Ratcatcher - By Tim Stevens Page 0,3
the steering deck, the man he’d shot was groaning.
More shouting, and, distantly, sirens.
Over the guns, Spiljak’s eyes mocked him. He tapped his foot on the stool, making the implication clear. Shoot me, and I’ll knock the chair away. Your friend will hang.
Purkiss glanced up at the rope above Kendrick’s head.
His first shot caught Spiljak in the right shoulder, jerking his arm upward so that his own shot would go high if it came, which it didn’t. His second smashed into Spiljak’s left knee. Spiljak dropped with a shriek.
And kicked the stool away with his other leg as he fell.
The rope snapped taut and Kendrick swung. Purkiss kicked the gun away from Spiljak’s hand and caught Kendrick. He righted the stool, propped Kendrick’s feet on it, and prised loose the noose around Kendrick’s neck. Moving behind him he slipped out a Swiss Army knife, cut the cords binding his wrists and ankles.
Kendrick dropped off the stool, stumbling but keeping his feet. In a voice like a sheet of ice plummeting into an Arctic gorge he said: ‘Bastard.’
‘We’re even. You shouldn’t have gone in without me.’ But by delaying the departure of the boat he’d allowed Purkiss to get aboard. There’d never been any danger of his neck breaking. Spiljak had committed the novice hangman’s error of making the rope too short. In a few more seconds he’d have strangled to death, but Purkiss hadn’t been planning on waiting that long.
Purkiss glanced out of the window. Flashing red and white lights were massing on the shore. Spiljak was rolling on the floor clutching his wrecked knee, too shocked to scream. On the steps the other thug Purkiss had shot was on his back, whimpering, his breathing not laboured. He’d survive. On the floor of the cabin, Hoggart and Zagorec were out for the count.
Purkiss retrieved his phone from Spiljak’s pocket and took the man’s own handset. He thumbed through the various menus until he found what he wanted, then bent and grabbed Hoggart and hauled him so that he slumped against one of the cabin’s seats. He twisted the man’s ears until he howled awake, held up Spiljak’s phone, played the recording.
Hoggart’s eyes were slivers of white between the lids, his tongue lolling at the blood around his mouth. From the phone came snatches of English dialogue. Hoggart’s voice, then Spiljak’s, naming places, substances, prices. At the end Purkiss wrapped the phone in an oilskin bag and stowed it in his pocket.
He said, ‘You insisted I surrender any recording devices I might have, but you didn’t consider that your friend here might be keeping his own record for insurance purposes. Been a bit of a chump, haven’t you?’
Purkiss straightened, looked down at Hoggart.
‘Tell the police whatever you like. They might charge you and Spiljak and the rest of this sorry crew with disturbing the peace or whatever. Or, you might escape without a blemish on your name. I couldn’t care less. But understand this, Hoggart. You’re finished. Crawl away and bury yourself where nobody can see you. SIS doesn’t need its dirty knickers washed in public. But you’ve let the side down. And the side won’t forget. If you’re heard from again, anywhere in the world, the Service will put an end to you.’
The sirens were getting louder. The police boats were close enough that their lights were strobing against the cabin’s walls. Purkiss said to Kendrick, ‘Time we were off.’
They clambered over the moaning man on the stairs and ran at a crouch across the deck towards the rail. Then they were airborne. Purkiss felt the shock of the water, surfaced, and glanced back to see the boats swarming round the yacht, the men crowding aboard. He located Kendrick’s head a few metres away. They struck out for the shore.
*
Kendrick’s car was in a side street just off the marina. They reached it by stealth, two sodden figures skulking through the alleyways. In the boot were enough dry clothes for both of them.
Purkiss climbed into the passenger seat. Kendrick started the engine but didn’t move off. After a moment he said, ‘That gun.’
‘Yes.’
‘It felt lighter than it should’ve. That’s why you took a chance and pretended to shoot my leg.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were certain the magazine was empty. Rather than just not completely full.’
Purkiss, one of whose guiding principles was that you could never be certain of anything, said, ‘Yes.’
‘Fuck off, Purkiss.’
*
Purkiss leaned his head back, closed his eyes, breathed deeply while Kendrick drove, letting his body find its own way down