by Iain Cameron
With most of the boat in the water, he gave it a shove, leapt on board, and was thankful that only his feet got wet. The boat was drifting well away from rocks but the situation could soon change if the engine wouldn’t start. He leaned over the fuel tank and opened the valve to release pressure before squeezing the primer bulb five times. He opened the choke and, after saying a quick prayer, pulled the starting cable.
He smiled as the engine gurgled into life. It didn’t make the same sweet sound as the bike, a bit more rough and grumbling, like a heavy smoker first thing in the morning, but a welcome noise nonetheless. Away from the shelter of the bay, the boat soon hit the Atlantic swell. He’d been expecting it, but had forgotten how powerful it would be, the little boat moving from a leisurely bob to feeling like he’d jumped on a roller coaster. Good job he didn’t have anything loose beside him, as until he got over the momentary shock and took better control of the tiller, it might well have gone overboard.
His escape plan hinged on stealing a boat. The cottage he’d set up in the event of him becoming a fugitive was located on one of the Aran Islands. No way could it be reached without one. There was a possibility he might have gone to the bay at Doolin tonight and been unable to find a suitable boat – perhaps the only one available was low on fuel, jammed in by other boats, or the engine needed a key to start.
With so many potential problems, he’d debated long and hard about buying a boat and leaving it in the bay, but had decided against it. Boat owners, unlike car drivers who often couldn’t remember the make or colour of their partner’s car, were quick to spot a new craft. Before long, the new boat in the bay would be the subject of much speculation in the village pub.
The sea was calm tonight with few white-tops and a three-quarter moon which helped him navigate. He’d made the journey so many times before, first as a boy, then helping a local skipper to take out tourists, and later in setting up his cottage, he could now do it blindfold. He’d been careful coming here. He’d used the crossing at Doolin several times while, at others, he’d taken one of the larger boats sailing from Rossaveel. On each occasion, he’d avoided getting into conversation with anyone who might recognise him, and varied his appearance as best he could: growing a beard, sporting different haircuts and hair colours, wearing hats, sunglasses, and large jackets.
When he reached the cottage, he would stay there for at least one, maybe two months. He’d told no one about its location; not his wife, kids, friends or anyone within IRM. He’d stored many items there to ensure he didn’t fall short: food, booze, books, laptop, weapons, and a couple of pay-as-you-go phones. He would keep in touch with developments through the web and texts. If he believed the people searching for him were getting closer, the phone would be thrown into the sea and another put in its place.
The gentle roll of the waves, the steady beat of the engine, and the sight of the island of Inishmore growing larger by the minute got him thinking. He was not a bitter man, feeling miserable at having to spend the next few months alone without the comforts of home, the bosom of his family or the energy of the young Turks within IRM. No, he was a tough man, prone to making examples of dilatory behaviour and sticking a knife into or shooting anyone who tried to betray the ideals of the organisation. Two months would go by before he knew it.
What he wanted to know was how the security services had found out about the Leicester warehouse, and how they’d known about the fishing vessel carrying the bulk of the consignment. The only choices he could think of were: serendipity, leaked intel, or a mole in the camp. He had little faith in the first, as he believed everything they would achieve in IRM would only be done through hard work. He dismissed the second, as he’d been circumspect in everything he did within IRM, and his boys were the same. They periodically swept their offices for bugs and all computers were protected by a sophisticated firewall.
That left a mole, a rat. If so, who? In his head, he ran through a list of names and faces; first his close lieutenants, next, those in the general membership. He was looking for someone who knew not only about the shipments, a group of five or six people, but those who also knew delivery dates and times. His spotlight focused on two names: Gerry McGiven and Adrian Lamont.
McGiven was a bitter, bitter man, never getting over the death of his father who’d been murdered by Loyalists. He wanted nothing more than for the IRM to wage all-out war against them. The level of his hostility never failed to surprise Doherty, a man who didn’t believe the organisation was radical enough or perhaps the actions of a traitor trying hard to throw them off the scent.
