by Tony Kent
‘HOW MANY OF OUR TEAM DOWN?’ Hale shouted.
‘JUST THOSE TWO. THE REST TOOK COVER.’
‘WHAT ABOUT THEIRS?’
‘ONE DOWN IN THE FIRST EXCHANGE. I COUNT THAT LEAVES THREE MORE. PLUS BURRELL.’
‘WHAT ABOUT THE GUYS FROM THE OFFICE?’
‘IN THE VAN. LOCKED UP BEFORE THE SHOOTING STARTED.’
Hale took a moment to weigh the odds. Right now they were pinned down, but they heavily outmanned Burrell’s men. Probably outgunned them, too. Plus it had taken five shots at a target as big as King? With only two hitting?
Means they can’t shoot for shit, Hale thought, his calm returning. Unlike my boys.
The decision was made.
‘OK. WHAT WE . . . SHIT!!’
Hale felt a ricochet pass him, less than an inch from his cheek. He could feel the heat of its movement.
‘YOU OK?’
‘I’M FINE. BUT WE NEED TO END THIS. NOW!’
‘AGREED!’
The officer signalled down the line. Hale watched the same signal pass from man to man. If he had not given the order he would have no idea what the hand movements meant. To the SO19 officers, they were as meaningful as a spoken sentence.
The first officer held his hand level with his head. Three fingers this time. He turned first to Hale. Then to his right. He lowered a finger.
Two.
Here we go again.
One.
Oh shit.
‘GO GO GO GO!’
The team stood up as one. Twelve firearms specialists and Hale.
It seemed longer, but it had been maybe half a minute since Hale had left the building. In that time Burrell’s men had kept up a consistent rate of fire. It had kept the SO19 team pinned down, which was the aim. But it had also prevented Burrell’s people from moving away. Movement meant pausing fire, and pausing fire against trained gunmen was a fatal mistake. This left Burrell’s team where they had started; on the pavement just outside of the building directly across the street. A spot that did not enjoy the same coverage of a line of parked cars.
It was there that they stood as Hale and the SO19 team rose to their feet and opened fire as one. And so it was there that they fell.
Two went down immediately. A single bullet each. Precisely placed in the centre of their foreheads. One came from the officer next to Hale. The other from the left-hand giant.
Burrell’s third man was taken just seconds later. Two bullets to the back as he ran, his bravado destroyed by the instant death of his friends.
Which left just Burrell himself.
In the moment he had had to think, Hale had wondered if Burrell had stayed for the fight, or if he had done what any sensible boss would and ran. Hale’s gut preferred option one. Burrell was aggressive and arrogant. And Hale had offended him.
He won’t let that go, Hale knew.
And he was right.
When the first two men went down, Burrell broke cover. Perhaps it was knowledge of what was upstairs: enough cocaine to imprison Burrell until his pension, inevitable now as his back-up team dropped like flies. Or perhaps he was just insane. Whatever it was, Burrell did not try to flee. Instead he came forward at a sprint, heading straight for Hale.
It was a journey he could not hope to finish alive.
It was a moment or two before Hale saw him, leaving Hale little time to think. Burrell was moving fast and Hale acted on instinct. With his own weapon already in hand, he aimed it at Burrell’s chest with every intention of pulling the trigger.
Had Burrell been a yard or two closer, Hale would have done exactly that. But he was not, and so Hale had the extra instant to realise that his attacker was not only unarmed, he was in fact still restrained with his arms cuffed behind him. It made Hale hesitate, and it almost allowed the now near-berserk Burrell to reach him.
Almost.
Burrell was just feet away when a bullet tore into the very centre of his chest. Hale did not see the shooter, but it was enough to take Burrell down on its own. Four more bullets – which, from their directions of fire, came from at least two other MP5s – joined it in the next instant. Just to make sure. That was the difference between police officers with guns and a highly trained, specialist firearms unit. The latter did not hesitate when bullets were flying. For them, the questions could always wait.
