Текст книги "Scent of a Killer"

Автор книги: Kevin Lewis

Соавторы: Kevin Lewis
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

16

The heavy-set man in a bomber jacket, blue jeans and army boots leaned casually against the fence post smoking a cigarette. He stepped into the middle of the dirt track as the car carrying Jack Stanley and Danny Thompson rounded the corner and began heading towards him.

Stanley stopped a few yards short of the gateway and rolled down his window. ‘We’re here for the party,’ he said.

The man stared hard at Stanley, then shifted his gaze to do the same to Thompson. Finally he cupped one hand against the rear window and peered into the back of the vehicle.

‘No cameras allowed,’ he said at last. His Northern Irish accent was as thick as treacle. ‘And that includes camera phones. Anything like that will have to stay in the car. We’ll be checking. Follow the path round to the right until you can’t go any further. Park up next to the stables. The party’s in the building opposite.’

The man returned to the fence post as Stanley rolled up the window, shifted the car into gear and drove on.

‘So that’s one of them, eh?’

‘Has to be,’ said Stanley. ‘The accent’s a dead giveaway.’

‘He doesn’t seem so tough.’

Stanley turned to his friend. ‘He doesn’t have to be, does he? I hear they’ve even got a bird on their team.’

‘Fucking hell! She’ll probably end up in tears before the end of the night.’

They wove their way through the farm complex until they found the stables. Dozens of other cars had got there before them and seemingly taken up every inch of available space. Stanley managed to squeeze his car in at an awkward angle at the far end, dangerously close to what appeared to be a huge pile of manure. He and Thompson clambered out, noses held against the stench, and started to make their way over to a dilapidated out-building with a rusty, corrugated-tin roof.

It was nearly nine and the sun had almost completely vanished below the horizon. The door to the out-building was slightly ajar, revealing a strip of bright light; the sounds of chatter came from within.

It had been more than three months since Stanley had last visited the barn, back when he was searching for a venue for tonight’s event. On that occasion it had been filled with old farm equipment and had no artificial lighting, but the owners assured him they would be able to transform it. As he and Thompson stepped inside, he could see immediately that they had kept their word.

Four mobile arc lights had been placed in each corner, the farm equipment had all been cleared away, and the centre of the barn was now dominated by a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot roped-off ring. At floor level, the boundary was marked off by a low breeze-block wall.

A large crowd had already gathered inside, and Thompson and Stanley made their way over to the ring, acknowledging several friends along the way, jostling among the other spectators until they found a good viewing spot.

Chilled cans of beer, joints and even a few pills were being passed around and both men soon indulged. During the next fifteen minutes the barn became even more crowded as further spectators arrived. The atmosphere was electric.

Finally, a bald-headed man with an enormous beer belly and sweat stains in the small of his back and under his armpits climbed into the ring. He was carrying two buckets of water, each with a sponge floating inside, and placed one in each corner. He then moved to the middle of the ring and turned three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in the faces of all those who were there before raising his voice to speak.

‘From this moment on, the only people who are allowed to speak before the fight starts will be the handlers. If anyone else makes a sound, their bets will be null and void as they will be deemed to be cheating.’

Silence fell among the crowd. A few seconds later the first handler appeared. He was in his late twenties, Asian, with baggy black jeans and several gold chains hanging from his neck. Tucked under his right arm was a jet-black American pit bull terrier.

Thompson leaned over towards Stanley and whispered in his ear, ‘Those Southall boys love this shit, don’t they?’

The dog was raring to go, a black ball of fury and aggression. The man put it down in the corner of the ring and removed its muzzle but was having trouble keeping the animal in place.

Just then the opponent arrived. The handler was the man who had been guarding the entrance when Stanley and Thompson had arrived. His dog seemed much smaller and quieter and was pale grey with white and brown patches. As soon as they got sight of the other dog, the men gathered around the ring began betting furiously. Huge wads of cash, thousands of pounds at a time, were being passed back and forth to the bookkeepers, who had based themselves at a small folding table at the side of the room.

The referee entered the ring and all betting stopped. The two handlers turned their dogs to face each other. Both animals were shaking with excitement but hardly making a noise. The referee then gave the command everyone had been waiting for: release the dogs.

The two animals raced towards each other and slammed together with a sickening thud of bone smashing into bone. They clashed so hard that the momentum sent both dogs spinning over, kicking up dust from the floor of the ring as they went. It took only seconds for them to turn and set on each other again. By now they were using their mouths, each ripping chunks of flesh out of the other, both twisting and turning, trying to get a better hold. Blood began to spatter on to the ground around the two dogs as they fought.

