Cat & Mouse, Page 2

  Einar took the file and left the gym. Well, he would not waste time treading water for three hours. It made no sense to begin his search for the mark after he got the green light. When the go order came, he wanted the man already in his sights.

  So Einar began his hunt for his latest target:

  JAMES MARSH.

  ***

  Inkwell Court was such a rotten hellhole that they could have thrown a fence around it and called it a prison. Chopper dealt with scumbags all the time, but he didn't trust how unpredictable they could be. And this tower block was full of them. It oozed them like a carcass engorged with maggots. He left his motorbike outside with the fear that it wouldn't be there when he returned, and he took the piss-stained lift half expecting to be robbed of his wallet before he got to the floor he needed. But the only person he shared part of his journey with was an old black lady with a dog, and she left his wallet alone.

  The doors opened on floor four and he stepped off, and three guys in baseball caps and onesies got on, laughing, sharing a spliff. They threw him a glance, then ignored him. In dark leathers and a black helmet, he knew he struck an imposing sight. One thing about scumbags: they could sense badness in their presence and take appropriate care.

  As he stepped out, Chopper almost collided with a guy in a suit who was walking past. Round here, a guy in a suit was either headed to court to face a charge or representing someone else who was. The guy took the stairs and was gone, obviously eager to be away from this cesspit.

  The flats were arranged on an inset deck open to the elements. He lost count of the number of screaming babies and screaming mothers he heard as he passed doorway after doorway. Heard some guy screaming at a sports event on TV. Pretty sure he heard a couple screaming while having sex or killing each other, even though the bedrooms were on the far side of the flats.

  The door he needed was painted blue and white, the colours of Chelsea football team. The guy who answered his knock appeared at the door in a long Chelsea football shirt. It seemed to be all the guy wore, the garment far too big and reaching halfway down his thighs. As the guy nodded at him and turned and walked deeper into the flat, Chopper was relieved to see the shirt ride up a little and expose boxer shorts. He followed the man inside.

  He was in a short, gloomy hallway with open doors in the walls. First on the left led to a living room that was quite well kitted out. Magazines were strewn everywhere, but that was the extent of the mess, although almost every piece of furniture and decoration was dated. There was a three-piece suite, a cheap dining table against a wall, under a panoramic cityscape photo in an ancient frame. The TV was a thin, new model without a stand that was propped against a wall. The carpet was floral but faded, and clean, which was a massive surprise because Davey was a straggly little man with blotchy skin and forever dirty fingertips. Chopper had expected his home to look like the inside of a wheelie bin.

  Davey went to the window, knelt on the sofa beneath it and angled the horizontal blinds so that sunlight but not eyesight could penetrate. He lit the pipe he'd been chewing when he opened the door and black vapour rose from it. He collapsed onto the sofa and stared at Chopper.

  "Casa suck casa," he said, waving a hand.

  Chopper didn't bother to correct his Spanish. He looked at the new TV and saw its stand on the floor, next to a screwdriver. Something bothered him about it.

  "So how did you do it, man? How did The Destroyer go out?"

  Chopper didn't answer. He had known Davey a long time, but they were not friends. And Davey sometimes needed reminding of that. Chopper stuck out his hand, his way of saying Davey should cut the bullshit small talk and get down to business. And the business was money.

  Davey understood that part well enough. Without another word, he went to the old fireplace and lifted a sandwich shop paper bag containing something oblong. He held out the package and Chopper took it. It was greasy. He slid out a bundle of used notes with an elastic band wrapped around the middle. The edges of the notes curled, giving the bundle the shape of a bow tie. Some piece of melted cheese from inside the bag had smeared on the top £10 note. Chopper felt the weight of the bundle and glared at Davey.

  He held out his hand again.

  "Where's the rest?"

  He was surely he actually heard Davey gulp. "There's another job for you, man. Twenty grand for this one. It just came in a few minutes ago. Well urgent and important. Same dude who ordered the Alfo whack."

