Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

God rewarded my efforts. I achieved happiness of a sort. Enough acting engagements came my way to fund my modest needs, supplemented by the various odd jobs I undertook. There were bit parts on TV, pantomime, a couple of commercials, fringe theatre and occasional provincial tours. I worked out in the gym as a diversion for any sexual energy, and to build up muscle and improve the appearance of my body. With the help of enhancing jockstraps I became an expert at creating a satisfactory crotch bulge.

I was George Kristos, handsome young man-about-town. I could have any girl I wanted. Or so everyone thought.

For the first time in my life, I made friends. Each week, I would look forward to Sunday Club. I kidded myself I was fond of the others and they of me. Then I learned that I had been sharing a table with the woman who had brought about my destruction.

My pink lady was Marlena. Or rather, Marleen McTavish.

And it was then I rediscovered my own true identity: Rory Burns.

Now the whole world will know. I have been found out. But that is no matter. I have fulfilled my destiny.

And there shall be no retribution levelled against me except that of my Lord God Almighty.

Parlow and Wagstaff approached Vogel just as he arrived back at his desk.

‘’Fraid we can’t find Greg Walker, guv,’ said Parlow.

‘What!’ snapped Vogel. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s taken you long enough to not bloody find him, hasn’t it? What the fuck have you been doing?’

‘We went to his flat, then to his mother-in-law’s place in case he’d gone there to see his kids. That’s up towards Camden, sir. She hadn’t seen him all day, so we drove to Waterloo to check out his lock-up. He wasn’t there either, but there was a bloke in the lock-up opposite who said Walker had been there all afternoon and had only just left.’

Vogel grunted, bored already with what was beginning to sound like a succession of excuses for failure.

‘I don’t suppose this bloke had any idea where Walker was going?’

‘Not really, guv. He said Walker got in a taxi and he thought he heard him ask for an address in Soho, but he couldn’t catch exactly what he—’

Vogel barely hesitated. He turned and ran for the door, yelling for Parlow and Wagstaff to follow.

‘Have you still got that CID car outside?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Yes, guv,’ said Wagstaff.

‘Thank God,’ said Vogel, still running. ‘We need to get to the Zodiac on Lisle Street. Parlow — on your radio! Call for backup. And get an Armed Response Unit to meet us there. I reckon we’re gonna need ’em.’

Wagstaff, proud holder of a police advanced driving certificate, jumped behind the wheel, and with Parlow in the back seat and Vogel next to him shouting instructions, took off with a screech of rubber.

Greg Walker was at that moment climbing out of a black cab outside the Zodiac. The Browning was tucked into one pocket of his leather bomber jacket. It wasn’t yet cocked. Nonetheless the gun’s close proximity to his abdomen caused Greg to break into a sweat. He kept one hand in his jacket pocket, holding the pistol in place, almost as if he feared it might leap out of its own volition and shoot him in the foot.

It was early evening. The Zodiac opened at lunchtime seven days a week and stayed open until three or four the following morning, but it was seldom busy at this hour. There was only one security doorman on duty, whom Greg recognized from his previous visit. Greg approached him without hesitating. He was beyond fear.

‘I’m sorry to come unannounced,’ Greg said. ‘I have some information for Mr Kwan. I wonder if he could possibly find time to see me?’

The doorman turned slightly away from Greg, bending his head towards his radio mike, clipped, as usual, to the lapel of his black jacket. As he reached with one hand to switch it on, Greg stepped forward, removed the pistol from his pocket, cocked it by pulling back the top-slide thus springing a cartridge from the magazine, and thrust the barrel into the man’s midriff.

‘Take me in,’ he muttered, ‘or you’re a fuckin’ gonner.’

To Greg’s surprise, the bouncer made no attempt to knock the gun out of his hand the way Greg had so often seen it done in movies and on the telly. Instead he led the way through the main gaming room, where only a few dedicated punters were playing the tables. Greg walked close to the doorman and kept the gun tucked into the man’s side, hoping nobody would notice it. No one did. The gamblers were intent only on their own activities.

Perhaps because of the time of day and the relatively small number of punters on the premises, there was no second security operative at the rear door which led to Kwan’s offices. Greg gestured to the doorman to open the door, which he did at once, tapping in a security code. Greg pushed him through.

As soon as they were on the other side, the doorman made his move. Greg was pulling the door shut, which put him slightly off balance. The man kicked out, catching Greg with a mighty blow at the top of one thigh, then wrapped his leg around both of Greg’s, behind the knees, causing him to topple backwards, crashing heavily to the ground. It was expertly done. Unfortunately, as Greg fell he inadvertently squeezed the trigger of the Browning in his right hand.

The bullet hit the doorman straight between the eyes. The tac vest he was undoubtedly wearing was therefore of no use. He died instantly.

Greg scrambled uncertainly to his feet, stunned but determined to finish what he had begun. He ran up the stairs to the third floor. The door to Kwan’s offices was shut. Greg fired three rapid shots at the lock, then gave the door a shove.

Tony Kwan was sitting at his glass desk, just as he had been when Greg had made his previous visit. But this time he did not rise to greet Greg. He did not move. He just sat there, unblinking.

Greg aimed his pistol at Tony Kwan’s head. He had no idea whether or not Kwan wore a bulletproof tac jacket, but he was taking no chances. He wanted to shoot the murdering bastard right between the eyes. As he had the doorman. Only this time it would be deliberate. He began to squeeze the trigger.

The subsequent bang was therefore not a surprise. Then he became aware of a terrible pain in his lower arm. He looked down and saw that his right wrist and hand were a bloody mess of shattered bone and sinew. His pistol lay at his feet. He had been given no opportunity to fire it at Kwan. He’d been shot. Worse, he’d failed. He’d let his Karen down.

But what had he expected? Greg wondered, as the world started to go hazy and he slumped to the ground.

One of Kwan’s goons, holding a still-smoking revolver, stepped forward and kicked Greg a couple of times in the ribs.

Greg howled in agony. There was little doubt that at least one rib had been broken. But then, that too was only to be expected.

With lights flashing and siren blaring, Wagstaff got Vogel to Lisle Street in four minutes. As they approached the Zodiac all three policemen heard gunshots. Vogel threw himself out of the car before Wagstaff had brought it fully to a halt. They did not know then, but the first four shots had been fired by Greg Walker at the security doorman and then the lock on the door to Kwan’s office, and the fifth was the shot fired at Greg by Kwan’s henchmen.

Vogel moved at speed across the pavement to the now unsupervised front door, which stood ajar. He rushed inside. The place was empty, all the gamblers having fled the moment the first shot was fired. Vogel ran past empty gaming tables, Carlisle and Parlow trailing in his wake.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the back-up, guv?’ asked Parlow lamely.