Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  Collusion

  ( Jack Lennon Investigations - 2 )

  Stuart Neville

  Stuart Neville

  COLLUSION

  Copyright © Stuart Neville 2010

  Also by Stuart Neville

  The Twelve

  For Nat Sobel, who changed my life

  1

  ‘We’re being followed,’ Eugene McSorley said. The Ford Focus crested the rise, weightless for a moment, and thudded hard back onto the tarmac. Its eight-year-old suspension did little to cushion the impact. McSorley kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror, the silver Skoda Octavia lost behind the hill he’d just sped over. It had been tailing them along the narrow country road since they crossed the border into the North.

  Comiskey twisted in the passenger seat. ‘I don’t see anyone,’ he said. ‘No, wait. Fuck. Is that the peelers?’

  ‘Aye,’ McSorley said. The Skoda reappeared in his mirror, its windows tinted dark green. He couldn’t make out the occupants, but they were cops all right. The tarmac darkened under the growing drizzle, the sky a blank, heavy sheet of grey above the green fields.

  ‘Jesus,’ Hughes moaned from the back seat. ‘Are we going to get pulled?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Comiskey said. ‘Fuck.’

  Hedgerows streaked past the Focus. McSorley checked his speed, staying just below sixty. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘We’ve nothing on us. Not unless you boys have any blow in your pockets.’

  ‘Shit,’ Hughes said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve an eighth on me.’

  McSorley shot a look back over his shoulder. Arsehole. Chuck it.’

  McSorley hit the switch to roll down the rear window and pulled close to the hedgerow so the cops wouldn’t see. He watched his side mirror as Hughes’s hand flicked a small brown cube into the greenery. ‘Arsehole,’ he repeated.

  Comiskey peered between the seats. ‘They’re not getting any closer,’ he said. ‘Maybe they won’t pull us.’

  McSorley said nothing. He raised the rear window again. The car rounded a bend onto a long straight, the road falling away in a shallow descent before rising to meet the skyline half a mile ahead. He flicked the wipers on. They left wet smears across the windscreen, barely shifting the water. He’d meant to replace them a year ago. McSorley cursed and squinted through the raindrops.

  A white van sat idling at a side road. It had all the time in the world to ease out and be on its way. It didn’t. Instead it inched forward to the junction, the driver holding it on the clutch. McSorley wet his lips. He felt the accelerator beneath the sole of his shoe. The Focus had a decent engine, but the suspension was shot. Once the road started to twist, he wouldn’t have a chance. He eased off the pedal. The van drew closer. Two men in the cabin, watching.

  McSorley’s stomach flipped between light and heavy, heavy and light, while adrenalin rippled out to his fingers and toes. He fought the heaving in his chest.

  ‘Christ,’ he said out loud, without meaning to. ‘Nothing to worry about. They’re only cops. They’re going to pull us, that’s all.’

  The Focus neared the white van, and McSorley saw the men’s faces. They stared back as he passed. His eyes went to the mirror. The Skoda’s reflection swelled. Blue lights flickered behind the grille, and its siren whooped. The van edged a foot or two out of the junction.

  The Skoda accelerated, disappeared from the mirror, and reappeared alongside the Focus. McSorley saw white shirts and dark epaulettes. The woman cop in the passenger seat signalled to the side of the road.

  ‘Fuck,’ McSorley said. He gently squeezed the brake and shifted down. The Skoda slipped past as he let the Focus mount the grass verge. It skidded on the wet grass and mud. The Skoda stopped a few yards ahead. Its reversing lights glared, and it rolled back to stop just feet from the Focus’s bonnet.

  ‘Keep your mouths shut, boys,’ McSorley said. ‘Answer them when they talk to you, but don’t give them any lip. Don’t give them any excuses. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ Hughes said from the back.

  ‘Right?’ McSorley said to Comiskey.

  Comiskey gave him a quivering smile. ‘Aye, no worries.’

  Two cops got out of the car, donning hats and bright reflective jackets. The woman wasn’t bad looking, light brown hair swept up under her cap. The man was tall and in good shape. His rich tan looked alien beneath the grey sky. They approached the Focus, the man leading.

