The Killing House Read online

  Gomery Kimber

  THE KILLING HOUSE

  The Big Shilling

  Book One

  GOMERY KIMBER

  PROCURSUS PRESS, LONDON

  Text copyright © 2019 Gomery Kimber

  All rights reserved. Gomery Kimber has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction, entirely the product of the author’s imagination. The comments made by and the actions of the characters and fictionalised organisations should not be regarded as statements of fact. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  ‘There are, however, many murderers for whom this description would be quite inadequate. Some are intelligent and, in many respects, self-disciplined. The case of Robert Irwin illustrates this class of murderer . . . Prior to the murders, Irwin had been pre-occupied with a notion that he called ‘visualising.’ It had struck him that before a sculptor could create a piece of sculpture, the work had to be visualised in the artist’s mind. For Irwin, the function of imagination was to allow a man to close his eyes and ‘see’ whatever he wishes to see . . .’

  p.151, ‘The Criminology’, ‘Colin Wilson – The Man and His Mind,’ by Howard F. Dossor

  ‘The secret is to imagine to the point of self-persuasion.’

  Neville Goddard

  Prologue

  They were an odd couple, strolling in one of London’s royal parks that foggy Sunday morning at the beginning of spring. He was tall and narrow and stooping, and she was a fresh-faced dumpling in a black hijab.

  The young woman was eating nuts, and the noise she made when she chewed them was getting on her companion’s nerves, not that anyone would have known, since the man’s charming expression never changed. He was a diplomat, and a spy, and the woman munching nuts was a junior employee of the British Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6.

  ‘Code name BASKERVILLE,’ said the diplomat, appreciatively. He was an aficionado of the Sherlock Holmes stories and he was enjoying his walk in the London fog.

  The woman looked at him blankly.

  ‘Please go on,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ said the woman, ‘I got to see the file before it went back to Registry. It was written by a psychiatrist, or a psychologist – anyway, a lot of it was about his parents. His mother died when he was quite young. She was psychotic and killed herself in a mental hospital. His father was known as Spyker Hanratty.’

  The woman looked up at him again to see if the strange name meant anything to him, but the diplomat merely smiled politely at her. He made her nervous, this middle-aged patrician with the handsome face and elegant manners. Whenever she spoke to him she tried to make her London accent posher than it was, and the effort of doing so made her weary. She wanted to sit down and have something proper to eat, but it was too cold to sit on the park benches they passed, and she’d brought nothing more substantial with her than a bag of mixed nuts.

  ‘I didn’t know who it was. I had to look it up – I didn’t do that at work,’ she added quickly.

  ‘That’s very good,’ said the diplomat.

  ‘Do you know of him?’ she asked, a little overawed. In her limited experience, the diplomat seemed to know everything.

  ‘Yes. He attempted to assassinate the South African Prime Minister, I think. As I recall, he was deemed unfit to stand trial due to insanity and was sent to a secure institution. It is not unusual, of course, for Communism and violent insanity to go hand in hand.’

  The woman blinked, as though this were news to her. She was certainly intelligent but had been educated at one of Britain’s most prestigious universities, where, thought the diplomat, she had been indoctrinated by progressives. She was a strange mixture, undoubtedly a devout Muslim, but also in many ways a western liberal.

  ‘Spyker means nail,’ said the woman. ‘He had schizophrenia. I can’t remember the percentages, sorry, but there was something about the chances of their son inheriting mental illness from the parents. He fought against the Portuguese in Angola, and before that he’d been in the British Army in North Africa, and Italy. He received a head injury in the war and they thought that might have contributed to his mental illness.’

  ‘And does Rickardo take after his parents?’ asked the diplomat. He was being provocative, certain that the woman believed a person was a blank slate, and that inheritance counted for nothing.

  ‘Well, he did spend time in a psychiatric hospital in New York State in the 1980s, and when he was in prison in Australia in 2002 he was diagnosed as a psychopath.’ The woman paused for a moment, trying to recall the medical jargon and acronyms: ‘A psychopath with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, callous and unemotional traits, and displaying high levels of Machiavellianism, impulsivity and aggression. He scored 38 on the PCL-R test for psychopathy, out of a maximum of 40.’

  ‘Very good,’ said the diplomat, praising her. She beamed up at him, before abruptly covering her smile with a pudgy hand and quickly turning away.

  ‘Tell me more about Petra,’ he said, as though nothing had happened, ‘about when she returned from the meeting with the Director General.’

  The young woman scowled, as he thought she might: she detested her boss, Petronella.

  ‘She headed straight for the whisky, innit,’ she said, contemptuously. ‘She looked like she’d seen a ghost, all the blood had drained out of her face.’

  The diplomat made sure he didn’t sound the least bit sceptical when he said, ‘This happened once before?’

  ‘Yeah, ‘wet jobs’ they call them. Petra looked all queasy then as well. I’ve heard her talking on the phone to the guy who carries them out. His wife’s moved to Tel Aviv with their little girl. She told him the British will help get the girl back for him if he dealt with BASKERVILLE.’

