by Scott Hunter
‘Yeah, sure. Got it, boss.’
‘And the boyfriend, if he shows.’
‘Right.’
‘Professional at all times, DC Odunsi. Everything PACE-compliant, remember?’
‘Sure, no problem.’
Charlie watched him go and allowed herself a small grin. She turned, then, to the basement flat, and the besuited comings and goings of the forensics team.
She took a breath, went down the steps, lost the grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
George McConnell had no intention of following Bola’s advice. What was the point? What would he do at home? Tess had been hospitalised by an Irish scumbag, and the guy was dead. That was good, but not good enough. It was too easy a way out. Someone had to answer for what he’d done, and George knew exactly where to get the answer he was after. They all met in the same place, these ex-pat Republicans, which was obliging of them: the Castle, off the Oxford Road.
George was one step beyond questioning the wisdom of what he was about to do. On the contrary – he felt empowered, full of righteous anger. He knew he’d had a few, but far from feeling lightheaded his mind was focused, his intentions beyond reproach.
The Castle was tucked around the back of Reading’s Oxford Road, in a quiet cul-de-sac of neglected, sad-faced terraced houses, homes to a wide cross-section of Reading’s lowlifes: prostitutes, dealers, pimps and – George felt it in his water, a generous sprinkling of Irish terrorists. As he turned the corner the first thing he noticed was a trio of dodgy teens on bikes hanging around on the other side of the road, doing nothing but watching everything. Lookouts, George told himself. Paid in fags and dodgy crack. Which not only meant he was on the right track, but also indicated that there might be a big shot or two in residence. That was good; the more the merrier. George stuck his chin out and kept walking. The pub’s exterior was crowded with smokers standing around in groups, or lolling on damp bench seats under the cheap yellow exterior lighting. George ignored the stares, whispered asides and hostile mutterings, pushed hard on the heavy reinforced door and went in.
JC took the bottle of Bud, paid the barman and pushed his way through to the back of the pub. Multiple widescreens blared live football commentary, competing with the testosterone-fuelled banter and backchat. A shaven-headed guy he knew from last time, one of their minders, stopped him, patted his pockets, checked around his waist, inside his ears and waved him through. The end table had been cleared, a chair reserved for him, facing the bench seat opposite.
Which was occupied by three guys. Two he’d met before, one he hadn’t. Stony – no angry faces. Something had gone down, something bad, but what? He felt a knot of fear in his stomach. If this went bad on him, it was game over. Permanently. These guys didn’t mess about.
Think of the money. Keep your cool… You have something they want, something they need…
The guy in the middle looked up as he approached, nodded, pointed to the chair. JC took it, returned the greeting, sipped his Bud.
‘We have a small problem,’ the guy in the middle said. ‘Looks like Niall’s out of the game. You’ll remember he was after talkin’ to our expert, seein’ as how the individual concerned’s been a wee bit difficult of late. Well, we don’t know why yet, or exactly what happened, but while discussing the problem with said expert, he seems to have taken a bullet. This’d be an hour or so ago. Thought you might be able to help, bein’ in the know as you are.’
JC felt a trickle of sweat run down his neck. Niall Briggs, shot? Well, the guy had had it coming. There’d been some disturbance near the hospital; was that related? He’d seen the blue lights, the commotion, but he’d been on another – unrelated – stakeout this afternoon, an ISIS connection near Slough. Inconsequential, as it had turned out. He’d only got back a half-hour ago. Traffic was murder on the M4 after some pileup somewhere near Newbury.
‘I’ve heard nothing,’ he said. ‘I expect I will, later on, if it impacts the team.’
‘Better get your ear to the ground, then,’ the man said. His voice was soft, but the menace of the slow, precise delivery lifted his words above the background noise loud and clear. ‘And sooner rather than later. Niall finished his main job, so all’s well there, but we might be needin’ a slight change to the execution plan, dependin’ on our expert’s availability. I’ll be wantin’ to know you’re still happily signed up. If things are as bad as they look, we might need you to take a more … central role.’