  The wipers scraped across the windscreen, the rubber-on-glass creak in counterpoint to McSorley’s heartbeat. He put his finger on the button, ready to lower the window when the cop asked. Instead, the cop grabbed the handle and opened the door. Rain leaked in. It had been raining for nearly three months solid. All day, every day, no let-up. McSorley blinked as a heavy drop splashed on his cheek.

  ‘Afternoon,’ the cop said. He had an English accent, hard and clipped. ‘Shut your engine off, please, sir.’

  McSorley turned the key. The engine died, freezing the wipers in mid-sweep.

  ‘Just keep your hands where I can see them, there’s a good chap,’ the cop said.

  That accent, McSorley thought. Officer class. It spoke of parade grounds and stiff salutes, not traffic patrols and police checkpoints.

  The cop ducked his head down. ‘You too, gentlemen.’

  Comiskey put his hands on the dashboard; Hughes placed his on the back of the passenger seat. McSorley gripped the steering wheel and studied the cop’s face. His skin was a deep brown, not the shallow tan of a week at the beach. His lips were shiny from balm applied to the cracks, as if they’d been baked in some arid place. A vision of this cop crawling across a desert flashed in McSorley’s mind. The image terrified him, and he couldn’t think why.

  The cop’s hands stayed out of view until he reached in and took the key from the ignition. A black leather glove, expensive looking.

  ‘What do you want?’ McSorley asked. His voice bubbled in his throat.

  The cop straightened and looked back down the road. ‘You’re not wearing your seat belt. Any reason?’

  ‘I forgot,’ McSorley said. He looked to the rear-view mirror, knowing what he’d see. The van pulled out of the junction, turning towards them.

  The woman cop walked to the passenger side. She leaned down and peered in, first at Comiskey, then at Hughes. Comiskey gave her a weak smile. She did not return it.

  ‘Well, that won’t do,’ the tanned cop said. ‘You don’t want points on your licence, do you?’

  The van filled the rear-view mirror. The woman cop waved, and it pulled alongside the Focus. The tanned cop reached in and hit the button to open the boot. It would have sprung up a good six inches when the car was new, but now it just loosened itself from the seal. The woman cop went to the back of the Focus, and the boot lid whined as she opened it fully. Cold, damp air kissed the back of McSorley’s neck. The smell of manure from the fields around them mixed with the bitter sting of his own sweat.

  The two men stayed in the van’s cabin, but McSorley heard heavy feet moving inside, and then its rear doors opening. He went to crane his head around, but the tanned cop hunkered down beside him, smiling.

  McSorley studied the peeler’s face and all at once knew every tale the lines and cracks told. He had been in a dry and barren place, crawling in the dirt, hunting his prey. Iraq, maybe Afghanistan. Maybe somewhere the Yanks and the Brits would never admit to. And now he was here, not far from the Irish border, his sun-scorched face blank and unyielding. Just another job.

  ‘You’re not a peeler,’ McSorley said.

  The cop’s hard smile didn’t even flicker. ‘Where are you headed today, sir?’

  ‘I said, you’re no peeler. What do you want?’

  Footsteps scuffled
behind the two vehicles. Something screeched and groaned as it was dragged along the floor of the van. Voices issued orders, hissed and strained. The cop’s eyes never left McSorley’s.

  A voice said, ‘On three. One, two, three – hup!’

  The Focus lurched and leaned back on its rear axle as something monstrously heavy was dumped in the boot.

  ‘What the fuck was that?’ Comiskey asked.

  Hughes turned in the seat, but the parcel shelf blocked his vision. McSorley watched shifts in the light in his rear-view mirror. He wanted to weep, but smothered the urge. He heard more scuffling, then the thudding of feet clambering back into the van. The car’s boot lid slammed down, and McSorley saw the woman cop through the back window, along with a heavy-set man. The parcel shelf didn’t quite find home; something pushed it up from beneath.

  The woman cop carried a long sports bag. The heavy-set man raised an automatic rifle. It looked like the Heckler & Koch G3 McSorley had fired behind a Newry pub years before. The man approached from the driver’s side, keeping the rifle on McSorley.

