[Alicia Friend 01.0] His First His Second Read online

  “Ah, damn it.” He punched the air and kicked the floor. “All I wanted was some pliers and a blowtorch.”

  Something in her brain clicked.

  “It’s tough to buy things without money,” Murphy said.

  “Oh, don’t be such a grumpy-pants, Detective.” Alicia was still trying to locate that click. “Mr. McCall probably forgot his wallet or something.”

  “That’s right,” McCall said. “That’s right. It’s in my car.”

  “Okey-dokey. Shall we go get it?”

  “My other car. It’s in my other car.”

  “Your van?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. My van.”

  “The blue transit that you and your Oriental friend were driving earlier today?”

  “That’s the one!” He was practically dancing he was so nervous. “Yeah, yeah, that one. I needed pliers and a blowtorch to fix it.”

  Pliers and a blowtorch…

  Alicia located the click. “Pulp Fiction.”

  “Pardon?” Murphy said.

  “It’s a line from a movie. Pulp Fiction. Haven’t you seen it?”

  “Yeah, sure. A while ago.”

  “Marsellus Wallace says he’s gonna go to town on someone’s ass, with pliers and a blowtorch.”

  “Yeah,” McCall said. “And it’s great, cos you never actually see what happens, but you know that big nig-nog’s going to torture the shit out a’ the rapist guy.”

  “Cuff him,” Alicia said.

  “Hey!”

  And the two uniforms grappled McCall to the floor, snapping cuffs on him while he swore and struggled.

  “What’s going on?” Murphy said. “We need him to cooperate.”

  “They’re not Richard’s friends,” Alicia said. “They’re assassins.”

  She dismissed the two uniforms and explained to Murphy the prospect of what was happening to Richard right now. That he had extracted information from John Wellington, but he wasn’t sharing it with Red McCall and the other one. They were going to torture him, whether it was for information or something else. Henry Windsor, she theorised, had recruited thugs to clean up after him.

  She dearly hoped these two killed Doyle, and the women. Sure, perhaps Richard had demanded information from Wellington, and perhaps he hadn’t only been using her to keep tabs on the case. Perhaps her mentioning Wellington had spurred him into action. Perhaps it was the first time he’d done something like this.

  Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

  …it was a mistake after all.

  On the floor of the warehouse, Alicia jammed her knee into the base of McCall’s spine, and pulled his head up towards him.

  “How much is he paying you?” Alicia said.

  “Ow, that hurts!”

  “Really? Then this must really hurt.”

  She pulled harder and he yelled out to stop, okay, he’d talk.

  “A thousand.”

  She let him go. “A thousand? He was paying Wellington much more than that. He bought Paavan a house. Don’t you think that’s a little stingy?”

  “Ah, that Yank knobhead. I knew he was holding out on me.”

  “Yank? Henry isn’t American.”

  “I don’t know no Henry. Alfie. Alfie Rhee, man. He wanted to catch the sick bastard who murdered his wife. Get medieval on his ass.”

  Alicia processed this. Too much. One minute Richard was innocent again, the next this whole new angle jilted her sideways.

  Murphy said, “This isn’t to do with Tanya Windsor?”

  “I doubt it. Unless the psycho knob killed her too.”

  Alicia launched at him, her leg poised for a kick, but Murphy scooped her easily off the ground and set her down.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “And I thank you too,” McCall said.

  Murphy pointed. “Shut it.”

  “Shutting it right now.”

  Alicia tried to find herself again. That other person was seeping out, ready to explode. She forced herself to relax, let the real Alicia into play. It was getting harder. But there.

  There she was.

  Alicia crouched next to McCall. “Richard Hague is being assaulted by a man who believes Richard killed his wife. Correct?”

  “That’s real clever, lovie. How’d you figure that out?”

  “And this is taking place in your van.”

  “That’s right too. Wow, are you psychic?”

  “And this ‘Alfie’ person, he’s the oriental gentleman you left with, along with Richard.”

  “Yes. Bloody hell!”

