by Iain Cameron
He wasn’t prepared to slum it in a draughty place where he could die a miserable death, riddled with ’flu or hypothermia. The cottage was modern inside with a comfortable sitting room, three good-sized bedrooms, a decent-sized new kitchen and luxury bathrooms with power showers. He’d decided early on he didn’t want regular deliveries of any sort, such as oil or gas tankers, so the whole place was powered by electricity. He did have a log burner in the lounge, and in the absence of any trees on the island, he fuelled it using bought-in logs which he brought there himself and driftwood, which included the odd tree trunk, thrown up in winter by Atlantic storms. He could have chopped up the rowing boat he stole, but he needed it to serve a different purpose. Perhaps through a process of serendipity, after it had been spotted and reported to the coastguard, a storm would break it up and send the wood back to his cove.
When he arrived back at the cottage, he put everything in its rightful place: his jacket on the coat stand, the fish in the kitchen, and his fishing gear under the stairs. He made a coffee and when he’d warmed up, he started gutting the fish. He did the little ones first, saving the big cod until last.
When he finally pulled it towards him, he took a good look at the fish’s muscular frame, large mouth and powerful tail, before putting it on the scales. It topped out at five pounds four ounces, the largest fish he’d ever caught using a line. One thing Ireland was famous for was its spuds, and like many houses on the island, there was a crop slowly maturing in his back garden. With the cod neatly sliced and stored in the freezer, he looked forward to the many plates of fish and chips he would enjoy over the coming few weeks.
He washed his hands a couple of times, but knew it would be several days before the smell of fish would finally depart. He walked over to the coat stand and selected a different jacket and a woollen hat. The hat was more for disguise than anything to do with the weather outside, rays of sun bursting through a picture postcard sky of fluffy cumulus clouds. His beard was getting thicker, but he still looked like the Patrick Doherty of old in the mirror. He wasn’t the best judge, of course, but with no one else to ask, his was the only opinion he could listen to.
He walked out of the cottage and, for the second time in a week, headed towards civilisation, a farm about half-a-mile distant. From a position behind a dry-stone wall about twenty metres from the farmhouse, he could pick up a phone signal, one or two bars at least, and enough to make a phone call.
He’d called IRM’s Head Office in Belfast soon after arriving on Inishmore. He’d discussed the search for him with his trusted right-hand man, Seamus Dooley. He told him to send money to Liam Maloney for the use of the bike, and his theory about the presence of moles in the organisation. At that time, Doherty’s face was in all the Irish newspapers, hence the continued need for a disguise, although everyone else seemed to have moved on and lost interest.
Seamus Dooley was a catholic from a staunch republican family in Dublin. His late grandfather had been involved in the Easter Rebellion of 1916, and regarded the six counties of Ulster as an abomination, and unfinished business. Dooley’s father had no wish to continue the fight, but the young Seamus Dooley, schooled in Irish politics by his feisty grandpappy, could see no other option, or he would betray the old boy’s memory.
‘Yer yesterday’s news, Pat,’ Dooley said, after trading pleasantries. ‘You’ll be fine coming back now.’
‘Don’t be daft, man,’ Doherty said. ‘People in this country have long memories. Christ, don’t the prods celebrate something that happened over three hundred years ago every bloody year?’
‘Aye,’ he said laughing, ‘yer right there.’
‘It’ll take a few more weeks, even months, of my face not appearing in any fucking newspaper before I feel able to come back.’
‘Are you sure, Pat? I think–’
‘Of course I’m sure. Is there any word of the PSNI or the Garda continuing their investigation?’
‘I’ve scanned every paper I can lay my hands on, Pat, but I found nothin’. Westport is history.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘When it was first reported, they were full of the usual shite, ‘we’ve put a stop to a major terrorist threat’ blah de blah de blah. I think the local plods have been partying on the story ever since.’
‘Nevertheless, keep your eye on the papers and the websites of the security services. I’ll be doing the same here. I want a life after this.’
‘I’m sure you do. How’s it going wherever you are?’
Doherty sighed. ‘It’s not so bad. I’d stocked up plenty of food and booze, but I tell ye, I’m desperate to get away from here and start the rebellion.’
‘It’ll be a great day, right enough, but don’t ask any advice if you get lonely. With five brothers and two sisters, I’ve never spent a day on me own in me life.’
‘Am I right in thinking the shipment that did get through is all sorted?’
‘Aye, you’re right there. It’s all hidden away, ready to roll when you give us the nod.’
‘My, it’s great to hear,’ Doherty said and meant it. ‘I told you before, Seamus, we were bound to lose a container or two, but no way could we predict the other side being so lucky, though one shipment will be enough to get it all off the ground. Once it kicks off, people will rush to join us, bringing out gear hidden in their attic and offering different avenues to bring more stuff in.’
Doherty was avoiding specifics, as he couldn’t be sure who was listening. Dooley, on the other hand, didn’t do circumspect. He liked things spelled out in simple terms but for once, his associate had caught his drift and didn’t ask a load of stupid questions.
‘I’m pleased to hear you living out in the sticks hasn’t dented your legendary confidence, Pat.’
