Kill or Die Read online

  KILL OR DIE

  Ann Evans

  Copyright © 2017 Ann Evans

  The right of Ann Evans to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN-978-1-912175-14-7

  I'd like to dedicate this book to Wayne, Angie and Debbie who have grown up with a mum who is constantly writing! Also for their 'other halves' Mel, George and Steve. For Jake too, who is old enough to read this book now. Love also to Megan, Brennan, Sam, Nathaniel, Anya and Ethen who aren't old enough to read it – yet.

  A special thanks to Betsy, Fred and all the team at Bloodhound Books for taking a chance on me, and for all the help and support.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The fog came down before midnight. Like a clammy grey blanket, it silently descended over the Warwickshire village of Old church, smothering the elegant black and white timber-framed houses lining Sycamore Drive. And, with the fog, came an oppressive dankness and a freezing damp.

  A little after one am, the pale glow of a car's sidelights cut through the swirling mist. The car turned into the street, and coasted silently to the curb. The driver's caution, however, was not for fear of hitting anything in the claustrophobic gloom, but because he wanted his presence to go unnoticed.

  Vincent Webb sat hunched over the wheel, making himself smaller, less visible, less memorable. If anyone was watching, which he doubted, better they didn't notice a big, blond good looking twenty-eight-year-old, sitting there; someone they could hardly forget. He needed to keep a low profile. Tonight, he needed to be invisible.

  Making sure, he pulled a black woollen balaclava over his head. Slate blue eyes peered through the slit, focussing on the house opposite. The house he and his companion, Nash, were about to visit.

  Vincent Webb glanced at Nash slouched in the passenger seat. He wasn’t a pretty sight. Life had not been kind to Nash, and it showed. Scarred in a knife fight, and sewn back together by someone who didn't give a damn.

  “This fog's a blessing, don't you think, Nash?” Vincent prided himself on his educated voice. It was mellow, cultivated. A radio-voice, some said. It held a certain charm women in particular warmed to. A voice that had talked him into beds, and out of tricky situations, on many occasions. Vincent Webb relied on three things – his charm, his good looks, and his resolute determination to never allow anyone to get one over on him.

  He patted the scarred man on the arm. Vincent wore black leather gloves that went well with his black Italian leather trench coat. Nash wore black denim. “The fog, it’s a gift from the gods. It conceals us. We’re invisible. Who’s going to remember us being here? No one. Because no one can see us. It’s beautiful.”

  The thinner man rubbed a hand over the right side of his face, where the wounds from the knife attack, five years before, stood out angrily against his white, pock-marked skin.

  “Hate the fog. Hate the cold. Gets into my face, y'know, seeps into my scars. Even these little pin holes, where that quack stitched me, they hurt like needles jabbing in this cold weather. My whole headaches. You've no idea, Vince. The cold kills me.”

  “Kills me, too, Nash, every time I have to look at your ugly mug.” Vincent took the sting out of his words, by smiling behind his balaclava, making sure the smile touched his eyes. It was a skill he'd mastered over this last year since knowing Nash. He kept the smile in place behind the woollen mask, as if to pacify, like he was speaking to a child, or dumb animal, neither of which Nash was. And that was something Vincent had no intention of ever forgetting.

  “How are we gonna know which house it is in this fog, Vince?” Nash's words spilled out on a build-up of saliva. Automatically, he wiped his arm across the misshapen mouth.

  “Have faith, my friend. Have a little faith.” There was no mistaking the house; Vincent had checked it out days earlier. He'd know the way blindfolded. He knew behind this barricade of Leylandii trees stood a fancy mock Tudor house, dripping with priceless antiques. And there was one old man guarding his hoard. He'd done his research. The old guy was a connoisseur. He knew the old man owned one collection of silverware worth two hundred thousand; his Chinese jade collection was worth a half million – and Vincent's contact in London had buyers waiting.

