Facing Justice

FOUR

It was one of those slightly potty middle-aged-man ideas that usually don’t get anywhere. A product of a conversation loosened by alcohol which no one took seriously at the time but which planted a seed and was remembered.

The main problems were of logistics, workload and opportunity.

Both men were horrendously busy.

Henry Christie, as joint head of FMIT, had many serious enquiries to oversee, committees and working parties to attend nationally and locally. All that in itself would have been fine if the world stood still, but it didn’t, it continued to revolve relentlessly. People did not stop murdering others; long-running investigations didn’t suddenly get cleared up and there was always some new initiative that needed the presence of someone at Henry’s rank to make it happen.

Karl Donaldson, Henry’s American friend, worked as an FBI legal attache at the US embassy in London. He, too, was overwhelmed with work. Fundamentally he was an analyst and liaison officer, making and forging links between law enforcement agencies across Europe, from the UK to Russia. At the same time he often made forays into the field, sometimes finding himself in dangerous situations, whether coming face to face with a wanted terrorist or dealing with corrupt factions in his own organization.

The two men had first met over a dozen years before. Their paths had crossed when Donaldson, then a full-time FBI field agent, was investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Henry, then a detective sergeant, had encountered the Yank when an investigation he was pursuing became explosively intertwined with Donaldson’s. They had made friends hesitantly at first, but as their personal and professional lives continued to criss-cross over the years, they became good pals.

It also helped that Donaldson had met, fallen in love with and subsequently married a Lancashire policewoman. Even though she had subsequently transferred to the Metropolitan Police to be near Donaldson’s work in London, her northern connections often brought the both of them up past Watford regularly. His wife, Karen, also became good friends with Henry’s on-off-and-on wife, Kate.

A couple of months earlier, Donaldson had been in Lancashire on business — something hush-hush he could not even begin to reveal to Henry — and when it was completed he had stayed on at Henry’s for a couple of nights. On one of those nights, they had hit Henry’s local, the recently refurbished Tram amp; Tower.

They’d reminisced over a few pints, Donaldson becoming increasingly garrulous after his intake: he was a big man, six-four, as broad as a bear, but he couldn’t hold his drink. Anything over two pints and he started to lose control. Henry, on the other hand, raised in the seventies and eighties culture of the cops, always remained steady, although he didn’t actually drink much these days as he grew older.

‘Y’know, man,’ Donaldson slur-drawled in his soft American accent, ‘I love ya, man.’

They were seated in one of the newly constructed alcoves of the pub, chatting and paying passing attention to the newly introduced ‘Kwiz Nite’ hosted by the landlord, Ken Clayson.

Henry squinted at Donaldson’s revelation.

‘No, I mean, you’re a guy who’s always on the edge, but I kinda like that.’

‘Right.’ Henry drew out the word.

‘Hey! You thought about having any more kids?’

Now Henry screwed up his face. ‘That’s a resounding no.’

‘God, I can’t wait,’ Donaldson said, misty-eyed. He had — accidentally — made Karen pregnant but now he couldn’t wait to be a father again, even though they already had two kids who were just into their teens.

‘I’m too old, and so is Kate,’ Henry said. ‘We’ve only just got rid of the two daughters as it is — and they keep bouncing back like they’re on elastic bands. It’s chill time, pal.’

‘Karen’s no spring chicken,’ Donaldson pointed out.

‘How gentlemanly,’ Henry remarked. ‘Is everything going OK?’

‘Aw, hell yeah. Child-bearing hips, y’know. She’s blooming — and the pregnant sex is awesome.’

‘Whoa.’ Henry made the number one stop sign. ‘Too much. Anyway, glad to hear things are fine, but it’ll put the brakes on everything else,’ he warned his companion.

Donaldson sipped his third lager ruminatively. ‘Guess so.’ His voice was wistful. Then, ‘Hey! I have an idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Before she gives birth, how about you and me sneaking away for a night or two of debauchery? Wet the baby’s head before it arrives.’

‘If I recall, the last time you were off the leash, you debauched a little too much.’

Donaldson looked sheepishly at Henry, his mind full of the one and only time he had been unfaithful to Karen. In a hotel room in Malta with a Scandinavian lady who had subsequently bombarded and terrified him with obscene e-mails with photographic attachments. ‘I was thinkin’ more of a guy thing. Not sure what, though.’

