by Scott Hunter
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your disciplinary charge? Excessive force, as I recall?’
Charlie’s eyes widened. The nerve of the woman. ‘Yes, but I hardly think that that is rel–’
‘–Well, thank you for letting us know, DI Pepper. You can leave this with us.’
‘But I haven’t given you any–’
The line went dead.
Charlie swallowed hard. Of all the arrogant, self-satisfied…
A young DC appeared at her shoulder. ‘Boss?’
‘Yes, Anne?’
‘We’ve found the Irish guy. DC Odunsi’s bringing him in.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘I don’t see a cottage,’ Moran said, as O’Shea pulled over and killed the Land Rover’s engine.
‘That’s the point,’ O’Shea replied. ‘It’s tucked into the lee of the coastline a few hundred metres along the track.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. The islander folded his arms and turned to Moran. ‘Right. We’re doing this your way, as I remember. So shall I take a stroll and knock on the door?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ Moran said. ‘How many, would you say?’
O’Shea made a noncommittal gesture. ‘Two, three?’
‘Will he be in residence?’
O’Shea laughed out loud. ‘Sean? Not a chance. But he’ll be somewhere close. Waiting it out.’
Moran got out, walked a few paces towards the cliff edge and surveyed the landscape. It was a clear day, a light breeze blowing in from the Atlantic. The restless movement of the waves mirrored Moran’s anxiety; he had to get this right. The stakes had been high enough before; now, if he and Charlie were right, they were way off any measurable scale. Too late to stop the royal visit, too late for anything except to get Aine away from Black, pass the news to Charlie and pray. Security would be tight, he told himself. Especially given the current UK climate. But SECTU knew what they were about, didn’t they? Surely nothing could slip through? If it did … but best not dwell upon that.
Moran turned away from the sea where the humps of the Blasket Islands floated, half submerged like a family of brooding plesiosaurs, and returned his attention to his immediate surroundings. Black had picked his spot well. You’d think you were in the middle of nowhere and you wouldn’t be far wrong. The critical thing was the cottage, its topography, entrance and exits. O’Shea would know.
His lips were forming the first question when, at the edge of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of something large, half-hidden by a crumbling drystone wall and a few hastily placed branches. A car, or–
No, not a car.
A quad bike.
Damn.
He signalled to O’Shea. The islander quickly pocketed the Land Rover’s keys and followed Moran’s pointing finger. His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, well. Pipped at the post.’
‘Looks like you’re not the only expert in covert observation around here,’ Moran said. ‘This isn’t going to help.’
‘Wait here. I’ll bring the boy back.’ O’Shea made as if to take the cottage path but Moran held up his hand.
‘I’ll do the recce. You watch the road.’
Before O’Shea could object Moran started walking. Keeping to the edge of the path where the untended bushes and stunted trees afforded at least some meagre cover, he advanced slowly until the path brought him to a curved drystone wall. On its far side, nestled in a slight dip, the cottage hugged the landscape like a rock formation – solid, impenetrable and impossible to approach without being seen.
Moran settled himself against the curve of the wall and peered around the corner. A single door, two covered windows and a rusty Ford Transit parked to the right at a slight angle, facing out to sea. Something familiar…
Moran felt a cold jab in the back of his neck, immediately followed by a terse whisper. ‘Back out. Easy, now. Hands where I can see ‘em.’
He did as he was told.
‘Slowly turn, so’s I can get a look at you.’ The whisper was unsteady, the breath carrying it laced with alcohol.
Moran turned.
‘Ah, God. Brendan.’ Donal Hannigan lowered his shotgun.
Moran was equally surprised. ‘What on earth … I thought Padraig–’
‘Aye,’ Donal said, ‘he’s in there all right. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to, but he’s keeping poor company.’ Donal’s eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking as he cradled the shotgun.
Moran placed a steadying hand on Donal’s shoulder. ‘You’re right. Listen, Donal, I have someone here, helping. You’d best come back to the road, leave this to us.’
‘He’s my boy.’
‘It’s going to be all right, Donal. Just come back with me, OK?’ Moran threw a glance over his shoulder. The cottage was still, wrapped in silence.