‘You better believe it, Seamus. When the starting gun’s fired, I’ll be at the front of the queue, raring to go.’
‘Right, Pat.’
‘Any joy with our two snakes in the grass, Lamont and McGiven?’
‘Big Tony did what Big Tony does best. You won’t be seeing them again.’
‘Seamus, I didn’t ask you to kill them, I asked you to question them. I’ll kill the bastards myself if I find out they’ve been talking to the opposition, but not now, it would attract too much attention.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What did they say? Have either of them alerted the other side to what we’re planning?’
‘No Pat, they’re not moles and they didn’t talk to anyone they shouldn’t have.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘If Big Tony says so, I believe him.’
‘I believe him too.’
‘I guess the other side just got lucky.’
‘With fucking luck like that, no way am I coming back soon.’
Chapter 25
Rosie drove home, her mind focussed on the job and not on the road ahead. The revelation of Tracey Darwin on Monday that her ex, Jack Harris, was a fan of Estepona in Spain hadn’t given her and Matt the green light to dig out the passports and sun cream. No, Siki would be put on the case first. He needed to confirm if Harris did indeed own a property in or near the resort and, if so, had he recently travelled there.
If both issues were resolved in the affirmative, they still wouldn’t go chasing after him, as they also needed the cooperation of the Estepona Police. She imagined they wouldn’t be best pleased at a bunch of foreign cops disturbing the peace of their town, however, the idea of having a serious British criminal in their midst would thrill them even less.
The thought of telling her airline pilot partner, Andrew, that she could be going on an overseas trip for a few days brought a smile to her face. When travelling to the States, he was entitled to three days’ rest and recovery. Whenever it appeared in the schedules, he couldn’t hide his stupid grin, as if lounging around a pool in Miami with a couple of lithe female flight attendants lying by the side of his sunbed, was a big secret.
She arrived home and locked her car in t
he garage. All HSA agents were instructed to do the same. In the time spent taking something like shopping inside the house and packing it away, an assailant could have fitted a tracker or an explosive device. This was an important consideration now as Patrick Doherty was a former IRA operative, an organisation at one time with great expertise in the manufacture and deployment of car bombs.
It was too early to start making a meal and instead she switched on the coffee machine. She was tempted by the half-finished bottle of rosé in the fridge, but decided to leave it where it was as there were a few things she needed to do first. She made coffee, sat at the kitchen table, and opened the file she’d placed there.
She took out a copy of a map of the west coast of Ireland. The village of Doolin, where Patrick Doherty had spent much time as a child, was situated on the Irish mainland, opposite the Aran Islands, three large and sparsely populated islands in Galway Bay. Matt believed it wouldn’t be a bad place for a fugitive like Doherty to hang out, but she needed more than mere supposition before launching any operation to try and find him.
As yet, there was no clear evidence to link Doherty to the missing boat at Doolin Pier. Several alternative theories carried as much weight: it could have been an insurance scam, or a boat lent to a friend, a fact perhaps forgotten by the owner if it was done over a few pints in the local pub. Matt wanted to continue monitoring these local incidents, but Rosie couldn’t see the point. Doherty had money and it was likely he had all the elements of his escape plan cemented in place prior to the Westport raid. In her opinion, he wouldn’t have needed to steal anything to make the plan work.
They would find him through intel. Sooner or later he needed to make contact with his old buddies in Belfast, and then the PSNI were confident of picking him up. If this failed, she felt sure the desire to make a personal appearance would be too strong. He perhaps believed the enclave where he resided in north Belfast would shield him from the long arm of the law, but he would soon find out the reach of HSA was much longer.
She opened her laptop and, using Google Maps found Galway Bay. After locating the village of Doolin, she took a look at the Aran Islands. The pictures on the web showed a green, hospitable place, but with nothing between them and the United States except water, she would bet they were tough places to live during winter. With the resources Doherty had at his disposal, she was sure he would have picked a more hospitable place to keep his head down.
An email arrived. It was from DI Hillman at Counter Terrorism Command. This time the tone was less flirty, perhaps he was getting the message that she wasn’t interested. It wasn’t as if she was happy in her current relationship, but she didn’t want to get involved with someone from HSA or the police.
At least with Andrew, talk of traffic jams in Cairo or giant burgers in Boston made a pleasant change from murders and terrorist gunrunners. Starting a relationship with a copper would double her anxiety levels. Not only would she worry about the HSA agents under her control, she would also be concerned if her partner was involved in a dangerous operation.
The email kicked off with a summary of the team’s successes, intercepting a container of guns at the Leicester warehouse, and a subsequent shipment stopped on the M6. It went on to describe an interview with the driver of the intercepted lorry, who told them of another consignment due to pass through the port of Dundalk in the Irish Republic.
Despite pulling the manifests and watching the port for a number of days, they’d found nothing. This suggested either the driver was wrong, or the guns had already reached the paramilitaries. Despite intercepting a large quantity of arms and ammunition, if this shipment of thirty-odd rifles, grenades and rocket launchers had evaded their dragnet, all their other successes at capturing weapons would have been for nothing.
