Loose Cannon

CHAPTER 1

My name is Harry Lyndon, and I'm a very relaxed and reasonable sort of person. It's not that I don't care what happens, but I’ve long believed that most of life's problems can either be dealt with calmly and rationally, or simply ignored until they go away. If I have any fault at all, which is debatable, it is that I'm far too easy going. You can ask anyone.

I'm a 32 year old jobbing writer, and live in London. In this context, the word 'jobbing' means; in employment, but not wildly successful. I have had three novels published, the first of which was nationally reviewed and sold quite well, but never really hit the big time. I had entertained hopes of making it onto the Richard & Judy book list, but it wasn't to be. Apparently I was beaten to it by the story of a lone mother's struggle to help her autistic son express himself through the medium of dance. You can't compete with that sort of slush, it's only one step removed from 'How My Dog Taught Me To Pray'.

The next two sold in progressively declining numbers, before being remaindered. My agent, although still polite, has let it be known that unless my next fictional offering is more attractive than its predecessors, it might not make it into print.

I still have a capital sum sitting quietly in the bank from the film option I sold on that first book. The film was never made, but the option money is still sitting there, for a rainy day. Most of my current income comes from magazine articles and ghosting mid level celebrity biographies.

My current project is an autobiography of the lead singer in the chart topping group; GirlCrush. Up close, without her makeup, she has acne and bad breath and believes her own publicity; which says she's the most popular female singer since Vera Lynn.

Unfortunately, from a biographical point of view, beyond the reasonably impressive feat of being the singer on three top ten singles, she hasn't done another interesting thing in her life. It took quite some time before she grasped the requirement for her to have been abused as a child. She kept insisting, in that well known whiny voice of hers, that she'd had a very happy childhood. However, when I explained that happy equalled boring, and boring equalled low sales, she finally got the message.

Now we're working on The Predatory Uncle, and the Run Down Council Estate – all of which will be Bravely Conquered. With any luck one of her real uncles will be obliging enough to sue for defamation, an aggrieved relative is always good news.

She mixes booze and drugs in quantities that would kill a fair sized horse; I envy her capacity for self abuse. This book will undoubtedly sell more than my three novels put together. I couldn't care less about life being unfair; I've known that for years. Mine is a fairly well paid job, there's no heavy lifting and I don't get my hands dirty. My social life is fine; in a low key sort of way, what else does a man want?

I've never had a wife of my own, although a couple of other people's wives have had me. But for the last four or five years there's always been Charlie, sometimes she's in the foreground, sometimes the background. If either of us gets a better offer elsewhere, we might occasionally go with it. But if we do, we always end up back together, for mutual consolation and wound licking.

Our friends have been telling us for a while to stop being so stupid, and now it's got to the stage that I agree with them. One day, soon, I'll probably get round to admitting that I'm finally ready to grow up, it just seems such a big step to take. Somehow irreversible – like the onset of balding or buying your first cardigan.

However, one thing is absolutely certain; as far as this recent unpleasantness is concerned, it was all her fault that I ever got involved in the first place. When she was making the arrangements, she had said that her friend Danny could pick me up from my new flat in Chiswick. I know Chiswick's a bit far out, but I got the place for a steal, it's on the District Line – which is handy for me, and there are stacks of decent restaurants. I'm easily pleased.

He was coming past there anyway, so he might as well pick you up.

That's fine. I said. But you know I have to be back in time to get at least some sleep. My working day needs to start at the crack of dawn tomorrow, there's still a huge amount of work to get through. I might be no more than a sex object to you, but the first draft of Slut Face's manuscript is due in by Monday. Being late isn't an option - the release has to fit in with her next tour.

She stood facing me, her arms folded, her body language saying plainly that she was going to insist. This was a three line whip.

Don't be so useless. If you could just stop moaning for a minute you'll see that everything's going to work out fine. I should have recognised the building blocks of a cock- up, dropping neatly into place, but I was distracted. Charlie has a body built on traditional lines, perhaps a little too light for Rubens, but she was nobody's anorexic. She radiated sexual allure at a level that caused passing clergymen to clutch their cassocks. She spoke softly and urgently.

