The lesbians were in Norrie’s head. He could still see Lexie taking the dildo, her naked body writhing in pleasure. What a waste. But on balance, it had turned out okay. He yawned. It had been a long night and it wasn’t over.
Danny Glass’s instruction was clear and non-negotiable: no witnesses.
The club in London was a turning point. After that, killing the others on the team wasn’t a big deal. Even without the gangster’s uncompromising order, Sharon was going to be a problem. She was no stranger to violence. She’d been around it all her life, though nothing as bad as the club, and her reaction made her a danger.
Glass could’ve decided to pull the plug on all of them and would have if Norrie hadn’t outsmarted him. From his first job he’d left a sealed envelope with a lawyer he knew. Insurance. If anything happened to him, the envelope would find its way to the police. So far, he’d never needed it. But there was always a first time. That was how insurance worked.
He parked in a side street near Battlefield Road and walked to where he’d dropped her off less than twenty-four hours ago. Sharon, drawn and white from lack of sleep, hadn’t asked when she could expect her share of the money. She hadn’t asked anything. Norrie watched her enter a tenement flat. A light had come on in a ground-floor window. They’d worked together once before though he hadn’t known where she lived. Now, he did.
Handy.
Breaking in was a piece of piss. Norrie pulled on latex gloves and used the same trick again on Sharon’s front door. Inside, the flat was quiet. He stood still until his eyes got used to the darkness, just as he’d done in Lexie’s house. The lounge was typical of tenements: a large room with a high ceiling and a cornice running all the way round. The bedrooms would be almost as big. The place was tidy. No empty wine glasses lying around. and Sharon had straightened the cushions on the couch.
It was possible she wasn’t home. The last time he’d seen her, she’d looked like a girl with a lot more than her social life on her mind. More likely, she was in bed, asleep along with most of the city. He looked at his watch: two-seventeen.
He stepped into the bedroom. Empty. The bed hadn’t been slept in. Next door was the same. Maybe she’d freaked and gone to the police. He put the thought to the back of his mind. And if she wasn’t here, he’d wait until she returned, then do what had to be done.
Norrie gently pushed the bathroom door open. Sharon was in the bath.
She was naked, her head half in half out of the water, eyes closed as if she’d fallen asleep. A razor blade lay on the floor where she’d dropped it once it had served its purpose. He felt her wrist for a pulse. It was there, faint and fading. There was still time to save her if she got help now.
Sorry, Sharon. Not happening.
Norrie dipped a finger in the bathwater – pink and lukewarm – and studied her unlined face and her breasts, floating under the surface. Moonlight from the window lent the skin a golden hue. Near death she looked younger than she’d been in life. Shame, really. He wouldn’t have minded seeing her do a double act with Lexie.
Sharon had been a serious mistake. His mistake.
Next problem: was there a suicide note that would bring all of them down? When he didn’t find one, he removed her mobile from her bag, lifted her PC from the dining table, and left.
Back in the car he thought for a while about how close they’d all come to disaster.
Norrie pulled down the empty street, surfing through the static on the radio with one hand until he caught the tail-end of the Rolling Stones, ‘Paint It Black’. His favourite Stones’ track. He tapped the steering wheel and sang along. He felt good.
Three down.
Job done.