Gun For Hire: A Michael Devlin Omnibus
Gun for Hire
Nothing to Lose
Darkness Visible
Ready for Anything
Thomas Waugh
© Thomas Waugh 2016
Thomas Waugh has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd. (Nothing to Lose)
First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd (Darkness Visible)
First published 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd (Ready for Anything)
This edition published 2018 by Sharpe Books.
Table of Contents
Nothing To Lose
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Darkness Visible
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2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
Ready for Anything
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
Nothing To Lose
Thomas Waugh
“A murderer is regarded by the conventional world as something almost monstrous, but a murderer to himself is only an ordinary man.”
Graham Greene, The Ministry of Fear.
“Good Lord above, can’t you see I’m pining?
Tears all in my eyes
Send down that cloud with a silver lining
Lift me to Paradise
Show me that river, take me across
And wash all my troubles away
Like that lucky old sun, give me nothin’ to do
But roll around Heaven all day.”
Haven Gillespie, That Lucky Old Sun.
Chapter 1
It was late. Cold. But Michael Devlin’s heart was colder.
Frost dusted the cars, hedges and slate rooftops alike. The moon was dim and sickle-shaped. Pink-grey clouds, like tumours, blotted out the stars. It was a fine night — for killing.
Smoke pirouetted up from Devlin’s cigarette as he followed Martin Pound, Conservative Member of Parliament for Wiltshire South, down the quiet street, full of attractive terrace houses, in Chiswick. Pound was heading for his London home (taxpayers had bought the property but the minister intended to pocket the robust profit when he sold it on). Devlin’s window of opportunity would close when the MP reached his drive. But it only takes a moment to assassinate someone. Devlin had stalked his prey since the minister had left his club in Piccadilly and got on the tube. Pound liked to use public transport. He liked being recognised by members of the public, especially young women.
The clip-clop of Pound’s polished oxford brogues, no doubt purchased in Jermyn Street along with the rest of his wardrobe, sounded like horses’ hooves upon the concrete. Devlin’s footsteps were quieter and quicker. He carefully pulled out a black-handled kitchen knife from the inside pocket of his dark blue suit. His orders — given to him by Oliver Porter — were to use a knife instead of a gun.
Talking out on the terrace of the National Liberal Club, Porter had briefed Devlin about the contract: “Make it look like a street crime. A random act. There have, fortunately for us, been a number of stabbings in the area over the past few months. The nature of the crime shouldn’t raise too much suspicion.” The two men had been friends, and business associates, for several years now. Oliver Porter had his manicured fingers in several pies and served as a middle-man for all manner of spooks, gangsters and commercial organisations. Porter ‘fixed things’. He had encouraged Devlin to continue to use his skill and training after he came out of the army. The well-connected ex-officer was comfortable moving in both the underworld and the upper echelons of society. Business was business.
Porter had explained to Devlin that the politician owed some businessmen a large sum of money. “Pound lives beyond his means and has a nasty gambling habit. And he has borrowed capital from some even nastier people.” Pound had become embroiled in a business deal for the notorious gangsters, the Parker brothers, and though he had paid off a substantial amount of his debt to them, his creditors were still not happy. Now he was threatening to confess all to the authorities, unless his debt was written off.
Devlin wasn’t particularly concerned with his victim’s sins or the reasons behind the contract. Everybody sins, and everybody dies. He flicked his cigarette butt into a drain. There were no cameras on the street, and no lights on in the homes which flanked the road they walked down. Devlin’s iron-wrought, work-hardened features barely changed as he put his hand over the minister’s face and silenced his scream. His other hand curled around him like a snake and buried the knife into his chest, puncturing his lungs. The minister shot out an arm, his hand outstretched, but then he slumped to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. To give credence to the scenario of a street crime Devlin stabbed the politician several more times. The minister’s woollen overcoat soaked up the blood, which oozed out of his body. Devlin took the man’s wallet and jewellery, as any good mugger would.
Devlin proceeded to calmly walk down the street. He wiped the handle of the kitchen knife, so as not to leave any prints, and tossed the weapon into a bush in the nearby park.
He walked for half a mile — the bitter chill in the air didn’t bother him — and then hailed a black taxi to take him to Rotherhithe. Devlin was a polite but forgettable fare. He made a modicum of small talk, but for the most part thumbed his way through the last chapters of Turgenev’s Home of the Gentry. He got out the cab near Southwark Park and walked half a mile back towards Tower Bridge and his apartment. On his way he sent a brief text message to Oliver Porter: Job done.
