reason he looks puzzled, then scared. “Okay,” he hisses. “Give it to me!”

Okay? Like he’s doing me a favour? Now there are certain formalities we go through in this business, like exchanging IDs. It’s not been unknown to have someone turn up for a collection who shouldn’t, if you know what I mean. And with Hooper and Patrick waiting to take a trip to Devon and perform industrial injury on two lovely old people, there’s no way I’m handing over this envelope to an unknown, two others in hot pursuit or not.

He huffs and puffs but hands over a business card. It confirms his name and I give him the envelope. Moments later, he’s heading for the down ramp.

As I walk back down the stairs, I get out my mobile and dial a number.

“Yes?” It’s the Chairman. There are voices and the sound of glasses clinking in the background. Must be a breakfast meeting in gangland.

“Delivered,” I tell him. Then I see the two men at the bottom of the stairs. I show them my empty hands and they turn away as if deciding to cut their losses. “There seems to be some local interest, though.”

“Local interest?” The Chairman sounds bored. “What sort of interest?”

I tell him about the two men, and the enraged bellow begins to build the moment I say I handed the envelope to Green Suit. “You what?” he snarls. “Bouillon’s tall and thin, you idiot! That was the wrong man! You’ve just handed over some priceless documents to the wrong person!”

There’s more along those lines, but I’m no longer listening. Something doesn’t sound right. How did he know my Bouillon wasn’t tall and thin? I hadn’t mentioned it.

Then it hits me. I’ve been set up. No wonder Bouillon was puzzled; I wasn’t supposed to catch him. And the other two were merely for show. It means the Chairman hasn’t forgotten my first refusal; in fact, he’s found a way to use me as an example to others and salvage his dented pride. There was no handover, and I’m willing to bet his tirade just now was within earshot of some influential people he was looking to impress. Or frighten.

I dial another number. Malcolm answers.

“They okay?” I ask him.

“Fine,” he replies. “We’re having breakfast. Nice hotel in—”

“Don’t tell me,” I instruct him. “Walls have ears.”

Malcolm laughs. It’s a game to him; a silly, ludicrous game in which he’s indulging me. He doesn’t know the Chairman like I do. I’d asked him to take Aunt Ellen and Uncle Howard out for the day, starting with an early breakfast somewhere swish and booking them into a nice, quiet hotel away from home. At short notice, it was the only thing I could think of.

I travel back to London with a feeling of dread. If I call Malcolm again and warn him that Hooper and Patrick could be on their way down, he’ll either think I’m lying or panic and call the cops. To him, the seamier side of life is what you read about in the papers. The best I can do is hope he keeps their heads down, wherever they are.

I’m halfway back to London along the M4 when he rings me. He doesn’t sound happy.

“It’s Uncle Howard,” he says. “He’s gone for a walk.”

“Great,” I tell him. “Get him back.” Then I realise what he’s saying. Uncle Howard has reached the stage where he’s virtually forgotten everyone he knows and where he lives, and “going for a walk” means he’s wandered off. He could be anywhere.

“Shit, Malc,” I shout. “How the hell did you let that happen?”

“He went to the loo. I thought it was okay — he’s done it okay before and always come back. This time he didn’t. The hotel receptionist said she saw him walking towards Piccadilly.”

I feel a set of cold fingers clutch my guts. “You said where?”

“Piccadilly, in London. You said take them out, so I thought a day in London...”

I want to shout and scream at him, and tell him what a stupid, naive great pillock he is. But it’s no use. It’s not his fault — it’s mine. Then I consider it. There’s as much chance of them hiding successfully in the Smoke as anywhere else. Better, in fact. Just as long as they don’t happen to walk past a certain office block in the West End just as the Chairman comes out.

“Okay,” I say calmly. “You did good, Malc. Can you leave Ellen there and go look for him? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

He gives me the name of the hotel and I cut the connection. I have to get to the Chairman and get him to pull his dogs off. I don’t know what I’ll have to do, but there must be a way.

