‘We’ve spoken to all of them,’ said the other man with Austin. ‘They won’t speak.’ He said it with something approaching smugness.
‘I heard your boss was on his way down here,’ Austin informed the counter-terrorist.
‘Donaldson? What does he want?’ Doyle enquired, his gaze still fixed on Sheehan.
‘The same thing we all do. Information,’ said the policeman. ‘It seems unlikely we’re going to get it just yet. Perhaps when the bastard’s sat there for a few more hours without a cigarette or the chance to have a piss he’ll feel like talking.’ Austin and his companion smiled at each other.
‘Bollocks,’ said Doyle. ‘It’s going to take more than a bursting bladder to make him talk.’
‘Why don’t you have a word with him?’ said the other policeman, a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Perhaps he’ll be so scared he’ll tell you everything.’ The man chuckled.
‘Look, mate, I guessed you were a prick,’ said Doyle. ‘You don’t have to advertise the fact.’ He took another sip of his coffee, not even giving the other man the benefit of a glance.
The policeman was on his feet in seconds, lunging at Doyle, who merely moved to one side, allowing Austin to grab his furious companion.
‘Cut it out,’ the Chief Inspector snapped, holding the other man by the shoulders and finally shoving him back towards his seat. The man, Garner, looked angrily at Doyle.
‘They won’t talk, Doyle,’ Austin said, with an air of finality. ‘None of them.’
‘They’ll talk to me,’ said the counter-terrorist, putting down his cup.
‘No way. You set one foot in that room and they’ll be crying police brutality.’
‘Let them,’ said Doyle. ‘Who’s going to hear?’ He turned and headed for the door which led through into the smaller room.
‘Doyle, I’m ordering you,’ shouted Austin.
‘You can’t order me. Donaldson can but he’s not here, is he?’ said the younger man, one hand on the door knob. ‘I told you, I just want a chat with him.’
‘Go on then, big shot,’ hissed Gamer.
‘You shut up, too,’ Austin said, rounding on his companion.
Doyle turned the knob.
‘Who do you think you are, bloody Clint Eastwood?’ snapped the C. I.
The door was closed.
Doyle was inside the room.
‘Mouthy bastard,’ said Gamer, watching Doyle as he approached the table where Sheehan sat. ‘The mick won’t talk to him. Who does he think he is, anyway?’
‘Shut up, Gamer,’ Austin said wearily. ‘Just shut up.’
Both men watched in silence as Doyle went to work.
Sixteen
Thomas Sheehan looked up as the door opened, his eyes flicking appraisingly over this newcomer. If the Irishman was surprised by Doyle’s appearance it didn’t show in his face but for a slight narrowing of his eyes. He chewed part of his thumbnail away and spat it onto the floor in front of Doyle, who merely walked around to the other side of the table and rested one booted foot on the chair.
His eyes never left Sheehan’s.
The man was sweating slightly but not, Doyle guessed, from fear. He’d seen men like Sheehan before. Hard bastards. Prepared to take it rough, if they had to. Fear of their own colleagues was sometimes a more potent obstacle to communication than fear of the authorities.
Doyle meant to change that.
‘You’ve probably had the nice copper, bad copper routine already,’ said Doyle, lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke in the direction of the Irishman. ‘Been sitting here a while, busting for a piss, dying for a fag, wondering how much longer they’re going to keep you sitting here. Well, Tommy, that’s all down to you. You can sit here for another few hours, you can sit here for another few days, for all I care. You might have got time to waste but I haven’t. I need to talk to you, or, more to the point, I need you to talk to me. If you want to make it easy, that’s fine; if you want to make it hard on yourself I really couldn’t give a fuck either way. I want some answers before I leave this room.’
‘Nice speech. Go fuck yourself,’ said Sheehan, looking around the room, anywhere but at Doyle.
A slight smile creased Doyle’s lips.
Well, well, no wonder Austin could get nothing from him, thought the counter-terrorist.
‘I’m not answering your fucking questions. Go to hell,’ Sheehan said dismissively, this time looking at the younger man.
