To Die For by Phillip Hunter

of sausages. I set to the food. I was suddenly starving. I could hear Martin and the woman talking. They were keeping their voices low, but there was urgency in their tones. I heard the front door open and close. I wolfed the food down, wiping my plate with the bread. I might not get another chance to eat for a while.
    When I went back to the lounge, she was waiting for me, sitting where Martin had sat. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. My gun was held loosely in her hands.
    ‘Where’s he gone?’ I said.
    ‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to the police. He’s gone to the hospital. He wouldn’t let me go.’
    That made sense. If anyone at the hospital was suspicious, they’d question the woman.
    ‘He told me you were okay,’ she said. She glared at me. The defiance I’d seen earlier was there, but it couldn’t quite mask the fear. I looked at the gun. ‘I threw the bullets away.’
    ‘I’ve got more.’
    ‘I bet you have. He said you wouldn’t do anything to me.’
    ‘Why would I?’
    ‘Are you going to come back?’
    ‘No reason to.’
    ‘Will the others come back?’
    ‘They might do. I doubt it, though. Martin gave them good information, as far as it went.’
    As I watched, her expression changed, became faraway.
    ‘He’s a fool,’ she said. ‘About these things, I mean. He still believes in things like honour and fairness. That’s why he went inside. He thinks all you people live by a code. He trusts you. He thinks you’re a decent man.’
    ‘And you?’
    ‘I know what you are. I can see it a mile off.’ She stood and tossed the gun to the floor. When I bent to pick it up, she said, ‘Don’t ever come back.’

9
    It was past midnight when I got to Clapton. I parked the car a few streets away from the road I needed and walked until I reached the T-junction. To my left and right, along both arms of the Chatsworth Road, everything was quiet enough. In the distance, a young couple came out of a burger place, huddled against the cold, holding their burgers in front of them. I watched them walk away. For some reason I thought of Brenda, and a hole opened up inside me for a moment. Then I turned away from them.
    There was a pub across the road. Its lights were off. It was too late for pub traffic. I moved towards it and slid into the shadowed recess of the side door. From here, I had a clear view down Moore’s road. I watched for a few minutes, trying to get a feel of the place. Edwardian terraced houses, their brickwork more grey than red, ran down both sides. Cars were packed tightly, end to end. Parking was a problem around here. Some of the houses had lights in one or two rooms, but mostly they were dark, quiet. Moore’s house was number twenty-eight. I looked across the road at the first house and saw that it was number two, so Moore lived on that side of the road, another thirteen doors along. I counted down the row until I could make out Moore’s place. It was the third from the end, as Martin had said. That last house was the one where the business was done. The door to that one was at the side and so in another street that went off at a right angle. All those houses were dark, no windows open, no sign of anyone.
    I would call at Moore’s place and talk to him, maybe offer him a cut of any recovered money. If he didn’t know where Walsh was, he might point me towards this Waylon character. One thing was for sure, I couldn’t go in heavy. I’d have my gun taken from me before I even got inside. Places like this, a dozen armed police with a battering ram had trouble getting in. And I didn’t have the time to try and get Moore outside of his place.
    I closed my eyes and listened. The odd car passed along the Chatsworth Road and I could hear vehicles far away, travelling down the Lea Bridge Road; otherwise all was quiet, everyone tucked up in bed, far away from the cold dank night, far away from blood and murder.
    I pulled up the collar of my overcoat so that it