Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  9

  TWO DAYS LATER, MILLER RETURNED TO LONDON TO AN EXCEPTIONALLY busy time in politics, debate after debate in Parliament, crucial votes necessary again and again. Add Cabinet Office business to that, and he saw little of Olivia. He also saw little of Ferguson.

  But he himself was not forgotten, certainly not by Quinn, who was thinking a lot about the old days and about one man in particular. He’d been not only a top bomb maker, but a mechanical genius, and his name was Sean Fahy. Born in Kilburn, the Irish quarter of London, he’d lived there all his life, a problem solver of the first water. Quinn wondered . . . He went to his laptop and soon found a number and an address: Derry Street Garage. He phoned a special number from the old days and waited. It seemed to ring forever—and then, unbelievably, it was picked up.

  FAHY WAS SIXTY-FIVE and looked older, with sallow cheeks and a kind of eternal sadness to him, the general look of a man who had found life more disappointing than he had hoped. He wore an old raincoat over a dark suit, a shirt so old-fashioned it lacked a collar, and a battered tweed cap, touched with oil from too much time spent under automobiles. He had been out in the yard, about to leave his premises, when he’d heard the sound of the old telephone, the one someone in the Movement had fitted illegally for him in the pantry. He hadn’t answered a call in years, because there hadn’t been one. He slumped on a stool, breathing hard from his rush to get in, and put the phone to his ear.

  “Who is this?”

  “Michael Quinn, you old sod. How are you?”

  “Mother Mary, after all these years. Quinn! What in the hell do you want?”

  “A kind word would be welcome, especially as I have work for you that would be right up your street. Take my number. I’m calling from County Louth. Go on, take it. You won’t regret it.” There was an old pencil in a jar beside the phone, so reluctantly he used it to write on the whitewashed pantry wall. He was slightly incredulous, and in any case didn’t feel well.

  “For God’s sake, Quinn, it’s over, the whole bloody game. Peace in Ireland and all that shite. I was your best bomb maker and that’s a fact, but the days of the bomb are over, except for the damned Muslims.”

  “Never mind the bombs, you were also a mechanical genius, you knew more about car engines than any man I knew. Remember that judge who was killed in his car in County Down when you came over from London special? That was no bomb, just your touch with the engines.”

  “I remember him well enough, and also the wife that was with him and left in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. No, whatever it is, I’m not interested. Now I’m due at a nursing home to see my wife, so I’ll say good-bye.”

  “Fifty thousand pounds.”

  Fahy stood there for a moment clutching the phone. “For what?”

  “For what you’ve done many times before—helping someone out of this wicked old world into the next.”

  “You must be mad. Leave me alone, and I mean that. Don’t call again.”

  QUINN THOUGHT ABOUT IT and then spoke to the Broker. “I’ve got a prospect who could be of use to me residing in Kilburn. His name is Sean Fahy, at a place called Derry Street Garage. He has a flat above it. See if this Ali Hassim of yours can have somebody give him the once-over to see what the situation is. It could be important.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Something stirring?”

  “I think so.”

  FAHY WAS WALKING through dark rain, head down, in a turmoil, and the pain in his gut that had started only a couple of weeks earlier was really hurting. He would be late for Maggie and he hated that, but when Doc Smith’s secretary had phoned about the X-ray results from the hospital, she’d been abrupt with him. The doctor needed to see him and that was that. Ten minutes later, he walked into the surgery and the receptionist told him to go straight in.

  He knew it was bad news, you could see it on Smith’s face; he had the X-rays up on the screen and the report from the hospital. Fahy made it easy for him. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Cancer of the pancreas. We’ve known each other a long time.”

  “Serviced your bloody car for years. How long have I got?”

  “Three months tops.”

  “Can’t anything help? Chemotherapy or drugs?”

  “Not with this.” Smith hesitated. “I know it presents you with a difficulty regarding your wife.”

  Fahy got up, surprisingly calm. “Not now, Doc.”

  AT SAINT JOSEPH’S HOSPICE, he sat holding her hand while she lay propped up in bed, unaware of his presence, and it struck him again how cruel Alzheimer’s could be, to destroy the real person she had been for forty years and leave only a vacant shell.

  Sister Ursula looked in. “I think that’s enough for today, Sean.”

  He kissed Maggie’s hands and followed the young nun out, thinking how good the nuns were and that at least Maggie had the loving-kindness of the hospice.

  In the entrance hall, Sister Ursula said, “Sit down a minute, Sean.” He did and she carried on. “The local hospital trust wants to move her. I did warn you it might happen. They say their facility is perfectly adequate and at their price.”

  “I want her to stay with you. I’ll find the extra.”

  “That isn’t the point. We’re private, and they don’t like that. We’d be happy to keep her on at the rate they charge, but they’re going to refuse to pay it if she stays here, and they’ll get away with it because they’ve got room for her there.”

  “It’s no better than a madhouse, Victorian style. I wouldn’t keep a dog in there.”

  “But can you afford it here, Sean? It would be a great burden.”

