Walk Amongst the Dead

  Walk Amongst The Dead

  By

  Mark Newman

  Published by markjnewmanbooks 2016

  Copyright ©

  Mark J Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL 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.

  Cover artwork created by Jimmy Gibbs

  Edited by OBS (www.onlinebookservices.com)

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Autumn 2016

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 1: Autumn 2016

  It’s taken months of planning, and now he’s at the point of no return. Another piece of the jigsaw about to slot in to place.

  He’s standing outside, his baseball cap drawn close over his face, obscuring his features, enough to confuse the CCTV footage. He knows it’s important not to loiter, he needs to blend in, he can’t risk drawing attention to himself. To the untrained eye, he’s just another ordinary Joe, an everyday kind of guy. He’s in disguise, kitted out from head to toe; boiler suit, cap, and boots. He could be a tradesman, or a courier, but take a closer look and you’ll see he’s not alone. The non-descript un-liveried white transit van parked opposite contains another figure – waiting on the call.

  The old man’s looking up from his morning paper. He’s reading The Times, a dedicated reader for more than forty years. He looks forward to Sundays, and the return of the broadsheet, he prefers the traditional to the new fangled, supposedly easy to handle, Berliner format. He reads it cover to cover, scanning each of the supplements, ritualistic like taking elevenses. There’s satisfaction in understanding the expectations. But that’s about to change.

  Putting his paper down now, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Disgruntled at the unscheduled interruption, he glares at the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  The figure steps forward. The old man recognises the face, unexpected as it is. Smiling eyes, cold heart – he’s come to collect.

  The old man’s slow to realise the intention. His inquisitive eyes staring back at the figure, scanning from head to toe, looking for a sign, looking for anything untoward.

  The figure hides his intention well. No cause for concern. No alarm bells ringing. But they should be. This is no ordinary collection.

  The old man’s name is Walter Browne, the firm’s accountant, hand-picked for the role by Malkie Thompson way back in 1988. Walter keeps the organisation’s dealings below the radar. Makes sure the legit money washes through the bad. He’s well rewarded for his expertise, his loyalty and silence taken as a given, relics from a bygone age.

  To the anonymous figure, Walter Browne and his ilk belong in the past. The market’s changed, evolved - moved on. They don’t realise it yet, but he does. There’s no room for sentiment, can’t afford to be complacent. He learnt that from Malkie, now he’s putting it in to practise.

  The ever-growing influx of foreigners moving in on territory means existing agreements are resigned to the scrap heap. Its a young man’s game; no compromise. It’s about strength. Malkie doesn’t get that, he prefers to negotiate. These newcomers won’t hesitate. Malkie might be willing to concede ground to avert a war, but he’s not.

  Strength equals power. That’s the real currency. Winner takes all.

  He knows how to deal with their sort. Their paths already crossed—way back, those heady, club days, pre-millennium. Back then, it was the Kosovans trying to get a foothold. Now it’s a lottery: Poles, Romanians, and Bulgarians. Take your pick, they’re all lining up – waiting for the right opportunity.

  He’s tired of waiting for the green light. He can’t put it off any longer. Affirmative action is needed. Business is business. The only way to survive is to fight fire with fire. He’s been running the operation for the last six months. He could have cherry picked, but he chose not to. It’s all about perception, important to send out a clear message, no room for misinterpretation. He needed to prove he was capable, solid, and reliable. An all-rounder, a safe pair of hands, someone who could handle the pressure.

  Seventeen years, he’s kept his own counsel. Paid his dues, observed protocol, kicked up to Malkie the whole time. Those days are done. Enough of the penance and bullshit for past wrongs, it’s time to step out from the shadows.

  Chapter 2

  Today’s the start of a new beginning, a changing of the guard. Queensberry rules no longer apply, only in the minds of ageing gangsters keen to romanticise the past. It’s guerrilla warfare; he knows how to play it. Hit hard and fast, fight for every inch of ground. He’ll drive them out street-by-street if needs be, no compromise, no mercy.

  The whispers started over a year ago, but not one of them has ever had the balls to go public. It’s time to get it out in the open. Malkie Thompson’s had his time. His best days are behind him now. Old age hasn’t been kind to him; he thinks he hides the illness well. He’s physically weak, they all know it, and more to the point the opposition knows it. Malkie’s headstrong, always has been, desperate to hang on to power. His pride outweighing common sense. He only has himself to blame. The wolves are circling.

  The figure’s breaking the silence now, content to have let the old man sweat for long enough.

  He takes a step closer to the desk. ‘Been a long time, Walter.’

  The old man clears his throat. ‘Indeed, but no Malkie? Not like him to miss an opportunity for a dram,’ he says, gesturing with his hand to the quarter full bottle of malt sitting on the desk.

  ‘Little early in the day for me, but you go ahead. Malkie sends his apologies by the way. Not himself these past few months.’

