PROLOGUE
For a few seconds after the petrol tank goes
up, the woods are shocked into silence.
At least that’s how it seems, as though it
takes those moments of quiet and stillness after the whump
of the explosion for every bird and insect and small mammal to
release the breath it has been holding. For the wind to begin
moving through the trees again; although, even then, it dares do no
more than whisper. Obviously, as far as the men watching the
burning car are concerned, it might just be that it takes that long
for the ringing in their ears to die down.
And, of course, the man inside the car has
finally stopped screaming.
Ten minutes earlier, dragging him towards the
Jag, the younger of the two men had needed to slap the poor bugger
a few times to keep him quiet. As soon as he’d been bundled into
the passenger seat, though, there was no shutting him up. Not when
he’d seen the handcuffs come out and the petrol can that had been
taken from the boot.
Not once he’d realised what they were going to
do.
‘I didn’t think he’d make such a racket,’ the
older man said.
‘They always make a racket.’ The younger man
sniffed and smiled. ‘You’re not normally around for this bit, are
you?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ The older man shoved
his hands deep into the pockets of his Barbour jacket, looked up at
the trees crowding in on the small clearing. The light was already
starting to go and the temperature was dropping fast.
The younger man grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll
warm up in a minute.’ He opened the back door of the Jag and
started sloshing petrol around.
The man who was handcuffed to the steering
wheel threw himself back and forth in the front seat, the cuffs
rattling against the walnut steering wheel and the spittle flying
on to the dash and windscreen. He started shouting, begging the man
with the petrol can to stop. He told him he had a family, told him
their names. He said, ‘You don’t need to do this.’ Then, ‘For
Christ’s sake!’ and ‘Please . . .’
The older man winced, like he had a bad
headache, and told his colleague to close the door. Shut the bloody
noise out a bit. The younger man did as he was told, tossed the
empty petrol can back in the boot, then walked across and offered
his employer a cigarette. It was refused, but he still took out a
Zippo and lit one of his own.
‘Happy?’
The man in the Barbour nodded. ‘Just needed to
get the details right. The clothes, you know? Jewellery, all
that.’
The younger man nodded towards the car. ‘Shame
about your watch.’
The older man glanced down at the outline of a
wristwatch, pale against a Barbados tan. ‘It’s all just . . .
stuff, isn’t it?’ He shrugged. ‘Watches, cars, what have you.
Means nothing at the end of the day. Living is what counts,
right?’
The younger man drew smoke deep into his lungs
then hissed it away between his teeth. He took two more fast drags
then flicked the nub-end into the trees. Said, ‘Shall I get this
done, then?’
He took out the lighter again and a rag from
the other pocket, which he twisted between his fingers as he walked
back to the car.
The man inside the Jag was crying now and
banging his head against the side window. His voice was rasping and
ragged and only audible for as long as it took to open the door,
fire up the lighter and toss the burning rag on to the back seat.
No more than a few seconds, but it was easy enough to make out what
was being said.
Those names again. His wife and son.
Said for nobody’s benefit but his own this
time, and he repeated them, eyes closed, until the smoke stopped
them in his throat.
The two men moved back towards the trees and
watched the fire take hold from a safe distance. Within ninety
seconds the windows had blown and the figure in the front seat was
no more than a black shape.
‘Where you going to go?’
The older man nudged the tip of his shoe
through the mulch. ‘Now, why would you think you need to know
that?’
‘Just asking, is all.’
‘Yeah, well. Just think about the worthless
crap you’ll be spending your money on.’
‘Your money, you mean.’
‘Right. Can’t be too many like this, can
there? How many times you been paid twice for one job?’
‘Never had a job anything like this
one—’
That was when the petrol tank caught and went
up . . .
Half a minute later, they turn and walk back
to where the second car is parked; away from the sounds that have
begun to roll and echo around the clearing after those few dead
seconds. The wind and the leaves and the creak of branches. The
crackle and hiss as flames devour flesh and leather.
A hundred yards or so from the main road, the
older man stops and looks up. ‘Listen . . .’
‘What?’
He waits, then points when he hears the sound
again. ‘Woodpecker. Can you hear him?’
The younger man shakes his head.
‘Great spotted, I’m guessing. He’s the
commonest.’
They start walking again, the woods growing
darker by the minute.
‘How do you know stuff like that?’
‘Reading,’ the older man says. ‘Books,
magazines, whatever. You should try it some time.’
‘Yeah, well, you’ll have plenty of time on
your hands now, won’t you?’
The younger man nods back in the direction of
the car, the blaze clearly visible a mile or more behind them,
through the dark tangle of oaks and giant beeches. ‘You can read
about fucking woodpeckers till the cows come home. Now you’re
dead . . .’