‘Of course.’
‘A copper was hurt,’ the guy on the left said. ‘She’s been admitted to the RBH. You might start with her.’
JC took another swig of his Bud. ‘Where did you get this information?’
Now the man on the right spoke up. He was small, but muscular. A long scar ran from his right eye to his chin. ‘Young Brian’s been keepin’ an eye, but you’re better connected. You can get to the bottom of it faster.’
‘It might take a little time–’
‘I don’t think it’ll take too long.’ The small man ran his finger down his face, tracing the outline of the scar. ‘Better get busy.’
‘Sure. I’ll be in touch.’ He took a final swig from his bottle in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.
But as he pushed his chair back to stand up, he became aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere. Something was wrong. He turned to look. Someone had come in, someone who shouldn’t have… JC craned his neck to see. There, by the bar. A copper. Stood out like a bandaged thumb. What a dick.
‘The law. Get rid,’ Scarface said. ‘If you don’t, we will. Know him?’
JC took another look, shook his head. The copper was at the bar, oblivious – or seemingly so – to the effect his presence was having. He was short and angry-looking but his whole persona telegraphed ‘police’. Trouble was, his type had been at it so long they didn’t twig that they stood out like snow in the Sahara. Obviously, this one hadn’t done much, if any, undercover. And unless he got out quick he wouldn’t likely survive long enough to get any practice in. Last thing these guys wanted was the rozzers sniffing around. Not now they were so close. He made a calming gesture, palm flat down. ‘Leave it with me.’
He felt the triad’s eyes boring into his back as he moved towards the bar. The TV crowd parted to let him through. They didn’t care much for him; they knew his game. But they didn’t give him any hassle; they’d seen who he was with.
The copper looked up as he approached, all bristling and spoiling for a fight. JC could read the body language. What had possessed him to come in here? Ah, the eyes; slightly glazed, unfocused. The guy was half-cut. That explained a lot. Should make the job a bit easier.
JC grabbed him by the shoulder, hissed in his ear. ‘Outside, now – if you want to get out in one piece.’
The guy pulled away, shook him off, reached in his pocket. The background banter quietened; all JC could hear was the TV, the ring of the cash register. He still had the bottle of Bud in his hand. He didn’t want to do what he was about to do, but this copper was going to die if he didn’t. He could feel the minders’ eyes on him. The butterfly knives would be ready. If you don’t sort him, pal, we will…
JC took aim, swung the bottle. He had to hit the forehead dead-centre for the glass to break. If he was out even by a fraction, the guy was going to be brain damaged. JC didn’t want that. He had no argument with the police. As he brought the bottle down he yelled: ‘Pig! This is for my mates you banged up last month!’.
The guy saw it coming and his eyes widened. He’d come looking for trouble but hadn’t expected to find it quite so soon. The bottle was half-way through its downward arc when he moved to his right, just slightly, but enough for the bottle to glance off the side of his head and onto his shoulder.
JC cursed, followed through with a push which sent the policeman stumbling backwards towards the door. A pair of tattooed punters helped him along with a further shove, and JC was right behind. He and the policeman spilled out of the door like a couple
of stuntmen in a spaghetti Western brawl.
Smokers scattered left and right as they demolished a trestle table. Wood splintered and an external heater went over with a loud crash. JC was on top. No one could see what he was doing. He stuffed his SECTU ID into the cop’s face.
The guy stopped struggling. His eyes blazed but he’d seen it. He understood. JC made exit signs with his eyes, rolled off, stood up, brushed himself down. A crowd had gathered at the door, joining the smoking semicircle for a ringside seat. They all watched, jeering, as the pig got up, pulled his jacket straight, turned on his heels. Someone pitched a beer can after him. It glanced off the rozzer’s back. More jeers and catcalls. JC, breathing hard, accepted the accolades, one or two pats on the back. ‘Nice one, mate.’
