Hot Pursuit Read online

  5

  ‘So here we go, then. Photos, gloves, guns, Mintos.’ Nimrod, talking aloud to himself, ran through his mental checklist one more time, although he had been repeating it over and over in his head like a mantra for most of the morning. He and Cain had managed to get up early, showered, had a coffee, even fitted in fifty sit-ups. Life was sweet, the traffic was light and Nimrod had got everything on his list.

  If anyone had ever asked Nimrod Brewster for his tips for success in the hit man business, they would have included a clear sense of purpose about what he was trying to achieve, good photos of the target, precise information, an accurate to-do list, a sharp suit, comfy shoes and a good selection of boiled sweets for the journey.

  Tucked away under the CD player, the radio scanner that the Invisible Man had left them was tuned into the police frequency. It burbled and bipped and peeped away in the background, snatches of police messages adding a rather piquant soundtrack to Nimrod’s thoughts.

  Nimrod slipped the envelope of photos out of the glove compartment of the undistinguished silver-grey hire car and took one final long hard look at Nick Lucas’s face, fixing the features in his mind.

  Nimrod was good at his job, and when it was a hit, not a beating-up or a frightening or something just for fun – which to be frank, as he got older, Nimrod was less and less keen to be involved in – he prided himself on a certain swiftness of execution. These days he preferred to specialise. There was no mess, no unnecessary pain or fuss if he could possibly help it, just in and out and all over. Cool, steely, clinical. Nimrod saw himself as an emissary of death, not that he would ever say that to Cain, or any of his clients. He tugged his lapels straight. He was death’s personal postboy.

  It was an easy drive – M25, M40 all the way – empty roads, good weather. Nimrod stretched. Beside him, Cain drove; he always drove just under the speed limit, carefully, considerately, with gear changes as smooth as oiled glass. Broadshouldered, newly shaved and dressed in their neat charcoal-grey suits and crisply tailored macs the two of them could easily pass for Mormons or off-duty police officers. Invisible, low-key, discreet, that’s what Nimrod liked best. He made a mental note to add this to the checklist in case anyone ever asked him to appear on a This is Your Life Villains’ Special.

  The little Oxfordshire village of Renham was still early-morning quiet, with just the odd car or two pulling out of driveways, exhaust fumes spiralling away in the new dawn air. Sunlight reflected on the morning dew, birds busy in the horse chestnut trees that sheltered the caravan site behind the Old Dairy. All in all it was a lovely morning.

  ‘So,’ Nimrod said, as they parked up under a tall hawthorn hedge close to the caravans; not so close as to draw any unwanted attention to themselves but not so far away that they had to cross a lot of open ground to reach their target. ‘Number fourteen, here we come. In, out, over and home in time for tea and buns.’

  Cain pulled a face. ‘What, buns, for breakfast? I was hoping we could stop off for egg and bacon somewhere when we’re finished.’

  ‘It’s just a turn of phrase.’

  Cain thought for a few seconds and then said, ‘Oh okay. So can I have the window seat when we go home, then?’

  Nimrod pulled a face. ‘No. What the hell brought that up? It isn’t a done deal yet.’ He nodded towards the regimented row of vans.

  ‘Oh come on. How much trouble do you think one chef’s going to give us?’

  Nimrod surreptitiously slipped a hand around his well-toned belly to check the butt of the gun concealed in the small of his back, tucked away neatly in its custom-built holster. Warmed by the heat of his body, he still liked to make sure it was there, always afraid – in the way of bad dreams – that one day he would reach for it and find it gone.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself. Photos, gloves, guns, Mintoes. Today’s mantra.

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Mr Lucas, I was talking about the bloody window seat,’ said Nimrod. ‘Anyway, yer never know, I might fancy it.’ He shot his cuffs and then pulled his jacket straight.

  ‘The window seat? Oh, yeah right,’ snorted Cain. ‘You always say that but you hate looking out of the window. I’ve seen you with your eyes closed when we’re taking off, pretending to read the instructions on them cards. You don’t fool me for a minute.’

