him already. See if you can get something else.’
Politics, thought Tina. Policework, like everything else, was all politics, and covering your arse. She sighed. ‘OK, I’m on my way.’
Thirty-one
16.35
Voorhess’s target, Azim Butt, was bound tightly with bungee rope to a leather armchair in his spacious first- floor living room, and wearing wrist and ankle chains. A ball gag had been placed in his mouth, making it impossible for him to talk, and a blindfold covered his eyes. He’d been conscious for several hours now and after a lot of initial moaning beneath the gag, he’d long ago fallen silent.
Voorhess sat down on a chair next to him with a bowl of hot noodles and removed the gag. ‘I’m going to feed you now, Mr Butt. Open your mouth.’
‘I’m not hungry. Please, can you not just take what you want and leave?’
‘I’m afraid not. I may need to stay for a little while.’
‘But why? What do you want? I haven’t done anything.’ There was a note of pleading in his voice.
‘I know it’s early to be having supper, Mr Butt, but there may be a delay until your next meal, and these are very tasty noodles. I’ve just eaten a bowl myself. I stir-fried some spring onions, ginger and chicken thighs in with them, then added soy sauce, rice wine and a splash of sesame oil. So I would appreciate it if you would do as you’re told.’
Mr Butt wisely decided to acquiesce, and allowed himself to be fed from the bowl, chewing in a manner that suggested that, actually, he was quite hungry. When he’d finished, Voorhess put a bottle of water to his mouth and let him drink.
‘Am I some kind of hostage?’ asked Mr Butt, looking up at him from behind the blindfold.
Voorhess put the bowl and the water down on the coffee table. ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. All I can say is that if you cooperate, you’ll come to no harm. As you can see from the fact that you’ve just been fed, I’m not here to hurt you.’
‘I don’t want to die,’ said Mr Butt quietly.
‘And you won’t,’ Voorhess told him, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Just sit tight, stay calm, and I’ll be gone later this evening. I promise.’ His words had a soothing effect, but then Voorhess was good at that. He’d once been told by a nurse he’d gone out with back in Cape Town that he would have made an excellent doctor, because he had the perfect bedside manner, his voice exuding a potent mixture of confidence and kindness. It was, he thought almost ruefully, ironic that he did the job that he did.
The downstairs buzzer sounded, reverberating round the whole house.
Voorhess saw Mr Butt stiffen.
‘Who could that be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
Mr Butt’s voice was quavering now, which made Voorhess suspicious.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’
‘It might be my girlfriend. What’s the time?’
‘It’s quarter to five.’
‘It’s a bit early, and I wasn’t expecting her. But it might be her.’
The buzzer sounded again.
‘Will she go away if there’s no answer?’
Mr Butt didn’t reply. He looked scared.
‘Mr Butt,’ said Voorhess slowly, the bedside manner gone now, replaced by a cold, businesslike tone, ‘will she go away?’
Mr Butt swallowed. ‘She has a key.’
Ach, thought Voorhess, always complications.
As if appearing to read his mind, Mr Butt looked up at him imploringly from behind the blindfold. ‘Please don’t hurt her. She’s everything to me. We’re getting married.’
He would have said more too but Voorhess replaced the ball gag in his mouth and tightened it, before leaning down so that he was close to the other man’s ear. ‘Don’t make a sound, Mr Butt, because if you do, you will put your girlfriend in mortal danger. Nod once if you understand.’
Mr Butt nodded once.
Voorhess had already taken possession of his phone, and he picked it up now. The phone vibrated and a text appeared. It was the girlfriend asking where he was, with lots of question marks. She finished the message by saying she was extremely horny and was coming in to wait for him.
Oh dear, thought Voorhess, walking out on to the first-floor landing.
Darkness was beginning to fall and he made his way through the unlit gloom to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, then started down the stairs as a key turned in the lock.
She had just closed the door behind her and switched on the lights when Voorhess reached the bottom of the staircase. It was the girl from the photo in the downstairs toilet. She turned round with a bright, sexy smile that vanished when she saw that it wasn’t her boyfriend but a big man in overalls, holding a gun in one hand and a towel in the other.
In the flesh, she was even more attractive — a tall, willowy blonde with golden skin, wearing a short red dress that showed off her long shapely legs, and high-heeled red court shoes that Voorhess reckoned she probably wore when she was having sex. A short red leather jacket completed the ensemble.
‘Oh God,’ she said, her mouth dropping open in shock.
‘It’s OK,’ he said calmly, lifting the gun. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Put your hands in the air for me.’
As she raised them uncertainly, he shot her once through her left eye, catching her as she stumbled, and simultaneously wrapping the towel round her head to stem the bleeding. The gun he’d used was the one he’d requested from the client, a.22 calibre with low-velocity bullets, designed to take people out at close range without making much noise or mess. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he knew from experience that it was always best to plan for any eventuality.
She was still moving, clearly not dead yet, and he brought her slowly down to the carpet, placing her in a sitting position so that she was leaning back against him, her body juddering in the crook of his shoulder, the warmth of her skin giving him an unpleasant feeling. He didn’t like this kind of thing. Putting the gun down on the carpet, he produced a lock knife from his overalls, flicked open the blade and drove it deep into her heart to finish her off and stop it pumping blood, holding her while she died in his arms.
When he was sure she was gone, Voorhess tied a knot in the towel, impressed at how little blood had been spilt, threw the body over one shoulder, and carried her into the adjoining garage. Mr Butt didn’t drive, preferring to take taxis everywhere, and Voorhess had parked his Shogun in there. He thought about putting the body in the Shogun’s boot, but that would just complicate matters. Instead he laid her down at the back of the garage, trying not to look as her dress rode up to reveal a bright red lacy thong with a black flower in the centre. It seemed such a terrible waste, destroying something so beautiful, and at such close quarters too, and he gave a sigh of relief as he covered her with a sheet of dusty tarpaulin, glad he didn’t have to look at his handiwork any more.
Mr Butt didn’t make a sound as Voorhess walked back into the room where he sat bound to the chair, but tears were streaming down his face. It was obvious he knew what had happened. The.22’s retort hadn’t been loud, but he would still have heard it.
Voorhess found a tissue and wiped away his tears.
This was the cue for Mr Butt to make a long keening sound beneath the gag, like a wounded animal, and Voorhess turned away, having no desire to watch the other man’s pain. At the same time, there was a bleep from the mobile phone the client had provided him with.
He slipped it from his overalls and checked the message. It read simply: GOODS READY FOR COLLECTION TWO HOURS. FOR USE 8 P.M.
Voorhess nodded slowly, looking over at the holdall on the sofa. The black explosives vest was poking out and