  They sat in silence for a while, peering through the grimy window of the stolen car. There were no lights on in the house, at least none he could see through the fog and trees. But, he’d give it another few minutes, to be on the safe side.

  He stretched his legs – or attempted to. Why the hell Nash had lifted this wreck, he didn’t know. It stank of stale fags, and there was a spring sticking through his seat. They’d done the owners a favour nicking this heap of crap.

  “Is this gonna be the big one, Vince,” Nash mumbled, hugging his arms around his skinny frame for warmth. “Is this the job that’s gonna make us rich? Coz this bloody cold weather cripples me. I need to get away, somewhere warm…”

  “That's the idea, my friend,” Vincent said, shutting him up, before he started whining on about his face again. Somehow, he kept the impatience out of his voice. The kid glove treatment was another trick he’d learnt when dealing with Nash. He was as touchy as hell about his appearance - which was understandable. The scar ran from the outer corner of his right eye, down to the lower edge of his lip. Pinholes ran down either side of it. The fight had happened when Nash was seventeen, and had left his face virtually sliced in half. The muscles were severed and destroyed, along with any thread of affection he’d ever had for his fellow mankind.

  “He's loaded, right?”

  “Like you wouldn't believe, my friend.”

  Vincent hadn't told Nash the extent of the old guy's wealth. No point doing that. He didn’t want to risk Nash getting greedy. Anyway, Nash hadn't been the one who had devised and set up this job. He was the brains. Nash was merely the brawn.

  “He'd better be,” muttered Nash. “If I don’t get into a warm climate soon, I’m gonna die. California, that’s where I’m off to, once we’ve got enough dough. Gonna book myself into one of them clinics. Y’know, one of them plastic surgery places.”

  Vincent gave him the benefit of a reassuring wink. “They’ll fix you up good as new, no sweat.”

  The unmarked side of Nash’s face creased into a crooked smile, but because of his lack of muscle control, it turned into a sneer.

  Vincent turned away.

  “Yeah,” said Nash, clasping and unclasping his woollen-gloved hands. “If they can turn old hags into raving beauties, they’ll do me, no worries.”

  “Sure will,” agreed Vincent, winding down the side window. Fog drifted in, smelling of smoke and November.

  “Shut it, for Christ sakes,” Nash whined. “It’s cold enough with the window up.”

  Vincent did so, without argument. Not out of consideration or fear of Nash’s mood, but because it was almost time.

  “Just a few more minutes,” he said. “Make sure the place stays in darkness, although I imagine he'll be well off into the Land of Nod by now.”

  “It don’t worry me none if he’s asleep or not,” Nash slurred, his eyes coming alive with a spark of dark menace.

  Vincent tried
not to let it get to him. Although, sometimes, when Nash had that look, he seemed totally insane. It worried him, at times. Not that he’d ever let his fear show. That wouldn’t do at all.

  It had been down to his ability to hide his emotions that first landed him with Nash. He'd been relaxing in a pub, after a particularly good bit of business a year ago, when he'd spotted Nash sitting alone in a corner. He'd been trying to drink his beer, but it was slopping out of his misshapen mouth faster than it was going down his throat. It had turned Vincent's stomach. But, when he'd glanced at him, Vincent had managed to give him a friendly smile, and hide the revulsion.

  Ten minutes later, a fight broke out, and some moron had come at him with a chair. Nash had stepped in and floored the man with a crushing blow to the back of his skull, sliding the lead cosh back into his jacket seconds later. He’d then hauled Vincent to his feet.

  It wasn’t until weeks later, and two successful armed robberies behind them, that Vincent had learned why Nash had taken a liking to him. He’d been the only person in years who hadn’t beheld him with disgust.

  And they say the Chinese are inscrutable.

  “It really scares me though, Vince,” Nash’s whimpering broke through his thoughts.

  “What? Some old boy, loaded, living alone and probably deaf as a post?”

