Finale

Dennehy swept forward from stage left, in sole, solitary command before the footlights, white shirt front ablaze in the follow spot’s beam, the gradually filling auditorium his silent, brooding foil.

As planned, with time to spare, the killer took up position in the darkened theatre, her target stark, plain before her. It was obvious she was not under suspicion. Nonchalant and arrogant, the target seemed completely unaware of the impending danger. Perfect. Straightforward. Just the way she liked it. She fingered the concealed weapon. It was not time yet. But she knew she could wait.

“One. One, two.” Dennehy’s suave, understated tones reverberated around the stalls. Good. The mike was live and the amp hadn’t given up the ghost. If there was one thing he’d learned from performing here, it was to take nothing for granted. Nothing at all. His eyes flicked around the dark void beyond the glare. All good. Nothing to worry about.

Motes of dust danced in the up-draught over the footlights. The air felt charged, as it always did before a show. A faint hint of ozone with a tinge of burnt cork; the faint, acrid tang of soot and smoke; the promise of fine entertainment as the audience trickled in, coagulating, settling, taking shape. The forecast was for a lively night. Dennehy preferred predictable to lively. He swallowed and turned, making for the cocoon dark of the wings. Still a few minutes to go.

Exhaling deeply, the killer sat back. This was the nearest she could get to relaxation, until the job was done. The right moment could not be far away.

The auditorium had filled to three quarters capacity. They were still selling tickets in the foyer, Dennehy had been advised.

The killer licked her lips. Again, she slipped a perfectly manicured hand into her Gucci leather jacket pocket. The device was there. Signal strong. All OK. She had a clear line of sight to the target. Concealed by her thick, raven hair, the AirPod in her left ear was ready to relay the signal to go, or to abort.

She was well acquainted with Dennehy’s past. She saw his gaze range around the rows of seats, passing hers without the slightest sign of recognition or acknowledgment - why would he, after all? The victims of his crimes would all like to see him dead, she had no doubt. A talented, visionary pensions and savings fraudster, Dennehy had misused his skills as a stage magician to double-cross many a wealthy retiree, their hard-earned nest eggs vanishing in a puff of smoke, reappearing in one of Dennehy’s untraceable accounts in Liechtenstein or Bermuda. He had always had an explanation ready for them, as he commiserated, after their loss. Every investment carried a risk - he had made sure every client understood that. He had always taken pains to ensure his clients did not know one another and were unlikely ever to meet. From time to time, she knew, there were substantial withdrawals from Dennehy’s accounts - although he was wealthy enough not to miss the money - to pay off those who did some of his particularly dirty work. A dangerous man, in more than one way.

It was important to the killer that she could scrutinise her target in the moments leading up to the execution, without being closely observed herself. This was an ideal place for her to strike. Everyone’s attention would be focused on the stage, no-one looking at her. Afterwards, she would slip quietly away before anyone realised exactly what had happened.

A British comic magician had died on stage in London - and on live TV - in the nineteen eighties, she had learned. It was before she was born; she had come across the story while researching this commission. The man had died of natural causes. Massive heart attack. The audience thought it was part of his act and carried on laughing and applauding.

Dennehy’s assistant set a glittering stainless steel pedestal with a tasselled cloth at his right hand, bearing the props he needed for his first set of tricks. Dennehy was a sleight-of-hand artist, a master of misdirection, making the audience look one way while he did something sneaky and significant out of their gaze, bringing each trick to a flourishing climax.

Wait a moment - what was this? Dennehy was beckoning an audience volunteer onto the stage. The killer had not been prepared for that. It could complicate things badly. A teenage boy, blinking in the stage lights’ brilliance. A few minutes later, after a good deal of patter and distraction from Dennehy, the young man looked flabbergasted, and deeply impressed, to find in his jacket pocket the playing card that the magician had had him withdraw ‘randomly’ from a deck, show to the audience out of his sight, and replace in the pack once more.

The killer’s relief was short-lived. The assistant had returned. Damn, she silently exclaimed. Dennehy needed to be alone, with space around him; no-one within a metre or so. The sequinned and feathered girl flounced about in theatrical style before disappearing into a dark, faux ebony cabinet, one of a pair recently delivered by black-clad stage hands. Predictably, when Dennehy flung upon the cabinet’s doors a few seconds later, the space inside was empty.

“Go,” said the calm, male voice, through the AirPod.

With serenity unruffled to rival that of her controller, the killer slid the fourteen-inch, razor sharp, carbon fibre stiletto from its slim holster beneath the gold-zippered lower right leg of her Gucci trousers. Lunging silently forward, she drove the blade through the back of the seat in front of hers, where it passed between the third and fourth ribs of investigative journalist and private detective Ainsley Wright, penetrating his heart’s left ventricle. The killer’s wrist flicked from side to side, with muscular, practised dexterity, dissecting Wright’s heart muscle as his blood pressure plummeted to zero. His head lolled to one side and he was still. She operated the quick release, detaching the reusable handle from the disposable blade, then she was up, out of her seat and away.

Posing as a client, Wright had been investigating Dennehy for several months; the magician had not considered him a serious threat at first, but lately the man been getting too darned close. A complimentary ticket to the show; an encrypted text to his most reliable, and most expensive, skilled operative - all had gone to plan.

“Well done, my dear,” said Dennehy, into his lapel microphone. To the audience, unaware of the cooling body in their midst, he appeared to be talking to his glamorous assistant, who had just stepped out of the other faux ebony cabinet. Both it and he had been, throughout the act, in plain sight.

“It was a pleasure,” replied the killer, from the rear seat of the speeding taxi, removing her AirPod and noting the SMS that confirmed her payment had been processed.