He waited outside until he was sure the guy wasn’t coming back. What an idiot. Hadn’t done his own reputation with the clientele any harm, though. Which might prove useful over the next twenty-four hours. JC went back in, the crowd parting before him like he was Moses at the Red Sea. It didn’t feel half-bad. He accepted his on-the-house Bud, downed most of it in one, looked at his watch, caught sight of one of the minders. The guy tapped his watch, made a ‘vamoose’ sign.
JC drained the bottle. Time to get going. He had another rozzer to deal with; at least this one would be a little less lively.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Moran was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar to the left of the toilets. Not the most salubrious position but he had a clear view of the street. He’d checked for an alternative exit and found one in the fire escape door by the Gents.
He needed time to think; Charlie’s call had added further unanswered questions to his already long list. He took a sip of coffee and began to arrange them in a rough order of priority. First, why did Black want Aine? Second, where had he taken her? No point visiting the address Black had given; it would be either non-existent or unrelated. Third, O’Shea. The islander was becoming conspicuous by his absence. Fourth, why had the Reading gunman shot himself?
He made a mental note to follow up both forensics and the autopsy with Charlie. He drained his coffee cup. Maybe the gunman would leave some clue as to Black’s whereabouts. The suicide was puzzling; it made no sense.
Moran emptied his mind and began again. Black was planning a big job in the UK. He had men in situ, of which the dead guy had been one. Expendable, then – for someone with Black’s background that wouldn’t be a problem. And sure, if the gunman had given himself up he’d have been looking at a custodial sentence. Injuring a serving police officer, kidnap, threatening a member of the public with a firearm, breaking and entering. Possible membership of a terrorist group. Twenty years, probably – but he’d chosen a bullet instead. Had that been pre-agreed with Black? No prisoners, no risk to the job.
Moran scratched his head. Hell, how big was this job? And the answer came back, clear as day.
Very big indeed.
So, Caitlin Hannigan’s abduction had, in all likelihood, originally been intended to be much more covert an operation than it had turned out to be. A cock-up, in truth. Black’s operative had been spotted on CCTV, Charlie and team had had time to warn Caitlin – on the strength of O’Shea’s intelligence, Moran conceded. The islander had been spot on.
Moran swirled his coffee dregs. The bar was quiet, just a few solitary drinkers in various locations; two at the bar, one at the small table in the opposite corner. All men, all middle-aged, unthreatening. He watched the barman move up and down his workspace, tidying, washing, polishing, smiling and exchanging mild banter with the men at the bar. An image of Jerry came into his mind, trussed and lifeless in the boot of the car. Moran’s mouth set in a firm line. He’d get to the bottom of this for his old friend’s sake, as well as for whatever Black was planning.
He rubbed his eyes, gritty and sore from lack of sleep, and tried to concentrate. Black had what he wanted, which was Aine. And so he’d allowed Caitlin to walk. Risk had been minimised with the gunman’s suicide – preordained or otherwise. Thing was, he just couldn’t figure out why Black needed Aine. And neither could she.
Or so she said.
His mobile buzzed. A text. Come to Geileis’ cottage. Take a cab. O’S.
Geileis’ cottage? Why Geileis?
Then he remembered the gun in the bureau drawer, the bullets.
He reread the message.
O’Shea seemed to be one step ahead. Which meant, Moran acknowledged, that he himself was at least one step behind.
‘Come in, Brendan.’
Moran did as he was bid. O’Shea was sitting where Jerry had sat. He nodded a greeting. The evening was drawing in and Geileis had lit a few candles, kept the lights off. From the road the cottage had appeared unoccupied, lifeless. Moran hadn’t known what to expect. A trap? An empty cottage, or O’Shea and Geileis waiting for him? Not knowing who to believe any more he’d taken a chance.
‘A moment.’ He went to the window, signalled to the cab driver; the guy raised a hand in acknowledgment and the car drew away.
‘I have a little explaining to do, Brendan,’ Geileis said, hooking her hair over one ear in a gesture he remembered from their evening together. ‘Have a seat, now.’
‘Well, I’d love someone to explain something.’
‘Sure you weren’t followed?’ O’Shea prompted. He was wearing a rough polo-necked jumper and black jeans. His hands were muddy, oily perhaps, and his long hair was gathered as usual into a scruffy ponytail.
