‘He’s got a slug in the guts,’ said Frankenstein.
‘But he’s not dead.’
Alien groaned. Frankenstein had given him an anorak to clutch against the wound but blood was pooling around him.
‘Let’s take this outside,’ said Frankenstein. He climbed out of the van and waited for Werewolf to join him. Their breath feathered from their mouths in the cold night air. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and high overhead the green and red lights of an airliner were heading for Heathrow.
‘Let’s look at this logically,’ said Frankenstein, his voice just above a whisper. ‘The way I see it, Andy’s a goner anyway. It was a bloody .22 so the slug’ll have spun round in his guts and done God only knows how much damage.’
‘Best will in the world, you’re not a doctor, Rosie,’ said Werewolf.
‘But I’ve seen enough people shot to know what’s bad and what isn’t,’ said Frankenstein. ‘And Andy’s bad.’
‘He’s not going to get any better lying in the van, that’s for sure.’
‘Agreed,’ said Frankenstein. ‘So, what are the options? We take him to hospital, then hold up our hands to shooting two Yardies and stealing their heroin? What if Andy goes and dies anyway? Where does that leave us? Looking like twats staring at twenty years behind bars for nothing.’
‘So we wait for him to die, is that what you’re saying?’ said Werewolf.
Frankenstein shrugged.
‘Why don’t you spit it out?’ said Werewolf.
‘I shouldn’t have to,’ said Frankenstein.
‘You want to finish him,’ said Werewolf flatly. ‘You want to put a bullet in his head. What if it was me lying on the floor of the van bleeding? Would you put a bullet in me? Look me in the eyes and tell me that’s what you’d do.’
‘If it was me, I’d expect you to do the same,’ said Frankenstein.
‘Easy for you to say, standing there while Andy’s bleeding to death,’ said Werewolf. ‘Look, maybe there’s another way. We take him to a doctor instead of a hospital.’
‘They’ve all got to report gunshot wounds.’
‘A hookie one,’ said Werewolf. ‘Someone who’ll take the bullet out and not say anything.’
‘You know someone?’
‘There’s a guy in Peckham. We could be there in thirty minutes at this time of night.’
‘He needs major surgery, not a couple of stitches,’ said Frankenstein, ‘and blood. Lots of it.’
‘At least we can try,’ said Werewolf.
‘Then what?’ asked Frankenstein. ‘Your quack patches Andy up, then what? Andy goes on sick leave for six months to recuperate? For God’s sake, how’s he going to explain away a bullet wound? And what about the quack? Does he know you? Are you going to spend the rest of your life waiting for him to grass you up?’
‘We pay him enough he’ll keep schtum.’
Frankenstein threw up his hands. ‘You’re mad,’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ said Werewolf. ‘But if it was you, Rosie, I’d be out here saying the same.’
‘He’ll probably die anyway,’ said Frankenstein.
‘But at least I’d know I tried,’ said Werewolf. ‘Let’s just get him to the quack and see what the quack says.’
Frankenstein took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Okay. Just don’t expect me not to say I told you so when the shit hits the fan.’
‘The shit has already hit the fan,’ said Werewolf, but Frankenstein was walking back to the van. Werewolf hurried after him.
As Werewolf got into the front, Frankenstein climbed through the rear door and knelt down beside Alien. ‘It’s okay, Andy, we’re going to get you to hospital.’
Alien didn’t respond. Frankenstein took the glove off his right hand and felt for a pulse in his neck, but as soon as he touched it he knew the man was dead. He looked up at Werewolf. ‘You might think I’m a callous bastard, but thank heaven for small mercies is what I say.’
‘What now?’ asked Werewolf.
‘We bury him where he’ll never be found. Then it’s back to life as normal.’
‘What about the gear?’ asked Werewolf, gesturing at the two bloodstained duffel bags.
‘Leave that to me,’ said Frankenstein.
‘We didn’t go into this to steal drugs,’ said Werewolf.
‘You think we should have left with nothing?’ snapped Frankenstein.
‘I’m just saying we went there for cash, that’s all.’
‘And there wasn’t any. And Andy took a bullet in the gut. You want us to go through all that for nothing?’
Werewolf pointed at the MAC 10, which was lying on the floor of the van next to Alien. ‘What the hell did you bring that for?’
‘Souvenir,’ said Frankenstein.
‘It’s a bloody liability, a weapon like that,’ said Werewolf. ‘Spray and pray.’
‘Looks the business, though, doesn’t it?’ said Frankenstein. ‘A gun like that could be useful.’
‘You’re not thinking of doing this again, are you?’ asked Werewolf. ‘After what’s just happened?’
‘I’ll sort it,’ said Frankenstein. ‘Don’t worry.’ He sounded a lot more confident than he felt. Werewolf was right. Cash was one thing – even dirty money could be cleaned, moved and spent. Drugs were trouble, plain and simple.
The man stared through the windscreen at the rain-swept supermarket car park. Housewives were pushing trolleys towards hatchbacks, their shoulders hunched against the rain. Office workers on their way home huddled together at the entrance, their frozen meals-for-one thawing as they waited in vain for a break in the downpour. The sky overhead was gunmetal grey and the forecast had been for rain all night. Every few seconds the wipers flicked across the windscreen.
It occurred to the man that a murder should always be discussed after the sun had gone down, ideally when it was raining. A storm added atmosphere – a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder. It could be planned just as easily on a beach under a blazing midday sun or on a pleasant spring afternoon, but there wasn’t the same sense of menace.
He tapped his fingers on the steering-wheel. He didn’t need to wear gloves but they were part of the image. Hired killers wore gloves. It was expected. His were black leather, moulded to his hands like a second skin. A strangler’s gloves. The man had been many things in his life, but he liked being a hired killer best of all. It was probably the job satisfaction, he thought, and smiled. It was okay to smile when he was on his own but he’d have to watch it when he was with Hendrickson. Hired killers didn’t smile.
He spotted the man driving into the car park. It was a convertible Mercedes with a personalised number- plate. A flash car, designed to impress. It would be noticed and remembered. The hired killer drove a grey Volvo: a nondescript car in a nondescript colour with a nondescript registration number. In his business it was important to blend into the background. It was the same with his clothes. He never wore designer clothes when he was working, or anything other than a plastic wristwatch. He had no tattoos, his hair was cut short, but not too short, and he spoke with no discernible accent. His clothes were simple, off-the-peg, and the black wool jacket he wore was one of thousands sold through a mail-order company.
Larry Hendrickson climbed out of his Mercedes. He was wearing a dark suit, well cut, with three buttons on the jacket. Probably Armani and certainly expensive. He unfurled a red, green and white golfing umbrella. His gleaming black shoes were made-tomeasure.
The man knew that on Hendrickson’s wrist there was an expensive Gucci watch. His hair was expensively cut, his fingernails manicured, and on the two occasions that the man had met him, Hendrickson had used the same aftershave.
Hendrickson walked across the car park, taking care to avoid the deeper puddles on the Tarmac. He was carrying a slim briefcase made from the skin of some exotic animal. He looked over his shoulder, so quickly that the man knew he wouldn’t have spotted a tail even if there had been one.