  He stood. “Not to worry, Sister, I’ve come into a bit of money. I’ll just need a week or two to sort things out.”

  Her smile of relief filled the room. “I’m so relieved.”

  “To tell you the truth, so am I.”

  FAHY LET HIMSELF in the main door. The garage was huge, extending all the way into the back of the property. It smelled of petrol and oil. There was a big white Ford van with Vehicle Recovery painted on the side and an old Triumph roadster that went back a few years. He patted its roof as he went by and reached the kitchen through a small door. He found himself a pen and pad just in case and sat on the stool in the pantry and phoned.

  “You’re back,” Quinn said. “That’s wonderful. Good on you, Sean.”

  “Don’t stroke me. First of all, before you say another word, these are my terms.”

  “Go on,” Quinn said.

  “You’ll arrange a bank draft for fifty thousand pounds within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “You want payment in advance?”

  “No, I want the first installment in advance. Successful completion costs you another twenty-five.”

  Quinn laughed. “You old bastard. You thought I’d quibble? Your money is in the bag. First thing in the morning.”

  “So who are we going to ease into the next world?”

  “A Major Harry Miller. He’s a Member of Parliament and an under secretary of state. Does that scare you off? He put plenty of your comrades in their graves in the old days, believe me.”

  “I’m not worried in the slightest. So what are the specific details?”

  “Do you have a computer?”

  “I have for years. It’s old, but it seems to do the job.”

  “I’ll pass a load of stuff to you now. When we were talking earlier, you said you had to get off to see your wife in a nursing home. Maggie, as I remember. Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Fahy told him. “A woman’s thing.”

  “That’s good. Just give me your e-mail address.”

  BY THE TIME he got to the computer in his office, the attachments were there and he printed them out, three sheets in all, then sat down, took a bottle of Bushmills out of a drawer, poured another one, and started reading. It was just like the old days: details of the target, family, general circumstances, Miller’s wife, his sister, and then Miller himself.
He sat looking at the photos and the material collated by Ali Hassim’s people, photos of Dover Street. The whiskey he’d taken had killed most of the pain now, so he sat back and smoked a cigarette and allowed all the information to come together. One thing was essential. He needed to check out Dover Street for himself, so he went downstairs, opened the garage, and drove away in the Triumph roadster.

  HE LIKED MAYFAIR, always had, the network of streets lined with fine properties, some from as early as the eighteenth century. Dover Street was no exception. Most townhouses didn’t have garages, but that was common enough and parking was at the curb when available. Fahy noted the Mini Cooper outside Miller’s house. He’d already seen that on a surreptitious photo taken by a sweeper.

  Fahy reversed into the cul-de-sac now. There were two other cars there, and when he checked, they each had a residential parking permit. He went out into Dorset Street and checked Chico’s. There were a couple of tables with chairs in the wide doorway. For the moment, the café was quiet, just one girl behind the bar. He went in and asked for a coffee, then sat in the doorway, looking along the street.

  It was luck, of course, but it wasn’t long before a black limousine turned into the end of the street, not a Mercedes, but an Amara. It halted next to the Mini Cooper, and a driver got out and held the passenger door open. Miller had a bundle of files under one arm and carried a briefcase. Fahy knew all about the Amara, a luxury vehicle and yet still a performance car. The engine was in the rear, which could make access easier for what Fahy intended. On the other hand, he’d no means of knowing if the change of vehicle was permanent. Miller talked for a minute, then the driver got back behind the wheel and drove away, passing Chico’s. Fahy watched as Miller struggled to get his key out, but he finally managed it and entered the house. Curious how close you could face your intended victim; he’d forgotten how that felt. Still, it was all beginning to make sense. As he got up to go, he noticed a street-sweeper in yellow turn the corner. It struck him he’d have to do something about that, and he returned to his Triumph and looked around. There was a manhole cover close to the wall with London Water engraved on it. It was like a sign from heaven. He got behind the wheel of the Triumph and drove away.

  BACK AT THE GARAGE, Fahy sat at his desk and had another Bushmills. He’d have to watch it, but it was a genuine relief from the pain for a while. He phoned Quinn.

  “Is the money arranged?”

  “Yes. It’s coming from Ali Hassim’s people, a man they call the Broker.”

  “I don’t care who it’s from, as long as it’s money.”

  “I’ve arranged for them to speak with you in a little while.”

  “That’s okay by me.”

  “Can I ask you how you are going to do this thing?”

  “You said you wanted it to be a car accident.”

  “And you can do that?”

  “I think so. But there’s always an element of uncertainty. Take Princess Diana in Paris. Four of them in the limousine, three dead, and yet her bodyguard survived. Very badly injured, mind you, but you get my point.”

  “We’ll have to take our chances with that. What help do you need?”

  “The stuff from this Ali Hassim was useful. I’ve got a question about the street-sweepers, though.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you talk to the Broker about it when he calls.”

  “Fine by me.”

