The Killer Page 9

  He made his coffee very carefully. The beans were ground meticulously and exact amounts had to be used. When it came to coffee, he was the best. He was a perfectionist. Sitting with a look of pure ecstasy on his face he grinned to himself as he savoured the rich taste. He knew beyond doubt that no one made coffee like he did. ‘And now for that smoke,’ he decided, as he made his way to his newly purchased, antique humidor. Selecting a big, fat Cohiba he gently rolled the cigar between his fingers, holding it first to his ear, ‘sounds good,’ then to his nose, as he inhaled the rich tobacco scent, nodded his approval and smiled. ‘Yes, a Cohiba would be nice today.’ He strolled out once more onto his terrace and gave another long, loving gaze across the city and sighed. ‘Ah, life really is good,’ he laughed, puffing happily away.

  He sat in the shade of an umbrella, contentedly smoking the huge cigar and feeling more relaxed by the minute. His thoughts dwelled on the perfect body of the girl who had just left, though her name escaped him for the moment. She was one of many who had graced his bed over the last few months and he was enjoying the variety. It was so much better than the monotony of having a wife, he decided, and was a little confused by the sense of melancholy, tinged with dread, that suddenly descended to ruin his mood. Drowsiness overtook him and, yet again, those fucking Irish popped into his mind, as did that awful day several months ago.

  ***

  The Awful Day

  Having woken very late, he found he was alone in bed. ‘Darling, where are you?’ he shouted softly. There was no reply. She wasn’t in the bedroom. Frantically he searched the entire house and he began to panic - until he found the note. ‘Goodbye Ernesto, I’ve gone. Anna.’ That was it. No explanation, no apology, no words of comfort, no suggestion of sorrow. She was simply gone.

  At first he just didn’t believe it, but after days of trying everything to locate her, ringing anyone he could think of, acceptance finally sank in. What he couldn’t figure out, though, was why. There was no rational reason for her to go, to leave him alone like this. He knew he’d been a good husband. He’d never involved her in his business dealings – good Lord, she didn’t even know what he did for a living anyway. He’d let her be happy in her kitchen, just as she wanted. That clearly ruled out another man, so why had she gone?

  Over the next few weeks he went to pieces, drinking continually and never leaving the house. Constantly he contemplated the “why” and only one reason made any sense. Money. Things had been a little tight for the last few months. That new car Anna had needed had cost him a fair bit. Then there had been the new clothes so that she was nicely turned out when she went to those ladies’ charity dinners that had been taking up more and more of her time. He’d been thinking of asking those Irish bastards for a bigger commission for a while. At first the money had seemed good for a couple of days of his time, but now he had extra expenses and they needed to know that. He’d never let them down and it was about time they appreciated his loyalty a bit more. If they’d only paid him what was fair, his Anna would never have left. This thought played over and over in his mind as he sat in the silent, empty house. He hadn’t seen a soul for weeks and no one had even bothered to call him back after his frantic efforts to locate his wife. The phone hadn’t even rung once – and then it did.

  He sprinted like an Olympian to catch the call, knowing it had to be her. She was coming home.

  ‘Anna, Anna, where are you? Please come back to me - I love you,’ he cried into the receiver.

  ‘Ernesto? Ernesto? - Hello? What the fuck are you on about? Stop your ranting man, I can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying,’ came the Irish voice on the other end of the phone.

  Taking a deep breath Ernesto paused, swallowed, and then composed himself. ‘Hello, who is this speaking?’ he enquired in English now.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. It’s me - Chucky from Belfast. What the fuck were you gabbling on about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, I wasn’t shouting at you - the gardener knocked over my new ornament, that’s all,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh, so everything’s still all right over at your end then?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is, what do you need?’ he asked Chucky in as happy a voice as he could manage.

  ‘Same thing as always, mate, but this time we’ve got two instead of one. Can you handle that?’