‘If I go, you’re coming with me,’ Doyle told him, noting the surprise in the Irishman’s eyes as he heard the words spoken in his native tongue. ‘Now, start talking. Why the meeting?’
‘Fuck you.’
Doyle drove his boot against the edge of the table, propelling it with great force and power into the chest of the Irishman who was knocked from his chair by the impact. He crashed heavily against the wall, banging his head. Doyle was on him in a second, dragging him to his feet and slamming him upright against the white tiled wall.
‘What’s going on?’ he snarled, in English this time. ‘Talk to me, you bastard.’
Sheehan felt his feet being lifted from the floor as Doyle exerted more pressure on his throat. The Irishman summoned a mouthful of spittle and spat into the Englishman’s face.
Doyle’s eyes blazed with rage and he drove a fist into Sheehan’s stomach. The blow tore the breath from the man and also released the last shreds of control he was keeping on his full bladder. As he sank to the floor a dark stain began to spread across the front of his trousers.
Doyle placed one foot on the man’s chest, watching as the urine soaked through his clothes, some of it pooling beneath him.
‘Messy boy,’ he chided, digging the heel of his boot into Sheehan’s chest more firmly. The knot of muscles at the side of the Englishman’s jaw pulsed angrily.
‘Talk to me, shithead,’ Doyle said. The acrid stench of urine reached his nostrils. ‘You’re starting to stink and I don’t want to spend any more time in here than I have to. So, tell me what the fuck is going on?’ He slammed Sheehan back against the wall even harder.
The Irishman raised his hands and tried to pull his tormentor’s arms down, anything to relieve the pressure on his throat but Doyle merely pressed his thumbs in harder, watching with relish as his opponent’s face began to turn scarlet.
It looked as if Sheehan was trying to speak but the only sounds he could make were strangled gasps. Doyle held him a moment longer then hurled him across the room where he rolled once, then crashed into the other wall, right beneath the two-way mirror. Doyle took two paces and was on him again. This time he simply drove the toe of his boot into the Irishman’s side, satisfied when he heard a dull crack.
One rib gone, he thought.
Sheehan groaned and reached for his injured side but Doyle dragged him upright again, staring deeply into his eyes.
‘You can’t do this,’ the Irishman groaned. ‘I’ve got rights.’
‘You’ve got nothing,’ Doyle said, slamming him back against the wall again.
This time the impact was so violent that it opened a cut on the back of Sheehan’s head. Blood began to well from the gash and trickle through his hair. Doyle glanced at the crimson smear on the wall without a flicker of emotion. He slammed Sheehan down into the one seat which was still standing and grabbed the back of his head, getting a handful of hair in his fist, ignoring the blood that stained his palm. He jerked Sheehan’s head back so sharply it seemed he would break his neck.
‘Why don’t you talk to the others?’ Sheehan rasped.
‘Because they’re small fry. You organized that meeting tonight. You’re the one who knows what’s going on and why. Now tell me or I swear to Christ I’ll break your fucking neck.’ As if to reinforce the conviction of his statement, Doyle jerked even harder on the Irishman’s hair, almost causing him to overbalance.
‘I can’t talk,’ said Sheehan with difficulty. He felt close to fainting.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Do
yle said and suddenly hurled Sheehan forward, driving his head against the table top with such force that it broke his nose. Blood exploded from the shattered appendage and ran down the Irishman’s face and shirt, mingling with the urine that had already stained his trousers.
Doyle stepped back. Sheehan was burbling incoherently now, his face was a crimson mask. He finally managed to sit up, one hand held to his face. Blood seeped through his fingers. He looked at the counter-terrorist with hatred in his eyes but Doyle saw something else there too.
Fear, perhaps?
The Irishman was breathing heavily, deep gasping breaths through his open mouth as he held his pulverized nose, occasionally taking his hand away to inspect the amount of blood on his fingers.
‘You bastard,’ he hissed at Doyle. ‘And you expect me to talk?’ He tried to grin but it appeared as a leer.
