The path forked and I took the left-hand route, which followed a gentle gradient through a grove of palm and mango trees in the direction of the ravine.
'Where the fuck are we going?' I heard Slippery demand behind me.
'I told you, somewhere quiet.'
'I don't like this.'
'Look,' I said, turning round so I was facing him, 'you can see I'm unarmed. What am I going to do? Kung fu you to death? And if you're that worried, look behind you.' I pointed up to a collection of neat two-storey wooden huts with pointed roofs that stood on a hill behind the road we'd been driving up. 'See, we're not that far from civilization.'
He looked in the direction I was pointing. 'Who lives there, then?'
'People called Mangyan. They're farmers. They tend to keep themselves to themselves, but I still don't want any of them seeing us.'
I resumed walking and he followed, his complaints temporarily silenced.
'I've just thought,' he said after a few seconds. 'Have you brought another shirt with you? 'Cause my one's going to be ruined.'
'Shockingly enough, no,' I answered. 'But you must have packed a spare. When we're finished I'll drop you back at the hotel, you can have a nice warm shower, and then you'll be as right as rain.' I stopped by a palm tree and turned around. The Mangyan huts were almost out of sight. 'Here'll do,' I said.
He stopped a yard or so behind me and I pointed to a clump of long grass a few feet away. 'Lie down there on your back, legs together, arms outstretched and head to one side, like dead people do on the telly. And put the bottles down next to you.'
'Are you sure there are no snakes in there?' he asked, giving the grass a useless kick.
At the same time, I leaned down and felt round the back of the palm tree, locating the Browning with silencer that I'd taped to the bark the previous day. I pulled it away and peeled off the tape, pleased that I'd planned ahead enough to keep my options open. Then released the safety.
'Hold on,' he said, turning round, 'we ain't brought anything to put the paint on with…' The words died in his throat as he saw the gun, the shock rapidly giving way to resignation as I pointed it at his chest.
'I can't fucking believe I fell for that. I should have known a bastard like you would have tried something. And you've got the nerve to call me slippery.'
I had to admire his guts. He knew what was going to happen, that this was the end of the line for him, but he didn't beg and plead. I felt an unwelcome twinge of doubt that I had the strength to pull the trigger. Then I remembered why I was going to.
'You know that copper you killed?' I asked him.
'Don't tell me…'
'He was my friend.'
'Ah, fuck it, Dennis. It was just business. Like it always is. Nothing personal.'
'Well, this is personal. Now tell me everything you know about Les Pope and the people behind that shooting, and don't leave a single thing out, or the first bullet'll be in your kneecap.'
He sighed loudly and nodded his assent. Then he turned away slightly, dropped the bottles, and quick as a flash he was pulling a throwing knife from beneath the ankle of his jeans. With astonishing speed he swung round to take aim, and I cursed. It had never occurred to me that he'd be armed, but then he wasn't called Slippery Billy for nothing. This bastard didn't know the meaning of the word defeat, and I felt a sudden heartfelt admiration for him, coupled with the unwelcome knowledge that in many ways there really wasn't that much difference between us.
Then I started firing. The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, knocking him sideways before he could release the knife. The second missed, I think, while the third and fourth struck him in the upper back as he continued to spin round. He fell to his knees and tried to face me again, still holding on to the knife, and once again I got that tiny twinge of doubt that I'd be able to finish him off. But perhaps I was just deluding myself, because a moment later I aimed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger twice more.
His body bucked sharply as the bullets struck him just below his left eye, but somehow he managed to retain his kneeling position, holding it for what seemed like an awfully long time before slowly, almost casually, he toppled onto his side.
I waited a few moments just to make sure that his luck had finally run out, then looked behind me to check that no one had heard anything (there was no one there, so I assumed they hadn't), before finally approaching the body. Blood ran in thin, uneven lines down the side of his face and onto his neck, but his eyes were closed and he looked peaceful, as the newly dead do. Standing there watching him, I reasoned that he had killed at least twice for no other reason than money (one of his victims being a police officer and my friend), and wouldn't have lost a second's sleep if the boot was on the other foot and he'd been the one shooting me. So I really had nothing to feel guilty about. But I wasn't entirely convinced. It didn't make me feel any better that I then used the camera to take half a dozen photos of his corpse, as per our contract, before searching his clothes until I found his mobile, the key to his room and the false passport he was carrying, all of which I pocketed in my jeans. I finally concluded matters by putting on a pair of surgical gloves, wiping the Browning's handle and picking up all the loose cartridges. I then grabbed Slippery by the shoulders and hauled him deeper into the undergrowth. Thankfully, he was lighter than I'd been expecting, because there was still some way for him to go before we hit his final resting place.
I dragged his body fifty yards in all, the path quickly giving way to a thick wall of bushes and trees, and I was hot and panting when we finally came to the edge of the ravine. The drop here was almost sheer and ran some five hundred feet into the tree-carpeted valley below.
I'd chosen this spot because the valley was pretty much inaccessible to people. There was always the chance that a resourceful Mangyan tribesman had somehow found a way in and was nurturing a vegetable plot there, but that was a risk anywhere on the island. The chances were that the body would lie undiscovered for months or even years, and if the remains were one day found, it was unlikely the police would be able to identify them as what was left of Billy West, and I don't suppose they'd be too worried about it either, even with the bullet holes in his skull. They'd probably conclude that it was a local who'd fallen foul of the NPA, the Marxist rebels cum anti-drugs vigilantes who operated in the mountains behind Puerta Galera, and who still made the occasional foray down to the coast, using their guns against those who didn't see eye to eye with them.
I didn't like the idea of depriving Slippery Billy of a burial. I didn't know his family situation but I supposed he had loved ones somewhere, and that they'd be left wondering for the rest of their lives what had happened to him. But I had no choice. He'd made his bed and, uncomfortable as it was, he was going to have to lie in it.
As I toppled him over the edge and turned away, wiping sweat from my brow, I thought about the mysterious Les Pope, the man who'd commissioned this and Blacklip's murder, as well as at least two others. Would he be losing any sleep over his crimes? I doubted it. Like Billy West, I expected he'd just see it as business.
I pondered that particular matter as I returned to the Land Rover and continued my journey up to the Ponderosa golf club for a much-needed drink and a chance to think about the man whose murder I'd just avenged.
5
Asif Malik. He'd been a colleague of mine in Islington CID for more than a year during my last days in London. Originally I was his boss, and then, just before my ignominious departure, he'd got promoted to the same level as me, which hadn't been much of a surprise. He'd always struck me as a man who was going places. He was hardworking, bright and, most importantly of all, decent. Most coppers are decent people underneath it all, but some — myself included — get more cynical as the years go by and the crime rate keeps rising. I'd once believed in what I was doing, in my ability, as a police officer working within the strict frameworks the law sets, to change things and deliver justice to the people who needed it. But time, and the growing realization that what I was delivering was nothing more than a sticking plaster for a gaping wound, had corrupted me to the point where both my reputation and my conscience were now well beyond repair.
It was possible that Malik had changed too. After all, I hadn't seen him in three years. But somehow I
