14
Z ayn
Tony drops me off a five-minute walk from the salon. I cover the distance at a gentle stroll, head down to avoid any CCTV. No point attracting attention, or leaving an obvious trail. Zenith Grooming is a brightly lit beacon in the semi-darkness of the street of shops, most of them already closed up for the night.
I pause outside to peer through the plate-glass window. Mehrban is inside, lounging on one of the styling chairs, looking at his phone. The rest of the salon is deserted, four empty chairs lined up to face a full-width mirror along one wall. The decor is masculine, all dark blues and browns, and the sinks are a glossy black with tiles to match and contrasting red grouting. The whole gloomy vibe is offset by the modern lighting which casts a vaguely orange glow everywhere.
I suppose it’s okay, if you like the macho vibe. Personally, I don’t much care for it, but I won’t be here long. And I won’t be back.
I try the door. It’s locked, but Mehrban hops up and comes to let me in.
“Mr Shah?” he enquires.
“Yes. I booked earlier.”
“You did, of course. Come in.” He gestures me inside. “Sit anywhere.”
I ignore his suggestion and instead roam the perimeter of the salon to make sure there’s no one still here, in the toilets or the back room. While his back is turned as he fiddles with closing the door and drawing the blind down, I slip on a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket. It pays to always be prepared.
I find just the one jacket hanging in the storeroom and check the pockets. I remove a phone and a bunch of keys and place them on a shelf.
“Mr Shah? Is there a problem?” Helpfully, he’s locking the door again, his back still to me. “Can’t be too careful these days,” he adds. “So, what can I do for you this evening?”
Satisfied we’re alone, I turn to face him. My gun is now in my hand. “You can die, Mehrban, that’s what you can do for me this evening.”
He whirls to face me, his eyes like saucers. He gapes at the weapon, takes a step back, reaching for the door.
“Don’t.” My tone is arctic. “You can pass the keys to me, if you would.”
He dangles them from his finger, seemingly not quite able to compute what is happening.
“Slide them across the floor,” I instruct.
He wakes up at last and drops to his haunches to do as I say.
“Thanks, Mehrban,” I remark as I bend to pick them up. “Now, you could drop the blinds, too. Then, why don’t you take a seat? Anywhere.”
“I… I…”
“I said, close the blinds then sit the fuck down. Or do I need to kneecap you? It worked for your dad.”
He pales, suddenly comprehending exactly how much trouble he’s in. He staggers in the direction of the huge plate-glass window. The blinds are those posh vertical ones, and he manages to close them despite his shaking hands. He really is being most cooperative, for a man with little more than an hour to live. Perhaps he doesn’t realise that quite yet.
There’s time.
“Who are you?” He sounds to be on the verge of tears.
“I think you can work that out,” I reply. “You seem to be still standing. What part of sit the fuck down wasn’t clear?”
He drops into the closest chair. I pull a bunch of cable ties from my pocket and offer them to him. “Take two and use them to secure your right wrist to the arm of the chair, if you’d be so kind.”
His hand is shaking even more, but he takes a couple of the cable ties. He does nothing with them, though. Instead, he simply stares at me like a rabbit in headlights.
“Do it,” I snarl. “I don’t have all evening.”
He bursts into life. “Please, whatever you want, just take it. I won’t?—”
“Do as you’re fucking told.” I’m out of patience, and my tone portrays that loud and clear.
He gets the message and fumbles his way through the task, pleading with me the entire time to ransack the place if I want, but please let him go.
I wait until his right hand is out of action, then I pocket the gun. Before he can register this and strike out at me, I beat him to it. A murderous right hook shatters his jaw with a most satisfying crack. I manage to avoid the spurting blood and accompanying shower of teeth when I grab his free hand and cable tie that, too.
I leave him to splutter and moan and sob while I get on with stuff.
