Kill Clock Read online

  "Better if you call him."

  She laughed. "You can't be civil to him for just a few seconds?"

  "The mood I'm in? Don't want to risk it."

  She shook her head. "He's not a bad guy, you know."

  "He used to sell drugs."

  "Let it go, Pearce. You can't carry that baggage around with you forever."

  "Is that right?" His head buzzed like he was running clippers over his skull. "I had enough counselling in prison, thanks."

  "I'd just like to see you happy."

  "What makes you think I'm not?"

  "If you say so." She tapped her hand against the steering wheel. "How would I know?"

  "Ailsa, this is hard enough." He rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath. "Can you please speak to Joe-Bob for me?"

  "OK." She shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

  "Tell him 11:30. Foot of King's Road. There are some benches that look out across the Firth of Forth. I'll be sitting on one of them." Just along from where he'd wrecked that slaphead's car. Seemed like days ago but it was only a few hours.

  "Anything else?" She was looking up the number on her phone.

  "Did he mention the cost?"

  "He's not a plumber. Doesn't normally do emergency call-outs. And he's no fonder of you than you are of him, by the way."

  "I'm not looking for a boyfriend."

  She turned her head towards him, shadows across her face like old bruises. "He wants three grand."

  "Christ. So he does want to fuck me."

  "You want something powerful, you have to pay for it."

  "Forget it."

  "You can't afford it?"

  "Not even close."

  "You could rent instead of buy."

  "I can do that?"

  "I'll try asking. Nicely." She put the phone to her ear.

  He stared out the window at the city lights in the distance as they drove through Holyrood Park, a tingling in his brain as if it was an overworked muscle.

  "It's not going to work," Ailsa was saying on the phone. "He's looking for a bargain basement price." She took her hand off the wheel. "I know." Balled her fist. "Can he borrow it?" She smiled, her fingers relaxing. "Five hundred?" Her hand returned to the wheel. She looked at Pearce. "Twenty-four hours long enough?"

  "Plenty." So he was going to get a gun after all. He'd have to be ready to use it, then. And that didn't mean firing a bullet into the ground like one of Banksy's crew. No, he had to be prepared to shoot someone. Risk jail time. Once again. "One way or the other, I won't need it after tonight."

  10.35 pm

  "Maybe I'll see you again."

  "Sure." He pushed the car door open a few inches. "If I don't get shot."

  She didn't smile. "I don't understand, Pearce. I didn't back then. And I don't now."

  He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again. Some things were nobody else's business.

  "I have to go, Ailsa." He climbed out, clicked the door shut. Didn't look behind him.

  The wind bit into his arms and it felt good.

  10:40 pm

  Pearce grabbed a tool-bag from the top of the wardrobe. It was covered in dust and cobwebs. He wiped the muck off with a wet cloth. Maybe he should get some magazines and newspapers and do what they did in movies: cut strips of paper and band them together to look like bricks of cash.

  But he couldn't see the point. It wouldn't take a genius to see that it wasn't real money. Even if he put a couple of genuine tenners on top, Banksy was bound to flip through a stack and notice something odd about it.

  Apart from which, he didn't have time to waste cutting up newspaper. He had to get some money out of the nearest cash machine. Withdraw as much as he could with his bank card, then use his credit card to make up the five hundred for Joe-Bob. Well, strictly speaking the credit card belonged to Hilda but Pearce looked after it.

  He put on a black jumper, slipped on a pair of leather gloves, grabbed the bag.

  He looked around for Hilda, and then remembered the wee fella wasn't there.

  11:15 pm

  There was no sign of the car, but glass from the smashed windscreen still lay on the road, sparkling in the light of a streetlamp.

  Behind him, the bar was already closed. Bit early. Or maybe not. He wasn't sure what time pubs normally closed during the week. He rarely set foot in them. Didn't drink much. When he did, it was at home. He didn't like pubs. They tended to be full of drunks and he found drunks hard work, always wanting to pick fights with him, prove what big men they were.

  He sat down on one of the metal benches overlooking the beach, the cold hitting the backs of his thighs through his jeans. To the west, clusters of lights twinkled on the coast. Closer, on an island in the Forth, a lighthouse flashed every few seconds. In the distance the lights of an oilrig glowed.

