To Kill For Read online

  It was dark now and the drizzle hovered and drifted on the cold air. The traffic, the sky, the buildings seemed sluggish and the few people who tramped along the road held their heads down, their coats huddled about them.

  I walked a couple of blocks to the multi-storey car park where I kept my old Vauxhall Carlton on a long-term parking permit. I checked I had enough petrol in the tank and drove off on a trawl of places across north London.

  The third place I tried was a pub called the Earl of Roxburghe in Enfield. Everyone called it the Roxie. Kendall was in a booth when I got there, seated by himself with a glass of vodka-tonic. He sipped the drink, stirred the ice cubes with a finger and sipped it again, putting it down carefully on the table. When he looked up and saw me standing above him he smiled broadly. He pulled a cheroot from a pack on the table, lit it and took a deep drag. He blew the smoke out and said, ‘I was gonna call. Been busy. You all right?’ I nodded. ‘Good. Good.’

  He made to draw on his cheroot again, and noticed the no-smoking sign fastened to the window beside him.

  ‘Shit.’ He dropped the cheroot to the floor and stamped it out. ‘I hate this fucking no-smoking bollocks. Sit down.’

  He wore a nice suit, but he made it look cheap. I took the seat opposite and waited. He looked at the vodka-tonic in front of him and pushed it with his finger, like he’d forgotten what the drink was for.

  ‘Heard you were looking for me,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  I waited. He went to light another cheroot, remembered the sign and cursed, flinging the pack away.

  I knew that I should try and be subtle. People responded better to that kind of thing, I’d learned. The trouble was, I’d never really known what that meant. Being what they called subtle seemed to me like a waste of time. All it meant was you spent too long talking around a subject. I tried to think how I should be subtle and then gave up and said, ‘Where’s my money?’

  Kendall took a gulp of his drink, then, while still swallowing, shook his head. After that performance, he said, ‘What’s wrong with you? Haven’t I always got you your money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Course I have. So what’s the fucking problem? There’s a bit of a delay. Nothing to worry about.’

  He was taking the long way around saying that he didn’t have my money. Maybe he was being subtle.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I dunno. Beckett’s gone. I can’t find the cunt.’

  ‘What about the others? Walsh, Jenson.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach them. Look, I know Beckett. He’s all right. If he’s taking his time, it’s for a reason. Maybe he’s having trouble cleaning it or something.’

  He tapped the tabletop with a stained index finger, just to make sure it was made of wood.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you out of my own pocket. I mean, I fixed the job up, right? I’ll get it off Beckett later. Okay?’

  Right then I knew something was wrong. It was like Kendall to stall if there was a delay, sure, but handing over his own money? Forget about it.

  ‘I’ll bring it over later,’ he was saying. ‘You still at that Paki’s place? Tottenham High Road, right?’

  ‘I moved.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  He’d stopped tapping the tabletop.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Upstairs. Number fifteen.’

  ‘Well, I’ll bring it later. Hey, you ain’t got a drink.’

  He stood up.

  ‘I’m not thirsty.’

  He hesitated. He didn’t seem to want to sit down again.

  ‘I gotta have a slash,’ he said. ‘Wait here, okay?’

  He swayed towards the back of the pub. He’d had a few more drinks than I’d realized. While I waited, I thought.

  It was possible Kendall was worried Beckett had been caught, or had got into trouble and would grass him up. Possible, but not likely. Kendall wasn’t important enough to worry about and he sure as shit didn’t give a damn if I got caught. Could he think that Beckett had done a bunk with the cash? Again, possible but unlikely. He would lose the cut from my end, but it wasn’t so much that he would care about it.

  I turned and scanned the pub. It was almost eight o’clock, still too early for the main custom. There were a few men in the place, no women. Mostly the men were in groups of two or three, but one man was alone at the far end of the bar, as far from me as possible. It occurred to me then that Kendall had taken the very end booth and was seated with his back to the wall so that everyone in the pub was in his sight. He’d also sat on the bench at the end nearest the aisle, preventing me from sitting next to him. The man at the bar was big, with a thick upper body and developed arms. He had a tall, slim glass of clear liquid in front of him. There was ice in the glass. It might have been lemonade or gin and tonic or vodka. It might have been water. Whatever it was, he wasn’t drinking it. He had his elbows rested on the counter and, with one hand, he held the glass and tilted it every now and then so that he could look down into it.

  Kendall came back to the booth. He was sweating more now. Trying to be subtle, I said, ‘Haven’t heard from Nathan King.’

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  I said, ‘You got any work for me?’

  ‘No, Joe. Nothing. There’s nothing much happening at the moment.’

  He was back to looking at the table.

  I stood up and almost felt the relief slide off him.

  ‘You don’t want a drink?’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  Kendall was scared. More than that, he was scared of me. Someone had called him up and told him I was out looking for him, or he’d heard it on his answering machine. Then he’d found a nice safe public place to sit and wait, and a nice friendly bodyguard to watch his back.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kendall was saying. ‘The money.’