The crowd watched and whistled and cheered on their chosen dog. To a man the looks on their faces showed just how much they were enjoying the spectacle. A life or death struggle was going on right before their very eyes. It was the ultimate buzz.

Despite being smaller, the Irishman’s dog soon proved itself to be the more capable of the two. Fit and agile, it repeatedly outmanoeuvred its opponent in order to inflict far greater damage that anything it received. At one point it spun quickly and sank its teeth deep into the bigger dog’s neck. When it let go several minutes later, a huge spray of blood shot out from where the bite had been.

There was a hushed gasp in the crowd. Everyone knew what it meant, and sure enough within thirty seconds the larger dog began to slow down, the energy draining out of him as the blood left his body. When the dog collapsed completely, the referee stepped in and ended the fight. The Irishman raised his own animal high in the air as the crowd went wild.

The injuries to the other dog were so severe that there was no hope of recovery. Despite having fought bravely, he would be destined for the bath – a barrel of water outside the arena where losing and badly injured dogs could be held under until they drowned.

Stanley bit his lip in frustration. The festivities had been organized at the behest of a group called the Farmer’s Boys, one of the largest dog-fighting gangs in the UK. Based in a small town in County Armagh called Tandragee, the group had been involved in the scene for years and were rumoured to have links to the IRA and other paramilitary gangs.

Known for the viciousness of their dogs, they had agreed to bring a selection of animals over to the mainland to take on the best that the English had to offer. Stanley, a relative newcomer to the sport, was determined not to lose but this had been a bad start. The dogs he sponsored were due to fight next but if all the opponents were the quality of the one they had just seen, the Farmer’s Boys would be leaving victorious.

Fresh sawdust was swept over the centre of the ring to soak up the blood and the next two dogs were brought out. Shaft, as black as coal with white scars covering his muzzle and body as a testament of past battles, was being handled by a slender red-haired woman wearing tight jeans and a loose-fitting t-shirt. Thompson nudged Stanley in the ribs and smiled as their dog Brutus was brought out.

Brutus, a relative newcomer to the scene, was the colour of wet sand with a strip of white at the base of his neck. Stanley had purchased the dog from a specialist supplier in Helsinki and had him shipped over three months earlier. Since that time the dog had been kept at a specially converted terraced house in East London that had been converted into a training school.

Wary of attracting police attention to the operation, Stanley had visited only once – two weeks earlier following a scare in which one of the nine dogs being kept at the house had escaped and begun running wild in the local park, harassing other dogs.

Stanley arrived at the house the following day. The whole place had been cleared of furniture and the centre of the living room was dominated by a large treadmill that had been specially adapted so that a dog’s collar could be attached. Each of the animals was forced to run at least five miles each day in order to maintain them in peak condition. Their diet was also supplemented by muscle-building powders and tablets.

‘How the fuck did it get out?’ asked Stanley after inspecting the back room where the cages storing the dogs were kept.

‘Chewed at the bars until they buckled and the lock broke,’ admitted Paul, the skinny youth in charge of training the dogs. ‘Took some doing. Lost a couple of teeth in the process but carried on. Shame he’s dead. That dog had real heart. He would have been a killer in the ring. But Brutus is still around and he’s top.’

‘Hasn’t been traced back to you, though,’ said Stanley.

‘Nah, there’s no evidence. I kept them quiet so that no one knows they’re here. People know I’ve got dogs but they don’t know how many or what breed. When I have to take them out I load them up in the van and go out of the garage. It’s the perfect set-up.’

‘Not that perfect if one of the little fuckers escaped, is it?’

Paul hung his head with shame. ‘I messed up. It won’t happen again.’

‘Whatever,’ snorted Stanley. ‘Just so long as my dogs win on the night; otherwise you’re really going to be fucked.’

It was Paul himself who was carrying Brutus into the ring, pausing to wink at Stanley on the way.

At a signal the dogs exploded into action. Like two missiles on a collision course, the dogs flew at each other, exploding in a mass of flesh and fangs. Within minutes the dogs had locked together as one. Blood and spittle and chunks of torn fur covered their bodies as they tumbled around in the stained sawdust. Brutus caught his opponent round the neck and the dog’s jaws gripped so hard that Shaft’s eyes bulged from their sockets.