  For the last four years, Ernesto’s job had been to exchange the Irish organisation’s cash into local currency, and with that they bought cigarettes by the container. They had never had a single problem with him - he was trusted completely. Chucky and the other bosses considered him to be “as good as gold”. Two containers translated to ninety six thousand cartons, Ernesto quickly calculated, and that meant an awful lot of cash, the very subject that had occupied his thoughts for these last, lonely weeks. He paused only a second. ‘Yes, of course I can handle it,’ he told his contact, but that will be a large package. The transfer will take longer than normal.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Chucky assured him. ‘We’d expected that. How long do you think?’

  ‘Well it’s usually two days, so I think this would be four or five,’ he suggested, assessing how he could use that time to carry out the plan that was forming in his mind.

  ‘No problem,’ Chucky agreed. ‘Can you be ready Thursday, same time, same place, same contact?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s great. I’ll talk to my boss about a bigger percentage this time to cover the extra days,’ Chucky offered cheerfully.

  ‘Too little and far too bloody late,’ would have been the honest reply. Instead Ernesto said, ‘That’s good of you,’ hoping he had the right amount of gratitude in his voice.

  ‘Okay, call me when it’s done and I’ll sort the order,’ Chucky concluded, and the call was over.

  As he replaced the receiver, Ernesto smiled for the first time in weeks. It was fate. It had to be. A double load, just when he’d decided that money was the answer to his problems. And that condescending little shit, offering him a bigger commission now, after all this time. He should have been on a proper cut from the beginning. He took all the risks, didn’t he, showing his face around to change their filthy money. He’d never let them down and he knew they trusted him one hundred percent. Ha, stupid Irish cunts. He’d show them.

  The simple plan came together quickly in his head. He would arrive at Reus airport and collect the money from one of the Irish - as he always did. His old Land Rover would be crammed full of cash and he’d drive off alone to visit La Jonquera, the little town between France and Spain that was littered with various small banks and bureaus in which he changed the currency from Northern Ireland sterling into pesetas. He would still do that. Irish sterling wouldn’t be any good to him, so he still needed to make the exchange, but now came the clever part. For years those dumb, Irish bastards had thought it took two days to change the money, but it only took one. The second day had been spent at a whorehouse along the coast where he treated himself from the little extra he took on the exchange rate. Just one peseta per note; he’d never been greedy. This time, with double the cash, he probably would need two days, but he wouldn’t need five and that gave him all the time he needed to get away.

  They knew that he lived in Madrid, and he would be going anywhere but. His house was rented and he didn’t care about it. Since Anna had left it was no longer a home anyway. None of those bog stupid Irish could speak any Spanish. That’s why they needed him. What was it with English speakers who just assumed everyone would communicate in their language? All he needed to do was disappear forever into the depths of central Spain, or maybe even Portugal, and they’d never find him. He’d have more money than he’d ever dreamed of, and with money he could keep a woman happy. He’d never be lonely again.

  ***

  The cigar was finished and Ernesto glanced at his Cartier watch, wondering where the time went. Reliving his plan to con
the Irish, which had played out to perfection, had lightened his mood and the feelings of melancholia had passed. Now he was hungry and thirsty. ‘First food - then a beer or two - or maybe even three,’ he said, laughing at his own joke. He changed from his robe into his day clothes and began a leisurely stroll through his manicured garden then down the stone steps and into his garage, where he paused to admire his shiny Mercedes. He couldn’t help it. All these long years he’d wanted one, he’d drooled over them - and now, there it sat, gleaming and waiting for no one but him. ‘Mm, I love this car,’ he whispered as he opened the door and idly slid behind the wheel. The cool feel of the leather seats through his clothes made him smile. All was perfect. He donned his Ray Bans, admired his reflection in the rear view mirror and reversed out of the garage.

  There were several good places to eat and drink close by, but he’d recently found his new favourite spot about an hour away in the exclusive seaside town of Sitges. He’d been five or six times now, and he loved the expensive air of Bar Pascal and the elite clientele it encouraged. He smiled to think how much his life had changed over the last few months. He was now one of the elite and he had women whenever he wanted them. The best thing that ever happened was when that bitch of a wife left him.

