Revenge

by Bill Ward

  "I need to be going,” Jones said impatiently. “Do you have something for me?”

  Connor took out an envelope and handed it to Jones. Though they had Jones by the short and curlies they always paid him for his information. Connor would have preferred not to but he didn’t argue with the Chief.

  Jones took the envelope and stuffed it in his coat. He expected it to contain two thousand pounds but wasn’t going to count it in the park. Though he had many of the trappings of success, a new car, a four bedroom detached house and children who had been educated at private schools, working for the government did not pay well. He was putting these payments towards his retirement fund.

  "Will that be all, now?” Jones asked, eager to get away.

  Connor didn’t bother replying. He simply turned his back and walked away. He realised why he hated Jones. It wasn’t just that he was a Brit or his offensive sexual preferences. It was because he was a fucking tout. He'd pulled the trigger and kneecapped a tout one time. Been glad to do it. It was the least the Judas deserved for running to the Brits with bits of information, for a miserable few quid. Jones was the lowest of the low in Connor’s eyes. Touts ranked below even perverts.

  Sam Murphy had never been in a betting shop in her life. Her image of them was of seedy places inhabited by a combination of weird old men and losers spending money they should be giving their wives, instead of frittering it away on the horses. Or at least that was how she thought it was back home. However, she was surprised to find that Ashdown Racing was nothing like she’d imagined. It was a bright well lit room, with a large television screen in the middle of one wall and comfortable chairs for watching. There were other smaller screens spread around the shop and a long counter where you placed your bets. The walls were painted in pleasant pastels and there was almost a coffee shop feel to the place. Not the least bit dingy as she had imagined.

  She’d recognized Ashdown from the newspaper pictures as soon as she entered. He was behind the counter with a young looking man and a middle aged woman. He was taking bets and sometimes handing out winnings, which he seemed to do with remarkable cheerfulness, considering it was presumably his money he was dishing out. She noticed that most people seemed to know each other and all of them knew Ashdown. As new people entered the shop they were going up to him and congratulating him. There was loads of hand shaking and pats on the back. It sickened her to see how everyone was treating the bastard like some kind of hero. Didn’t they know he had almost killed her brother?

  On initially entering, she’d glanced around and spotting newspapers on the wall that detailed the day’s racing, had pretended to read them. She felt conspicuous as there was only one other woman in the shop, who was probably three times her age. From the moment she’d entered, she’d been getting a fair number of what she thought were appreciative stares, from various men of all ages. She assumed she wasn’t the typical customer they expected to see in their shop.

  She wasn’t entirely sure what she would achieve by coming to Brighton but had felt a compelling need to do so. Now she was here, she was getting a real buzz from being in the same space as the man she hated. She’d heard her father say you must know your enemy. He had a saying to cover most situations. Well she knew her enemy and now all that remained was to decide on her revenge. She’d given it some thought on the way down from London. Her brother was going to spend a very long time in jail. The most fitting revenge would be to put Ashdown away for a similar time but the question was how to achieve that.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  Sam turned quickly on her heels, recognizing the voice instantly. She looked startled.

  “It’s on the house,” Tom said, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

  “Err, thanks,” she said. “I don’t mind if I do.”

  “You’re not a reporter by any chance?”

  “A reporter?” Sam queried.

  “Only we’ve had a few of them in here today.”

  “No, I’m not a reporter. Why would you think I am?” Sam was suddenly very conscious of her Irish accent.

  “Firstly, you’ve been in here ages and haven’t placed a single bet. Secondly, you look out of place. I doubt you know a yankee from a trixie.”

  “I promise I’m not a reporter,” Sam said with conviction and trying to tone down her accent.

  Tom gave her a look that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced but she seemed harmless. “Fair enough then. How do you take your coffee?”

  “Just black please.”

  Ashdown moved away to fetch coffee and Sam breathed deeply to get her pounding heart under control. It was the thought of coffee that prompted her idea for revenge. She knew that the drugs from South America were often shipped alongside coffee, as it made it impossible for the sniffer dogs to detect. It was a simple plan but she had been taught that simple plans were often the best. Eduardo Garcia was always chasing her. He wasn’t exactly her type but he would be able to put her in touch with a supplier. Then all she had to do was plant the stuff on Ashdown and make a call to let the police know.

  Ashdown reappeared with the coffee. “Thanks,” she said. “By the way, why is all the racing from France?”

  “English racing is all cancelled,” he answered. “Because of the terrible weather.” He made it seem an unnecessary explanation.

  She could see that her lack of racing knowledge had once again pricked his curiosity. “I’m really not a reporter,” she stressed. “But the truth is I just came in to get out the cold. I have a bit of time to kill. Hope you don’t mind?” Then she added as an afterthought, “And I might have a small bet.”

  Tom laughed. “Feel free,” he said. “Enjoy the coffee. And if anyone here tells you they have a certainty, ignore them. There’s no such thing.”

