Marked Men Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Simms

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Chris Simms

  The DC Sean Blake Mysteries

  LOOSE TONGUES *

  MARKED MEN *

  The DI Jon Spicer Series

  KILLING THE BEASTS

  SHIFTING SKIN

  SAVAGE MOON

  HELL’S FIRE

  THE EDGE

  CUT ADRIFT

  SLEEPING DOGS

  DEATH GAMES

  The DC Iona Khan Series

  SCRATCH DEEPER

  A PRICE TO PAY

  * available from Severn House

  Join Chris Simms’ Readers Club to get latest news, special offers and an exclusive novella absolutely free.

  www.chrissimms.info/readersclub

  MARKED MEN

  Chris Simms

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Chris Simms.

  The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8881-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-599-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0190-4 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Riggers, for sharing with me his magnificent prowess in Romanian swearing.

  PROLOGUE

  When she stepped into Nick’s shot, he hated her on sight. You just cost me a few thousand quid. Lifting his face from the viewfinder, he stared at her across the beach.

  Her white dress shone in the gathering dusk. He bowed his head once more and used the camera’s powerful zoom to go in close on her. Watched the swing of a straw-coloured ponytail, the shift of thin cotton across her hips, the dimples fading in the damp sand as, barefoot and carefree, she slowly picked her way along the water’s edge.

  Beyond her, coloured light bulbs looped beneath the thatched roof of the beach shack. Their glow balanced perfectly with the fiery sunset above the palm trees. The gentle thud of music; the aroma of smouldering charcoal; the dropping sun’s soft caress: he knew all this would have been captured in the picture he had so painstakingly planned.

  It was the sort of image that topped the sales charts on stock shot sites. So long as it wasn’t marred by an actual person. Multitudes of companies could use it as part of their advertising: travel firms, financial advisors, pension providers. Peddlers of dreams.

  But now she was slap in the middle of his precious shot. Though it would still be worth something, her presence drastically narrowed its commercial appeal. Maybe solicitor firms that specialized in divorce. Start a new life free of that useless leeching husband.

  Growling with anger, he waited.

  By the time she’d exited the far side of the frame, the sky had lost its magical glow and the bar’s lighting seemed garish. He took half a dozen photos anyway; a bit of digital manipulation might salvage something. After calling Claire back in the Manchester studio and asking her to do what she could, he perched on a smooth rock still warm from the day’s merciless heat.

  He slid a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his linen shirt. She was now about twenty metres away, still trailing the ocean edge without a care in the world. The little bay curved past him before the white sand was muscled out by a cluster of squat boulders. They increased in number to form a modest barrier, beyond which lay another idyllic beach.

  The air was almost still. No need to cup the lighter’s flame. Whether it was the rasp of the flint or the sudden yellow flicker, her step faltered. When she continued forwards, her looseness was gone. She didn’t have the beach to herself, after all. He stared, glad to make her feel uncomfortable.

  Now she was within talking distance, he realized she was pretty. Very pretty. Similar age to him, maybe a few years younger. Tall, slim. He had the vague impression he’d seen her somewhere before. Then he spotted that she wore no bra beneath the flimsy dress. She glanced warily across and their eyes touched, just for a moment. He’d never seen eyes that green. Gemstone eyes. Like a cat’s. Or a dragon’s.

  The scowl lifted from his face.

  ‘Evening,’ he said, blowing a stream of smoke up at the first sprinkle of stars.

  Her eyes shifted to his empty cases of photographic equipment. She took in the camera mounted on the collapsible tripod. ‘Hello.’

  Though the word was whispered, it lifted at the end. A note that indicated she was curious. But not enough to stop. Was she British? She hadn’t said enough for him to tell. His eyes raked the sky as he desperately searched for something else to say. Nick, he told himself, this could be a night to remember: do not fuck things up. Do you come here often? He cringed. Isn’t it
a beautiful night? Too formal. It’s going to be a beautiful night? Too creepy. What’s your name? Where are you from? What are you …

  ‘Could I have a cigarette? Do you mind?’

  Her accent was definitely British and he immediately reached for his pack by way of a reply. She had half turned, unsure whether she might be refused. He liked that. Women with her looks could be so arrogant. ‘Help yourself. They’re just the local ones.’

