‘I don’t think your girlfriend knew about Rossiter’s preference for young girls when she met Erin,’ he said ‘I think she had something else on him – some sort of story she was chasing anyway. Then once they started talking, Erin opened up and told her about the abuse. It was Amy who persuaded her to tell me.’
He used the sleeve of his cardigan to wipe his eyes once more.
The shrill ring of the phone in Will’s backpack made them both jump.
‘Shit,’ said Will. ‘I thought I’d switched that off.’ He mumbled an apology, leaned over, and pulled out Amy’s mobile. His own work number was displayed on the screen.
After three rings, the phone fell silent.
‘Do you need to phone someone back?’ asked Mack, squinting through the cigarette smoke that swirled around his face.
Will nodded. ‘I have to step outside,’ he said and hurried from the room, slipping the backpack over his shoulder as he went.
Closing the front door, he walked to the end of the street, hunkering into his thin jacket against the wind.
He glanced over his shoulder and drew out the mobile phone. His heart beating, he glanced at the phone number, wondering what his boss, Jack, would want at such an hour.
‘It’s Will – were you after me?’ he said when the older man picked up the call.
‘Will, thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. I tried Amy’s phone on the off-chance you might have it.’
‘Sorry, the battery in mine had gone flat,’ Will lied. ‘What’s wrong?’
Jack breathed out shakily, and Will heard the familiar squeak of the man’s leather office chair as he sat. ‘Russell Harper’s been killed in an accident.’
Will pulled the phone away from his ear and fought the bile down in his throat. His eyes stung, and he took deep breaths to ward off the dizziness that was threatening to engulf him.
‘When? I mean, how?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. He’d left the office on an errand or something. It’s a bit odd. He told the security guard downstairs to call the police if he didn’t return within the hour.’
Jack sniffled and put the phone down, and Will heard him blow his nose before returning to the phone. ‘Sorry, it’s all a bit of a shock. Anyway, it looks like he was on his way back to the museum from wherever he’d been and was waiting to cross the junction at Russell Square when a bus went past,’ he said. ‘One of the witnesses said a man in the crowd at the pavement waiting to cross might have pushed him, but no one else saw it so the police can’t prove anything.’
Will’s legs began to shake, and he looked around for something to lean against, settling on a low wall covered in graffiti.
Russell had been right, then. He was already being followed. And killed because he emailed a photograph to a friend.
Will gulped in fresh air, the ramifications of what had happened hitting him. It meant Rossiter’s cronies were monitoring his emails as well. He cleared his throat.
‘Don’t they have CCTV cameras everywhere?’
‘Apparently the bus was blocking its view,’ said Jack. ‘We’re all in shock here. I’ve got no idea why he told the security guard to call the police if he didn’t turn up either – have you?’
Will shook his head, then realised he had to speak. ‘No,’ he murmured.
Jack sighed. ‘They asked if he was a drug user. I think they were suggesting it was a drug deal gone wrong. That he was killed by his supplier.’
‘Russell didn’t use drugs,’ Will assured him. ‘He was very much anti-drugs – I think a mate of his overdosed when he was a teenager.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Jack said, his voice relieved. ‘The police say the coroner’s hearing has been set for next month, but it sounds like it’s going to be recorded as an accidental death unless someone comes forward with information.’
‘Jesus.’ Will leaned forward and held his head in his hands, the phone pressed tight to his ear.
‘Where are you anyway?’ asked Jack. ‘Have you been to see Amy?’
Will coughed. ‘Ah, no, not yet.’ He stood and began to pace the pavement. ‘She’s still in intensive care, so the surgeon’s keeping me posted.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not good. I’m going to phone them for an update in a moment.’
‘Okay.’ Jack sighed. ‘I’ll get off the phone so you can do that. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got the details for Russell’s funeral.’
‘Thanks, Jack. I’ll talk to you soon.’
Will ended the call, then turned away from the wall and began to walk.
The wind picked up, buffeting him as he stalked along the pavement, lost in thought. A gust tugged his hair across his face and he pushed it out of his eyes, scowling as he tried to digest the news.
Reaching a bus shelter, he slumped onto the aluminium seat and dialled the number for the hospital, then waited to be put through to the nurse’s station outside the intensive care unit.
He introduced himself to the nurse who answered, then waited while she fetched Amy’s notes.
He jumped when Hathaway’s voice came on the line.
‘Will? Are you in town?’
‘No – I, um, had to catch up with family – I’m a few hours away at the moment. What’s wrong?’
The surgeon sighed. ‘Look, Will, I’ll be honest. It’s not good. Amy’s developed an infection. We’re going to keep her in intensive care until we can be absolutely sure she’s out of danger, but that could be days, maybe weeks.’
‘Is – is there anything I should do?’ Will bit his lip, trying to stop the tremble in his voice. ‘I mean, I can get there this evening if you think…’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you think I need to be there, you know, in case…’
‘It would be better, although I do understand if you have other family issues to resolve,’ said the surgeon. ‘But, please – do try to phone every few hours if you can.’
‘I will.’
‘Good, well, talk to you soon.’