Hillman could do no more than wring his hands in frustration and ask those with their ear to the ground in Belfast to be on the lookout. Rosie lifted her coffee cup, her features marked in concern at this turn of events. It now made the catching of Patrick Doherty all the more important. IRM was a young organisation and, by all accounts, held together by the will and force of Doherty’s personality. If he’d drowned at Westport, the intelligence services believed IRM would fall apart, but if Doherty was still alive, it was now doubly-important to find him before he could start directing the armed rebellion from his hiding place.
She fired off several emails and worked on some other things until seven when she closed the lid of the laptop, rose from her seat and switched on the oven. An hour later, she carried a tray bearing a plate of battered fish and salad into the lounge. She placed the tray on the coffee table and walked over to their DVD collection. She wanted something to shut out all thoughts of the hunt for Jack Harris and Patrick Doherty from her mind; a film to make her think and immerse herself in the story. She picked out one of her favourites, one that had done the trick before, Cabaret, and slotted it into the DVD player.
The credits rolled at eleven. Cabaret wasn’t such a long film, but she’d paused it several times when first Andrew, then her Mum called, and again when she thought she heard strange goings-on in the back garden. It wasn’t an intruder, but a fox pulling apart a small rabbit.
She checked all the doors were locked and, before switching off the last remaining downstairs light, set the alarm. It operated on a zonal system. When it finished beeping, only the detectors in the downstairs rooms were active, while those in the upstairs rooms were switched off. She climbed the stairs.
She didn’t feel scared when Andrew went away, she still had her Glock, but it didn’t stop her feeling apprehensive. It was an irrational feeling as Andrew would be useless in confronting an intruder. His choice of weapon would be a golf club picked from the bag in the hall, but of little use in a confined space or against a better-armed opponent. In addition, most people without proper training often froze when confronted with real danger.
At the top of the stairs she turned towards her bedroom when something shot out and smacked her in the face. She fell backwards, her feet feeling for traction but finding none. She tumbled down the stairs. She curled up, trying to protect her face as she thumped against the wall and the edges of every step. She came to a halt three-quarters of the way down, bashed but not broken, the thick carpeting cushioning her fall. She looked up and saw a gun pointing at her.
She dived over the last remaining steps, around a curve in the stairs, and hit the ground floor. Two bullets whacked into the wall where seconds ago she had been.
She sat up and pulled out her own weapon and tried hard to focus, her head swimming and woozy as if heavily drunk. She saw a shadow become larger as it moved down the stairs. A figure appeared, black, indistinct, the edges fuzzy, like a shape-shifter in a horror movie. She started firing and only stopped when she saw the figure fall to its knees before tumbling down the remaining steps and collapsing on the floor. She leaned back against the wall and blacked out, the sound of the alarm bell ringing in her ears.
Chapter 26
The Church Langley district of Harlow was deathly quiet as Matt drove through. The commuters to London, Chelmsford and Stansted Airport were all tucked up in bed, gathering their strength for another gruelling day at the shop, factory, office, or educational establishment.
Turning into Rosie’s road, Matt could see a few of the residents would be wielding their pens or facing their customers with blearier eyes than usual this morning. A collection of vehicles were gathered around Rosie’s house, and a small gang of the curious huddled together as close to the activity as the copper standing there would allow.
Matt walked into the house and sidled past men in white coats carting out items of evidence to waiting vans. He found Rosie in the kitchen talking to someone he guessed was a local detective. She nodded to Matt and he did the same to her.
‘Do I understand you right?’ he heard the detective say. ‘You don’t want us to investigate? This is a serious shooting incident for Chrissakes.’
‘This event forms pa
rt of a wider, on-going HSA investigation. It would be foolish for you and your team to become involved. It would only complicate things and put your people in the firing line.’
‘What do I tell my governor? This will be front page news.’
Matt tuned out and wandered off to have a look at the scene. Rosie was talking with a clear head and all her limbs appeared to be working. The ambulance he passed on his way into Church Langley was either returning to base empty after a cautionary call-out, unlikely with the speed it was moving and blue light flashing, suggesting someone else was inside.
The forensic guys were focussing on the stairs and Matt did too. They’d circled several areas of the wall with a red pen and, on closer inspection he noticed bullets embedded there. Two red circles were in a tight cluster in the wall at the bottom near the front door, bullets he imagined had been fired from a gun at or near the top of the stairs. Another five in a much looser pattern were on another wall about halfway up. Turning around, he believed they would have been fired from a position at the bottom of the stairs. Without knowing who fired which gun and whether anyone was injured, it was difficult to piece it all together.
‘Have you sussed it, Detective?’
He spun around to see Rosie standing there. He walked down the stairs and pulled her towards him. Boss or not, she deserved a hug.
‘A rare show of affection, Flynn,’ she said breaking away after a few seconds. ‘Careful, I might get used to it.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, considering the evening I’ve had. Bit of a sore back and a few bruises, nothing else.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘Let’s move into the kitchen and get ourselves a drink. My throat’s dry after talking to that detective for so long.’
