NATIONAL TREASURE by Barry Faulkner (life books to read .TXT) 📗

house was to the front of where it was parked, so they’d be looking that way. I stopped alongside and peered across to Gold, who was stopped opposite. I pulled out the Beretta, slipped the safety off and gave Gold a nod; she moved across the road to the offside of the van.

We moved to the back, out of sight of the blacked-out windows. I gave another nod and Gold took my cue, and reaching across pulled the rear door open in a flash and held it wide. I stepped out to the opening and shot both the men sitting inside before they could realise what was happening and pull a gun. My first two shots were to their bodies, the next two to their heads as they slumped forward. The silencer reduced the noise of the shots to phut, phut, phut, phut, and no residents nearby would even know they’d been fired. Gold reached in and stubbed out the tell-tale cigarette that had dropped from one of the dead men’s hands and closed the rear door.

‘Next?’ she asked.

‘I’ll check the flat and then I’ll get rid of them.’ I checked the front of the van; the keys were in the ignition.

I used my duplicate set of keys to get into the house and then into Janie’s flat; 310666 still worked and the alarm events list showed nobody had come in since my last visit, so no need to check the rooms. I reset it and left. Gold was standing in the small front garden, shielded from view by a large hedge.

‘Nobody’s been in,’ I told her.

‘That’s a good sign. What now?’

‘I’ll take the van and tidy things up. Been a long day – see what you can find out about the West London Cleaning Company in the morning, give me ring at home if anything shows up. I ought to go and see Marcia and Janie tomorrow, catch up on things and pick Marcia’s brain on Randall’s close friends – might get a name or two for the Essex driver. I’ll give you a call.’

‘Okay.’ And she was gone, hardly noticeable in the dark as she made her way back to the Lexus. I got into the van and adjusted the seat – one of those stiffs in the back must have short legs – and then made a call on my mobile. It took a few rings before it was answered.

‘Yeah?’ said a tired voice.

‘Ben Nevis, I have a job for you.’

‘Mr Nevis, what are you doing getting us out of bed at this time of the night? Long time no see.’

‘Yes, things have been a bit quiet on the personal removal part of the business lately, but I have urgent need of your services.’

‘At this time of night? It’s a bit late, even for you, Mr Nevis. Just one?’

‘Two.’

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘No, I need to clear a motor before I get rid of it.’

‘Hang on.’ The voice said something away from the phone to another person. They had a muffled conversation, and he came back to me. ‘How far away are you?’

‘Thirty minutes.’

‘Okay, we’ll see you there.’

‘Good man.’

‘And Mr Nevis...’

‘Yes, I know – cash.’

‘Yes, five hundred each – and we haven’t gone cashless payments just yet.’

Click.

  ***************************************

The ‘twins’ had been good to me over the years. Both were now in their eighties and I still don’t know their names – don’t need to; all I know is they were introduced to me many years ago by a nasty piece of work as ‘the best magicians in England’. And they were, a ‘magician’ in gangland parlance being somebody who makes things disappear; in the twins’ case it was bodies. One thing a hitman needs is a magician; no dead body means no evidence, and no evidence means no arrest. Simple. I’d used their services eight times in the past without any problems; their heyday was when they were young, in the bad old days just after the Krays and Richardsons were sent down and a new breed of wannabes had fought for pieces of the London drugs turf. They’d laughed as they told me how ‘business was brisk in those days’. I guessed jobs were few and far between these days, because there’s always a building site somewhere laying a thick concrete foundation that could take a body or two; and seeing that most of the big development sites in London are backed by mob money, it isn’t a problem.

It took me a little over the thirty minutes to get to the twins’ place of business, South London Crematorium. I flashed my headlights at the double iron gates and they swung slowly open, letting me through, and closed behind me. I drove along the drive, past the front entrance and round to the back delivery doors. The twins were waiting with two body bags and a trolley. Conversation wasn’t needed, a couple of grunts that translated into, ‘Hello, how jolly nice to see you Ben, are you keeping well?’ – or maybe not. The money from my ankle wallet changed hands first; nice to see they still trusted me and didn’t bother to count it.

I opened the van doors and working together we pulled out the two goons and laid them on the body bags. The twins stripped off any jewellery, rings, gold bracelets and neck chains; any finger that wouldn’t release a ring was snipped beside the ring with a pair of industrial secateurs and the ring prised off. The twins probably made as much again as their fee with the little pile of goodies from these two stiffs. Pockets were checked for cash, and anything that could identify who the bodies were was left with them, which were then zipped into their body bags before being lifted onto the trolley and wheeled inside through the double doors.