  McSorley felt the heat of tears rising behind his eyes. Fuck if he’d cry. He swallowed them. The rear passenger side door opened. He looked back over his shoulder.

  The woman cop reached in and dropped something metallic. Its weight thudded on the carpet between Hughes’s feet.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Hughes said. He scuttled sideways, behind McSorley, away from whatever lay there.

  She tossed something else in. It clanked against the first object.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Hughes said, his voice rising into a breathy whine.

  The woman drew a pair of long cylinders from the bag. McSorley stared at them for a moment, his brain struggling to catch up with what he saw, before he recognised the twin barrels of a shotgun. She placed it butt-first into the footwell, letting the long barrels fall across Hughes’s thigh.

  ‘Fuck me, they’re guns,’ Hughes said as the door swung shut. ‘What’s going on, Eugene?’

  McSorley looked back to the tanned cop. The cop smiled, winked, and closed the driver’s door. He held up the car key, showed it to McSorley, and thumbed it twice. The locks whirred and clunked. The cop placed the key on the bonnet, just beneath the glass.

  ‘Christ,’ McSorley said.

  ‘What are they doing, Eugene?’ Comiskey asked.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’ McSorley crossed himself. His bladder screamed for release. He fought it.

  The two cops, who McSorley knew were not cops at all, got back into the Skoda and pulled away. The van eased in front of the Focus. The man with the rifle grinned at McSorley. He kept the gun trained on him as he climbed into the open back.

  Comiskey tried the handle. ‘Open the locks,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t,’ McSorley said. Tears warmed his cheeks. ‘The bastard double-locked it. You need the key to open it.’

  The van moved off, picking up speed. The man with the rifle waved. McSorley’s bladder gave out.

  ‘Oh, God,’ McSorley said. ‘Jesus, boys.’

  Comiskey slammed the window with his elbow. He tried it again. Hughes lifted the shotgun and rammed the butt against the rear window.

  McSorley knew it was pointless. ‘Oh, Christ, boys.’

  Hughes hit the window once more, and it shattered. He lurched to the opening. Comiskey scrambled to climb back and follow.

  Waves of rainwater smeared the windscreen as the van grew smaller in the distance. Hughes roared as he forced his shoulders through the gap.

  ‘Jesus,’ McSorley whispered. ‘Jesus, boys, they killed us.’

  He barely registered the detonator’s POP! before God’s fist slammed him into nothing.

  2

  Detective Inspector Jack Lennon knew it was shit work, but the choice had been made clear: keep an eye on Dandy Andy Rankin and Rodney Crozier as they met in a greasy spoon café on Sandy Row, or spend the rest of the week typing up notes for the Public Prosecution Service. His buttocks still ached from the stint of PPS donkey work they’d dumped on him last year. He didn’t fancy another taste.

  The information had been passed along from C3, or Special Branch as most people knew them. Rankin and Crozier, two of Belfast’s leading Loyalists, were to meet at Sylvia’s to try to settle an argument that had so far put five men in hospital. One had lost an eye, another was breathing through a tube in his throat, but no one had died yet. The plan was to keep it that way.

  Spats between the Loyalists were a constant nuisance. Every few weeks a thug or two would turn up with his head broken over some quarrel or other. But sometimes the spats boiled over and people got killed. No one on the force cared too much if the odd drug dealer got taken out, but it would rile the politicians and the press, not to mention the paperwork it would generate. So it was best to keep tabs on things, try to head off trouble at the pass. That’s what Chief Inspector Uprichard had said when he assigned Lennon the job. Lennon had been at a loose end since he’d lost his place on the Major Investigation Team, so this sort of busywork was the best he could hope for. Observe and report, see who’s talking to whom, judge if the exchanges are friendly or heated, make sure it’s not something that could escalate.

  Lennon watched the café from a van with Water Board markings. He’d parked up in a side street across the way, put a lunch box and a flask on the dashboard, and opened a copy of the Belfast Telegraph. He had spread the pages across the steering wheel fifteen minutes ago and settled in.

  Rankin and Crozier sat by the window. Lennon could see them clear as day, but could only imagine their conversation. There was no money in the pot for bugging the place. The pair were only of mild interest to Special Branch, so did not merit the budget. This was strictly eyeball duty, nothing more. Yep, Lennon thought, shit work. Part of him wondered if they just wanted to get him out of the office.