  He closed his eyes, one fist clutching the wad of cash in his pocket, and listened to the waves churn up a background of restful white noise.

  11:28 pm

  "Pearce?"

  He opened his eyes. Joe-Bob was thinner than Pearce remembered. You still wouldn't describe him as slim, but he was in better shape than he'd been six years ago. Still had the Mohican haircut, although Pearce couldn't tell if he continued to dye it red. The streetlight stained everything orange.

  Joe-Bob slid off his backpack, placed it next to Pearce on the bench. He held out his hand.

  Pearce ignored it.

  Joe-Bob shook his head. "Still a rude bastard, eh?"

  "Still a fat wanker?" That'd hurt, especially with the obvious weight loss. But Pearce saw no reason to be nice to this guy. He was an ex-drug dealer and Pearce's sister had died of an overdose, supplied by someone just like Joe-Bob. That particular someone was dead. Stabbed to death with a sharpened screwdriver. Pearce remembered every blow like it was yesterday.

  "You shouldn't talk to people that way, Pearce. Not when they're armed."

  "Just give me the gun."

  "Only trying to be polite."

  "Give me the gun."

  "What's your problem?" Joe-Bob looked at him, a sneer on his face.

  Pearce stared back at him.

  Joe-Bob smiled, then started to laugh.

  "Gun." Pearce held out his hand.

  "OK." Joe-Bob unzipped his bag. "Powerful enough for you?"

  Pearce didn't know the first thing about firearms, but it looked like a small machine gun. "What is it?"

  "Mini Uzi."

  "And that's powerful, is it?"

  Joe-Bob gave him that sneer again. Made Pearce want to smack him.

  "Sixteen rounds per second."

  "Right." Pearce wasn't sure whether that was good or not. "Is it loaded?"

  "Thirty-two round mag."

  He thought for a moment. "Two seconds? That all I've got?"

  Joe-Bob sucked in his bottom lip. Then let it go. "You want to shoot in little bursts. You don't want to hold the trigger down for two whole seconds. That'll totally knacker the gun."

  Pearce nodded, put his hand in Joe-Bob's bag.

  Joe-Bob clamped his fingers round Pearce's wrist. "Money first."

  Midnight

  Pearce arrived at the industrial estate later than he'd have liked. No time to scope the place out.

  The gate was open, and a massive padlock lay in the grass. Couple of seconds work with a bolt cutter.

  Banksy was already here.

  Well, Pearce was prepared. He'd got the fire-power he was after. In the bag, ready in case he needed it.

  He walked through the gate and into the estate. It was a mess right now.

  The staircase in front of him was like the moveable sort you find at airports to get passengers on and off the planes. Only this one wasn't going anywhere. The staircase had once led to a walkway that joined onto the top floor of a huge, multi-storey warehouse thirty feet away on the other side of the road. But the warehouse was being demolished. Its guts spilled out, the near side of it flattened. He'd been watching the builders' progress f
rom his sitting room window. Saw them destroy the walkway. But they'd left the staircase, so now the stairs led nowhere, just stopped in mid-air, and hung there, useless. Unless you had a death wish and wanted somewhere to jump from.

  He walked on past the staircase, following the road around the side of the warehouse. He looked for any sign of movement but saw nothing other than the heavy equipment dotted around. If you fancied hot-wiring a digger, or nabbing yourself a free cement mixer, this was the place to be.

  He strolled on, his breathing loud, the tendons in his neck tight.

  Beyond the warehouse, the road led to a clutch of empty parking spaces in front of a group of industrial units. There were other units opposite, a line of small brick buildings, vague shapes in the dark. Between the two sets of units lay an area of open ground on a gentle slope. It was pitch black down there.

  He approached the first of the brick buildings and stopped when he got there. This was far enough. "Banksy!"

  Lights came on. Dazzled him. He screwed his eyes up, shaded them with his hand.

  Car headlights. Close. Only twenty feet or so down the slope. Then Banksy's voice: "Glad you could make it."

  Pearce nodded. Couldn't see Banksy. Couldn't see anything.