  She stepped back, still a touch nervous. Skittish. Those long toned legs ready to run at any moment. She’d be worth chasing after, though. ‘Is the lighter inside?’

  She was familiar with a smoker’s ways. He liked her even more. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Some place here, isn’t it?’

  The flint rasped once more and she picked a dot of tobacco off her lower lip before handing the cigarettes back. ‘Yes.’

  She’d sounded sad.

  ‘Last day of your holiday or something?’

  A rueful smile as she gazed towards the bar. ‘Yes.’

  He shifted to the side. ‘You want to sit?’ Those eyes moved to his face, stayed there a bit longer as she decided. Their greenness made him giddy. Did he know her? Or maybe he’d seen her somewhere. Perhaps she worked in the fashion business.

  ‘Do you live here?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? I wish! I’ve been staying in the next bay along. Photoshoot for a fashion brand.’

  ‘You’re British?’

  ‘I am. You?’

  She nodded. ‘So this is your job, is it? A photographer?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He studied the end of his cigarette, trying to appear casual. Sit down. Please, sit down. God, if you can hear me, please make her sit down.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Which brand was the shoot for?’

  ‘Do you work in the industry?’

  She looked shocked before she smiled. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I had this feeling we’ve already met.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Which brand is it?’

  He hesitated. Christ, she’ll be expecting something classy. ‘It’s only mail order. Their spring catalogue. Carsons?’

  She grinned. ‘I got this dress through them! And loads of my work stuff. Free returns, thirty-day trial period, no quibble refunds. They’re ace!’

  He let out a laugh. ‘Here’s me thinking I should say Mango or French Connection. Maybe something sporty like Sweaty Betty.’

  She plonked herself down beside him. ‘That’s really funny.’

  ‘My name’s Nick, by the way.’

  ‘Jemma. Hi.’

  ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘Oh, all over.’ She wiggled her toes. ‘Restless feet, me.’

  He wasn’t sure if he was sliding clean past desire towards lust. The thought of taking her popped into his head. There and then on the sand. Rough with passion. A recklessness was twining its way between his ribs, snaking up his spine. He leaned down and removed a flask from his bag. The ice inside rattled as he took a sip. When he blew out, his tongue went slightly numb.

  Her nose wrinkled. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Rum. I poured it into this. No chance of it breaking.’ He noticed her eyes lingering on the flask. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Time slipped by. The day’s heat lingered as darkness closed around them. Music from the bar seemed to rise and fall. Eruptions of laughter. Clinking of bottles. Above them, the blackness twinkled with silver.

  They’d smoked most of his cigarettes. He badly needed the toilet. Every time he laughed, his bladder hurt. Something told him she wouldn’t mind. ‘Just topping the ocean up a bit.’

  Lurching slightly, he rounded a chest-high rock nearby. As his stream of urine began to spatter the sand, he looked back. She was gazing out to sea, flask half lifted to her lips. The profile of her face was caught against the coloured lights across the bay and he whipped out his phone. The noise of his piss masked the camera’s electronic click. That’s a keeper, he thought, immediately uploading the shot to his Dropbox account.

  When he got back to their rock, she handed him the flask. ‘Down it!’

  ‘You’re bloody wild, you are,’ he said and eagerly swigged the lot.

  The moment he finished, she stood. A fear went through him. That’s it. I’ve blown it somehow. But, in one smooth movement, she pulled her dress over her head. She was totally naked underneath. ‘I came out here for one last swim and I’m motherfucking having it.’

  Elation coursed through him. The pureness of her beauty then filthy language like that. She was special, all right. He watched her smooth white buttocks as she stepped into the shallows. He couldn’t pin her accent down. Traces of Manchester, but then bits of Yorkshire. Even Geordie at times. Complete mishmash.

  Waist-deep, she called back. ‘You coming in?’

  His belt clanked as he tugged his trousers down. By the time he’d kicked the rest of his clothes off and reached the water’s edge, he could only make out her head and shoulders above the dark water. He waded towards her as fast as he could. Night had softened the sea. It folded around him like honey, wrapped him in its cooling warmth. By the time the water was circling his throat, she’d edged just beyond his reach. Now only the ends of his toes were in contact with the sand. She lay back and the tips of her breasts broke the surface. He tried to close his fingers round her ankle, tried to pull her to him. Laughing, she kicked her foot and got away.