‘I don’t expect you to,’ Doyle informed him. ‘But I advise you to, unless you want your cheek bones and your jaw to end up like your nose.’ There was no inflection in the words, no threat. Merely the statement of the inevitable.
‘So what do you think I know?’ Sheehan asked, wincing as he wiped his shattered nose with one shirt sleeve. Blood still dripped from it, pooling beneath him.
‘Just tell me what’s going on.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about? What is going on?’ Sheehan said, almost mockingly.
Doyle’s expression didn’t change.
‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Two days ago in Northern Ireland, as you well know, twenty-three politicians, including some Sinn Fein men, were murdered. Nobody knows who shot them, or why, and now, tonight, we find you and your cronies with enough Semtex to start a fucking war.’ Doyle rested one boot on the edge of the chair and leaned closer to Sheehan. ‘Ten days ago the Provisional IRA said that they were willing, if their leaders found the terms favourable, to stop all hostilities against the British army and to cease any activity on the mainland against military and civilian targets.’ He paused a moment, glaring at the Irishman. ‘Your fucking lot were ready to call it a day. No more bombings, no more shootings, no more knee-cappings. Nothing. And now what happens? In the space of forty-eight hours twenty-three people are murdered and we find your explosives store. Now tell me you don’t know what’s going on.’
Sheehan eyed the counter-terrorist warily, still dabbing at his nose with his shirt.
‘You can’t blame me for what happened at Stormont,’ he said.
‘I can blame you for any fucking thing I want unless you come up with some info to tell me otherwise,’ Doyle snapped irritably. ‘Who was behind that shooting? Who told you to call a meeting tonight?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about, meeting?’
‘You and the others have worked together before as a team. Thinking of going back into business?’ The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment. ‘Who told you to call that meeting? The same bloke who organized the shooting at Stormont?’
‘Why don’t you talk to the fucking Protestants?’ snapped Sheehan. ‘How do you know the fucking UVF aren’t to blame?’
‘A hunch,’ said Doyle flatly. ‘Now I’ll ask you once more,’ he stepped back a pace, one hand reaching around to the back of his jacket. ‘Who ordered the shooting at Stormont?’
‘You want me to turn tout?’ Sheehan chuckled, dabbing at his nose. ‘You know what they’d do to me if I did? A bag over the head and two bullets in the skull.’
‘If you’re worried about turning tout then there’s somebody to grass on isn’t there?’ Doyle said, flatly.
‘You’re quick,’ snapped Sheehan.
‘No, I’m impatient. Give me a name.’
‘No way.’
‘As you want.’
It was then that he pulled the gun.
Seventeen
The Charter Arms .44 looked huge as Doyle pulled it free, aiming it at Sheehan’s head.
Chief Inspector Austin saw the weapon and shouted, realizing that Doyle couldn’t hear him through the two-way mirror.
‘He’s going to kill him,’ said Garner incredulously. ‘The mad bastard is going to kill him.’
Austin shouted once more then spun round, heading for the door into the small cell beyond.
This time Doyle had gone too far.
‘Leave him.’
The voice startled Austin, both its intrusion and the feeling of power it seemed to carry. He turned to see who had spoken.
Jeffrey Donaldson stood inside the room, looking past Austin at the counter-terrorist and his adversary. He watched as Doyle pressed the gun against the remains of the Irishman’s nose, fresh blood spilling down his face.
‘He could kill the man, for Christ’s sake,’ Austin protested.
‘He could,’ said Donaldson, moving closer to the two-way mirror. Garner looked at the newcomer. He was in his mid-forties, tall and lean. His face had a somewhat pinched appearance due to his hollow cheeks. Even the greying beard he sported did nothing to make his features appear fuller. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt and trousers, with an overcoat around his shoulders. As he watched the tableau behind the glass he plucked absent-mindedly at his beard, as if trying to tease each bristle free.
‘How long’s he been in there?’ Donaldson asked.
‘About fifteen minutes,’ Austin told him. ‘I suppose we should be grateful Sheehan lasted that long.’ He glanced at the two men in the smaller room once more. ‘He wouldn’t speak to us but Doyle insisted on trying for himself.’