  Chopper was thankful for the shadow thrown by his helmet's raised visor. It meant Davey couldn't see those eyes open wide at the mention of another job, this one a biggie. Chopper resisted asking about the job and continued to stare, continued to hold his hand out. Continued to keep up his pissed-off act.

  Davey was in front of the TV, which Chopper looked at again. Then his eyes scanned the room and saw a box jammed between the side of the sofa and the wall. He could only see one end, but the shape was similar to that of the flat screen TV. That TV was the only modern thing in the whole flat, which Chopper knew Davey had taken over from his grandmother after her death. He must have inherited all the furniture, but he'd recently bought that TV. Very recently.

  Davey rushed to the fireplace, but this time reached up to a magazine shelf above it and plucked down a brown A4 envelope from amongst the publications. He held it out. "Take this, man. New job. Twenty grand. Twenty big ones. I didn't think you'd miss four hundred out of five grand, man, sorry, not with this big twenty grand coming your way. I thought it could be my pay for getting you this new job."

  "You thought that, yet this job just came in a few minutes ago and you obviously bought that TV a lot earlier."

  Davey's mouth moved for a long time before he spoke. If he'd been talking himself out of what he yearned to say, he'd failed. "You never pay me, man. I do this shit for free." He took a step back, as if fearing his latest utterance might have overstepped a line.

  Chopper snatched the envelope and took a step towards Davey, who looked terrified. Davey had gotten him the Destroyer job, and now, apparently, another one that was even bigger. But he had stolen from Chopper, and the hitman couldn't help but wonder what it might do for his reputation if he let it slide.

  But Davey was a good man. He was polite to people, never caused his neighbours a problem, and never peddled the dope he got hold of. Not a guy anyone really had cause to dislike. And he had just handed over an envelope that might be worth twenty grand and a step up in the world of contract killing.

  So Chopper killed his anger. He pointed at the TV. "That's mine, you understand?" Davey nodded. "I'm going to leave it here for now so you can watch it, because I don't need it cluttering space in my house. But the moment I need it back, I snap my fingers and you come running with it, right? I literally mean you pick it up and run down the street with it. Immediately." Davey nodded again, fast.

  Chopper moved over to the window for more light. Already he was nervous. All these years working at the low-end, and finally it looked as if word had gotten out to the right pair of ears. Apprenticeship over. Big league beckoning. Maybe next time he'd get paid in a swanky hotel room somewhere, and not some putrid tower block. The money in a briefcase, not a paper bag. No cheese stains in sight. Exotic locations, not grimy alleyways. Targets who ran corporations and governments, instead of slimy criminals condemned by other scumbags. He opened the envelope with shaking fingers.

  Inside was a big colour photo of the target, a long shot taken from across the road, capturing the man as he left the entrance of a place called Athena Supermarket. Scrawled on one of two sticky notes attached to the photo was the man's name:

  JAMES MARSH.

  ***

  James Marsh parked his Ford Transit panel van near a corner of the car park and exited. The carpark was at the rear of a terrace of shops and he had to circle around to approach the cafe from the front.

  The early teatime crowd was a mix of suits from the office building across the road and builders from the scaffolding envelop
ing its first three floors, all men. He had to squeeze between the backs of people's chairs to reach the table where his wife and daughter waited for him. Strangely, it was only the businessmen who seemed put out by the proximity of his ass to their heads as he threaded his way to the rear of the cafe.

  He sat down and his four year-old daughter, Louise, skipped off the seat next to her mum and slotted herself onto Jimmy's lap. He had to scoot his chair back five inches to allow this, and heard a tut when it hit the back of the chair behind him. He did not look round at the three grimy builders who were devouring plates of grease moulded into sausage- and egg-shapes.

  Maria looked at her watch. "Where have you been? We were about to leave. I ordered you a muffin but we ate it."

  Jimmy noted the empty plate in front of him. And the chocolate smeared around Louise's mouth. The little lady grinned at him, showing chocolate all over her teeth. He stared at his wife, his mouth open but no words coming.

