by Scott Hunter
‘What a mess. What a bloody awful mess.’ Charlie threw the crushed leaves down, swept a hand over her hair.
‘Not from our perspective, as I’m trying to make clear. Our mole has been outed, our asset is safe. And furthermore, we have the names of most – if not all – of the top UK-based contacts associated with Sean Black.’
‘DI Pepper?’ A uniform appeared at the gate.
Charlie raised her arm. What now?
‘I have DCI Moran patched through on my radio. He wants a word.’
‘Coming.’
‘I expect we’ll want a word with DCI Moran too,’ Gilmore said. ‘When he sees fit to return.’
‘Not now, George.’ Charlie didn’t need to look up. She recognised the knock.
The door opened anyway.
‘I need to know. Sorry, I just–’ George McConnell made futile gestures with his hands.
Charlie took a deep breath, pressed her hands wearily to her eyes. ‘She’ll live. That’s all I can say. That’s all they could tell me. She lost a lot of blood. Her heart stopped. They got her back while she was still on the road. She’s burned, but not badly – the bomb was designed to explode vertically, which probably saved her life. She was in theatre within five minutes. She was in the right place, in that sense.’
George nodded. ‘The right place.’
‘Look, George, I know what you’re thinking. I had no choice, you understand that, don’t you?’
George stood in front of her desk, tight-lipped, nodded again.
‘If I hadn’t sent Tess in, the car might have been a few metres closer to the bomb. The Duchess–’
‘Right, right. The Duchess.’
Charlie swallowed hard, moistened her lips. She could see that George was trembling, keeping himself under control with some considerable effort. She opened a drawer, took out the photograph Gilmore had given her. ‘This is the guy MI5 were after. The mole.’
George took the photograph and gave it a cursory glance. ‘So we can all sleep safe in our beds tonight. One less baddie to worry about.’ He handed it back.
Charlie wasn’t fooled. ‘You recognise him. How come?’
George shook his head vehemently. ‘Recognise him? No way. Never seen him before in my life.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
Charlie narrowed her eyes. Should she probe further? Was it significant?
Let it go, Charlie – now’s not the time…
‘Like I said,’ George ploughed on. ‘He’s just another bad guy off the street, right?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Right. And who knows how many lives saved? It’s a good result, George, despite the fact that we nearly screwed the whole thing up.’
George opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, contented himself with a muttered expletive.
‘It’s over, George. There’s nothing else we can do.’
‘Aye, it’s too late, so too bad.’
Charlie had no answer to that, so she just gave her officer a tight smile. ‘Thanks for your efforts, George. Go home. Tomorrow’s another day.’
She watched George McConnell’s retreating figure, anger and hurt radiating from his body like a force field, until she lost sight of him at the far end of the IR. Charlie looked at her desktop with its piles of files and papers. The file directly in front of her, in its buff vanilla folder, was labelled
Theresa Jane Martin. DC. TVP. DOB 10/12/1981.
Should she go back to the hospital? Or wait for news? She wanted to be there when Tess came round. It was only right.
Because, at the end of the day, Charlie, it was down to you. It was your call.
Charlie went to the internal window and shut the blinds.
What would Moran say on his return? How would he judge her? He’d left her in charge…
Charlie sat back down at her desk, thumbing Tess Martin’s file, bending the corner up and down, up and down until the label blurred and swam out of focus.
I’m sorry, Tess. I’m so sorry.
George McConnell waited across the road from the unremarkable-looking semi-detached house, loitering in the lamp light like an assignee on some undercover stakeout. Which would have been a strong preference; it had taken a huge effort of will to get this far, especially with two pubs en route. To say that he could murder a drink would be a wild understatement. But truth be told, the photo had shaken him badly. It had all come back in a rush. The pub, the fight; the guy who’d tried to bottle him.
The mole.