You know perfectly well that I need your help tonight, so let's not start on one of your difficult routines. If you stick to English, they're never going to guess you can understand them. They'll feel more confident and relaxed at home, you're bound to pick up something useful. Besides, you know how work has been recently, I really need this contract. She moved closer, stroking the side of my face.

And you know how grateful I can be to employees who provide satisfaction. We were moving in to one of our role playing games now, it was a distraction technique.

Cut the crap. What time do we wrap up?

Eleven o'clock at the absolute latest, they're going to want to make for the bright lights by then. I've already had them round to the office twice, it's just that to finally settle things they expect to be invited home, that's the personal touch that will close the deal. But after that they'll be heading up West, for champagne and lap dancing, you know what Russians are like. Then when they're gone, you and I can round the evening off properly, before I pop you into a taxi. You'll be fast asleep in your own bed by one.

It was all over bar the shouting, I'd protested my need to work, but only for a while, she knew I'd be there. All work and no play is not my idea of a writer's life style, which could account for my below average ratings. I promised myself to work twice as hard tomorrow.

Danny dropped me off at Fentiman Road that evening. It's a mixed area south of the river near the Oval Cricket Ground, you could never call it fashionable, perhaps slightly worn and comfortable would do it. She could afford better but couldn't be bothered with the upheaval of moving. The Fentiman Arms is a pleasant little pub with decent food, and the deli on the corner by the park does great sandwiches at lunchtime. I could see her point.

I found her moaning about the fact that the senior Russian had been on the phone an hour or two before, ostensibly to confirm that they would be bringing their 'wives' with them. It was the first she'd heard about there being any 'wives', and there was a lot of heavy muttering about the house being filled with cheap floozies.

Her main gripe seemed to be that although she could bulk out the main course, there weren't enough prawns to go round for the starter. The shortage wasn't helped by the fact that when I arrived she was already working her way through them herself along with, what I sincerely hoped, was her first glass of wine.

Well it doesn't bother me. She said. They can kick off with soup instead. Just a pity I haven't got any beetroot or I'd rustle up some borscht – and have them feel really at home.

The evening started pretty much as planned. Three hardnosed Russian Biznizmen, with their trophy bimbos. The men, although cultivated, had that solid Slavic look to them which brought to mind phrases like ‘brick built outhouse’. Their suits had probably cost a fortune, and were beautifully cut, but it was still easier to imagine them wearing plaid shirts and jeans. They looked like men who weren't afraid to get their hands dirty, metaphorically if not literally. I wondered briefly if they were carrying guns, you hear so much about the Russian Mafia, but it can be difficult to tell with a shoulder holster and a well cut suit.

Unless they were pulling the same stunt as me, none of the girls knew any English, and after the initial introductions they scarcely spoke. Whatever you said to them they just smiled back, and occasionally chanced their arm with a heavily accented and drawn out 'Yes'. It came out sounding like 'Yer-zer'. You could ask; how long will you be staying here? All you'd get would be a big smile and 'Yer-zer'. It wasn't worth the effort.

Lev, the boss, was telling me that he came from Ekaterinburg in Siberia.

That's where you shot the Tsar and all his family, wasn't it? I asked brightly. He gave a very small, polite, laugh. It was obviously all that anybody knew about the place.

It was not me personally, you understand. He said, waving his hand dismissively. But the tide of history can sometimes make even unpleasant actions seem necessary. It was better for my people that the Romanovs stopped ruling over us, and instead became a brand of vodka. At least now, when we have had enough of them, we can piss them against a wall.

He said it all in faultless English. He was as good in my language as I was in his, and that was very good. The rest of them laughed on cue, even the women, who still had no idea what anyone was saying.

Apparently whatever you do with them, they end up against a wall. Seemed an appropriate comment. I could see Charlie raising her eyebrows at this and knew exactly what she was thinking; 'never mind being clever – just listen'.

