close.
Laszlo walked to the front window of the shop and looked up and down the deserted street. When he finally turned back to face them, he raised his arms invitingly. ‘Lilya, are you ready for that ice-cream?’ He smacked his lips. ‘And what is your favourite flavour?’
‘Chocolate!’ She hesitated. ‘But I thought you said you had a little job to do first . . .’
‘Ah, yes, that little job. You’re right, I should attend to that, shouldn’t I? I’ll do it now.’ But he made no move, still staring at the two of them.
There was an unnatural stillness in the room, the only sound or movement a fly buzzing at a window pane.
Realization began to dawn in the woman’s eyes. ‘Darling,’ she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. ‘Run upstairs and play with your Game Boy for a while. The gentleman needs to talk to me about something . . . something private. Quickly now.’
The child faltered, puzzled by her mother’s sudden look of desperation. ‘But—’
‘Don’t argue,’ her mother said. ‘Just go.’
There was a note in her voice that her daughter hadn’t heard before. She looked from her to Laszlo, then turned, Game Boy clutched in her hand, and began to make her way towards the stairs.
There was a strange noise from behind her, almost like a closing door, followed by a dull thud. She turned back and her eyes widened. Her mother lay sprawled on the floor, her head surrounded by a spreading crimson corona. A neat hole had been punched above her eyebrow, but the exitwound at the rear of her skull was the size of a teacup.
The child swung to face Laszlo and saw through her tears that the snub nose of his silenced revolver was now pointing at her. The barrel kicked twice. The Game Boy flew from her hand as she fell beside her mother. She didn’t hear it land.
His movements still slow and unhurried, Laszlo turned to the window and again checked the street. He made certain the shop door was locked then tore down the back-in-twenty note and turned the permanent sign to Closed . Taking hold of the woman by the ankles, he pulled her body along the floor to the back room, her hair smearing the floor with blood, like a mop. He dragged her daughter through as well, then ripped a freshly cleaned woollen coat from its hanger and used it to wipe away any blood that was visible from the pavement.
Laszlo climbed the stairs to the tiny room above the shop. He boiled the kettle and made himself some black tea. Rejecting the Mr Men yoghurts, he ate some bread and cheese from the fridge, then turned on the television and tuned it to a news channel. He settled on the cheap vinyl sofa, brushing aside the kapok stuffing that spilled from one of its seams.
The lead item on the bulletin focused on the mysterious explosions that had rocked a Victorian mansion at the edge of Hampstead Heath. A police spokesman, reading from his notes in the Robocop-speak that police media-training courses had apparently been unable to eliminate, said that there had been no terrorist incident: a gas leak was thought to have been the cause of the blasts. As a precaution, the neighbouring houses had been evacuated. But the media weren’t buying it. Their aerial cameras showed the police cordon that had taken just minutes to get into position, and they broadcast eye witness reports of men dressed, as one middle-aged woman put it, ‘like those SAS chaps’.
A slow smile spread across Laszlo’s face.
A succession of would-be customers tried the shop door and went away again. One particularly persistent one kept banging on the glass. The letterbox gave a metallic rattle. ‘I know you’re in there,’ an irate male voice yelled. ‘I can see the TV throughthe upstairs window. I’ve got an important event tonight and I need my dinner jacket.’
At first Laszlo ignored him. As the banging grew louder, he moved quietly to the head of the stairs and waited. There was more furious shouting and banging on the door but then he
Laszlo walked to the front window of the shop and looked up and down the deserted street. When he finally turned back to face them, he raised his arms invitingly. ‘Lilya, are you ready for that ice-cream?’ He smacked his lips. ‘And what is your favourite flavour?’
‘Chocolate!’ She hesitated. ‘But I thought you said you had a little job to do first . . .’
‘Ah, yes, that little job. You’re right, I should attend to that, shouldn’t I? I’ll do it now.’ But he made no move, still staring at the two of them.
There was an unnatural stillness in the room, the only sound or movement a fly buzzing at a window pane.
Realization began to dawn in the woman’s eyes. ‘Darling,’ she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice. ‘Run upstairs and play with your Game Boy for a while. The gentleman needs to talk to me about something . . . something private. Quickly now.’
The child faltered, puzzled by her mother’s sudden look of desperation. ‘But—’
‘Don’t argue,’ her mother said. ‘Just go.’
There was a note in her voice that her daughter hadn’t heard before. She looked from her to Laszlo, then turned, Game Boy clutched in her hand, and began to make her way towards the stairs.
There was a strange noise from behind her, almost like a closing door, followed by a dull thud. She turned back and her eyes widened. Her mother lay sprawled on the floor, her head surrounded by a spreading crimson corona. A neat hole had been punched above her eyebrow, but the exitwound at the rear of her skull was the size of a teacup.
The child swung to face Laszlo and saw through her tears that the snub nose of his silenced revolver was now pointing at her. The barrel kicked twice. The Game Boy flew from her hand as she fell beside her mother. She didn’t hear it land.
His movements still slow and unhurried, Laszlo turned to the window and again checked the street. He made certain the shop door was locked then tore down the back-in-twenty note and turned the permanent sign to Closed . Taking hold of the woman by the ankles, he pulled her body along the floor to the back room, her hair smearing the floor with blood, like a mop. He dragged her daughter through as well, then ripped a freshly cleaned woollen coat from its hanger and used it to wipe away any blood that was visible from the pavement.
Laszlo climbed the stairs to the tiny room above the shop. He boiled the kettle and made himself some black tea. Rejecting the Mr Men yoghurts, he ate some bread and cheese from the fridge, then turned on the television and tuned it to a news channel. He settled on the cheap vinyl sofa, brushing aside the kapok stuffing that spilled from one of its seams.
The lead item on the bulletin focused on the mysterious explosions that had rocked a Victorian mansion at the edge of Hampstead Heath. A police spokesman, reading from his notes in the Robocop-speak that police media-training courses had apparently been unable to eliminate, said that there had been no terrorist incident: a gas leak was thought to have been the cause of the blasts. As a precaution, the neighbouring houses had been evacuated. But the media weren’t buying it. Their aerial cameras showed the police cordon that had taken just minutes to get into position, and they broadcast eye witness reports of men dressed, as one middle-aged woman put it, ‘like those SAS chaps’.
A slow smile spread across Laszlo’s face.
A succession of would-be customers tried the shop door and went away again. One particularly persistent one kept banging on the glass. The letterbox gave a metallic rattle. ‘I know you’re in there,’ an irate male voice yelled. ‘I can see the TV throughthe upstairs window. I’ve got an important event tonight and I need my dinner jacket.’
At first Laszlo ignored him. As the banging grew louder, he moved quietly to the head of the stairs and waited. There was more furious shouting and banging on the door but then he
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