  The targets huddled together, their proximity suggesting soft voices, even if the expressions on their faces did not. Crozier wore a Glasgow Rangers football top, his tattoos blurring on his thick forearms. Rankin sported a grey suit with a pink shirt, open at the collar to display his heavy gold chain. His teeth looked unnaturally white against his orange tan. Sylvia Burrows, the café’s proprietor since it had opened in the early Seventies, placed two steaming mugs between the men. She did not linger to make chitchat. The men barely acknowledged her.

  Lennon scribbled on the pad in his lap and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes now since he’d pulled up, ten since Crozier had arrived, no more than five since Rankin had joined him. Lennon yawned and stretched. Maybe the PPS paperwork wouldn’t have been so bad.

  Just a few weeks ago he’d been on a Major Investigation Team, second to DCI Jim Thompson. Good work, proper police graft befitting his rank. He’d pissed it away over a bloody speeding penalty he’d tried to get quashed for that piece of shit Roscoe Patterson. The traffic cop, Constable Joseph Moore, had come over all self-righteous when Lennon tackled him.

  It wasn’t the sixty quid, Lennon had explained, money wasn’t the issue. Roscoe had plenty of money. Lennon might have said that last part twice, he couldn’t quite remember. The issue was the three points Roscoe couldn’t afford on his licence. Things got heated when Moore, one of the newer Catholic recruits filling up the ranks since the Patten reforms, questioned why Lennon would stick his neck out for a Hun bastard like Roland ‘Roscoe’ Patterson. Lennon knew he shouldn’t have grabbed Moore’s throat and pushed him against the wall, and he apologised the next day. He didn’t know, however, that Moore had gone to CI Uprichard and claimed Lennon had tried to pass on an offer of a bribe from a known Loyalist paramilitary.

  Thus Lennon found himself in front of Uprichard’s desk being offered the choice of unpaid leave or a full disciplinary hearing. Without his old friend DCI Dan Hewitt’s intervention, the latter would have been the only option. Uprichard reminded Lennon that his record was not unblemished, and a hearing would be unlikely to do him any good, even if the allegation couldn’t be proven.

  Lenno
n chose leave. He sat at home for three days before boredom got the better of him. On the fourth day he boarded a flight to Barcelona. The hotel was a pit. George Orwell was supposed to have stayed there during the Spanish Civil War. From the looks of it, he’d picked the wallpaper. But the room had a balcony overlooking Las Ramblas, and the weather allowed him to sit out in the evenings with a can of San Miguel, watching the tourists and the locals avoid each other’s eyes on the street below. When midnight came, he toured the tapas bars, looking for American or English women he could charm with his accent. Most nights, he succeeded.

  He returned from Barcelona only to feel like a spare wheel, no real use to anybody, so every crappy meaningless job came his way. Including this one.

  Rankin and Crozier’s hands became more animated. Fingers stabbed at the tabletop as points were made. The mugs shook. Lennon blinked and focused, shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward.

  Crozier held up his hands, palms out, maybe trying to placate the other man. Rankin didn’t look like he was having any of it. His forefinger wagged in Crozier’s face. Crozier sat back, his shoulders slumping in exasperation.

  Lennon glanced down to his pad and noted the change in tone. When he looked up, Crozier was on his feet, turning to leave.

  Good, Lennon thought. If it was over, he could get the fuck out of there and type up the notes. That done, he could wait around for some more shit work.

  Rankin tugged at Crozier’s sleeve. Crozier slapped his hand away. Rankin stood, his chair tipping over.

  ‘Jesus,’ Lennon said to the empty van. ‘This is getting a bit tasty.’

  Rankin pulled a knife from his pocket and buried the blade between Crozier’s ribs.

  Lennon blinked, tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  Rankin withdrew the blade. Crozier didn’t go down. He stared at the other man, his mouth slack. Rankin drove the blade home again.

  ‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He reached for the radio, hit the emergency button. It would send a signal out to every receiver on the network, saying an officer needed assistance, pinpointing his position.