As business dinners go, this one went. You expect to be bored and I was. There was nothing of commercial significance in the Russian they spoke between themselves. Charlie was on sparkling form, and the three men all clearly took to her. I was warm, welcoming and witty, and kept everyone else's drinks topped up. After a couple of early glasses of wine each, Charlie and I drank tap water from a gin bottle, mixed with tonic, ice and lemon. Russians only drink gin when everything else has run out, so we weren't going to be caught.

Charlie ran a property letting company, both commercial and domestic; it had been extremely successful until the recent price crash. Two years ago it had been money for old rope, but now it was hard work, that's why she needed this deal. On the London domestic market rich foreigners, Arabs and Russians were the jackpot.

These three were setting up a UK branch of their Siberian mining conglomerate, ready for a listing on the London Stock Exchange. They were planning to install eight senior staff in London, each in their own up market apartment, and were talking about needing warehouse space as well. Whoever got the agency could expect some serious and continuing income.

I had been conscripted in the role of husband, the original holder of that position having been dumped some years back. My job was to act as host, ensuring they didn't get the wrong idea about the nature of the services on offer. And, as I said earlier, to keep my ears open for any unguarded comments in Russian, that might give Charlie an edge in the negotiations.

The chances were that she wouldn't need much help from me, in any language. She was extremely sharp and could work out rental figures and rates of return in her head that I would need a calculator for. All this while flashing her cleavage in your face and pouring you a drink. Beyond the obvious looks, what you noticed was that she was a great listener and laughed at your jokes. Most of her male clients reckoned that she secretly fancied them. Commercial empires have been built on less.

Things stayed on track right through to the end of the main course, coq au vin. Then I realised that she was looking pale and had noticeably quietened down. I picked up a couple of empty wine bottles, as an excuse to walk past her, en route to the kitchen.

You look terrible, are you alright? I asked quietly, pausing by her chair. She was holding the edge of the table with both hands, but still swayed slightly. She shook her head.

Not really. She tried to stand, but was so unsteady that I had to help her. Everyone was now silent and watching us.

The kitchen. Was all she managed to say, already with a hand in front of her mouth. We just about made it to the sink, where she retched noisily. They always say that whenever you're sick there are carrots in it, but in her case the red bits were blood, and quite a lot of it. This was more than an upset stomach. She started to fall sideways, and I barely managed to swing her round on to the nearest chair. She collapsed; face down, across the kitchen table, sending two plates flying.

Lev, the senior Russian was standing in the dining room doorway, looking both puzzled and concerned.

She needs to get to hospital – right now. I said. I'll call an ambulance. But he was moving faster than me and already had his mobile to his ear.

We have an emergency; get to the front door immediately. He ordered in Russian, and then continued, into the phone. Do you know where the nearest hospital Emergency unit is? The mobile squawked something back at him, he snapped it shut, turned to me, and switching to English said.

That was my driver; he is Russian, but lives in London. We use him for his local knowledge. He says the nearest Emergency unit is at St. Thomas' by Westminster Bridge. We don't care about your speed limits, it will be much faster than waiting for an ambulance. I had to admit it – he was right. Just then Charlie groaned and tried to push herself up from the table. She threw up again, this time it looked like straight blood.

OK you get moving, I'll see you at St. Thomas' I said. You go straight there, I'll lock up here and follow you in a taxi. He nodded his agreement.

We have too many people to fit in. The Mercedes is a big car, it has the extra seats in the middle, but she will need that space. Grigoriy will stay here and come with you in the taxi.

That's fine. I said, as a horn sounded from the street. I carried Charlie out to the car, a coat thrown over her. She was quite a weight, but I was more concerned with her appearance. There was bright red blood down her chin and across one cheek, where she had collapsed face down on the table, it made a shocking contrast to the rest of her cold white skin. Seeing her this way had turned me over, Charlie was always there, she could cope with anything. She wasn't supposed to look like this. The trophy bimbos came good, settling her in between them and slamming the doors as the Mercedes headed off at some speed, leaving Grigoriy and I stood on the pavement.

I dialled the taxi number that was on the wall next to the kitchen phone.