I start by doing the rounds retrieving his dislodged teeth. There are three of them, evidence I suppose of poor oral hygiene. I drop those in his shirt pocket. We’ve no intention of leaving this place looking like a crime scene. And Ethan did expressly instruct us not to make a mess.
So far, so good. I take a seat and regard my less-than-happy companion. The bleeding seems to have slowed, but I’ll wait a few more minutes before wiping the bloodstained floor around him. Meanwhile, we have time for a chat.
“So, why did you do it?” I ask.
He mumbles something incomprehensible and tugs uselessly at his cable ties.
“Don’t waste your energy,” I advise him. “You may need it later.” Though I doubt it, he’ll have no real opportunity to make any difference to what’s soon to happen. “You were about to explain why you and your brother decided to torch Leila’s flat.”
He glares at me, and I’m treated to more gurgling. I do manage to catch the phrase ‘fuck you’.
I shrug. “Okay, have it your way. Your reasons don’t much matter, though I can guess. One more thing. What’s the alarm code?” I glance at the infra-red sensor in the corner above us.
“Fuck you,” he repeats.
I pause for a moment, my instructions to leave minimal mess ringing in my ears. Still, he won’t know I’m bluffing.
I grab a pair of scissors from the closest workstation. Shiny, silver, with rapier-sharp points, they’ll do well enough. I move behind him and grab his hair in my fist to force his head back. “So, which is your favourite eye?” I position the point of the scissors at the corner of his right eye. “This one?” I press lightly, not enough to draw blood, but I certainly have his full attention
Mehrban screams. “Stop! Don’t”
“The code,” I remind him.
“Zero three nine four seven,” he screeches. “Please, don’t…”
I reckon he’s telling the truth, but I test it anyway. There’s a helpful little set of instructions on the back of the plastic door that covers the keypad, so I key in the code then follow with ‘set’. The system beeps for a few seconds, enough time for someone to leave. The beeping ends, there’s one, final long beep, then the display reads ‘system armed’.
“Sweet,” I murmur, then key in the code again followed by the letter ‘A’, as per the instructions. The beeping ends, and the display reads ‘system unset’. Good stuff.
I check my watch. “Your brother should be here soon, then we can get on with tonight’s bit of business.”
I leave him to his frantic struggles and pathetic pleading. I have shit to do, I need to get on.
I resume my thorough check of the premises, and I’m pleased to discover a rear door. It’s bolted on the inside, as well as secured with a decent security lock.
The hair-washing sinks are arranged in a row of three on the opposite wall. Each one is helpfully designed with that cut-out bit at the front, for the client’s neck to rest on. I test the taps and leave them on. I fill two of the sinks up to around the two-thirds mark then turn off the taps. Next, I take a wander into the storeroom and peruse the shelves of various products. I’m tempted to treat my guests to a cocktail of nasty chemicals, just to heighten the experience, but decide against it. They’re both going to die this evening, and that will have to be enough. Anything more would be petty and vindictive. Still, I deliberate for a while before selecting a tube of peroxide.
Back in the main salon, I take a moment to check the cable ties, then pat my companion on the shoulder. “Not long now,” I assure him, holding the tube of peroxide in front of his shattered nose. “I found this stuff. Is it strong?”
My question elicits more struggling and screaming. I take that as a ‘yes’.
I open the cap and sniff the contents. There’s a faintly floral aroma, not the usual bleach smell you get from floor cleaners and swimming pools. Still, it would probably be noticed when next someone comes in here. Best not to leave any unnecessary clues.
“Hmm, nice.” Reluctantly, I take the tube back to the storeroom. It might have been fun, but now’s not the time.
I return to Mehrban. “I guess you’ve worked out what’s to happen here.”
His gaze is riveted on the sink full of water, but he has nothing useful to say, apparently, and I’m finding the endless pleading a bit wearing. I get out my phone for a game of Candy Crush . It’s a weakness of mine but good for tuning out external din.
My phone buzzes around twenty minutes later to announce an incoming text.
Five minutes. Got our guest.
I punch out a short reply. Rear door.
