Deadly Purpose Read online

  DEADLY PURPOSE

  By

  MICHAEL KERR

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this Author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Also By Michael Kerr

  DI Matt Barnes Series

  A REASON TO KILL

  LETHAL INTENT

  A NEED TO KILL

  CHOSEN TO KILL

  A PASSION TO KILL

  RAISED TO KILL

  The Joe Logan Series

  AFTERMATH

  ATONEMENT

  ABSOLUTION

  ALLEGIANCE

  ABDUCTION

  ACCUSED

  The Laura Scott Series

  A DEADLY COMPULSION

  THE SIGN OF FEAR

  THE TROPHY ROOM

  Other Crime Thrillers

  DEADLY REPRISAL

  DEADLY REQUITAL

  BLACK ROCK BAY

  A HUNGER WITHIN

  THE SNAKE PIT

  A DEADLY STATE OF MIND

  TAKEN BY FORCE

  DARK NEEDS AND EVIL DEEDS

  DEADLY OBSESSION

  COFFEE CRIME CAFE

  A DARKNESS WITHIN

  Science Fiction / Horror

  WAITING

  CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE STRANGE KIND

  RE-EMERGENCE

  Children’s Fiction

  Adventures in Otherworld

  PART ONE – THE CHALICE OF HOPE

  PART TWO – THE FAIRY CROWN

  There is madness about what killers do.

  To them, the passion for murder is as enthralling as falling deeply in love for the first time.

  Evil is the opposite of good: a component of the human condition.

  ~ MK

  PROLOGUE

  The high street was busy. Nicola stopped for a red light and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. Her mobile phone rang. She fumbled open her handbag on the passenger seat with her left hand, withdrew the Nokia and accepted the call.

  A pleasant male voice said, “You don’t know me, Nicola. I’m just calling to tell you that you should have done what Mr Donovan wanted. He isn’t what you’d call a good loser.”

  “Who is this?” Nicola said.

  “What’s in a name? I’m the guy six cars back with my finger on the button.”

  Nicola didn’t understand. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. There’s a pound of plastic explosive under your seat, sweetheart, and I’m about to set it off by remote control and send you to the promised land.”

  Nicola had no time to act. Even as she thought to release her belt buckle with one hand and drop the phone and reach for the door handle with the other, the car exploded, to blow her up and out through the roof in several bloody pieces.

  He grinned broadly. The shaped charge had detonated exactly as intended and the result was nothing less than spectacular. He allowed himself a second or two to savour the breathtaking event: the smoke and flame that followed the loud blast, and the surreal sight of the car driver’s seat spinning up into the air with the top half of the woman’s body still belted to it. He laughed aloud as an arm pin wheeled out from the burning wreck, spraying blood as it hurtled across the street to impact against the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop with enough velocity to shatter it.

  Job done. He made a left into a side street as traffic came to a halt and pedestrians threw themselves down to the pavement, or sought cover, probably convinced that the explosion was a terrorist attack.

  He could have used a score of methods to terminate the mark, but Donovan had wanted her death to make headlines. A lot of people would know that what had happened to the woman was an exemplar, to graphically illustrate what to expect if they were stupid enough to cross swords with him.

  Having quit the area, he crossed the river and headed home to his flat in Merton, making one stop to use a public phone. “It’s Hendricks,” he said to the guy that picked up. “Put Mr D on.”

  A minute ticked by before a reedy voice with a thick Irish accent said, “Yeah?”

  “You might want to catch the breaking news,” Hendricks said.

  “I’ll do that,” Johnny Donovan said, and hung up.

  Johnny allowed himself a throaty chuckle. Picked up the remote from his desktop and switched on the large, wall-mounted TV. The scene behind the talking head looked like a war zone. A plume of billowing black smoke rose up from the mangled wreckage of a car, and ambulances, fire appliances and police vehicles crowded the street.

  “At this time, it is not known what caused the car in the street behind me to explode,” the blonde presenter said to camera. “The driver of the vehicle did not survive the blast, and dozens of people who were in close proximity have been injured by flying glass and pieces of metal…”

  Johnny rubbed his hands together and slowly nodded his head in appreciation of the show that Hendricks had devised and staged. Watching the unfolding drama taking place in Fulham, he reached out, tapped a button on the intercom and told Cornelius to come to his office.

  “Yeah, boss?” Cornelius said, entering the room and standing ramrod straight with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He was six and a half feet tall, and his body was testament to the rigorous, punishing daily workouts and weight training he subjected it to.

  “Take a look at the pretty pictures, C,” Johnny said, pointing at the screen.

  Cornelius turned his attention to the scene of devastation. “Who was driving the car, boss?”

  “The stupid bitch that didn’t have the good sense to sell out to me. I need for you to go see her business partner. Get a bill of sale signed. And don’t take no for an answer this time. Do whatever it takes to secure the deal.”

  “You got it, boss,” Cornelius said.

