So Marsh had proved himself capable, even though he had never faced real action. A long time ago, but Marsh's escape from the swimming pool and subsequently foiling of Einar's plan had proved that the man was still skilled. And that was why Einar needed to test himself against James Marsh. But until the moment Einar had the man in his scope, or had the man's neck in his hands, he needed something else to use to allay his concerns. Some way of proving that he could beat Marsh. And he thought he knew what might work.
So he had left his hotel not long after dawn and driven to a place he had visited already on this mission, after a detour to make a purchase. The sky was grim by the time he reached his destination close to nine a.m., with rain a real promise.
He parked right where he had parked before and got out. The Golf was gone. Good, his men had gotten rid of the body. He walked into the weedy car park round the front and found the bodies of Chopper and his henchman missing, too. Inside the swimming pool, the final guy, also gone, his blood washed away. The bodies would have gone to a farm in Wales, where they would be diced and scattered. By now his men would have packaged up the molester from the hotel room for his trip to the farm, too.
Einar searched the rooms under the balcony and found what he needed. He took it to the edge of the pool and stripped off his suit jacket. He was unbuttoning his short when he realised something. This test would only work if all circumstances were the same. A shirt offered resistance in water, and Marsh had been wearing a shirt. Einar would have an advantage if he went topless. Same for the trousers.
He cursed. A nice outfit was about to be ruined. But if he died, was he really going to care?
Einar buttoned his shirt again, then sat to tie the rope around his ankle. Next he tied the free end of the rope to the gym weight. He wondered how much more a chain weighed than a rope. Would it play on his mind that Marsh had carried a little more weight? He hoped not.
Einar stood and lifted the gym weight. Right then the rain started. The dusty off-white concrete slabs were pattered with dark starbursts than quickly spread and grew and each block was soon dark grey. The still water pattered under the droplets. No need to worry about a wet shirt and trousers now. He stepped to the edge of the pool. And jumped in.
Later he went for lunch at a flash restaurant. His car radio blared some news about a building collapse in Sri Lanka, and that put Einar in mind of Sri Lankan food, which his SatNav claimed could be found at a restaurant in Crouch End. He parked near Hornsey Town Hall in the centre and walked to the restaurant. The short journey helped his clothing finally reach a comfortable level of dryness. Even so, he passed a charity shop that helped old people and ventured in to find something new. There was a tacky three-piece corduroy suit in green that he paid eight pounds for and put on in the changing room, which was just a recess in the wall with a beaded fly curtain for a door. The suit made him feel a tad conspicuous, but he wore it because he felt like being casual. He ate a cashew curry with mixed vegetables at the restaurant and left just bas the lunchtime crowd entered. His suit got too many stares for his liking and he dumped it in a bin at a nearby Top Man, emerging in a slim-fit navy suit that cost him £150. Felt much better.
Muswell Hill was only a couple of miles away. Good old London. He drove past the Marsh house, noting that nothing seemed untoward. The street was inert, nothing happening. Einar stared at the house and wished he'd left that hob burning yesterday. That would have given him points in the test against James Marsh. So what if he had become trapped in the shaft in the pool, unable to drag the gym weight through the opening before his air ran out? So what if he had had to suck on his mini rebreather while he cut the rope so he could escape? So what if James Marsh could swim like a fish? Where did that help him here on dry land, which was where this performance would eventually end? Would that have helped him save his house, had Einar chosen to burn it down? Would it have saved his wife and child, had Einar decided to cut their throats back in that hotel room, instead of waiting for Marsh to arrive?
But Einar was not convinced. He had failed to achieve something Marsh had done. Einar had tossed the man in the pool and he had survived. Einar knew that with their roles reversed, he would still be trapped in that watery hell of a coffin, very dead.
He moved on. He wasted petrol and time roaming London in his car, looking for something to do. But there was nothing that took his fancy. Every few minutes he checked his phone and was disappointed to find nothing. By now his men, or their associates, would be camped outside the houses he had dispatched them to. They would have called him if Marsh had been spotted. So Marsh had not been in contact with his or his wife's family, at least not physically. He could get the men to burst into those houses and interrogate the owners, see if any of them had been called by Marsh, been given a location for him. But that was risky. And unlikely. If Marsh had not sought sanctuary there, no way he would call to say where he was. No reason to. Let the family continue to assume nothing was wrong with the kin living down in London.
So Marsh was hiding elsewhere. Gone. Einar realised he was going to have to assume he had lost this one. Should he wait for the man to make a mistake, like returning home because he assumed the threat was over, or should he cut his losses and leave?
Einar parked and thought for a long time about this. He listed all the negatives in his head, noting that every single one had to do with his tarnished image. And did he really care about his image in the eyes of others, especially when he was thinking about calling it a day on his career as a contract killer?
No, he didn't. Einar realised he didn't care. He could take the hit on this one. Happier now, he programmed his SatNav for London City Airport and drove there, his thoughts on his home in Paris and how he would spend his retirement there.