  Could hear, though. Footsteps approaching from behind. He turned. Able to see again with the lights behind him. Big guy, gun drawn, silencer on it. Probably one of the guys who'd whisked Julie away earlier. Wasn't wearing a ski mask now, though.

  "Got to pat you down."

  Pearce shrugged. Held his hands out to the side, still clutching the tool-bag.

  The guy frisked Pearce carefully. Wasn't new to the job, you could tell. "Let's see in the bag."

  Pearce swung his arm out of the way. "Not until Julie walks."

  "In your dreams, Big Man. Give that to me." He pointed his gun at Pearce.

  Pearce didn't move. "Don't make me hurt you."

  "No?" He leaned in close, held the gun an inch from Pearce's forehead. "I'll make you hurt me if I want. You hear what I said?"

  "Yeah. Did you hear what you said?"

  The guy stood for a moment, not sure what to do. He took a step back, gun still aimed at Pearce. "He won't let me look in the bag, Banksy."

  "Is he clean?" Banksy shouted back.

  "Yeah. Sparkling."

  "Then let him go, Jack."

  Jack. Julie had mentioned him. The older guy. Pearce hoped Banksy’s brother, Ray, was hanging around somewhere, too. He'd enjoy explaining to him why stealing dogs was a very bad idea.

  Pearce faced the lights again, shaded his eyes, peered.

  "Move." Jack pushed him between the shoulder blades.

  "That's incredibly annoying."

  Jack pushed him again.

  Pearce slammed his head backwards and hit something solid with the back of his skull.

  Jack grunted.

  Pearce swivelled round and kicked him in the side of the head as he stumbled. Jack went down, sprawled on the ground and lay still.

  "Pearce!" Banksy shouted. "What the bleeding bejesus do you think you're doing?"

  Jack's gun lay inches from his hand. Pearce booted the weapon out of reach just in case he woke up anytime soon.

  "Pearce, stop ignoring me! Leave him!"

  Pearce stood where he was, the back of his head throbbing pleasantly.

  "Get away from Jack!"

  Pearce strode forward. Kept going till he'd covered half the distance between himself and Banksy. The lights made his eyes smart.

  "That's close enough."

  Pearce stopped, waited.

  The lights dipped.

  Slowly, Banksy came into view, his arm held out, the gun at the end of it pressed under Julie's chin, forcing her head back as he moved her into position directly opposite Pearce. Banksy's gun was fitted with a silencer, too.

  "Let her go, Banksy."

  "Give me the money first."

  "Pearce." Julie's voice was shaking. "Do what he says. Please."

  "Shut it, bitch. I don't need you talking for me." Banksy placed the tip of the silencer on her lips. Turned back to Pearce. "You got the whole twenty grand?"

  "Would I be here if I didn't?" Pearce unzipped the bag. He reached in, waited a second with his gloved hand wrapped around the Uzi, then whisked it out and let the bag fall. He pointed the gun at Banksy, finger on the trigger. "Oh. Looks like I would."

  Banksy shuffled in behind Julie, his gun pressed to her temple. "I'm disappointed, Pearce. I had high hopes we could settle this without bloodshed."

  "We can."

  "Yeah? I'm listening."

  Pearce heard a slight crunch behind him. Forced himself not to turn around. Then a scraping sound. Like … wheels on gravel? A car? That's exactly what it was. Lights off. Engine off. Free-wheeling towards him. Some pillock trying to sneak up on him, catch him out. The slope in the road levelled off pretty quickly, so it would come to a standstill soon enough. "Tell the prick behind me to stay where he is."

  Banksy shrugged. Raised his free hand and shouted, "You heard the man, Ray. Put the brakes on."

  Ray Banks was here. Good.

  For now, Pearce kept his eyes on Banksy. It was hard to drag his gaze away from the gun. It was back under Julie's chin again. "You want twenty grand, right?"

  "You know I do."

  "Here's my proposal, then."

  "Oh, you have a proposal? That's very business-like. Let's hear it."

  Pearce waited.

  Banksy shuffled his feet. "Come on."

  "It's simple. Lend me the money."

  "That's it?" Banksy laughed. "Now that's funny."

  "Why? You're a loan shark, right? You can lend me twenty grand. I give it back to you, plus I pay you all the interest. Everyone wins."