Lamont was only one of five Englishmen in IRM and, as such, had a higher hurdle to jump to be accepted than local members. There was a touch of the ‘yes’ man about him and Doherty wasn’t sure he really believed in the cause rather than just liked playing at soldiers. Over the next few days, he would discuss the issue with his closest associate, Brian Mulroney. He wouldn’t let it rest. His personal discomfort didn’t bother him one bit, but the loss of the guns hurt him like a serious wound.
In the moonlight, the cliffs marking the start of ‘his’ cove appeared. He kept clear of the ridge of submerged rocks, dangerous to boats bigger than his, and headed towards the cove. It didn’t look much, no fine sand or mossy cliffs to attract tourists, who could sit wearing their North Face jackets and pretend to be in Phuket. In fact, this part of Inishmore didn’t entice many sightseers. It had none of the meandering walks found in the north of the island, and few of the dramatic cliffs found in the south.
In addition, the cove could only be approached from the sea or by a rough track using a 4x4, as there were no decent roads nearby. This ‘splendid isolation’ did have its problems, which he’d discovered when he needed to undertake some cement work to stop the cottage leaking and rebuild a crumbling wall. None of the regular ferries coming to the islands were big enough to take cars, and despite the locals carrying all manner of stuff on the passenger ferry, no way could he manage several bags of sand and cement.
A larger boat sailing from Galway, was used by locals from time to time to bring cars and other large items they’d bought onto the island, but he imagined it would require registration and the use of credit cards and no way would he do that. The use of a friend’s boat solved the problem, and once the cottage was watertight he’d stocked the place with provisions.
He pointed the boat at the shore, lifted the engine out of the water and shut it off. When the bow touched land, he jumped on to the beach. For the last few minutes, he’d been debating what to do with the boat. It would be useful to keep. He could use it to fish or to make an emergency evacuation if ever his cottage was compromised. He decided against it. The boat would soon be reported stolen and any sighting by a passing skipper would bring the local cops sniffing around.
He waded into the water, pushing the boat in front of him. With the water over waist-height, he gave the boat as big a shove as he could muster, sending it back the way it had come. When it reached the Atlantic beyond the mouth of the cove, the boat would drift out to sea, or be dashed against cliffs and smashed into a million pieces. Either way, they wouldn’t be able to connect it to him. He walked up the slope of the beach towards his cottage, leaving a soggy trail behind him, but feeling smug for having the foresight to leave a spare key under a stone.
Chapter 22
Matt walked along Brick Lane, heading for Fashion Street. Like many parts of East London, it had been home to the most recent immigrants to the UK. However, many of the Bangladeshis who’d settled there in the 1970s were still around, evidenced by the numerous businesses selling saris, eastern food and exotic spices.
Jack Harris said he wanted to meet in a neutral setting, away from the prying eyes of other coppers. The things he wanted to tell Matt, he said, would be regarded by many of his colleagues as a betrayal. Matt didn’t believe a word coming out of that man’s mouth, and even being there on his own, as he couldn’t well ask Rosie or any other HSA agent to become involved in his p
rivate investigation, he was on high alert.
Matt’s break-in at Harris’s house in Tufnell Park had revealed plenty. Any fear that Harris’s exaggerated affluence: the big house, the expensive car and the latest gadgets, were the result of inherited wealth or his girlfriend’s rich parents, didn’t wash. Innocent detectives didn’t have Caribbean bank accounts, nor did they have access to over four million pounds in funds.
However, knowing Harris was dirty and involved in the drug trade, a reasonable assumption after seeing him with Simon Wood, taking payments from drug dealers, dealing on his own or engaged in some other illegal activity, didn’t implicate him in Emma’s death. Matt wasn’t on his way to settle a personal vendetta against Harris, or on a one-man crusade to clean up the Met. He wanted to find out what had happened to Emma and he believed Harris had been involved in her death. He just hadn’t uncovered the evidence yet.