‘He uses different methods,’ said Donaldson matter-of-factly.
‘Brutality being the main one,’ Austin said. ‘You’re his superior, you stop him.’
Donaldson had been head of the Counter-Terrorist Unit for the last four years. He had been one of the few in that unit who had actually encouraged Doyle to return to the fold after he’d been advised to quit for good. The injuries he’d sustained after the bomb blast had looked like forcing him into early retirement and Donaldson could still remember visiting the younger man in hospital, wondering if he would ever walk again, never mind return to the job. When, against all medical and official advice, Doyle had returned, Donaldson had seen what a changed man he was. Before, he’d been cautious. Since the blast he’d been positively reckless with regard to his own safety. He seemed to care nothing for life any more, his or anyone else’s. There was a ferocity about him which was sometimes quite terrifying.
Donaldson was witnessing it now.
‘Get him out of there,’ Austin said. ‘He’ll kill Sheehan, then we’ll never get anything out of him.’
‘I read his file in the car on the way here,’ Donaldson said. ‘What makes you think you’ll get anything out of him anyway?’
‘There are certain procedures which must be followed ...!’ Austin began but Donaldson cut him short.
‘Certain procedures,’ he said scornfully. ‘You mean, do it by the rules? Well, the rules are different with men like Sheehan. You should know that. Doyle plays by their rules.’
‘Doyle doesn’t play by anybody’s rules,’ Austin said. ‘How the hell can you trust him, anyway? His family were Irish, weren’t they?’
‘That’s one of the things that makes him perfect for the job. He understands their-mentality.’
Doyle had just pushed Sheehan up against the wall. He now shoved the gun under his chin.
‘I don’t trust him,’ said Austin.
‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Donaldson said, looking directly at the policeman.
‘He’s insane.’
‘He gets results.’
‘That’s as maybe. I still think he’s insane.’
Donaldson smiled thinly.
‘You could very well be right,’ he said quietly.
Austin had no answer. All he could do was watch as Doyle moved the barrel of the .44 up towards Sheehan’s mouth.
Eighteen
‘You can’t kill me.’
There was a note of despera
tion in Sheehan’s voice as Doyle prodded the gun against his cheek.
‘Who ordered the shooting?’ asked the counter-terrorist flatly.
‘Fuck you,’ shouted the Irishman.
Doyle grabbed his hand and slammed it down on the table top, gripping the wrist firmly, spreading the fingers.
With a movement combining lightning speed and demonic force he brought the butt of the pistol down onto the tip of Sheehan’s index finger.
The fingernail splintered under the impact; bone crumbled easily. Blood burst from the end of the pulped digit.
‘I don’t know,’ Sheehan wailed.
Doyle smashed the tip of his middle finger.
A fresh scream of pain filled the room.
‘Talk to me,’ Doyle said through clenched teeth.
‘I can’t tell you,’ Sheehan insisted.
Doyle smashed a third finger tip.
And a fourth.
It looked as if someone had slammed the Irishman’s hand repeatedly in a car door.
Doyle aimed for the thumb.
The nail actually came free along with a small chip of bone in a spurt of blood as the thumb was pulverized.
‘You’ve only got one hand left,’ hissed Doyle. ‘You won’t even be able to wipe your own arse if you don’t give me some answers. Who ordered the shooting at Stormont?’
He hurled Sheehan across the room once more, advancing on the fallen man who was trying to protect his injured hand.
‘No more,’ he gasped, blood still running from his broken nose.
‘Then talk,’ said Doyle flatly. He knelt beside the Irishman, the .44 pressed against his chest. ‘Who ordered the Stormont shooting? Was it the IRA?’
Sheehan sucked in a deep breath.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured softly. ‘If I tell you ...’
‘Was it?’ Doyle said.
‘No.’
If Doyle was surprised it didn’t register on his face.
‘Not officially,’ Sheehan told him.
Doyle grabbed him by the front of his blood-stained shirt, dragged him to his feet and dumped him on one of the chairs again.
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