***
The Riverbed area of Lamberhurst was determined by the area within three roads that formed a shield-shape, with curving sides and a flat top. The "top" was the main road running through Lamberhurst, while both its side roads curved down to meet a bridge over a river that cut the shield in half from top to bottom. Both side roads led nowhere but the bridge, or back around to the north road, unless you chose to turn north just short of the bridge. Here were two dirt tracks, one leading into each of the shield halves. The eastern side of the shield was a large area with cut grass and a lake and a spot loaded with wooden picnic tables. Across the river, the western half contained five cottages, either backs to the flowing water, fronts facing across a grassy area with benches and a small gravel area for parking. A wall bordered the entire shield and along it trees grew high and overpowering except for where the dirt tracks entered and the old stone bridge sat. There wasn't much of a view from the cottages, except through this gap.
When they had viewed the cottage a few weeks ago, it had been a fine, sunny day and the neighbours had been out. Of the five cottages, two were empty and for sale, the ones at each end, two were empty because their owners holidayed here only in the hot months of July and August, and the other, the one next to their, was owned by two a large family called the carters, who were a middle-aged wife and husband, one grandmother and grandfather, one twenty five year-old daughter of their, two teenage boys, and three children around Louise's age. So said the estate agent. Of an evening, the whole family liked to sit outdoors and have a barbeque. The kids played with toys, the teenagers drove sport buggies around the roads and the picnic area, but, according to the estate agent, they were a lovely family and they kept the noise down when others were in residence. However, she said, you'll probably be invited to join the fun, so the noise won't bother you. Round here, there's nothing nicer than sitting out in the evening.
When the Range Rover pulled into the lot, Jimmy noticed that all was quiet. He could see kids toys scattered all over all five plots. Two sport buggies in bright colours, with big wheels and covered in dried mud, were parked right outside the Carter cottage. There were two cars. Nobody was in sight. A big people carrier had been in residence when they visited last
time, but that was absent. Good. The family was probably out.
He drove right through the lots and parked alongside their cottage. Louise hopped out with an air of glee and rushed from toy to toy while Jimmy and Maria slowly approached the front door. It was locked.
"Do we kick it in?" Maria asked. "Is this risky? The owner could come. The estate agent lady could bring someone else to view."
"Wait here," was all Jimmy said. He slipped round the back, climbed a fence, and dropped into the back yard. It was plain, with a lawn and shrubbery near the back, where the fence was small so you got a view of the river, albeit obscured slightly by a tree with a sturdy-looking treehouse in it, wedged in the branches some five feet off the ground. He went across the back lawn to the door. It was locked, but there was a small open window giving into the kitchen. Same size as the window he got stuck in the night before, but he got through this one with ease. He moved through the cottage. The spare key for the front door was hanging on a hook on the back of the door, just like before. He unlocked it. Maria called for Louise, who came grudgingly, and mother and daughter slipped inside. Jimmy shut the door. Only then did he relax, realising just how tense his muscles had been for what seemed like hours.
Louise went for a tour of the house, her footsteps thudding. Maria went to put on the kettle. Thankfully the electricity was still on. And the water. As she made hot drinks for them, Jimmy loaded the cottage's working landline number into his new mobile phone - in case he was out and needed to call Maria here - and then hunted down the card with the Wi-Fi code. He sat in a soft armchair in front of the dead log fire and called up the Internet.
Maria returned with two mugs of tea. The mugs had I LOVE CORNWALL printed on them. Maria stood by the window, watching the world outside as she sipped her drink. She seemed more relaxed, but not fully. Jimmy totally understood. The danger was still out there, hunting them. The greenery was just scenery.
"How long do you think we can hide here?"
He didn't like that word. Hide. But hiding they were. "Just a couple of days. At least we've been here before, so we can claim we came back for another viewing. Not the same as breaking in. It's not like we're squatters."
She spoke some more, venting her feelings, eyes still out the window. But Jimmy barely heard what she said. He was looking on the Internet for news of the bodies found the previous night. None had been. Nor had the police been given a tale of kidnapping by the receptionist, the one who had stayed sat numbly on the bed when he opened the balcony doors and helped his wife and daughter to escape. He had tried to get her to follow his wife and Lisa down a bedsheet he tied around the balcony railing, but she had refused, numb with shock. So she hadn't told her tale. He didn't like what that meant. Had the bodies all been removed, and the receptionist killed and disposed of, too?
"Jimmy!" Maria snapped at him. He looked at her and she said, "I said you need to tell me everything you know. You know more than you're saying. You must have a clue as to why this guy is after you. He knows what he's doing. Christ, he wormed his way into our house. He sat three feet from me. He -"
"What?"
Maria blanched. She seemed to realise that she hadn't mentioned this before. So she told him what had happened, how the guy calling himself Roland had lied his way into their home, drank their tea, and asked questions about the family. Jimmy grew angry and more scared all at the same time.
Just then they heard a vehicle on the gravel outside. A large people carrier pulled up next door and disgorged people. The carters, all of them. They heard their own front door open. Jimmy rushed to the window and saw Louise run outside. The three kids her own age crowded her, then all four rushed off to play with something. The teenaged kids went for their buggies, the grandparents shuffled towards their house, but the middle-aged couple, who Jimmy thought looked like barristers or doctors, given their poise that reeked of wealth, stood staring at this cottage, pointing.