He found Fashion Street, perhaps named after the British School of Fashion whose building dominated the street, or maybe it was the other way round, he was sure the BSF coveted such an appropriate address. The place he was looking for was next door to a closed-down Asian supermarket. He rang the bell.
The street was quiet. Not much doing at ten o’clock on a Sunday evening. Any Bangladeshis he knew would be at home with their families, the children in bed preparing for another school day, a mere stepping stone to their parents’ dream of them becoming doctors or lawyers. It didn’t look as though they liked to drink or gamble much either, he thought, noticing the scarcity of pubs and betting shops.
The electronic box clicked.
‘Hello?’
Matt bent forward. ‘Is that you, Jack?’
‘Matt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What I need you to do is–’
Matt couldn’t hear for the noise of traffic outside. He leaned as close to the grubby box as he dared without touching it.
‘Repeat what you said, Jack, I didn’t quite catch it.’
‘I said–’
Matt didn’t hear the rest. Before he could turn and investigate the strange noise behind him, he blacked out.
**
Matt felt he was walking through ground fog. Not the light, fluffy stuff, but thick and heavy which was slowing his steps to a crawl. The fog cleared, as if by a stiff breeze, but the new-found clarity didn’t help as he couldn’t remember if he’d gone out for a booze-up last night with his boisterous neighbours, or had just woken from a deep slumber. When he opened his eyes, he realised he was alone and tied to a chair in a bare, unfurnished room. He was on the upper floor of a building with worn wooden boards on the floor. He could see the tops of grey and brown buildings outside through grubby sash windows.
His head throbbed and he felt nauseous, as if he was about to throw up, but he would save it for the person who’d whacked him over the head and tied him to the chair. Whoever it was, they hadn’t made a good job of it; he could feel movement in his wrists. He wriggled his hands, the rope chaffing his wrists as he tried to find the end of it with his thumb, or loop part of it over his hand.
It wasn’t as fruitless an exercise as it seemed, because if he could get a hand free, he could reach his gun and defend himself from whoever was outside. If it wasn’t there because they’d frisked him and found it, he had a knife strapped to his leg. If they’d discovered that too, the first chance he got he would kill them with his bare hands.
The ‘who’ was answered a few minutes later when two men came into the room: Jack Harris and a beefy looking geezer holding a gun.
‘What the fuck are you playing at, Harris?’ Matt snarled.
Harris approached and grabbed a handful of Matt’s hair. ‘I ask the fucking questions around here, big shot.’
‘What, as a cop, or a criminal?’
This brought a guffaw from the big guy standing behind Harris, and gave Matt the answer.
‘That’s for you to decide, mate,’ Harris said, letting go of his hair.
Matt continued to work on the rope; it might be wishful thinking, but he was sure it slackened a little more.
‘Why did you break into my house?’ Harris said, pacing the floor in front of him.
‘Who says I did?’
‘I fucking do. The jemmy in the bushes fooled no one.’
‘Jemmy? It must have been your local tea leaf.’
‘I don’t doubt it, you lot are more subtle. I’ll deal with him later. But finding it put me on alert. You tried not to disturb nothing, but I knew.’
Matt shrugged. ‘Caught red-handed.’
‘What were you looking for?’
‘Evidence. I know you’re hiding something.’
‘Hiding what? Information about Emma’s case?’
‘Maybe.’
He stepped forward and punched Matt in the face. ‘You fucking liar. You were looking for somethin’ else. What were you looking for, Flynn?’
Matt used the grimace and body movement from the blow to cover the effort he was putting into undoing his bindings and to disguise the pain it was causing his wrists. ‘I knew you were dirty,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I just didn’t know how.’
‘Where did you get that idea from?’
‘The way you spoke; the way you acted. I never trusted you, Harris. I don’t know why Emma ever did.’
‘Ah Emma. Poor Emma. Wouldn’t do what she was told, would she?’
Matt bit his tongue, despite wanting to blurt out a dozen questions.
