Games with the Dead

by James Nally

  He thumps the table and sends my heart rate into orbit. ‘I saved your arse Saturday night, Donal. It’s now payback time, do you understand? We target the brown and forget about the E. We forget about Gary too. We can run this operation through Customs. We have to! Mickey Sheeran’s a registered police informant which means they can’t touch him.

  ‘And don’t even think about double-crossing me on this, Donal. Because when it comes down to it, I’m a badder bastard than all of them put together.’

  He downs his second pint and walks out just as the final whistle sounds. ‘The Irish odyssey was great while it lasted,’ laments the commentator. ‘But the party’s well and truly over now.’

  Chapter 60

  Arsenal, North London

  Monday, July 4, 1994; 22.00

  I’m slouched on the couch next to Fintan, drunkenly gouching through an episode of BBC’s Question Time. As ever, Fintan’s getting totally sucked in, his constant bickering broken only by the occasional rant. At least it’s stopped him railing about Ireland’s meek World Cup exit.

  Michael Howard, the ‘hang ’em and flog ’em’ Home Secretary is in full flow, threatening life sentences ‘for anyone caught selling any type of illicit drug’.

  ‘We should be thankful he’s talking only jail,’ says Fintan. ‘He voted for the death sentence a few years back.’

  ‘A conviction politician eh?’

  Fintan gurgles in derision. ‘Oh yeah, except he’s currently cutting a deal with the country’s biggest drug baron. Every time this guy reveals a stash of buried weapons, Howard’s knocking a few years off his sentence.’

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘Who sanctions that?’

  ‘He’s the Home Secretary. Your ultimate boss. He can sanction what he likes.’

  Fintan turns to me, wearing an expression of pure wonder that I’d only ever seen before in black-and-white science fiction B movies.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he gasps. ‘You’ve just given me the most sensational idea.’

  Chapter 61

  Arsenal, North London

  Tuesday, July 5, 1994; 05.00

  I open a third bottle of Shiraz and my mind to Julie. I know she’s coming to me because I touched her dead body today. Let’s get it on …

  A cold curling draught snakes around my face and chills my neck, jolting me. But my body refuses to react. I can’t move, leaving the terror free to pinball about inside me, an unearthed current of doom, growing stronger, pulsing harder. I know someone’s watching me, and means to do me real harm, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Julie’s wild, grotesquely gurning blue face is inches above my nose, grinding against glass. Soundlessly, she’s pounding the lid of my glass coffin, trying to get at me; to save me or to kill me, I can’t be sure.

  I start to spin slowly, not head-over-heels but as if strapped to a knife-thrower’s target board. Round and round I go, faster and faster, as the case rewinds through my mind. It stops suddenly at DC Rooney in the White Horse pub.

  Every Rolex has a unique serial number and a recorded service history …

  As I spin forward again, images seep through; Matthew terrified in the dark. Zoe in a bridal gown, casting a bouquet that, mid-flight, explodes into clouds of paper money. That black silhouette turning slowly towards me. I know that profile from somewhere, because it’s Matt, but a grown-up version. My God, it’s Chris. He’s going to harm them.

  Now I’m being buried alive. I can feel soil falling over my face. Then I recognise Morrissey’s morose, overblown delivery and realise I’ve left that bloody song on loop again.

  I run into Fintan’s bedroom, flip the switch and declare: ‘I’ve seen the light!’

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he groans. ‘You’re not on the whiskey again, are you?’

  ‘Wasn’t it you who uttered the words “men who wear a certain brand of watch guide destinies”, Fintan?’

  ‘It’s just an ad slogan. What are you on about?’

  ‘I now not only know who abducted and killed Julie Draper, I know how we can prove it.’

  Now he sits up and listens …

  Chapter 62

  Arsenal, North London

  Tuesday, July 5, 1994; 11.00

  Fintan plants a fax in front of me on the kitchen table.

  ‘What’s this?’ I say.

  ‘The answer to at least one of your prayers.’

  I pick up the child’s drawing, inspect it closely and see it’s a handwritten map.

