NAUGHTY BUT NICE?: an éclair to die for - Chapter 2

He parked his car in a side street just off the Promenade. He had become to know this northern seaside town quite well in the few weeks since he had taken the contract. It had a faded Victorian elegance about it. The street he was in was lined with large three storey houses which were mostly divided into flats or small B&B’s.

It was very early, the sun was just rising but the timing was important. He checked the small book of Tide-tables he had bought the last time he was here. Then checked his watch. He was wearing a long waterproof coat with a hood and a baseball cap. His gloved hands were thrust deep inside his pockets to protect against the cold, but also to support the gun and silencer. The gun was one of his familiar chinese models, it was actually a pretty accurate copy of a classic snub-nose 38. Which as it was a chinese interperatation of an american idea he had nick-named a ‘chow mein special'.

Lathom didn’t know what it was, but he had a bad feeling about this job. Normally he wouldn’t touch it, the contract was to kill scum, but so was the client. However, for once in his life he needed ready cash sooner rather than later.
One of his many interests was anything related to the Shropshire light infantry. In fact he had been doing research in preparation for a small article for the local paper ,when he met another enthusiast who wanted to sell some memorabilia. Most of it was of little interest to him, but buried away in the dusty loft he found the real gem of the collection. A gun. Not any old Chinese special a real gun with real history.

To be precise it was a point-455” Webley from the first world war which the collector said had belonged to Charles Acton-Scott. It was complete with it’s Sam Browne leather belt, holster and cartridge case including twelve rounds of ammunition. Unfortunately it wasn’t in the best condition, with some surface rust and the hammer was jammed. You certainly wouldn’t risk firing it using the ninety year old shells. Once he held it Lathom knew he had to own it whatever the price. He knew he could re-build it and it's ammunition. He could even fire it in the disused quarry behind his cottage. He no longer had a gun license. What would an antique dealer need with a hand gun? It would make people curious about him and his past. He wouldn’t need to register the webley, he even had secret compartment in the back of his role-top desk he could keep it in. Unfortunately, the collector wanted to sell all the collection together and was considering auctioning it. Lathom couldn’t risk loosing the gun or drawing attention to himself with a large bid. People would then know about the gun and he would not be able to restore it without difficult questions. So he made him a substantial cash offer. Which is why he was now walking along the sea front toward the pier against his better judgement.

Charles Acton-Scott, or as the regiment history described him.‘ Captain Charles Rupert Acton-Scott VC ’ was a genuine hero. Born 1895 in Much Wenlock. Educated at Shrewsbury school, then Magdalen college Oxford , before enlisting in the Shropshire light infantry in 1915. Awarded the VC posthumously for his courageous,( some would say reckless) one man assault on heavily defended german positions on the first day of the battle of the Somme. As sixty thousand british and commonwealth troops were killed or wounded that day, Lathom was surprised Acton -Scott had been recognised. But then he had it all, young, dashing, tragic and with a cousin married to a minor royal. Connections helped, even when you were dead. There was no doubting though that he had been brave, and even if he couldn’t return from the grave at least Lathom thought his gun deserved resurrection.

Lathom had rehearsed the approach to the target and the timing of the killing, but now it was for real and so as usual he felt hungry. This morning he could only think of one thing, a full English breakfast. A proper one, thick fatty bacon, runny egg, slightly slimy mushrooms with fried bread, tomatoes and baked beans. He hadn’t eaten today as he had to set of so early to get here at this time. Hopefully if things worked out he could have breakfast afterwards. The target was a man of routine, which would be his undoing, as he felt safe here. This was his town. Unfortunately for him his trusted right hand man had delusions of grandure and Lathom had been approached through a previous client of his. Lathom was careful to cover his tracks as he had no desire to have anything to do with his clients or to compromise his new identity. He had done some background checks on the client as well as the target. Which had proved what he suspected that they deserved one another, and if someone else would pay him he would have been happy to dispatch the client as well as the target.

Lathom had now reached the end of the pier, the streets were empty. Even though it was spring it was still cold this time of the morning, who else would be out this early but a fisherman. It had always seemed a strange hobby to him. You sat and froze at the end of a pier for hours on end hoping to catch something inedible. That’s what the target was, among many other less savoury things he was a fisherman. At this moment he would be at the end of the pier baiting his hook, not expecting it was he who was the prey.
As he started to walk down the pier he passed a sign telling him that he couldn’t cycle or skate-board on the pier, neither could he walk a dog, leave litter or drink alcohol in public. However it neglected to mention committing murder so perhaps that was legal.

God help him he thought if contract killing was ever legalised, then Health and Safety would get involved. He would have to complete a risk assessment for every contract. Have to wear eye protection and have indemnity insurance in case something went wrong. They would probably have quotas and positive discrimination,he wouldn’t only be able to kill scum. No doubt for every ten scum he would have to shoot a nun, or a black lesbian social worker. So with that thought and a spring in his step, he quickened his pace. It was important he got there before the tide turned.

