couldn’t help me. I used Kendall’s landline, hitting 141 first to hide my number, and dialled Beckett’s home phone.
‘Yeah?’ said a man’s voice. The voice was not Beckett’s.
‘Is John there?’ I said.
‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend of his.’
There was a pause.
‘He’s not here right now. I’m trying to find him myself, you wouldn’t – ’
I dropped the receiver. One of Cole’s men, probably. I looked around the room trying to find something solid. I was used to action, quick sometimes, slow at others. Now I didn’t know what to do. Uncertainty was like an itch I couldn’t reach.
Kendall and his wife were on the floor in front of me, crumpled like rubbish. I looked at them for a moment before I realized the obvious: I hadn’t searched their bodies. I tried the woman first, turning her over with my foot. Her arm flapped out across the floor as her body rolled. The fat on her neck wobbled. She wore a cotton dress, too thin to hide anything except the wrinkles of her skin, too thin even to hide the outline of her underwear, which pushed through the fabric and made her seem stupid, even in death. I’d met her once when Kendall had stopped off at the gym to hand me some money. That had been a long time ago, but I remembered she was snooty, deliberately turning away from me when Kendall had introduced her.
I hadn’t meant to kill her. She’d panicked and tried to run from the house and I’d had no choice but to slap her. She’d hit the ground heavily, but I didn’t think my blow had killed her. Maybe she’d had a weak heart or something. Now, in death, all that thick make-up, all those gold bangles made her life look like a waste of fucking time.
It was in Kendall’s rear trouser pocket that I found the scrap of paper. On it, scrawled in Kendall’s hand, was a list of names. None I recognized. All the names had been crossed out except the last: ‘R. Martin’. It didn’t mean anything to me. Martin was a common name. I found nothing else on him.
I searched the house again, trying to guess where Kendall would hide his important information. If I hadn’t been in the front bedroom, I would’ve missed the headlights as they pulled into the driveway. I dumped the drawer I was holding and went to the window. Below me, a black Mercedes had pulled to a stop behind Kendall’s car, blocking it. Three men slipped out of the car. One of the men looked up and I saw a long, thin, white face stare at me. The small dark eyes and small mouth and sharp cheekbones gave it a mask-like appearance. It was a delicate-looking face, pretty in a way. It belonged to a man I knew, and there was nothing pretty about him. I knew him from years back. His name was Kenny Paget. Back then he’d worked for a man called Frank Marriot, a pimp and pornographer, one of the biggest in London. Paget had been his hatchet man. Our paths had crossed a couple of times. What the fuck was he doing here? I didn’t move. He kept looking and then turned his face away. He hadn’t seen me in the darkened room. He said something to the other men. The three of them fanned out, two going to the front door, one around the left side. The doorbell rang.
By the time I’d got into the kitchen, the third man was at the door, trying the handle. I’d left my car up the road, and I’d left my guns in the car. That was stupid of me. I’d been reckless, impatient to smash Kendall.
Keeping in the shadows at the rear of the house, I moved through to the dining room. Here, French windows led to the patio. When I heard the smash of glass in the kitchen, I slipped the catch on the French windows and eased them open enough to slide through. I closed them, moved around to the side of the house and vaulted over the fence into Kendall’s neighbour’s garden. Crouching, I moved along the fence, over the soft earth, until I came to the street. Behind me, I heard Kendall’s front door open.
‘He’s dead,’ a man said. ‘The place has been
‘Yeah?’ said a man’s voice. The voice was not Beckett’s.
‘Is John there?’ I said.
‘Who’s this?’
‘A friend of his.’
There was a pause.
‘He’s not here right now. I’m trying to find him myself, you wouldn’t – ’
I dropped the receiver. One of Cole’s men, probably. I looked around the room trying to find something solid. I was used to action, quick sometimes, slow at others. Now I didn’t know what to do. Uncertainty was like an itch I couldn’t reach.
Kendall and his wife were on the floor in front of me, crumpled like rubbish. I looked at them for a moment before I realized the obvious: I hadn’t searched their bodies. I tried the woman first, turning her over with my foot. Her arm flapped out across the floor as her body rolled. The fat on her neck wobbled. She wore a cotton dress, too thin to hide anything except the wrinkles of her skin, too thin even to hide the outline of her underwear, which pushed through the fabric and made her seem stupid, even in death. I’d met her once when Kendall had stopped off at the gym to hand me some money. That had been a long time ago, but I remembered she was snooty, deliberately turning away from me when Kendall had introduced her.
I hadn’t meant to kill her. She’d panicked and tried to run from the house and I’d had no choice but to slap her. She’d hit the ground heavily, but I didn’t think my blow had killed her. Maybe she’d had a weak heart or something. Now, in death, all that thick make-up, all those gold bangles made her life look like a waste of fucking time.
It was in Kendall’s rear trouser pocket that I found the scrap of paper. On it, scrawled in Kendall’s hand, was a list of names. None I recognized. All the names had been crossed out except the last: ‘R. Martin’. It didn’t mean anything to me. Martin was a common name. I found nothing else on him.
I searched the house again, trying to guess where Kendall would hide his important information. If I hadn’t been in the front bedroom, I would’ve missed the headlights as they pulled into the driveway. I dumped the drawer I was holding and went to the window. Below me, a black Mercedes had pulled to a stop behind Kendall’s car, blocking it. Three men slipped out of the car. One of the men looked up and I saw a long, thin, white face stare at me. The small dark eyes and small mouth and sharp cheekbones gave it a mask-like appearance. It was a delicate-looking face, pretty in a way. It belonged to a man I knew, and there was nothing pretty about him. I knew him from years back. His name was Kenny Paget. Back then he’d worked for a man called Frank Marriot, a pimp and pornographer, one of the biggest in London. Paget had been his hatchet man. Our paths had crossed a couple of times. What the fuck was he doing here? I didn’t move. He kept looking and then turned his face away. He hadn’t seen me in the darkened room. He said something to the other men. The three of them fanned out, two going to the front door, one around the left side. The doorbell rang.
By the time I’d got into the kitchen, the third man was at the door, trying the handle. I’d left my car up the road, and I’d left my guns in the car. That was stupid of me. I’d been reckless, impatient to smash Kendall.
Keeping in the shadows at the rear of the house, I moved through to the dining room. Here, French windows led to the patio. When I heard the smash of glass in the kitchen, I slipped the catch on the French windows and eased them open enough to slide through. I closed them, moved around to the side of the house and vaulted over the fence into Kendall’s neighbour’s garden. Crouching, I moved along the fence, over the soft earth, until I came to the street. Behind me, I heard Kendall’s front door open.
‘He’s dead,’ a man said. ‘The place has been
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