Chapter 2
Devlin’s fifth floor apartment was located off Tooley Street and overlooked both Tower Bridge and an attractive square containing shops, a fountain and a bronze statue of Charles Dickens. Aside from the endless rows of bulging bookcases the apartment had an air of emptiness about it. It looked as if the occupier was either moving out or waiting for someone to move in. There was a leather sofa and widescreen television in the living room, but no ornaments or photographs – and only one framed picture on the wall. The apartment lacked a woman’s touch. The bathroom contained a mere half a dozen items and the bedroom was equally spartan – save for more books and a collection of silver-framed photographs of his late wife, Holly, on top of a chest of drawers.
Michael Devlin’s build and looks were average. “You have a wonderfully anonymous, forgettable face,” Oliver Porter had remarked when he made his pitch for the ex-soldier to become a contract killer five years ago. His hair was shortish and light brown. His hairline was receding and small patches of white hair were creeping into his stubble. If you looked closely at the forty-year-old you would have noticed one eyebrow was slightly shorter, from where a bullet in Afghanistan had struck a piece of masonry and a stone shard had injured him just above the eye. All the other scar
s he had brought back from the war remained unseen.
Devlin had been born in London, a Bernardo’s child. He had lived in a number of foster homes, but never settled. Although he seldom struck the first blow Devlin regularly fought with his classmates and fellow foster children. Eventually he found a piece of normality when he was fostered out to a couple — Bob and Mary Woodford — who lived just outside of Rochester. His resentment towards the world subsided and he threw himself into his studies. But although Devlin read voraciously, the idea of university never appealed to him. 9-11 happened and Devlin decided to join the army. He wanted to do something. Help someone. Devlin served briefly in Northern Ireland before being posted to Iraq and then Afghanistan. After two tours in Helmand his former commanding officer offered Devlin a job as a security consultant for an investment bank. Devlin left the army and, shortly afterwards, met Holly. Life and love slotted into place. Happiness came – and went, when Holly died in a car accident. It was a hit and run. They never caught the driver.
So now Devlin drank heavily, kept himself to himself, read voraciously and occasionally killed people. Life was lived in the shadow of Holly, of an alternative present where she was alive. Devlin only accepted three or four jobs a year. Each job paid well and he lived relatively frugally. Having bought his apartment, his biggest expenditure was now paying the fees to the care home for Bob and Mary.
Devlin sat, slumped, on the sofa. He worked his way through a pack of cigarettes and turned his stereo to shuffle. Bob Dylan’s ‘Red River Shore’ played in the background…
“Pretty maids all lined up
Outside my cabin door.
I’ve never wanted any of them wanting me
Except the girl from the Red River shore.”
It was now after midnight. Friday, December 13th. Twelve days before Christmas. The blinds to Devlin’s balcony window were open and he watched a young couple, in an apartment across the square, start to put up their Christmas decorations. This would be his fifth Christmas without Holly. His first the wrong side of forty.
Rain began to pepper the window. Soon it would sleet. A chill wind whistled through a gap in the warped balcony door. Devlin downed another inch of bourbon. Grief began to well up in his stomach again.
“Well, I can’t escape from the memory
Of the one I’ll always adore
All those nights when I lay in the arms
Of the girl from the Red River shore.”
Devlin gazed up at the large framed print of Holbein’s The Ambassadors on the wall. Tears moistened his hazel eyes. His hand shook a little as he lit another cigarette. Holly had given the picture to Devlin as a Christmas present. On their first date together she had taken him to the National Gallery. Holly had led him around each floor and exhibition, a whirlwind of enthusiasm and knowledge concerning iconic canvases by Turner, Constable, Gainsborough and the like. The climax of her tour was Holbein’s The Ambassadors. The self-taught art lover (Holly had read as voraciously as Devlin) decoded some of the painting’s messages for him: how the painting represented the spirit of the age — the growing division between church and state and the emergence of science and rationality over the spiritual. Holly had led a captivated Devlin around to the side of the painting to view the counterpane at the centre of the work of art from a different angle. The image of a macabre skull came into focus.
“For some people death lies at the heart of the painting,” Holly had remarked, prettily tucking a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear. “Death casts a shadow over everything and should lie at the forefront of everything. But my favourite part of the painting is this.” She had pointed to the top left-hand corner of the canvas. A silver cross could be glimpsed behind the large red curtain, which served as the backdrop to the painting. “Despite the world’s growing devotion to science, politics and philosophy I think the artist is saying that God and faith are behind everything.”
“Philosophy cannot and should not give faith,” Devlin had said, quoting Kierkegaard. The arguments of first cause, the intelligence of design, the scriptures or the divine hand of providence hadn’t proven the existence of God for Devlin at that moment — the expression on her face had. Philosophy cannot give birth to faith. Faith gives birth to faith. And faith can give birth to goodness. Devlin believed that the soul was real. That love was real.
