Free Death Comes for the Fat Man by Reginald Hill

black Jaguar into the curb some three car lengths behind.
    The driver of the Saab got out. He was a tall, athletically built man with shoulder-length hair and a lean, intelligent face with a neat black mustache beneath an aquiline nose. Pausing beneath a streetlamp to look back at the Jaguar, he put his hands together and made a small perfunctory bow before running lightly up the steps, inserting a key, and vanishing through the door.
    “Cheeky sod,” said Andre. “Thinks he’s bulletproof. He’s due a reality check.”
    He got out, opened the back door, and took out a sports bag.
    “You OK?” he said to Archambaud, who hadn’t moved.
    “Yeah. Fine.”
    Andre said, “Listen, it’s OK to be scared. Really. Ones I always looked for were the ones who didn’t look scared first time out.
    Remember what they did to your uncle, OK? All you’ve got to do is give him a tap, I’ll be taking care of the serious stuff. Crap yourself if you must, so long as you don’t freeze, OK?”
    Managing a smile, Archambaud said, “I’ll try to avoid both.”
    “So let’s do it.”
    They walked quickly along the pavement and climbed the steps of the house. Andre glanced down the list of names by the bell pushes, selected the one marked Mazraani, and pressed.

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    After a short delay a voice came over the intercom.
    “Gentlemen, how can I help you?”
    “Just like a quick word, sir,” said Andre.
    “By all means. Won’t you come up?”
    They heard the wards of the door lock click open.
    “See? Easy.”
    They went inside. There was a lift but Andre ignored it and set off up the stairs.
    The flat they wanted was on the second floor. They rang the bell.
    When the door opened, they went in. There were two men in the room that was conventionally furnished with a sofa and easy chair, a hi-fi system from which, turned well down, came the voice of a woman singing in Arabic, and a heavy oak dining table with four matching chairs. The tall man from the Saab was standing in front of the table, facing them. The other man, in his twenties, with a wispy beard, sat in the easy chair. He was smoking a richly scented cigarette and avoided eye contact with the newcomers.
    “Evening, Mr. Mazraani,” said Andre to the tall man. “And this is . . . ?”
    “My cousin, Fikri. He’s staying with me for a few days.”
    “That’s nice. Anyone else in the fl at?”
    “No. Just the two of us,” he replied.
    “Mind if we check that? Arch.”
    Archambaud went out of a door to the left. After a few moments he came back into the living room and said, “Clear.”
    “So now we can perhaps get down to what brings you here. Won’t you introduce yourselves for the tape?”
    Mazraani’s voice was bland and urbane. He seemed almost to be enjoying the situation, by contrast with the other man, who looked resentful and apprehensive.
    Andre said, “Certainly, sir. I’m called Andre de Montbard, Andy to my friends. And my colleague is Mr. Archambaud de St. Agnan.
    He’s got no friends. And this lady singing is, I’d say, the famous Elissa?
    Compatriot of yours, I believe? Gorgeous girl. Lovely voice, and those big amber eyes! I’m a great fan.”
    He moved to the hi-fi and turned up the volume, using his index knuckle.

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    Then he set his sports bag on the table, unzipped it, reached inside and took out an automatic pistol with a silencer attached.
    A look of disbelief touched Mazraani’s features, but the seated man did not even have time to register fear before Andre shot him between the eyes from short range.
    “Sorry about that, sir, but we wanted to talk to you privately,” said Andre. “So why don’t you just relax and we’ll have that drink.”
    Horror at what he’d just seen had paralyzed Mazraani. He stood there looking down at the body, blinking now and then as if trying to clear the image from his vision, his mouth open but no words coming out.
    Andre nodded at his