Killer, p.2
Killer, page 2
‘He wants to have a talk with you,’ Valerie said.
‘With me! What about?’
‘Security, of course. What else?’
‘I don’t know what else. Have you been twisting his arm?’
Denver had a suspicion that Miss West had been putting in some public relations work on his behalf, and he was not at all sure that it pleased him. He was not keen on having Roper throw some business in his direction simply to gratify his private secretary. The thought of being under any obligation to the Whizzkid of all people was not a welcome one.
‘I did suggest you might be worth consulting,’ Valerie said. ‘I wouldn’t call that twisting his arm.’
‘Coming from you any suggestion might carry a lot of weight, don’t you think?’
‘Well, goodness me!’ she said. ‘So what if it does! Don’t you want to pick up some extra business?’
‘Of course I do, but I’d rather pick it up in my own way, if you don’t mind. I don’t want Roper to dish out a bit of employment for me just as a favour to you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Roy! What crazy idea have you got into your noddle?’ Miss West spoke sharply and he could tell she was annoyed by the way she was attacking an inoffensive slab of dough on the pastry board. ‘You don’t surely imagine he’s going to hire your services just because I work for him, do you? If he doesn’t believe you can give him good value for his money he’ll soon send you packing. He didn’t get to be a millionaire by throwing the stuff away.’
‘I don’t suppose he did.’
‘Well, then –’
‘All right,’ Denver said. ‘Let’s not argue about it. It isn’t worth a fight between you and me, is it? It’s not that important.’ He had no wish to quarrel with her, and in the end it would probably all come to nothing.
‘And you’ll go and talk to him if I arrange an appointment? You’ll do that?’
‘If it’ll please you.’
She gave him a look that suggested she was not altogether satisfied with such a grudging acceptance, but she must have come to the conclusion that it would be best to drop the subject for the present and she said no more.
They were eating the meal at the kitchen table when he told her about the encounter with Duggie Heeney. She looked concerned.
‘He threatened you?’
‘In a guarded sort of way.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He threw out a few hints that I might come to some harm. I got the impression that he holds me responsible for his spell in jail because I was the one who arrested him. I have no doubt he’d like to get his own back.’
‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘Nothing. When it comes to the point he won’t have the nerve to do anything. He hates my guts of course, that’s certain; and he’s as mean as they come and vicious with it, but I’m not bothered about him.’
‘Perhaps you should be.’ She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, and he could tell that she was worried. In a way it pleased him, this concern for his welfare, because it indicated that he still meant a lot to her; and sometimes he had little teasing doubts about that.
When he looked at her and saw how lovely she was, with that silky brown hair and those lustrous eyes and all the other attributes of face and figure, he could not help wondering yet again whether the day might not come, sooner perhaps than later, when she would take stock of things and come to the conclusion that he was not the only pebble on the beach and that some of the others were a good deal more worth having. Every morning when he shaved his mirror reminded him that he was hardly a front runner in the handsome man stakes; he had never been even when younger, and now that his face had taken a bit of hammer from certain villains in the course of his detective duties it had a somewhat battered appearance.
So what could there be in him to retain her affection? What, indeed! There were surely plenty of other men around who had far more to offer than he had and would be happy to make a grab at her if given the slightest encouragement. He could think of one for a start without even trying: the Whizzkid. There could be no denying that Ken Roper had everything going for him: good looks, wealth, charm, comparative youth. And he was unattached apparently. Besides which, he had every opportunity to impress her with his eligibility, since he had her with him for five days in the week.
Denver tried not to let his mind dwell on the possibility that, even if it had not come to this at present, the relationship between Val and her employer might one day ripen into something a good deal closer than that of young tycoon and invaluable private secretary. It bothered him, and he had to admit it to himself if to no one else. In fact it bothered him a hell of a lot more than the possibility that Duggie Heeney might try to get his own back by some underhand means or other. With that threat to his person he could cope; with this other threat to the very mainspring of his existence he was not so sure that he could.
And yet he could not really be sure that there was any threat. Maybe it existed only in his own imagination. And then again, maybe not.
‘There’s no need for you to worry, Val,’ he said.
‘But I am worried. I’m afraid for you. You said yourself this man is vicious, and he feels he’s got a grudge against you. So don’t you think you ought to take some precautions?’
‘Like what? Asking for police protection? That would really give them a laugh.’
‘But it’s no laughing matter, is it?’
‘Look,’ Denver said, ‘it’s like I told you; nothing will come of it. And there’s no need to get into a lather. If I were to go running scared of every ex-con I’ve helped to put away I’d soon be a nervous wreck.’
He could see that he had failed to reassure her. She said: ‘We’re not talking about all the ex-cons; we’re talking about one in particular.’
