Assassins

  ‘It’s a James White recipe from his book “Fifteen minutes diet makeover,” Beth said proudly. He recommends it for people of our age.’

  Does he now? I know what I would recommend you do with it. ‘Wow Beth,’ Frank said, rubbing his hands together with fake eagerness. He cast his nose over the plate of steaming food. ‘I expect it will taste as good as it looks.’

  Frank was never able to tell his wife that her cooking was bland, which explains why after twenty-six years of Beth doing the majority of the cooking it never improved.

  As a result of James White’s interference in their lives, Frank is no longer allowed to eat bread, or chips, and as for biscuits, they are a sin worthy of eternal damnation. Cakes! He hasn’t seen a cake in the house in weeks, milk… well they no longer have cows milk. They put almond flavoured water in their tea. And as for wine… don’t bother.

  Thankfully, in his line of work Frank gets the chance to get out the house and eat whatever he wants. He just needs to deal with the guilt. One day he knows he is going to have to own up to Beth and tell her he has been cheating on their diet.

  Pushing his dinner around his plate and thinking about Kentucky Fried Chicken, Frank looked up at the sound of his mobile phone chirping. He took the call out in the hallway.

  ‘It’s work. There’s been another shooting.’

  ‘Aw, Frankie,’ Beth said. ‘You haven’t finished the lovely meal that I cooked for you. And I have a pudding. It’s jelly.’

  ‘Jelly with what… fruit?’

  ‘No Frankie you can’t eat fruit because of the sugar content. It’s just raspberry jelly.’

  ‘Keep it warm for me.’ Frank joked slipping on his shoulder holster and then his coat.

  ‘I don’t like the thought of you having to carry a gun Frankie.’ Beth said giving her husband a hug and feeling the lump under his jacket.

  ‘Me too honey,’ Fank said, giving her a peck on the lips. ‘But until we catch the hotel shooter, it’s an operational requirement.’

  ‘Be careful out there.’ She called out from under the porch. Her brow was lined with worry as she watched her husband slip behind the wheel of his Alpha Romeo Spider parked on their driveway.

  Pulling off the drive, Frank waved back.

  Beth watching her husband wave goodbye, clutched at a gnawing ache in her stomach. She hadn’t had that in a while.

  At the end of his road, Frank suddenly remembered he’d left his pipe in the garden. He thought about turning around, go back for it? He decided Beth seeing him come back for his Grandfathers lucky pipe that he had never once smoked, was sure to set her nerves on edge.

  Old Fishmarket Close, and the area around it had been taped off. Frank nodded at the two uniforms standing guard and ducked under the Police Do Not Cross tape.

  Crime Scene Manager Emil Khan dressed in blue coveralls was bent over a corpse lying face down in the alley. He looked up when he heard DI Frank Guardo say.

  ‘What we got Emil?’

  ‘Another fatal shooting Frank,’ Khan said, straightening up and looking round at the DI. ‘He took two bullets in the back. We found the victim’s driving licence in his wallet. He is Alfonse Dmitri – a French national who was working here as a tour guide.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ Frank murmured and then an image of Jimmy Ross leapt into his mind. He hadn’t heard from Jimmy in days. He now regretted getting him involved. What if he was to get shot dead? He didn’t want to think about that. It didn’t matter if Jimmy didn’t spend five minutes on the job, as long as this vile killer didn’t catch him.

  *

  Having decided that Frank wasn’t paying him enough to get shot, Jimmy Ross wasn’t going near any more hotels. He was going to call Frank right now and tell him where to find the killer. Looking about him Princes Park was pretty quiet. He sat on a bench and took out his mobile phone. His search through his pockets for the business card that Frank had given him became frantic. Shit! Where the hell is that? He knew it was no good him ringing the nick because the cops would never hand out police mobile number. Remembering that his name was written on the back of the card, Jimmy started to panic. He was trying to recall the last time he saw it. He remembered showing it to Hammy in the Grand Hotel lobby minutes before he went up to room 413. Shit! Jimmy’s blood ran cold. What if it fell out of my pocket while I was under the bed? Nah, it couldn’t have… could it? He had to find out, but that meant him going back inside that room. Shit! If the shooter had found it, he would have my name. How long’s it gonna take him to track me down?