Be at least forty minutes, there's a massive pile up on Archway and then there's the concert just finishing at the O2, then there's. . . . . I put the phone down, there wasn't time to listen to excuses.

Getting the tube wasn't a good option, if I walked down to the station at Oval I would still have to change at Kennington, and God knows what frequency they ran at in the late evening. I could probably pick up a taxi by the bus station at the end of Vauxhall Bridge, but if the worst came to the worst the hospital was only a twenty minute walk away. It was a dry night – it wouldn't kill me.

Running round the house switching off lights, ovens, stereo, whatever I could find, took another three or four minutes. Just making sure the place was generally secure. The final part of the jigsaw was Charlie's house key, and that was in the first place I looked - her handbag in the kitchen. Dead easy.

Right chum. I shouted to Grigoriy. Grab your coat – we're going for a walk.

CHAPTER 2

The route from Charlie's flat on Fentiman Road in Vauxhall, to St. Thomas' Hospital is perfectly straight forward. You turn right at the end of her road, go past Vauxhall Station and then it's straight along the Embankment. You can't miss it.

Grigoriy hadn't been all that chatty to start with, and I was in no mood for small talk, so we set off down Fentiman Road in silence. It was a cool dry evening and we were marching in step with each other, both preoccupied with our own thoughts. Mine revolving around; could this really be food poisoning? It was so very sudden. Surely that much blood had to be unusual? But if not food poisoning – then what else?

We were about half way along the road, there were houses on the left and an unlit small park behind a high hedge and railings on the right. Most of the houses still had lights showing, but passing cars were infrequent and there was no one else out on foot. The street lights weren't that bright, this wasn't a main thoroughfare. The only other people to be seen were in the cars crossing the end of the road, 150 yards away.

I was so wound up in my thoughts, that I didn't pay any attention to the van as it drove past. But then it swung in and pulled across the pavement in front of us. It was an anonymous black job, with darkened windows along the side. Although surprised to see it there, I wasn't alarmed, it was just a van.

Doors opened, and people emerged. Still I wasn't alarmed. One of them, a tall woman about my own age, in a heavy coat and woollen hat, came straight towards us. She held up her hand to stop us, like a policeman directing traffic. It was difficult to see her face clearly in that light, but for some reason I noticed that she was wearing flat sensible shoes, she would have been very tall in heels.

I'm sorry. She said. But for police operational reasons, I'm going to have to ask you to go back the way you came. Let me show you my I.D She began to reach inside her coat.

Never mind your I.D. I said brusquely. We're in a hurry. I continued moving forwards to go past her.

Is big trouble. Said Grigoriy in broken but perfectly calm English. The other people who had emerged from the van were two men. They said nothing and pausing only for a quick scan of the street, as if to confirm we were alone, pulled silenced handguns from inside their jackets. The Met. don't use silencers, there never had been any I.D.

The two men had paused only briefly, but it had been enough for Grigoriy to produce a gun of his own. He was way ahead of the game. In that poor light I couldn't see what sort it was, but it was something small and suitable for concealment. That was why I hadn't spotted that he'd been carrying. Something with a very short barrel for close range work.

Without any hesitation, in one smooth flowing motion, the gun appeared in his hand, swung on to target, and fired. Whatever it was, it did the business. Just one shot, a loud heavy crack, with an immediate smell of cordite.

He had shot the first man, dead, unhesitatingly, as if he'd expected trouble. There was no doubt about him being dead, he had been punched backwards four or five feet along the pavement, falling in a tangle of limbs, his head and one arm hanging over the kerb and into the road.

What the hell was going on? I had enough experience of guns not to freak at the sight of them, but this was out of context. I had only come round for dinner, you don't expect shoot outs on the quiet night time streets of our capital city. Everything had happened with astonishing speed, and with absolutely no input from me. My mouth was hanging open at the events before me, for the first time in a long time I was genuinely shocked.