‘Whatever, it would have to be short and sweet, I guess. How about a walk and an overnighter?’

‘A walk? Do you walk?’

‘I’ve been known to put one foot in front of the other occasionally. We could set off over the hills one day, overnight in a village pub somewhere, then walk on. Park a car at either end, something like that.’

Donaldson thought about it. ‘Lake District, you mean?’

‘Possibly,’ Henry shrugged.

‘And now for round two of our Krazee Kwiz Nite.’ Their conversation was interrupted as the voice of Ken, the landlord, boomed out over the PA system. ‘Pens and answer sheets at the ready. Next ten questions are on the hits of the sixties.’

‘Ahh,’ Donaldson said, ‘your era.’

‘You ain’t far behind, pal.’

There was no more talk that night of a boys’ break, but it was a thought that remained with them, nagging away at the back of their minds.

Jack Vincent sat in the battered chair at the battered desk inside the stolen mobile cabin that doubled as his office and a refreshment area for the workers in the quarry that deeply scarred the hillside a quarter of a mile away. Vincent’s cruel face set hard as he shivered and hunched himself deeper into his thick donkey jacket. The gas heater was on, but fighting a losing battle against the harsh north-easterly wind that swooped down from the moors above the village of Kendleton in north Lancashire. Keeping any warmth in the cabin was a constant battle as the outside temperatures continued to tumble with the approach of evening.

From Vincent’s position, looking out from the cabin, he could monitor any traffic approaching the quarry up the steep winding lane from the main road. He could watch his heavy lorries as they reached another cabin where they booked in and then were sent on the right-hand fork through the gates into a steel-walled compound. Here any ‘necessary changes’ were attended to by Vincent’s fitter, before they were sent on towards the loading area, where the crushing and filtering machines smashed the rock that had been blown out of the quarry face, then graded it to customer requirements. The lorries were then refilled and sent back out on the road.

At the moment, Vincent’s main customer was a huge multinational road-building company subcontracted by the Department of Transport to widen a stretch of the M6 near Stafford. It was a government contract worth several million pounds and Vincent had manoeuvred brutally to get his piece of it. There had been the necessary payoffs, a bit of very heavy intimidation against his rivals — because a well-paid contract like this was always hard fought for by the minnows — and one particularly nasty incident where Vincent and his silent partner had been forced to resort to whacking the edge of a shovel into a man’s head. There was now nothing left of that man. He had been fed limb by limb into a crusher, mixed in with a few tons of hardcore, and was buried underneath a bridge pillar on the stretch of motorway he had, ironically, been so keen to build.

Vincent checked his watch, a Rolex, incongruous against the sleeve of his grubby donkey jacket, then peered down the twisting track.

Two empty lorries were expected. Their fourth run of the day. And, like clockwork, they appeared. They were huge monsters, but even they were overshadowed by the giant machines that worked the quarry itself.

Vincent smiled and his face softened with triumph. There would be something extra for each of these vehicles when they left the quarry with the many tons of ground rock in them. He stood up.

The first of the lorries drew up at the reception cabin. The driver dropped out of the cab. He went in and did some paperwork with the woman who dealt with admin, the dispatch and return of orders. Then he clambered back and drove through to the compound, pulling up with a hiss of airbrakes under a drive-through awning constructed of corrugated metal. He got out of the cab again and turned to Vincent, who had walked in behind.

‘The Department of Transport and the cops have set up a couple of stop-checks on north and southbound at Charnock services on the M6,’ he told Vincent.

‘Make sure you don’t stop there for a brew, then,’ Vincent replied to the driver, who was called Larry Callard.

‘Just saying — they’re out and about and me and Bert have already exceeded our hours today. If we get pulled, we’re screwed.’

As they were talking, a man clad in overalls, rubbing his hands with an oily cloth, strolled across to them. He was big and broad, early forties, with deep-set eyes and a ruddy complexion. This was ‘Ox’ Henderson, Jack Vincent’s vehicle fitter.

‘What’s up, boss?’

‘Department’s out and about.’

‘And my hours are way over,’ Callard whined.

‘Can you fix it?’ Vincent asked Henderson.