The crowd screamed and whistled. This is what they had all come to see. Stanley was jumping up and down with excitement, cheering Brutus on. Though blood gushed from a gaping wound in his neck and one of his ears was hanging by a tiny flap of skin, the rest of it having been torn off, Shaft did not understand the concept of surrender.

The dog’s natural instincts had been trained and beaten out of him by his owner. All that remained was pure adrenalin, pure aggression. With each twist that Shaft made in his frantic efforts to dislodge Brutus, the wound in his neck grew deeper. Brutus’s jaws were removing his opponent’s face, exposing teeth, bone and tissue.

The audience hungered for the kill, and the cheers and shouts grew more frenzied. For Shaft it was all over. As the life left his exhausted body, the crowd scrambled to place bets on the next bout, and Stanley and Thompson made their way to the table to collect their winnings.

The next fight involved two ten-month-old pups who tore into each other like they’d been fighting for years. Without any hesitation they pulled and ripped at each other, squealing with pain. After fifteen minutes they were replaced with fresh dogs, which grew older and bigger as the night progressed.

The final fight involved two huge dogs, weighing in at more than fifty pounds each.

They clashed like two bowling balls – an instant shower of teeth shot into the air followed by the noise: the ripping, popping, slashing and grinding. They fought for more than an hour until one dog was so exhausted it could no longer move out of its corner. The loser was taken outside and given a bath.

The evening ended with the best possible result: Stanley’s dog had won while the Farmer’s Boys had been held to a draw.

‘Good night all round,’ said Thompson as the crowd began to drift away.

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Stanley as a group of the Farmer’s Boys headed over in his direction. Like the man who had been guarding the gate, they were all stocky, well-built lads, some of them even towering over Thompson and Stanley.

They shook hands and talked about which fights they had enjoyed most. Spirits were high and jokes and smiles filled the air. Then Brendan, leader of the Farmer’s Boys, nodded in Thompson’s direction.

‘So is this him,’ he said softly. ‘Is this the grass?’

‘That’s him,’ said Stanley.

The smiles quickly faded as all the Irishmen stared intently at Thompson.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ he said to them. Then he looked at Stanley. ‘You’re all off your fucking heads.’

‘Cut the crap,’ said Stanley flatly. ‘You were seen going up to your mates at SOCA. I’ve known for months, Danny, I’ve known what you were doing but I couldn’t do anything about it because I didn’t know exactly what you had planned.

‘Truth be told, I still don’t know exactly what it is that you’re up to. Are you planning to give me up to the cops or to the competition? Are you planning a new life on the Witness Protection Programme or have you met some new bird you want to shack up with? Or is it just that you want to be the top man for a change and you know the only way you’re ever going to get there is over my dead body?

‘I can’t work it out and to be honest I don’t really care. Right now you’ve become too dangerous, too much of a liability, and that means you have to be dealt with. And these boys here have very kindly offered to help me out.’

Thompson said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He had been caught out and now he was going to die. He stood up straight, determined to take it like a man. He fought the urge to close his eyes, keeping them open and fixed on Stanley as one of the Irishmen handed him a heavy automatic revolver.

Two of the Farmer’s Boys manhandled Thompson into the centre of the blood-stained fighting ring and Stanley moved directly in front of him. Thompson looked him right in the eye. If his friend was going to kill him, he wanted to make it as difficult as possible. Stanley stared right back. ‘You got anything to say for yourself, you fucking scumbag?’

Thompson said nothing.

‘You were like a fucking brother to me. I would have done anything for you. We were going places. We could have ruled the world together, but you had to get greedy. You had to get stupid. Fucking stupid. And now you bring it to this. You think this is what I want? But what choice do I have? All the times we spent together, all the things we’ve done together in the past, they don’t mean fuck all now because of you.

‘One more thing: all that shit you’ve been feeding your SOCA friends, it’s all been bollocks. I knew you were talking to them so I’ve been keeping you out of the loop. How does it feel to know you’ve been played for a fool?’

Thompson puffed out his chest, the rush of fear and adrenalin filling him with bravado. ‘You gonna fucking talk me to death, you wanker?’

He saw Jack’s face flash with even greater anger and his hand tense on the trigger.

There was a flash of light and a pop. Not a crack, not a bang, but a pop. Thompson shut his eyes briefly, bracing himself for the impact. But it never came. The sound was one they all knew well. One they all dreaded. The cartridge had been a dud. The gun had misfired.