  When Cornelius left, Johnny got up from the plush leather chair and went over to the wet bar, poured himself two fingers of Irish whisky and then carefully clipped the tip of a Cuban cigar, lit it, and gave Hendricks some thought. The guy was inventive, and one of the best at what he did. Johnny recognised an artist’s work when he saw it. Hendricks didn’t do it just for the money. He had a passion for killing, and took a pride in it. Nicola Swift now brought the tally of marks that he had terminated for him to twenty-three over a four-year period. Add to that the contracts that he carried out for other firms, and he was a one-man ‘Murder Incorporated’.

  The arrangement between Johnny and Hendricks was not unique, but rare. Most independent hitmen were not personally known to their contractor, preferring to remain anonymous and out of any loop that could tie them to the marks they capped. But Donovan and Hendricks had met each other, and enjoyed a mutual trust.

  Death, like a pizza, can be ordered by phone and delivered to the door. It really is who and not what you know that counts on this big blue spinning ball.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Victor Merrick was calling in a favour. He used one of the public telephones in the foyer on the ground floor, and told Johnny Donovan that he wanted someone taken care of.

  “Where are you?” Johnny said.

  “Just about to leave court. I’m on a public phone.”

  “Don’t say another word,” Johnny said. “I’ll get back to you. Hang up.”

  Victor left by the rear of the Old Bailey, trudged across the car park to his Mercedes and set off in the thinning early evening traffic. His stomach felt like a bag of live eels writhing, coiling, constricting and causing him to feel a little nauseous. But he was also excited, and not just because the prosecution case against his client had collapsed. The man had literally got away with murder, courtesy of the expertise that Victor brought to the courtroom. Justice was little more than a game of chess to him, and he won far more games than he lost. He was without doubt the best defence gown in town, and his track record attracted the more affluent wrongdoers to his door, when they were in need of first-class representation.

  It was fifteen minutes later when his hands free phone bleeped. He thumbed the accept button and said, “Merrick.”

  “Take the next left and stop.”

  Victor obeyed, and within seconds a late model BMW pulled in and parked behind him. Johnny got out, walked up to the Merc and climbed in the front passenger seat. One of his men got in the back; a giant albino with long white hair, matching eyebrows, and gum-pink eyes that were bereft of any emotion.

  “So who d’ya want whacked, Vic?” Johnny said.

  “My wife.”

  Johnny didn’t ask why. Didn’t care. Merrick had served his firm well in the past, and he had always said that if the lawyer ever wanted anything or anyone dealt with, he need only say the word.

  “You sure about this?” Johnny said.

  Victor nodded.

  “Okay. Consider it done. Give me a bell in twenty-four hours. Work out a date when you can be away from home for the night in a high-profile settin’.”

/>   Victor didn’t need a day’s grace. He was booked to give a speech at the Oxford Union in exactly one month’s time. That would set up a cast-iron alibi for himself. He took a manila document wallet from his briefcase and handed it to Johnny. “There’s a photograph of Olivia inside, and all the details that whoever does the job might need,” he said. “I’ll be away giving a lecture on the evening of September first, and will be staying overnight. My wife will be home alone.”

  They shook hands, and Johnny and his goon slipped out of the car. It was a done deal.

  As Victor drove out of the city towards Barnet, his euphoria at the arrangement he had struck with the gangster evaporated. His good mood nose-dived. And yet Olivia had sealed her own fate. She had made it abundantly clear that she would not continue to tolerate his philandering. If he kept screwing around, then she would file for divorce, and divorce was not an option. The bitch had more chance of catching malaria than taking him for half of everything they had. He was a very wealthy man, and intended to stay that way. But if she left him during the next four weeks, then he would appear to have reason to be involved in her murder. He would have to ensure that she stayed. He decided to play the doting husband who had seen the error of his ways; spend more time with her, and offer up empty promises. It would be a charm offensive. Maybe he’d even take her abroad for a couple of weeks. A little sun, sea and sand would be like giving a condemned man his last meal.

  Olivia was in the study on the computer when he arrived home.

  Victor dumped his briefcase on the sofa in the lounge, went through to the small ground floor room, leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Have you been drinking?” Olivia said, unused to any show of affection over recent months.

  “I had a Scotch at lunchtime,” he said. “How about I open a bottle of merlot, after I take a shower? And maybe we could drive over to the golf club later and have a meal.”

  “Why, Vic?”

  “Because I’ve let work get in the way of what’s really important. It’s time we got back to the way we were, if you still care enough to give it a try.”

  “I can handle the long hours you work, Vic, but not your seedy little affairs.”

  “Saying sorry won’t change anything I’ve done, Liv. Put it down to me being a first-class bastard, or just a middle-aged man who lost the plot for a while. But I want the chance to make a fresh start and get back on track. If you still love me, and God knows I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, then will you let me make it up to you?”