I pop back into the storeroom to collect the keys I left there, along with a handful of nitrile gloves, then go to unlock the back door. I take a peep outside, pleased to see a deserted backstreet. Handy for parking and unloading an unwilling piece of cargo.
I wait there until I spot the headlights. Tony draws up outside and gives me a wave.
“He’s in the boot,” he tells me as he strolls round to the back. “Those for me?”
“Yes. A precaution.” I hand him a pair of gloves.
He unrolls the blue nitrile over his hands before he pops the boot lid to reveal a squirming Iftikar, gagged and trussed up like a Christmas turkey. He gestures to Nico and Rome. “Get him out.”
They also put on gloves, then they drag him out of the boot, and I lead the way into the back of the salon.
“Everything go okay?” I ask.
“Like a dream. We intercepted him in the car park at the gym. He’s probably still groggy, Nico can be a bit heavy-handed. Not to worry, we don’t need him especially compos mentis. Now, where do we want him?”
“Just here.” I drag one of the spare chairs over to the sink. “Here. Use these to make sure he stays there.”
Rome takes the handful of cable ties I offer him and does the business swiftly while Iftikar groans as though he’s dying already.
Won’t be long.
“Why the water?” Tony tips his chin at the full sinks.
“A prop. Gave our Mehrban something to think about while we waited for you.”
“Good. We can do without all the mopping up. People do tend to thrash about a bit when you drown them.” He grins at me. “What’s your plan, then?”
“Keep it simple, I thought.” I produce a length of narrow cord from my pocket. I cut it from a washing line a couple of years ago and found it made an excellent garrotte. And it’s a silent method of disposal and leaves little in the way of mess, as long as the victim doesn’t piss himself. Or worse. But that takes time, and I intend to make this swift.
Tony is of the same mind. “Let’s get on with this, then. We’ve work to do later, and we’ll still need to dispose of the bodies before we can get on and deal with other business.”
Iftikar is still dazed, but Mehrban is perfectly aware of what’s to come and decides to mount yet another protest.
“Please… Who are you? Why are you doing this? Let us go, we can pay you. What do you want?” He’s thrashing about again, and I wonder how long those cable ties will last.
“We’re friends of Leila,” I reply. “As are both of you. I gather you came calling last night for a spot of housewarming.”
“Leila? That slag? We?—”
I put a stop to his little speech with my fist. “That’s enough of that, shit for brains. You were warned, and you only get told once. You weren’t listening, so now we need a more permanent solution.”
“But, you?—”
“But what?” I move to stand behind him and slip my cord around his neck. “Don’t worry. If you don’t make a fuss, I can make this quick.” That’s not entirely true, it actually takes four to five minutes to complete a decent strangulation and be sure of brain death. He’ll be unconscious long before that, though.
“Not sure about painless…” I draw the garrotte tight. “Any last words?”
“You bastard! You’ll?—”
“Okay. Enough now.” I twist the ends of the cord together behind his neck and wind it around my fists.
His eyes roll. More blood gurgles from his ruined mouth. He jerks, instinctively, trying to get his hands up and under the cord, but the cable ties do their job.
I twist again, and the cord forces a deep valley in his scrawny neck. He’s losing consciousness already. I wrench the cord around for one final squeeze, then hold it there and I wait.
Mehrban’s rigid body is suddenly still and floppy, his head lolling to one side.
I remain in position for a couple more minutes, just to make sure, then release my death grip. Apart from a few splotches of blood and snot on the floor, there’s little in the way of mess to clear up, and Rome is already on it. It won’t be a thorough clean, we don’t have the time for that. There’ll be plenty in the way of forensics if anyone should see fit to look, but we won’t be leaving an obvious crime scene behind.
The brothers will simply ‘disappear’, and the salon won’t be implicated at all.
Iftikar has come round now. The commotion, probably, but he’s staring at me, wide-eyed. His gaze swivels from his dead brother to the cord dangling from my right hand and back again. His mouth works silently.
