'No indication of where he was going?'
'Nothing,' Reid answered. 'I would have chased after him, but I didn't want to leave Jane and the kids by themselves.' He paused. 'I don't like it, Matt. I know he's a friend of yours, but that's no way for a man to behave. This is the guy who's meant to be fencing our money for us, and now it turns out we can't trust the bastard.'
'There's probably nothing to it,' said Matt.
'Fuck it, Matt — I don't like it one bit,' Reid snapped. 'I want to know where he is. And I want him back here where I can keep an eye on him. He could be buggering off to take all our money. Or he could be coming back in a black mask to kill us all.'
Matt glanced at the clock on the wall. It was ten past ten, and it had already been a long and tiring day. 'I've got his mobile numbers,' said Matt. 'I'll try to track him down. In the meantime there's nothing we can do. Try to get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning.'
'He better be bloody sorry,' said Reid, his tone starting to calm down. 'How are you, anyway?'
Matt glanced across at the body stretched out in the hallway. 'I've had better days,' he replied slowly. 'I'll be pleased when we've collected our money and put this whole thing behind us.'
Sallum looked down at the man at the door and handed across a ten pound note. The man was maybe twenty-five years old, with cropped dark hair, a black T-shirt and a single metal stud hanging from his left ear. He smiled upwards as he folded the money into the till. 'You're new here, aren't you?'
Sallum nodded.
'Down the stairs,' said the man. 'The showers and changing rooms are on the right. You'll find gowns and towels down there. Just grab one.' He looked closer at Sallum's face, as if he were examining him for something. 'Have fun.'
The Penthouse Sauna was on Tariff Street on the outskirts of Manchester. Sallum had followed the target from the moment he'd left the lodge, and was still waiting for the right moment to strike. He hadn't wanted to take him out on the road — car chases are fine for Hollywood films, but a professional assassin knows they are too dangerous and too unpredictable. Only an idiot would attack a man in a car.
He'd followed at a discreet distance from the Peugeot. It was dark, and that always made it harder for a driver to spot when he was being followed. Sallum had waited for ten minutes after Damien had pulled into the roadside and disappeared into the building. From the posters on its façade, he could tell that it was a gay club: there were pictures of men embracing, and of men dressed in leather and tight jeans.
There is no level of depravity that the infidel will not sink to.
Sallum walked down the stairs. It was dark and humid within the club. The temperature was turned up to eighty degrees, and soft, purple-tinted halogen lights kept the rooms in semi-darkness. He turned right into the changing room, nodded to the man just emerging from the showers, and started to strip off. He tucked his clothes into the locker, and stepped into the shower, turning the water on to hot.
I need something to cleanse my body already.
Wrapping the red gown around his body, he slipped a four-inch double-bladed surgical knife from his clothes locker into the pocket, and started to walk through the building. The first room was a bar serving beer and soft drinks, in which a huge plasma screen was showing gay porn films. There could have been ten or a dozen men in there, it was hard for Sallum to tell in the near darkness.
He walked on. There was a steam sauna and a fifteen-foot Jacuzzi, but both were empty. He saw a pair of men disappearing upstairs, and followed them. There was a series of doors on the landing, and from inside the rooms Sallum could hear the sounds of men having sex. Towards the back of the landing there was a fire door. He snapped open the metal lock, shoved the door aside, and a blast of cold night air hit him in the face. He looked outside. A small, dark alleyway — illuminated only by the distant neon sign of a Kentucky Fried Chicken bar — led out on to the main street.
My escape route.
Downstairs, Sallum counted nine men in the bar. He asked for a Diet Coke, and took a seat on one of the couches fining the wall. He could see the victim just across the room, sitting back, a beer in his hand, watching the television. Sallum waited until the man caught his eye, then smiled in his direction. The man smiled back, then nodded. He stood up, walking towards the staircase, glancing backwards. Sallum stood up, following in his footsteps, watching as he started to climb the stairs.
Inside the pocket of his gown, he ran his finger along the edge of the blade.
The sound of a man dying is not so different to the sound of a man having sex. No one will suspect a thing.
It was dark in the corridor. 'Wait,' said Damien, his hand reaching out and ruffling through Sallum's hair. 'I just need to wash.'
Sallum paused. Two men brushed past him, then another man, by himself this time. 'Here,' said a voice from the third bedroom. Sallum walked in to the darkness. The man reached out a hand and pulled him inwards. He could feel his gown being unwrapped and a pair of hands running through the hairs on his chest. He took the blade from the pocket, holding it squarely in his right hand, and jabbed it forwards — stabbing it straight into the heart, and pulling the blade roughly upwards to make sure the main arteries in the heart were severed. The victim gasped twice, then fell forwards into Sallum's arms.
Sallum held his left hand tight over the man's mouth, stifling the scream that was about to erupt from his lips. With his right hand he twisted the blade, and he could feel the life ebbing away. He paused, counting to twenty, making sure his victim was dead, then laid him out on the bed. Using the knife he cut into the bone and flesh, sawing away at the man's right wrist until the hand was free from the body. He removed the locker key from the stump, and walked out into the corridor. In the next room, he could hear the sounds of three men having sex together, and was grateful for the covering noise.
Sallum walked to the back of the corridor, opened the fire door, and dropped the severed hand into the alleyway. Turning back into the sauna, Sallum walked back down to the changing rooms, which were mercifully still empty. There was still some blood on his hands, but it washed away easily. One of the best things about blood, Sallum reflected. It never stains. He used the key he had just ripped from the man's wrist to open the locker, and, reaching inside, he took the wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, opening his own locker, he retrieved his clothes and dressed.
He combed his hair, checked himself in the mirror, then walked back up to the entrance. The man at the desk nodded towards him, asked him if he'd had a good time, but Sallum just smiled and walked on without replying.
He walked a few yards, and turned the corner into the alleyway. The hand was where he had left it. He picked it up, held it underneath his coat, and headed back towards the car. He swung open the car door, deposited the hand on the passenger seat, and fired up the engine.
Another perfect kill. The honour of the Prophet is satisfied.
Matt dialled the number impatiently. He held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing tone. Nothing. Damien wasn't answering.
He jabbed the off button, then pressed redial. The mobile took a few seconds to locate the number, then started to ring again. Matt waited, counting ten rings. 'Welcome to the T-Mobile answering service,' started up the mechanised voice on the line. 'The person you are calling is not available.'