  ‘X marks the spot,’ he smiles. ‘Below the map are the exact co-ordinates, and distances in feet from fixed landmarks.’

  He slaps a second fax down. It’s a list, written in Da’s unmistakeable ‘epileptic spider’ handwriting. ‘And this is an itinerary of what’s down there.’

  I’m struggling to believe what’s trembling in my hands.

  Fintan’s loving it. ‘Some fathers buy their sons a car, some a business, others an apartment. Mick Lynch presents his second son with … an IRA arms dump!’

  I can’t even speak.

  Fintan smiles. ‘The best bit is, they all need servicing and the ammo is sunk somewhere else. But if you bring Ron Regan for a walk and unearth these babies, suddenly you’ve got real leverage. Tell him if they buy your E, you’ll take them to the ammo dump next, which, of course, you’ll never have to do because, by then, they’ll have been nicked with the E.’

  My mind is racing. ‘They say only the man who sinks an arms dump knows the location. Christ, he must have put it there himself.’

  ‘Forget all that, Donal. Jesus, have you any idea the risk he’s taking for you here? Like I’ve been saying, he’s terrified any harm might come to you. So quit all this “he doesn’t love me” shit, okay? Because he does, and this proves it. He’s just never had a chance to help you before.’

  ‘I know,’ I croak, my right eye fighting back a big old fat tear.

  Chapter 63

  Fontwell, West Sussex

  Tuesday, July 5, 1994; 16.00

  Armed with Bernie’s GPS and a metal detector, I lead Ron Regan into the woods behind the Little Chef restaurant. It all happens at the services …

  Ron has agreed to my proposition; once he confirms the existence and location of the guns, we complete our E deal. Once they pay me for the E, the guns and ammunition, I’ll lead them to the second dump containing the bullets … then I’m out. Of course, it will never get that far; the plan is for the Tate gang to get arrested with the E during the handover tomorrow night.

  I know Bernie would refuse to let me broker this deal – he’s all about the heroin haul coming in later this week – so I’ve cut him out. He doesn’t know about this arms dump or the fact I’m using it as leverage to make the E deal happen. I feel bad but the E deal is my ticket out of all this horror, once and for all.

  ‘Why the metal detector?’ asks Ron.

  ‘If we can’t find the dump, the metal detector will find the spade. And that’ll be buried at the top edge of the dump. Also, if anyone stumbles upon us, we’re just sad lonely fucks looking for Viking treasure.’

  Ron nods in approval. ‘Very innovative your lot, I must say.’

  ‘By the way. Can you let Pat know I’ve got an audition for Tania tomorrow morning?’

  ‘That’s great,’ he says. ‘Though she doesn’t like mornings. What’s it for?’

  ‘I’ve got a director who wants to try her out for a costume drama. It’ll be in an office in Soho, nothing glamorous. I’ll text you the time and place.’

  ‘She’ll be made up.’

  I pinpoint the arms dump and we take turns digging. Eventually, Ron hits plastic seven or eight inches down.

  ‘I thought it’d be deeper,’ he says.

  We both set to work now, clearing soil until we reach the edges of the heavy plastic wrapping sheet. We slice it open to find a large cool box, the lid made airtight with rubber seals, which Ron sets about butchering.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Once you get eyeballs on t
hese, we need to put them back.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, getting to his knees and working on the seals by hand.

  Eventually the lid comes free, revealing a stack of enormous guns individually wrapped in transparent plastic.

  ‘Christ,’ gasps Ron, taking the top one out and lovingly stroking it.

  The risk of being spotted by some dog walker or kids is too much for me. ‘I’ve given you the inventory of what’s down here, Ron. As much as I’d like to give each one of these pieces some individual worship, I don’t want to get a life sentence for digging a hole.’

  That pricks his reverie. ‘Christ yeah, let’s fill up and get the fuck out of here.’

  On the way back to the car, I remind him that if they want the guns and ammo by Thursday, then the E deal must happen tomorrow night. I also point out that Bernie is no longer involved.

  ‘He knows nothing about this weapons dump, and I don’t want him to know,’ I say.