Thompson could feel his heart beating at a million beats per second. He was still high on adrenalin. If he was going to have a chance, he would have to take it now. He spun round and forced a heavy fist into the man behind him. He began running towards the edge of the fighting circle, body checking men to the left and the right like some deranged American footballer.

The situation had taken everyone by surprise and he made the most of the confusion. He had almost reached the edge of the circle when a dozen hands grabbed at his arms and legs and pulled him back down to the ground. Fists and boots rained down on him, leaving his face a bloody pulp. He felt one of his ribs crack, his jaw come out of joint, the bone in his nose twist out of place. He felt warm trickles of blood all over the back of his head.

Then he heard Jack Stanley’s voice calmly calling for everyone to stop, for Thompson to be lifted back up to a standing position.

Blood leaked into his right eye and Thompson had to blink repeatedly to make sense of what he saw ahead of him. Jack Stanley was advancing slowly. The gun was gone and in its place was a large, shiny steak knife.

‘Hold him,’ said Stanley.

Two burly men grabbed Thompson’s arms and held him upright while another held his legs from behind. He was completely immobilized.

Stanley came closer, his face sneering as he pushed into Thompson’s personal space, so close he could smell the blood and the sweat on his face.

‘You brought this on yourself,’ he sneered.

Thompson sucked in some air and suddenly spat a wad of blood-streaked saliva into Stanley’s face. Stanley reeled back in disgust and Thompson smiled at his handiwork, pleased with what he had done. ‘You’re a dead man, Stanley. They know where you live, they know where you go. They know everything about you. You’re a fucking dead man.’

Stanley wiped the spit off his face, leaving a long glistening blood-stained streak across the corner of his forehead. ‘Who, the Albanians? You’ve set the fucking Albanians on me?’

Thompson only grinned in reply. ‘You’re bluffing, you’re fucking bluffing. You haven’t got the balls for it.’

Stanley stepped forward again and, as Thompson struggled against the men who were holding him, he placed the tip of the knife against Thompson’s chest, working it so that just the tip began to pierce the surface of his skin.

Thompson grunted with pain. Stanley carefully positioned the knife so that it fitted into the space between two of his ribs and directly in front of his heart. Then he placed the palm of one hand on the hilt of the knife and looked up into Thompson’s eyes.

The men stared at each other for what seemed like an age.

‘Do it,’ hissed Thompson. ‘Do it, do it, do it, you fucking wan –’

Stanley shoved forward hard and plunged the knife forward, driving it all the way up to the hilt. The tip of the blade emerged out of Thompson’s back and he cried out in agony, a long piercing menacing scream that made even the men holding him wince. Then Stanley held the end of the knife in both hands and twisted it violently to the left. The sound of bones cracking, tendons tearing and flesh parting could be heard around the arena.

Blood shot out from Thompson’s wound and more seeped out from the corners of his mouth. He started to breathe more quickly, more noisily, a horrible death rattle, then it went silent. Dead.

Stanley pulled out the knife and let it fall to the floor. ‘Get rid of him,’ he said.

Jack Stanley remained still for a few moments and watched as the body of his former best friend was manhandled out of the fighting ring and towards the car park, where a specially prepared truck was waiting.

From there the body would be decapitated and have its hands removed; the remainder would be fed to pigs owned by the farmer who ran the complex – another reason why the fight had been staged there.

Stanley had used pigs to dispose of bodies in the past, having got the idea from the Mafia wars in Sicily in the 1980s when more than four hundred corpses were believed to have been disposed of in this way. The Mafia favoured the use of pigs because of their huge, omnivorous appetites and the fact that they leave little of a body behind other than dentures, which could easily be buried. With the pigs on the job, Thompson’s body would be completely consumed within the space of twenty-four hours.

Stanley nodded at a couple of men to begin sweeping fresh sawdust over the centre of the ring to cover up the blood stains. He looked down at his own hands, which were also covered in blood. He made his way to the men’s room in the next building and began to wash them, watching his reflection in the mirror. He had ordered the deaths of many men in his criminal career, but he had taken the lives of only four personally.

He felt surprisingly little. No remorse. Like a soldier in a war, he justified his actions in the sense that it was him or Thompson. He could not hesitate, he could not show mercy. Thompson had been aware of the rules. If you live by the sword you die by the sword. His conscience was clear; he had nothing to worry about.

His phone began ringing. There was still blood on the back of his hands as he reached for a paper towel to dry them. His lips curled into a thin smile as he saw the name on the display screen and quickly put the phone up to his ear.

‘Hello, my little Princess, how are you?’