Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  “Like a dog with a bone.”

  Hunt tilted his head to consider Grant.

  “A handy trait if you’re a dog.”

  Grant considered him back.

  “Or a cop.”

  Hunt flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from his knee.

  “I see you’ve picked up the vernacular but not the accent.”

  “The Boston accent’s hard to pick up. Irish would be easier.”

  “And I’m guessing more relevant to your query.”

  Grant shifted in his chair. So, it sounded like Hunt had stopped playing games. Either he’d heard which direction Grant’s enquiries were heading or he realized that Grant wasn’t going away. More likely the latter, since the only person he’d spoken to was Kincaid.

  Hunt rested his arms in his lap.

  “That is why the Resurrection Man has come to see me, isn’t it?” He raised his hands and drew an invisible square in the air. “I saw you on TV.”

  Grant gave a pained little smile. “Ruined me for undercover work.”

  Hunt held Grant’s eyes in a steady gaze. “I don’t see you doing undercover work. I think you’re too up front and in your face.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It is a compliment. And it’s the reason we’re talking now.”

  Grant met Hunt’s stare with an eye burner of his own. “Well, if we’re being up front and in your face, let me ask you a question. How come you’re associating with a known IRA bomber?”

  Hunt wasn’t intimidated.

  “An ex-IRA bomber.”

  “Same question.”

  “My association is with a man who has come through hard times. A man who has become a politician and a philanthropist and an ambassador for peace.”

  Grant leaned forward. “A man who has killed dozens of people and maimed hundreds more.”

  Hunt waited a beat before answering. He lowered his voice as if keeping a secret between them. His eyes focussed on Grant’s. They almost gleamed with malicious intent.

  “You have killed dozens of people.”

  Grant let Hunt have his moment for a beat longer before answering. “Not innocent bystanders.”

  It was Hunt’s turn to be the dog with a bone.

  “Are you sure?”

  Grant kept his thoughts off his face. Yes, in his army days there had been collateral damage. In combat zones there always was. Collateral damage. He hated that term. Dead people who didn’t deserve to die. That was more like it. Secret is to keep it deep inside and soldier on. Grant kept it deep inside now. None of it showed on his face.

  Hunt prodded some more. “I can think of at least two. Both women. Both dead at your hand.”

  That stung. Grant wasn’t sure if it showed but it didn’t matter. Hunt knew he’d scored a direct hit.

  Grant deadpanned as much as he could. “You can dance around it all you want. Bottom line is your business is entertaining one of the most prolific killers of the last three decades.”

  Grant came to the point. “Why?”

  Hunt surprised Grant. He didn’t avoid the question. “Because it is good for business. Mike Dillman is here on a diplomatic mission that will raise Boston’s profile in the on-going peace accord.” He was getting the bit between his teeth. “It will also help bring trade from the UK and Ireland and make Boston one of America’s most important cities.”

  Grant jerked his chin towards the square out the window. “It might also bring unwanted visitors. Like relatives seeking revenge.”

  Hunt shrugged. “If they wanted revenge, they could have killed him just as easy back in Ireland. No need to fly three thousand miles to shoot him.”

  “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they waited for him to fly three thousand miles so they could shoot him.”

  Hunt uncrossed his legs. “Speculation.”

  Grant didn’t move. “Somebody took a shot at him. Doesn’t matter who did the travelling.”

  Hunt stood up. The interview was over. “That’s what you’re paid for. To find out.”

  Grant pushed up and stood with his back to the window. “Not unless you make the report.”

  Hunt took a step towards the door. “I am not paid to help.” Hunt did his hand clapping thing, and the door opened immediately. “And now it’s time for you to leave.”

  The bodyguard stood in the doorway. Still braced. Still with his knees relaxed. Still ready for action but not courting it. Grant hoped they’d never have to fall out. It would be a close-run thing. He walked towards the door. The minder stepped aside. Grant paused in the doorway and turned back towards Hunt.

  “You know? Back in Yorkshire. There was a joke about a firm of solicitors. Hunt, Lunt, Bunt, and Cun…ningham.” He fixed Hunt with a steely glare. “That would make you the cunt.”

  Hunt didn’t flinch. The bodyguard braced himself. Grant’s cell began to ring in his pocket. He held up a finger to the others while he answered it. Sam Kincaid spoke in his ear.

  “You been thrown out yet?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well, don’t do anything stupid. Listen to this.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Grant listened to Kincaid while standing in the shade of the Quasimodo statue at Winthrop Square. The hunchback who wasn’t a hunchback in the square that wasn’t square. If Grant had thought about that a bit more, he might have realized that everything wasn’t always what it seemed. Right now though Kincaid’s information appeared to break the case wide open.

  “You on your own now?”

  Grant nodded even though Kincaid couldn’t see him. “Yes, I’m outside.”

  The triangular square only had roads along two sides. The base was the sidewalk outside Hunt’s office building. Otis Street was busier than Devonshire Street and even that only had the occasional car driving by. The main sound was birdsong in the trees overhead. Quiet and melodic. Bottom line was that Kincaid’s voice was so clear he might have been standing next to Grant.