With the shooting over, Hale stepped forward, towards Burrell’s body.
He looked down and noticed again how small Burrell seemed; if anything the man somehow looked more insignificant in death. Then he looked around. At a road now devastated by gunfire.
He looked back to Burrell.
All of this to be the big boss, he thought. And you didn’t even make it to day five.
FORTY-FIVE
Derek Reid had not slept a full night since Phillip Longman’s death. If he was honest this was nothing new; his sleep had long been fitful, regularly interrupted by toilet breaks that were a symptom of his age. But since Longman’s murder it had been much worse.
He was managing four hours a night. Maybe less. The rest of the time was spent tossing and turning.
Reid had hoped that four bottles of wine would change that. That they would at least see him through the night. But they had not. The thought of his friend’s murder still ravaged him.
The bedside clock had read 2 a.m. when Reid first awoke.
He had chosen to ignore it. To try to sleep. But it proved a hopeless ambition. Forty-five minutes later he was still awake, his mind a bustling hive of images and thoughts.
It was time to accept defeat.
Reid threw off the light sheets that had covered him, exposing his naked body. It was not a sight that filled him with pride as he looked down, but as always he forced himself to ignore it as he slid his legs out of the bed.
He felt the cold of the wooden floor under his feet as he sat up. He stayed there for a few moments, on the edge of the mattress, as a new sensation kicked in. Reid’s head had been filled with his thoughts while he was on his back, but now it actually hurt.
Fine time for a hangover to kick in, he thought.
What he needed now was water, and maybe some paracetamol. The bedside table held neither. A drunken Derek Reid was not a prepared Derek Reid, no matter how much practice he may have had.
Reid rose to his feet and walked towards the built-in wardrobe beyond the end of the bed. He took out a white robe, one he had ‘borrowed’ from a five-star hotel years before. It was just about the only thing his third wife had not taken in their divorce.
Old and beat up, he thought. Like its owner.
The robe was not a perfect fit. ‘One Size Fits All’ is a claim not made with Reid’s body shape and height in mind. But it covered enough, protecting Reid’s modesty from the grand total of no one with whom he shared his home. Still, there were mirrors in the house and Reid did not like what they told him about his naked body.
He slowly made his way out of the room and down the stairs, his legs unsteady from the evening’s excess. It had become a regular night-time journey. Reid could trace the route in his sleep; in fact he probably had. Not that he needed to tonight. He was certainly groggy, but he was awake.
The medicine was kept in the downstairs bathroom, behind the sliding door of the mirrored cabinet. Reid went there first, found a packet of paracetamol and then noticed a single American-strength Alka-Seltzer sachet beside it. Two tablets, brought back from his last trip to New York and designed for exactly what was troubling him.
Reid ignored the paracetamol and took the sachet.
Next he moved to the kitchen. It smelled of spilled red wine and unwashed plates and pans. None of which helped the hangover. Reid tried to ignore it while he filled a tumbler glass with water and dropped in the two Alka-Seltzer tablets.
The fizzing sound would stop once the carbon dioxide was released. Indicating that the medication was ready. It would take at least a minute, so Reid used the time. He took another clean glass from his cupboard, filled i
t with water from his refrigerated filter jug and headed to his living room.
The lounge was pitch-black. The window shutters Michael had fitted when he had rebuilt the front of the house did their job perfectly, blocking out the street light.
Reid moved by memory alone. He was used to the darkness and knew where every obstacle would be. He found his leather chair as easily as if the midday sun were filling the room, sat and lifted the smaller glass to his ear.
The fizzing had stopped, so Reid moved the glass to his lips and drained the contents. Followed by a mouthful of filtered water to wash away the taste.
The TV remote was on the table next to the chair. Reid needed no light to tell him that. The presser, as Reid called it, was always on the table or in his hand. Never anywhere else. He reached out and flicked the flat-screen into life.
Sudden light in complete darkness can have a strange effect upon both the eyes and the brain. Especially a flickering light, like that generated by a television screen. Reid had grown used to it. To the strange images that would appear in his peripheral vision, only to disappear an instant later. It happened all the time and was no cause for concern.
