Tim Stevens - Jokerman

The two shots came so close together that their respective sounds were impossible to separate. Kendrick’s gun-arm jerked high, and Purkiss found himself thinking in a detached way: bad control of recoil, there .

Kendrick leaped backwards. Except it wasn’t a leap. Wasn’t a voluntary movement at all.

He landed on his back on a coffee table, the heavy wood splintering and folding under his weight.

Purkiss saw the mess that was Kendrick’s forehead.

He dived for Kendrick’s outstretched arm, caught the pistol before it skittered away across the floor.

Came up on one knee, aiming at the window.

The silhouette bobbed into view, limned by the brightness of the evening sky, and Purkiss fired, getting two shots off in quick succession.

The silhouette disappeared.

Purkiss glanced down at Kendrick, then back up at the window.

He shuffled across, peered over the sill.

The man was sprinting back across the lawn, rifle in hand. Was almost at the road.

Purkiss tensed, gripped the window frame.

Looked back down at Kendrick.

Made his decision.

He knelt beside Kendrick. One of Kendrick’s feet was jerking spasmodically. His head was misshapen, the forehead cratered. In the bog of gore that stretched across his scalp and down over his right eye, white chips of bone glistened.

Purkiss slipped his hands round the back of the stubbled scalp, probing carefully. No exit wound. But then there wasn’t likely to be one in any case. A direct hit from a rifle of this type would destroy the head completely.

Which meant Kendrick hadn’t taken a direct hit. Either the shot had sheared across his forehead, or he’d been struck by a ricochet.

In the side of Kendrick’s neck, a listless pulse rose and fell slowly, irregularly, against Purkiss’s fingertips.

Purkiss pulled out his phone, dialled 999.

Then he dialled Vale’s number.

As the distant sirens began to coalesce, alerted already by the gunfire, Kendrick lay on Purkiss’s living room floor, his head violated, his life ebbing.

Tullivant had never believed emotions were something to be cauterised out of one’s psyche. Numbness wasn’t a state to be aspired to; it slowed your reflexes, made you less responsive. Which could end up being fatal.

But he did accept there were suitable times for experiencing emotions, and others when they needed to be put aside temporarily.

Tullivant was at the wheel of a Toyota Corolla. The balaclava and gloves he’d worn were stuffed beside the spare wheel under the boot. The Timberwolf rifle was in a holdall on the back seat. He drove neither slowly nor quickly, showing a natural mild curiosity at the screaming emergency vehicles hurtling past in the opposite direction as he headed down Highgate Hill.

Later, he would experience rage, and guilt, and self-doubt. He would indulge them, wallow in them, even, and gradually come to an appreciation of how justified or otherwise they were, and of what they could teach him.

Now, he had to evaluate the extent of his failure, and the implications.

He reached Camden Town, abandoned the Corolla, and transferred to his usual and equally nondescript car, a Mazda. This one had custom-built compartments above the chassis for his gun and other accessories.

Before starting the engine, Tullivant sat behind the wheel, preparing himself for the phone call he had to make.

He’d missed. It was as simple as that. Bad luck had played a part, but bad luck had no place in a sniper’s list of excuses. And once you’d missed the first time, the chances of a successful kill were almost non-existent. Especially when your target was a fellow professional.

Had he made matters worse by approaching Purkiss’s house, rather than hanging back? Tullivant wasn’t sure. He was confident Purkiss wouldn’t be able to describe him except in the most generic way; his face and hair had been hidden by the balaclava, and his build and gait were unremarkable. Nevertheless, the sloppiness of the ensuing carnage troubled Tullivant. Mass destruction was sometimes necessary, but for this type of job, precision was key.

He dialled. It was answered on the third ring.

‘I was unsuccessful,’ Tullivant said.

He gave a concise account of events, answered questions. He didn’t expect an explosion of fury, and he didn’t receive one.

‘Am I to move in again on the target tonight?’ he asked.

No, he was told. But there were further instructions, for another, different target.

Tullivant listened, memorised the details.

Still stationary, he turned on the car radio and listened to the news. There was nothing yet about the episode. Although a veil would be thrown over the whole business, it would be impossible to keep it entirely secret; the genteel burghers of Hampstead would be asking questions about the eruption of gunfire which had disturbed their Friday evening’s peace. Some story would be concocted about terrorist suspects, or perhaps drug dealers, but the police would keep the details under wraps.

Tullivant pulled out. He decided to head to the area where the next target was located. The hit would have to wait until tomorrow, for various reasons, but Tullivant liked to scout out the terrain beforehand where possible.

He headed southeast, avoiding the worst of the Friday evening congestion, and reached the chaotic streets of Lewisham on the other side of the river. All the while, he had a sense of the London crowds gravitating inexorably towards the centre of the city and the West End, like a gently advancing tide.

Locating the street he was looking for, he drove down it at a speed that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. There was the address. Tullivant took pains not to stare too pointedly at the terraced house. There was light behind the drawn curtains, and movement.

Tullivant found a spot to park further along the road, and he watched the entrance to the terraced house in his rear-view mirror. He wanted to get some idea of numbers, and of security arrangements.

Three hours later, having counted the people coming and going, having observed the tottering pile of pizzas delivered by the boy on the moped, Tullivant estimated at least six guards.

The rifle wouldn’t do, this time, then. He’d have to use an altogether… messier method tomorrow.

‘It’s her,’ said Purkiss. ‘Kasabian. She set me up.’

They were in an office of some sort, which Vale had procured in his usual efficient and mysterious way. Purkiss stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet, restless, wanting to move about. Vale too ignored the chairs in the room, but was quite still, watching Purkiss.

He’d responded immediately, had Vale, reaching the hospital at the bottom of Highgate Hill minutes after Purkiss and the ambulance ferrying Kendrick had got there. The paramedics had stabilised his neck on a stretcher and set up an IV line and assorted monitors. His blood pressure was adequate, but his pulse rate was alarmingly low. And he wasn’t responding to a row of knuckles rubbed sharply down his breastbone, an ominous sign.

The duty surgeon in the Accident and Emergency department took a look at Kendrick and said, ‘Christ. He needs the neurosurgeons.’ He gave orders for Kendrick’s transfer to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in Bloomsbury.

Purkiss was shooed out of the examination room. He met Vale in the reception area of the casualty department. The police presence which had dogged Purkiss from the scene of the shooting at his house right up to the hospital, had evaporated. Vale’s doing , he thought. He knows it’s not a straightforward police matter and he’s pulled strings.

‘Kasabian,’ Purkiss repeated.