He hurried to the Volvo and climbed in, shaking the rain off his umbrella and dropping it behind the front seats before he flashed the man a smile. A frightened smile.
‘Great day for ducks,’ said Hendrickson.
‘I guess,’ said the man flatly.
‘Did everything go okay?’ asked Hendrickson. He put his briefcase on his knees. Sweat beaded his forehead and there was a nervous tic at the side of his left eye.
‘Of course,’ said the man. He reached into his jacket and Hendrickson flinched. ‘You wanted pictures,’ said the man.
Hendrickson nodded. He was wearing wire-framed Gucci glasses and he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. The man’s hand reappeared with four Polaroids. He gave them to Hendrickson.
‘Did he say anything?’ Hendrickson asked, as he flicked through the photographs, then put them into his jacket pocket.
‘He said, “Don’t,” and “Please,” but generally I try to get it over with as quickly as possible,’ said the man. ‘Conversations tend to slow the process.’
‘Did you tell him who was paying you?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you want me to?’
Hendrickson’s cheeks reddened. ‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘I did exactly as you asked,’ said the man. ‘I killed him and I buried him where he’ll never be found. That’s what you wanted, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘So, now it’s time to pay the piper.’ The man held out his hand.
Hendrickson opened the briefcase, took out a bulky brown envelope and gave it to the man, who slid open the flap and ran his fingernail along the block of fifty-pound notes.
‘It’s all there,’ said Hendrickson. ‘Fifteen thousand pounds.’ He closed the case and snapped the two locks shut.
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘Aren’t you going to count it?’
‘Do I need to?’
‘I just meant . . . you know . . .’ Hendrickson’s voice tailed off.
‘If we don’t trust each other now, we’re both in deep shit,’ said the man. He put the envelope inside his coat. ‘This is all about trust. You trust me to do the job, I trust you to pay me in full. We trust each other not to go to the cops.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Hendrickson. ‘The cops.’ He pushed the glasses up his nose again. The smell of his aftershave was almost overpowering.
‘Don’t worry about the cops,’ said the man. ‘They’re stupid.’
‘I hope so.’
‘They’re too busy hassling motorists to worry about a businessman who’s gone AWOL. They won’t even investigate.’
‘They’ll want to know where he’s gone at some point.’
‘They might talk to you, but it’ll be routine. He’s a grown man, and without a body they won’t make it a murder inquiry.’
‘And the body won’t ever be found?’
The man grinned. ‘Not in a million years.’
‘And the gun? You’ve disposed of it?’
‘I know what I’m doing, Larry.’
Hendrickson swallowed nervously.
‘Relax,’ said the man. ‘You asked me to kill your partner. I did. You asked me to dispose of the body. I did. The company’s now yours to do with as you like. You’ve got what you wanted. I’ve got my money.’ He patted his coat pocket. ‘Now we go our separate ways.’
‘It was when you mentioned the police – I panicked.’
‘There’s no need. Even if the cops do suspect that Sewell’s been killed, you have an alibi for when I did it. All you have to do is to keep your head.’
Hendrickson nodded slowly. ‘You must think I’m stupid.’
‘You haven’t done this before. I have.’
‘How many times?’
The man frowned. ‘What?’
‘How many times have you . . . killed someone?’
‘Enough to know that it’s best not to talk about it.’
‘But you don’t . . . feel anything . . . do you?’
The man’s eyes hardened. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
Hendrickson held up his hands defensively. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘You’re not offending me, you’re annoying me.’
The rain thundered down on the roof of the blue Transit van but the three men inside were wearing headphones and barely aware of the noise.
‘What’s he waiting for?’ asked the youngest. He had been with the undercover unit for just two months and this was his first time in the van. He’d arrived with two cans of Red Bull and a Tupperware container filled with ham and cheese sandwiches.
‘It’s his call,’ said Superintendent Sam Hargrove, adjusting his headphones. ‘Has to be.’
Two digital tape-recorders were recording everything that was said in the Volvo, and two CCTV monitors showed visuals – the tops of the two men’s heads and a shot from the front passenger footwell.
‘But we’ve got everything we need. A confession on tape and the money in his hands.’
‘It’s his call,’ repeated the superintendent.
A sheet of paper was stuck to the wall of the van with ‘WE LIVE AND LEARN’ typed on it. Until the man in the car said the magic words, the three men in the van wouldn’t be going anywhere. Nor would the half-dozen uniformed officers crammed into the back of the van on the other side of the car park.
Hargrove ran his thumb over the transmit button of his transceiver. He was as impatient as the youngster to have the target in custody, but he’d meant what he said: it was the undercover operative’s call. It always was. He was the man on the spot, the man whose life was on the line. Until Hargrove was sure it was safe to move in, the operation continued to run.
Hendrickson’s face was bathed in sweat. He took a large white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped it. ‘You couldn’t turn the heater down, could you?’ he asked. ‘It’s like an oven in here.’
The man adjusted the temperature. It wasn’t especially hot in the car.
‘Are you okay?’ asked the man.
‘I haven’t done this sort of thing before,’ said Hendrickson.
‘There’s always a first time.’
‘It’s just that I might have more work for you.’
‘You want someone else killed?’
‘Not me.’ He swallowed and licked his lips. ‘Someone I know.’
‘So, now you’re touting for business for me, is that it?’
Hendrickson dabbed his lips with the handkerchief. ‘It’s someone at my health club. They have a problem, and I got the feeling they could use you.’
‘Close friend, is it? I wouldn’t want you bandying my name around to all and sundry.’
‘I didn’t tell her who you were. I just said I knew someone who might be able to help, that’s all.’
‘Who is she?’
Hendrickson glanced out of the rear window.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked the man.
‘I feel like we’re being watched.’
‘That’s guilt kicking in.’
Hendrickson wiped his forehead again. ‘What about you? Don’t you feel any guilt?’
