Each Man Kills Read online

  ‘For the moment. There’s someone I’d like you to talk to. Meanwhile, I’ll get a cup of tea sent in to you.’

  Lambert rose and left the interview room, followed by Ellis. Outside in the corridor, Ellis asked his superior, ‘You don’t suppose there’s an outside chance he might have done it?’

  Lambert laughed. ‘Yeah. And Tony Blair never lied about those weapons of mass destruction.’

  ***

  Evans arrived back at his flat and placed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d bought on the coffee table. He got a tumbler from the kitchen and poured himself a large measure. He switched his telephone back from divert then flopped onto the sofa and knocked back some of the whiskey. The back of his throat felt raw and the drink didn’t help. He sat staring into space, willing himself to cry over his dead mother, but he felt numb. He took another sip of Jack Daniel’s and a feeling of deep weariness washed over him. His eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where the guns lay hidden and it was a reminder. He had a job to do. He needed a clear head. If he woke tomorrow with a hangover, he might screw up.

  He suddenly got to his feet, screwed the top back on the bottle, took it out into the kitchen and put it away in the food cupboard. Then he ran himself a tumbler of cold water from the tap and drank it. He returned to the living room, lay on his back on the floor, clasped his hands behind his neck and began to do sit-ups. The phone rang. He ignored it and continued with his exercises. After he reached twenty it stopped ringing, but soon after his mobile rang. He got up off the floor and switched it off completely.

  ‘Sorry, Terry,’ he said to himself. ‘The answer’s still no.’

  ***

  As Sergeant Ellis followed Lambert into the office, he realised his cognitive powers of psychology were not about to be severely tested. Anyone with half a mind couldn’t fail to notice the change that came over his superior when he saw the psychiatric nurse. She was standing at the window looking out onto the office block across the road and, like a car jamming on the brakes, Lambert stopped short as he entered, so that Ellis almost barged into him.

  ‘Melanie Kokolios, psychiatric nurse,’ she announced, turning to face them.

  Ellis noticed her intelligent, warm, brown eyes, lighting up briefly when she saw Lambert; then cool instantly, like a light going out. She had thick, nut-brown hair, an aquiline nose and a slightly tanned complexion, and a figure that suggested regular work-outs at the gym.

  ‘Hi, Melanie,’ Lambert said. ‘I thought you’d gone to live in New York.’

  Ellis glanced at his boss, alert to the subtext that would inevitably follow as the attractive psychiatrist stared at Lambert, saying, ‘As you can see, I’m back.’

  ‘Permanently, I hope.’

  Melanie Kokolios gave him a tiny shrug, pouting slightly. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  Ellis was transfixed.

  Lambert grinned and turned to Ellis. ‘Her father’s Greek.’

  ‘And my mother’s Welsh,’ she told Ellis. Irritated by this pussy-footing around and determined to get down to business, her voice carried a slight edge.

  Awkwardly, Ellis shifted slightly and said, ‘Sounds like an interesting combination.’

  Lambert caught the psychiatrist’s eye. ‘It is. Believe me, it is.’

  Melanie Kokolios’s response was hard and businesslike. ‘So where’s this false confession?’

  ‘Sergeant Ellis’ll show you. Like a coffee?’ Before she could reply, Lambert dug into his pocket and handed the sergeant a coin. ‘Get Mel a coffee, would you, sergeant?’

  ‘How d’you like it?’ Ellis asked her.

  ‘Black no sugar,’ Lambert replied.

  Ellis threw his boss what his grandmother had always described as ‘an old-fashioned look’ before exiting. Melanie glared at Lambert, annoyed by the patronising, possessive way he had answered on her behalf, making it obvious to his colleague that they were once lovers.

  Lambert gave her a puzzled, innocent expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She ignored it. ‘Give me a quick rundown on this false confession.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Mel. It really is.’ Lambert smiled tentatively. She continued to stare at him, eyes frosty. He sighed reluctantly before telling her, ‘Wife an alcoholic. Looks like she was dried out but lapsed. He comes home with the weekly shop and finds her hanging from the banisters.’