Except for when it was. Except for now.
At first Reid had ignored the figure in the corner of the room, dismissing it as just another figment brought on by the change from dark to light. Reid had no need to convince himself that the image would go. That it would disappear. He just knew that it would.
But it did not. Not in an instant. Not even in a second.
Reid’s heart rate doubled as he jumped to his feet, suddenly realising that what he was seeing was no figment. That it was no trick of his mind. His headache disappeared as the reality hit, his hangover washed away by shock.
‘You’ve let yourself go, Mr Reid.’ The voice was soulless. Empty. ‘Too much luxury in your life.’
Reid could feel the vein in his temple thump. Blood pressure in action. His world was spinning, his breathing laboured from the shock of the last seconds.
Reid had to regain control. Had to calm.
‘You feeling a bit sick?’
That voice again. Something Reid recognised. His brain tried to place it.
‘The shock a bit too much for you, is it?’
There was no joy in the tone. The words were mocking but the voice remained flat.
‘That’ll be the heavy living, Mr Reid. All those expensive dinners.’
The voice was ever more familiar. Whatever memory was being jogged in Reid’s mind was getting closer, and the effort to reach it was somehow calming him.
The figure stepped forward. Out of the corner and towards Reid.
The only light in the room was the TV. It was not enough. Reid could not make out the man’s face in the darkness.
‘Who are you?’
Reid’s voice was strong. Not a trace of fear. It surprised even Reid himself.
‘Me? I’m someone who hasn’t had all those expensive dinners that made you so fat, Mr Reid. I’m someone who hasn’t had all of that fine wine you’re killing yourself with.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Reid almost had it. The memory. So close he could almost touch it. A fact he did not intend to share. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Oh, you know me.’ Finally some life in the voice. Some genuine bitterness. ‘You’ll have thought about me many times, Mr Reid. But not as often as I’ve thought about you.’
The figure stepped closer. Just as the flickering light brightened. It illuminated the room for just a moment. It was long enough.
‘Hirst.’ Everything about the man came to Reid at once. None of it was welcome. ‘Karl Hirst.’
‘See, Mr Reid. I told you you’d remember.’ The words were gloating but the tone was empty once again. It gave nothing away. ‘And do you remember everything else, Mr Reid?’
Reid took a step back as Hirst moved forward. The man’s face became clearer with every slow, deliberate movement. The threat more imminent.
‘Do you remember what you did to me? What you did to the man you were supposed to defend?’
Reid gave no answer. He had none. But he knew exactly what Hirst was referring to. All of it. And finally he knew why Longman had died.
FORTY-SIX
Sarah was still half asleep as she reached out for Michael. She expected her hand to find his chest. It was an unconscious routine; Michael usually slept on his back, and Sarah usually woke first. Today was different. Sarah’s hand found nothing. Michael’s side of their king-sized bed was empty.
She focused on the space beside her as she felt the last ties of sleep slip away. Michael’s side had been slept in. That was clear from the ruffled pillows and sheet. Not that Sarah needed the evidence; she had seen it herself last night. Michael was in bed and asleep by the time Sarah had returned home.
The sounds of movement gradually seeped into Sarah’s brain. The noise at first meant nothing. Now it told a story. Pots and pans crashing against one another. Fast running water. The sound of people talking. Sarah was used to it all. The soundtrack to a Michael Devlin breakfast.
Sarah glanced at the bedside clock. 7.30 a.m. Later than she had planned.
Shit.
She threw back the sheets, leapt out of bed and headed for the room’s walk-in wardrobe. There she took the smaller of the two robes from the hook on the back of the door, slipped it on and made her way downstairs.
The sound and the smell of Michael’s cooking strengthened as Sarah came nearer. So did the sound of Anne Flaherty’s voice. It seemed odd to Sarah to hear her so early in the morning, up and awake instead of sleeping off the previous night’s wine intake.