  Maria was thirty-one, ten years younger than her husband, and looked good for it. She didn't like her legs, so always wore trousers or jeans, but she was impressed with her waistline and preferred clothing that showed it off. Her shirt was elasticised at the bottom and ended above her bellybutton. Jimmy was always aware of the looks she got from other men. It was a reminder that he was no longer young and fit. He could feel men watching her right now. Corner of the eye stuff. Maybe wondering why she was with an older guy. She liked to show off her neck, too, so opted for a blonde bob haircut. Louise had a similar hairstyle and was always trying to get her daddy to dye his hair the same colour.

  "Sorry, got caught up with something," Jimmy said eventually. Massively vague, but the truth at least. "You get much work done today?"

  She shrugged. She was a home agent. He didn't know much about what she did, but the money wasn't great and it involved a lot of time on the computer. Customer service of some ilk for an online clothing store. Aimed at mothers, staffed by mothers. She never really talked about her work because there was nothing worth gossiping about.

  "And how's my pea been?" Jimmy said, squeezing Louise's cheeks.

  "Lou Lou played in garden," Louise said. "Finding sticky." Sticky was her nickname for spiders. She had caught a face full of web a few days back when entering her Wendy house, and since then had developed a fascination with spiders. They often found her searching corners for them. Maria considered it abnormal behaviour for a child that should be playing with dolls. Jimmy thought it would help her later against bullies who preyed on fears and weaknesses. Maria thought that outlook was abnormal, too.

  "I got a call from the estate agent this morning," Maria said. "Apparently there was a subsidence claim against our house, back in the eighties, and because of that they need ninety-three pounds to do some sort of check or test or something. Mum never mentioned it, for some reason."

  "She probably didn't know it would rear up," Jimmy said. "Years ago." He picked chocolate crumbs off the plate before him and swallowed them. It was purely to give his nervous hands something to do. Louise took his keys from his hand and started counting them aloud. He pretended to concentrate on his daughter, but his mind was in turmoil. And not because of some old claim her parents had put in against a construction company.

  "She's bought a house before. Thought she might have known."

  "Don't worry about it. Ninety-three quid. It's only one long day's work." He saw her face and added, "Hey, I know, you spend half the money you'll make on the house trying to sell it. But you want that cottage, don't you?"

  "I do. I just don't like being taken for a ride. Blinking estate agents. I bet this is some new trick to suck money from people, because nobody's buying houses these days."

  Jimmy cupped his hands around his eyes. "Tunnel vision, Maria. Get in the zone. See darkness on all sides, and a shining light at the end with a lovely little cottage just sitting there, waiting for us."

  They lived in Muswell Hill in a four-bedroom home her parents had given them as a wedding present nine years ago, but recently had become bored with the area. Maria worked from home and hated being cooped up inside while a busy world rushed about around her, so she had suggested they move out of the city. There was a cottage he had found in a village called Lamberhurst. It was in Surrey, but was less than an hour's drive from where they lived. Jimmy had already said that the commute to London wouldn't kill him. There was a forest and a river and an adventure play park where Louise could run wild, and there were four other cottages on that plot, so they wouldn't want for company. Maria wanted it badly. Jimmy just wanted Marie to be happy.

  "I'll sort it, then," Maria said. "I told Anna that I'd take Louise to play with Cullen about now." She made a show of checking her watch.

  Laying on the guilt, nice and thick. "Hey, I said sorry. Work problem."

  "Bag of rice fall of a shelf?"

  "That's silly. It was flour."

  He smiled at her, but she didn't smile back. He figured it was the ninety-three pounds thing, but then his daughter asked him why Daddy was sad, and he knew the problem was not his tardiness. He wiped his brow and felt moisture there. Both girls were staring at him, which just made things worse. He could feel his face flushing. They knew something was up.

  "I'll come with you to the car," he said. He put Louise on her chair and stood, turning away, making a show of sliding his own chair under the table just so he wouldn't have to face his wife. He heard Louise hop off her chair and copy his actions, but when he turned back, Maria hadn't moved.

  "Jimmy, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. Unless that bag of flour fell off a high shelf and killed a kid and it was your fault, then it's something else."

