Rider

by Merrigan, Peter J

  ‘I told you before, I don’t know anything.’

  With his arms behind his back, still tied to the leg of the snooker table, his whole body had gone numb. And he was sure he had heard something snap inside his face two cue-slaps ago. His chin and his shirt were berry-red with blood.

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ David said, poking the cue into Kane’s chest with every word.

  ‘They’re hardly going to tell me anything, are they? I’m not the police.’

  ‘You got close to them.’

  David had been pressing him for as much information as he could gain about Ryan’s involvement with Interpol and how much they knew.

  ‘Ryan got close to them,’ Kane said. ‘I knew nothing.’

  ‘The correspondence Ryan gave them—do you know what it contained?’

  ‘Correspondence?’ Kane said. He laughed.

  David knocked the cue off Kane’s right temple again.

  ‘That’s what this is about?’ Kane asked. ‘Correspondence? Love letters between you and your arms dealers?’ He laughed again.

  David raised the cue again and when Kane refused to flinch, he lowered it. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Kane.’

  Kane stared, defiant. ‘I’d love to hurt you.’

  ‘You give me no choice,’ David said. ‘I never wanted any of this to happen.’

  Kane shook his head, more blood splashing the carpet, and he winced. ‘Go to hell,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you’re not his real dad. Ryan was a bigger man than you’ll ever be, you fat ugly fuck.’

  He was taunting him, almost begging David to hit him again. More than anything, he wanted this to be over. One way or another, it was going to end. And right now, he saw only one way out. When the end came, it would be welcomed, it would be embraced. And maybe Ryan—sweet, lovely Ryan—would be there to meet him. How could he have gotten it so wrong? The doubt that crept in after Ryan’s death was a curse that was finally broken.

  ‘You think it’s so simple, don’t you?’ David said. ‘If only you knew the sacrifices I’ve made.’

  ‘You call killing Ryan a sacrifice?’

  ‘I did what I had to.’

  ‘By murdering him?’

  David shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He turned, sat the cue on the snooker table and picked up his gun. He pointed it at Kane’s face. ‘All I ever wanted was the best for my family.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how fucked up that sounds?’ Kane asked.

  David’s mobile phone started ringing, but he ignored it. ‘The last thing you want to do now is piss me off, Kane.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’

  The phone kept ringing.

  ‘I like you, son. You’ve got balls, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You want to see them?’ Kane goaded. If he was going out, he was going out in style.

  David turned away in disgust, finally answered his phone. ‘What?’

  On the other end of the line, Detective Dixon said, ‘You better hope you’re not in the Belgrave in five minutes.’

  ‘Where are you now?’ David asked.

  ‘I’m heading to a backup van. I can’t hold them off,’ Dixon said. ‘They’re already on their way—three vans, four cars and big fucking brass band.’

  David terminated the call.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said to Kane. ‘Are you having fun, yet? Because it’s about to get a whole lot more interesting.’ To his goons, he said, ‘Pick him up.’

  He sat his gun back down and walked over to the rank of safes on the far wall. Punching in a security code on the panel, he unlocked a safe and withdrew a hard-shell suitcase, handling it with extreme care.

  As his men untied Kane and dragged him to his feet, David placed the suitcase on the clean, green felt of the snooker table, sweat glistening on his upper lip and forehead.

  He twisted the combination locks and slowly eased the lid open.

  Chapter 17

  When they arrived outside the Belgrave club, Wilson issued immediate orders for a fan-formation around the front and rear of the building while the Met police officers were on crowd dispersal duties.

  Once his officers were in place, Wilson and Clark ran in a crouch towards Mickey Brown, head of Intelligence. The sun was down behind the buildings to their left and night was dragging shadows behind it.

  ‘Give,’ Wilson said to Brown.

  Mickey Brown, six foot three inches of vicious bulldog, had been in Intelligence since his late twenties and had worked closely with Wilson’s team on many occasions.

  ‘Thermal imaging shows us four bodies,’ he said. ‘All in the same room. We’re trying to get a directional mic rigged up but it’s going to be from across the street. We can’t get near.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Five minutes, tops.’

  ‘What’s the scene?’ Wilson asked. The police officers were stretching tape across either end of the street.

  Brown pointed. ‘We have guns on rooftops, there, there and there. Exits are covered and we’ve got more men in the vicinity if they get round us.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Wilson said.

  He hooked an earpiece over his right ear and thumbed a dial on his radio.

  Brown said, ‘They say you’re bringing in the birdie.’

  Wilson nodded. ‘She’s on her way. PSNI picked her up earlier.’

  ‘I don’t like you bringing civilians to my party, Wilson.’

  Clark scanned the surrounding area. ‘None of us like it.’

  ‘I’m hoping we won’t need her,’ Wilson said. ‘But if Bernhard won’t talk to us, he’ll talk to her.’

  ‘You better be damn sure about that,’ Brown said.

  * * *

  A police helicopter landed on a helipad at London’s City Airport and the door slid back as WPC Scoles ran towards it, pushing a wheelchair.

  Detectives Simpson and Parker jumped out of the helicopter and Parker turned back to help Margaret out. They eased her gently into the wheelchair and started back towards the terminal building.