  ‘Ah…yes of course. How is he?’

  ‘You know how it is… He’s getting by.’

  Walter Browne’s, weighing it all up. He has that tingling sensation at the back of his left eye, the kind he gets when he’s nervous. ‘I see, so… What can I do for you?’

  ‘Got a problem I need your help with. Keep coming up against a brick wall. You know
me, Walt, I’m all about solutions.’

  Walter shifts in his chair, leaning forward now, still looking down through his glasses on the edge of his nose. ‘OK, I’m listening.’ He tries to make out he’s relaxed, but feels his chest tighten a little, disguising his sudden intake of breath by placing a hand to his mouth, feigning a cough. ‘Damned dry cough can’t seem to shift it.’

  The figure smiles back at him. ‘Need to take better care of yourself, man of your age.’ He begins moving around the small office, taking his time to stop and read the various wall adornments, fellowship to the Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales, and a scroll awarding Freedom of the City. ‘I keep hearing things, Walt, rumours.’ He stops at the photo of a couple, Walter and his wife at a black tie charity event. ‘I remember this one,’ he says. ‘Acted as Malkie’s chauffeur for the evening.’ He removes it from the wall, and scrutinises it up close. ‘Quite a night as I recall. How is Mrs. B these days?’

  Walter follows every movement, suspicion a tumorous growth. ‘She’s fine – thank you.’

  ‘Good to hear.’ His face a mask, wearing his best fake sinister plastic smile. ‘I’ll have to make a point of calling in on her.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll…’ Walter doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

  ‘First things first, I need answers. You know how it is, I got to separate the bullshit from fact,’ he says, still analysing the photo-frame. ‘So I say to myself, easier to go straight to the source.’

  Walter’s caught off guard, his mind slicing through the veiled threat to his wife. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Truth is I’ve let it go for too long…Far too long. Let the past blind my judgement.’ He pauses, averting his eyes from the photograph to face Walter, further unsettling the old man. ‘Good looking woman your wife.’

  He can feel the anger rising within, like an irritation; Walter knows he has to contain it. ‘What exactly is it you…?’

  He interrupts, picking up the bottle of malt from the desk. ‘Enjoy a drop of the hard stuff, Walt.’ A statement more than a question. He takes his time to read the label aloud. ‘Glenmorangie single malt whisky, Malkie’s preferred brand. I guess some can handle it, and some can’t.’ His eyes burn in to Walter, ‘How about you, Walt, can you handle it?’

  Walter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his cheeks flushing red. ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘Booze, Walter, loosens the tongue. Causes some people to run off at the mouth.’

  Fear’s taken hold, Walter’s eyes are dilated, his heartbeat ramped up. He tries to speak, to refute the allegation, but his throat’s too dry to respond. His brain in overdrive, he needs an answer, his mind a blank canvas as panic sets in, consuming all hope of rational thought.

  ‘You see, Walter, clandestine meetings with the opposition that’s never a smart move.’ He lets the words hang for effect.

  ‘At first, I said no, can’t be, not Walter. I wouldn’t have it. Not a word of it. Been with us since the beginning, I said. Even slapped one of my own blokes for delivering the message. Had to go and visit him in hospital, make things right. Got daggers and the silent treatment from his missus the whole time I was there.’ He pauses again, his eyes drilling down to the old man’s core.

  Walter stares back, silent and paralysed—rooted to the spot.

  The figure moves in, and looms over the old man. He places both hands on the desk, resting on his knuckles, his head jutting forward like a dominant silverback. ‘See, they said you were a grass, Walter, I mean you a grass. On the turn in his old age, they said. I told ’em no way, not my Walter. Stand up bloke. A real gent, proper diamond. Then I got to thinking, these last sixth months, jobs going wrong, blokes getting lifted. That drop that never happened. Money disappearing. And that was it, my epiphany—clear as day. Crystal. But I needed to be sure. I even put a tail on you, Walter, real Columbo kind of stuff, that’s your era I believe?’

  Walter tried to stand now, his legs shaky. ‘I think I…’

  The figure raises a hand; palm outstretched flat, just enough to silence him. Beaten, the old man slumps down in to his high back swivel chair, the springs grinding and protesting under his weight.

  He’s pacing now, his voice taut with tension. ‘So here it is, the dilemma, why would Walter Browne - Company Accountant, career unblemished, try to fuck us over?’

  Walter knows he’s in the shit, he needs to act fast. ‘If you just let…’

  ‘Poles,’ his voice cranked up to full rant. ‘It’s bad enough Malkie keeps that fucking half-breed Mayer on the payroll. But you’ve gone above and beyond.’

  Fears gaining the upper hand, Walter’s eyes darting left to right, desperate for an escape route.

