Hybrid

by Shaun Hutson

'In you. If we've got to work together then it's in my interests to know about you.'

  That depends what you want to know. Georgie's not relevant to this. Or what went on between me and her.'

  They regarded each other silently for a moment, then Doyle took a sip of his tea. It was cold but he swallowed it anyway.

  'Look, I said I wasn't prying,' Mel told him.

  'Just forget it, Mel. I have.' He reached for his cigarettes but Mel shook her head. Doyle muttered something under his breath and shoved them back into his pocket. 'Right, no smoking, I remember.' He exhaled wearily. 'So, tell me about the next client.'

  'His name's William Duncan. He runs a pharmaceutical company. He's rich.'

  'Aren't they all? Who's after him?'

  'Muslim extremists. A fatwa's been declared against him. His company was building a new factory in the Middle East, apparently they bulldozed some holy ground.'

  'So we have to protect him from a bunch of religious nutters? Great.'

  This one will be different, Doyle.We'll all be armed twenty-four hours a day. It'll be dangerous.'

  He looked down at her and shrugged. 'Life's looking up,' he said flatly.

  BELFAST:

  Are you sure the fingerprints match?' Chief Inspector Peter Robinson ran a hand over his bald head and sat back in his chair.

  'No doubt about it,'John Morris told him.The prints on the shell cases we found in Best's car match those taken from the flat in Dalton Road.There is no mistake. Declan Leary killed Ivor Best and Jeffrey Kelly.'

  Robinson got to his feet and looked first at the coroner's report then at the man himself.

  Morris was a stocky man in his late forties, a year or two younger than Robinson. He wore round glasses that were constantly sliding down his small nose. Each time they did, he pushed them back into position with his thumb.

  'The question is, was the hit approved?' Robinson mused.

  'Best and Kelly were known members of the UVF. It's possible. I would have thought the main question was who sanctioned it.'

  'Provos or Real IRA,' said Robinson, not expecting an answer. 'It's unlikely to have been the Provisionals.'

  'Have you any idea if Leary is part of a cell or working alone?'

  'Up until the business in Dalton Road he was working with Matthew Finan. Just the two of them as far as we know. Until Finan was killed. It's my guess that now he's working without official clearance from the Northern Command. Also the nature of the injuries he inflicted on Best seem to indicate more than just a straightforward hit.' The policeman leant forward and flipped through the file on his desk. He paused at two photos of Ivor Best. 'I mean, why stab him in the eyes before shooting him? It's not very professional apart from anything else.'

  Morris could only shrug. 'Best was still alive when Leary shot him,' said the coroner. The damage to the eyes looks as though it was intended as some kind of torture.'

  'Why not just shoot him, like he did Kelly?'

  Again Morris shrugged.

  'Is Leary trying to start a war with the UVF?' Robinson wondered aloud. 'And if he is, why?'

  'You're the policeman, Peter, not me. It's down to you and your boys to find out. I just get the feeling I'm going to be busy too.'

  'If Leary's running wild, you can guarantee it'

  'So we should expect reprisals.'

  The UVF won't sit still for this. They'll want to hit back. I just hope to God they don't go after the Provisionals.' He sighed wearily.'All these years of fighting. I really thought it was going to end.'

  'It'll take time, Peter.You can't wipe out five hundred years of history with one agreement.'

  'Do you agree with it, John?'

  'With the Good Friday Agreement? In principle. But I think the IRA have come out of it better than most. There's a lot of people who aren't happy about that. I think we've given them too much.'

  Robinson regarded his colleague silently.

  Morris got to his feet.

  'If that's all, Peter,' he said, 'I'll get back to work.'

  Robinson nodded, his eyes still fixed on the photos of Ivor Best. Thanks, John.'

  He heard his office door close as Morris left.

  Ivor Best. Jeffrey Kelly.

  Robinson shook his head. Was Leary still in Belfast? The policeman doubted it. He would know he was being hunted. He'd be aware that his identity was no longer secret.

  Why didn't that bother him? Why leave prints on the shell cases and inside the car?

