Читать книгу Dirty Game - Jessie Keane - Страница 7

The killer drove through the night and parked the car a mile away from the Tudor Club in Stoke Newington. Then the shadowy figure walked to the club and waited, cloaked in darkness. The killer was patient and could wait for hours, but this time wouldn’t have to. The information was sound, the soundest you could get.

The killer felt the cold, hard weight of the .38 Smith & Wesson and was reassured. The gun was familiar, like family.

The punters were coming out now. And it was fortuitous that Tory Delaney was – as usual – towards the back of the crowd and without a minder. The killer sneered at the man’s arrogance. He would pay for it.

The figure followed Tory at a discreet distance as he went to his car, a flashy-looking Rover. When Tory had the key in the lock and there was no one about, the killer stepped out of the shadows.

‘Hello, Tory.’

Tory was fast on his feet, always had been. You didn’t have to paint Tory no pictures, and that made him dangerous.

Tory turned and suddenly there was a knife in his hand. He came at the interloper with the blade slashing. The killer felt the knife swish past, missing by an inch as Tory lunged, teeth bared like a madman.

The gun lifted and shot Tory three times in the chest. Tory dropped the knife and fell back over the bonnet of his car. He slid down, his face draining of blood, and landed on the tarmac.

The killer kicked the knife away from Tory’s groping hand, then looked around to be certain no one was in sight. They would come soon, staff and management pouring out of the club to see what was going on. The noise would have alerted them. But there was a moment.

Just a moment.

‘You,’ gasped Tory, and his killer smiled.

One more shot was fired between Tory’s eyebrows. Pink jelly spattered, brain and bone. Then at last Tory was still, staring sightlessly at the balmy evening sky.

No time to gloat.

The killer was already walking away, slipping the gun back into its oiled bag and then into a larger polythene container – don’t want any cordite on our coat pockets, now do we? – then moving into deeper shadows as people started to appear at the door of the club, looking around to see what the noise had been about.

The killer walked away in darkness and strode out the mile back to the car, then got in, pleased with a job well done, and placed the gun in a concealed compartment under the passenger seat, removed the thick leather gloves and drove home.

Later that same night Max Carter sat in his Surrey kitchen and cleaned and oiled his gun. While he was doing it, his kid brother Eddie came in and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Busy night?’ asked Eddie.

‘Fair,’ said Max, carrying on with his work.

Max looked at Eddie. Eddie was queer as a fish, but he was a good kid and trustworthy. He liked to wear all those floral shirts and cords, and his mid-brown hair was over his collar, like that new group The Beatles wore theirs. Mum would have thrown a fit to see it.

But she was gone. The bleakness filled Max again at the thought of that.

Gone for ever.

‘Where’s Jonjo?’ he asked Eddie.

Eddie made a face. ‘Out with a new blonde.’

That cheered Max up a bit. Jonjo was good entertainment value, that was a fact. Jonjo and his fucking blondes. When Marilyn Monroe offed herself last year, Max almost thought that Jonjo would off himself too. Marilyn, to Jonjo, had been the ultimate.

Max couldn’t see it himself. He preferred dark-eyed brunettes. And Eddie preferred pretty young blokes, but so long as he didn’t frighten the horses, so what?

Eddie was looking at the gun in his brother’s hand.

‘You did it then,’ he said flatly.

Max paused and looked at Eddie square in the eye. Max’s eyes were suddenly a chilly blue, like arctic ice. ‘I did nothing.’

Eddie swallowed nervously. His lips quivered. ‘Holy Christ,’ he muttered.

Max replaced the gun in its oiled cloth and held it out to Eddie.

‘Take it out and bury it,’ he told him. ‘I don’t want to know where.’

Eddie did as he was told. Max went into the lounge and put Mozart on the radiogram. He sat down with a brandy, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.