Dressed for business…
Geileis sighed. ‘I didn’t want to say much before, Brendan. I didn’t want you caught up in it all.’
‘I was caught up the moment I agreed to come.’
‘Well, maybe,’ Geileis agreed. ‘But we were hoping that Joseph here–’ she gestured to O’Shea, ‘–could sort things out. You know, before they escalated.’
Moran narrowed his eyes, looked over at O’Shea. ‘You got word to this fella that I’d got myself locked up, right?’
‘I knew I had to watch out for you, Brendan,’ Geileis explained. ‘When you said you’d been followed, I – well, I knew something was going to happen to you.’
Moran let his breath out slowly. He glanced at O’Shea. ‘That’s where the gun in the bureau came from. I did wonder.’
Geileis looked at her hands.
‘Just in case,’ O’Shea admitted. ‘She’s never had to use it.’
‘There’s more, I’m guessing?’ He directed the question at Geileis.
‘Me and Joseph have known each other for donkeys’ years. Since the time he and Aine were – I mean, they had a thing, you know. Together.’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘Just that Joseph has a personal interest in Aine, particularly because of Caitlin.’
Moran glanced at O’Shea. The islander was nodding, agreeing.
Moran blinked. ‘You’re Caitlin’s father?’ he said slowly. ‘Does Donal know?’
Geileis shook her head. ‘No.’
Moran gave O’Shea a long look. ‘She’s safe and well,’ he said. ‘My team are keeping her under observation.’
O’Shea nodded. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I’ve been trying to help, Brendan. You see, I have–’ Geileis paused and took a short breath ‘–had a friend, an admirer … I met him at a local dance two months or so ago. He’s in the gardai, but he’s also one of Black’s insiders. His name’s Liam Buchanan.’
‘We’ve met. I’m not a fan.’
‘No. He’s… well, he’s proved useful. He came round yesterday and wanted to know where you were. I thought he’d figured out I was using him, but it was all right. He thinks he’s using me.’
Moran shook his head in disbelief. ‘I wouldn’t have pegged you as a covert operative, Geileis.’
‘I’m hardly that. But how can I sit by and watch all this happen without doing anything?’
O’Shea was on his feet. ‘Time’s marching on. I want to know what my brother wants with Aine,
what she’s got. It might give us a clue – some idea of what he’s targeting.’
‘We’ve all drawn a blank on that one,’ Moran observed. ‘Aine’s clean.’
’You know she had links, Brendan.’ Geileis was sitting forward on the sofa, her eyes alert and urgent.
‘So what’s her specialty? Communications? Money-laundering? Electronics? He should know, right?’ Moran jerked his head towards O’Shea.
‘It was a long time ago, the two of us,’ O’Shea growled. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’
Geileis shook her head. ‘I can’t believe Aine knows anything about that kind of stuff.’
‘We can’t be sure.’
‘Sure, she hung out with Sean Black for quite a while, back in the day, yes. But she’s hardly going to sound off about what she learned – what she was involved with – at that time, is she?’
Moran blew out his cheeks in frustration. ‘Donal would have sussed her out, surely? If she’d been involved in illicit Republican activity her own husband would be the first to know.’ He spread his hands. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘He didn’t know about me and Aine,’ O’Shea muttered. ‘We were careful.’
‘Right. So careful you had a child together,’ Moran countered. He tried to mask his disapproval, turned instead to Geileis. ‘You were telling me about Buchanan. What did you get?’
‘Only snippets. The UK job. Black has at least two men in London.’
‘Timescales?’
‘No. I tried. All he’d say was that it would be this year.’
Moran moved to sit next to Geileis. ‘Think hard. Anything, Geileis, even some throwaway remark might be significant.’
Geileis shook her head, closed her eyes. A few seconds later she opened them again. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
‘Go on,’ Moran prompted.
‘Buchanan was reading the paper, something about Prince William and Kate – oh, I know, it was the Middleton wedding.’