  IT WAS ONLY half an hour later that the phone rang as Fahy was making a sandwich. “This is the Broker, Mr. Fahy. Quinn is quite hopeful about things after you spoke to him.” He was warm and courteous, very English in an old-fashioned way. Fahy pretty well repeated what he had told Quinn.

  When he was finished, the Broker said, “You make good sense. After all, there is risk in everything in this life. Wasn’t there supposed to be a murderer in Victorian London who survived three attempts to hang him?”

  “So they say.”

  “Quinn says you were pleased with the material Hassim’s sweepers obtained?”

  “Yes, good stuff. But I was in Dover Street earlier, checking things out, and a sweeper turned up at the end of the street. They look a bit conspicuous in that yellow gear. Hassim can get his hands on all sorts of people?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, eliminate the sweeper and let’s have a traffic warden. They’re much less conspicuous.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “And see what Hassim’s connections are with the Water Board. They have those small green maintenance vans. I’d like one delivered to my garage tomorrow. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

  “Consider that done also. I’ve heard details of your record with the IRA. Very impressive.”

  “Yes. I’ve killed a Member of Parliament before.”

  “Do you really think you can make Harry Miller kill himself in a car accident?”

  “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’m hoping I can make his chauffeur kill him. Now, what about the money? If it’s not here in the morning, I’m done with you.”

  The Broker said, “At precisely noon tomorrow, my messenger will arrive at your garage. He’ll give you an envelope containing a key to a locker at an establishment in Camden. That’s not far from you.”

  “Just down the road. What kind of establishment?”

  “Once the messenger has departed, I’ll phone you with the name and number of the locker and in it will be a manila envelope containing an open bank draft with the Bank of Geneva behind it. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Isn’t that a roundabout way of doing it?”

  “A safe way, Mr. Fahy. We’ll speak again.”

  NEXT, the Broker spoke to Ali Hassim and told him to do exactly what Fahy wanted. Then he spoke to Volkov in Moscow. Volkov listened patiently, and when the Broker was finished, said, “I can see what Fahy is getting at. Let’s face it, you could break your neck stepping off the pavement on the wrong foot. Let’s see what the Irishman comes up with. His record’s admittedly a long time ago, but it’s impressive.”

  “Even Miller in a wheelchair would be worth it,” the Broker said. “Just one more thing. Quinn was supposed to come to London. You told him you felt that Ferguson wouldn’t dare arrest him. But he greatly fears that Ferguson might not be able to resist.”

  “In other words, he’s lost his nerve.”

  “So it would appear. He hasn’t returned to his Dublin office. He’s staying on at Drumore Place, well-guarded by old associates.”

  “Oh, dear.” Volkov laughed harshly. “Well, first things first. We’ll let Fahy go about his business. Then I’ll deal with Quinn afterwards.”

  FOR FAHY there were the painkillers that Dr. Smith had originally given him, and coupled with the Bushmills, he had a better night than he had expected. He rose at eight, went down to a café in the next street and tried the comfort of a full English breakfast, returned to the garage and waited, slightly aimless, and then it happened. At noon on the dot, a special deliveryman in black helmet and leathers and riding a BMW motorcycle appeared. The garage door was up, Fahy waiting. He was offered an envelope.

  “Do I sign?”

  “No.” The messenger rode away.

  There was a Yale key inside and a blue plastic card in the name of Smith & Co. and the notation Full Membership. It didn’t say where for, but before Fahy could think about it, the phone rang and the Broker said, “You have it?”

  “Yes, and a bit of useless plastic.”

  “A group membership card to a place called The Turkish Rooms in Hoxley Grove off Camden High Street. You simply walk in with the card, go through an archway, turn right, and you’ll find the locker room, wood-paneled, very friendly. The lockers are for clothes. Your key fits locker seven. You’ll find what you want in there, lock it again, and leave.”

  NO MORE than a couple of miles down the road to Camden, Fahy found an old Victorian building with a sign that said The Turkish Rooms, and parked outside. He went in through the marbled entrance hall, found an empty r
eception desk and a button that said Ring for Attention. He ignored it, turned right, and found the locker room. There was no one there, but beyond, through another archway, came sounds of voices, showers behind metal doors.

  He had locker seven open in an instant, found a manila envelope, and there was the draft. He locked up again, went straight out, the desk still unattended, got in the Triumph, and drove to Kilburn to the branch of HSBC where he had his account.

  He asked for the duty manager, waited until he had confirmation that the money was credited to his account, and drove straight to St. Joseph’s Hospice, where he saw his wife.

  She was much as usual, pale and wan, but her hair had been neatly arranged and her nightgown and robe were clean and fresh. The nuns were wonderful at that. Truly caring. She lay propped up by pillows, staring vacantly into her own private world.

  Sister Ursula found him there. “She’s a little better this morning, Sean.” He forgave her the lie.

  “A bit of an inheritance has come through, Sister. She’ll end her days in your care.”

  “Are you sure, Sean?”

  “Just work out the cost, Sister. I’ll make you out a check for a year in advance if you like.”