He’d had a close encounter with the mole, the centrepiece of the whole operation, and frankly, anything could have happened. Everything had been a blank the following day; a blinding headache, total amnesia. But one glance at the photo had lit the whole scene up as if under a spotlight: the guy had pushed him outside, made a spectacle of him – and in doing so had probably saved his life. George remembered his reaction, what he’d said to Charlie.
Just another bad guy off the street…
But what was bad? What was good?
George stamped his feet. He really needed a drink.
Come on George, this isn’t for you. A pint and a whisky chaser instead. What harm? Just the one, then head home, grab a takeaway, watch a film…
But he knew it wouldn’t be just the one. It never was. By the time he got home he wouldn’t be able to find the TV let alone watch a film. It was time to sort this out, once and for all.
A middle-aged woman was walking her dog on the opposite pavement. She shot him a suspicious look while the animal gave the lamp post a thorough watering. Neighbourhood Watch, I’ll bet, George thought. She’ll be reporting me as a dodgy character as soon as she gets in.
The nearest pub was just round the corner – the Bull. George knew it well. And they knew George equally well. Quieter than the Falcon, the station’s favourite watering hole, and a better selection of Scotch to boot. A no-brainer.
George took the invitation from his trouser pocket, glanced through the last few paragraphs.
Attendees will usually be asked to keep an open mind, to attend meetings at which recovered alcoholics describe their personal experiences in achieving sobriety, and to read AA literature describing and interpreting the AA program.
AA members will usually emphasise to newcomers that only problem drinkers themselves, individually, can determine whether or not they are in fact alcoholics.
At the same time, it will be pointed out that all available medical testimony indicates that alcoholism is a progressive illness, that it cannot be cured in the ordinary sense of the term, but that it can be arrested through total abstinence from alcohol in any form.
George sighed, folded the invitation, put it back in his pocket. He thought of Tess, lying unconscious in the hospital ward. What would she say? What would she want him to do?
It was a short walk to the front door, but a walk, nevertheless, which had taken him many years to begin. The porch light was on and, through the curtained lounge window George could hear voices raised in friendly conversation. He took a deep breath, reached out and rang the doorbell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
If Moran never saw the inside of a hospital again he’d be a happy man, but fate seemed to have other ideas. He found his way to Donal’s ward easily enough, but hesitated on the threshold. What could he say? How could he explain what had happened? A white-coated doctor brushed past him, buzzed the door open. Moran followed, his nostrils flaring at the conflicting smells of antiseptic, institutional food and that indefinable smell of illness which was, in his mind, the worst of the three.
A ward nurse directed him to the left, and then to the right. He caught sight of Geileis first and then Padraig, the former sitting attentively at Donal’s bedside in what seemed to be the only supplied chair, the latter standing awkwardly on the other side, passing his smartphone self-consciously from one hand to the other and clearly wishing he was somewhere else.
‘Brendan.’ Geileis’ smile was wide a
nd welcoming. ‘How are you? Donal’s been anxious to see you.’
I’ll bet. Moran conjured some facsimile of a smile as he approached.
Donal raised his head from the pillow and grunted a greeting. He looked pale and washed out. ‘Ah, it’s yourself, Brendan.’
He doesn’t know. Geileis’ loaded look conveyed Donal’s ignorance loud and clear.
Donal raised his hand weakly. ‘Will you have some fruit, or–’
Moran waved Donal’s offer away. ‘Listen, Donal, I’m glad to see you’re on the mend, but I have something to tell you.’
Donal rested his head on the pillow and listened without comment as Moran brought him up to date with the events which had taken place on Great Blasket. When he finished there was a silence in which the background noises of the ward seemed magnified; the chink of syringe trays, the rustling of privacy curtains being drawn, the quiet chatter from the nurses’ station, a phone ringing, long and unanswered.
Geileis reached out and took Donal’s hand, careful to avoid the cannula site on her brother’s wrist with its slight discolouration and bruising.
‘I had no idea. No idea,’ Donal said quietly. ‘Oh my God. I had no idea.’ He shook his head repeatedly from side to side, as if his disbelief alone would counter the truth of Moran’s words.
