To Kill For Read Online Free PDF Page A

Brenda.

CHAPTER SIX
    The Lee Valley Centre had a sports complex; indoor courts and outdoor five-a-side pitches. It was on an industrial estate in Ponders End. At that time of night it was dark and deserted. There were no cameras. It wasn’t near any residential areas, not overlooked by offices or anything like that, and the nearest blocks of flats were way over the other side of the train line. It was the best I could do.
    It was nearing 2 a.m., there was no cloud cover and the air was thin and biting. I was wearing my heavy coat and a woollen hat and thick leather gloves. I knew from experience how hard it was to operate a hand-held weapon when your fingers were stiff with cold.
    I stood at the back of a bank of spectators’ benches. From there, I had a good view of the only road into the centre and of the car park at the back of the cinema. The films had finished an hour earlier. I’d checked on that. I’d parked my car on the other side of the cinema, out of sight. I knew I might have made a mistake by not holding onto Bowker and using him as bait. The way I’d planned it, though, I wouldn’t need him.
    In the distance, a mile away, I could hear the whirr of traffic along the A10. Now and then, a truck would grind along Meridian Way, but there was no reason why anything other than Paget’s car would turn into the centre.
    I had an old Enfield L42A1 sniper rifle. I was used to the design, so I didn’t have to accustom myself to it. I’d picked it up earlier, from that bloke I’d been to see in Romford. They weren’t too difficult to come by. This one was an old no. 4 that had been converted, re-barrelled to take 7.62 mil rounds. I’d test-fired it and it had worked fine. I had a full mag, and one in the chamber.
    I had a large canvas bag nearby with some extra magazines. I’d put a beanbag on the bench in front of me and rested the rifle on it. It was a clear night, with quarter moonlight, and I hadn’t bothered to attach a night sight, though I had one in the bag. It was still and I hadn’t had to make adjustments for wind. It wasn’t a great distance anyway, only about two hundred yards. I also had the Makarov in my coat pocket.
    I was all set.
    I waited.
    My head was fuzzy, thoughts clouding over and mixing together. I still wasn’t thinking clearly and that bothered me. I’d taken some heavy blows to the head in the last week or so. I’d spent a lifetime taking blows to the head, and things had been getting worse for years, but now they were worse than worse. Browne thought I might’ve had some swelling on the brain, and he kept a close eye on me, always asking me questions, who was the prime minister, what month was it, that sort of thing. I didn’t know what pills he was giving me, but they were strong and left me dazed and unable to concentrate properly.
    â€˜Poor old Joe,’ Brenda used to say, ‘heading for the breaker’s yard.’
    She’d said that a lot. It was a kind of joke of hers; that I was like the ship in that print on her wall – the Fighting Temeraire, that old warrior being dragged to its death.
    She’d smiled weakly this time, so that I knew she was trying to make light of it and not quite getting there.
    For a moment I had my old SMG in my grip, not the Enfield, and I was holding it with freezing hands while my clothes were damp and heavy with sweat and wet mud. I was holding the SMG, but when I sighted along it, I saw Brenda’s face staring back at me with half-closed eyes and mouth open and I knew she was dead.
    They were becoming more common, these hallucinations or dreams or whatever the fuck they were. I saw Brenda and Kid, at night, in the shadows. I saw that dead Argentinean conscript staring at me with his teeth bared and the skin about his face tight and sunken. I didn’t know if it was the pills Browne was giving me, or if it was something to do with the scarring on my