Donal’s face took on a bewildered expression. ‘Where’ve you been, Brendan? And what’s this to do with Aine?’
There was no easy way. ‘Listen, Donal. Aine’s in there too, but–’
‘What? Why–?’
‘I’ll explain once I’ve got you out of here.’
Donal brushed Moran’s hand away. ‘I’m going nowhere. My wife, my son…’
‘Donal, please–’
Donal pulled back and lurched into the open, fully exposed to whoever might be keeping a watch on the cottage’s approaches. Moran watched helplessly as his friend weaved unsteadily towards the front door.
A tread behind him. O’Shea appeared at his shoulder. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ The islander caught sight of Donal. ‘Oh great.’
Moran hesitated. If he broke cover both he and Donal were very likely to be shot before they reached the cottage. If he waited … no; he’d never forgive himself for not trying.
‘Stay here. Cover me.’
‘Are you crazy–?’ O’Shea made a grab for his sleeve but Moran was already out of reach.
He was half-way across the open space when a window cover flickered, like a blink of an eyelid. At the same moment Donal let the front door have both barrels. The noise was shockingly loud in the confined area, a thunderous report that echoed against the cottage walls and bounced out to sea, carried aloft by the strong breeze. Donal’s boot followed through, the door caved in and Donal pitched in after it.
Above the racket Moran discerned a higher frequency, the tinkling of shattered glass. Something thin and black protruded through the window, following his progress, tracking his steps. Moran threw himself flat and felt the bullet pass above his head like an angry mosquito, a zipping thump of compressed air. He rolled, rolled again, grimacing as his leg spasmed in protest.
Another shot, this time inside. O’Shea passed him, ducking, weaving. His ribs and leg telegraphing their objection, Moran scrambled to his feet, hobbled to the door, hugged the wall opposite O’Shea.
‘No further.’ A voice Moran recognised. ‘I’ll put a bullet in his head, sure I will.’
Padraig’s voice raised in confused protest: ‘You said no one would get hurt. I’m with you. Why are you–’ A muffled thump, the sound of metal against flesh. Padraig fell silent.
A woman’s voice now, a howl of protest. ‘Leave him be, you bastard.’
Moran made a sign to O’Shea, held up one finger, questioning.
O’Shea nodded.
‘Let them go, O’Mahoney,’ Moran shouted through the wrecked door. ‘I’m coming in.’
The female voice again: ‘He has a gun. Someone’s hurt–’
Someone?
‘I mean it, Moran,’ O’Mahoney shouted. ‘You want blood on your hands? Come right in and you’ll have it. In spades.’
‘I’m unarmed. Just let me in and we’ll talk.’
O’Shea had moved slightly to the left, adjacent to the broken window. A knife appeared in his hand, a conjuror’s deft movement.
‘One more step and I pull the trigger,’ O’Mahoney said. ‘The next one’s all yours.’
From the corner of his eye Moran could see O’Shea sizing
up the odds. The broken pane was perhaps fourteen to twenty inches across. The islander would have to risk O’Mahoney taking a shot at him as he lined up with the gap – and before he moved into position there was no way of knowing what sort of target O’Mahoney would present, with Padraig or Aine potentially shielding the bent garda’s body.
O’Shea made another sign. Two fingers. A count. Moran understood, braced himself. One finger…
Go.
Moran stepped inside. His eyes, accustomed to the brightness of the early afternoon, struggled to adjust to the gloomy interior. A quarter second, maybe, had elapsed.
Donal, groaning on the floor. A woman, sitting on a stool against the far wall, hands behind her – tied, probably. O’Mahoney’s closed fist, just clear of Padraig’s shoulder, gripping the handgun, the other arm pulling the boy in closer, tighter. The automatic’s barrel, a tiny, snub-nosed aperture, growing in importance, suddenly the only significant object in Moran’s world. He wondered if he would catch the slight jerk of the recoil as the bullet began its short journey towards him, or if the pain would come first, the numbing shock of impact as the round tore through flesh and bone …
Half a second gone.