  I left the pub, got into my car and drove a hundred yards up the road. Then I waited, watching the pub entrance in the rear-view mirror. Kendall and the other bloke came out after a couple of minutes. They stood in the light of the pub’s windows and exchanged a few words, and then they parted. Kendall went to his car and drove off. I followed him. After a minute or so, I knew he was going home. I eased back and let him leave me behind.

  3

  He lived in a detached mock-Tudor place in Palmer’s Green. It was bland enough to give him businessman-like cred, big enough to let him see his money. He’d never invited me over, had never, in fact, told me where he lived. I’d decided one day to find out. Just in case.

  When he opened the door, he said, ‘Urgh.’

  I barged through, shoving him backwards. I kicked the door shut and guided him through the house. He tried to pull his arm free.

  ‘What the fuck you doing?’ he said.

  The living room was large and full of old-looking furniture, hunting prints, those Staffordshire figures, stuff like that. There was a white shag rug, two thickly padded leather sofas, a dining-table set. Kendall’s wife must have thought her husband was a stockbroker or something. I let go of his arm.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he said, rubbing his biceps. ‘I told you I’d bring the money.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  He sat at the small dining table.

  ‘I’m sitting. Happy?’

  I grabbed him and shoved him across the room. He fell on to a low sofa. He was starting to look worried.

  ‘Look – ‘

  ‘Where’s your wife?’

  ‘Out. Bingo. Look, I don’t know what this – ‘

  ‘Who was that bloke?’

  ‘What bloke?’

  ‘The bloke in the Roxburghe.’

  His body sank into the sofa.

  ‘One of my boys. Name’s Robson.’

  ‘Why the protection?’

  He fidgeted in his seat, trying to make himself more comfortable, trying, I thought, to buy time. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. I went over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a
bottle of vodka, filled a glass and handed it to him. He drank it down quickly and held his glass out for more. I poured him another.

  ‘Look, just take it easy, okay?’ he said.

  I waited and watched his small dark eyes flicker from me to the doorway.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, Joe,’ he said finally, wetting his lips. ‘We’ve done enough jobs together, haven’t we?’

  ‘Why the protection?’ I said again.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That bloke,’ he said. ‘The one on the job with you.’

  ‘There were five of us on the job.’

  ‘The new one, the muscle.’

  ‘Simpson?’

  ‘Yeah, Simpson.’

  He knew damn well who was on that job. Now he was playing forgetful. I had to wonder.

  ‘What about him?’ I said.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘How? When?’

  ‘Three days ago. Day after the job.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In his house. Beaten to death.’

  The job was a fuck-up now, whatever way you looked at it.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘How the fuck am I supposed to know that?’

  ‘What do the law know?’

  He poured the rest of the vodka down his throat. I tossed him the bottle. He flinched.

  ‘Joe, look – ‘

  ‘The police, Kendall.’

  ‘They don’t know nothing.’

  ‘Have they made Simpson for the job?’

  ‘No. Not as far as I know.’

  ‘What about Beckett and Walsh and Jenson?’

  He pulled a cheroot from the pack on the coffee table. He patted his pockets for a light. I saw some matches on the table and tossed them to him.

  ‘Beckett, Walsh, Jenson,’ I said, after he’d fired up the cheroot.

  ‘I dunno about them. They’re gone.’

  He blew smoke out.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I dunno. Haven’t heard from them.’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘Well, if you haven’t got it, Beckett’s got it. Or he ain’t. I dunno.’

  ‘What do you mean, if I haven’t got it? Is that what you think? That I ripped Beckett off, killed Simpson?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. Christ, we’ve worked together long enough, right?’

  ‘But you still wanted protection to meet me.’

  ‘Look – ‘

  ‘Forget it. If Beckett’s gone, why doesn’t anyone think he’s legged it with the money? He could’ve killed Simpson.’

  ‘Well, he’s prime suspect, sure. But...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s not just that.’

  He hesitated and sucked on his cheroot. Ash fell into his lap.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That other mob. What’s his name? Them black blokes. Ellis.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They got turned over.’

  For a moment I didn’t understand him, and then I got it.

  ‘That Brighton job? That was four weeks ago. I wasn’t on that.’

  ‘You worked with them on the job they did before,’ he said.

  Something cold moved over my skin.

  ‘That was the job before.’

  ‘They never use an outsider, Joe. Then, the one time they do, they get done on the next job.’

  They’d used me that one time because Caine was a wreck after his wife left him, back on the smack. After the Brighton job, they’d had a haul of cash, but they got hit by some unknown firm. Someone had told someone about the cash. I thought that Caine had said something, perhaps in exchange for heroin, but since he and two others were blown apart by twelve-gauge shot I supposed it would never be known. There was no point me saying all this to Kendall. He wasn’t the one that needed convincing. I looked at him and he half shrugged and made it look like it hurt him to do so.

  ‘You think I did the one job with them, learnt a bit about their next one and then passed the information on?’

  ‘No, Joe. I don’t. Course I don’t.’

  ‘But others think I did? Nathan King, for instance? That why I haven’t heard from him about the jewellery job?’