‘Fix anything.’ He heaved himself into the cab of Callard’s lorry, lay across the seat and reached down to the tachograph, the device fitted underneath the dashboard that recorded drivers’ hours on a plastic-coated disc. It was supposed to be tamper-proof. Many people, however, had found ways and Henderson was a bit of an expert with them. He had once been the transport manager of a small, criminally run haulage business, but when the company had been investigated by the ministry and the police, Henderson’s way with a tachograph had been uncovered. He had been hung out to dry by the company owners, found himself behind bars for fraud for three months and then completely unemployable. Until Jack Vincent took him on.

‘Go grab a brew,’ Henderson shouted from the cab. ‘Be about ten minutes here, then no one’ll even know you’ve ever been out on the road today.’ He laughed.

Callard turned to leave. Jack Vincent’s spidery hand grasped his arm. ‘You having problems, Larry? I’m picking up a vibe, mate.’

‘What do you mean?’ He looked nervously at Vincent.

‘I mean you do what I say and you get paid well for it — yeah? I don’t want no moaning, otherwise…’

‘I wasn’t moaning.’

Vincent held Callard’s eyes meaningfully for a long second. Then he nodded as an understanding passed between them.

‘There’ll be something extra in the next run. I’ll give you details on the way out, OK? Usual bonus.’

‘Yuh, whatever, boss.’

Vincent’s fingers uncurled from Callard’s forearm and he nodded curtly. The second of the returning, empty lorries pulled into the awning. As the driver climbed out, Vincent said to him, ‘See Ox.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the first lorry, and Henderson’s booted feet sticking out of the cab as he worked on the tachograph. ‘Then grab yourself a brew — but I want you back on the road in half an hour.’

‘No probs, boss,’ the second driver said. His name was Bert Pinner.

Yeah, Vincent thought as he walked back towards the cabin, his head tilted against the biting wind, never is a problem with you, Bert. But I’m starting to get mighty concerned about Callard.

Whatever, this would be the last run of the day for the two lorries. By the time they’d had their tachographs fixed, then reloaded with hardcore and been sent on their way, done the delivery down the M6 — plus the extra side-bits — it would be almost ten at night.

No other traffic was due to be coming up to the quarry, so Vincent jarred to a halt when he saw a pair of headlights bouncing up the track. He stood by the door of the cabin, collar pulled up, and waited for the vehicle to arrive, which it did a few moments later, skidding to a grit-crunching stop on the stony ground.

It was a big four-wheel drive Land Cruiser, with greyed-out windows, similar to the kind of thing Vincent drove whilst on quarry business. Difference was this one was newer, cleaner and a better model. The doors opened and two men got out.

And Jack Vincent cursed himself. He wondered how quickly he could get into the cabin and reach the sawn-off shotgun he kept Velcroed under the desk, always fully loaded, usually within hand’s reach.

Instead, he affixed a tight smile and approached the men, hand outstretched, the very model of welcome.

Henry and Donaldson decided to try the new menu at the Tram amp; Tower, which was mostly based around chicken: roast chicken, fried chicken, piri-piri chicken — and chips with either peas, carrots or salad. It was not terribly inspired and when this was delicately pointed out to the proud landlord, Ken, he looked crestfallen and pouted from underneath his beard.

‘All the products are sourced locally,’ he defended his menu at the newly created ‘Food Ordering Point’ at one end of the shiny new bar. He glared at Henry and Donaldson, daring them to challenge his statement. They hid their eyes behind the huge laminated menus and exchanged a look of fear. They did not want to upset a tame landlord. ‘And,’ Ken declared, ‘I’ve got new chef. He’s brill.’

‘OK, OK,’ Henry said to pacify him. ‘I’m sure it’ll be great. I’ll have the piri-piri and Karl will have the roast breast wrapped in bacon… both with chips, obviously.’

Clayson entered the order into the new till with a flourish, then extended his hand for payment. ‘Twenty-seven pounds and fifty pence.’

‘Sheesh,’ Henry muttered. ‘It’s not cut price then?’

‘You can’t cut corners with quality. And that does include your drinks and a free trip — once only, mind — to the salad bar.’

Henry inserted his debit card into the machine and tapped in his PIN. Clayson tore off the receipt and handed it over, together with a wooden spoon with a number painted on it.

‘What’s this for?’ Henry asked. ‘Don’t we get cutlery any more?’