A whistle of air as something came whickering through the broken window. O’Mahoney gave a surprised grunt. The automatic wavered, clattered to the floor as the garda’s hand instinctively went to the most significant object in his world: a six-inch throwing knife embedded in the muscle wall of his shoulder. Padraig took his opportunity, driving his elbow deep into O’Mahoney’s solar plexus. He doubled up, and Moran waded in with a finely-aimed kick to the side of O’Mahoney’s head.
Two seconds.
O’Shea appeared at the threshold, took in the scene, looked straight at the woman and voiced Moran’s concurrent thought: ‘And you are?’
‘Mary. Mary O’Riorden.’
Same height, same hairstyle as Aine.
Decoy.
Moran bent to attend to Donal. The bullet had penetrated his thigh; there was a lot of blood, but he’d been lucky, it was an in-and-out wound. Moran hoped the alcohol had taken the edge off the pain for his friend’s sake.
‘Padraig, give me a hand here. Hold this against his leg, that’s it. Tightly now.’ As Padraig obeyed his command Moran could see how frightened the boy was. His hands shook as he held a handkerchief to the wound. Moran quickly fashioned a makeshift tourniquet from the tail of Donal’s shirt and propped Donal against the wall.
‘Where are they?’ O’Shea was bending over the fallen garda, had a hold of his lapels. ‘Don’t make me work the handle.’ The islander raised his hand towards the knife, which protruded from O’Mahoney’s chest just below the collar bone. It had been a well-judged throw, Moran noted; any lower and the blade would have pierced the garda’s heart. Any higher, a miss.
‘Take a hike, O’Shea.’ O’Mahoney grimaced.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ O’Shea said.
O’Mahoney’s scream set Moran’s teeth on edge. He grabbed the islander’s shoulder. ‘All right, O’Shea, that’s enough.’
‘Black’s taken the woman,’ O’Mahoney spat. ‘You can see she’s not here, for God’s sake.’
‘Padraig, take the girl outside,’ Moran said. ‘And bring the Land Rover. Quick as you can, now. Your da needs medical attention. And so does this fella. O’Shea? Keys.’
O’Shea dropped O’Mahoney, patted his pockets, pulled out the keys, but before handing them over he fixed the boy with a level gaze. ‘Sure which side you’re on now, son?’
Padraig moistened his lips, nodded.
‘Right you are. Careful now, it’s a fine vehicle.’ He dumped the keys in Padraig’s shaking hand.
The lad gestured to Mary O’Riorden who allowed herself to be led away without a word. Her eyes said it all: What just happened to me?
The muscles in O’Mahoney’s jaw worked as O’Shea turned his attention back to the wounded garda. ‘OK. Who is she?’
‘No one. Works in a bar.’ O’Mahoney replied in a pained hiss. ‘Get me to a hospital, O’Shea.’
‘And Black?’
‘Gone to pay you a visit,’ O’Mahoney said, this time with a trace of satisfaction. ‘Leastways, that’s what I reckon.’
‘He’s taken Aine to Blasket? Why?’
‘Distance. Security. And he knows you’re agin’ him now, sure he does. I believe he’s a mind to evict you from your cosy wee house.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ O’Shea aimed a kick at the garda’s ankle and found the spot. O’Mahoney howled. ‘That’ll learn youse to scare an innocent young woman half to death. And what about the boy? What lies did you spin him, eh? Another kick, another yelp.
‘I need a doctor, please.’
‘Then talk.’
The Land Rover coasted to a halt outside, Padraig’s face the colour of cheese through the windscreen.
‘Leave it, O’Shea,’ Moran said. ‘Give me a hand, would you? All right, Donal, take it steady…’
Donal was trying to make light of his injury. ‘I’m all right enough, Brendan. It’s Aine you should be attending to.’
‘And I will, I promise … O’Shea, for God’s sake, man…’ Moran tried to pull the islander away, but O’Shea was getting into his stride; his next kick caught O’Mahoney square in the ribs.
‘All right, all right!’ O’Mahoney tried to make himself smaller, curled up, shuffled backwards. ‘Black told the boy about his ma, and, and … and you, you fornicating bastard–’ That earned another kick. O’Mahoney, was panting now. ‘The kid wanted to get back at her. Black told him he could be part of something really big, something for Ireland.’