  He looked at Declan Leary's name, scribbled on a sheet of paper. He found himself drawing lines beneath it, pressing ever harder on the paper.

  'Where are you, you bastard?' he whispered to himself.

  LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION

  It was important to Ward to always end his work at a point where he could easily begin again the following day. If he had a starting point, it didn't make for such racked brains and sweat. Ha ha ha. 2.20 p.m. He continued working.

  DUNKALK.THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

  The 9mm rounds lay on the bedspread gleaming like metallic confetti. Declan Leary regarded the ammunition for a moment longer then crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

  He picked up a handful of the shells and began feeding them into the first of the twenty-round magazines he had for the Scorpion machine pistol.

  His room smelt of gun oil and metal. Leary was dressed in just jeans and a T-shirt, and was still too warm. The central heating was playing up, the landlady had explained. The thermostat was stuck on high and it would be a couple of days before an engineer could fix it. She had apologised to all her guests for the inconvenience. They had all accepted with good grace.

  Leary continued pushing the bullets into the second of the Scorpion's magazines then, that done, he placed both of them to one side and turned his attention to the Smith and Wesson .459.

  It held fifteen shots in its magazine and Leary filled two of those as well, slamming one into the butt of

  the pistol before working the slide to chamber a round and slipping on the safety catch.

  He repeated the procedure with the Glock.

  Once the guns were ready he crossed to the small wash basin and poured some oil on to the small stone block that lay on the porcelain. He picked it up and took the 8-inch double-edged knife from the side of the sink.

  With careful, measured strokes, he drew each cutting edge back and forth across the oiled stone, honing each to a razor finish.

  He did the same with the flick knife.

  Having done that he placed the Scorpion, the .459 and the hunting knife in his black holdall and zipped it shut. Then he spun both taps and filled the sink, washing oil from his hands.

  Leary looked at his watch when he heard footsteps outside on the landing. 8.30 a.m. One of the other residents was making his way downstairs for breakfast.

  Leary dried his hands, pulled on a sweatshirt and decided to join his fellow guest.

  His stomach rumbled audibly and, as he emerged from his room, he smelt bacon and heard the chink of tea cups.

  Leary smiled. A good breakfast was just what he needed before the drive to Belfast.

  Daniel Kane felt something vibrating against the small of his back. He couldn't hope to hear the ringing of his mobile phone but the Nokia buzzed insistently in its clip on his belt.

  Kane waited a moment, swinging the fork-lift around

  and guiding the two prongs beneath one of the huge crates stacked before him.

  Elsewhere inside the warehouse, men moved back and forth, each concerned with his own task. Beneath the safety helmet Kane wore, the sounds were muffled.

  The phone was still ringing.

  He switched off the engine and reached for the mobile, pulling his safety helmet off as he pressed the Nokia to his ear.The noise inside the warehouse made it difficult to hear the voice on the other end.

  'Who is it?' he said, straining his ears to catch the words.

  The voice identified itself.

  'What the hell
are you doing calling me now?' Kane wanted to know.

  The voice explained that there was a problem.

  'What kind of problem?'

  It was difficult to speak. They would have to meet.

  'That's not convenient,' said Kane dismissively.

  The voice insisted that it was a very important matter.

  'Ah, come on, whatever it is it can wait a couple of days,' Kane snapped.

  The person at the other end said something else.

  'What?' Kane said, his expression darkening.'Say that again? Declan Leary?'

  Again the other voice proposed a meeting.

  'Where?' Kane wanted to know.

  A hiss of static.

  'I didn't hear you,' Kane said. The usual place? All right. What's the hurry?'

  The voice told him that Declan Leary was looking for him.

  'What does he want with me?'

  More static.

  'Does he know I killed his brother?' Kane said.

  The line went dead.

  CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

  Doyle guessed that the driveway must be a good five hundred yards long. From the entrance, through the wrought-iron gates flanked by a ten-foot-high stone wall, it led past perfectly manicured lawns and landscaped gardens. He spotted what looked like an orchard off to the right, enclosed by a high privet hedge. To the left were some red-brick buildings that he guessed were stables. Beyond them were low hills and enough space to exercise the runners in the last three Grand Nationals.

  As the car drew nearer the house, topiary animals (also immaculately trimmed and maintained) began to form a kind of honour guard on either side of the drive, which slowly widened into an arc before the house.

  The building itself was grey. Whether it was brick or, as it appeared to be, simply hewn from one vast lump of stone, Doyle had no idea. The walls were seething with ivy and the weak sunlight sparkled on the dozens of windows at the front.

  But, for all its splendour, there was little ostentation about the home of William Duncan. Multi-millionaire

  industrialist the man might be, thought Doyle, but the place had none of the outward vulgarity sometimes associated with those lucky enough to have more money than sense. The place looked, first and foremost, a functional home, rather than a status symbol.

  The stables, the orchard and whatever other adornments were contained within the grounds had, by the look of them, been there upon purchase rather than added in some self-conscious flourish. The fact that there was a heated outdoor pool, two tennis courts and a maze to the rear of the building came as no surprise to the former counter terrorist.

  He perused the plans of the property that Mel had given him and shook his head.

  'Plenty of places to hide,' he murmured as Hendry guided the Jag up the driveway.

  Mel turned in the passenger seat and looked at him. 'What did you say, Doyle?' she wanted to know.

  'I said there are plenty of places to hide,' he repeated. 'If a bunch of nutters want to kill Duncan then this fucking place is heaven. They could hang around the grounds for days without getting caught.' He shook his head. 'A fucking maze in the back garden. Jesus. How the other half lives.'

  He looked at the building and, once more, shook his head.

  'It's closer to London than I thought,' Hendry offered.

  'Right at the end of the Metropolitan Line,' Doyle said.'You won't have to drive him into his office in the mornings, Joe. You can just stick him on the fucking Tube.'

  Hendry chuckled.

  'We'd better walk the grounds once we've met the Duncans,' Mel said.'Check them out more thoroughly.'

  Doyle nodded. 'Any kids?' he asked.

  'No. Just Duncan and his wife.'

  'How much do we know about them?' Hendry asked.

  'What do we need to know?' Doyle asked. 'We're here to protect them, not make friends with them.'

  Mel looked at him for a moment then back at Hendry.

  'Duncan's in his fifties. His wife's twenty-six. I don't know if that tells you anything,' Mel smiled.'He's a keen golfer and archer.' She raised her eyebrows. 'Mrs Duncan likes to ride.'

  'I bet she does,' Doyle chuckled.

  Hendry aiso smiled.

  Mel shook her head. 'You're like a couple of kids,' she said, her attempts at chastisement failing as she also laughed.

  Doyle reached for his cigarettes and lit one, taking a couple of hasty drags before the car stopped.'Who's guarding them at the moment?' he wanted to know.

  'Special Branch. They have been for the last two months, ever since the fatwa was first passed.'

  'Why the change?'

  The taxpayers are footing the bill,' Mel smiled. 'I think Duncan's starting to feel guilty about it. That's why he called in a private firm.'

  Too right. I mean, how much did it cost to guard bloody Rushdie? Two million?' Doyle said irritably. 'It would have been cheaper to let the fucker take his chances.'

  'I agree,' Hendry said. 'I reckon he knew what he was doing when he wrote that book. He knew he'd offend the Muslims and how they'd react.'

  Mel looked at each of the men in turn.'Nice to see you two share the same kind of compassion,' she said, shaking her head.

  'Fuck him; Doyle insisted.

  Hendry brought the Jag to a halt and all three of them clambered out.

  As they did, Doyle crushed the cigarette beneath his foot and drew a deep breath. He ran appraising eyes over the house then followed Mel towards the large oak front door.

  There were CCTV cameras mounted on either side of the porch. Doyle had seen more of them on the main gates and also at strategic points along the driveway.

  Mel rang the doorbell and waited.