‘You don’t know, do you?’
Matt didn’t move, only his hands trying to undo the ropes.
‘Why would you, you sap. You may as well know now. It’s not as if you’re leaving this place. We had to silence her, me and Lamar. Well, if I’m being technical, Lamar pulled the trigger but I helped dump her body in Epping Forest. How does that make you feel, big man?’
‘And frustrate the murder enquiry,’ Matt said, doing his best to ignore Harris’s barbed comment.
‘Yeah, guilty as charged,’ he said smiling. ‘Aren’t I the clever one?’
‘Bastard.’
‘You said before you didn’t trust me. What is it you think I’m involved in? C’mon HSA big-man, give it your best shot.’
Matt shrugged. ‘The usual in your line of work. A backhander from a drug dealer, or selling on your own account.’
‘But you don’t really know, do ya?’
‘How the hell would I?’
Matt was telling the truth. He didn’t know for sure, but seeing him with Simon Wood, discovering large sums of money in various bank accounts, and finding the man living beyond a Detective Inspector’s salary were pretty good circumstantial pointers.
‘So, if you don’t know, no one else at HSA knows anything either. This is what I like to hear, inter-agency ignorance. Same old, same old. Finish him, Pinky.’
Pinky, Matt could see, was standing close to Harris but taking no interest in proceedings. He was facing away, looking out the window. He reached into his pocket and extracted a silencer. He started to screw it to the barrel of his gun as Matt’s bindings fell to the floor.
Matt lifted his trouser leg, pulled out the throwing knife and hurled it with force at Pinky’s head. The heavy knife buried itself into the side of his neck. The gun clattered to the floor, followed by the big man, gurgling and gasping.
Harris, stunned at the demise of his companion, was slow to react. Before he could pull a gun from his waistband, Matt was on him, punching and punching with hatred in his eyes. They rolled towards a door at the back of the room. Matt hauled him to his feet and saw the gun point towards his stomach at the same time as he landed a fist straight into Harris’s face. Harris’s head jerked back and smacked the frame of the door, knocking him out cold. The gun fell to the floor and him beside it.
Matt leaned against the wall, catching his breath and wiping dust from his clothes, trying to get his bearings. Before he could, the door to the room opened. Matt dived into the small room at the back, rolling to b
reak his fall.
Without wasting time, the new guy looked around, spotted Pinky’s body and the inert frame of Harris. He pulled out a handgun and started firing. The guy couldn’t shoot straight, perhaps rattled at seeing both of his mates out of the game, and Matt didn’t make it easy for him, as he was partly inside the room next door, his legs shielded behind Harris’s body.
Matt felt along the floor until he found Harris’s gun. Before he could get a shot away, the gunman disappeared out of the door. Matt was about to run after him, when the gunman reappeared, this time holding a Mac 10 sub-machine gun. Matt pulled back into the next room as the wall was peppered with machine gun fire. It was an old building and none of the slugs thumping against the thick wall penetrated. Just as well, as Matt had his back to it.
When the firing stopped, Matt counted to five before sticking Harris’s gun around the edge of the door frame and letting off a series of shots. When they elicited no reaction, he waited a further ten seconds before chancing a look into the room where he’d been held.
Pinky’s body was still there, but he could see no sign of the guy with the machine gun, and no sign of Harris, who must have crawled away while he was sheltering from the machine-gun’s withering fire. Listening hard, he was sure there was no one else around and, to test his theory, he stood and stuck his hand around the doorway. Attracting no further fire, he strode over to Pinky’s body and picked up his gun, before extracting the knife from his neck and wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s light brown chinos. No sense in leaving a couple of perfectly decent weapons behind.
He ran over to the far wall and peered into the next room. A table with a few empty mugs of coffee, the floor strewn with empty Mac 10 cartridge cases, some chairs, but not much else. He moved to the entrance door on the far side and opened it with caution. It led to a staircase with some doors leading off. He checked the rooms behind the doors in turn. They were large, but empty.