The surgeon hung up, and Will stared at the phone in his hand for a moment before pulling it apart and putting the pieces in his pocket once more.
He rested his elbows on his knees and stared into the road, his thoughts racing, before he stood, brushed off the back of his jeans, and strode back in the direction of the Irishman’s house.
If he was going to avenge Simon and Russell’s deaths and make some sense of why Amy still lay in an induced coma, he had some work to do.
31
‘How much of this do you think Amy found out?’
Mack shrugged. ‘Must have been close. I reckon Rossiter panicked.’
He poured generous measures into two glasses, screwed the cap back on the whiskey bottle, and shuffled across the room to Will, who took one of the drinks from him.
‘It seems a bit extreme: killing four people now, putting a fifth in an induced coma, and getting himself shot in the process.’ He took a sip of the amber liquid, the smooth burn in his throat doing little to calm his nerves, despite Mack’s assurances it would help.
‘Do you doubt me?’
‘No – no, I believe you. I just think he must’ve had help from someone else. Hell of a job to attack a politician’s car in broad daylight and shoot him.’
Mack shrugged. ‘Used to do it all the time.’
Will cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do I want to hear about it?’
‘Probably not.’ Mack sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Look, it’s late. I’m tired. Can we talk about this some more in the morning?’
Will stood, shouldering his backpack. ‘Sure, whatever.’ He pulled his car keys from his pocket.
‘Put those away. You can have the spare room. There’s not a hotel to be found for at least ten miles from here.’
Will bit his lip. ‘Are you sure?’
Mack laughed. ‘Don’t worry, lad. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep.’
Will exhaled, unwilling to admit that was exactly what had be
en going through his head. ‘Okay.’
He followed Mack out of the living area and up a narrow flight of stairs, each one creaking, the carpet threadbare.
‘You should get these stair treads fixed,’ said Will as they ascended. ‘They sound awful.’
Mack stopped halfway up and glared at Will. ‘They sound awful, as you put it, because they act as an early warning system.’ He turned and stamped up the remaining stairs. ‘If someone decides to try and murder me in my sleep, I’d hear them coming.’
Will swallowed, realised his hands were shaking, and grasped hold of the bannister before jogging up the stairs to join Mack on the small landing.
‘Right,’ said Mack, ignoring his discomfort. ‘Bathroom’s there – I’m in that room, and this is yours.’
He swung open the door to a room filled with boxes, their contents spilled out onto the floor. A worn sofa took up one length of wall under a window. Mack tugged the curtains closed and pointed at the sofa.
‘That’s a bed. You sort it out – I’m too old to bend down there. I’ll go and find some blankets.’
Will stared as he stomped from the room, then exhaled and crouched down until he could work out how the sofa-bed opened out. By the time he’d flattened it, then sat and tested the mattress, groaning at the thought of how his back would be playing up in the morning, Mack had returned.
He thrust a pillow and two blankets at Will. ‘That should do you. I’m an early riser, so I’ll see you when you wake up.’
He turned and left the room.
‘Mack?’
‘What?’ The man appeared at the door, frowning.
‘Thanks.’
‘Whatever.’
Will stood, made the bed, and then stripped down to his boxers. Somehow, he didn’t think sleep would come easily that night.
***
Will blinked, rubbed his hands over his eyes, and panicked, trying to work out where he was, until he remembered.
He sat up in the bed, blinked at the light creeping through the curtains, and decided that the blackbird chirping outside the window was too damn cheerful for such a cold morning.
Pulling on his clothes, he tossed back the blankets to air the sofa bed, and then sniffed.
Someone was cooking, and it smelled good.
He padded down the stairs, following the scent of bacon and eggs, until he found Mack in the kitchen, spatula in hand, shovelling fried tomatoes and mushrooms onto plates.
‘Ah, he’s alive and well,’ he said, then nodded towards the kitchen bench. ‘Help yourself to coffee. Milk’s in the fridge.’
Will waited until the first caffeine rush hit his senses. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No. Stay out of the way.’
Mack took the frying pan off the heat and dashed over to the toaster where a thin trail of smoke was escaping. ‘Bollocks.’
He punched a button on the front of the toaster, before flapping a tea-towel at a smoke detector next to the door.
‘Okay,’ he said, dropping a plate in front of Will. ‘Dig in.’
Will’s stomach rumbled, and it was some time before the two men spoke again.
‘How well did you get to know Amy?’ Will asked as he put his utensils on the empty plate and pushed it to one side. He wrapped his fingers round his still-warm coffee mug and watched as Mack swept a slice of bread around the remaining juices on his own plate.
The older man shrugged, stuffed the bread in his mouth, and washed it down with a swig of coffee before speaking.
‘She’s a good journalist,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t give up.’ He sighed contentedly, pointed at the dishes, and then stood. ‘Put those in the sink. I’ll wash up later. Come on through to the front room where it’s warmer.’
Will followed him through the house and collapsed into the same armchair he’d taken the previous night.
Mack stirred up the small fire he’d lit that morning and threw another log onto it before settling into his chair.