‘Duggie Heeney is no different from the rest,’ Denver told her. But he knew it was just not true. Heeney was a nutter, and nutters were unpredictable. Your ordinary criminal was interested only in the profit motive and accepted the risk of arrest and imprisonment as one of the hazards of the trade. He would have considered it a waste of time and energy to go looking for revenge on the man who had put the bracelets on him. But someone like Heeney might not even bother to count the cost in his desire for vengeance.
Valerie said no more about it. He had not convinced her; he knew that. But there was no point in arguing about it.
All the same, he was glad she cared.
The ex-con himself, having parted company with Roy Denver, uttered those ominous final words and turned away from the kerb. He then made his way to a public-house where he sat for most of the evening brooding over his beer, smoking cigarettes which he rolled for himself and eyeing the other customers with ill-concealed disdain. Generally speaking, he had no great liking for his fellow human beings and seldom went out of his way to make friends with anybody unless it suited his purpose to do so.
A few of the people who came into the pub appeared to recognise him and gave him the nod, but none of them seemed eager to fraternise with him. Nobody came over to ask him how he was getting on, and he had no desire that they should do so. He could manage without them, did not need them; they could go to the devil for all he cared.
It was getting on for closing-time when he left the public-house and began to make his way towards what, for lack of a better term, he had to call home. There were two ways you could get to the blocks of flats which an eager council had erected when the future of accommodation for the proletariat had appeared to be with the pre-cast concrete section and the multi-storey building. One way was by the road which was used by wheeled vehicles, while the other was by a footpath which cut across a piece of derelict ground where some old factory buildings were still standing but were gradually falling into decay.
This path was used more by day than by night; after dark only the brave or the reckless walked that way, because there was a distinct possibility of being set upon by thugs or gangs of youths unless you were in a big enough party to discourage such attacks. Drug addicts and meths drinkers sometimes frequented the abandoned buildings, and there were stunted thorn bushes and clumps of elder and bramble here and there.
Heeney left the metalled road and took this dark and hazardous path without a moment’s hesitation, though he was well aware of the risk he ran. He just did not care. No one was going to make him take the longer route, no one.
But he took precautions; in the absence of a knife he provided himself with another weapon. On his way into town earlier in the day he had spotted a strip of rusty iron lying in the rough grass. It was flat and was about an inch wide and two feet long and there were some countersunk holes in the metal which seemed to have been made for screws, indicating that it might once have been used for strengthening purposes. He had picked it up and carried it with him to the point where the footpath came out on to the road, and there he had hidden it under a bush when no one was observing him.
Now as he stepped back on to the path he went to the bush which was no more than a shadowy object in the gloom and retrieved the weapon. With this grasped firmly in his hand he went on his way, alert and ready for any eventuality.
He covered more than half the distance to the tower block where his mother lived without encountering another person, and he had an odd feeling of disappointment, as though, having prepared himself for physical conflict, he had been let down. But then, as he was coming up to one of the derelict buildings, a big black shape on his right, three scarcely discernible figures appeared from this cover and took up a position on the path in front of him.
Heeney uttered a faint sighing exclamation: ‘Ah!’
He came to a halt some five or six paces from them; and they were facing him, not moving. The light was poor, but he could see that they had cropped heads and were wearing skin-tight faded jeans tucked into lace-up boots. It was as if they had been waiting for him, as if they had known he would be coming. It was as if they were looking for trouble; and maybe they had found it; found more than they had ever bargained for.
Heeney laughed softly, inwardly, exultingly, the sound almost inaudible in the still night. He was holding the iron rod behind his back so that it was invisible to the other three.
One of the skinheads broke the silence: ‘Where you think you’re goin’?’
‘I don’t think,’ Heeney said, speaking in a low controlled voice. ‘I know. I’m going home.’
‘So you got a home! Well, think of that now. Who’d have believed it?’
The other two sniggered, so maybe this passed for wit in their book.
‘Are you going to let me pass?’ Heeney asked; still calm, still keeping it polite; ominously so.
‘You gotta pay first,’ the skinhead said. He seemed to be the leader, the one who did the talking. ‘This is a toll-path. Didn’t you know?’
‘And you collect the toll?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How much is it?’
‘All you got on you.’
‘So I give you all I’ve got and you let me pass? Is that it?’
‘Not quite. Then we think about it. If you don’t have enough on you maybe we take it out of you some other way.’
‘Is that a fact? Like carving me up a little here and there, maybe?’
‘You’re smart,’ the skinhead said. ‘You got it right in one.’
Heeney saw that he was carrying a knife in his hand. The one on his left also had a knife, while the one on the other side appeared to be wearing something on his right hand which looked remarkably like a knuckleduster with spikes.
Nice boys!
‘You punks!’ Heeney said, no longer in the mock polite tones he had used until now but spitting out the words with disdain. ‘You miserable stinking punks!’ He was not afraid; he had handled tougher babies than these in stir. Some of them had imagined he was easy, a pushover; they had discovered it was not so; he knew how to take care of himself. After that they had left him alone. He was no mixer and he was nobody’s man but his own.