  ‘He has to be bribed in this way to carry out an assassination?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he might have retired, but he knows BASKERVILLE personally. He can get close to him.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said the diplomat, ‘very interesting indeed.’

  He was thinking what a dirty business he was in, and wondered how many would die before BASKERVILLE was himself killed. He was thankful that he himself never had to get his hands dirty. He pitied those that did.

  ‘Shall we go back?’ he asked the woman. ‘It’s getting cold.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was God who killed Aias Pneumaticos. That’s what the Big Shilling told American Troy when they arrived at the safe house in Antwerp, Belgium. American Troy was an intelligent kid, he knew what Shilling meant, or thought he did: that if Pneumaticos hadn’t been religious he’d still have been alive. But Shilling spelt it out for him anyway. The Big Shilling was like that – he had a compulsion to talk.

  ‘I’ve known a lot of guys like him, hey, gangs
ters who believe in God. Gangsters who believe in God,’ he repeated, as though he couldn’t fathom it. ‘Me, I believe in nothing, nothing that I cannot imagine, nothing except my own prowess, my own strength, my own self-belief. Did you see how his head exploded! Man, that was a shot. Wind blowing a gale, only two seconds to make the hit, and boom! Did you see it? His head exploded like a watermelon.’

  Then Shilling slapped himself on the forehead with the flat of his hand.

  ‘What am I talking about? What am I talking about? Forget God. It wasn’t God who killed that Greek, it was me, the Big Shilling. I killed Aias Pneumaticos, I did it. I killed that dumb son of a bitch, eh? I am God, that’s who I am!’

  This kind of talk was typical Shilling and American Troy hadn’t been paying him much attention, just waiting for the chance to speak.

  ‘You were right,’ he said in admiration. ‘You said he’d leave the compound over the holiday weekend.’

  The kid realised Shilling was looking at him quizzically and didn’t know why, but the moment passed and he forgot all about it.

  ‘I told you. I told you he would and you didn’t believe me. Didn’t I tell you? I said he would leave the house, hey?’

  Right from the start, the Big Shilling had insisted that the mark would go to church at Easter. Aias Pneumaticos was in Holland to supervise a big drug deal for his boss, the Russian exile. He and his bodyguards – there were four of them, all Russians – were holed up in a big, walled mansion in the countryside somewhere east of Rotterdam. Shilling and American Troy had spent five long days observing the house. Pneumaticos never left. Instead, he had his underlings come to him.

  ‘What if he doesn’t leave?’ American Troy had asked. ‘What if he stays holed up and only gets in that armoured limo to take him back to the airport?’

  ‘He’ll leave,’ said Shilling. ‘Put your money where your mouth is. On Good Friday, Easter Sunday or Easter Monday, he will leave. You want to bet? I bet you he leaves. I bet you your cut he’ll leave.’

  ‘A hundred big ones? You want me to bet a hundred thousand bucks he won’t leave?’

  Shilling could see where American Troy was going. He interrupted, ‘He doesn’t leave, you won’t see a penny, is that what you’re thinking? Don’t worry, my boy, you’ll get your money. It’s as good as banked already. The guy will leave that house. Believing is seeing. Because he believes in God, he will leave that house, eh?’

  American Troy didn’t say anything. He was thinking of the new BMW motorbike he was planning to buy with his share.

  ‘Are you listening to me, boy? Believing is seeing. I’ve got a new bet for you. I bet he leaves on Good Friday. Not Easter Sunday or Easter Monday: Good Friday. I bet you half your fee he leaves on Good Friday.’

  American Troy could tell this time Shilling was serious. Fifty thousand bucks! The American’s greed kicked in but immediately it was cancelled out by the thought of losing.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you five hundred.’

  ‘Five hundred? Five hundred! What the hell’s wrong with you? Five hundred’s not a bet. Five hundred’s a joke. Either you bet big shilling or you don’t bet at all.’

  Big Shilling.

  It was one of the Big Shilling’s favourite phrases. He used it so often that it had become his nickname. American Troy had heard him say it on the phone to the Turk when the Turk had offered six hundred thousand dollars for the assassination of Aias Pneumaticos.

  ‘Six hundred thousand? Six hundred thousand is nowhere near where I want to be. Pneumaticos is protected, Pneumaticos rides around in an armoured car, Pneumaticos is second in command of one of the biggest crime syndicates in Europe. To take him out you’re going to need the best. That is why you’ve come to me, my friend. I am the best. I am the best, most experienced hitman in the world today. No one is better than me, no one. Six hundred thousand? Man, that’s nowhere near where I want to be. You want Pneumaticos dead, my friend, you’re going to have to pay big shilling.’