  ‘He gets a bit funny about guns,’ agrees Ron. He stops walking and turns to me. ‘There’s one sticking point,’ he says.

  ‘What’s that, Ron?’

  ‘We agreed that Bernie would hold the money until we’re happy with the E. Now Bernie’s not involved, who else do we both trust to act as middle man?’

  If I could kick myself, I’d be doing so repeatedly. ‘Shit, I’ve grown to trust you so much, Ron, I’d forgotten about the middle man.’

  ‘It’s not me you have to worry about,’ he says, and he’s not joking. ‘Why don’t we bring Bernie back in?’

  I try not to look panicked. Bernie will go mental if he finds out I’m going ahead with this E deal, which will scupper his planned heroin sting. He mustn’t find out. ‘Let’s not risk it Ron. If he gets wind that I’m doing a sideline in guns, he’ll go apeshit.’

  ‘Right,’ says Ron. ‘Then it’ll have to be the only other man we both know.’

  I can’t hide my confusion. Ron laughs. ‘Have you forgotten already? You’re old mate from Liverpool. Chris!’

  As soon as Ron gets sucked into A27 traffic, I stride to the nearest phone box and call Gary.

  ‘The E deal is back on. Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Fantastic! How the hell did you pull that off?’

  To avoid suspicion, I decide to aim squarely for his enormous ego.

  ‘Like you said, Gary, I told him I needed the E deal to happen to oil a few palms so I can get them guns. They really want these weapons, which makes me wonder what the hell is going down.’

  He barely lets me finish. ‘Forget about all that, Donal. You make sure they go and pick up the E, then you’re out, okay?’

  ‘Now Bernie’s not involved, they want this Chris St. John Green to hold the dough. What do we know about him?’

  At last, I have a legitimate reason to dig the dirt on this fucker. If I discover he’s up to no good, I won’t hesitate in letting Zoe know, and not just for noble reasons.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out. To be honest, Donal, if he scarpers with the money, it won’t matter that much. What we need to focus on is getting the E in position, and making sure Regan, Shaw and Walsh pick it up. Nothing else matters.’

  That’s the second time he said that and I can’t hide my irritation. ‘Apart from my safety, Gary,’ I protest.

  ‘Of course,’ he says dismissively. ‘That goes without saying.’

  Chapter 64

  Mayfair, Central London

  Wednesday, July 6, 1994; 09.00

  The nearest we could get to a studio at short notice is the upstairs of the Blue Posts pub, around the corner from the famous Ritz hotel in Mayfair. We’ve nicknamed it the Last Posts, in honour of the dreary old hole’s curious survival amongst London’s most elite private clubs and art galleries. But it holds two key advantages for us today: a separate and secure dressing room, and proximity to Old Bond Street.

  Last night, Fintan buttonholed some drunken luvvie actor at the Coach and Horses into playing the role of casting director. Worried that the old soak might forget to show, Fintan’s personally escorting him to the scene of this morning’s bold caper. I’m driving there via Angels costumers in Islington, where I pick a selection of size 8 period costume dresses.

  As soon as I unlock the upstairs space, Fintan’s ‘casting director’ recruit bumbles in sporting a beret, a Bloody Mary, an armful of ancient papers and one of those vast, elaborately arranged scarves that seem the sole preserve of darling theatre types.

  ‘Geoffrey Selkirk, your casting director,’ he beams, oozing studied voiceover sincerity and I like him already.

  Fintan makes himself scarce with the spare set of dressing room keys as I run Geoffrey through his crucial role in our elaborate plot. One: this audition must last ninety minutes, minimum. Two: he must charmingly demand Tania ‘get into costume’ to help her performance. Three: she must leave all modern belongings – clothes, shoes, mobile phone and, critically, her Rolex watch – locked in the dressing room for the duration.

  Geoffrey smiles. ‘In my experience, an actress will take the best part of half an hour slipping into a single costume, so that won’t be a problem. As for her locking away all of her accoutrements, I’d insist upon it before any audition, dear boy, so it won’t require much acting.’ He pats me on the knee, but not in a weird, creepy way.