  “Not the job,” said Nash, sucking and swallowing. “Plastic surgeons – the thought of being taken apart by some quack.”

  “Have a little trust, my friend. They aren’t all butchers. Some are skilled craftsmen.”

  “Yeah! Like the one who did this?” he grumbled, clutching his face.

  Vincent spoke softly, as if pacifying some cornered animal. “The doctor didn’t do that. The doctor stitched you back together. Where would you have been, if he hadn’t sewn you up? You’d still be in two halves – a split personality.”

  The half-smile contorted beyond any semblance of what a smile should be It wasn’t in recognition of Vincent’s attempt at humour, as he well knew. He’d heard the story of Nash’s revenge, time and time again. In a macabre way, it sickened and impressed him – the fact Nash had mutilated the surgeon who had saved his life, because he’d left him ugly. And not only the surgeon, but his wife, too—worked on her with a nasty little Stanley knife.

  One would think after hearing the details a couple of dozen times, it would lose its impact, but it didn’t. Sometimes, Vincent wondered if Nash knew how it wound him up inside. He probably only harped on to keep him on his toes—a subtle warning of what he’d do if he ever was crossed.

  He’d have to be careful how he split with Nash, when the time came, very careful.

  “Could do with a fag,” Nash said, pulling off his gloves, and rubbing his hands over his thighs.

  “Have one, then,” Vincent snapped, checking his watch again.

  “You ever seen me smoke? Huh? Have you?”

  “Steady on,” Vincent said, patting the other man’s knee. “No point in getting your knickers in a twist. If you need a fag, have one. Simple as that.”

  “Ever tried smoking, when you got no feeling in your face? I used to enjoy a fag. Used to like chewing gum, and all.” His voice took on a bitter whinge, and his hands clenched into fists. “Used to enjoy eating and drinking, and screwing…”

  He kicked out at the dashboard, and a CD jumped out of the player and landed in the console amongst empty fag packets and ash.

  Vincent fished the CD out, wiped it down the side of the seat, and slotted it back in. The Beatles. He liked the Beatles. He’d play that when they were on their way back to the house – or hovel, rather. They’d have something to celebrate, by then.

  He turned his attention to Nash. His voice was calm, in total control. “Just think, mate, after this job, and you get yourself off to sunnier climes, you’ll be having as many ciggies as you want, and as many women. They’re crazy about the English over in the States, especially those old birds.”

  “It had better happen, Vince. I gotta get somewhere warm. This cold is killing me.”

  Vincent adjusted his own gloves and balaclava. “Then, we'd better make sure nothing goes wrong. Ready?”

  Nash’s hand went instinctively to the inside of his denim jacket. The tools he carried made him look bulky, like he worked out regularly. Stripped naked, you could count his ribs.

  A crooked, smile twisted his face as he pulled out a well-worn lump of lead, twelve inches long, and the circumference of a man’s hand.

  “Go easy with that,” Vincent said, opening the car door, and stepping out into the freezing damp fog. “One of these days, you’re going to kill somebody.”

  Nash sneered. “Yeah, you never know, Vince. Maybe I will.”

  CHAPTER 2

  With a strangled sob, Julia Logan threw her mobile towards her open handbag on the sofa. She'd been on the verge of calling Ian, when the sound of a car door closing sent her running to the window again. But, Ian's car wasn't on the drive, as far as she could see. The fog seemed to be getting thicker by the minute. The sound must have travelled from across the street. Fog did that - distorted sounds, exaggerated them.

  She let the heavy brocade curtain fall back into place, aware running to the window at every little sound was simply something to do. A break from watching the hands of the clock ticking round, reminding her Ian was late, Ian was somewhere else. Somewhere he ought not to be.