  They were out of the car now and walking without apparent hurry through the crisp early morning light of a brand new summer’s day, every sense alive, sniffing the air like feral dogs.

  ‘But you promised,’ said Cain petulantly.

  ‘I did not promise,’ said Nimrod, all the while his eyes working over the little numbered plaques stuck into the verge beside each of the plots.

  Just before they got to number fourteen the two men fell silent. They paused for an instant, other older animal senses picking up the smells, the sights and signs that couldn’t be explained in words, and that ordinary men, those not amongst life’s natural predators, might very easily miss. An instant later they moved off simultaneously in an unspoken agreement to get the job over and done with. It was time.

  As he stepped over the knee-high fence surrounding plot fourteen, Nimrod took a deep cleansing breath; only the mad or those with no imagination would ever assume that this job was easy or simple, their senses blunted by one too many Hollywood blockbusters. The reality was hot and raw and fierce and terrifying, a moment of absolute power mixed with absolute dread.

  Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword was another mantra that Nimrod Brewster had tucked away in one of those dark foetid little rooms behind his eyes. Some days the words were clearer and closer than others and they were never sharper or louder than when Nimrod was sprung and ready and waiting for the off.

  In those last few seconds before the hit, when everything went into slow motion, when time stretched out into aeons, when every heartbeat hung in the air like a roll of thunder, he could see the words blazing in neon somewhere deep inside his skull. In and out, in and out, each breath rising in his chest seemed to take a week to run its course.

  The two of them took up positions either side of the caravan door. Pressing himself tight up against the bodywork, Nimrod gave an almost imperceptable nod and an instant later Cain slipped a jemmy bar down his sleeve and prised the flimsy metal door open. There was barely any noise, certainly no fuss, just a faint, satisfying thunk as the lock popped under the pressure. As it did there was the sensation of time rushing forward to meet them, catching them like elastic snapping back.

  Silent as cats, despite their bulk, the two men sprung inside, filling the tiny space, covering each other’s backs with the guns that had appeared in their hands without any apparent effort like the dark doves of a malevolent magician.

  Scanning left and right Nimrod’s senses burnt white-hot, the adrenaline rush shutting out everything except for the moment; it was pure Zen. His breath roared through his chest now, as loud as an express train, his pulse screaming in his ears.

  The kitchen was clear; corridor, second bedroom, bathroom, too. The whole place smelt of frying and cheap perfume.

  Cain pressed his ear to what had to be the master-bedroom door and with a quick glance at his partner kicked it open, covered by Nimrod, who then strode inside, his gun ahead of him like some dark divining rod.

  ‘What the fuck,’ grunted a sleepy voice from under a duvet.

  Later, Nimrod Brewster would say it was prescience that stopped him from opening fire there and then, although actually what did it was the sight of one large, perfect creamy-white breast framed by a greasy grey ruck of grubby duvet cover.

  A fraction of a second later a woman with a mane of crunchy, scrunchy bleached-blonde hair sat up and having tried to focus on their faces, fumbled around on the bedside table for her glasses. ‘James, what on earth is going on?’ she mumbled thickly. ‘There’s a man in the room.’

  As she spoke Cain whipped back the bedclothes.

  Wrapped around the woman like the rind on a rasher of b
acon was a long thin hairy man. His flesh was the colour of skimmed milk, with an infill of coarse dark curls that covered him like a moth-eaten pelt.

  ‘James Cook?’ Nimrod barked in the tone he copied from the armed-response unit that had called just often enough at his various homes to encourage him to move permanently to Spain.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said the man after a second or two, ‘I’m James Cook, what’s it to you?’ all the while scrabbling to pull the duvet back up over what, it had to be said, was not the most impressive of bodies, while blinking and rubbing his eyes. ‘Who the hell are you anyway and what are you doing in my bedroom?’ The voice was thick and crusty with sleep.

  Cain looked at Nimrod and sniffed, his gun already tucked back in its holster. ‘It’s not him, is it?’ he said.

  Nimrod shook his head. ‘No.’