  ‘I feel like I’m in an Ealing comedy,’ he adds, guffawing suddenly from the pit of his rattling chest, which quickly turns into an alarming, phlegm-churning cough. Before I can ask if he’s okay, his trembling hand is lighting a Gauloise cigarette, naturally, and I wonder if actors ever stop acting. This guy is clearly on his way out. When is he planning to start being himself? Or is the real him so subsumed by the character he’s created, that he’s lost forever? Welcome to Soho.

  Fintan’s safely hidden away by the time Tania breezes in, brimming with nervous energy and desperation. I feel instantly guilty. Exploiting her childhood dream seems plain wrong. As if to drive the point home, Geoffrey announces he’s selected for her a monologue by Eliza Doolittle in Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. Is he kindly Colonel Pickering to my hideous Henry Higgins?

  Geoffrey’s busy explaining the importance of ‘getting into role’ and ‘symbolically locking away all modern distractions’ when Pat Regan lumbers through the door, holding a pint of lager and a packet of crisps.

  ‘Moral support,’ says Tania.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ grunts Pat as my heart falls out of my arse.

  Geoffrey almost curtsies. ‘Very nice to meet you, Patrick. Though I’m not sure an audience will help Tania here this morning.’

  Pat glowers and I cringe. We can’t have Pat hanging around the bar downstairs for the duration; he might spot Fintan sneaking in and out and bust our ruse.

  ‘Maybe Pat can sit against the wall over there, you know, out of Tania’s eyeline,’ I suggest.

  ‘Oh very well. But take that seat in the very corner, young man, and don’t even think about tackling your confectionary,’ harrumphs Geoffrey, playing an absolute blinder. Pat hasn’t been told what to do for years and almost enjoys it.

  Geoffrey packs Tania off to the dressing room with a script and a set of keys, then sits alone and reads.

  Great, I think, half an hour to kill with Psycho Pat.

  ‘What’s this audition for?’ he demands.

  ‘Geoffrey here is a casting director for all sorts of stage productions. He has a black book of actors and actresses that he rates. What we’re trying to do today is get Tania into his little black book.’

  ‘He better not be rude to her,’ he hisses, turning my spine to jelly.

  I call over to Geoffrey. ‘I’d say you’re a very encouraging and gentle casting director, wouldn’t you, Geoffrey?’

  ‘My role is to nurture and nourish, not cull and weed,’ he thunders.

  Christ, I think, he’s amazing.

  ‘How’s plans going for tonight?’ mumbles Pat.

  ‘My man is working on a location. We don’t drop until the last
moment, for obvious reasons.’

  He nods. ‘I’ve been thinking, I don’t want this Chris St. John Green guy getting excited and running off with the dough. I don’t need the aggravation. Why don’t we keep things simple and bring him and the money along with us?’

  Never have the money and the merchandise on the same plot … someone gets the pound signs spinning in their eyes and pulls a gun …

  I know Pat Regan asks only rhetorical questions, but I can’t have him thinking I’m a complete mug. ‘I don’t normally agree to having the merchandise and the money on the same plot,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, but you know you can trust us, because we still need your ammo. There’s something about this Chris I don’t like. He’s too smooth.’

  I can’t help myself. ‘He looks, acts and sounds like a spook to me.’

  ‘You think?’ says Pat.

  I nod.

  ‘Right then, make sure the fucker’s there.’

  I think back to Chris’s imperious arrogance when he sat at my kitchen table and announced he’d be marrying Zoe. He deserves everything that’s coming to him.

  ‘With pleasure,’ I say.

  We hear the dressing room door unlock and relock out in the hallway. Tania sweeps in looking knock-out in a figure-hugging bottle green gown.

  ‘It’s got no pockets,’ she says, holding the dressing room keys. It’s then I spot the Rolex on her wrist.

  ‘You look radiant, my dear,’ exclaims Geoffrey. ‘What is that on your arm?’

  ‘It’s vintage,’ she whines. ‘And it goes really well with the dress.’

  ‘This is set in 1913, Tania dear. Wrist watches hadn’t been invented for another decade. Now why don’t you hand over the dressing room keys and watch to Donal here, so we can crack on.’