  Another step forward and he was clear of the bottom. Hands wafting furiously back and forth, he went after her.

  ONE

  Manchester

  During his final years in prison, several new arrivals had told Jordan Hughes how much Manchester was changing. He’d batted the comments aside, not bothered about what the city looked like. He’d wanted to know how it ran. Who controlled what.

  During the slow drag of his sentence, one name had kept cropping up: Anthony Brown. The man he was going to kill. There were other little fucks like Carl and Lee he was going to do, but Anthony Brown …

  As the train had burrowed its way along the narrow Peak District valley, not much beyond the carriage windows seemed different. Same quiet stations. Same little villages. Same craggy slopes rising behind them. He’d found the lack of change reassuring after so much time spent away. But then they’d emerged from the hills on to the Cheshire Plain and he’d got his first glimpse of the city he’d moved to during his teens.

  This wasn’t change. This was like something entirely new had been laid over the old one. All these tall thin buildings competing for the light. Some with coloured cladding. Some with sail-like embellishments on the roofs. Others just acres of sheet glass. He looked right and saw the sweeping curves of Manchester City’s stadium. That had been a building site when he was sent down.

  What had been there before all this stuff was built? He had no idea. Surely something.

  In the middle of the city, the Hilton Hotel stood higher than all else. Sauron’s Tower from that Tolkien book. Lord of the Rings. He’d never read much before prison. Now he’d read a library’s worth. He wondered if whoever lived at the very top had a telescope. A big eye to spy on the toiling masses below.

  As the tracks straightened for the approach into Piccadilly, the station seemed similar. It still had the curved roof supported by a network of criss-crossing struts. But as soon as he was through the ticket barriers – another unfamiliar feature – he found himself in a different world. One that was airy, smooth, clean. Gone was the dingy little station pub in the top corner. Now there were shops all over the place. He stepped out the front of the station and shook his head. The miserable area of grass and bushes and the white-painted curry house had been obliterated. Massive office blocks now stood in their place. He could see people sitting at their desks. On the higher floors, he could see what socks they were wearing. He could see the crap they’d placed on the floor beside their chairs. Trainers, shopping bags, umb
rellas. Boxes of stuff leaning against the glass.

  He could remember puking up a bellyful of beer and biryani outside that curry house. If he did that on the same spot now, it would be all over some wage-slave’s keyboard.

  He’d looked along the main road and saw trees. Proper trees. A whole avenue of fucking trees stretching away. Traffic moving down it. It was a total mind fuck. He wanted to sit down, have a brew, get his bearings. But the greasy spoon at the top of the approach road was gone. What had replaced it had a foreign name. He couldn’t see it knocking out mugs of tea and bacon barms.

  That first night back in the city, he’d ended up sleeping rough. Next day, he’d learned there were still bedsits that took cash and no questions in Gorton. The little park area near the train station was littered with rubbish. Swings tied in knots. Graffiti on the kiddies’ Wendy house. At least some things hadn’t changed.

  The paving slabs outside the row of shops weren’t flat. Like there’d been a minor earthquake and the council couldn’t be arsed with straightening things out. Dog crap and crumpled cans. Two lads, lurking on a bench, eyed his approach. He could tell they were assessing him. Weighing him up.

  What did they see?

  A thirtyish bloke who needed to shave the stubble on his head. Faded tattoos on his fingers. A dun-green military jacket and charity shop trackie bottoms. Trainers that weren’t new and didn’t have some label that merited respect.

  Could they tell that, beneath the bulky coat, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him? That he could do dozens of pull-ups using only two fingers? That he could tense his stomach and take a full kick without flinching? That his inner arms were a raft of scars from where he liked to slice himself?

  ‘Oi, mate,’ the slightly taller one said. Fifteen, at most. ‘You going in?’

  ‘Say again?’

  He nodded at the convenience store with wire-mesh windows. ‘You going in?’

  Jordan gave a knowing shrug. ‘What are you after?’

  They turned to each other and shared a triumphant smile. He could see a school tie rolled up in the coat pocket of the smaller one. Both wore dark grey trousers and white shirts.