Mark Wells had the murder charges against him dropped and has begun legal proceedings against the Metropolitan Police for wrongful arrest, demanding an estimated two hundred thousand pounds in compensation. However, his case has not been helped by the fact that less than a month after his release he was re-arrested after being secretly filmed trying to sell crack cocaine and underage girls to an undercover police officer. He’s been in custody ever since.
And so, through all this, there’s only one participant who hasn’t been brought to justice. One Dennis Milne, multiple murderer. I was specifically and publicly named as a suspect in the Traveller’s Rest killings two days after the discovery of Raymond’s corpse, and though there’s been what police describe as a major manhunt, I’ve so far managed to evade capture. I suspect now that I’ll evade it for ever. I’ve got enough money for now and I’ve got a friend in the Philippines for whom I can do some work when funds finally begin to run low. I know I’ll always be able to rely on old Tomboy.
Do I deserve to escape? I’ve thought about that a lot these past months. I’ve done great wrong, there can be no doubt about that, and if I could be put in the same position again knowing even half of what I know now, there’s no way I would have pulled the trigger on that cold, wet night and sent three innocent men to their graves. But you can’t change the sins of the past, you can only work to limit those of the future, and try to carry out deeds that help to make the world a slightly better place. In that, I think I have been at least partially successful. Would the world be a better place without me in it? On balance, I think probably not. But then I would say that, wouldn’t I?
And to those who may one day sit in judgement? What would I say to them?
Just two words.
Forgive me.
The Murder Exchange
For Amy.
But not just yet.
Although virtually all the places where the events of this book take place exist, some of the residential street names are intentionally fictional.
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
