Authors: Shaun Hutson
H
AILEY WALKED SLOWLY
between the tables set out in the ballroom of the Pavilion Hotel. Every now and then she would pause to check the names on the place-card settings against those she carried on her own seating-plan. Satisfied that each was in its correct place, she then moved on.
Around her, staff dressed in white jackets and black trousers swarmed like monochrome bees inside a crystal hive. Hailey had been there for an hour already. She had run through the lists of hors d’oeuvres and canapés to be served. And what time they were to be served. She had checked that all the champagne was well chilled, that the smoked salmon was in perfect condition. And a hundred other jobs.
The ballroom looked magnificent. There was no other word for it.
She stood at the top of the small flight of stairs that led down onto the highly polished parquet floor, and afforded herself a smile.
This party was to honour James Marsh and his factory, but its whole organization was
her
doing. She had arranged the party, the backstage passes, the limos, the accommodation, the guest list . . .
Everything.
The centrepiece of the buffet was to be an enormous ice sculpture in the shape of a guitar. It would be brought into the dining room minutes before Marsh himself arrived, and then unveiled.
Hailey checked her watch. She had more than an hour to get home and change before she, Rob and Becky were due to leave for the Waterhole gig.
But everything had to run like clockwork.
She decided on one final inspection.
The explosive sound of drumstick upon cymbal brought a shout of approval from the waiting crowd.
The roadie who had struck the instrument smiled and looked out at the sea of faces before him.
He performed a couple of drum rolls, each of which met with a similar roar of approval, then contented himself with striking each of the floor toms and mounted toms once or twice – according to the instructions he was receiving through his headset.
Guitar technicians were performing similar tasks around him. Levels were being checked, and one man in black jeans and a T-shirt bearing the legend
FUCK DANCING, LET’S FUCK
spoke into each of the microphones set up on the stage.
The instructions came from the mixing desk. It was positioned high on a purpose-built gantry about a hundred yards from the stage itself, facing the platform that was flanked on either side by huge video screens.
‘Twenty thousand people,’ said James Marsh, looking out at the crowd from the wings.
‘Yeah,’ Ray Taylor mused. ‘Don’t remind me. When I think of the gate receipts we’re missing out on.’
Marsh grinned. ‘It’s for charity, you bastard. Look on it as a good deed.’
‘I’d rather look on it as more money in the bank,’ Taylor said.
Marsh took a couple of steps out onto the stage, peering first at the crowd, then across towards another purpose-built structure to the right. This was the VIP viewing platform. Designed to take over one hundred people, it was a covered construction filled with temporary seating that gave a clear view of the stage over the heads of the heaving crowd on the ground.
‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain,’ Marsh mused, looking up at the darkening sky.
‘That’s what outdoor gigs are all about, Jim, you know that. If the punters aren’t up to their knees in shit by the third song, they’re not happy. When can you remember it being dry at Reading or Donington? But no one gives a toss. They’re happy enough.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hand, designed to encompass the entire crowd.
‘And you’re sure this is going to work? This spectacular bloody entry?’ Marsh sounded concerned.
‘They did it in Paris,’ Taylor assured him, ‘they did it in Rome, and it worked a treat. Half an hour before Waterhole are due on stage, the chopper starts buzzing the crowd. They all know the band are inside it. Then, it hovers. The rope ladders are dropped, and they climb down straight onto the stage. Straight into the first song. It looks fucking great, and the crowd love it.’
Marsh nodded. ‘I trust you,’ he said quietly.
‘You wait and see,’ Taylor told him. ‘You won’t forget tonight in a hurry, I promise you.’
The cemetery was closing.
As Adam Walker swung himself out of the Scorpio, he saw that one of the main gates was already shut.
He hurried towards the entrance, noticing half a dozen people still inside the vast necropolis.
There was still time.
He walked purposefully along the wide tarmac thoroughfare that cut through the middle of the cemetery, then turned off on a gravel path that led to the newer plots on one side.
Many of the graves he passed were badly neglected, but he reasoned they were so old that many of those buried within would have been since joined by those who had previously tended their resting places.
He passed a middle-aged man on the narrow path, and saw he was carrying some dead flowers wrapped in paper. The man glanced at Walker and met his gaze.
Walker saw the sadness in his eyes and assumed he too had been visiting a grave.
A wife?
A sister or brother?
Possibly a child?
Who had he lost?
The man tossed the dead flowers into a nearby dustbin and wandered off, head down.
Walker could see his father’s grave just ahead. Flowers, wrapped in their cellophane, still lay on the plot, but most of them had begun to rot.
As he stood beside the grave, the stench of their putrefaction was strong in his nostrils.
‘They’re decaying,’ he said, looking down at the dark earth, ‘just like you. Lying there rotting . . . But, then, you were rotten even when you were alive, weren’t you? Deep inside you were rotten. Filth! Well, at least I’ll never have to see you again. And I hope that, wherever you’re watching me from, you can hear this.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘As if you’d be watching
me.
’
He dug his hands into his pockets.
‘Man of God,’ he grunted. ‘Do you think God would want
you
? What kind of God would have let you get away with doing what you did to me?’
Walker stood staring down at the grave.
‘Enjoy Judgement Day,’ he whispered.
The car was spinning out of control.
Rob Gibson could see that it was going to crash. Beside him, Becky opened her mouth to scream.
There was a bright red flash.
‘I won,’ shouted Becky.