The depressed widower raised a corner of his mouth in a gesture towards a smile, recalling the scene. Devlin closed his eyes and tried to re-live the touch and taste of their first kiss, hear the gentle rustle of her silk blouse as it pressed against him and smell her favourite perfume (Chanel’s Chance Eau Vive). God, he loved her. Memories of Holly sustained him, and damned him. Devlin poured himself another drink, hoping it would finally usher him off to sleep.
“Well, the sun went down on me a long time ago
I’ve had to pull back from the door
I wish I could have spent every hour of my life
With the girl from the Red River shore…”
Chapter 3
Martin Pound’s body was found by his neighbour, Ernest Holland, who was out walking his wife’s black labradoodle, Poppy. Ernest dutifully called the police. The call operator instructed him to wait by the body. Rather than praying for the departed soul of his neighbour Holland pleaded that no one would come along and see him with the unsightly corpse. He dreaded the sheer awkwardness of the scenario. What was one supposed to say? As much as the treasurer of the local rotary club had sympathy for the victim sprawled out before him, he did not want to become a victim of gossip.
Thankfully the murder of a prominent MP prompted a rapid response from the police and a nervy looking Earnest Holland did not have to stand sentry-like for too long before the emergency services arrived. The police ran a background check on the accountant to rule him out of their investigation before letting him go.
Virginia Pound was informed about her husband’s murder. She agreed to accompany the police to the station to help with their enquiries. As distraught as she was the politician’s wife still had the presence of mind to fix her hair and make-up and put on an appropriate black dress before she left the house, believing that the media would soon be thrusting cameras into her face. Virginia was a former journalist for the Daily Express and was as prepared as one could be for the oncoming storm.
The police called the security services and Home Secretary, among others. Their initial thoughts were that the murder was a tragic street crime. To their knowledge the minister was not in possession of any sensitive documents. His wife – and his mistress – had alibis.
*
Later that morning Virginia Pound ventured downstairs, into her husband’s study. She opened the safe, concealed behind a large portrait of Disraeli, and went through some papers and files upon a memory stick.
The storm in a teacup was about to boil over…
Chapter 4
Emma Mills sat in her florist shop, at the base of Devlin’s apartment block, perched on a wooden stool behind the counter. Her dog, Violet lay curled up, contented, on the floor by her side. The shop, Rosebuds, was a festive fiesta of colour and aromas. Frosted wreaths, smelling of pine and cinnamon, filled one of the windows. A tree — decorated with crystal baubles, fairy lights and foil-wrapped chocolates (which the florist gave out to any children accompanying their parents) — was topped off with a gleaming, porcelain angel resembling Grace Kelly. Yet the decorations were the poor cousins, in beauty and life, to the flowers populating the shop. The room teemed with handcrafted bouquets of bluebells, peach blossoms, wild roses, carnations, elegant orchids, lilacs, daisies, tulips and more. Turner and Monet would have envied the shop’s palette.
Emma glanced again at the bouquet of lilies which sat waiting by the till. She tapped her foot in impatience. Every fortnight Devlin came into the shop and purchased a bouquet of lilies to place by his late wife’s grave. An upturned copy of Graham Greene’s A Burnt-Out Case lay on the counter. He had mentioned the book and recomm
ended that Emma read it a month ago. She thought he might notice it and appreciate that she had taken on board his recommendation.
God, I’m like a teenage girl with a crush. Have you got so desperate that you’re trying to send out signals to a widower whilst he’s on his way to the cemetery to pay his respects to his wife? Get real.
Emma gently shook her head, chiding herself, and smirked at her ridiculous behaviour. She resisted taking the copy of the book off the counter though. She still wanted to impress him — and make him think about her.
The thirty year old florist was good natured and good humoured. A Louise Brooks bob framed a sweet, pretty face. A ribbon of scarlet lipstick ran around Emma’s mouth and a thin line of black eye shadow accentuated her almond-shaped eyes. For the benefit of Devlin she undid an extra button on her purple polka dot dress (a dress which accentuated her enviable figure).
As per usual he was on time, and, as per usual, he wore the same charcoal grey suit (the suit he had worn to his wedding and also Holly’s funeral). Violet scampered out from behind the counter and greeted her favourite customer, wagging her tail with excitement. Violet was as friendly and sweet-tempered as her owner. The black and white dog stood just under knee height. She was part beagle, part hound, part Staffordshire bull terrier. “But all mongrel,” Emma would say. “Like me,” Devlin had replied, having met the dog and its owner a year or so ago.
Devlin crouched down and scratched Violet behind the ear whilst retrieving a chew from his pocket with his other hand. He looked up at Emma and made a face to ask permission to give the treat to the dog. She smiled and nodded. Devlin smiled back – and not with the mechanical smile he usually offered up to the world. His grin melted his usually frozen features, but Emma couldn’t fail to notice his eyes, red-rimmed with sleeplessness.