What happened instead was worse.
A flash of light ahead, and in the next instant a cracking sound. It raced past them like a train, impossible to ignore. Liz let out a moan, covered her ears and planted her face in the dirt. Karl put his hands out ahead of him, as if foolishly believing he could stop a bullet that way. If the gunman had been seeking a sliver of movement to latch onto, he’d now got it.
Another gunshot. Another flash, which framed the gunman like a horror-film villain during a burst of lightning. He was aiming right at them.
Then a third gunshot, but this time the gunman was lit in profile, and Karl felt his choking terror abate. The man had fired down the other tunnel this time. He didn’t know where they were. He was firing blind, hoping for a lucky hit.
There was silence. Karl reached out and put his hand over Liz’s mouth. The gunman was obviously listening, hoping to hear them running, fleeing from the bullets. So, they stayed silent and they stayed put.
A few seconds later, he started shouting again. Loud, fast, a million threats, a billion imaginative scenarios involving suffering and death. But his voice came no closer. This was a chance to put more distance between them.
Karl got up slowly and helped Liz climb to her feet. Their faces close, he stared into her eyes and whispered to her they were going to walk slowly, carefully. But one misstep, one noise, and they would be caught. She nodded her understanding. They turned, giving him their backs. And started walking.
The distance grew. There were no missteps, no noises. There was no sense of forward movement either because they could see nothing ahead. But the gunman’s voice began to fade. The darkness condensed behind them, like a series of curtains pulled between pursued and pursuer, and soon his ranting was nothing but a background whisper.
Twenty-Six
Brad
Brad tore off the wrapping paper and shook open a Varsity jacket with a red leather torso and white canvas arms. There was a large B on the breast. He instantly hated it but smiled because Ian was awaiting his reaction.
‘Wear it all day. Try it now.’
Brad got it halfway unzipped when his mobile rang. ‘Job Centre’ popped up.
‘Attaboy,’ Ian said, leaning close to read the screen. ‘Remember to tell them that you’re willing to increase your travel distance.’
‘I’ll take it in the bathroom.’
Ian grabbed his half-finished cigar from the ashtray, and flicked a kick at Brad’s naked ass as he got off the bed.
‘Tell them we’ll have your website up and running later today.’
In the bathroom, Brad answered the call from Job Centre--, who he’d been in contact with for the last three months, since his last building site contract expired. The actual centre was in his phonebook, but under Job Centre-, single hyphen. As Ian had proved, at a glance it was hard to tell the difference between one and two hyphens.
‘One question of momentous importance,’ Mick said, as Brad answered the phone. ‘It all hung on Król. It’s what we were waiting for. Why didn’t you call me about it?’ He meant: why hadn’t Brad called to find out if Król had found the Grafton woman? Surely the stakes are high enough to warrant him worrying.
Brad said: ‘It’s all moot now Ramirez is out, so the missus thing is sixes and sevens. It’s your thing.’
He meant: Mick was the one worried about Liz Grafton, not Brad. Because with Ramirez no longer in the frame, it didn’t matter what she told the cops.
‘“My thing”? Like my pet peeve or something?’
‘Maybe. So what do you want? Picked who’s next yet?’
‘You said that before. What’s that supposed to mean, Brad?’
‘What’s next, I meant.’
‘Two things. First, I got a job for you. Not that you seem to care, but Król fucked up.’
Brad listened to Mick’s story with the door locked and the sink taps running so Ian couldn’t hear his replies. When the tale was told, he said: ‘Not the best news. But I say let them run.’
‘Well, Brad, this is my thing, isn’t it? And I say no.’
‘Yet you called me, so you think I can do something about it. What?’
Mick explained. ‘And it needs to be in thirty seconds’ time. Get going.’
‘And what else?’
‘Ah, yes. The bad news.’
‘I thought that was the bad news.’
‘Of course not. Sixes and sevens. You had a brick tossed through Ramirez’s window, right?’
‘Sure. With a note to freak him out. Watch your back, dead man walking. What’s that got to do with your guy?’
‘It fucking worked a treat, that’s what. So much so that Ramirez just called the cops. He’s so fucking scared that Grafton’s rent-a-lunatics are after him that he wants this case solved quick, before he gets chopped up. Apparently he says it might be a great idea to maybe look at the guys who hit his nightclub—’
‘What? Are you telling me we’re half a day into this and already the cops—’
‘Just calm down. You know there were all sorts of rumours flying around about who might have done it. And rumours that it was a hit on either Grafton or his old rival, Razor Randolph, and plenty of people wanted both of them dead. You haven’t forgotten Rocker, have you?’
‘’Course not, but—’
‘But nothing, Brad. So Ramirez is just assuming it’s the same guys, back for try number two. He’s rehashing old tales. That’s all. Just bullshit.’
‘But it’s not bullshit, is it? Not if my name’s been mentioned.’
‘Ramirez only mentioned a first name. Brad. A loan shark who worked for Grafton as a leg-breaker.’
‘Christ.’
‘He might also have said “Nancy-boy leg-breaker”,’ Mick said, laughing.
‘Stop fucking laughing, Mick.’
He did, abruptly. ‘Just calm down—’
‘There aren’t that many gay enforcers called Brad in London, Mick. Jesus.’
That made Mick giggle like a schoolgirl. ‘No, there aren’t. But relax, okay? Keep your legendary cool. Names are flooding in about who might have done this. You think anyone’s going to take a criminal’s word as gospel? Wait for the Queen to give you up, and then you can worry. So relax, right? Are you relaxed?’
‘And what if Grafton’s wife recognised my eyes?’
‘What, now you’re suddenly worried about her? Let them run, you said. That doesn’t sound relaxed, Brad. Try again. Summon it up from deep within. Are you relaxed now?’
‘Hell yes,’ Brad said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. ‘But they’ll look into me. Can’t afford not to. Then they’ll find out I was investigated for that murder a few years back. I’ll get the knock on the door at some point, and if Ian—’
‘There’ll be no door knock for him to answer, Brad. You’re just a person of interest based on some claim by a low life, one of a thousand who’d benefit from Grafton in a grave. But you’re right, you’re a guy with form, and maybe, even if you’re innocent, you might go underground if you know the cops are after you. That’s an extra headache. So, nobody’s going to tell your bloke anything. A pair of guys will probably hang about outside your house, that’s all. If you turn up, all they’ll do is follow you, see if maybe you go dig up the murder weapon or they can hear you bragging about the killings. Solution: don’t turn up for a few days.’
‘Why a few days? What can you do to kill this?’
‘Nothing. But the plan was always to clear out, right? We bring it forward.’