As he approached the end of the pier he could see the man silhouetted against the grey sky. He was sitting on a low chair hunched forward fiddling with his fishing gear. It was a simple plan, walk up to the target shot him at short range then throw the body off the pier. The tide was about to turn and it would be dragged out into the Irish sea. As no one would report him missing it could be weeks or even months before the body would be washed up, if at all. It had to be done this morning as the man was due to leave on holiday later that day, and by the time he returned it would be too late and he would have to return the money to the client, and would have lost the gun forever.

As he neared the man he clicked off the safety catch and prepared to draw the weapon. Just then a seagull swooped low over head and with a screech splattered the man’s right arm with bird-shit.
“ For Christ’s sake.!”said the man, turning to look at his coat and catching sight of Lathom. Loosing the element of surprise he decided to bide his time.
“Well they say it’s lucky,” said Lathom.
“Yeah, that’s me. Always been lucky”. Lathom smiled but thought we shall see.
“Always had the luck of the Irish” he continued.
“Oh, you’re Irish are you” asked Lathom, he knew he wasn’t. in fact he knew plenty about this man.
“ Me? A paddy! No, just an Irish name but it seems to work anyway. I was born and bred here. Ask anyone, they’ll know me. Frank Kelly’s the name.” he held out his hand to Lathom.
“Phil Davies” he answered. Shaking hands without removing his glove. “Before you ask, I’m english too.” Lathom didn’t want to give too much information just in case he didn’t complete the contract successfully.

“Do I know you?”
“I don’t know, are you an antique dealer?”
The man laughed,a wide smile followed showing large teeth and a gold crown, only the smile stopped short of the eyes which remained cold and questioning.
“I suppose you could call me a dealer, but no ones ever had the balls to call me an antique before.” They both laughed. “ Are you sure I don’t know you? You’re face looks familiar” he continued.
Unlikely thought Lathom, it was so long ago, he had hair and a beard then, But Lathom remembered him. He hadn’t known his name then, but now close up he recognised Kelly’s face. This wouldn’t be difficult, in fact it would be a pleasure.
“Funny you should say that, as people never remember my face, even people I know quite well” He smiled, but thought, you’re not leaving this pier, you bastard. He was about to pull the gun, when Kelly asked.
“Do you fish?” He went back to his fishing tackle.
“No, I’ve always been too clumsy. I could never deal with tying the hooks and things.”
“It’s easy, I’ll show you.” Lathom pushed his hands deep into his pockets, he wasn’t going to take off his gloves and leave his finger prints behind. Kelly mistook his actions.
“Yeah, I’m cold too. Want a coffee?” He reached into the bag at his feet and took out a flask, poured some into the cap and offered it to Lathom. Who took it with his left hand, and asked
“Do you know where I can get a good fried breakfast?”
“A man after my own heart” He replied with the same cold smile. “Although, don’t blame me for your heart-attack, or early death.” Unlike me thought Lathom, I’ll happily take responsibility for yours.
“Try the café on Victoria Road, behind the station, use my name and they’ll look after you. It’s run by a fella called Roberto,or Robbie. His old man came here as a P.O.W. He may be a wop, but it’s the best breakfast you’ll ever have.” Kelly replied.
Time was running out, people would soon be coming onto the pier, he had to act now. He moved closer. Deliberately pouring the coffee from above down Kelly’s neck. He shot out of his seat.
“What the fuck..!”
“Sorry, I said I was clumsy”. He made a show of wiping his coat down, pushed up Kelly’s hood with his left hand, took the gun from his coat and pressing it against the base of his skull, pulling the trigger. There was a small thud from the silencer and he felt the recoil through his arm. Kelly didn’t make a sound, but stood up to his full height. Lathom debated shooting him again, but then he stumbled forward and fell onto the railings.

At first Lathom thought that he would fall over unassisted, but Kelly stuck halfway over, his coat caught on the chicken wire which had been recently added for safety. Lathom seized the legs and lifted them high. There was a tearing sound, and the body tumbled into the sea. He pulled the small piece of cloth that remained off the railings and threw it into the sea. Followed by the gun and silencer. He dismantled the rod, packed it into the bag and slinging it over his shoulder walked back down the pier. Then dumped the bag his coat and base-ball cap in the wheelie-bins under the pier.

Twenty minutes later he entered the Station Café, and pulling up a stool at the raised counter picked up a menu and ordered a full English and a mug of tea. It arrived promptly, steaming and was excellent. He was just mopping up the last of the egg with a slice of white bread. When the owner approached.
“Good?” he asked.
“Perfect” replied Lathom. “Just what I expected. A friend recommended you.”
“Where’s your friend then?” Lathom checked his watch,
“He should be on his way to Ireland by now.” The man wiped the steamed up window with his sleeve and stared out at the grey skies.
“He’s a lucky man”.
Lathom said nothing, just smiled and sipped his tea.