  ‘And there’s no way he could have done it?’

  ‘No way.’ Lambert frowned thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s doubtful. Admittedly she probably weighed less than nine stone, but there was no sign of a struggle. I think she drank a bottle very quickly, got paralytic drunk and topped herself. I don’t think she’d been dead long - maybe just a matter of minutes - when the husband found her. Perhaps she was still choking as he unpacked the shopping.’

  The psychiatric nurse shuddered. Lambert thought about putting a comforting arm round her but decided against it. Better not push his luck.

  ‘Right,’ she said, looking at her watch. ‘I think I’d better...’

  ‘Mel?’ said Lambert. ‘Do me a favour? I know this cosy little Italian restaurant...’ He saw her mouth forming into an objection and continued hurriedly. ‘I just want to know what’s with the false confession, that’s all. Call it professional interest. You can tell me all about it over a bottle of vino and some pasta.’

  ‘If you’re that interested, Harry, why don’t you listen to the tape?’

  ‘The tape won’t give me your opinion, Mel,’ he said, his expression sincere. ‘And that’s what I value.’

  ‘Huh!’ she exclaimed cynically.

  ‘Honest. Shall we say tomorrow night? At seven?’

  Chapter 5

  Evans woke with a start and sat bolt upright. He knew it was a dream that had jolted him awake, but the dream had either vanished into the deeper recesses of his subconscious or been totally erased. He reached for his watch and saw that his body clock had let him down. It was gone eight-thirty. Usually he was awake every day at seven give or take ten minutes either side. This morning, for some reason, he had overslept, a thing that rarely happened to him. He’d slept for a solid ten hours, yet he felt more tired than usual, disorientated, as if he’d been drugged. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then swung his legs out of bed. He glanced briefly and approvingly down at his nakedness, patting his firm stomach with the flat of his hand before striding into the bathroom. Refreshed by a cool shower, he shaved himself carefully, going over the same spot several times. He hated stubble. He liked the smoothness of a clean shave and didn’t know how long it would be before his next one.

  Dress to kill, he thought as he flung open his wardrobe and selected a pair of paramilitary camouflage fatigues and a Dutch army shirt. Then he changed his mind, rejecting the military style in favour of a pair of dark-green jeans and a maroon sweatshirt. It was still effective camouflage but not so obvious.

  After he had breakfasted on muesli, toast and strong black coffee, he fetched some of his mother’s mementoes, which he kept in a chest of drawers in his bedroom, and stuffed them into a small holdall. There weren’t many memories to dispose of, just a few postcards, letters and snapshots of them both together. And there was his favourite photograph of her. It had been taken before he was born, when she was a beautiful young carnival queen riding on the float at the Tregaron Town Carnival. He put it into the bag with the other mementoes and returned to the living room, then dragged back the carpet covering his arms cache. He checked that the Browning had sufficient rounds before putting it into the holdall, along with an Ordnance Survey map of the area, a compass, box of matches and a torch. He then made himself a thermos flask of strong black coffee and put it into the bag with a packet of chocolate biscuits and some apples. The Armalite he disguised by wrapping several layers of carrier bags round it, and then packed it inside a black bin liner.
Finally, he checked that his mobile was charged up in case he needed to make a call, switched it to vibrate and clipped it to his belt.

  Although it was late May, the summer had arrived early this year and the sun was threatening and overbearing, the sky cloudless and vivid blue. Apart from one short downpour, the last three weeks had been unusually hot and the newspapers had been full of paranoid features about global warming. Which was of no concern to Evans as he left his flat. He glanced up at the sky. He was hardened to whatever the elements chucked at him, but for once he was glad that he wouldn’t have to lie around waiting to make the hit in the pouring rain. The heat he could cope with.