  12

  The Stakeout

  The Irishmen had been sitting in the car for about an hour now and Darren was bored. Lazily he lit yet another cigarette then, mid yawn, as he was about to flick the match out of the window, a new golden Mercedes Benz sports car arrived and parked in a spot close to the terrace of Bar Pascal. As the driver emerged, Thomas held up the photo again. ‘Finally,’ he sighed. ‘I think that could be our guy.’

  They watched the man walk to the terrace, waving at a well-dressed couple as he went. The couple responded with a half-hearted greeting and then concentrated intently on their meal. The man found a table and sat alone under a parasol directly in their line of sight. Darren looked closely at the photograph in Thomas’ hand, then at the man and then back at the photograph. ‘Yes, I think it’s him,’ he agreed, ‘but we’ve got to know for sure. Wait here and don’t take your eyes off him.’

  He left Thomas in the car and walked casually towards the terrace, stopping just before he reached it to stand behind one of the palms and look back at Thomas in the car. His friend gave him the thumbs up. Good, that meant he couldn’t readily be seen by any of the diners. Of course, he couldn’t see them either, but Thomas could. ‘Oye, Ernesto,’ he shouted loudly. Several heads turned in his direction, faces clearly showing confusion or disdain that someone should be so vulgar while they were eating.

  Ernesto jumped when he heard his name, glancing round in unison with his fellow diners, then he inhaled sharply and stared quickly back down at the menu. Had he heard correctly? Was that his name? Unlikely, surely. He was known here as Senor Ruiz. His was a common enough name, of course, but still it was a little unsettling. There was no further shout and everyone was eating, drinking and chatting once more as Ernesto pulled the menu closer to his face and looked around again. He could see nothing out of place and finally persuaded himself that he must have been mistaken. The waiter came to take his order and he put the incident to the back of his mind.

  Another thumbs up from Thomas gave Darren the all clear to leave the shelter of the tree and make his way back to the car. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘His name’s Ernesto, that’s for sure, and he looked nervous as Hell,’ Thomas reported.

  ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Me too,’ Thomas agreed as the two men settled down to continue their wait.

  ‘Did you hear about our Duggy?’ asked Thomas after a long period of silence.

  It was rare for his friend to initiate a conversation and Darren asked in surprise, ‘No, what’s up?

  ‘He’s dead - found on Crumlin Road - shot dead.’

  ‘What the f…? When? Why didn’t you tell me before, man? ‘Duggy dead? What the fuck was a man like him doing on Crumlin Road?’ Darren’s jaw dropped as he fumbled to ask all the questions that sprang to his mind. He’d known Duggy Mallone almost as long as he’d known Thomas. Good bloke, strong for the cause and certainly not someone who’d stray into that part of Belfast. Running parallel to Shankill Road, Crumlin was fiercely Protestant and highly dangerous for any Catholic.

  ‘Aye, he’s dead all right, day after you left, I think. Shot in the head, and nobody has a clue what the fuck he was doing there,’ Thomas said, his voice low and monotone.

  Darren stared at his friend, waiting to see if there was more to come, but the conversation was over. He left Thomas to his thoughts.

  The sun had set and Bar Pascal was closing before their target rose, the last to leave. The Irishmen were stiff and hungry after so many hours sitting in the car and they were relieved that their vigil was coming to an end. More than once they’d felt conspicuous, just sitting there like that, and had discussed going into the bar themselves. The idea was discarded, though. Lupo’s car blended in nicely with their surroundings, but neither man had been prepared for the unofficial dress code they observed and they would have been totally out of place on the inviting terrace. Also, Thomas’ lack of Spanish and thick Irish accent would have been hard to disguise. ‘Besides, I don’t think we could afford it mate,’ Darren had reasoned.

  Finally they watched Ernesto approach his car. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet, which was hardly surprising considering the number of drinks they’d witnessed. He dropped his keys twice as he fumbled to open his door and didn’t even seem to notice as Darren pulled the Rover up behind him. Thomas moved quickly, exiting the car and clubbing the man from behind.