  The rest of the day he couldn’t get out of his head an image of the business card lying under the bed in room 413. Six, that evening, he knew what he had to do.

  Chapter Forty

  Edinburgh.

  Hamish was renting a bedsit on the fourth floor of 42 Tower Street. Going home, crossing North Bridge, he almost died of shock when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  ‘Christ!’ Hamish said, spinning about. He groaned, seeing the grinning face of Jimmy Ross, who was the last person on earth he needed to see. ‘You scared the bejesus out of me. Will you go away please? I was doing all right till you showed up.’

  Keeping pace with Hamish, Jimmy, cool as you like said.’ I need to borrow your passkey again.’

  Hamish stopped dead in his tracks and faced his old cellmate. ‘No way Jimmy.’ Hamish said, shaking his head. ‘Christ, you nearly lost me my job.’

  Hamish heard these words come out of his mouth but he knew that he could never deny Jimmy. It was like the guy could hypnotise him. Only this time it wasn’t going to happen. He was going to say no. ‘Why would you want to go back in his room? Are you mad?’

  ‘I just need to get into his room for two minutes. You remember the business card I showed you?

  ‘The cop’s’ calling card?’

  ‘Yeah. I think I may have left it under the bed in room 413.’

  Hamish’s eyes searched Jimmy’s face for any sign of deception. ‘What!’ He exploded as the enormity of what that meant dawned on him. ‘Then the killer could already have your name and the proof that you was in his room. Jeez Jimmy.’

  ‘I don’t think he would have found it. Who looks under the bed in a hotel? Two minutes… Hammy… please?’ He begged.

  ‘And you wont chaw nothing?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ Jimmy said criss-crossing his chest.

  The two men walked back to the Grand Hotel. The plan was Jimmy would keep out of sight behind the trash bins in the delivery yard and wait for Hamish to come back and tell him the guy in room 413 had gone out.

  After twenty tense minutes, Hammy came back and handed Jimmy his passkey. He stressed. ‘Don’t lose it, and I want it back.’

  Hamish had bitten down all his nails waiting for Jimmy. It was eighteen minutes before he saw Ross come back into the yard. His usual London swagger had gone. Jimmy looked worried.

  ‘The card wasn’t under the bed.’

  ‘Then maybe you lost it someplace else?’

  ‘Uh-huh. When I didn’t find it under the bed, I checked in the bedside cabinet drawer and there it was.’

  ‘Christ!’ Hamish exploded. ‘He had found it then? McCoy suddenly froze. ‘You didn’t take it did you Jimmy? Tell me you didn’t take it.’

  ‘Course I did.’ Jimmy said waving the business card in front of Hamish’s nose. ‘I wasn’t going to leave it there with my name on it. I doubt he will remember what was written on it.’

  *

  Returning to the Grand Hotel after carrying out another reconnaissance of Holyrood Palace, Gent snarled when he found the hairs that he had stuck across the doorjamb were now on the floor. Taking out his gun he burst in his room. Whoever it was that got in here had gone. The first thing he did was to check that his bag hidden in the WC cistern void was still there. Gent was now thinking, cops… bugs. From his bag he took out a bug sweeper and found nothing.

  Gent turned full circle looking for anything out of place. Nothing h
ad been taken… unless. Moving swiftly to the bedside cabinet he pulled out the drawer. It was gone… the business card was gone. The thief had been back. He was going to have to change hotels.

  He was also going to have to eliminate the only three people who now knew of his existence and possibly his mission. They will have to die.

  He had half a day or more before he could implement his plan to assassinate the King, time enough for him to track down and kill the Busboy and the hotel thief. The cop can wait.

  *

  ‘Jimmy! Where the hell you been?’ Frank said, on his mobile phone relieved to hear Jimmy Ross’s voice. I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  ‘I lost your card Frank, and then I found it again. Listen, you were right. The killer was staying in a hotel and I spotted him in the Grand, and considering I nearly died sussing him out, I reckon you owe me another two hundred smackers.’

