They were just down the street from a house divided into three flats. The area was quiet here, with just a few passing cars and fewer pedestrians, none of whom gave the car a second glance. There was no sign of life on the two upper floors of the house they were watching, but a lot of light was spilling out from ground level. The old guy who lived there, Szulu figured, didn’t have much to hide, otherwise he’d have used his curtains more. Maybe he liked living in a goldfish bowl. What was his name…? Grobowski, that was it. Polish, a shopkeeper down the street had let slip. ‘He done you on a deal or what?’
‘The why doesn’t matter,’ replied the woman. ‘I just want him found.’
‘Then what? Only, one thing you should know, right, I only get driver’s money.’
‘So?’ The response was a long time coming.
‘So it doesn’t mean I do other stuff.’
‘What do you mean?’ The street light reflected off the woman’s glasses, momentarily blanking her eyes. It made her seem sinister and unfriendly, like a large, malevolent fly.
‘Breaking arms, that kind of thing.’ Szulu shrugged easily. ‘Don’t mean to say I can’t, right? Just that there’s a rate for the job.’ He grinned, although he felt nervous. ‘Like a plumber.’
‘A plumber.’ Her voice echoed back at him, heavy with what sounded like contempt. He felt a rush of heat. This old bitch was really starting to push his buttons, talking to him like this. Come to think of it, she wasn’t actually talking at all. Not like other people he’d worked for. They had at least filled him in, making sure he knew what the score was. Treating him with respect. Not like her.
‘That’s right. A plumber would want to know what he was into, wouldn’t he? Then he’d tell you how much it would cost.’ He nodded, pleased at the comparison. ‘Me, I know nothing. Just find this — what’s this bloke — Frank Palmer.’
There was silence in the car, and Szulu wondered if she was about to take a.357 Magnum out of her bag and let him have a bullet in the back of the head. Or maybe she’d use a Glock, which was lighter. Now that would never have surprised him. But she didn’t move.
‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘You want to know more, I’ll tell you. But I’ll keep it short — you wouldn’t be able to handle the full version.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Frank Palmer did me a great harm a while ago. He disrupted some important plans and caused the deaths of at least two valued employees… and my dear husband.’
‘What?’ Szulu turned his head in surprise. He began to wish he hadn’t started this line of conversation. Getting mixed up with hit men was a whole different thing. Low-lifes and druggies he could handle, but people who killed for a living — now there was an irony — was something else. ‘He kills people? You never said nothing like that before.’
‘I didn’t see the need.’ The woman’s voice was sharp, cutting through his objections. ‘I said he caused the deaths, I didn’t say he killed them. Not,’ she added, ‘that the distinction will help him.’ She paused for a moment, then continued in a whisper, as if voicing her thoughts out loud. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this. Too long, in fact. But no longer.’ She looked at him. ‘It’s now time, before it’s too late.’
‘So it’s pay-back, yeah? All this?’
‘That’s right, Mr Szulu. Pay-back. You’re acquainted with the concept?’
‘Damn right.’ Szulu understood perfectly. Getting even was what kept some people going. That and fear. What he didn’t get, though, was how utterly cold this woman was. Revenge was something you did when you were fired up and white-hot, and nothing was going to get in your way. Revenge was all about blood and honour and not being seen as weak. The way this old crone spoke, it was like it was a discussion in a school class or something. Matter-of-fact, almost. Scary.
‘So it’s just him, then, is it — Palmer?’
‘No. There was a young woman as well. She lives right there.’ He glanced back to see her nodding towards the house up the street. The one where she’d earlier told him to sniff around and check out who lived there. All he’d come up with was the old Polish guy, a pensioner on the top floor whom nobody ever saw, and a journalist — the one called Gavin. He remembered the name from Palmer’s Rolodex.
‘You never mentioned no young woman.’ Szulu’s words carried an unmistakable tone of accusation, too late to rein in. This old witch still wasn’t telling him everything. It was like she was drip-feeding him. Then it hit him. ‘Hey — wait. You mean Riley Gavin is a chick’s name? Shit, that would have been good to know.’ He felt his stomach lurch as he recalled the young woman he’d nearly bumped into as he was leaving the house. Christ — that must have been her. And he’d seen her somewhere before, now he thought about it: coming away from Palmer’s place! He opened his mouth to tell the old woman, but thought better of it. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.
There was movement in the back seat and he smelled her breath on his neck, sour and heavy with a hint of long-dead peppermint. When he turned and looked fully at her, he saw eyes like cold slate. Old as she was, and undoubtedly frail, too, so much so that he reckoned it would take no more than a quick grasp of her chicken neck to snuff out her lights, he still felt a palpable sense of threat coming off her.
‘Do you need a reminder of how I found you, Mr Szulu?’ she said quietly. ‘Found out you were… available?’
Szulu shrugged, trying not to care. But he felt something inside him cringe with what she was driving at, and hated himself for it. He tried to block out any further thoughts and was relieved she couldn’t see his face.
‘Next time you feel like questioning me,’ she continued, calmly goading, after he’d had time to digest the question, ‘perhaps you’d like to give Mr Pearl a call.’
Pearl. The cold worm of fear broke through in the pit of his stomach at the mention of the name. Ragga Pearl, to give him his full name, was bad fuckin’ news of the worst kind. He was nuts, for one thing. Cold, no messing, clinically insane. And given to taking out his frustrations, real or imagined, on anyone who crossed him. He even made those LA gangstas, with their craze for gold-plated MAC10s and Uzis look socially acceptable.
‘We can leave the Ragga out of it,’ he said quietly, hoping she couldn’t see the tic thumping in the side of his neck. Unfortunately, Ragga Pearl had somehow got it into his head not long ago that Szulu had been disrespectful to him. He hadn’t, actually — it had been a misunderstanding that Szulu thought had long blown over. But crazy-as-a-fruit fly Ragga Pearl didn’t work on the normal human level; one minute he could be all smiles with you, the next you were in a war zone. Worst of all, he had a habit of suddenly calling up remembered hurts long past their sell-by date. And when he did that, if you’d ever looked at him the wrong way, shown disrespect, called against him, then you better head for the Arctic or some such remote place, as far away from his kingdom in south London as you could get.
And the worst of it was, it had taken one phone call from the Ragga, and here he was saddled with this mad old bitch — and she was white! Man, the world had gone crazy. He looked round and the woman smiled, her rouged mouth twisting in a way that made Szulu want to slap her. Not that he was into hitting women, but he was beginning to think there was always a first time. ‘No need, right?’
‘Good. As long as you do your job, I’ll keep Mr Pearl and his demands off your back. And as for any extra duties…well, I think we can start with one this evening. I’ll pay extra, of course.’
He shrugged, but any sense of victory was blanked out by a sick feeling in his gut. For a couple of days, he’d been able to push all thoughts of Pearl out of his head. Now he was back, like the freak of nature that he was. And all it would take was one phone call from this woman…