  Margaret kept her eyes straight ahead, gripping her clutch bag protectively. The two detectives had tried to argue with her, but Margaret was a woman not to be trifled with; they detoured by her house and allowed her to pack a change of clothes and bring a few personal effects, on the proviso that she be no more than two minutes in the house.

  Upstairs, alone in her room as she quickly threw leggings and a sweatshirt into an overnight bag, she had double-checked the detectives were still downstairs and she took her derringer from the nightstand. She had dropped it into her handbag and clasped it shut. Downstairs, as they ushered her out of the house and back into their car, she made a show of opening the small leather clutch bag and pulling out a tissue, in the hope that they’d assume if she had something to hide she wouldn’t have been so forthright.

  There had been no metal detectors, no scanners, when they whisked her through airport security in Belfast and helped her to board the helicopter.

  Now, holding the bag safely in her lap as they wheeled her into the terminal, Scoles said, ‘They’re already at the scene. We have a van waiting outside.’

  Detective Simpson said, ‘Is anyone willing to tell us what’s going on?’

  ‘You know as much as I do,’ said Scoles. ‘It’s Interpol,’ she added, by way of explanation.

  ‘Secrets and hierarchy,’ Simpson said. ‘Just another day at the office.’

  Scoles ran through what little she did know, that Bernhard was holed up in a building, had a hostage—likely Kane Rider—and that Interpol were gunning for it. Margaret’s involvement was nothing more than conjecture.

  In the police van, the driver flipped on his blues and they went at speed through the streets of London.

  Simpson made a call and clarified a few pertinent issues and when he hung up he faced Margaret.

  ‘This is as much as we know,’ he said. ‘We believe Mr Rider is with your husband and Interpol need to get him out. They have
the building surrounded and they have a hostage negotiation team on hand. They’re hoping to end this fairly easily, but if they need you to talk some sense into your husband, they’ll ask for your help. You won’t be placed in any danger and until they require you, you’ll be kept back at a safe distance. Do you understand?’

  Margaret closed her eyes and nodded. Her face was ashen.

  The driver’s radio squawked and the dispatcher’s tinny voice said, ‘Delta Seven, confirm location.’

  ‘This is Seven,’ the driver said. ‘Currently pulling off St Thomas Street, ETA three minutes.’

  Eyes still closed, Margaret breathed through her nose and tried to relax her shoulders. Perturbed by her stillness, Simpson said, ‘Mrs Bernhard? You’re looking a little pale. Are you all right?’

  She didn’t answer him.

  ‘Are you going to pass out, Mrs Bernhard?’

  Margaret opened her eyes, hugged her bag for security, and said, ‘I’ll be fine.’

  * * *

  Eyes closed, she swayed with the movement of the police van and allowed her mind to remember peaceful times—Ryan on his sixth birthday, clomping up and down the garden wearing only his swimming trunks, a pair of her high heels and a string of beads around his neck; Ciarán reading bedtime stories to their son about dragons and wizards and mischievous elves who’d sooner steal your shoes than mend them; Ryan at five, waving at her from a merry-go-round as she prayed he wouldn’t fall off and called for him to hold on tight.

  Margaret and Ryan had always been very close, brought closer still by the loss of his father during his formative years. Ryan’s confusion was more about his father’s illness than his own sexuality. He had never formally come out; it was something that Margaret had always seemed to know, something accepted as truth without spoken word, like a devout Catholic’s belief in Christ.

  He had once tried to say the words. By that point, she had known for many years, though he was never exactly camp or effeminate. Perhaps not all mothers know these things, but the close bond they had shared awarded her with an insight of uncommon clarity.

  They had moved into David’s new-build home and Ryan had started his GCSE year at school, where he had met and quickly fallen in love with Kane. She had never suspected for one minute that the sixteen-year-old equivalent of true love would have been the real thing. Not many people find real love so early in life, although she had been seventeen when she met Ciarán.

  She had met Kane a handful of times in those first few months, watched from the pedestal that Ryan had placed her on as the two boys’ friendship grew and developed. He had stayed for dinner and she had seen the smiles and hooded exchanges between them.

  When Ryan had come to her one evening as she prepared their evening meal, always enough in the pot for Kane in case he decided to stay long enough to eat, David tapping violently on his computer keyboard in his office above them, Ryan had ventured, ‘Mum?’

  ‘Wash your hands,’ Margaret had said. ‘Grab me some basil, will you?’

  Ryan had complied, standing shoulder to shoulder with her as he watched her chopping the green leaves. He remained silent throughout.

  Scraping the basil from the chopping board into the pan, Margaret said, ‘What’s on your mind, darling?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Is Kane staying?’ Kane had come over with Ryan straight from school and they had been playing video games in his room all evening.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Ryan said. He offered no more.

  Checking on the oven, Margaret said, ‘His Mum’ll think we’ve kidnapped him soon enough. We should have her over.’

  ‘Can Kane…’ Ryan tried.

  ‘Can Kane what?’

  ‘Do you mind if he stays over?’