The Chairman is out and his secretary doesn’t know when he’ll be back. She won’t ring him, either. There’s no sign of Hooper or Patrick.

I drive along to Piccadilly and find the hotel where Malcolm has holed up with Aunt Ellen. It’s small and posh and they’ll have thought it beats the Savoy hands down.

Aunt Ellen answers when I call on the house phone. Malcolm has just called to say he’s found Uncle Howard and they’re on their way back to the hotel. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell her to stay where she is, then go downstairs to meet them.

Hooper is standing on the pavement, flicking his cigarette lighter.

He looks totally incongruous in that setting, and the hotel doorman is eyeing him with definite concern.

The Land Cruiser is at the curb behind him, with Patrick in the driver’s seat. In the back sits the crumpled figure of Uncle Howard. Alongside him, Malcolm fills the other seat, looking drawn and pale and seemingly asleep.

“Hey, man,” says Hooper, grinning, his speech a deliberate Caribbean drawl. He normally talks straight London. “Guess who we foun’ walkin’ long the street jus’ now. I say to Patrick, I say, ‘Man, doesn’t that look like Mr. Connelly’s big brother and his daffy uncle?’ An’ sure enough, it is.”

As I begin to move, he steps in my way, a hand on my chest. In the car, Patrick is leaning back, his hand alarmingly close to Uncle Howard’s windpipe. He could snap it in an instant, the move says.

“What say we go for a ride?” says Hooper, dropping the drawl. He stands aside and I climb in alongside Patrick. Hooper slides in next to Uncle Howard, who smiles in a friendly, vague manner and doesn’t know me from a tent peg. To him, it’s all part of another day. Malcolm is breathing heavily and has a large bruise on the side of his handsome face.

The Land Cruiser blasts off and we twist and turn through the streets towards Paddington. In minutes we’re running alongside some railway arches and pull up at one with large double doors. The rest of the street is deserted save for a mangy dog and two kids on bikes. At a look from Hooper, all three disappear.

We’re bundled inside and the doors close. We’re in some sort of workshop, the air thick with the smell of oil, grease, and burned metal, the floor littered with scrap paper, fag ends, and small twists of shaved metal, iron filings, the lot. On one wall is a storage rack full of lengths of steel, like giant knitting needles, and around the other walls is a collection of benches and machines, the use of which I can only guess at. Metalwork wasn’t really my subject at school.

Hooper produces a blowtorch and fires it up while Patrick looks on, holding a length of half-inch steel rod.

Uncle Howard is staring at everyone in turn, not alarmed, merely curious. His gentle eyes alight on a metal lathe in one corner, and he smiles in vague recognition. He used to work in a factory years before. He probably feels comfortable in this sort of place.

I look at Malcolm slumped against one wall, wishing him awake. If there’s anyone who can help us it’s Malcolm, with his enormous shoulders and powerful hands. Only I know he won’t. Big as he is, he’s got as much aggression in him as a cotton bud.

Hooper steps across to Uncle Howard and shows him the blowtorch. The old man looks at the cold blue flame hissing away in front of him with a half frown, and I wonder if the confused and tangled brain cells inside his head can still recognise danger.

I’m standing alongside a workbench. It’s clear, apart from one of those old pump-handled oil cans with a long nozzle. I reach out and bang my hand on the pump. Nothing. Hooper laughs and Patrick looks at me in disgust, as if he’d expected it. He starts towards me with his steel rod, and I guess he’s been waiting for something like this so he can have some fun.

I pump again and a jet of oil spits out and catches Hooper square in the face. It slicks across his cheeks, a thick, glutinous stain, and enters his eyes. He blinks, or tries to. Then he swears ferociously and tries to wipe it away. It just makes things worse.

By now Patrick is building up speed, the steel rod whistling through the air towards me. Only he’s forgotten what workshops are like. He’s forgotten the electric chain pulley for lifting the metal into position at the machines; he’s forgotten the power lines that scatter the air in a tangle above our heads.