  “Okay. I’ve found the family.”

  Cops don’t believe in keeping you in suspense. This wasn’t a story Kincaid was spinning out to build up the tension. He jumped straight in with the punchline but without the lead up, it didn’t make any sense. Grant had to get him to rewind.

  “What family?”

  Kincaid realized his mistake. “Sorry. I checked the names of Dillman’s victims.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yeah. It runs to a long list. Even just taking in fatalities. That guy’s killed more people than the plague. Anyway. I ran the surnames through immigration and guess what?”

  Grant wasn’t into guessing so he kept quiet.

  Kincaid couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “Dillman isn’t the only person that’s flown to…”

  A delivery truck rumbled past along Otis Street. The noise drowned out Kincaid’s words and shook the trees. Birds took flight. Seedpods dropped from the branches and bounced off the hunchback. When the truck had turned the corner, the silence was numbing. No birds. No voices. For a moment Grant thought he’d lost the connection but then Kincaid came back on the line.

  “You still there?”

  Grant covered his other ear with one hand and raised his voice even though the noise had stopped. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  Kincaid started again, giving more detail this time. “One of the names pinged. From the mainland bombing you told me about.”

  “Birmingham?”

  “Yeah. That one. Where you saw him on the news.”

  Grant saw the grainy TV picture again. A frozen image of a man standing in a doorway. A chill ran down his spine and the short hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He waited for Kincaid to continue.

  “Family flew out from there last week. When I checked, turns out they’re related to a guy lost both legs and an arm before dying in the hospital.”

  Grant brushed pieces of seedpod off his shoul
ders. “D’you have an address for them?”

  “Immigration card they filled in gave a hotel near the airport.”

  Grant sensed a but coming.

  Kincaid confirmed it. “But they’re not registered there.”

  “You don’t know where they are?”

  Kincaid sounded more confident than Grant felt. “I’m working on it.”

  Grant saw the bird shit out of the corner of his eye and felt the plop and splat on his left shoulder. As he closed his phone, he tried to remember if that was good luck or not.

  Grant’s second phone call from Winthrop Square was a more pleasant one but no less business like. He moved away from the trees after wiping his shoulder with a napkin he’d saved from the Café de Boston. He stood under the green canopy of Sulgrave News and thought about what to do next.

  The victim’s family was an unknown quantity at the moment. There was no location and nothing Grant could do that Kincaid wasn’t already doing. Daniel Hunt was ensconced in his office doing whatever wealthy businessmen did. That meant that Mike Dillman was probably still at the house on Mount Vernon Street.

  Beacon Hill.

  Grant reckoned it was time to become a tourist again. Take in the sights. Visit places of interest. For now, the main place of interest was just across Boston Common in the most exclusive neighborhood in America. If he were going to do surveillance again though, it would be better with some female cover. The female cover answered on the third ring. Grant put an extra smile in his voice.

  “Hi, Terri. Are you ready for that coffee now?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The tables had been reset and the chairs straightened. Afternoon sunshine spilled across the Charles Street intersection and bathed the roadside café in so much warmth that most of the customers were sitting outside. Grant had his arm around Terri’s waist as they walked past Boston and Cambridge Appliance Repair and had to settle for the furthest table from the intersection—along Mount Vernon in the wrong direction but still with a view towards Daniel Hunt’s house.

  Terri squeezed Grant’s waist and turned to give him a kiss. They looked like young lovers on their first date. It felt like that too. The more time Grant spent with Terri, the more he believed she could be the one. He guided her towards a chair behind the table and sat next to her. Both of them facing Charles Street and beyond, but Grant with the better view. He was the one doing surveillance after all.

  Terri grabbed the table with both hands and gave it a playful shove.

  “Just checking if they’ve nailed it down.”

  Grant moved the table back into position.

  “Very funny.”

  Terri put a hand over Grant’s.

  “I think your sense of humor’s rubbing off on me.”

  “Dry, you mean?”

  “Sarcastic.”

  Grant squeezed her hand, then indicated the other customers. “In public like this. At least it’s the only thing can rub off on you.”

  Terri slid one hand under the table and stroked Grant’s thigh. “Sex in a public place. That would be different.”

  Grant pointed at the clear blue sky. “Way the news cameras keep following me around, it might be something different for WCVB as well.”

  “The Boston Channel for local news.”

  “Doesn’t get more local than this.”

  Terri let out a throaty chuckle. “On the table or the chair?”

  “Table would be too overt. Sit over here and we could make it work.”

  Terri glanced at the other customers, then across the road. “Is this what undercover work is always like?”

  Grant left her hand on his thigh. “Not even close.”

  Terri peered along Mount Vernon Street. “Which house are we looking at?”

  Grant straightened his arm and pointed. “Just over the brow of the hill. With the bay windows.”

  Terri pushed his arm down. “Isn’t that a bit obvious?”

  “He knows I’m looking for him.” He waved a hand to indicate the surroundings. “This is just for the captain. Lovers on a day out.”