Clayson gave him an expressionless stare. ‘Stick it in the empty wine bottle on your table and the waitress will find you. Enjoy your meals,’ he added smarmily.

The two men turned away from the bar with their drinks and found a table in an alcove. After clearing a space amongst the salt, pepper and cutlery containers that seemed to take up most of the table, Henry laid out an Ordnance Survey map, easing out the folds. Then he raised his pint of Stella Artois and clinked glasses with Donaldson, who was drinking the same.

‘To a bit of a lads’ adventure, eh?’

Vincent knew one of the men, but not the other. The Land Cruiser’s driver was the one he hadn’t come across before and he could tell, pretty much, that he’d simply come along to help provide some intimidatory support for the passenger.

Not that he needed any help. Because the rangy black guy, who was called H. Diller, had a fearsome reputation as a torturer, enforcer and killer, and he rarely needed any help from anyone. Which meant that the message was loud and clear to Vincent. He would have been wary enough if H. Diller had turned up alone; to be accompanied by someone who looked just as hard meant that feathers had been ruffled and this was real business. Patience had worn out.

‘H. Diller,’ Vincent said, offering his hand to the black man and addressing him in the way Diller demanded. Everyone was obliged to call him H. Diller — with the exception of one man. Few people knew what the H stood for, and his insistence on it being used was nothing more than an affectation, but it was one everybody respected.

Diller smiled warmly, a smile that often lured in unsuspecting mortals. He took Vincent’s hand and they shook simply, no fancy fist-banging, finger-wrapping, high-fiving, just a simple manly handshake. ‘Jack, my son.’

There was an uncertain hesitation before Vincent spoke. ‘So what brings you to these parts — these cold parts?’

‘Hey, really is cold up here. Any chance of a warm?’ Diller gestured to the cabin. ‘We can talk in there.’

‘You’ve come to talk?’

‘You bet your soul,’ Diller winked.

‘Not much warmer inside.’

‘Yeah, but more convivial.’

‘Who’s the running partner?’ Vincent asked, nodding at the unsmiling man lounging by the four-wheel drive.

‘That’s Haltenorth. He’s new, but useful.’ Diller clicked his tongue.

Vincent shrugged. ‘OK. There’s a kettle inside we can fire up. But only got tea. That OK?’

‘Magic.’

Vincent turned and led the way. His forced smile disintegrated, knowing this was no social call. This, he knew, was purely business. Dirty business. In fact he had been expecting it, nay had engineered it, but he hadn’t foreseen Diller would be the lead soldier. But then again, maybe he should have. The time for games had long since gone. Problem was, he was just slightly off balance and would have felt better if his partner had been with him. It would have made the equation much more even-handed.

‘Fuck,’ Vincent uttered under his breath, half expecting Diller to step up behind him and stick the barrel of a pistol against his hindbrain and blow his head off. Things really had got that far, but the fact that Diller didn’t kill him was the first of his mistakes. Vincent’s smile returned as he opened the cabin door and allowed Diller and Haltenorth to enter ahead of him.

‘You guys want to grab a chair at the far end?’ Vincent said amicably, his mind manipulating angles and possibilities because he was certain this would not end prettily.

Steve Flynn smiled winningly as he passed the two pretty female cabin crew members and boarded the flight. He had managed to book a very last minute ticket, via Adam Castle’s travel agency, for a flight that would take him back to Manchester from Las Palmas. He’d had a quick discussion with Castle about leaving the island for a short period. There would be nothing lost because of the lack of work. Castle also told him that a short-term disappearance might be a good thing anyway. Rumours were already circulating that the petulant charter boat customer who Flynn had accidentally knocked unconscious was after blood — or a payoff. Flynn’s absence from the island might be a good thing, Castle had suggested.

Flynn heaved his only baggage into the overhead locker and edged sideways into the middle of three seats. He looked at both his travelling companions and they studiously avoided eye contact. With a sardonic twist of his mouth, he leaned forward, struggling to take off his windjammer, which he stuffed under the seat in front of him after he’d taken out the paperback thriller he was halfway through. He found his place and continued reading about a tough guy walking into town with no ID, just the clothes he stood up in, and then kicking the crap out of the ‘ornery yokels’. Completely unreal, but highly exciting. Only four and a half hours to go, he thought. Then he smiled at the prospect of seeing Cathy. Her predicament sounded iffy, even though she hadn’t said very much on the phone, but he was looking forward to being with her again. She promised that somehow she would pick him up from the airport.