  Kendall held his hands up.

  ‘Like I’m saying, I know you’re okay. It’s just people are careful. Mud sticks. You’re covered in fucking mud, Joe.’

  ‘Why would Beckett use me if my name’s bad?’

  ‘It wasn’t. Not then. Now that Simpson’s dead... well, now it ain’t so good.’

  He was right, it looked bad. And if people thought I was bent, London was dead for me. The only people I’d ever get work with would be the type I’d never want to work with. It was nothing personal. I would’ve been just as nervy if I’d known someone with my kind of luck.

  When I turned to go, Kendall struggled from his seat. He grabbed my hand and shook it. His handshake was limp, his hand warm and clammy. He held on a few seconds too long. When he finally let go, he patted me on the arm and told me again that he’d never doubted me. I wanted to throw him through the window.

  So, that was that. I was fucked. My money wouldn’t last long without any other income. My name was dirt. I was getting old.

  Back in my car, I thought things through. There were two problems, as I saw it.

  The first was this Beckett thing. Where was he? Where was the money? What had happened to Simpson? It might still be possible for me to survive if I could find out these things.

  The other was more immediate. Nathan King. I was supposed to be doing that job with him. If he thought I was bent, I could be in trouble.

  I decided to go to King’s house. He wouldn’t like me doing that, but I didn’t think he’d try anything on his own property. I had an old Russian Makarov PM pistol taped to the underside of the passenger seat. I’d take the gun with me but stash it outside King’s place. That way I could walk in without causing friction but still have some protection when I left. If I left.

  The Makarov was a small piece, and heavy, but the blowback action gave it accuracy, and it was more reliable than most other automatics. I cleaned the gun and checked its action.

  I drove the car to Oakwood tube station and left it in the car park. I walked a couple of blocks to a semi-detached house in a quiet road. I walked up the driveway and stopped next to King’s black BMW. I slipped the Makarov beneath the car, just next to the nearside rear wheel.

  The woman who answered the door was short, young and dumpy. She had bleached blond hair and make-up you could bang a nail into. She looked up at me and sighed, held the door open with one hand, put the other on her hip and called over her shoulder:

  ‘Nat, it’s one of yours.’

  She walked away, leaving the door open. I stepped in, but left the door ajar. I could hear a TV playing, kids arguing. There was a thick smell of fried meat and perfume. King came through from the lounge. He was a big black man, with greying temples and a hard, creased face. He was carrying a can of lager. He stopped when he saw me and the good humour slid away, its place filled with a deadened look. His eyelids closed slightly.

  ‘Joe. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Business.’

  He took a swig from his can and, as he did so, his eyes moved quickly over my body. I stood still with my arms by my side. A man’s voice called to King from the back of the house.

  ‘Come see who’s here,’ King called back.

  Tony Daley was a stocky white man with a thing for chunky gold jewellery. He’d partnered King for the last twenty years. They’d grown up together in Wood Green, within sight of the Ally Pally. They owned a second-hand car lot in Muswell Hill that gave them their legitimacy. They never did anything half-cocked, never took chances, never tried to take down too big a score. I’d worked with them a couple of times and we’d got along well enough. King and Daley knew what their job was; they did it
without fuss. They were smart and careful. If my name was dodgy, these two would tell me. They were also the two who might have most to lose if I was a grass.

  Daley smiled when he saw me. It was an easy smile, and I thought that he at least didn’t think me a threat. I relaxed a little and felt the tension in my shoulders ease.

  ‘Joe. What you doing here?’

  ‘Business, he says,’ King said.

  They exchanged quick glances. I didn’t know them well enough to know what was in that look. If they suggested we leave the house, I’d agree, then grab the gun.

  ‘Must be important business,’ Daley said. ‘You don’t ever leave Tottenham, far as I remember. ‘Cept for a job.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  They exchanged glances again, weighing things up.

  King said, ‘Come alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Oakwood tube. I walked from there.’

  He looked at Daley, nodding his head towards the street. Daley moved past me and out through the front door. We waited, not speaking. After a few minutes, Daley came back in.

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘Come with me,’ King said.

  He led the way back through the house. I passed a few kids sitting in front of a TV. They were playing games on some computer console thing, arguing about whose turn it was. Two women, King’s wife and another woman – Daley’s wife, I guessed – were sitting on a sofa, drinks in hands. King’s wife glared at her husband as we passed. He sighed and looked away from her. She was going to give him a bollocking later. Daley’s wife glanced at me. She looked like she’d seen it all before. She turned back to her drink.

  King led us into the bright kitchen, cluttered with dirty dinner plates and stacked pans, and hot from steam and cooked food. We went through the back door into another room that had once been the garage. A pool table had been set up in here, and a bar had been built along one side. Daley slumped into a black leather chair and reached to the ground for his glass of Scotch. I’d interrupted their game of pool. King leaned against the table. Nobody offered me a drink. I hadn’t expected them to. I took a position between the two men, but away from them, near the bar. I had them both in sight. I could grab a bottle if I had to.

  ‘So,’ King said. ‘Tell us.’