  “Damn you, Ian Logan!” she exploded, checking the clock again. She had memorised every inch of its fancy gilt frame, knew the sound of its ticking and whirring. At times, she thought she’d pull it down from the wall, wrap it up, and send it to his blasted office. “There! You stare at it, hour after hour, night after night. No, you’ve forgotten all about time, haven’t you, Ian? There’s something more important on your mind now – someone more important,” she shouted out to no one in particular.

  She pressed her palms into her eyes, forcing back the tears. She wouldn’t cry tonight. Tonight, she was going to be strong, stronger than she’d ever been.

  She had made her decision two weeks ago. These last fourteen days had been her husband's probationary period, not that he'd known. It had been his last chance to give up the other woman. To come back to her, as the man she married. The man she loved – still loved, despite everything.

  But, he had failed. Last night, it was the early hours of the morning before he came home, and then, it had been with some pathetic excuse of problems at work. He hadn’t even the guts to tell her the truth. That would have been better than listening to his lies, pretending to accept them. Tonight, his excuse would be the fog. However, she wouldn’t be there to hear his excuses. He had used his last chance.

  Two packed suitcases were tucked inside her wardrobe. Last night, she had almost left him, but then, at the last moment, she had pushed the cases back into the wardrobe, and cried herself to sleep. Ian hadn’t commented on her puffed eyes that morning before going to work. But, then, he couldn't even look her in the eye these days.

  She ran upstairs, and dragged the suitcases out. They were heavy, but not as heavy as her heart. She took a final glance into her jewellery box, undecided whether to leave her wedding ring amongst all the other pieces she had no use for: some earrings, a couple of watches, an antique silver ring Benjamin Stanton from next door had given her. She skimmed her finger over it. The poor dear was almost housebound these days. She popped in sometimes to see how he was, and on Thursdays to do his shopping. The ring had been a token of his appreciation, probably quite valuable, but too showy for her liking. Ian might like to give it to his fancy piece, whoever she was, Julia thought bitterly, as she lugged the cases downstairs.

  The freezing fog chilled her to the bone, as she squeezed them into the boot of her yellow Mini. She hoped it would start. It was a devil to start in the damp, and she regretted not putting it away in the garage earlier. Fingers crossed it wouldn’t let her down tonight. Heart pounding, she went back indoors.

 
Already, the atmosphere of the house had changed. She had turned her back on him, and that blasted clock.

  “There, go tick to yourself. I’m not listening anymore.” But, her stomach tightened, and she knew she was making the biggest decision of her life.

  Tears stung her eyes without warning. She wiped them away swiftly, decisively. Her mind was made up. There was no turning back. She had to leave now, this minute, before he returned, and found her on the verge of leaving. She couldn’t cope with that.

  She ran back upstairs, and into another bedroom. The hall light's glow fell across the narrow bed draped in pink netting, and the sleeping form laying amongst a heap of teddy bears. Julia gently brushed a fine golden curl back from her daughter’s forehead. “Lucy, sweetheart, time to wake up.”

  The child stirred, her lips pouting cherub-like, before dragging the duvet over her ears.

  Julia gently shook her. “Lucy, we have to go out. Wake up, sweetheart.”

  Lucy half-opened one blue eye and muttered, “School?”

  “No, darling, but we have to go out. Please, Lucy, put a sweater on over your nightie, and slip your shoes on. I’ll wrap you in a blanket, and you’ll be lovely and snug in the car.”

  Lucy pulled a face. “I'm too tired. Don't want to go out.”

  Julia drew back the bedclothes, and eased her eight-year-old out of bed.

  The child flopped awkwardly, head on her knees, grumbling. “Where we going, anyway?”

  “Just to Aunty Steph's.”

  Groaning and straightening up, the child rubbed her eyes. “What about school? Miss Carter is picking Mary and Joseph tomorrow, and I want to be Mary or the Angel Gabriel.”

  Julia dragged a sweater over her daughter's head, hoping her sister wouldn't object to them turning up on her doorstep in the middle of the night. She hadn't even hinted to Steph her marriage was in trouble. She was going to be stunned.