  Banksy looked thoughtful. "You trying to trick me or are you just really thick?"

  Pearce felt something against the back of his neck. Cold and hard. Digging into the skin. Then a click.

  Shit, Ray had got out of the car, crept right up behind him and he hadn't noticed. Shit, shit, shit. He should have been paying attention.

  "You think I'm really stupid, is that it, Pearce?" Banksy jammed the gun into Julie's throat.

  "Banksy." Julie's head tilted to the side with the pressure. "He was just joking. He didn't mean anything by it."

  "Who asked your opinion?" Banksy shoved her forward. She stumbled. Managed to stay on her feet.

  Pearce didn't see Banksy's hand move, but he heard a slapping sound and saw a jagged flash of light strike Julie in the back of the head.

  She dropped onto her knees. Then fell forward onto her face.

  And lay there, completely still.

  No. Christ, no.

  "Well, she's not laughing," Banksy said. "You got any other jokes?"

  This wasn't supposed to happen. Banksy was supposed to get angry, distracted, confused. He was supposed to slip up, let Pearce make his move. "You killed her?"

  "I hope so, Pearce. But you're right. There might be some doubt." He leaned over her and fired again. The slapping sound once more. The flash of light again. The twitch of her body. "I think we can safely say she's dead now."

  Pearce felt as if someone had poured a truckload of sand down his throat. It filled his stomach, choked his lungs. He lifted his Uzi.

  "Drop it, pal." Behind him, Ray rapped the gun against the base of his skull.

  Pearce recognised the voice from earlier. Ray was the gunman who'd fired a shot into the tarmac at Pearce's feet when they'd bundled Julie into their car.

  Pearce thought about pulling the Uzi's trigger. Holding it down for the whole two seconds. Firing every last one of those thirty-two rounds. Filling Banksy full of holes.

  He thought about it. Wondered what would happen to him if he did. Imagined how it would feel to have a bullet enter the back of his head. Was it worth it? Was it?

  He lowered his arm and dropped the gun. Couldn't let Ray win.

  "Good boy." Banksy clapped. "You want to pick
that up, Ray?"

  "Can do. Where's Jack?"

  "The hard man here caught him with a lucky headbutt. Jack's lying in the road back a bit."

  "Oh, crapbags," Ray said. "Is that what that was?"

  "What was?"

  "That crunch."

  Pearce had heard it too. Could it be?

  "Tell me you didn't run him over," Banksy said.

  "I think I might have."

  "Jesus pishing Christ."

  "I couldn't see." Ray's voice rose. "No lights. Wasn't expecting Jack to be lying in the bastard road, was I?"

  Banksy shook his head. "Go take a look. See what the damage is. Did you at least get the kids?"

  "No problem. They're in the back of the car with the stupid looking dog."

  Pearce breathed in, squeezed air into his lungs.

  Banksy said, "What about their granny?"

  "Put up a bit of a fight. Told her I'd chop off more than a finger this time if she didn't behave."

  In front of the kids.

  And to cap it off, they'd just seen their mother being executed.

  12:15 am

  "Very nice weapon." Banksy ran his finger along the muzzle of the Uzi Ray had given him. "Cacked my pants when you pulled that out, Pearce, I don't mind telling you. Serious hardware. Seen a few Mac 10s around, but not one of these little lovelies. Worth a few grand, too." He pointed it at Pearce's chest and pushed. "Makes up a bit for you not bringing any money." He shifted his aim to Pearce's head. "Can you think of a single good reason I shouldn't empty this into you?"

  From behind Pearce, Ray said, "Hang on a minute, Banksy. Jack's not breathing."

  "Don't say that, Ray."

  "It's true."

  "Just what we need." Banksy let his arm drop to his side. "Can you get him in the car?"

  "Tight fit with those kids in there."

  "I meant my car. In the boot."

  "OK. Might need a hand, though."

  Banksy waved the gun at Pearce. "Looks like you've been granted a moment's reprieve. Would you be so kind?" He smiled, his teeth showing.

  Pearce wondered what Banksy would do if he said no. Shoot him, probably, then help Ray carry Jack himself. No point risking it.