  As he walked away she felt more relaxed. She even recognized the tiniest self-questioning of whether she was right to want revenge on Ashdown. He’d seemed friendly enough – quite human even for a moment. Then she remembered the troubles at home and who was responsible. It was the Brits fault. Everything was their fault. If it wasn’t for them her father wouldn’t have spent half her childhood in jail and her brother wouldn’t be facing the rest of his life behind bars. No she decided, there was no room for compassion towards Brits in her heart. She’d save her sympathy for all those fine young men, many not much older than herself, who had selflessly given their lives for freedom. She wouldn’t betray their memory. She knew who her enemy was and she’d confronted him and now she had a chance for revenge.

  Geoffrey Miller had arranged to meet Tony Simpson for lunch. Simpson was an old friend, dating back to when they both worked for Special Branch and spent time together in Northern Ireland. At some point thereafter Simpson’s specialist knowledge of Irish affairs had earned him an invitation to join MI5. It had been part of a drive to cement greater cooperation between the different forces combating terrorism. It wasn’t a move Miller would have contemplated making but Simpson was always one of the first people Miller would choose to consult, when he needed a different and unofficial perspective on Irish puzzles.

  Simpson enjoyed good food immensely and fine wine even more. A rotund jovial man of only about five feet six inches in height, a comparison with a barrel would not be inappropriate. He was bald on top but had bushy dark eyebrows and reminded Miller of a figure from the ‘Guess Who’ children’s game he had played with his kids, when they were younger.

  They had arranged to meet at a quiet little restaurant in the City, which they had used previously. Miller arrived to find Simpson already seated at a suitably private table in the corner. The place was never very busy at lunchtime. In Miller’s opinion this was largely the result of a spectacularly expensive menu. The restaurant preferred to attract a select but appreciative clientele, rather than pure numbers. As Miller approached the table he could see a bottle of what was bound to be excellent wine chilling in the ice bucket.

  “Good to see you again, Geo
ffrey,” Simpson smiled, rising from his chair and shaking hands enthusiastically. “I took the liberty of ordering a wonderful Chablis they serve. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  Miller barely had time to sit before his glass was filled.

  “May you have many more occasions to pick my brain,” Simpson toasted. They brought their glasses together with a clink and Miller tasted the wine. Simpson was observing him, waiting for his judgement.

  “An excellent choice Tony, as usual. Please just tell me it’s under fifty quid a bottle.” Miller enjoyed a glass of wine but had few pretensions to being a connoisseur. He usually paid about ten pounds at his local off license for what he considered a decent red wine, which was his preference. He suspected Simpson’s upper class background meant he paid a lot more for something, he would describe as decent.

  “I could tell you it was under fifty quid Geoffrey but then I would be lying,” Simpson replied with a smile. “It is however good value. I’ve paid a lot more for the same wine elsewhere.”

  “Oh well that’s all right then,” Miller acknowledged with a liberal sprinkling of sarcasm.

  A waiter appeared to take their order before they could say anything further on the subject.

  “I’ll have avocado followed by medium rare sirloin,” Miller requested without looking at the menu. It was the same he had ordered on his last visit.

  The waiter turned towards Simpson.

  “For me the shrimps in garlic, followed by rack of lamb.”

  “I’m afraid the lamb is for two,” explained the waiter politely.

  “Quite so. Perfect,” Simpson answered, beaming without any sign of discomfort. “I’ll take both portions.”

  The waiter retreated looking somewhat perplexed.

  Miller laughed. “Has no one told you, too much red meat isn’t good for you?”

  “Live for today. That’s my motto.”

  “With a waistline like yours I think you should be worrying more about tomorrow.”

  “What’s wrong with my waistline?” Simpson questioned, sounding genuinely perplexed.

  “It’s not exactly a six pack.”

  “Why settle for a six pack when you can have a whole barrel?”

  Miller laughed. He liked Simpson and knew that his size made him the person he was. He had also seen a picture of him in his youth when he would compete in international judo competitions and was nothing like the same size. He hadn’t been skinny but neither had he been so rotund.

  “Anyway,” Simpson said. “Before we get stuck into the food why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “Melanie Adams.”

  “Thought it might be. The world is well rid of that Maguire. A nasty piece of work. Don’t know the Murphy boy. Used to know his father. Also an evil devil.” Simpson shuddered at the thought of Murphy. “Have you met the son?”

  “Not personally but my boys say he’s a bit thick and it looks like it was all Maguire’s idea. Seems Murphy looked up to Maguire and just did as he was told.”

  “So he’s talking?”

  “Not at first but I think it’s fair to say we pointed out the foolishness of remaining quiet. He needs us otherwise he’s a dead man. We have him for two murders so the only issue is whether he ever gets parole and what happens to him while he’s inside. We lock him up with his old friends and he meets a sticky end.”

  “So you hope he can clear up some cold cases?”

  “You know how it works. It’s all extra pieces fitting in the jigsaw.”

  “Do you think they acted alone?” Simpson asked. “I mean, as you said, they aren’t the brightest duo. How did they know where to find her for a start?”

  “Don’t laugh but Murphy says they found out on her website. There’s a diary for her visit and under Saturday evening it says, Christmas shopping trip to Harrods.”

  Simpson looked appalled. “How long was it on the web site?”