They walked past the desk and sat on the plastic chairs at the far end of the cabin, which were positioned in the vicinity of the tiny gas-powered heater. Vincent, too, walked past the desk, and reached for the kettle — but Diller placed a hand on his forearm and glanced up at him.

‘We don’t need a drink, actually.’

Vincent’s fingers unravelled slowly from the kettle handle.

‘Mr Cain wants his money. He’s tired of waiting.’

‘H,’ Vincent began, his voice reasonable.

‘H. Diller,’ he was corrected.

‘H. Diller… look, pal, one of my donkeys got away with it. It can’t be found, but I took care of him — you can’t really ask for anything more than that.’

‘Mr Cain wants payment.’ Diller flexed his large black fingers. To his left, Haltenorth sat forward in his chair, his fingers interlocked. His eyes were angled up at Vincent.

‘I don’t have payment. We were ripped off by my donkey.’

‘Mule, you mean?’

‘I call ’em donkeys. Thicko lowlifes. Who else would take the chance, but doombrains, i.e. donkeys?’

‘I see.’ Diller’s eyes hadn’t left Vincent’s face. ‘In that case, Mr Cain would like goods in exchange — at double the value.’

‘Twenty grand’s worth?’

‘Plus interest. Make it twenty-two. Round it up to twenty-five for my inconvenience, and that of Mr Haltenorth, too.’

Vincent shook his head.

‘You have that amount here. This is where the distribution starts.’

‘I have no stock. The vehicles took the last of it on their last run.’ Vincent sighed. ‘This won’t go away will it, H. Diller?’

‘Be like an elephant in your brain until it’s settled.’

Vincent ran a hand over his unshaven face. ‘I’ve got a grand in the petty cash drawer.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the desk. Then he bent forward, placed his hands on his knees like he was going to play pat-a-cake, and looked directly into Diller’s eyes. He spoke tauntingly. ‘And that’s all the fucker is having. That’s the bill paid. It’s just one of those write-offs you occasionally have to make in this business. People get greedy. That greedy person has been dealt with and that’s the end of the matter — you tell him that.’ Vincent rose to his full height. He wasn’t a tall man, five-nine, but he was lean, with power behind his shoulders. ‘I’ll get you the money.’

He stepped to the desk and, as he expected, Diller moved — quickly. He shot up from the plastic chair and manoeuvred himself into a position between Vincent and the desk. At the same time, a handgun appeared in his right hand, a 9mm pistol of Chinese origin. Even with the gun jammed in the soft part underneath the cleft of his chin, Vincent recognized the weapon as part of a consignment he’d brought in and distributed two years before, one of his other sidelines. He wondered how many jobs it had been used on, how many lives it had taken, how much cash it had generated.

‘N-no, back away, pal,’ Diller said.

Vincent tried to swallow, his throat rising and falling against the ‘O’ of the muzzle. He moved as requested.

‘Check the drawers,’ Diller said out of the corner of his mouth. Haltenorth was already on his feet. Diller pushed Vincent further back as the other man swooped to the desk and yanked open the drawers. He rifled through them, found nothing but papers and a money tin with a piece of paper taped to it that said ‘Petty Cash’.

He took it out and showed Diller.

‘What did you expect, a shooter?’ Vincent asked.

Diller removed the muzzle from Vincent’s neck, but couldn’t resist dragging the barrel up to his temple and pressing it hard against his skull, before withdrawing.

‘How much in tin?’ Diller asked.

‘Twelve hundred, give, take,’ Vincent shrugged, his face taut with tension.

‘Unlock it.’

Vincent edged out of Diller’s proximity and sat down on the office chair. Diller and Haltenorth stood back to watch him. He fished a key out of his jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock of the box, which measured about six inches by nine, maybe four inches deep. As he did this, his knee touched the shotgun strapped underneath the desk. His mind whirled as he worked out his moves. The flaw in it all was the time it would take him to free it from the Velcro straps, turn, rise, aim it — the weapon was ready to fire, loaded with two twelve-bore cartridges — and take out two very streetwise individuals, one of whom already had a gun in his hand. No doubt the other was also armed but hadn’t yet shown his firepower. But they had expected to find a gun in the desk drawer, and hadn’t. Vincent could tell they’d dropped their guard. They’d relaxed. And that was all to his advantage. Plus they hadn’t killed him yet.

