The Walking Dead

In the world of Benny Edwards, two options of persuasion existed. They were the choice of the carrot or the less welcome alternative of the stick. The choice was gone, and with it had disappeared his client's cash and a segment of his own reputation' of success: the alternative of the stick, however, remained. It was now of great importance to him — his hard-won reputation relied on his ability to deliver hung juries or acquittals. For the stick, given the chance, he would have gone along the route of a child's face slashed and disfigured with a razor-sharp blade, or a woman's legs hit by a car's bumper as she walked along a pavement. But Wright's daughter was not there, nor his wife, and the opportunity to send a message from either of them while they lingered in Accident and Emergency was not available. Early the previous afternoon the driver of the car, ducked down in his seat had watched as the child and the woman were hustled with their bags through the front door and the gate by uniformed and plain-clothes filth, and dumped without ceremony in the back of a police wagon. When they had sped out into the traffic stream their road had been blocked by a car with a blue lamp flashing on the roof and the chance of pursuit had not been there. But a message needed sending and could still be sent. A, message was the least of Ozzie Curtis's demands on Benny Edwards. He who pays the piper calls the tune: that was obvious to the Nobbler. A message would reach the bastard Wright, and he had been told of long arms and longer memories. There was a good chance that the stick, on fire, would dictate the bastard's decision in the jury room.

It was raining. The pavement shimmered under the street-lights. The two men, walking briskly, carrying the half-brick and the milk bottle, had hoods over their heads and scarves on the lower half of their faces. The Nobbler presumed that a junior filth would have been left inside the house — there was an unmarked car by the front gate, empty — and that a camera lens would have been mounted above the front door. Better to presume everything. They went past a closed van, with the logo of a window-cleaner on its side and ladders on the roof, and the house, the target, was now less than fifty paces ahead. The Nobbler quickened his stride, and the man behind him.

Benny Edwards was familiar with success. He would not have admitted to complacency, but success — and the enhancement of his reputation — came often enough. He backed his nous, his instinct, and it had been wrong, which had confused him. The money had been taken; the deal had been done; end of bloody story. What had gone wrong? When news had reached him — second-hand, via that callow shit-face of a solicitor — of the new security ring thrown round the jurors, he had gulped in astonishment, but his own people had seen the coach pull away from Snaresbrook and the windows had been covered with newspaper. Four days earlier, at home in his corner jacuzzi, soaking and relaxed, he would never have thought — not for a bloody moment — that Julian Wright, the bastard, would be the one to play the goddamn hero, take the money and piss all over a deal. The thought of it was beyond his comprehension. He had seen nothing in the man, or in the bloody demands, bank statements and credit-card sheets, that had rung warning bells. The bastard had been as pliable as a bloody wet turd. More important, he had left the Nobbler looking like an idiot and an incompetent, and that hurt.

'You ready for it?' Benny Edwards spoke from the side of his mouth.

He heard a grunt of acknowledgement behind.

He stopped. First, his eyes flitted over the darkened road. He saw nothing that aroused his suspicion. Then he twisted his head, raised the scarf — higher on his face and looked at the terraced house. His glance went over the gate that hung from one hinge, across the little flower-bed to the door where the paint had peeled. There was no glimmer of light from behind the glass pane at the top, but he fancied — was not sure — that he had identified a lens from a pinhead camera, but he was. prepared for that and his face was well covered. He checked the bay window beside the door: curtains drawn. He sucked in breath, held it in his lungs and listened…He heard nothing.

'We'll go for it.'

There was the click of the lighter behind him. The Nobbler swung back his arm, the plastic bag with the half-brick in his hand, and heaved it at the bay window. The crash of the glass — enough to wake the bloody dead — pealed in his ears. Then he was roughly pushed aside. A small flame had caught on the material in the bottle's neck. There was the slosh of liquid. He watched his man hurl, short arm, the missile through the splintered hole the brick had made and break as it landed. There was a flash, then a growing roar as the fire caught. A light upstairs, across the street, snapped on.

'Come on, leg it.'