The second man stepped behind me for cover, and fired at Grigoriy, as he was still turning back towards us. Unlike the harsh crack of the Russian's gun this one made a much more subdued noise, but Grigoriy didn't. His gun fell to the ground in one direction whilst he fell in the other, bellowing a loud Russian obscenity as he did so.

As that shot was fired one thing was obvious, I would be next. It was time to stop being in shock. Knowing that he was stood somewhere behind me, and that a gun with a silencer needs room to swing, I hurled myself backwards as violently as I could. I made contact, and from his stumble it seemed he had been taken by surprise. I continued to push backwards, hard, and he went with me. There was a metallic clang, then we came to a very solid, jarring stop. I had charged him into the park railings.

I swung round to make good my advantage and grab for the gun. But this man was a pro, he'd been hit before, he knew what to do. He jabbed me painfully in the neck with his left elbow and rolled himself along the railing, out of kicking or lunging distance.

I was shaking with fear and tension, I'd been good, but not good enough. He looked into my eyes, the better to watch the lights go out when he pulled the trigger. He held the gun out at waist height, pointing straight into my belly.

I think we both saw it at the same time, and of all the inappropriate reactions I've ever had in my life, this was probably the least helpful. I started laughing, I couldn't help it – it looked ridiculous. The silencer must have been bent when I ran him into the railings, that had been the metallic clang. The gun was pointing straight at me, but the silencer was pointing two feet to my left. If he pulled the trigger he would blow his hand off. He stared at it in open disbelief.

You fucker. He roared, and launched himself at me, raising the useless gun in the air as a club. If he couldn't shoot me he was going to batter me to death. I rather got the impression that he was more annoyed with me for bending his gun than anything else.

I stumbled backwards, he was beside himself with rage. As he closed on me, his left hand gripping my jacket, his right still raised to strike, there was a dark shape suddenly coming in from one side. The shape collided with us and we collapsed untidily to the ground. The shape was Grigoriy, but the effort had cost him a lot. He clutched at his right shoulder, where the bullet had hit him, his face was twisted in pain.

The gun man was underneath me and seemed momentarily dazed. I scrambled to my feet, realising that I had very little time in which to take some decisive action that would keep him down. If I didn't, he would kill me, it's what he had come here for. I had no weapon and didn't know what to do, even his bent gun was out of sight, somewhere underneath him. He groaned and began to stir. Do something – now.

I dropped on his back, one knee first, all my weight behind it. There was a sickening crack and an involuntary grunt, something important had just broken, he was silent and unmoving. As I clambered unsteadily back to my feet he just lay there. I didn't want to touch him to see if he was dead, I’d seen too many films where bodies that you think are dead suddenly open their eyes and grab your throat. I stepped back. Fortunately, Grigoriy hadn't seen the same films and went to kneel by the still figure.

More lights had come on in some of the houses, and curtains twitched. There was the sound of a door opening. A worried male voice demanded.

Who are you? What's going on out there? Grigoriy never even looked up. He just spoke flatly and matter of factly.

You bugger off now - or I kill you. There followed the sound of a door closing and then being locked. I would have done the same.

He showed no interest whatsoever in his pulse, instead and more usefully, he began to go through the man's pockets. Reaching under the body he rummaged about and pulled out a well stuffed leather wallet. He flipped it open on the pavement, and in the pale wash of the street light a variety of credit or debit cards were visible.

Now we find out who he is. He said. Returning to our attacker he began patting him down, felt something in a side pocket and gave a snort of triumph. He fished out a set of keys, and threw them to me.

You drive, my shoulder it hurts. But as we turned to the van there was a shout.

You two – stop right there. Stop or I'll shoot. The tall young woman in the sensible shoes, the decoy, was standing in the road beyond the van, thirty yards away. Her hand gun was pointed straight at us. She was holding it in both hands, straight out in front of her. The classic A shaped stance. The position hand gun shooters adopt when they have been professionally trained. Had it been my decision, I would have probably taken a chance on the accuracy of a handgun at that range, and run for it. But it never came to that.

Grigoriy clasped the wallet in both hands, and held it in front of him, pointing back at her. There was a tree and a large wheelie