  James Cook was nearly wide awake now and fast beginning to collect his thoughts. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he growled.

  Nimrod slipped his gun away.

  ‘Gas board, Sir,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to panic. Someone rang in and reported a leak.’ And then before either of the figures in the bed could say another word Cain and Nimrod backed out of the room as quickly and quietly as mist, closing the door tight behind them.

  ‘Did that bloke have a gun?’ asked Bernie, totally bemused.

  Stella slipped on her glasses and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so, it looked like it was some kind of detector thing to me. Although when they came to mine last year, they knocked. It must be a real emergency if they’re bursting straight into places.’

  Bernie got out of bed, pulled on a tee shirt and – still a little muddled – retraced the intruders’ steps. There was no sign of them at all except that the caravan door-lock had been neatly sprung, and there was an indentation to one side that suggested force. Neatly done though, thought Bernie; the bailiffs who had broken into his last house had ripped the door clean off the hinges.

  Barefoot, Bernie clambered down the steps onto the dewy grass. From somewhere close by he could hear the sound of a car engine firing up and driving away. He looked into the distance trying to work out what the hell had just happened and what it was he had missed. As Bernie mulled it over it struck him that surely the caravan site only had bottled gas. But before he could slot all the pieces together, Stella, in a low, dreamy, little-girl-lost voice, called, ‘Why don’t you come back to bed Jamesie. It feels ever so big and lonely and cold in here all on my own.’

  ‘But what about the post office?’ he said. ‘I thought you said you’d got to be –’ The words dried in his throat as he climbed back into the caravan.

  She was standing in the open bedroom doorway, naked except for a sly smile and her horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I have, but it’s early yet,’ she purred. ‘I’ve got a couple of hours before I’ve got to go over and open up. Any ideas? Or are you too tired?’ she said, and then after a second or two added, ‘I mean, no pressure; if you don’t want to we could always just snuggle up and talk. They say that’s the worst thing, don’t they? You know, the pressure to perform.’

  For a few moments Bernie tried to work out what the hell she was talking about and then it came back to him: impotence. It seemed that Stella Ramsey was still on a one-woman mission to heal him.

  ‘Let’s just see what happens, shall we?’ he said in an undertone and followed her back into the bedroom, all thoughts of the gasmen receding under a tidal wave of lust.

  ‘So can I have the window seat, then?’

  Nimrod looked across at Cain. ‘Can’t you think about anything else?’ he snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration. ‘How does this look on the score sheet, eh? What does it do for our reputation? One nil to the opposition. Bugger. How could we have got the wrong man?’

  ‘It could have been worse. At least we didn’t shoot him,’ said Cain, drawing a gloved finger across his throat miming mixed metaphors.

  Nimrod nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right, it’s not our fault we got bad intelligence. Have you got any of those mint humbugs left over there in the door pocket?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Cain nodded. ‘What are we going to do now, then?’ he asked, taking one and then passing Nimrod the packet.

  ‘Go back to the hotel I suppose. I’ll have to phone our man to tell him that it was a no ball.’ Nimrod pulled the envelope out of the glove compartment just to check. He ran a gloved finger under the line of type: James Cook, number fourteen, The Old Dairy, Renham. He sighed; at the least they had got the wrong man and not the wrong address.

  It was well after nine when Maggie Morgan finally woke up and for a moment, as she lay looking up at the cobwebs clinging to the coving above the wardrobe, she marvelled on just how amazing the human brain was. Amazing what it could come up with, really complex and ridiculous dreams, so detailed, so convinc—

  ‘Gooooooal-lazio!’ screamed Joe, the distant words cutting through her thoughts like a Stanley knife. ‘He shoots, he scores. Oh yes – did you see the curve on that? We are the champions – we are the champions,’ he sung at the top of his voice.

  ‘Oh come off it. That was offside,’ protested Ben. ‘Wasn’t that offside? Tell Joe it was offside.’

  ‘I’m not sure. How about we call it a draw, lads, and go in and get some breakfast?’ said a distinctive male voice that Maggie seemed to remember featuring rather heavily in last night’s ridiculous and extremely complex dream.