  And so the Turk had paid big shilling, one million US, plus expenses. American Troy’s cut was a very generous ten per cent. His job was to handle the logistics, Shilling’s job was to kill the mark. Troy had carried out his tasks diligently. He’d stolen identities, he’d procured the vehicles – two cars and a motorcycle – he’d rented the house and garage in Amsterdam, and the Antwerp apartment, he’d even sourced and built the incendiary device. Yes, he’d done it all diligently and professionally, the way his Uncle Nathan had taught him to commit crimes, but all the time he wished it was he who was pulling the trigger and not Shilling, for it was American Troy’s life ambition to be a professional killer.

  The one thing he’d really wanted to procure was the rifle, but there was no way the Big Shilling was going to allow him to do that. Shilling always procured his own weaponry, of course he did. He’d been away for almost a week, and when he came back to the Amsterdam house he was uncharacteristically close-mouthed, refusing to say where he’d been or who he’d seen. In his suitcase was the smallest sniper rifle American Troy had ever set eyes on.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you were dropping by the toy store.’

  He said it without thinking, and when he realised what he’d said he checked Shilling to see how he’d taken it. But Shilling was in a good mood. There was a smile on his pale, freckled face, and his whole attention was focused on the rifle. Shilling loved weapons. So far as Troy could figure, weapons were the one and only love of Shilling’s life. Guns, knives, he handled them like other guys handled women.

  ‘Compact, isn’t she?’ said Shilling, hefting the rifle in his small hands. ‘A bullpup - you see the magazine’s there behind the trigger? The Stealth Recon Scout, eh? The Stealth Recon Scout. Stupid name, but you expect that from the Yanks, eh? Twenty-six inches long, just twenty-six inches long. Look, two different barrels, two different calibres, one for vehicles, one for soft targets.’

  ‘Would it take out the armoured car?’

  ‘Forget about the armoured car, boy, just forget about it. He’s going to church, and I’m going to take him out as he walks into the building. That’s what’s going to happen, you mark my words, my boy. Believing is seeing, oh yeah, believing is seeing.’

  Believing is seeing – that was another one of the Big Shilling’s favourite phrases, but to American Troy it was illogical and slightly irritating – seeing was believing, right? - and so he never thought about what it meant.

  Shilling picked up a carton of cartridges. ‘308s,’ he said. ‘Hit him with one of these babies and his head will explode like a fucking watermelon, like a fucking watermelon, eh?’

  He tossed the carton to Troy who caught it. Then Shilling raised the gun to his shoulder and took aim at the TV on the other side of the room. Yes, it was short for a rifle, thought Troy, but it still looked big when compared to the diminutive Shilling who stood barely five feet three inches tall.

  To say that Shilling was sensitive about his height was something of an understatement: for him it was an open wound that never healed. In Troy’s experience, barely a day went by without Shilling taking umbrage at some slight, imagined or otherwise, relating to his lack of inches. Even if someone used the word ‘short’ in an entirely innocent context it was sometimes enough to goad the Big Shilling into a confrontation. And in the underworld, Shilling’s reputation for violence was legendary. The joke was, if you wanted to suicide yourself just call the Big Shilling a short ass.

  In fact, American Troy had a theory about why Shilling had agreed to kill Aias Pneumaticos for the Turk. Shilling was freelance. He killed people for cash. You went to him, told him who you wanted wacked and agreed the price. But sometimes, for no good reason, the Big Shilling turned you down. Troy had heard on the grapevine that the Russian exile had approached Shilling to sound him out about killing the Turk, and that Shilling had nixed him. Troy’s theory was this: the reason Shilling had taken the Turk’s contract and not the Russian’s was because the Russian was six foot five and the Tu
rk only five four.

  He had no proof, of course, and he wasn’t about to ask Shilling for confirmation, especially not after the Big Shilling turned around and aimed the sniper rifle at him in the Amsterdam living room, saying, ‘A toy, is it, a fucking toy? You saying I’m a kid, are you, boy? You saying I’m no taller than a little kid? Is that what you’re saying? You’re calling me a fucking midget, eh? Is that what you’re doing? Is it, you punk? I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You give me one of those cartridges and I’ll load this toy and you can call me a fucking dwarf and we’ll see what happens.’

  It was a good five minutes before Shilling calmed down and dropped the subject, but to American Troy it seemed like half an hour, and so he was mightily glad when Shilling ordered him to get on his bike and ride out to Pneumaticos’s mansion. He was glad even though it was going dark outside and pouring down with rain.

  ‘Stay there till I tell you you can come back,’ ordered Shilling. ‘You understand me, eh? I know how you love the great outdoors.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said American Troy, trying to sound contrite. ‘I got it.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m the boss, the fucking boss, and you will do as you are told and fucking like it. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.’

  It was after one in the morning before the Big Shilling called American Troy and told him he could come home. It was April in northern Europe, and Troy was freezing his ass off, sheltering from the rain in the lee of a wall about two hundred yards from the Greek’s hideout, but Troy didn’t mind too much. He had a tolerance for cold that the Big Shilling, raised, so they said, in the West Indies, did not share.

  ‘And you’d better not be at that McDonalds drive-in,’ Shilling said to him over the phone.