  ‘Good work Jimmy,’ Frank said. ‘Now tell me what you know.’

  ‘Under the name Mark Lawson, he booked into room 413, at the Grand Hotel on Waterloo Place. Oh, and be careful Frank, I saw him shoot at a seagull.’

  ‘A seagull!’

  ‘It’s a long story Frank. You need to pick this guy up a bit sharpish before he kills anyone else. When this is over, you can buy me a beer and I will tell you all about it.’

  ‘Good work Jimmy,’ Frank said, satisfied he was telling the truth. ‘You will get your money. Now pay attention… you are to walk away from this. This man is a very dangerous individual and I don’t want you getting hurt.’

  Jimmy said, ‘No worries, I am not going anywhere near the guy.’

  *

  After checking out of the Grand hotel, Gent hauled his heavy bag across town and booked into the Alhambra Hotel on Princes Street. As usual he insisted on a room that overlooked the road, preferably on the top floor. He was given room 49, which was near the lift lobby. The Alhambra wasn’t his usual 5* but it would meet his immediate needs. Going into the bathroom Gent had to use a screwdriver to remove the cover over the WC cistern. It was a tight fit but with a bit of effort he managed to cram his heavy bag into the void. Sitting at a small table, to make room for the street map of Edinburgh, Gent had to move aside the tea and coffee making facilities. He stabbed his finger on the street the Busboy lived on. After checking the action on the Sig Sauer P320 that he’d picked up at the local MI5 office, he slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. Looking in the mirror he checked his appearance and then left the room remembering to stick a hair across the doorjamb.

  *

  The line of tenement buildings on Tower Street, built in the mid- eighteen hundred’s was a beehive of dank single rooms rented out to anyone not fazed by the rats, the bed bugs or the fleas.

  Gent counted fifteen bell pushes on the doorframe. Because most of the tenants didn’t want visitors, very few names were written in the narrow boxes. The lock on the front door offered little resistance to his boot.

  On the winding stairs, Gent bumped into a man and woman who he guessed was of African origin. From the description he gave them, they told him the Busboy rented room 12.

  With his silencer fitted to the Sig, he knocked three times before he kicked the door open. To his annoyance, the Busboy wasn’t home. Although the furniture was shabby, the Busboy kept his room clean and tidy.

  Gent closed the door and noted the uniform hanging on the hook. He concluded the Busboy was off duty. That was good. Moving an armchair around so that it faced the door, Gent sat down to wait.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Edinburgh.

  Jimmy’s tipoff was good. When Frank ran the face captured on the Grand’s CCTV cameras through FSRS, (The police face-software-recognition-system.) It came up with a name. Unbelievably, Bartholomew Gent, on three separate occasions had been arrested on suspicion of Murder. On all three occasions the charges were dropped. It was as if the killer had powerful friends in some very high places. He was now worried that even if he nailed the killer he could still escape justice.

  Guardo passed the images over to the live video suite monitoring the cameras in central Edinburgh. Almost immediately he got a result. Not half an hour ago, the man was walking over North Bridge. On another camera he was seen looking up at the windows of a tenement block on Tower Street.

  Telling his team that no one was to go inside the building until he got there, Frank despatched two armed response units to the address.

  Hearing the squeal of tyres and the slamming of car doors down in the street, Gent crossed to the window and looked out. Down below he saw a half a dozen armed police officers, use hand signals to form an assault group. He smiled when he saw the small sports car screech to a stop behind the cop cars. The cop that took charge was on his kill list. When they entered the building Gent lost sight of them.

  With no idea why the killer was here, or what room he’d gone in, Guardo and his team were just going to have to search the rooms one at a time starting at the bottom.

  In room 12, Gent moved quickly. The hitman shoved aside the coffee table and threw back the rug. With his clasp knife he eased up a floorboard and then dropped his gun into the void. He had just enough time to replace the floorboard, put the rug and the coffee table back in place and sit looking relaxed in the armchair when the door flew in.

  ‘Hello Frank.’ Gent said genially keeping his hands above his head.