  It was all coming back now. Maggie rolled over and clambered out of bed. Pulling on a dressing gown she looked out of the bedroom window. There below her on the dew-damp, overgrown grass, in amongst the holiday washing, two boys were playing footie with someone who may or may not be a lunatic. It was a great way to start the day.

  An instant later the phone rang and Maggie felt a strange flicker of relief, of at least being temporarily excused the dilemma of what to do with a good-looking lunatic and her children. Almost anything had to be better than that.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh good morning,’ said a cultured female voice. ‘Could I speak to Margaret Morgan, please?’

  ‘Speaking,’ Maggie said guardedly, not exactly sure what might follow; being a teacher she had toyed on more than one occasion with the idea of going ex-directory.

  The woman sounded relieved. ‘I’m sorry to ring you so early but I wondered if you could help me. I’m trying to track down Bernie Fielding – and I –’

  ‘Oh right. Good,’ Maggie said, cutting the woman short. Down in the garden they had finally agreed to settle the problem with a penalty shootout. ‘He was expecting someone to be in touch – if you can just hang on a minute I’ll go and get him for you.’

  ‘Get him? What he’s there?’ said the woman incredulously. ‘With you?’

  ‘Well, of course he is, I could hardly throw him out on the street, could I? Although I have to admit the idea crossed my mind. I’m certain he’ll be incredibly relieved once all of this is sorted out.’

  The woman took a breath. ‘Really? Are you saying that Bernie is prepared to talk to us?’

  Maggie laughed. ‘Well of course he is, what other option does he have? You know where he is, you know what he’s been up to. Hang on, I’ll just go and fetch him for you –’

  ‘No, no, there’s no need,’ said the woman quickly. ‘By the way, could I just confirm who I am speaking to?’

  ‘Maggie,’ said Maggie, ‘Maggie Morgan.’

  ‘Bernie’s ex-wife?’

  ‘Well I suppose you could say that,’ said Maggie, laughing nervously. This wasn’t quite how she had expected the conversation to go.

  ‘Right, well that’s absolutely wonderful,’ said the woman. ‘We’d like to come round and talk to him today if that’s possible.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be just fine,’ said Maggie. It didn’t sound as if this woman knew what she was doing – no wonder Nick had ended up in such a mess. ‘What time will you be here?’

  The woman hesitated and then said, ‘S
hall we say after lunch? Around two? Will that be all right?’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be perfectly okay – I don’t think he’s got any plans to go anywhere. I’ll let him know you called.’ Maggie glanced back out into the garden, and as she did so the bedroom clock caught her eye. It was nine. She smiled. Just another five hours and everything would be back to normal.

  In the garden Joe had taken a dive – or at least that was what Ben said. Maggie hurried downstairs to tell Nick the news.

  Lesley, Robbie Hughes’ personal assistant, dropped the phone back into its cradle and smiled triumphantly. ‘Gotcha,’ she hissed in an undertone and then shook her head with amazement.

  It seemed almost ridiculously easy now; it was only her third phone call of the morning. Bernie’s mum had been taken away and put in a home or so the woman who was living in her bungalow reckoned. Although it had occurred to Lesley as she hung up that given Bernie’s track record and the fact that he had to have got it from somewhere the woman could well have been lying.

  His first wife had sworn and then hung up after suggesting exactly what Lesley might like to do to Bernie if she ever found him, and then bingo! Voila. Third time lucky. Lesley smiled.

  It was hard to believe that after all these years Bernie Fielding was finally there, slap bang in their sights. Lesley chewed her lip, her heart fluttering; it almost felt like divine intervention. Surely it was meant to be.

  For an instant she caught a glimpse of Robbie’s face in her mind’s eye. She imagined his gratitude, his delight and with it came a fantasy fast-forward of images clamouring for her attention, ending with a registry-office wedding and then a church blessing; with Robbie, resplendent in top hat and tails, making a speech at their reception in a creamy-white marquee pitched on her parents’ lawn.