  He put the holdall and Armalite in the boot of his black Audi, instinctively glancing around to see if any neighbours were watching. Not that it mattered at this stage. A cod American voice drawled inside his head - ‘A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do’ - a voice which belonged to his mate Terry. Evans endured this intrusion with an almost imperceptible smile, bordering on affection for his friend. In spite of Terry’s cunning and deception, he reflected, he’d always been a reasonably good mate. And they’d had a few close calls together, experiences that firmed their relationship. Like the time they’d been commissioned seven years ago to help a Russian oligarch escape from his country via Germany. The man was wanted by the KGB, so it had been a fraught and dangerous mission, although he and Terry saw it as a challenge. The plan was to cross into Germany, knowing they would probably be followed, then shake off their pursuers and use a slow and convoluted escape route by using the river system on gypsy barges. But their plan had been compromised, and they had to abandon the Russian oil billionaire, leaving him to his fate at the hands of the Russian secret services. .

  As he opened the car door, he stopped suddenly. An overwhelmingly powerful smell of milky ice-cream teased and tricked him into believing he was near the seaside, reminding him of childhood days spent at the Mumbles with his mother; walks along the promenade, games in the park, sweets and ice-cream. He looked around to see if any children were walking by, eating ice-cream bought from the corner shop. But there was only the old man from the house opposite, walking his dog. Evans thought about the sweet fragrant smell, and how real it seemed. Then shrugged it off as a trick of the memory. After all, it wasn’t so surprising. She’d been dead less than twenty-four hours now.

  He drove with extreme caution through the town centre. He didn’t want to get stopped for something trivial, which could result in a random search. It was no good taking risks at this stage of the game. Afterwards, it wouldn’t matter. But now....

  He drove north from Swansea, keeping within the speed limit. The sun burnt fiercely through the window on the right side of his face for most of the journey and he began to feel nauseous, but this could have been because of the anticipation of the kill as he got closer to his target. He sweated profusely, even though the air conditioning inside the car was effective. Twelve miles outside Swansea, as the car climbed up through Pontardawe towards the Black Mountain, he found the landmark he was looking for: the remote, decrepit looking pub called The Bull. Less than two hundred yards past the pub was the turning, an unmarked road, little more than a track, almost concealed by overgrown bramble bushes and sallow willow trees. He swung the car off the road and followed the track for about a mile, hoping he wouldn’t meet anything coming the other way. And what if he met his target? What could he do? He’d have to shoot him at point blank range right here in the middle of the road. Like something out of a Tarantino film, violent and messy. No. He could well do without that. This had to be a good clean kill. From a distance. It was the only way.

  The track rose at a steep angle and he changed into first gear. It was a gradient of about one in five and the direction changed, so that the sun at the top of the hill blinded him. He kept going, grabbing his sunglasses from under the windscreen. Once he had reached the brow of the hill, he saw the buildings below him. He braked and stopped, pausing to survey the farm. It was just what he’d expected. The farmhouse was dirty and insignificant, ramshackle and grey, as if covered with a layer of quarry dust. The hills surrounding the squalid smallholding seemed gloomy and threatening.

  He eased the car into gear and let the clutch out slowly, allowing the car to cruise quietly down past the front of the farm. As he drove slowly by, he looked in through the broken gate which lay at an oblique angle with a rusting milk churn caught under it. He saw the name of the farm, lichen covered but still legible, scratched on a lump of slate set into the dry-stone wall by the entrance: Black Dog Farm.

  He continued up the hill on the other side of this dark valley and drove until he could no longer see the farm in his rear view mirror. There was a narrow opening in the stone wall near the top of the hill and it was here the farm seemed to end, the land becoming more open, breaking out into mountainous terrain. He stopped the Audi just past this opening, then reversed off the road, the wheels bumping over the stony track. But the ground was dry and firm, so there was no danger of getting stuck.

  He took his holdall and the Armalite out of the boot and walked up the mountain away from the farm until he reached a small plateau, well out of sight of the road. He sat down, unzipped the bag and removed the photographs, letters and postcards. He spent a few minutes reading through each letter and card before piling them into a pyramid shape on a rock, then struck a match and set fire to the mound. He watched as the papers burned rapidly in the dry heat. A snapshot of him aged six, on a day trip to Barry Island, holding his mother’s hand in front of the helter-skelter, vanished in the flames.