  Terri smiled. She liked that. The lovers on a day out bit. Conversation at the other tables picked up. Hushed voices with a sense of urgency. A chair scraped backwards. Two chairs. Cups clinked, and one by one, the tables emptied. The customers took their drinks inside and sat in the window.

  Grant watched the exodus, then raised his eyebrows to Terri.

  Terri shrugged. “You should have been careful of the dog.”

  The waitress came over. The one who’d served him before. Even she seemed less friendly as she took their order. Grant paid in advance and she disappeared to make two lattes and a toasted sandwich. He considered moving to the next table but decided being at the back had its advantages. Ten minutes later they were sharing a sandwich and drinking coffee as Grant scanned the intersection. He wasn’t looking at Hunt’s house. The thing that caught his eye was the dark blue Ford saloon parked outside Beacon Hill Wines & Spirits. Engine running. Two people inside.

  “What do we do if he doesn’t come out?”

  They’d finished their coffees and the sandwich plate was empty. Half an hour and Terri was bored already. Grant smiled at her.

  “Order another drink.”

  “Until how many?”

  “Depends on the bladder-to-coffee ratio. Some people have a low tolerance. I was doing surveillance one time, with a lad back in Yorkshire. Overnight. We had to note every car registration number passing through a certain area. Keep a log. I brought a flask of tea and snacks and stuff. He only drunk one and a half cups, and he’s crossing his legs like he’s fit to burst. Went behind a bush nine times during the night. Turned out he had prostate trouble. Me? I can go four or five, but usually stop at three. Play it safe in case it’s a long job.”

  “But if he doesn’t come out, then what?”

  Grant considered that. He considered the car too. It was still there but the occupants had made no move towards the café. They could be waiting for somebody in Beacon Hill Wines & Spirits. He downgraded the threat level and glanced along Mount Vernon towards the house.

  “Somebody could always throw a brick through the window. When he comes out to investigate, I’m walking by and say, ‘Hi, fancy meeting you here.’”

  Terri snorted a laugh. “You’re kidding. Right?” She looked in Grant’s eyes. “You’re not, are you?”

  Grant smiled.

  “In this instance? Wouldn’t be appropriate. But I’ve seen it done. Cause and effect. Sometimes you need to nudge it in the direction you want.”

  “In the name of the law.”

  “In the name of what’s right.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not always.”

  The car still hadn’t moved. The engine was still running. Grant kept it in his peripheral vision while he looked at Terri. She looked beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. Despite the circumstances, sitting here with her felt like the most natural thing in the world. He glanced towards the house. No movement. He turned back to Terri. Maybe it was time to have that conversation.

  Terri got in first.

  “What’s the guy look like?”

  Grant closed his eyes for a moment while he called up the image. “White male. Six feet. Medium build. Big hands. Short brown hair greying at the temple. Blue chin even after he’s shaved. Bushy eyebrows.”

  Terri wasn’t looking at Grant. She was watching a man come towards them along the sidewalk.

  “Just like this guy then.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mike Dillman bowed an apology to Terri for interrupting, then sat at the next table to Grant. He was wearing a creased jacket with leather elbow patches and casual trousers, an open-necked shirt, and brown leather shoes. He looked like the friendly teacher you wished you’d had, or Indiana Jones in professor mode. The smile was faint, not overly familiar. A pleasant introduction that would normal
ly be followed by a warm, dry handshake.

  Grant didn’t offer to shake hands.

  Dillman didn’t either.

  “I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

  The Irish brogue had softened over the years. It had been stronger when he started doing television interviews after being released from prison. The tone had been harsher then too. Bombastic. Opinionated. Aggressive. Time had taught him that approach didn’t pay. Politics was about winning hearts and minds, not ramming your views down other people’s throats. Distancing himself from the atrocities he’d committed was important too. The distance wasn’t far enough for Grant.

  “You’ve been doing some looking yourself.”

  Dillman nodded towards the café interior. “Yesterday? They serve the best mocha in Beacon Hill. It seemed like a good place to check you out.”

  “Check me out?”

  Dillman leaned across the gap between the tables and lowered his voice. “In my position, it pays to be vigilant. Not everyone forgives and forgets.”

  “Nobody forgets.”

  “Do you forgive though?”

  “Somebody didn’t.”

  “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”

  The atmosphere was frosty. The gap between the men insurmountable. Terri pushed back her chair and stood up. She went to the side door and showed her diplomatic skills.

  “I’ll freshen up the drinks while you boys hammer it out.” She nodded for Grant to sit with Dillman, then smiled at the Irishman. “Mocha?”

  Dillman nodded back. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Terri went inside. Traffic noise provided a soothing background along Charles Street. Grant waited a few seconds, then moved to Dillman’s table. Dillman had his back to the window. There was only one seat left. Grant turned it slightly for a better angle but there weren’t many options. He sat facing Dillman to be polite. With his back to the road.

  “I am the product of hard times.” Dillman let out a sigh. “But I have put that behind me and moved on.”

  Grant looked at Dillman while keeping half an eye on the reflection of Charles Street in the café window.