him in the head (an act that had caused him to lose his balance and fall over, much to our mirth). But Malik had grimly held on to that ankle right up until the moment we'd had Bower in cuffs, and I thought that there probably weren't that many coppers out there with that level of determination. He'd had to go to hospital for treatment to the injuries he'd suffered, which included a fractured cheekbone, and though I never apologized for putting him in the firing line (and he never held it against me, either), I always treated him with respect after that.
In my dream that night, the whole event played out exactly like it had happened that cold winter morning four years ago, except for one thing. As I'd come out the back door and seen Malik holding on to Bower's ankle, I'd produced a gun from my pocket and had started shooting. I'd hit Bower four, five, six times (I can't honestly remember the exact number), killing him instantly, but somehow one of the bullets had gone astray and hit Malik in the head, killing him too. He hadn't even screamed. Like Slippery Billy West, he'd simply fallen on his side and lain still. Then everything had stopped and I'd stared at what I'd done for an extremely long moment while the two uniforms stood silently on either side of me, one with his gloved hand on my upper arm as if effecting an arrest, before finally and mercifully I'd woken up.
I don't know how an expert would have interpreted that dream, but I knew exactly what it told me. That I was going to be tormented for God knows how long if I didn't do something about what had happened to him. For all Tomboy's arguments — and there were many — I simply couldn't let it go.
It was still there at the back of my mind a week after that. Every day I checked the Internet for news of a breakthrough in the case. Whenever I could, I checked the papers. But there was nothing, and I had little doubt that by shooting Billy West I'd severed the last thread of an investigation six thousand miles away. Here I was, living it up in paradise, staring at the same gorgeous scenery day in, day out while Malik rotted in the ground, Les Pope counted his money, and whoever had wanted my former colleague exterminated in the first place walked round scot-free.
I also wanted to know why he'd had to die. What did he know, or had he done, that had put him on a collision course with Pope's clients, the same people who'd wanted Slippery Billy out of the way? Plainly, they were people with power and influence, as well as access to intelligence; people who thought they could do whatever they pleased.
I wanted to find them.
I wanted to find them, and I wanted to kill them.
I knew it would be dangerous to go back home — there was no getting around that — but not impossible. Three years had passed. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge; a lot more killers had emerged into the public consciousness; September the Eleventh had left the watchful amongst us looking in different places for our villains. Three years was a lifetime in the multimedia click-on-a-button world that I'd left behind, and Dennis Milne, copper turned hitman, was part of a dim and distant past that no one was keen to resurrect.
So I made my decision.
Late on a Wednesday evening twelve days after the death of Billy West, and with the balance of the money for that contract now paid, I found Tomboy sitting in near darkness at a table facing the sea in the lodge's empty open-air restaurant, the remains of a San Miguel in front of him. He'd been working the bar that night so I knew he wasn't drunk. Joubert, one of the kitchen staff, was cleaning some glasses out of earshot. I could have got a drink if I'd wanted one, but I didn't. Instead, I sat down next to Tomboy and said I was going home.
Tomboy shook his head wearily and gave me a look of deep disappointment that seemed to accentuate every line on his face. It made him look five years older. The same conversation we'd had on the day of the Billy West killing then began to play out, but it didn't last anything like as long because this time he could see that I'd made up my mind. He called me a fucking idiot. 'Look what you've got here,' he declared, waving his arms expansively.
The night was calm and peaceful and the fronds of the coconut palms above our heads flickered and drifted in the gentle breeze. Stars swarmed and swept in a majestic canvas across the clear black sky, with only the faintest hint of man-made light to the north in Manila. The sea lapped gently against the shore; the joints on the older outriggers in the bay creaked in time with it; and from somewhere in the village behind came the bark of a dog and the faint but enthusiastic shouts of locals involved in a pool or card game. It was paradise, there was no question of that, but at that moment it was nowhere near enough. It struck me then that I was sick of nice weather. And healthy food. I wanted the next fish I ate to be in batter and sitting next to a pile of greasy chips.
'I know exactly what I've got here, Tomboy,' I told him, 'but you know my situation and why I've got to do something about it. I'm going to be taking my half of the cash from the contract. When I've finished in London-'
'If you finish — that's what you've got to think about, mate. You might never come back. I told you about Pope. He knows some dodgy people. Don't mess with him. Honestly. No good'll come of it.'
'When I've finished in London, I'll bring back what remains of my share and pump it straight back into the business. But I don't know how much I'm going to need.'
'You ain't listening to me.'
'I am, but I've already thought everything through. And you know me. I'm stubborn.'
'Too fucking stubborn.'
'That's as maybe, but it's the way it is. I'm booked on the Friday flight out of Manila. I'll be back as soon as I can. It may be days, it could be weeks. I'll keep you posted.'
Tomboy sighed loudly, then shook his head again. 'Be very careful. I know you like to think you're a tough guy, and in a lot of ways you are, but there are tougher ones out there, and I'd hate you to run into them.'
I nodded. 'Thanks for the advice. It's appreciated.'
He started to say something else, but stopped himself. Eventually, he just wished me good luck.
I told him I hoped I didn't need it.
But of course I knew that I would.
Part Two
8
The wind hit me with an icy slap as I stepped out of the Terminal Three building at Heathrow, hopelessly underdressed in a light jacket and shirt. It was seven o'clock on a bitter Friday night in early December, and a few yards away, beyond the panels sheltering the entrance from the worst of what nature had to offer, a driving rain fell through the darkness amidst the crawling traffic.
England in winter. What the hell had I been thinking of, coming back here? On the plane over, I'd found it difficult to keep a lid on my excitement at the prospect of returning home after such a long time away, even though my business here was hardly pleasure. Now, however, the enthusiasm was dropping as fast as my body heat as I stood outside in temperatures hovering only just above freezing, looking every inch the ill-prepared foreign tourist. I needed to get into the warmth, and fast. An announcement in the terminal had informed everyone that the Heathrow Express to London was currently out of service due to an incident at Hounslow, which probably meant some selfish bastard had jumped under a train, so I joined the queue of shivering, bedraggled travellers at the taxi rank, feeling vaguely paranoid that I might run into someone who knew me from the past, but confident that my disguise was working. No one had questioned me at immigration. I'd given the guy my passport, held in the name of Mr Marcus Kane; he'd taken one brief look at it and me, and that had been that. Not even a second glance. I was back.
It took ten minutes before my turn came, and I was fading fast as I got into the back of the black cab and asked the driver to take me to Paddington. He pulled away without saying anything and headed for the M4, jostling for position on the overcrowded Heathrow sliproad.
The traffic was as horrific as the weather. All three lanes heading into London were moving at no more than ten miles per hour, with plenty of stopping and starting, with the occasional angry honk of frustration drifting