The skinheads were momentarily taken aback by this sudden change in the attitude of their intended victim. They hesitated, as if uncertain how to react. Heeney gave them no time to make up their minds; he brought the length of iron from behind his back and went on to the attack.
They were not expecting it and did not immediately respond. Heeney went for the one in the middle, the one who had done the talking. He made a sweep with the iron and the edge of it caught the skinhead on the wrist just above the hand that was holding the knife. There was a sharp cracking sound which might have been a bone breaking. The skinhead gave a howl and dropped the knife.
The other one with a knife made a lunge at Heeney, but Heeney was too quick for him and gave him a poke in the throat with the end of the iron rod. It stopped him in his tracks, but there was still the one with the knuckleduster. Heeney turned and caught a glimpse of the metal spikes coming at his face. He ducked away but was just too late to avoid the blow completely; he felt one of the points scratch his chin.
It was like the nick made by a razor when shaving, nothing, a little blood: but it angered him, made him really venomous. He brought his knee up into the skinhead’s crotch, which caused the man to double up in pain. While he was in that position Heeney delivered a blow with the iron rod to the back of the neck which knocked him to the ground, where he lay dazed and groaning. Heeney kicked him in the ribs to give him something more to groan about and stepped back to survey the situation.
The other two were making no move to come at him again. The one who had done the talking was holding his right arm with his left hand and he seemed to be in pain. The one Heeney had prodded in the throat was also feeling his injury, to judge by the sounds he was making.
Heeney spoke mockingly: ‘Well, come on then. Don’t tell me you’ve had enough. Not already. Why, we’ve hardly begun as yet.’ He swung the rod in an arc like a man wielding a sabre, cutting the air, as if to demonstrate what he could do should the need arise. ‘Besides, there’s that toll you was talking about; not been collected yet, has it? Which one of you’s going to step forward and pick my pockets?’
None of them moved. The one on the ground had made an attempt to get up but he was still on his hands and knees, head drooping. The one with the damaged wrist had not yet picked up his knife. In less than a minute Heeney had tamed all three of them and they no longer had any eagerness for a fight. They just watched him sullenly as he savaged the air with the weapon in his hand.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you’ve got no more to say to me I’ll be on my way. I can’t stick around here all night. You better get off the path or I might walk right over you. Okay?’
They moved aside to let him pass; even the one on the ground crawled away. Heeney walked jauntily past them. He was still on the alert, guessing that they might come up from behind and attack him in the rear; but they made no move to do so.
Ten paces on he turned and spoke to them. ‘You wanter know who I am? I’m Duggie Heeney. Remember that. Heeney. Nobody interferes with me, nobody.’
Maybe the word would get around. Older people might remember the name; he hadn’t been away that long, damn it! But these punks; they’d been no more than kids when he’d gone away. Well, they knew about him now; he had given them a lesson they were not likely to forget in a hurry.
He walked on again. He heard the one with the bad wrist shout: ‘Heeney!’ He stopped and faced them. The distance made them merge into the darkness, shadows that were barely visible.
‘We’ll get you, Heeney.’ The voice was hoarse, savage, almost hysterical. ‘We’ll make you pay for this, see if we don’t.’
Heeney thought of going back. Maybe he had not taught them the lesson well enough; maybe he ought to give them some more punishment.
But they were not worth it. They might talk big, hand out threats, but deep down there was nothing to them, nothing.
‘Punks!’
He turned again and went on his way, swinging the iron rod like a walking-stick.
‘Punks!’
THREE
Decision
He came out on to the road still carrying the iron. There were street-lamps here and there, but very few people about and little traffic. The blocks of flats stood up like monstrous growths, some windows showing lights, others dark.
Heeney crossed a piece of waste ground and came to the entrance to the block where his mother lived. A gang of kids had congregated there and they were making enough noise to waken the dead; shouting, kicking things around and swearing like little troopers. Heeney came to a halt and looked at them. He knew who they were; his mother had told him about them; they terrorised the older people in the flats, vandalised everything they could lay their hands on and made a general nuisance of themselves.
They seemed to be under no parental control, played truant from school and got up to all kinds of mischief. The police did little about the problem; maybe they had too many other engagements and considered a lot of kids not worth bothering about. Mrs Heeney never went out of the flat after dark; she was afraid to, what with these young gangsters and the muggers. And there were others like her; they just locked their doors and hoped no one would break in.
None of the kids noticed Heeney at first. Then one of them saw him and drew the attention of the others.
‘Look who’s here!’
They all went suddenly quiet and stared at him.
Heeney said nothing.
One of the boys said: ‘What you want, mister?’ He was bigger than most of the others and he could have been the gang leader. He had tow-coloured hair and a snub nose and a crop of pimples like pebbles on a beach. He spoke with a touch of arrogance, as though daring Heeney to make a move.
‘I want you lot out of here,’ Heeney said. ‘Beat it.’
‘Sod you!’ the boy said. ‘Who’s talking?’