  He shrugged. "It's nothing. Stressful day. All work-based, I promise. No big deal. Bore you to death. Shall we go?"

  She didn't buy that, but didn't press it. They left the cafe. Maria had left their car at the front of the car park, so they kissed there and parted. Jimmy crossed the car park and climbed into his van and stared at the wing mirror, watching as Maria drove away. He waited until she was gone, then started the engine. And then killed it again. His hands were shaking. He checked his watch and saw it was just turning four p.m. He checked his face in the visor mirror and saw the worry in his eyes and a tic in his lip that made it shiver like that of a child on the verge of tears. He looked worn out, stressed, and was not surprised Maria had gotten concerned.

  He rubbed his face hard. Sat back. Sat there for five whole minutes, just thinking, and occasionally staring at the item resting on his passenger seat. But mostly staring through the windscreen, at a blank brick wall along the back of the car park.

  He was reaching for the ignition key to start the engine when the van rocked to a loud thump at the back. Jimmy cast his eyes to the wing mirror and saw a car behind his van, its brake lights on. The car park was barely half-full and there were easier spaces to get to near the front, but for some reason this idiot had chosen that specific spot. And now look.

  He slammed open his door and stormed out. He had pent-up frustration that needed venting, so the guy who'd just reversed into him was going to eat a share for his stupidity.

  The car was a black four-door Golf. It moved forward, away from the van, and for a second Jimmy thought the driver was going to flee, maybe because he had no insurance. Then the vehicle stopped. Jimmy reached the back of his van and looked for damage. He saw none, and a quick glance at the Golf displayed none on its rear, either.

  All four doors opened on the Golf and four young black men stepped out, very quickly. At the same time, the car's boot automatically popped and slowly rose open like a giant mouth.

  "Jesus, mate, brake slipped, sorry," said the black guy nearest him, the one who'd exited at the rear on Jimmy's side. He was just feet away, moving closer, hands raised in a gesture of apology. The two on the other side of the car had vanished. Jimmy was suddenly aware of the box-like nature of the brick walls in this corner of the car park.

  "No problem," Jimmy
said casually, then lifted a boot and thrust it forward, right into the guy's chest. The guy grunted in pain and fell back against the one behind him, and down went both. Jimmy turned and started to run. He ran alongside the van and past, meaning to scale the wall to escape, and that was when he collided with the two other black guys, who had obviously circled his vehicle so they could approach him from behind. All three went down hard. A hand grabbed Jimmy's hair and he slammed a fist hard into the face above the arm that hand was attached to. He started to rise, then fell again, this time under the weight of someone on top of him.

  At first, Jimmy had suspected a carjacking, although it was beyond him why anyone would want an eight year-old diesel Transit. Then he heard one of his attackers say, "You're coming with us, arsehole," and he realised his error. They were after him, not his van. This was a kidnapping. And he thought he knew why.

  He thrashed and shouted, but arms clamped his limbs and hands smothered his mouth. If he hoped to be rescued by a witness amongst the few people on the street fifty metres away, he soon lost that hope, because ten seconds after he had exited his van, he was thrown into the open boot of the Golf, into a world that was all darkness when the lid slammed above him.

  ***

  The lark with the deadline of 5 o'clock meant there was an urgency to the hit, and that meant James Marsh had to be in London. It would make no sense to have a contract killer in London wait three hours before being told he had to travel to Wales, or Germany, or France, although France would have been handy because Einar had an apartment in Nice - it was not exactly his home, for he deemed himself to have none, but it was the place he most often drifted to when not working. And if James Marsh was in London, that made him much easier to find, despite the common name.

  It was easier than he thought. He pulled his phone and hit the Internet. Started with LinkedIn, the social networking service for professionals. And there, third on the list of James Marshes, was the guy he sought. He recognised the face immediately. He clicked on the profile. James Marsh, manager at Athena Supermarket in the London Borough of Haringey. Before that job, he'd gained a BSc in Business Management and Statistics from Royal College London. And before that: Troop Commander, Royal Marines, 3 Commando Brigade.