D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

‘Let’s say they shared each other’s company for a while.’ Then Muller froze, his head whipping back to the window. He placed his mug of coffee on the worktop.

‘Come on, man, you can’t leave it hanging like that. Who is he?’ But Gareth was brought up short by Muller’s raised hand signalling him to be quiet.

‘You hear that?’

Gareth shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’

‘There’s someone out there.’ He reached into his coat for the gun, flicked the safety catch.

‘We ought to phone the police,’ said Gareth with escalating alarm.

‘I am the fucking police!’ he said, gliding swiftly to the front door. ‘Go through there,’ he ordered, indicating a door to another room. ‘Keep out of sight and let me handle this.’

‘Is it Camael?’

‘Maybe. The bastard’s been damn good at tracking us if so. I didn’t catch sight of anyone following us.’

Muller put his hand on the door handle, twisted it, the gun raised almost to his cheek. He peered through the crack, then waved energetically for Gareth to do as he was told. Gareth turned, and as he did so a figure emerged from the other room, arm outstretched, a pistol gripped firmly in her hand. She bound smoothly across the kitchen, barging past Gareth before he’d even had time to register what was happening.

‘Put the gun down, Muller!’ she said crisply.

Muller’s face was a mask of complete astonishment. He raised his firearm instinctively and for an instant thought about firing it, but in a second the red-haired woman had her own gun inches away from the side of his head.

‘Go ahead, nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ she said.

Gareth fumbled in his pocket, brought out the gun Muller had given him back at the hotel. He brought it to bear on the woman. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but let the man go,’ he said, rather more confidently than he felt.

She didn’t even bother turning round to him. ‘Put that thing away, Gareth; it’s not even loaded.’

He looked helplessly down at the gun, unsure now what to do. He’d no idea how to check to see if she were telling the truth.

‘OK, Muller, drop that thing and close the door,’ she snarled, her jaw chewing agitatedly at the gum in her mouth. He did as he was told and she kicked the fallen weapon away. ‘Over there, by the wall,’ she ordered and Muller complied with a scowl. She saw Gareth studying the gun in his hand. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake give it here!’ she said, snatching it from him. With a deft working of her left hand she flicked out the cartridge case and handed the gun back to him. ‘See, it’s as empty as a politician’s promise. He was pissing up your back, Gareth, lulling you into a false sense of security.’

‘You’ve come to kill me!’ he said, horrified, backing away.

She peered at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You really are dumb, aren’t you? No, I’m not going to kill you. I’ve come to save your arse. Someone else isn’t going to be so lucky though.’

‘He’s the police,’ said Gareth.

‘The police? Nice one, Muller.’ She waved the gun at the man who had his hands behind his head. ‘Let’s see the ID, Muller. Throw it over to Davies.’

He reached carefully into his pocket, took out a wallet and tossed it to the floor in front of Gareth. He bent down to pick it up. ‘You bitch,’ said Muller.

‘Yeah, right. Now give it to me, Gareth,’ she said, gun aimed solidly at Muller’s head. She glanced at the contents of the wallet and sneered. ‘I’m surprised at you, Muller; I’d be ashamed to use such cheap Mickey Mouse stuff. I know there’s an economic depression, but still…’

Muller remained tight-lipped, averting his eyes, breathing heavily.

‘They’re false?’ said Gareth.

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m seriously wondering whether you’re worth all the trouble,’ she scoffed. ‘Of course this shit is false. Everything about him is false.’

‘Don’t trust her,’ Muller said. ‘It’s real enough.’

‘He saved me from Camael,’ Gareth defended. ‘I’d be dead if it weren’t for him.’

‘He saved you alright; he saved you for himself,’ she corrected. ‘Isn’t that right, Muller?’

‘She’s crazy!’ he fired back in return. ‘Don’t believe a word she tells you.’

The woman took out the ball of gum and tossed it into the cold, dead hearth. ‘Maybe I am crazy, maybe I’m not,’ she returned calmly. ‘How is Randall Tremain these days? Still the same heartless bastard? I’m betting he’s really pissed off with you right now. Not the kind of man you’d deliberately cross, so I say you’re very brave, very desperate or as thick as pig shit.’ She caught sight of a flash of recognition on Gareth’s face. ‘That’s right, Davies, this guy, your guardian angel, your Errol Flynn, is in the pay of Randall Tremain, who, as you know, is in the pay of Lambert-Chide, where the dirty salary chain stops At least as far as we can tell. Only I reckon Muller here thought the pay wasn’t up to scratch and ever the sleazy opportunist decided to give himself a pay rise, isn’t that so, Muller?’

If ever a man’s face betrayed his inner turmoil it was Muller’s, thought Gareth, as he sized up the situation, running through limited options. For the first time he saw a fault line of nervousness open up in the man’s iron-hard exterior.

‘Is this true, Muller?’ asked Gareth.

Muller gave an emphatic shake of his head. ‘She works for Camael,’ he fired bluntly. ‘You listen to her and you’re as good as dead, Davies.’

‘You were at Gattenby House. I saw you talking with Tremain,’ he said. ‘What’s the truth, Muller?’

‘The truth,’ interrupted the woman, ‘is that this man is a hired private investigator, hired initially to find your sister. They’ve been searching a long time. Lambert-Chide has many people looking for her. But there was a shift in plan when Muller realised your connection, your importance to Lambert-Chide. He was instructed to bring you in, but obviously thinking about his old age and retirement to some exotic location or other, he decides to keep you for himself, and then broker a better deal with Lambert-Chide for your handover. Foolproof. Except that I’ve been tracking you for a while now, Muller, and what a trail; as bright as Halley’s Comet. You may be good at finding people but you’re shit at covering your own tracks when you thought no one was watching.’

Muller’s eyes were looking resignedly at the floor. He’d abandoned exploring options for tackling the woman; he’d shifted to consideration of new and different plans. The change was plain to see, thought Gareth, physical, plastered all over the man’s face, in the way he carried himself. The woman went over to the old armchair and sat down letting Muller stew in his heated thoughts for a while.

‘I followed you when you first came to look at this place, when you hired two cars and when you booked the hotel room. So what’s going on here, I thought? Then the penny dropped; you never intended delivering Davies to Tremain. I’m afraid there’s a rather dark and damp cellar here, Gareth, in which you would no doubt have spent some considerable time until negotiations were complete and you were handed over to Lambert-Chide. If you don’t believe me take a look downstairs. There’s a bed made up for you, even a portaloo; no expense spared.’

‘Is this right, Muller?’ Gareth said. But he didn’t need a reply. He knew it was. He could read it in the man’s shattered resolve.

‘OK, so what’s your point?’ said Muller. ‘Where is all this headed?’

‘But before you could get to Davies Camael turned up, didn’t he?’ she continued. ‘Took him for himself. It would have been down to me to get him out but I figured you’d be so desperate to secure your investment you’d go ahead and do it on my behalf. And so here we are. Tell me if I got any of that wrong, Muller,’ she said.