  He’s inches from Walter’s face now, so close he can smell his fear. He stands upright, then sweeps back down, slamming his fist, smashing it in to the desk, sending papers scattering to the floor. A Styrofoam cup empties its murky brown lukewarm coffee on to the desktop. It’s pure theatre, the final outcome determined weeks ago.

  The figure breathes deep, sucking in the air through gritted teeth. ‘Why… Make me understand. Thought we’d never find out, is that what this is?’

  He steps back from the desk, putting his hand through his hair, regaining his composure. ‘So what am I to do, Walt? Tell me, what would you do in my position?’

  Walter splutters, trying but failing to mumble some sort of coherent response. ‘I’m sure we can wo…’

  The figure raises a finger to his lips. ‘Not another word.’

  The terror’s audible in the old man’s high-pitched whine. ‘Look, I can explain…go to Malkie myself.’

  ‘Doesn’t work like that. Here’s my problem, either you’ve got dementia, or you’re playing both sides, hedging your bets. That what this is, Walt? You trying to save your own arse. Either way, you’ve screwed us over.’

  Walter reaches for the Styrofoam cup, ditches the coffee dregs in to the waste paper basket and tips the whisky in, draining the bottle, and necks it in one generous draught. The slow burn in his mouth helping to steady his nerves. He knows he has to tread carefully here, to separate truth from fiction. He has to figure out how much he really knows. Years of experience can’t stop a solitary cold bead of sweat gliding down the side of his forehead, belying his inner emotions.

  The whisky glow provides small comfort. He’s straining his voice to fake authority. ‘I’ve heard enough, we’re done here. I’m not explaining myself to you. I’ll talk direct to Malkie, not the errand boy.’

  The figure beams, delighted to have rattled the old man.

  Walter opens the bottom drawer to his walnut desk, reaching inside.

  He’s watching, hawk like, ready to anticipate any sudden moves. He could be reaching for a weapon. But this is Walter Browne, he’s never touched a gun in his life. Walter places the hip flask on the desk, his eyes defiant. He takes a nip, then another. His face turning to a twisted, blotchy red mess as he struggles to steady his nerves and contain his temper.

  ‘Tainted…never be the top man. You’ve a lot to learn. Not all flash cars and designer clothes. It’s about cultivating relationships. Longevity, not chasing a fast buck. That’s what it takes to survive and prosper. Malkie understood that, do you? I doubt it. Prancing in here making out your doing his bidding. I don’t believe a word of it. Go on get out of it.’

  Smiling he picks up the phone, a retro black Bakelite design, dials the number, looking straight into Walter’s eyes. Two more digits to make the connection.

  Walter returns his stare, his Adams apple bobbing up and down like a yoyo.

  ‘You see, Walter, it’s all about a retirement plan for you…and Malkie.’

  Walter takes another swig. His words splutter out. ‘Retirement?’

  Chapter 3

  A knock at the door signals that their time is up. He makes his way to the door. Opens it, and nods to the figure standing in the entrance. He doesn’t bother looking back, his job is done. Now it’s
time to move on.

  He exits, closing the door behind him, and the second figure looms ominous. Stone-faced and professional. An emotionless killer. He gives nothing away. Silent, he approaches Walter in situ behind the walnut desk.

  Walter’s speechless. The gravity of the situation taking a stranglehold. The best he can hope for is a beating, a few slaps for stepping out of line. That he can live with. He needs to atone. He’s been foolish, overplayed his hand, allowed greed to win out over common sense. He can see the error of his ways, but none of that matters now.

  The figure’s wearing driving gloves, the brown leather type, neat round holes cut in to the backs.

  There’s no way out for Walter, but human instinct is to survive. Walter’s feet slip on the oak-effect laminate as he scoots his chair backwards, prolonging the inevitable. He hits the filing cabinet.

  Cornered, no escape.

  The bullet enters his cranium without threat or warning.

  The gunman’s hovering, taking his time to breathe in the defecation of the fresh corpse. Enjoying his work, a job well done, he congratulates himself. Taking out his phone, a pay-as-you-go type, bought from an out of town supermarket the size of a small village. He’ll bin it, and destroy the SIM as soon as he’s done.

  Now he’s pointing it at the newly deceased. He inspects the picture, and then takes another, just to be sure, knowing that later he’ll upload it to his private collection.

  Job done. Time to go. He wipes down the landline and the desk. The place is clean, no trace evidence. He moves over to the window, checking for movement on the street. It all looks good. Normality. The gunshot no louder than a Chinese firecracker. Joe public unconcerned.

  He’s leaving now, down the stairs, and out into the street. He checks for passers-by, it’s empty. Safe to proceed. He takes it slow and deliberate, just another client visiting his accountant above Patel’s Convenience Store. Nothing out of the ordinary. Mission accomplished, it’s time to send the text. He has Malkie Thompson’s number memorised, no need for paper, he jabs the Send button.