  Olivia gave him a hard look; saw total sincerity staring back at her, but reminded herself that he spent his days play-acting in courtrooms, using subtle skills of persuasion to con juries into believing the half-truths and outright lies that dripped from his lips like so much tainted honey. Could she believe him now?

  “Go get that shower. I’ll open the wine. And, Vic, if this is some kind of mind game you’re playing, then be advised that it will not work. I’m sick of living with a husband who acts more like a lodger passing through.”

  “Nearly losing you has made me realise just how much I need you, Liv,” Victor said. “I want the chance to make it right again.”

  “You can talk the talk, Vic. You always could. But―”

  “I know, actions speak louder than words,” and having said that, Vic kissed her on the lips more tenderly than he had done in maybe a couple of years.

  As she poured the wine, Olivia thought back to happier times; to when they had met and taken off to Goa for a few months, to live as hippies in a shack on the beach that they shared with the odd snake that fed off the resident lizards, and to the subsequent wedding back in the UK at the village church in Steeple Bumpstead, and of how, with Victor’s growing success, they had been able to indulge themselves, to live in comparative luxury, and jet off to such places as New York City on a whim. She loved the Victor who used to be, and wanted him back. Every fibre of her being hoped that he meant what he had said. He’d just bought himself one more throw of the dice.

  They never made it to the golf club. Instead, after seeing off almost two bottles of wine, Olivia got on the phone and ordered a delivery from the local Chinese restaurant.

  Sitting in the diner kitchen and aptly eating steaming takeaway off bone China plates, they drank single malt Scotch with it and talked about old friends, reminisced over places they had been, and giggled a lot as the mixing of the grape and grain took effect.

  “I thought we might fly out to Antigua soon,” Vic said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Okay, I’m kidding.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Absolutely. My team can do all the prep work for the next case. And I might even let Gerald front it. I’ve decided to kick back a little.”

  “That’s music to my ears, Vic. When do you plan on us going?”

  “Next week. It’ll give me time to clear the decks.”

  The holiday went well. More than well. At first Victor had the fleeting feeling that the marriage might actually be salvageable. And as the days went by he knew he’d reached a turning point. Who’d have thought he would suddenly become aware of where his true affections lay at this late stage of the game? The break in the Caribbean rekindled feelings that had lain dormant for a long time. It was like being on a second honeymoon. Moonlit walks on the beach and time to revaluate caused him to believe beyond a shadow of doubt that he was still deeply in love with Olivia. He found it impossible to fathom how he could have let the marriage erode to such an extent that he had decided to have her murdered.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was one a.m. Cold and damp. Detective Inspector Jim Cole pulled up the collar of his coat and paced back and forth next to the dark-blue BMW, still assimilating the implications of what had gone down. A case that the squad had worked for over eighteen months was effectively, violently and suddenly as dead as yesterday’s news.

  Pausing for the third time, he squatted, elbows on his knees. Studied the body. It was sprawled face up on the pavement with one leg raised; the foot – encased in an expensive handmade loafer – up on the sill of the open driver’s door. The dark eyes were glazed, fixed in sightless surprise. Johnny Donovan was no longer the big time gangster he’d been, keeping one step ahead of the law for over three decades. He’d become another victim of his own ilk; just a corpse waiting to be to be bagged up.

  Jim took in the fine details: the half-smoked cigar on the damp ground, a large diamond ring on a stubby finger of a hand that’s back was covered by coarse, wiry black hairs; the now piss-stained trousers of a suit that had no doubt cost what to Jim would be two months’ salary. He surveyed the overall scene and pictured what had taken place. It was a pro hit, of that he was certain. Three head shots, through and through. Donovan had stopped next to the kerb, made to exit the car, and the shooter or shooters were either waiting for him, or drove by, slowed, maybe even stopped, and did the deed. Two of the entry wounds were to the left temple. The third slug had drilled through one cheek and out the other. The inside of the door and window were laced with blood, brain tissue, fragments of bone, and even small pieces of gold-filled teeth.

  “He didn’t know what hit him, mores the pity,” Detective Chief Inspector Ken Bradley said.

  Jim straightened up and turned to face his boss. “I suppose this way saves a lot of taxpayers’ money. But it would have been nice to put the bastard away for the rest of his natural. Who do you think put the contract out on him?”

  “Can I phone a friend on that one, Jim? He had more enemies than Bin Laden,” Ken said as he lit a cigarette, before turning to look over his shoulder to watch the Home Office pathologist approach them.

  “What’ve we got on the menu?” Don Hill said, dumping his aluminium case on the ground, to open it and snap on a pair of latex gloves.

  “One dead lowlife,” Jim said.

  Apart from three spent shell casings, there were no other physical clues. An elderly woman out walking her dog had heard shots and seen a motorcycle drive away at speed with its lights off. All she could say with any certainty was, that there had been two people on it. She didn’t get a good look at them; said it all happened too fast, and that her eyesight was poor.