  Alicia took hold of the cuffs and bent them upwards, which sent a bolt of pain up McCall’s arm, forcing him to stand.

  “These cuffs are great, aren’t they, Murphy?” she said, walking Red out to the main store. “You get a guy in them and he’s your slave forever. They twist the wrist in just the right place.”

  “Like Alfie,” McCall said, now compliant. “He twisted me round and it hurt even more’n this.”

  “Hm. South-east Asian guy, likes twisting folk around.” Passing the uniformed officers who were awaiting further instructions, she flipped the stud holding one of their batons and slid it out. “I might need this.”

  “Er, ma’am,” said the constable, “I’m not sure…”

  Murphy held out his hand to the other officer, who took his own baton and gave it to Murphy.

  “Thank you, son,” Murphy said. “I’ll get this back to you.”

  Alicia drove the Vauxhall at an unsafe speed. Murphy sat in the back with McCall, sliding occasionally, but not hurting. Open countryside approached. Alicia swore she’d hurt this guy if he was bullshitting them.

  As they left the city, Murphy radioed for backup, and Cleaver and Ndlove said they were en route. Three other cars checked in and Murphy ordered them into the area and await instruction once they knew the exact location.

  “Hey,” McCall said to Alicia as she pulled out of a skid, “you know how I’m being all cooperative and stuff?”

  “What of it?”

  “Any chance you could play a little Celine Dion?”

  “I’m all out. I got some Maria Carey.”

  “Well … she’s o-kay. But she’s no Celine. Nah, it’s alright. I’ll manage without.” Outside the window, the snow eased, the passing scenery like white marshmallow.

  He gave directions, claimed to be lost due to the snow, but as they whizzed by thick bunches of trees Alicia knew where they were heading.

  “Eccup,” she said. “They’re at the reservoir.”

  “Jesus, she is good,” McCall said.

  He offered more specific directions. There was a small road coming up that led into the forest. They parked further on, past the narrow lane where Red McCall promised the van was located, and Murphy helped the bent PI out of the car while Alicia tramped through the snow and into the area of woodland. She carried the police baton flush to her arm, running in a crouch. She didn’t plan what she was doing, but stayed low like she was taught on some course a gazillion years ago.

  As the bare trees drew in tighter, she picked her way through the undergrowth. Shivered in the cold. The route grew even thicker, the going harder, scratching at her, but it came to a flush end where the road had been cut. She crouched and scanned the scene through a brown, leafless bush.

  The van appeared dead from here, unoccupied. A shell. Then it moved slightly. Someone walking around inside.

  Murphy cried out in pain, shouted something. Alicia turned to run back, but she didn’t need to. Red McCall charged down the road, hands free, one with cuffs dangling. He laughed maniacally. Murphy pursued, limping badly, no way to catch up.

  McCall yelled, “Hey, Alfie, look out! Alfie! The police are here!”

  Alicia shot out of the trees. She intercepted McCall with a sharp rap from the baton across his shins. He tumbled, literally tumbling head over heels, and thumped to a halt in a cloud of snow. He struggled to find his feet, like an upended turtle, yelling for Alfie to get out of here. A
licia dropped on him quickly, pressed the baton to his windpipe—technically an illegal hold, but she figured she could get away with it.

  She said, “Murphy, gimme a hand here.”

  But Murphy stood stock still. Alicia heard two footsteps crunch in the snow behind her. She turned, and froze.

  The Asian man held a handgun, a six-shooter revolver. He closed the van door from which he’d climbed, and walked towards them. “Now this piece of shit is the best gun I could get hold of in your stupid country, but I think I can hit you from here. Ruger, six-shooter. Old, but accurate. Now, why don’t you get off my buddy there and uncuff him. Then we’ll have a think about what to do next.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  McCall insisted on driving. He used his left hand to steer and his right to hold the gun Alfie had given him, rested it on his lap and aimed across his body towards his passenger, the cutest Cute Blondie Copper he ever did see. Well, it was technically McCall’s gun, since he paid for it and had yet to receive any sort of remuneration from Alfie. Unless you included a pub lunch and a sore arm. Which he definitely did not.