‘Did she suffer?’ Padraig’s smartphone had fallen onto the bed, forgotten, and his voice was a barely controlled blurt.
Moran shook his head, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘No, son. She died instantly. I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do.’
‘I don’t blame youse,’ Padraig said. ‘It’s my fault. I should never have listened to him.’ He covered his eyes.
‘No,’ Geileis said. ‘It’s not your fault Padraig. Sean Black was a manipulator. An expert manipulator. You’re not to feel responsible, isn’t that right, Brendan?’
‘Listen to your aunt, son. She’s spot on.’
‘Oh god,’ Donal was saying under his breath. ‘I never knew. How did I not know?’ He looked up at each of them in turn, desperate for an answer. ‘I should’ve known, isn’t that right? It was my business to know.’ His eyes misted over and his head sank back into the pillow.
A nurse came by, fiddled with his cannula, checked the drip, tapped the plastic bottle with the back of her index finger, made a satisfied noise in her throat, smiled and withdrew. Donal hardly noticed the intrusion. His mouth worked soundlessly as he wrestled with impossible questions.
‘I’d better be on my way,’ Moran said. He bent and kissed Geileis’ cheek, turned to Padraig. ‘Look after your da, son. He needs you now.’
O’Shea was waiting, as he had said he would, by the roadside at Dunquin. Moran left the car on the verge and got out. A seagull circled overhead, cawing insistently as it scanned earth and water for sustenance. The islander was standing with his arms loosely at his sides, looking out to sea where the Blasket Islands squatted, dark and mysterious, in the grey waters of the sound. Autumn was closing in, the clouds were gathering, and Moran wondered what O’Shea was planning for the winter. It was a harsh life on Great Blasket, even with O’Shea’s highly-honed survival skills. Moran felt a pang of conscience at the damage he’d caused to the islander’s home, but what could he have done to prevent it?
‘So.’ O’Shea looked him up and down. ‘Time for you to be off, is it? Leaving me with the mess to clear up?’
‘I’m sorry about your house.’
‘But not my brother?’
‘Honestly? Not so much, no.’
The islander nodded. ‘We had a deal, remember?’
‘He was pointing a gun at my head – and that was after the mortar. What would you have done? I had no choice; it was him or me.’
O’Shea sniffed, weighing Moran’s words. ‘Drink?’
Moran accepted the hip flask. The wind was chilly and he was only wearing a light jacket and chinos; he’d had to bin his heavier winter coat, burned and torn as it was.
‘Thanks.’ He handed O’Shea the flask. ‘Aine told me – what she did, all those years ago,’ he said. ‘You knew didn’t you?’
O’Shea stroked his beard contemplatively. His cheeks were red and weather-beaten, but the big man radiated fitness and vitality. His hand shifted from beard to ponytail, toyed with the rope-like coil. ‘I knew, yes.’
‘But you didn’t see fit to tell me.’
‘Now I didn’t think it would improve your motivation to track Aine down, Inspector Moran, if I’d been stupid enough to let out something like that.’
‘I might never have found out.’
‘Ah, I think you’re underestimating her, sure I do. That kind of guilt is hard to live with. She’d have found a way to tell you, eventually.’
‘Eventually.’ Moran faced the sea, felt the salt breeze on his own cheeks. He reached into his pocket, took out the photo album. ‘Here.’ He held it out. ‘Aine would have wanted you to have this.’
O’Shea took it, nodded. ‘Thanks.’
‘You can be proud of your daughter. Her mother certainly was.’
‘I don’t need to hear that from the likes of you. I’ll feel what I feel, and be proud of whom I’m proud of without your say so.’
‘I did what I could, O’Shea. Aine saved my life. It could have worked out very differently.’
‘I’ve lost a brother, Moran. And a very old friend. I could work things out differently for you, if I were that way inclined.’