  “Not sure but Murphy says Maguire told him Saturday afternoon they were doing a job. Didn’t say who or what it was.”

  “Would probably only have cost them a few quid to check with someone working at Harrods what time she was expected.”

  “We are interviewing all the staff and checking the CCTV in case they were ever inside the store,” Miller confirmed. “We might get lucky.” Miller didn’t sound like he believed that.

  “So why are you buying me this exquisite meal?”

  “Murphy also says that just prior to Maguire telling him about the job he’d been out to meet someone. Doesn’t have a clue who it was but thinks it was someone important.”

  “So someone else is pulling the strings,” Simpson mused.

  “Looks that way. As you said, they’re not the brightest duo so I think it’s probably safe to say this other person planned the operation. He obviously has enough brains to want to keep in the background but relying on them two makes you question just how smart he really is.”

  “Any other leads?” Simpson asked.

  “Not yet. Can your mob shed any light?”

  “No but the boss is obviously pushing all the buttons... Do you think this third man could be running another team or teams?”

  “That’s the worry. Murphy doesn’t seem to know.”

  “You know this isn’t really my area anymore,” Simpson explained. “Hasn’t been for quite some time.”

  “I know but most of those sharp youngsters you work with, wouldn’t be able to tell you the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant. They probably were still in nappies when we were in the thick of it.”

  “True,” Simpson agreed.

  “I thought Tony you might be able to keep your ear to the ground and act as an unofficial liaison between our two organisations. We need to cooperate better on this than we usually do.” Miller regularly became exasperated with the infighting between the different departments fighting terrorism. “I’ll also meet with your boss and suggest it formally but I thought I would run the idea by you first.”

  Simpson raised his glass in a toast. “Happy to help where I can. Officially or otherwise.”

  “Thanks Tony. You getting on any better with him?”

  “Don’t ask. I still can’t abide the man. Coldest fish I’ve ever known and I’m used to swimming in the artic.”

  Miller had listened during their last lunch to Simpson’s tirade against his new boss. Simpson had even mentioned, he was considering taking early retirement, in order to travel the world, sampling the culinary delights everywhere he went.

  “Perhaps you could set up a meeting for me,” Miller asked. “We can play, give away as little as possible without being accused of being uncooperative. I always enjoy that game.”

  Simpson laughed. “I’m afraid my money’s on him to win that one. I’ll call you and arrange something for the next couple of days. Now let’s enjoy lunch.”

  Connor had heard back from the Chief. Make it look like an accident if possible. If not, get the bastard anyway you can. A fucking accident, Connor thought. He’s taking the piss. Anyway, the message confirmed what he wanted to hear. The weapon and approach he had in mind was sanctioned. He had little chance of hitting Murphy on the drive to or from court. He would be out of sight, in the back of a speeding van, and he was only going to get one shot.

  His best chance to get at Murphy would be as he actually arrived or left the court building, when he would no doubt have to slow down and a man with the right weapon could target him and his vehicle, without too much collateral damage. Even then it would be difficult and the security would be very tight. Connor was a positive person by nature but he wasn’t confident he was going to pull this job off and he had decided a long time ago, he was no martyr to the cause. He wanted to have a better than even chance of pulling it off or he wouldn’t attempt it.

  The second part of the Chief’s message had been interesting. Murphy’s sister was in England and her father was worried she might try something against the man who had foiled the kidnap attempt. The Chief
owed Murphy and didn’t hold what his son had done against him. Neither did he want to see the woes of the father compounded by losing both his son and daughter. She was also a valuable asset to the organization. The Chief wanted Connor to look out for her. If that meant disposing of Ashdown, that was okay. Just get Sam Murphy safely out of harm’s way and back to her father.

  It was this that had prompted Connor to make the trip to Brighton. He had been writing out a dog bet when he spotted the girl enter the shop. His suspicions were quickly aroused, as he noticed how she continually focused on the man behind the counter, who he knew was Ashdown. After a while, Ashdown offered her coffee and Connor was close enough to detect the Belfast accent when she replied. She wasn’t an exact match for the description he’d been given but she was the right age and shape. Hair colour was easily changed.

  He didn’t expect her to do anything stupid in the shop, so returned to his car to wait for her to leave. When she did, he noticed she had a smirk on her face. Not a bad looking lass, he thought to himself, as he watched her get in a silver Ford Fiesta. A hire car presumably, as it was very new.

  She was a bit more of a looker than his usual partners and quite a bit younger. He could do with a screw. Hadn’t had one for a couple of weeks and then he’d had to pay for it. He liked the simplicity of paying for what he wanted. He wasn’t averse to a freebie but couldn’t be buggered with all the talking women expected beforehand. And the money you spent buying them food and drinks would pay for whatever you wanted from a pro, who knew what she was doing. If he wanted sex he wanted it. And looking at the Murphy girl quite turned him on. Perhaps she’d be appreciative if he helped her get rid of Ashdown.

  What was the damn girl doing though? She was just sitting in her car. Connor guessed she was waiting for Ashdown and hoped she wasn’t planning anything daft like running him down with her car. There would be little he could do to stop her, if that was her intention.