  After a moment or two they heard several bolts and locks being unfastened, then a tall man in a dark-brown suit opened the door and looked out at them.

  'We're with Cartwright Security,' Mel told him. 'I'm—'

  He cut her short. 'You're late,' he said tersely.

  B

  MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  ack again?' The girl behind the glass of the cash desk was in her early twenties. She wore a gold name-badge on her right breast that proclaimed: Teresa.

  'Sorry?' said Ward. 'What did you say?'

  'I said, "back again?'" she repeated. 'You were only here this afternoon. You should get a job here considering how much time you spend here.'

  'What are you talking about?' Ward wanted to know.

  The smile on the girl's face faded slightly. 'You came in this afternoon to see a film and now you're back again. Twice in one day. Most people don't come twice in a month.'

  Ward swallowed hard. He looked at his watch. 7.46 p.m.

  'Which film did I see this afternoon?' he wanted to know.

  She looked bewildered.

  'Which film did I see when I was here earlier?' he insisted.

  'Enemy at the Gates? she told him.

  'What time was that?'

  'I'm not sure exactly' The smile had faded completely by now.

  'What time was the performance?' he demanded. 'Check it on your sheet.'

  She hesitated.

  'Please,' he said.

  'Two o'clock,' she announced finally.

  Ward nodded. He stepped away from the box office and moved past the other waiting people. Some glanced at him in amusement.

  He walked back to his car. Ten minutes later he was home. He headed straight for the office.

  There was a small pile of paper near the printer. Ward picked up the sheets and put them in the right order.

  Thirty of them.

  If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside was nothing short of breathtaking.

  Doyle looked at the plethora of objets d'art, the expensive fixtures and fittings, the furniture. Everything in the house smacked of impeccable taste. He wondered who had decided upon the interior decor. He also wondered how much it had cost.

  As he stood in the hallway with its two suits of genuine medieval armour guardi
ng the doorway leading to the main sitting room, he was aware of eyes upon him. Those of the man in the brown suit.

  Detective Sergeant Mark Boffey was a powerfully built man in his thirties. He regarded the newcomers from Cartwright with a combination of suspicion and contempt. Something Doyle wasn't slow to pick up.

  'How many men are with you?' Mel asked the Special Branch officer.

  Three,' Boffey told her.'We set up a command post in one of the smaller rooms at the back of the house. All the closed-circuit stuff's in there.There are cameras inside and outside the house. The only place that isn't covered is the maze. Someone will have to watch twenty-four hours a day'

  'Just because you sat around getting piles doesn't mean we have to,' Doyle told him.

  'This man's life is in danger. There are certain measures that must be taken to—'

  Doyle cut him short. 'Yeah, we're aware of that,' he said dismissively.

  'Has there been any activity while you've been here?' Mel wanted to know.

  'If you mean has anyone had a crack at him yet, then no,' Boffey told her. 'But it's coming.'

  'How can you be so sure?' Mel asked.

  There've been some threatening phone calls, hate mail. The usual thing.' Boffey looked at all three of the bodyguards. 'Are you armed?'

  Doyle and his companions nodded.

  'How are they coping?' Mel enquired.

  'Pretty well. Business as usual, all that crap.'

  'It might be an idea if we met them,' said Mel.

  Boffey nodded, glanced once more at Doyle then led the trio towards a door on the right.

  It was a smaller sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and chairs. Beyond it,through an open door, Doyle caught sight of a kitchen. Through the window to his left he could see out over the garden that seemed to stretch away as far as the horizon. The maze lay at the bottom of it. The glass-enclosed pool, about two hundred yards from the house, was reached via a narrow gravel path.

  Doyle saw a man in a pair of black trousers and a roll-neck sweater walking along the path towards the house. He had a shoulder holster.

  'One of my colleagues,' Boffey said, aware that Doyle

  had spotted the other Special Branch man.

  'I didn't think it was one of the assassins,' Doyle told him.

  'We do a two-hourly search of the grounds,' Boffey said, acidly. 'It's best to stay vigilant.'