  This, however, this might go some way to making up for it.

  Cute Blondie Copper sat, strapped in, grasping the seat itself as McCall sluiced the Vectra through the snow. There was nothing to worry about, though, not now he had Celine back on the air.

  The car’s back end slid out like a cat’s arse. McCall compensated, turned into the skid, and righted it. He could only tell they were on the road because of the mounds that passed for walls either side.

  Cute Blondie Copper’s partner, who McCall had kicked real good in the knee, was in the back, now bound with the cuffs Red had slipped thanks to a universal key he picked up when kitting out Alfie’s torture-board.

  Not so dumb after all, eh?

  McCall even sat the dour copper behind Cute Blondie Copper so he could keep an eye on him.

  It was getting dark but the snow had slowed to a dandruff shower from heaven. Pretty in the headlights.

  Cute Blondie Copper moved.

  “Stop it!” McCall yelled, showing her the Ruger again. “I was in the Marines, babe. Don’t think I don’t know how to use this.”

  Actually, McCall didn’t have the first clue how to use it. All guns are different. He’d handled a Magnum, a Baretta, an SA80 machine-gun, but never a Ruger. Still, it was fairly simple; he’d figure it out. He enlisted in the Marines to Be the Best and to kill foreign baddies, but never shot a single soul. Three years in and all he managed was to get bloody cold a lot more bloody often than he felt was right, and he moaned and moaned, and suggested maybe they should go off and start their own war, to ensure their wages weren’t wasted. His friends laughed, but he was serious. This was all pre-9/11. If he’d still been around after the World Trade Centre got turned to dust, boy would those Arab dicks have got a shock. He’d have been all over them. “Medieval” wouldn’t cut it.

  “You have to let us go,” Cute Blondie Copper said. Yet again. “Red, come on. There’s more at stake here.”

  “Tell you what,” McCall said. “You come up with something more original than that and I might consider letting you go, the next village we come to.”

  “Richard Hague has information we need. Two girls are going to die.”

  “Yeah, you said that already too. Stop fidgeting. You’re making me nervous.”

  She sat still, pouting. Heh-heh. She sure looked good enough to eat, this one. McCall thought maybe there was a stirring in his trousers, but it was a false alarm. Not that he’d do anything like that to a girl, no. He wasn’t that sort of guy. Even if he managed a stiffy.

  Damn, he’d better get paid soon. He had another date planned with Deirdre from the bookies on Saturday, and she’d indicated that this was it, this was the night. The night. If he missed out on that he’d be well pissed off.

  “You’re not going to shoot us, Red,” the moustache-man said from behind. “Even your boss said not to.”

  “Unless I had to,” McCall corrected, waving the gun. “He told me what he was doing is more important than you two. That a hundred families have been torn a new arsehole by your witness friend back there.”

  “Bullshit,” Cute Blondie Copper said.

  The curse sounded so dumb coming from her. You’d expect nothing but sugar and kindness from that little mouth.

  “Nah,” McCall said. “One hundred. I mean I knew the fella was one evil dick but a hundred? Man, that takes some doing.”

  Cute Blondie Copper pouted again. She reminded McCall of a hooker he used to know, before his downstairs-troubles. Only eighteen, dressed like a schoolgirl all the time—hell, she probably was a schoolgirl—but she could suck a golf ball through a hosepipe if she put her mind to it. And boy, when he was on top…

  “You’re going to jail for this,” Murphy said. “Unless you pull over right now.”

  “I’m not pulling over. Alfie said I gotta keep you busy until he’s done. Then I can let you go.”

  “He’s using you,” Cute Blondie Copper said. “You know that don’t you.”

  “Doesn’t everyone use everyone? I’m an employee.”

  “You’re a mug. He’s going to kill our witness, then drive to the airport and go home. You’ll not see a penny.”

  “Shut up! One more word and I’ll plug you.”

  “My arse you will.”

  “Stop talking like that. You shouldn’t talk like that. You should be nice and good.”

