Killing for the Company

He chucked the phone on to the passenger seat, leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He was dead beat. The beer, the scuffle at the flat, walking too far with his bad leg — it was all taking its toll. He ought to rest, but rest wasn’t on the menu. He’d be insane to go back home, but he needed somewhere to lie low. Where he couldn’t be found. Somewhere to get his head in order. With someone he could trust.

But as far as Chet was concerned, trustworthy people were as rare as a nun in a bikini. If Luke Mercer was in the country, Chet would already be on the way to Hereford. But he wasn’t, and in the absence of his old SAS mucker, there was only one other person he would even think of approaching. He picked up his phone and called a number that he knew by heart.

It rang for several seconds before a voice answered. ‘Who the hell

…?’

‘Doug, it’s me. Chet.’

A heavy sigh. ‘Jesus, Chet. What time is it?’

‘I don’t know — about 01.00? Listen, mate, I need a favour.’

‘Chet, this a wind-up? You been on the beers?’

‘No. Yes, but… look, can you meet me?’

A pause.

‘Now?’

‘Now. It’s important.’

‘Mate, I can’t. I’m out of town. Trains are done for the day. You never called — I went to the girlfriend’s place.’

Chet vaguely remembered Doug saying that his latest squeeze lived somewhere south of town. Mitcham Junction, was it?

‘Plus,’ Doug continued, ‘it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning.’

Chet cursed silently, his brain still racing.

‘Can you RV first thing?’

‘I guess…’

‘Clapham Junction. Platform 15 — one five — 06.30.’

‘Fine. Look, Chet, what the hell’s this all about?’

I wish I knew, Chet thought to himself.

‘06.30,’ he repeated. ‘Don’t be late.’

He hung up before Doug could reply.

Chet threw the phone down again and caught himself checking the rear-view mirror. Checking for what? He didn’t know, but he knew his heart was racing and his mouth was dry.

Fear? Damn right. But that didn’t mean he was going to succumb to it. He kept his gaze on the mirror, and prepared to sit it out till morning.

Suze McArthur stared at her phone like it was a snake. She was shaking. How had that guy tracked her down? Who was he working for?

A chill sickness welled up in her stomach. She found herself shivering, and felt as though all the strength had left her limbs. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her, but that did no good.

A noise in the corridor outside.

Suze heard herself gasp.

It was nothing, she told herself. She remembered being a child, terrified by strange sounds after her lights had been turned out. Her doctor father, when he was not away, would come in and smooth down her hair. ‘There’s no one here, princess,’ he’d whisper. ‘Just Mummy and Daddy, and we won’t let anything scare you. All you can hear is our old house creaking. That’s what happens at night.’

But there was nobody here to smooth her hair down now. Her father was dead, killed by a landmine in Angola when he was out there tending to sick children. Her mother couldn’t look after herself, let alone Suze.

Another noise. ‘It’s just the old house creaking,’ she whispered to herself.

The front door was locked. The windows too.

So why didn’t she feel safe?

It crossed her mind that she could go downstairs. Sometimes she picked up groceries for Vern and Dorothy, the sweet old couple who lived underneath her. She’d become friends with them. They were always on her case, telling her she should be settling down with a nice young man. A week ago they’d gone off on a cruise of the Norwegian fjords, and had left their key with Suze, just in case. But something prevented her even from moving, let alone venturing down the staircase in the middle of the night.

I should get out of here, she thought. Go somewhere else for a few days. Get my head straight.

That’s what she’d do. First thing in the morning. Pack a bag. Get out of London.

But morning seemed a long way off. She glanced over her shoulder at the front door. She had locked it, hadn’t she?

Another chill ran through her. She felt too scared to get up and check.

03.26 hrs.

Chet awoke suddenly.

It took him a few seconds to remember why he was sitting behind the wheel of his car in this dark side street, and he cursed himself for having dropped off. He was frozen. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a police siren. But this street was quiet.

Almost.

He squinted in the gloom. Through the windscreen he could see a figure up ahead. Twenty metres away, max, and walking towards him.

Instinctively, Chet felt his fingers creeping towards the ignition key. The figure was moving quickly. At fifteen metres, he could make out that it was a woman. Slim. He couldn’t see her face, not in the darkness.

The angry features of the intruder in his flat flashed through his mind.