‘But you won’t. And you’re not.’ Moran looked into O’Shea’s deep-set eyes. ‘You know what your brother was. A man out of time. A man who couldn’t let go. It was always going to end badly for him. You know that.’
‘You got lucky,’ O’Shea replied. ‘Sean killed better men than you in his lifetime, so he did.’
Moran nodded. ‘I’m no better man than the next, O’Shea. And I’ve always said you make your own luck.’
‘Maybe we’d better leave it there, Inspector.’ O’Shea extended his hand. ‘We won’t meet again.’
Moran shook the islander’s hand. ‘I’m genuinely sorry about your house.’
‘Houses can be rebuilt,’ O’Shea said. ‘Some things can never be repaired.’
The islander made his way down the stone steps to the low cleft in the rocks where he stored his dinghy. A few minutes later the sound of an outboard engine floated up from the beach. The dinghy soon came into view, cutting a white wake in the water as it forged across the strait towards the waiting islands.
Moran sat on the wall and watched the dinghy’s progress until the sound of its engine had faded and the only sound was the susurration of the waves against the rocks and the background cries of the gulls.
The sun was low in the sky by the time Moran opened the little churchyard gate for Geileis and stepped aside to allow her through. Wordlessly, they followed the winding path through the gravestones towards the familiar spot. Moran was thinking of Aine’s guilt, how she had carried it for so many years, living with the knowledge that one day, perhaps, it would all be revealed. And yet she could hardly have predicted how that was to work itself out, how she had become a pawn, a hostage in her daughter’s web of spies, murder and terrorism.
Now I know. But it makes no difference. Nothing will ever make a difference.
Geileis slipped her hand into his and Moran felt a small shock at this demonstration of her warmth towards him. Full circle, he supposed, of a kind. Perhaps this was it; the possibility of some alternative existence to the life he had endured for so many years. An end to all the deaths, the deceit, his sheer ongoing dismay at the hopelessness of the human condition.
‘It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?’ Geileis murmured. ‘She’d like it.’
‘She would that,’ Moran agreed. ‘She was a country girl at heart, like yourself.’ He gave her hand a squeeze. They separated naturally as they approached the grave, took up positions facing each other on either side, heads bowed. The silence was profound.
Geileis was the first t
o break it. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘she’ll always be between us. No matter how hard we try to make it otherwise.’
Moran had a lump in his throat. He could only nod.
‘You can visit as often as you like, Brendan.’ Geileis smiled at him across the gulf. ‘In any case, you’re not ready for the quiet life. Not at all.’ She shook her head. ‘What was it you said to me that first evening? About the fear of slowing down, being stuck inside all the time?’
‘The thought of being trapped inside all day filling me with horror, you mean?’
‘Yes, that. You’d be lost without your job.’
‘I could change.’
Geileis looked down again, at the inscription on the headstone. ‘Maybe you could,’ she said. ‘I have my doubts, but just maybe you could.’ She drew her coat tightly around her as a strong gust of wind blew in from the sea, ruffling the grass and disarraying her hair. She swept the red locks behind her ears, drew her collar up. ‘The thing is, Brendan, although we might be able to change the future, we can’t change the past. That’s the way it is.’
Moran nodded. ‘Yes. You’re right, of course.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. But at least we have the present. The here and now. No one can take that away,’ he said, the lump in his throat reducing his voice to a husky whisper.
She smiled, the skin taut and thin over her cheekbones. ‘Yes, of course,’ Geileis said. ‘We have now.’
They stood together for a long time, and then eventually, as if at some unbidden, unheard signal, retraced their steps along the path, away from the spot where the deep shadows hugged the earth, beneath the high wall which faced west, out to the wind and the open sea.
CHAPTER FORTY
Thames House is instantly recognisable as the home of British Intelligence, if not by courtesy of many a scene-setting movie shot, then certainly by the heavily-armed police presence and the security bollards studding the pavement. Moran had received his invitation – or summons, as he preferred to interpret it – via DCS Higginson, the day after his return from Ireland.