I smile at him. “You’ll have worked out how this goes,” I observe. “Like your brother, I’ll make this as quick as I can. Oh. Oh dear…” I frown at the dark stain spreading across the front of his crotch. “That’s unfortunate. Pass me a towel, Nico.”
I spread the fluffy material around the chair to prevent mess on the floor. We can burn it later. We’ll have to wipe down the leather of the chair seat, but there are handy anti-bacterial wipes on a shelf behind our guest, so we’ll be fine.
I move into position and wait while Iftikar exhausts the usual routine of struggling and pleading. At an impatient gesture from Tony, I wrap the cord around his neck and pull it tight.
“Bye-bye, Ifty.” I twist it around my hands and wait for him to cease his wriggling.
Iftikar puts up a better fight than his brother did, but it was futile from the start. I release him when it’s all over and check that he’s properly disposed of before slicing through the cable ties and pocketing the remnants.
“I’ll clean the chair if you guys can get him out of here.”
Nico and Rome hoist Iftikar’s lifeless body from the chair and, one at his ankles, the other holding his wrists, they haul him out through the back.
I deal with the piss-stained leather seat quickly, just as Tony finishes cutting Mehrban free. Together, we drag him out to the car and throw him in the boot with his brother and the soiled towel. “I’ll just go back and make sure everything’s tidy.”
Back in the salon, I cast an eye over the room. The sinks are emptied and wiped dry, the chairs are neatly back in their places, the floor is free of stains, and no splatters have reached the walls anyway. It all looks as normal as I can make it. I take Mehrban’s jacket from the hook in the back room. His keys and phone are still on the shelf where I left them, so I check that his car keys are on the bunch, then pocket them all. I finally check the rear door. I glance out into the backstreet where the car is waiting for me. Tony winds down the window.
“I need to set the alarm,” I call. “I’ll see you in the next street.” No point getting our car clocked by any CCTV.
He nods and gets into the driver’s seat. The engine starts up, and he cruises off.
I bolt the door and use Mehrban’s keys to fasten the security lock. Back in the salon, I cast one final look around and find nothing obviously out of place. I unlock the front door, pick up Mehrban’s jacket, and pull it on over my own, then I set the alarm. The warning beeping starts up. I slip out and close the door behind me, then lock it from outside. The beeping stops, for all the world as though Mehrban simply locked up as usual and left. If anyone checks they’ll see him leave–or his jacket, at least. They’ll find his car still parked along the road, but they’ll assume he left on foot. For a while, anyway.
I stroll to the end of the road, turn right, then left. Tony glides to a halt beside me and throws open the passenger door. I hop in, and we’re away.
“I arranged for the cleaners to meet us in Finlaystone Country Park in an hour,” Tony tells me. “Should be about right for time.”
I agree. If Abdul sticks to his usual routine, he’ll be passing through the county park on his way to Pru’s excellent establishment in around an hour and ten minutes.
There’s little in the way of conversation as we drive to the rendezvous point. Each of us knows his job, we just need to orchestrate our efforts and make sure nothing goes wrong. For now, we concentrate.
There are two vehicles waiting for us in a lay-by in the forest when we arrive fifty-five minutes later, a Transit van and a breakdown truck. Tony parks up in front of the convoy. He and I get out.
We’re met by two men. Handshakes are exchanged, then we all get down to the business.
“He should be passing here in around fifteen minutes,” I tell our companions. “Did you bring the stinger and the rest of the kit?”
“Certainly did,” Harry replies with a cheery grin. “Albie here will get it set up when we’re ready. Joey is stationed a mile down the road, and he’ll give us the heads-up.”
We’ll need to time it well and rely on a degree of luck. Ideally, we need the road to be clear but for our target, but failing that, both Harry and Albie are dressed in police uniforms intended to deter unwelcome questioning by any potential witnesses. Hopefully, they’ll think we’re simply apprehending a drunk driver or similar.”