  The DI puffing and sweating after trying to keep up with the younger, fitter officers and wearing a bulletproof vest, stepped into the now crowded room.

  While he was being handcuffed, Frank read him his rights.

  ‘Would you mind telling me why I am being arrested?’ Gent said, being handcuffed behind his back and getting searched.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing here?’ Frank said looking about him and thinking surely the guy wasn’t staying here.

  ‘No comment Frankie.’ Gent said, smiling.

  Guardo got the feeling the guy by calling him, “Frankie,” was hoping to provoke him.

  *

  Back at the nick, under caution and being interviewed, Gent was ‘no commenting” everything.

  When Frank showed him the gun and the silencer found under the floorboards his face showed no emotion.

  Gent hadn’t expected to get any prints off them. He’d have wiped them clean. The gun hadn’t been fired and the serial number showed the gun was last registered to a man in Colombia. Given the lack of evidence Frank knew he could only hold him for twenty-four hours. When Gent demanded his statutory phone call, Frank stood close enough to hear every word. What Frank heard was: "This is Asset, B reporting. I am being detained by the Police in Edinburgh."

  And that was it… nothing else. He then hung up the phone.

  Frank and the Custody Sergeant then led Gent back to his cell.

  ‘You are to appear in court in the morning’ Frank said ‘I am asking for a denial of bail, which given the nature of the charges you face, was never going to happen.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye now, then Frankie.’

  Frowning at the way he used his first name, Guardo slammed the cell door in his grinning face. Walking away from the cell he heard Gent call out, ‘say hi to the Beth, for me. How’s Chloe and Samantha getting on in Uni?’

  Hearing the thug talking about his family that way, Frank wanted to go back in his cell and beat the crap out of him.

  It was Thursday, evening around ten, when Frank got back home. He couldn’t shake from his mind the way that Gent had spoken about his family. Frank had never in his life, experienced the rage that threatened to overcome his hatred of police brutality. Yet, if Gent, so much as harmed a hair on the head of his girls, he would happily kill him.

  Stepping inside the hall he imagined the smell of steak. He wryly dismissed this as wishful thinking. Most likely it was Quorn. Beth was in his arms before he got his coat off.

  ‘I love you Frankie,’ Beth said and kissed him. ‘Did you have a good day?’ Beth always sai
d that when he got home.

  ‘Yes, I got to chase some bad guys.’ Frank said, his stock reply.

  ‘I made you a nice dinner.’ Beth said, skipping over to the kitchen door.

  ‘Hmm,’ Frank said moving down the hall and savouring the smell. ‘Whatever James White has in store for me tonight sure smells better than what I’ve been getting lately.’

  Beth helped him out of his coat and said.

  ‘Go on through to the dining room. Dinner will be in two minutes.’

  Seated at the head of the dining table, Frank wasn’t looking forward to another three hundred calorie plated dinner of animal feed designed by some hairy kid who became a millionaire selling yet another faddy diet to another generation of weight obsessed people who just needed to shop wiser. Frank had already dismissed Gent from his mind when Beth came into the dining room la-la-ing a tune. The smell hit him first. He looked down on the plate that Beth laid in front of him. His tongue slid across his lips as he surveyed the steak and chips with mushrooms. There was even a glass of chilled beer. Frank looked at her with rounded eyes.

  ‘Go on, get stuck in,’ Beth said tackling her own meat with a steak knife. ‘Don’t let it get cold.’

  ‘What happened to the James White diet?’ Frank said, shoving a mushroom in his mouth and savouring the butter that it had been cooked in.

  *

  That night, with Gent playing on his mind, Frank didn’t sleep too well. Six o’ clock he was up and out the house and on his way to the nick. Going through to the Custody Sergeants Office a sense of dread spread through him.

  When he booked Gent in last night Bernie Wallace was the duty Custody Sergeant. He was still on duty.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep Frank?’ Wallace said.

  ‘No, I thought I would come in early to check the court papers for prisoner Gent were in order. I don’t want any slipups that would see him walk.’

  ‘I was just about to say, he’s gone.’