Michael must have kept her sober last night, Sarah thought. A step in the right direction.
Sarah walked into the kitchen and gave a wry smile at the scene that greeted her. It was one she had come to expect when Michael cooked. The range was an example of regimented organisation, with multiple pans on the hob at once. Eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, mushrooms, black and white puddings. All planned to perfection, to be ready at the same time.
The rest of the room, however, was a disaster. Unused pots and pans. Soiled plates and cutlery. Broken egg shells and food packaging. All discarded haphazardly across the counters. Another hallmark of a Michael Devlin meal.
‘Sarah!’ Anne turned the instant he heard Sarah’s voice. ‘Your man’s making us all breakfast.’
‘I can see that.’ Sarah nodded. ‘And is he going to be cleaning up after breakfast?’
‘What? And leave you with nothing to do all day?’ Michael grabbed her by her waist and pulled her towards him. Careful to keep her away from the stove, he planted a kiss on her lips before speaking again. ‘What sort of man would that make me, eh?’
‘I’ve got plenty to do.’ Sarah pulled away. She knew he was joking. She just was not in the mood to join in. ‘Plus a job.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Big TV star,’ he said with a smile.
Sarah did not respond and Michael seemed to finally take the hint. Falling silent, he began to move the cooked food onto the three plates as he spoke, replacing his Irish accent with a posh English version.
‘Now if Mesdames would kindly take a seat, I will be serving presently.’ He gestured to the table, already set for three. He placed down three plates before speaking again, this time in his broadest Belfast. ‘Who’s ready for an Ulster Fry?’
‘So what brought on the big breakfast?’ Sarah asked as she took her seat, trying to distract herself from rehashing the Wisdom Penfold incident in her mind yet again.
‘I thought you might need it,’ Michael replied. ‘You had a late night.’
‘I’m certainly not complaining. Just a nice surprise. So how did it go yesterday?’
‘You mean in court?’
‘Yeah. You had the phone guy, right? How did that pan out?’
‘As well as we could have hoped. Took some doing because he didn’t like being proved wrong, but by the end he’d accepted that Simon’s phone wa
s not with O’Driscoll’s phone at the time of the murder.’
‘Doesn’t mean Simon wasn’t.’ Sarah was a reporter. Cynicism was her stock in trade, and today she was feeling especially negative. ‘It’s not like he’s attached to his phone.’
‘Try explaining that to Simon,’ Michael replied. ‘And Jenny. She’s as bad as him. Only she doesn’t have the excuse of being a kid. They both seem to think we’ve won the case already.’
‘I thought Jenny was supposed to be the cynic?’
‘So did I.’ Michael sounded disappointed.
Sarah reached out and gripped his forearm.
‘But it went well. That’s what matters, right?’
‘Yeah. You’re right. Of course you’re right.’
‘So what’s today? Is it the big one?’
‘Terry Colliver? No. He’s tomorrow. Today we get Colliver’s pal.’
‘Anything to worry about?’
‘Nah. He’s just a warm-up.’ Michael smiled at the thought. ‘Getting me ready for the main event.’
Sarah squeezed Michael’s forearm again. She was happy to see the sparkle return to his eyes; the anticipation of another day of drama. It lightened her mood. She picked up her fork and took a mouthful of food.
‘So what about you?’ Michael asked. ‘The ferry story kept you out late. There didn’t seem much to report.’
‘But there was plenty we couldn’t report,’ Sarah replied, disappointed that Michael had brought the subject back to here. ‘That’s what took the time.’
‘Like what?’
‘Mainly that the whole thing was connected to Longman’s murder.’
‘What?’ Michael stopped eating. ‘What do you mean? How?’
‘The guy who was arrested. He was the prime suspect.’
‘That was Wisdom Penfold?’
‘Yeah.’ It was Sarah’s turn to be surprised. ‘How did you know that name? Has someone broken the story?’
‘No. I spoke to Levy yesterday. She was asking me about Penfold. Said he was good for Longman and Blunt.’