  Who had taken that photograph? Was it a stranger? Someone his mother had asked in passing? It wasn’t his old man who had taken it, that was for sure. His father had never been on any outings or played with him. Never. Not once.

  With a violent, sudden gesture, he threw the 10 x 8 onto the fire. It melted away quickly; one moment he was staring at his mother’s beautiful young face, then in an instant she had disappeared. Ceased to exist.

  He waited until the small fire had burnt itself out, making sure that not a single trace of paper was left, then rose and kicked the remains about with his feet, spreading the ashes far and wide over the rocky terrain. He picked up the bag and rifle, walked towards the rear of the farm and found a position looking down over the top of a corrugated roof outhouse or barn, offering a clear view of the entrance to the farmhouse which was at the side of the building. There was a flat rock he could lie on, hidden from the road by some brambles. And, significantly, the sun would be behind him for the rest of the day.

  After he had unwrapped the Armalite, stuffing the carrier bags into the holdall, he lay on his stomach and watched and listened for any sounds coming from inside the farmhouse. It was just possible that his target had overslept and could emerge at any moment. But after another hour had passed, this seemed less likely. It was now just after eleven and getting hotter. The time stretched interminably. In the trees on the other side of the valley, crows broke the morning stillness with their ugly cries. In the decaying farmyard below, the skeleton of a tractor lay rusting among the weeds. Hens grumbled and pecked among the litter-strewn yard, picking their way through heaps of rotting debris. The occasional but sickening odour of manure drifted upwards and Evans cleared his throat and spat. Another hour crept agonisingly by. He was aware that the monotony was getting to him, so he listened to the sounds of the countryside, isolating and identifying them as he’d been trained to do in similar situations. He counted at least fifteen different sounds, everything from the distant barking of a dog to the close vibration of a small insect’s wings. Another hour passed. Now he heard the sound of his stomach rumbling. He poured himself a coffee from the thermos and ate some chocolate biscuits. The chocolate melted quickly and made his fingers sticky and the cloying sweetness stuck in the back of his throat. He washed it down with a large gulp of coffee and his drowsiness soon began to disappear as the caffeine to
ok effect. He closed one eye and peered along the barrel of the rifle, aiming it at head height on the door. From this distance he couldn’t miss. Not with his training and experience.

  By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of anyone returning to the farm. Evans sighed and looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Just gone three. How much longer would he have to wait? He took an apple out of his bag, and had just taken a bite out of it when he heard the sudden roar and splutter of a vehicle coming over the hill and down the narrow road. He threw the apple to one side and took up his position.

  It was a Land Rover, grey and ancient, down on one side as if the suspension was going. It was being driven erratically, the driver obviously worse for wear. It almost hit the gatepost as it turned into the farmyard, and screeched to a halt in front of the barn.

  Evans’s finger slid gently across the trigger.

  He couldn’t see the Land Rover now, it was tucked just under the corrugated barn. He heard the creaking hinges of the car door being opened, followed by a slam and a muttered oath. Suddenly the farmer lurched into view, staggering towards the farmhouse. Evans took careful aim. The farmer stopped to kick and curse at a hen that got in his way and almost lost his balance. He recovered, stood swaying for a moment, and continued towards the door.

  Evans’s finger tightened on the trigger. He was about to fire when the farmer stopped in the doorway and turned to look up towards the sky just above the barn, almost as if he could feel Evans’s presence. The sun was in his eyes and he squinted. He was ruddy complexioned, from beer rather than a healthy outdoors existence. Evans studied the farmer’s face carefully. It was the first time he had ever hesitated at a kill and he knew it was a costly mistake. The farmer suddenly fell in through the door and slammed it shut.

  Evans couldn’t believe his own stupidity. He was a professional killer, the best there was, and he’d blown it. Now what? He could either go down there and blow the farmer’s brains out at point blank range, or wait for him to come out again. But judging by the state he was in, that could be some time.