“Okay,” Tony says. “You stop the car, then dispose of it afterwards. We’ll do the rest. The other two are in the boot.”
“Right-o. Bring the gear, Albie.”
Albie produces three body bags from the van, along with a stinger device and a portable high-pressure spray. He tucks everything out of sight in the shrubbery beside the road. We check that the road is deserted in both directions, then we unload Iftikar and Mehrban into two of the bags. Harry flings one over his shoulder, and Albie picks up the other. Both are deposited in the back of the van.
Immediate tasks sorted, Albie hands round chewing gum. We all accept a piece, then wait in silence.
One or two vehicles pass us, but not the one we are waiting for. Ten minutes crawl by, then Harry’s phone rings. He accepts the call.
“Right. Thanks. See you soon.’ He ends the call then looks to us. “Next one along. Registration checks out.”
Albie sprints to the undergrowth and grabs the stinger device. It’s a piece of equipment usually used by the police to bring a suspect vehicle to a sudden halt. A bit like a rolled-up chain, you fling it across the road in the path of the target vehicle. Hollow spikes shred the tyres, and that’s the end of that. The vehicle stops, usually more or less under control.
Albie crouches by the roadside, stinger at the ready, just as headlights appear. The rest of us stay out of sight among the trees flanking the road. The stinger snakes across the tarmac a few yards in front of Abdul’s car. Moments later, with a screech of ruined tyres, it slews to a halt in the middle of the road.
I doubt if Uncle Abdul even saw the stinger, let alone had a chance to react. He’s still in the driver’s seat looking stunned when we surround his car.
I grab the door handle and fling it open. “So, here we are again, Abdul.”
“What the fuck…?” He tries to get out, but of course, he can’t. His wheelchair is in the boot along with his crutches.
“I did warn you. I told you that if we had cause to meet again, the next bullet would be between your eyes. And here we are, having much the same conversation as before. You just don’t learn, and it needs to stop, Abdul.”
He’s spluttering with rage. “You cocky little bastard! I’ll?—”
I produce my Glock, with the silencer, as before. “Your boys are already dead. Now it’s your turn.”
I suspect he pales, but it’s dark and I can’t really tell. And there’s no time to ponder the matter. I place the muzzle of the gun on his forehead and pull the trigger.
Blood and brains explode in the car. Fuck, what a mess! I step away, wipe my gun down, and let my comrades do the rest.
Albie produces the remaining body bag, then grabs Abdul by the feet and drags him out onto the road. It’s the work of moments to zip him into his sack and throw him into the back of the Transit with his boys.
We’re joined by Joey who has jogged down the road. He’s hardly out of breath when he arrives. Between him and Albie, Abdul’s car is treated to a bit of a makeover with black tape to amend the number plate. A zero becomes an eight, and aa. L becomes and E, just to confuse any ANPR they might pass on the way. Then the car is hoisted onto the back of the recovery vehicle for transport to fuck knows where. All I do know is, it’ll never be seen again.
Neither will the dead men in the van. They’re on their way to the industrial waste incinerator near Aberdeen where we have an understanding with one of the supervisors. It’s an excellent way of disposing of potentially incriminating evidence.
Joey makes himself busy with the pressure wash, eradicating any remaining signs of a disturbance. The bloodstained road surface is soon clean, helped by the light drizzle which is starting to become heavier. With any luck, a decent downpour will finish the job off nicely.
We get back in our four-by-four, and the cleaning team hop into their vehicles. Albie and Joey are in the van heading north to Aberdeen, Harry in the truck, destination unknown. With cheery waves, they all pull away.
“Right. Job done. Nice work, Zee.” Tony grins at me, then nods to the two in the back. “Now, we have calls to make back in town.”
“Anything exciting, boss?” Nico enquires.
“Nope, just the usual crop of idiots who think they can avoid paying us what’s due. Just routine stuff.”
Nico shrugs. “Oh, well, never mind.”