Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

‘Tell me something, Mr Fowler,’ I said, as the Range Rover swung left and moved slowly through the business park, crawling over the frequent speed bumps. ‘How come you chose a venue like this? There must be getting on for two million buildings in this city. Surely one of them’s got to be better than round here.’

‘We want some privacy, that’s all.’

‘Christ almighty,’ growled Eric. ‘If you’d wanted privacy you could have come round my gaff. This is fucking ridiculous.’

‘We’re nearly there,’ said Fowler irritably. He sat back in his seat and sighed, wiping his brow for the hundredth time that night. He looked about as comfortable as a case of piles.

Tony asked him if he was OK.

He nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ He didn’t sound it.

‘If things look like they’re going to get a bit tasty, we’ll just pull out,’ said Tony, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and offering Fowler one. The clubowner accepted and thanked him as he lit it. ‘All part of the service,’ said Tony, leaning forward and dangling the pack between me and Eric. Eric took one. I told him I’d given up.

‘Oh yeah? How long’s that been, then?’

‘Too fucking long.’

We came to another T-junction and Fowler told Eric to turn right. We were coming to the other end of the estate now and, beyond the buildings stretched out in front of us, I could make out the fence, and what looked like wasteground behind. It was eerily silent here, a lonely oasis in the middle of the city. The sort of place where the killers in kids’ nightmares lurk.

‘I think it’s here, up ahead,’ said Fowler.

Looming up on our right-hand side, about fifty yards in front and partially obscured by trees, was a large whitebrick warehouse, bigger than the buildings on either side of it. It was set back a few yards from the road behind a forecourt where there was room to park at least a dozen cars, and its delivery doors were open. The forecourt was empty but a light appeared to be on inside, the only light I’d seen in a building on the whole estate.

I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck like it was being stroked by a poltergeist. Something was wrong with this whole thing. Very wrong. I pushed back in my seat, feeling the comforting closeness of the Glock rubbing against the small of my back, confident that if I had to use it then at least I knew it would fire.

‘This is it, the one with the light on. That’s where we’re meeting.’

‘What time’s it set for again?’ I asked.

‘Ten thirty.’

I looked at my watch. Ten past. ‘Better early than late, I suppose.’

Eric slowed the car and turned into the forecourt, watching for any signs of activity.

But there were none. No movement, no voices, no nothing. The place was as deserted as a cemetery.

Eric brought the Range Rover to a halt outside the delivery doors.

‘Well, someone’s been here tonight,’ I said.

‘It doesn’t look like they’re here now,’ said Eric, peering inside.

There was a growing tension in the car. You could almost smell it.

‘You definitely got the time right?’ I said.

‘Course I did,’ snapped Fowler, who looked the most nervous of any of us by a long chalk. ‘It’s still early, remember?’ He leant forward in his seat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His left leg was shaking uncontrollably and, for some reason, I found myself enjoying his discomfort.

‘Maybe we should drive in there and take a look around,’ said Tony, also leaning forward. ‘What do you think, Max? We could take up positions so we’re ready when they get here.’

It seemed as good an idea as any. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. It can’t do any harm.’ Which was a statement I was to remember for the rest of my days.

Eric touched the accelerator and we drove in through the gap in the doors.

The place was about twenty yards deep by ten yards wide, and empty aside from a row of ancient-looking oil drums which stood a few feet in front of a door in the far right-hand corner. Above the door was a long balcony that stretched the width of the room and overlooked the front of the car. A number of unmarked boxes were positioned along it, some of them stacked two or three high. I looked up at them for any sign of activity, but everything was still. As still as the grave, as my grandma used to say before she was lowered into her own.

The Range Rover stopped in the middle of the floor. Eric put it into neutral and pulled up the handbrake. He too looked up at the boxes. ‘Perfect place for an ambush,’ he said quietly, almost to himself. ‘Saw something like this back in Ulster.’

‘Look, this is just a fucking meeting,’ said Fowler impatiently. ‘Nothing more. All right?’

‘It was while we were based out of Londonderry. The RUC got a call from some woman, said she’d been raped out by this disused old factory. This was in the old days, way back at the beginning of the seventies, before they’d got wise to the way the provos worked. The Officials were still around then and they tended to play it more by the book. Anyway, they despatched a car with three RUC men in it to pick her up, and an ambulance as well. Just in case. She’d made the call from a phone box outside the factory gates, but when the car got there, they saw her wandering about inside the grounds, you know, all distraught and that.’

The car fell silent. All you could hear was Fowler’s heavy breathing in the back.

‘So they drove in through the gates and went down to pick her up. She saw them, started crying hysterically, and ran off into the building, like she couldn’t come to terms with getting near any men so soon after what’d happened. The RUC car stopped in front of it and the coppers, all blokes, went to get out. None of them drew their guns, they didn’t want to unnerve her, and I don’t think the poor bastards ever suspected a thing.

‘They never even got their feet on the ground. A couple of provo gunmen stuck their Armalites out of the windows on the second floor, right above the car, and started shooting on fully automatic. The driver was killed outright.’

‘What about the one in the front seat passenger side?’ I asked.

‘If I remember rightly, he died later in hospital.’

‘Great. That’s a real fucking help, that is.’

‘Fucking hell, Eric,’ snorted Tony. ‘Make us all feel better, why don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much, Tone. Or you,’ Eric added, meaning Fowler. ‘The one in the back survived. Got hit in the neck but the bullet passed straight through. Didn’t touch a single one of his main cables. Far as I know the bloke’s still alive.’

‘Stop joking around, and keep your wits about you,’ hissed Fowler. ‘That’s what I’m paying you for.’

Eric’s face clouded over. He didn’t like taking shit from anyone, even paying customers. ‘You know, Max, I’m beginning to think this job’s worth a lot more than what I’m getting for it.’

‘Life’s an underpaid occupation, Eric,’ I told him. ‘Everyone knows that.’ I looked at my watch again. 10.14. ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

Fowler leant forward abruptly. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr Iversson. It’s best we stick together and wait for them to come.’

‘I won’t go far. I just want to check things out.’

‘Look, I insist …’

I stepped out of the car, ignoring his pleas. I’m pretty good with the punters usually, to tell you the truth, but it wasn’t as if I was going to get any repeat business from this prick, plus I already had the money, so basically there was no need to play along with him. Particularly when it was so obvious that there was a lot more to this meeting than he was letting on. Fucking people around was a game two could play.