  She frowned at the oven and turned the temperature down. ‘Of course not, honey. If his mother’s all right with it.’

  ‘Cool,’ Ryan said. But he didn’t leave her side.

  ‘It’ll be ready in ten minutes,’ Margaret said.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What I mean is,’ Ryan said, and paused momentarily. ‘Can he stay over in my room?’

  The words were heavily laden and dripping. Margaret wiped her hands on a tea towel, neatly folded it before she answered him. ‘Yes, love.’

  She watched Ryan chew on his upper lip. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’ he asked.

  She held his shoulders, smiled at him, kissed his forehead. ‘Yes, love. I know what that means. You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

  He nodded, his face full of relief and excitement. When he left the kitchen she turned back to the pot on the stove. She closed her eyes and laughed giddily.

  ‘It means I don’t have to make up a spare room,’ she said to herself.

  And as the police van rocked and sped through the streets of London, as she was pushed towards a destiny she could not imagine, she clung to that heart-to-heart conversation with her only son, and realised that life was all subtext. People refrain from saying what they really mean. What is not said is far more important that what is spoken.

  * * *

  When Margaret’s police van swung into view at the end of the street, behind the police cordon, Wilson keyed his radio. He, Clark, Dixon and the others had spread out around the front of the building, crouched and protected behind parked cars.

  ‘She’s here,’ he said. ‘We need to keep her behind the tape for now.’

  Clark, two car lengths along the street, nodded and said to her radio, ‘Dixon, get on it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ came his professional reply. He ran down the street to the tape line as Detective Simpson wheeled Margaret down the van’s ramp.

  Simpson fitted a small earpiece to Margaret’s ear and said, ‘The trained negotiator is going to be on the end of this. He’ll give you constant direction on what to say and how to say it, if and when they need you, okay?’

  Just then, the front door of the Belgrave Gentleman’s Club swung open.

  Everyone tensed, their weapons trained on the dark entrance.

  A figure stepped out. Slowly.

  Uttering a curse, Wilson saw that it was Kane. He was naked to the waist and strapped to his chest was an explosive device. A release cable ran from the base of the bomb to an ignition switch in his hand. Kane’s thumb was already pressed down on the button.

  He was sweaty and bloody and shaking, one eye bruised and closed, his other darting around, panic clearly visible on his face. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he said, his voice broken. He raised his arms in supplication, his thumb still on the button.

  ‘Jesus,’ Wilson said. To his radio, he said, ‘get a BD team down here fast.’

  He adopted a firing stance, his gun trained on Kane.

  ‘Kane? What’s going on, mate?’

  Down the street, Margaret was straining in her wheelchair to see what was happening. She was too far away and there were too many obstacles in her way to allow her a clear vision of the club.

  ‘What’s happening? I can’t see.’

  Dixon stepped up beside Simpson and said, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got her from here.’

  ‘She’s under my protection detail,’ Simpson said.

  ‘Someone tell me what’s going on,’ Margaret said.

  Dixon took the handles of Margaret’s wheelchair and said to Simpson, ‘You’re relieved of your duties, Officer.’

  ‘It’s Detective,’ Simpson said. ‘And you have no authority.’

  ‘Man,’ Dixon laughed, ‘I’m Interpol. I have authority over everything. Step aside.’

  Along the street, Wilson was saying, ‘Come on, Kane. Talk to me. What’s the deal?’

  Kane said, ‘I can’t. Let go. Explode.’

  Margaret said, ‘I can’t see what’s going on. Where’s Kane? Where’s David. Get me up there.’

  Dixon put a staying hand on her shoulder. ‘We’re just going to sit here and watch the show for now, love.’ He wheeled Margaret away from
the others and he leaned in close, whispering, ‘Listen, sweetheart. That husband of yours—we sort of have a little understanding. I want you to tell him something for me, okay?’

  Chapter 18

  From behind her cover, Ann Clark aimed her gun, sighting it between Kane and the club’s door. Bernhard still had to be inside.

  Trained for intense situations, she quickly took in the scene without losing her focus. The club was surrounded, front and back. Snipers were stationed on rooftops and the police had cordoned off the street and ensured neighbouring buildings were evacuated. A crowd had gathered at either end of the road, intent on viewing whatever spectacle there was to be seen.

  To one side, Dixon had taken on babysitting duties of Margaret Bernhard, and Clark was grateful that, from Margaret’s position, she could see very little. She had only ever seen Ryan’s mother in photographs before now. She had known her to be a strong-willed woman with an independent mind.

  NCIS had ruled Mrs Bernhard out of their inquiry almost a year ago, months before Ryan ever came forward as a witness and potential asset. They had been following Bernhard and his associates for some time. He had long favoured himself as the family man and often brought Margaret along to his meetings, speaking in code and displaying her like a prize while ensuring she knew nothing of the true nature of his business affairs.

  Interpol’s Northern Ireland team assigned to the operations reported on Margaret’s whereabouts for months before they marked her as non-threatening. They were told by London to maintain observations throughout but to assume a relaxed view of her involvement. It was recent events, particularly the murder of her son, which proved her innocence and ultimately led to Pat Wilson’s decision to bring her over now.