  She crossed her arms and stared out of the window, into the night closing around them. They were more sheltered now too, the trees either side taller and denser. The wind and the car’s wake churned up misty snow flurries.

  McCall’s driving grew less erratic. He was unsure whether it was because his favourite Celine track—the one from the Titanic movie—was playing, or if it was because Cute Blondie Copper had stopped telling lies about his pal back in the van.

  “Sod it,” Cute Blondie Copper said suddenly.

  She leaned over and grabbed the wheel.

  “Hey, get off!” McCall cried, the car sliding sideways before he wrested control back.

  “Alicia!” the copper in the back yelled.

  McCall dropped the gun so he could fight her off better. He didn’t want to hit her, not that schoolgirl face, but he needed her off him. He shoved her against the passenger door, regained control, going straight again, but she was on him once more.

  “Alicia, stop it,” the guy said.

  “Yeah, stop it,” said McCall.

  Cute Blondie Copper’s face sort of changed then. Like she was turning into a werewolf or something. A snarl, a grimace, screwing her nose right up, fangs bared. She gripped the steering wheel with a strength that shocked McCall, and turned it so hard that he had to let go. The car shot sideways, airborne for some reason, a tree hurtling towards them.

  And in the split second between the car leaving the road and making head-on contact with the tree, McCall’s brain managed to throw out one thought:

  That’s okay. This baby has airbags.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Richard’s wrists screamed in pain. He, however, did not. He made eye contact with Alfie Rhee and did not at any time break away. Alfie wanted to know why he did it, all of it, and Richard could not tell him. For the first time in his life he questioned the wisdom of his desires, or more specifically the wisdom of acting upon them. No, it was no problem taking lives. And looking at the corruption all around the world, the con artists masquerading as holy men, taking money from followers of magicians and sorcerers, as bad if not worse than anything Richard had ever done.

  God is good. But then He destroys your life.

  Allah will save you. Then He smites your entire country.

  Buddha is just and fair. Where is he when you really need him?

  Dead people feel nothing. It’s the manner of the death that truly matters.

  He tried to make Alfie see this. But in between threats and cursing, Alfie did make a c
ouple of points that Richard found worth considering. Like: but why take the life in the first place?

  Richard always thought of life as silly. Death was the end of that silliness. But why should you die? You live a miserable life (most people do; Richard was rather happy with his, thank you very much) and then you leave this life begging for a little more of it. So wasn’t that the painfully simple answer to the meaning of life? Your life needs to matter to someone else. Like Richard’s life now mattered to Katie.

  “What are you thinking?” Alfie said. “Right now, what was the last coherent thought in that diseased mind of yours?”

  “I just solved the meaning of life,” Richard said. He pulled on the cuffs again, his wrists too thick to slip through, deep red welts that he could not see forming where they bit into him. “You want to know what it is?”

  Alfie snorted. “Sure. Go on.”

  “Let me ask you this first. Have you moved on from Stacy? Started dating again?”

  “Let me ask you this. Is that all the weapons you have?”

  He referred to the knife case Richard was carrying when they picked him up, held open by Alfie’s bone saw, the collection on show: the stiletto, the combat knife, the over-sized hunting blade, the bayonet; two throwing knives, a flick knife he took from the body of a drug dealer in Calumet City, one he didn’t actually intend to kill and didn’t count amongst his one-hundred; but this guy was pushing crack on high school kids. The final knife was one he saved for special occasions. He told Alfie this when he opened the case, and Alfie still held it now, waving it around like a conductor. It was two inches wide at the hilt, tapering slowly along twelve inches to a good sharp point. The handle was covered in cured leather, allowing excellent grip until you got too sweaty, and then it became the least effective of all the knives. But it was perfectly weighted, sharp enough to remove a human limb—with the right pressure and technique—and the sentimental value glowed around it; the first weapon he ever used on a human being.

  “I have a wider selection at home,” Richard said, the pain in his wrists so constant it was beginning to feel good now. “But these are my favourites.”