  Ernesto came round to darkness and a throbbing head. He couldn’t remember getting home. That was hardly a first, but he must have really laid one on this time as he hadn’t even made it to his comfortable bed and had obviously passed out on the floor, which felt like it was moving. God, he hoped he hadn’t pranged his beautiful car. He started to stretch, but was confused that he didn’t seem able to move. Vomit rose from his stomach to his throat, but he was forced to swallow it again. He couldn’t open his mouth. What the Hell was happening to him?

  Seconds turned into minutes as he struggled to comprehend the situation. He felt a roughness round his wrists and, forcing his tongue through his lips, detected a stickiness as though his mouth was sealed. But it was the way the floor suddenly lurched, throwing him upwards just an inch or so before his head connected with a ridiculously low ceiling, which finally clarified his position. He was bound and gagged and he was in the boot of a car. What the fuck?

  Slowly, through the fog of his mind, a memory formed. Someone had called his name. Someone knew where to find him and knew who he was. His confusion cleared and was quickly replaced by panic and then terror. The scream formed in his throat but all that emerged was a muffled wail. He fought his bonds fruitlessly. Nothing would give as he wriggled and thrashed in his confinement until he felt the car coming to a stop. A few seconds later the boot opened and a weak moonlight illuminated two faces staring down at him. He recognised neither. Strong arms took hold of him and dragged him out into the night and he shook uncontrollably as he was forced into a kneeling position.

  As one of the men spoke to him, he found he couldn’t understand a word. It was English, he was pretty sure, but he had never heard such a heavy accent. Then the second man spoke, and his words were clear. ‘Where’s our fucking money?’ This time the accent was obvious. He’d had many conversations with similar voices. Whatever the next stage above terror was, Ernesto wasn’t sure, but he entered it now. He’d known it while still in the boot, but now there was no doubt. The Irish had found him and it was all over.

  As the tape was pulled from his mouth, he heard himself screaming incoherently in a mixture of Spanish and English, pleading, praying; saying he was sorry over and over again. He glanced wildly from side to sid
e, seeing nothing but dark fields and a deserted road. There was clearly no escape and his mumbled pleas continued.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ yelled the man who was easy to understand. ‘Where’s our fucking money? Dónde está nuestro dinero?’

  He was surprised to hear his native tongue and he stared into the cold eyes of the man speaking to him. ‘I spent it,’ he finally managed.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘I’ll get it back for you. I promise. I’ll find it somewhere. I’ll repay it. I’ll get it all back. I’ll….’

  Thomas’ fist silenced him. ‘Fuck you and fuck the money. You were trusted and you stole, but you stole from the wrong people didn’t you, you idiot?’

  Darren began to translate, but it was clear from the man’s terrified eyes that the point had been made. ‘Please let me go,’ begged Ernesto.

  Thomas ignored the plea. He continued in a low growl, Darren now translating every word as sentence was passed. ‘Orders from the boys in Ireland. Even if you had the money, you’re gone. Even if you could repay every penny, no one steals from the boys and lives. What sort of message would that send, eh?’

  Ernesto looked from one man to the next. He couldn’t speak now, but the terror in his eyes mingled with resignation and an acceptance of his fate. Tears rolled down his cheeks and a wet patch appeared on his trousers.

  ‘Butch,’ said Thomas, the one word conveying the final order.

  As he stood in front of the kneeling man, Darren pulled The Killer from the pocket of his jeans. He pressed the release switch and its razor-like blade flew out. Though Ernesto’s tears continued, he made no further sound as his lips moved in silent prayer. Thomas knelt before him and removed his possessions: rings, wallet, car keys. This needed to look like a robbery for the local police. Anyone who mattered back home would be aware of the execution and that a point had been made. Ernesto closed his eyes and waited as Darren walked behind him, pulling his head backwards and exposing his throat. ‘Are you ready?’ he whispered.