Simon Kernick - The Murder Exchange

I stretched my legs, then walked casually towards the door in the far corner, keeping one eye on the boxes overhead. Eric’s story had given me the spooks a lot more than I’d ordinarily like to admit. It seemed to have done the same to him too because he stepped out of the car and leant back against the bonnet, lighting another cigarette and watching the boxes like a hawk.

I reached the door and tried it. Locked. So, who the hell had come here and switched the lights on? And where were they now? I turned back towards the car.

Eric looked across at me. ‘Nothing?’

I shook my head. ‘Locked.’ I walked across to the open doors and stepped outside into the warm breeze. Over on the horizon the distant lights of the West End glowed pink. The road was quiet and I listened hard for any sound of a car coming through the estate, but there was nothing bar the distant rumble of traffic. Maybe they just liked to be fashionably late.

It was 10.16 and I was edgy. I decided to go back and question Fowler in a little more detail about exactly what was in that briefcase of his, the one he’d been so reluctant to bring into the warehouse.

I turned round.

In the car, Roy Fowler was still fretting as he waited to get everything over and done with. Ten more minutes, he kept telling himself. Just ten more minutes, and he’d be a rich man.

Tony gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Look, Mr Fowler, calm down. It’s going to be OK.’

Fowler exhaled heavily and turned to Tony. His face was taut with tension. ‘I’m all right. I just wish they’d get here, that’s all.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Tony encouragingly. ‘They’re already here.’ He motioned towards the front doors where Iversson stood with his back to them.

Fowler wriggled round in his seat and looked out of the rear window. ‘Where?’

‘Here,’ said Tony, and pushed the silencer hard against Fowler’s head, just in front of his ear.

Before Fowler even had a chance to react, Tony pulled the trigger. Fowler let out a sharp sigh and the passenger window behind him cracked as the bullet passed through it. He slumped in the seat, and rolled round so he was facing his killer, allowing Tony to press the weapon against his forehead and give him one more, just for good measure.

The front driver’s door opened and Eric, having heard the noise of breaking glass, shoved his head in, completely unaware of what had just happened. He spotted Fowler immediately, dead in his seat, blood dripping down his face in thin rivulets and onto his sweat-stained shirt.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘I shot him,’ said Tony, pulling the gun up from his side and aiming it at his colleague’s face. Eric’s eyes widened and his body tensed as he tried to come to terms with the sight in front of him.

‘Tony, don’t do-’

Tony fired twice, both bullets striking Eric in the face. The big man staggered backwards, and Tony leant forward to fire two more shots into his upper body. His legs buckled and went from under him, and he fell heavily to the ground, moaning and clutching wildly at his face and chest.

Tony, meanwhile, threw open the car door and came out looking for the man who until two minutes ago had been his boss.

I was still in the process of turning round as Roy Fowler died. It took a couple of seconds to take in the muffled noises and the movement in the back of the Range Rover, by which time Eric was turning round, still holding onto his cigarette, and hurriedly pulling open the door. I took a step forward as Eric said something to Tony, then a series of popping sounds came from inside the car and Eric’s head snapped back and he lost his footing, stumbling like a drunk man.

I knew immediately that he’d been shot, but still not by whom. It didn’t make sense. I stopped dead in my tracks, confused by the sudden turn of events, and fumbled in the back of my waistband for the gun.

At the same time, Tony stepped almost casually out of the car, gun in hand, and turned towards me. He raised the weapon, that eerie little half-smile flickering across his face, and prepared to fire. For some reason, the first thought that crossed my mind was how fucking annoying that look was. It made the bastard appear really cocky, which was something I’d never noticed before. The second thought I had was that I’d always liked Tony.

Then my military training took over and I hit the deck, rolling over and pulling out the Glock. The silencer spat twice as Tony came forward, closing in for the kill, and bullets hissed quietly through the air, ricocheting up from the concrete, feet from where I was rolling.

Tony came round the back of the Range Rover, taking aim again, but this time it was his turn for a shock. Without warning, I stopped rolling and leapt to my feet, locating and flicking off the safety in what was close to a reflex action. His face froze in disbelief like he couldn’t believe I’d be so cheeky as to pull a gun on him, and then I was firing, the bullets exploding round the enclosed space of the warehouse in an angry cluster of noise. Tony pulled the trigger too, and I felt a bullet whistle past my left ear, but time was moving so fast that I didn’t even think about it, just kept firing, two-handed, concentrating on keeping the weapon level, emptying the magazine.

Tony stumbled back as he was hit in the shoulder of his gun arm. A second round struck him in the throat, then a third in the face, knocking him side-ways. The next thing I knew, he was falling to the floor, the gun flying out of his grip and clattering out of reach. Immediately, he tried to lift himself up, his face registering another look of disbelief as he realized he was dying. Blood so dark it was almost black poured from the wounds on his face and throat, turning his white polo shirt a deepening horror-film colour. He held the position with his head a foot above the floor for about three seconds, then fell backwards with a thud, choking heavily.

I walked over to him, still gripping the Glock hard. He rolled himself into a ball, coughing and retching as his mouth filled with blood. Well, one thing was for sure: I wasn’t going to get any answers out of him now. Once in Africa, a long time back, I’d seen a man take a bullet in the throat. It had taken him close to ten minutes to die, choking and gasping on his own blood. There was nothing that could have been done. As soon as the bullet had struck him the outcome was inevitable. It was inevitable now, but I didn’t think I could just let it happen. Like I said, I’d always liked Tony.

I ejected the magazine and checked the bullets. There were three left. Pushing it back in, I leant down, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger, blowing Tony’s brains across the dirty floor. The body juddered a couple of times, then lay still.

I stopped for a moment, looking about the ware-house and listening for any suspicious sounds. Nothing, bar the faint sound of light breathing coming from Eric. I walked over to him, holstered the gun, and knelt down. He was lying on his back, his hands laid across his chest in full funeral style. His face was twisted and bloody with the entry wounds of Tony’s bullets clearly visible. One was just below his right eye, the other on his lower left cheek, an inch above the jawline. A dark red pool was forming on the floor beneath his head and his eyes were shut. I felt his neck for a pulse. There was something there but it was very faint; and, even as I held my finger on it, it faded away until it was gone altogether.

Eric. He’d been a good man. Reliable, professional, all the things you wanted in business. Not someone you could take liberties with, not someone who was afraid of using force when it was necessary, but nevertheless someone whose heart was in the right place. The poor sod had even bought me a bottle of whisky the previous Christmas, which might have been a small gesture but was the sort I appreciated. It made me feel guilty that I’d only intended to pay him three hundred quid for the night’s work. It didn’t seem a lot to die for.