Simon Kernick
The Murder Exchange
Now
There is no feeling in the world more hopeless, more desperate, more frightening, than when you are standing looking at the end of a gun that’s held steadily and calmly by someone you know is going to kill you. And impotent, too. It’s an impotent feeling realizing that nothing you do or say, no pleading, no begging, nothing, is going to change the dead angle of that weapon, or prevent the bullet from leaving it and entering your body, ripping up your insides, and ending every experience, every thought, every dream you’ve ever had. You think about people you care about, places you’ve been to that you liked, and you know you’re never going to see any of them again. Your guts churn, the nerves in your lower back jangle so wildly that you think you’re going to soil yourself, your legs feel like they’re going to go from under you like those newborn calves you sometimes see on the telly. And your eyes. You know that your eyes betray your sense of complete and utter defeat.
You are a dead man, and you know it.
And then two things happened.
Tuesday, nineteen days ago
Iversson
To tell you the truth, I knew Roy Fowler was trouble the minute I laid eyes on the bastard. His eyes were too close together for a start, and the eyebrows joined up werewolf-style which, according to a book I once read, is always a bad sign. I didn’t like the nose either, or the fake tan, but I wouldn’t have let that stand in the way of business. If I was that fussy, I’d be broke. But there was something in the way he walked that put me on my guard, with his eyes carefully registering everyone in the room, like he half-expected one of them to jump up at any minute and put a richly deserved bullet in his back. He might have tried to hide it by dressing in a smart, well-cut suit and putting an easy smile on his face as soon as he saw me, but I could tell you this straight away: Roy Fowler was one of the world’s guilty.
I stood up as he approached and we shook hands. His grip was tight but a real moist one, and I had to stop myself from wiping my hand down my shirt once I’d pulled it away.
‘Mr Iversson …’
‘Mr Fowler. Take a seat.’
He plonked himself down on the stool opposite me and took another look round. He didn’t seem entirely comfortable. ‘Are you sure it’s all right to talk here?’
‘Someone once told me that this branch of Pizza Hut is the best place to hold a lunchtime meeting if you don’t want to be overheard. It’s because it’s all you can eat.’
He raised a hairy eyebrow. ‘So?’
‘So, apparently it only attracts women with lots of kids, and people who live for their food. The women have to keep chasing after the kids and the rest of them are far too busy concentrating on what’s in front of them to listen to anyone else’s conversation. You’re meant to be able to spot someone who doesn’t fit in a mile off.’
He had another quick look round and pretty much got confirmation of what I’d said. There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in the place, spread out amongst the formica tables and booths, all of them single and at least five stone too hefty, except for one harassed young mum with bad hair who was there with her three shrieking pre-teen delinquents.
‘I can’t see how they can make any money,’ said Fowler distastefully, wiping his brow. The day was hot and close and he was definitely overdressed.
‘You ever heard of a poor fast-food chain? Course they make money. It’s just tomato ketchup and dough. Maybe a bit of cheese and some cheap meat to decorate. I bet the bloke who owns the franchise drives a Porsche and smokes Cuban cigars.’
‘You reckon?’
I nodded. ‘Definitely. His name’s Marco.’
The waitress, a pasty-faced teenager who looked like she sampled the products a little too regularly herself, sidled over and asked for his order. I’d already eaten before I got there (none of that all-you-can-eat crap for me) and was nursing my second Becks. ‘Just a Coke,’ he told her, without bothering to look up.
She went off and he removed his jacket. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ I asked, getting to the point.
Fowler sighed and gave me a hawkish look. I thought that he probably wouldn’t have been too bad looking if it hadn’t been for the eyes. ‘I need some security. I was recommended to speak to you about it.’
‘So you said on the phone. Who’s been doing my advertising for me, then?’
He paused for a moment while the waitress returned with his drink. He waited until she’d gone before he spoke. ‘Johnny Hexham. You used to go to school with him, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Johnny had been a good friend of mine once. A nice bloke and popular with the ladies, but not the most honest of Johns. He’d probably want something for the recommendation. Whether he got it or not depended on what came next. ‘What sort of security are you after?’
Fowler continued to stare at me intensely, like he thought his gaze somehow made the person being stared at want to trust him. It didn’t. If he’d have told me I had two legs, I’d have looked down to check. ‘I have a meeting that I need to attend in a couple of nights’ time. The people I’m meeting with are not what I’d describe as trustworthy. I’ve gota feeling that if I turn up on my own, then they might consider that a sign of weakness and take advantage. I’d rather have some back-up.’
‘What did Johnny Hexham say about me?’
‘He said that you fronted a reliable outfit and that you knew what you were doing. Those are the two things I’m most interested in.’
‘That’s good. I hope he also said that I like to play things straight. That I’m not interested in getting involved in loads of shit that’s going to get me put inside for years on end. I make a good living, Mr Fowler. It’s not fantastic, sometimes it can even be boring, and a lot of the people we guard make more money in a day than I see in a month, sometimes even a year, but it’s still a good living, and I don’t want to trade it in for a room with bars on the windows. Know what I mean?’
‘I understand all that. And I’m not asking you to do anything that you wouldn’t normally consider doing. This is just one night’s work, one meeting, and all I want is to have people behind me that I can rely on if things turn a bit tasty.’
‘Are they likely to?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s in the interests of the people I’m meeting as much as mine to make this thing work.’
‘And this meeting … what exactly is it about?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Mr Iversson.’
‘That’s why I’m still here. I make it a point to know as much as possible about what I might be getting involved in.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve got something they want, and they’ve got something I want. It’s an exchange.’
‘That doesn’t help me much. I need to know what you’re exchanging.’
‘Why?’
‘Because for all I know you could be carrying twenty kilos of coke and they could be undercover coppers. I once had a mate who was asked to deliver a package to an address in Regent’s Park. He never knew what was in