Rob gazed at the TV screen and watched the remains of his own car going up in smoke.
‘I win again, Dad,’ Becky said, holding up the Playstation joypad triumphantly. ‘Shall we have another go?’
‘On a different game,’ Rob insisted, tickling her.
He grinned as his daughter dissolved into fits of giggles.
‘I might have a better chance of winning without that racket in the background too,’ Rob observed, looking towards the CD player. ‘I can’t concentrate with that noise going on.’
‘That’s not noise, Dad,’ said Becky, searching through her other games. ‘It’s Waterhole. They’re great.’
‘Do all your friends listen to them as well?’
‘Some of them are going to the concert tonight. Billy and Megan asked me if I could get them autographs.’
‘I don’t know if we’ll get to meet them, sweetheart.’
‘Mum said we could.’
Rob nodded. ‘Then I’m sure we will.’ He smiled.
He watched as Becky selected another game, held it up and then pushed it into the Playstation.
‘This one’s tennis, Dad. You might have a better chance with this one,’ she told him.
‘Thanks. Haven’t you got any football games?’ he wanted to know.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘You never bought me any.’
Rob laughed. ‘Tennis it is then.’
They began playing.
‘Dad,’ Becky said, staring at the screen. ‘You still love Mum, don’t you?’
Rob looked at her, but saw that she was concentrating on the game.
‘Of course I do, babe,’ he said softly. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve heard you and Mum shouting at each other, and people who don’t love each other shout at each other, don’t they? Megan said
her
mum and dad used to shout at each other a lot, and then her dad moved away.’
‘I love your mum,’ Rob told her. ‘People sometimes disagree about things, so they shout. It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.’
Becky looked at him and smiled.
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Look, I’ve just won the first game.’
She laughed out loud.
In the background, Waterhole continued to thunder from the stereo.
Caroline Hacket spun the taps, then tipped some bubble-bath into the churning water, stirring it around with one hand.
The delightful aroma of lemon began to rise from the steaming water.
She was wearing just a bathrobe as she padded back through the bedroom and into her office.
She’d been working most of the day. The book was nearly finished, and she’d always found she wrote quicker when she was nearing the end. The thought of a publisher’s cheque due on delivery of the manuscript always seemed to aid creativity, she mused, listening to the water running into the bath.
She had another hour before Walker arrived to pick her up.
A nice soak would ease away the aches.
Caroline looked at the screen, reread what she’d written.
One more paragraph should do it.
She decided to finish it while the bath was filling up.
T
HE GUN METAL
felt cold against his hands.
The weapon was heavy as he hefted it in his fist, admiring the sleek lines of the pistol.
The Steyr Model GB.
Nearly six inches long and weighing over twenty-nine ounces, the entire gun was constructed of steel, even the grip plates.
He checked the eighteen-round magazine, thumbing several more of the hollow-tip rounds into the slim steel frame. Then he worked the slide and laid the pistol inside the case, alongside the four spare clips.
The Scorpion machine-pistol, the CZ68, was only slightly larger, but infinitely more lethal. Capable of spewing out over eight hundred 9mm rounds a minute. It had been chambered to take the same kind of slugs as the Steyr.
Like the rounds he’d loaded into the pistol, the bullets he’d fed into the six spare magazines of the Scorpion were also hollow-tipped.
When fired, they would be travelling in excess of one thousand feet a second, but when they struck their target they would explode.
The Scorpion also had a folding shoulder stock and a silencer, but he doubted if he would need either.
The Heckler and Koch MP5SD3 featured a telescoping butt, should he require it. But, again, he didn’t expect the need to arise. Both of the machine-pistols could be held in one fist, if necessary. The MP5’s thirty-round magazines were capable of firing six hundred and fifty shots a minute.
It was a beautiful gun and he couldn’t resist running his hands over the frame before he slid it into the case with the other two weapons.
The Sig-Sauer P225 was, like the other weapons, a 9mm. Eight-round magazine. Capable of putting a hole in a brick wall from close range.
He studied the pistol a moment longer, then laid it alongside the others.
Before he sealed the small carrying case, he looked almost lovingly at the awesome array of firepower before him. Then, smiling, he fastened the two combination locks of the case.
The time had come.
H
AILEY COULDN’T HELP
but think how lacking in genuine VIPs the VIP stand was.
There were lots of music-industry people, friends of James Marsh, business associates, local dignitaries – but precious little to satisfy the hordes of celebrity-spotters who had gathered close to the rear of the stand, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone even remotely recognizable.
As another limo drew up and disgorged its faceless passengers, Hailey saw one watching girl shake her head in irritation.
The area behind the makeshift stand had been roped off, its perimeter patrolled by enormous men in yellow jackets with
SHOWSEC
stencilled on them. Hailey had watched the desultory dribble of nobodies entering the VIP stand, and thought that the security men might be better employed elsewhere. It didn’t seem likely that the arrival of two more local councillors was going to test their crowd-handling abilities.
Hailey smiled dutifully as she showed the two councillors to their seats in the makeshift stand, hearing the older of the two men complaining about the sound from the stage.
One of the support bands was in the middle of its set, and was meeting with nothing short of indifference from the waiting crowd. Still, Hailey reasoned, indifference was better than the hail of urine-filled plastic bottles that had accompanied the departure of the first support band. The lead singer had dashed back and forth across the stage looking for hands to slap, but had received only an apple core on the back of his head for his trouble.