‘Why don’t you two guys sit back down?’

‘Nah, we’ll stand, because it won’t be enough. We had specific instructions, Jack. Oh yeah, don’t get me wrong, we’ll take the money — but you’re still gonna die. You had your chances, y’see. That was the last one and you didn’t come good.’

Vincent slowly unlocked the money box, opened the hinged lid. It was stuffed with cash, many notes, all tightly rolled up. He removed the money from the tin, a bitter expression on his face, and bounced it on the palm of his hand. ‘How much to pay you guys off?’ he asked, playing the game.

‘What you mean?’ Diller demanded.

‘How much for you to go back to Cain and tell him I wasn’t here, you couldn’t find me? Eh?’ His eyebrows arched.

Haltenorth checked out Diller, but the latter kept his eyes on Vincent, who continued with his subterfuge, because there was no way he would think about paying these guys off. ‘Follow me back down to my house. I got a couple more grand stashed away. You guys take this’ — he held up the money roll in his fist — ‘as a show of my good will, and I’ll give you the cash down at my house. Three grand, plus, in total. Not bad for a ride out to the back of beyond. It’ll give me more time to get stuff together. Do me now and Cain won’t be getting anything. How about it? Take the cash,’ he pleaded. ‘No one will be any the wiser.’

His eyes darted between the two men. He could sense Haltenorth was up for it, but Diller wasn’t even wavering.

‘Mr Cain will still get his dues, man,’ Diller said, ‘even with you dead. We’ll just move on to your partner in crime. I’m given a job to do, I do it.’

Haltenorth’s bottom lip dropped with disappointment. Clearly he wasn’t being paid anything like the money Vincent was offering now. Haltenorth had no loyalty in his bones. Vincent had placed doubt in his mind.

‘What about it, man?’ Haltenorth hissed to Diller.

Diller turned slowly to him, unable to believe his ears. His gun drooped to one side and his face showed complete surprise.

‘I’ll tell you why, dumb-ass. You do not double cross Mr Cain. He don’t do double crossing. That’s why!’

‘But man, all that cali.’

‘I thought you were cool, man.’ Diller crashed his gun across the side of Haltenorth’s head, sending him spinning backwards.

Vincent watched the short verbal exchange intently, saw the minute change in Diller’s body language that reflected his disbelief in what he was hearing, then saw the gun arc across his dim partner’s head. Even as the gun started to move, Vincent reached under the desk and slid the hanging shotgun out swiftly and neatly. It was a movement he had practised time and again whilst sitting at the desk. He spun on the chair just as Haltenorth stumbled backwards, holding the side of his bloodied head. Diller was angled slightly away from him, the gun in his hand pointing upwards and away from Vincent.

It was a side-by-side double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A simple weapon. Vincent liked simplicity, because it rarely went wrong. Revolvers rarely went wrong, but sometimes pistols did. Sometimes pump-action shotguns that needed racking went wrong because their mechanisms jammed. But a simple, old-fashioned, pre-loaded one, safety catch off, never went wrong. The only drawback was that there were only two cartridges in it and he had to get this right first time. He would not be allowed the privilege of reloading.

But here, in the confines of the cabin, with two targets less than six feet away from him, he had absolute confidence that he would be successful. He couldn’t miss. The trick was to ensure that he brought the two men down. There was the possibility they wouldn’t be killed straight away, but if they weren’t dead they would be severely injured enough that he would have time to reload.

As he spun on the chair, he held the shotgun at the base of his belly, just above the groin, angled upwards.

Diller’s face turned, a scream coming to his wide mouth as he tried to spin back and bring his gun around on Vincent.

Vincent released the first barrel, the recoil thumping his tensed stomach muscles. The pellets exploded out with a huge bang and splattered across Diller’s upper torso, chest, neck and head. The cartridge wad hit his throat, punching a hole in it the side of a ten pence piece. The impact hurled him against the cabin wall like a stunt man on a rope.

Vincent rose, aimed the shotgun again. Haltenorth, already stunned from the pistol whip across his head, held out his left hand beseechingly. ‘No, man, no,’ he cried.

Callously, Vincent shot him too.