The tip of the rod is supposed to connect to my head. Instead, it hits the engine casing of the chain pulley with a dull, heavy thud, and travelling with the full force of Patrick’s shoulder. The shock goes up the rod and into his arm, and pain registers on his face. Nerveless fingers can’t hold on to the weapon, and it falls to the ground.

I don’t waste time scooping it up; I grab the nearest piece of hanging chain and throw my body to one side, using my weight to pull as hard as I can. For a nanosecond the chain pulley doesn’t want to move. Then it goes and gathers momentum and rumbles along its greased track above me. I can feel the weight carrying it along as I let go of the chain, the heavy links clanking together as they swing through the air. On the end of the chain is a giant steel hook which gets momentarily left behind.

Hooper is too busy swearing and trying to scrape oil out of his eyes to notice what I’ve done, and looks for Uncle Howard, the blowtorch coming round...

But Uncle Howard isn’t there. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his damaged brain is a reflex which tells him from his years in a factory that he has to move; that with heavy machinery in a noisy workshop, not all warnings can be heard and you have to have eyes in the back of your head. In spite of his age and condition, his upper body sways like a boxer, moving just enough to avoid the deadly slingshot rush of the heavy hook as it tries to catch up with the engine block.

It swishes harmlessly past him and hits Hooper dead square. In the split second before impact, the Yardie’s eyes seem to clear of oil and he sees what is about to hit him. But it’s too late and he’s gone, swept aside with a brief, soggy smack and tossed lifeless into a corner.

Patrick is snarling, trying to ignore the pain of his nerveless fingers. He picks up the steel rod with his other hand.

But this time there’s an added complication: Malcolm has finally come to, and he rises up and stands in front of him like his own reflection. For the first time Patrick seems to realise he isn’t the only big man in the world.

He whips the rod round in a scything arc, and I wait and wonder, because Malcolm has never had a fight in his life. He’s never had to and he doesn’t know how. For him, fighting is pointless.

But maybe he inherited something else from our stevedore grandfather. Like instinct. With no more effort than catching a fly, he opens his hand and takes the rod, the sound a dull smack in the silence. Patrick looks stunned and tries to pull it clear. Malcolm pulls back, only harder. As Patrick hurls towards him, my big brother steps forward and puts out his elbow, catching him under the chin with a dull crack. Patrick flies backwards then stands still, eyes filling with what looks like unimaginable pain and surprise.

When he doesn’t move after that, and his head droops forward over his chest, I go for a look-see. Patrick is impaled on a length of mild steel sticking out of the storage rack. I turn to look at Malcolm, but he’s fainted dead away, unaware of what he’s done.

Later that night, I open the door to the Chairman’s office. The building is deserted and I’ve got Patrick’s keys to let me in. I’m wearing gloves and a floppy hat pulled over my face just in case the security cameras are loaded.

He’s sitting at his desk, pounding keys. He’s like a fat spider, counting his worth, and I know that what he wanted his men to do to me and Uncle Howard was no more than another accounting principle, a bookkeeping procedure. It’s not personal, because I don’t think revenge is a concept he knows. I turned him down, which offended him, and had to be seen to suffer the consequences. To him, it’s part of the business.

And that’s why I can’t let this go. Because when he finds out about Patrick and Hooper, and how they failed to punish one old man or one old lady, he won’t stop. It won’t be because of his men — he doesn’t see them as anything more than tools — but because of his twisted sense of pride. He’ll simply order someone else — someone Idon’t know, most likely from one of the gangs — to complete the job instead. Procedure.

I snick the door shut and leave the building. Behind me, the Chairman has hosted his last meeting. He’s sitting at his desk, and clutched in his pudgy fingers is a small twist of dark, shiny dreadlock. It’s not much, but sufficient to show signs of a struggle.

They won’t find Hooper, of course. Well, not for a while, anyway. And when they do, they’ll find Patrick, his fingerprints on the hook which killed his Yardie colleague. The scattering of white powder and money on the floor will do the rest.

As for Malcolm, he’ll forget about it in time. There was a scrap, he intervened, and we left. Who knows what happened to the bad men?

After all, thieves fall out. They’re known for it.