O’Shea drew back for another blow but this time Moran succeeded in restraining him. O’Shea struggled, but Moran’s grip was secure. ‘Listen, O’Shea,’ Moran hissed in his ear, ‘I need help with this man. And we’re short of time, remember?’ He twisted O’Shea around, keeping the pressure on. For a second they were eye-to-eye, nose to nose, close enough for Moran to see the pores in the islander’s skin. A second passed.
Another.
O’Shea’s mouth broke into an appreciative grin. ‘Not a bad move for an auld fella, Brendan, right enough.’
Moran let him go. ‘Padraig,’ he called, ‘come and help your da.’
Between the three of them they got Donal into the Land Rover. Donal had sobered up and was losing more blood than Moran was comfortable with, slipping in and out of consciousness. ‘Hospital, Padraig. Go.’
‘My ma–’
Moran raised his hand. ‘Just go. Leave Aine to me.’
They watched the Land Rover bump down the path.
‘Trust him?’ O’Shea spat on his hands, rubbed them together.
‘Lesson learned, I think.’
O’Shea nodded. O’Mahoney’s yells and curses were escalating in volume. ‘What about him?’
‘I want to know what his buddy’s up to,’ Moran said.
O’Shea rubbed his hands together again. ‘I’ll ask.’
‘I’ll ask.’ Moran pushed past O’Shea into the cottage.
O’Mahoney watched nervously as Moran approached. ‘I’m bleeding to death here. You’re a policeman for God’s sake, Moran–’
‘And so are you,’ Moran said evenly. ‘So don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t be doing.’ He bent and inspected the wound. ‘You’re not bleeding to death. It’s in the muscle, nothing vital. When the blade comes out, you’ll be stitched up as good as new. Now, where’s Buchanan?’
Silence.
‘I have to leave shortly, O’Mahoney. If I were you, I’d be wanting that to happen when my friend here is feeling more kindly disposed towards you, if you get my drift.’
O’Mahoney threw a glance at O’Shea, hovering in the doorway, rubbing his hands and massaging his fingers.
‘All right. He’s gone to sort the woman.’
‘Woman?’ Moran’s heart jumped.
‘The spy. Geileis.’
&nb
sp; ‘Get up.’
‘I want a doctor.’
Moran hauled O’Mahoney to his feet. ‘You’ll go with O’Shea, now. And you’ll call your buddy and tell him to back off.’
‘Can’t. He’s off the grid.’
‘You’ll be permanently off the grid if anything happens to her,’ O’Shea snarled.
‘Take the quad bike,’ Moran told the islander. ‘Do what you have to.’
‘And you?’
Moran looked at his watch. Ten past one. Under two hours left. ‘I’m going after Black.’
O’Shea made a gesture of mock astonishment. ‘It’s walkin’ on the waves now, Brendan, is it?’
‘I’ll get the ferry.’
‘End of season. Next one’s in April.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘I’ll drop you near Dunquin. I’ve a dinghy stashed there, near the ferry. Good motor.’
‘What about me?’ O’Mahoney whimpered.
‘I’ll call a medic later,’ O’Shea told him. ‘If I remember.’
‘You can’t leave me here…’
Moran shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘I’m saying nothing – I’ve done nothing.’
‘Keep your voice down, please, sir, if you would.’ Bola guided his man along the station’s familiar corridor, past the interview room where Caitlin was being questioned and into an adjacent, identical, room. It had been relatively easy to pick the guy up. CCTV outside the hospital, a quick sniff around the local Irish pubs and bingo – second pub, Oxford Road. End to end, an hour and a bit. Bola was pleased with himself.
ID had been straightforward enough, too. No prints on file, no previous – at least in the UK – but standard database queries revealed Bola’s collar to be one Brian Keelan, age twenty-seven, native of County Kerry, resident in the UK since 2015. Currently unemployed, single, and, judging from the noise the guy was making, possessed of a serious problem in the anger management department. Now they just needed the forensic report from the canal.
Bola ran through the formalities, set the camera recording. The clock on the wall above the small window pointed to twenty-five to two.