Maria seemed meek, perhaps embarrassed that she had kept from her husband the news of her cosy chat with the contract killer. She said, "We should go say hello. Meet the new neighbours, even if we end up running away in a day or two."
***
As dark fell outside the vast airport windows, Einar was in a seat at a departure lounge, waiting for his plane. Around him were other people, looking just as bored. His phone rang and he checked the screen, recognising the number of the man who wanted James Marsh dead. A man he had come to refer to as The Paymaster.
"I'm never leaving this country, am I?" he said to himself, which made the woman sitting nearby look over at him and say, "Excuse me?"
He ignored her and answered the phone. Didn't speak.
"Einar?" said a familiar voice after a few seconds.
"Hope you found your man," Einar said, adopting a light-hearted tone.
"Where are you?"
Ever cautious, Einar gave the man the name of another airport and a destination in Germany. Then asked why.
"I have reconsidered, given your expertise. It was rash of me to cancel your services based on one-slip up. I would still like you to find the two items for me."
"And what about your team? I thought you were sending a team after them?"
A pause. "I chose not to."
Right. You mean you did, and they haven't checked in, because I killed one and James Marsh probably killed the other two. Or the other two came back with a sorry story of failure.
But he said, "You should. So easy. Trace the debits cards, like you said."
The voice replied with, "If you wish to reconsider, I will increase your fee to one hundred thousand pounds. You dispatched Chopper, so it would be foolish of me to not give you the opportunity to finish this."
So the debit card thing is a flunk. Marsh must be wise to it after the hotel thing. And don't pretend you're doing this for my ego.
"I have no plans, so why not? I will accept. But I have another job on, so I will be juggling both. Yours may take some time. No fancy deadlines this time."
"Of course not."
The man didn't sound desperate, but sounded like a man trying to be calm. Einar know he must be fearful. He needed Marsh dead because Marsh could hurt him in some way. And the longer Marsh was loose out there, the greater the chance of causing that hurt.
"Then I will get back to you tomorrow. I need to go cancel a flight and find a hotel."
A pause. The man didn't like what he'd been told. He wanted immediate action, like a statement from Einar that he already had a lead on Marsh's location. He eventually said, "Call me first thing."
Einar hung up. "You and me for another day, London," he said to himself.
The woman sitting two seats to his left, a chubby sort with an IPad and blotchy legs, said, "Excuse me?"
Einar ignored her again. He rose to leave and froze as he spotted something intriguing. The man sitting across from him was reading a folded-over paper, and Einar found himself staring at the upside-down top half of the front page and the face of a man under a headline: LOCAL DRUGLORD FOUND STABBED. His eyes caught another word: BIKER.
Einar snatched the paper from the man and thrust a £10 note into his hand before he could complain. He sat to read the story, which was continued on page 4.
Yesterday morning a body had been found. Alfo Pitchford, local bad boy, cut down in an alleyway in London, victim of a gangland war, apparently, although papers always claimed that when some ne'er-do-well got murdered. No leads except for one: CCTV from a shop across the road from the alleyway showed a man in black biker gear riding past the alleyway just minutes before the estimated time of death.
Einar called The Paymaster and immediately said, "Did you hire Chopper for any other jobs recently?"
The man denied this until Einar told him it was important. Then he relented and admitted he had hired Chopper to kill a man called Alfo Pitchford. Nickname: The Destroyer. Nice. But he refused to say why. Einar cared not about the why.
"I believe Chopper, as a local man, had access to inform
ation, maybe contacts, that allowed him to find James Marsh quickly. Marsh wasn't snatched from home or work, so Chopper knew something about Marsh and his habits that we don't yet. He obviously found this Devil fellow quickly, too. So I need to find out what Chopper knew. I need to find his hideout or lair. Where he rested his helmet. All I need from you is this: who put you onto Chopper? How did you find him? Maybe this man knew something about Marsh and helped Chopper find him."
This time the voice was even more hesitant, and Einar suspected it was because he would be giving up the name of someone who might have information on the Paymaster, too. Again he needed a prod, a reminder of the importance of the mission, before he said,
"There is a man I heard about. I heard he knew of a man who removed problems. This man is called Davey."
Removed problems! Einar understood the importance of not condemning oneself with wild chat over the mobile airwaves, but he found the Paymaster's caution funny in its uselessness. No cop worth his salt would overhear such a term as "man who removed problems" and scratch his head in bewilderment. Not to mention that Einar was not mincing his words during the same conversation.
Einar said, "I imagine a hunt of all the Daveys in London would consume many of my days. If that's all you have." He poured on the sarcasm, just to hit home his point, which was: you're going to have to give me more than that.
This time there was no pause from The Paymaster. He reeled off Davey's address. Einar hung up.
The hunt was back on. One hundred grand. He had effectively made an extra 25 thousand pounds by failing to kill James Marsh at the swimming pool. Now Marsh would still die and Einar would leave for home even richer than he expected.
"Now who's the better man, Marsh?" he said aloud.
"Excuse me?" said the woman to his left.