‘Amy contacted me about six months ago,’ he began. ‘I’ve got no idea how she found me, but she did.’ He shrugged. ‘After I crossed the Sea twenty years ago, I settled here.’
‘Why did you leave?’
Mack shrugged. ‘Things were changing. I guess I was never into all that political shit. I saw an opportunity to make a fast profit while they were all sorting themselves out in the late nineties, but that only lasted a couple of years. By 2001, they were starting to cotton onto a lot of the criminal gangs. It was only a matter of time before I got caught.’
‘Did you?’
‘No. I was lucky,’ said Mack. ‘And smart. I never got greedy. And I made sure I got myself some insurance.’
‘The sort of insurance people would kill for?’
‘Yes.’ Mack looked away and stared into the flames, before he turned back. ‘So, Will Fletcher,’ he said, tapping his fingers on the armrest. ‘You came to me for help. I’ve told you everything I know. I think it’s about time you tell me what you’ve been up to.’
The floodgates opened then, and Will found he couldn’t stop talking. He told Mack about the mysterious phone calls, Simon’s murder, Russell being run over by a bus, and the fact that he believed he was being followed.
Will ran his hand through his hair and sighed. ‘What I don’t understand is why you want to go after Rossiter now, after all these years? You could’ve said something about this ages ago.’
Mack shrugged. ‘I didn’t feel a need to, until now.’
‘Because Rossiter’s suddenly running for Parliament you mean?’
‘No.’ Mack coughed, leaned forward, and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Because I’m dying.’
‘Great. This is your way of trying to absolve yourself, is it?’
The older man launched from his armchair at a speed belying his age.
Will’s head snapped back as the force of Mack’s open hand met his cheek. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he gasped as he clutched his face, the skin red, raw, and hot.
‘Fuck you.’ Mack stalked back to his armchair, wheezing.
Will sniffled a couple of times, and then raised his head. A wave of mild dizziness blurred his vision, and he blinked. He exhaled, a deep calming breath while his mind processed what he was hearing. He leaned back in his chair and tucked his hands behind his head, contemplating the ceiling.
Then it hit him.
He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at Mack. ‘You gave your ‘insurance’ to Amy, didn’t you?’
‘No.’
It came out as a whisper, and Will understood. Mack blamed himself for what had happened to Amy.
‘What, then?’
Mack remained still, the silence stretching out between them, until he finally spoke. ‘I told her about it, that’s all. It was enough.’
Will ran over the facts in his mind – everything the man had told him so far. Then it clicked.
‘You’ve got something else on Rossiter and Gregory, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it?
‘Another photograph.’
Will’s jaw dropped. ‘Another photograph?’ He leaned forward. ‘What photograph?’
Mack stubbed out his cigarette, blew the last of the smoke up towards the ceiling, and turned to Will, his eyes gleaming.
‘The one your father took of Ian Rossiter executing one of his business rivals.’
32
Belfast, Northern Ireland – Autumn 1999
The first thought that struck the nine-year-old boy as he ignored his mother’s shout from the kitchen was that he should have listened to his parent’s advice and not opened the door to strangers.
The second was that the man standing in front of him was holding a gun.
A really big gun.
Behind the man, rain hissed onto the garden path, the faint mist that filled the air blurring the white street light beyond the garden gate.
The boy dropped his robot toy to the floor, its compl
icated way of turning from car to robot and back forgotten as the tall stranger glared at him from eye-slits cut into a black woollen mask which covered his face.
A split second passed as realisation set in, then the man pushed him backwards, knocking him to the floor, and ran towards the kitchen where the boy’s father stood, a towel hanging between his fingers where he’d been washing his hands before supper, his mouth open in shock.
The boy crawled out of the way, pushing his back against the freshly painted wall of the narrow hallway as two more men burst over the threshold. The last one through the door slammed it shut behind him, a sawn-off shotgun raised in front of his chest.
He panted behind the balaclava mask that covered his face, his voice muffled by the fabric as he leaned against the door.
‘Jesus, there’re kids here! No one said there’d be kids here!’
The man in the middle, shorter than the other two, spun on his heel to face the younger man. ‘Shut the fuck up!’
The boy cried out as the shorter man’s feet crushed the robot toy under his foot, then leaned over, grabbed the boy’s arm, and dragged him towards the kitchen and the rest of his family.
The ring-leader jerked his eyes away from the boy’s father back to the younger man standing by the front door.
‘Make sure no one leaves,’ he said, and then pointed to the shorter of the three. ‘You – put the boy over here next to his Mam.’
The boy cried out as the man who held him changed his grip, forcing him to stand on tiptoe as he stumbled across the linoleum floor to where his mother had collapsed into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, sobbing loudly, her high-pitched wailing filling the room.
The leader jerked his forefinger at the boy’s father. ‘Shut her up now, or I will.’
His father didn’t move, but began to talk. ‘Shh, shh, my love. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.’
His mother’s eyes remained wide open as her hysterical sobbing gave way to hiccups as she sucked in air.
His father threw the towel he’d been using onto the draining board next to the sink and turned to face the intruders.
‘What the hell do you want?’
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