I printed off that image too, then lifted both pictures from the printer tray.
Helen Gorman was completing an incident report on a traffic accident when I went across to her.
‘I want you to gather up a team and go back out to the Carrowcreel and find that building,’ I said, handing her the shot of Pony Tail.
‘Why?’ Gorman asked.
‘Because this fucker was obviously up to something in it. Something bad enough to kill Leon Bradley to stop him revealing it. Now gather up a team, Helen.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, standing up quickly and moving off.
Vincent Morrison worked out of a unit on an industrial estate on the outskirts of Derry, near Campsie. When I arrived at his depot, two vans were parked in the garage bays. One had the engine exposed and a young man in a boiler suit was lying on the floor underneath. A girl sat at the reception desk doing a newspaper crossword.
‘I’d like to see Vincent Morrison,’ I said.
‘Have you an appointment?’ she asked, barely glancing up at me.
‘No, I’m the police.’
‘Not up here, you’re not,’ a male voice said. I looked up to see Vincent Morrison standing in the doorway of his office, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded. I recognized him from the photographs I had seen on the Internet the day before. He was a slight man, small-framed and underfed. He wore a loose T-shirt which had the effect of making his arms look even more spindly than they actually were. His face was narrow, his mouth slightly pursed, his moustache thin on his upper lip. He wore glasses, behind which he blinked several times in quick succession.
‘That’s true, Mr Morrison,’ I conceded.
‘You’re one of the ones that lifted my van yesterday,’ he said, wagging a finger playfully in my direction.
‘I was there, that’s correct,’ I agreed, stopping myself from asking how he knew. ‘Your employee was selling all manner of things from the back of your van.’
‘You give these people jobs and what happens?’ he said, hands out, palms raised in a what-can-you-do? gesture.
‘All the same, the man was selling illegal goods from your van, Mr Morrison. I’m sure the PSNI will want to discuss it with you at some stage. Meanwhile, I was wondering if you could help me.’
He tilted his head slightly to the side. ‘If I can,’ he said.
‘I’m trying to locate one of your employees. Barry Ford?’
Morrison’s mouth pursed a little tighter, and he shook his head.
I took out the photograph of Ford that I had printed out and handed it to Morrison. ‘No one seems to remember this man,’ I said. ‘He works for you, apparently.’
Morrison looked at the picture, then folded it and handed it back to me.
‘I know Barry. He used to work for me. Haven’t seen him in a few days. What has he done?’
‘I’m not sure where to start,’ I said. ‘I’d like his address if you have it.’
Morrison clicked his fingers in the direction of the girl still sitting behind her desk, chewing on the top of a biro as she struggled with her crossword. ‘Get Barry’s details, Sharon,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I began, but Morrison interrupted me.
‘Where was that picture taken?’ he asked.
‘We’re looking into it now.’
Morrison nodded and moved out from his doorway. ‘If that’s everything? I had hoped you’d be bringing me back my van, but as you say, I need to discuss that with the PSNI.’
‘There is something else,’ I said. ‘What business does your company have with Eligius Technology?’
‘None of yours, actually,’ he replied with a laugh.
‘Your name came up in the investigation of a murder, sir. Invoices from you to Eligius. Your partner Seamus Curran already confirmed that you are carrying something for Senator Cathal Hagan. He tells me they met in Chechnya. Do you send lorries out there much?’
‘We are a freight carrier,’ he explained. ‘We work with a lot of companies, some better known than others. And we go to a lot of countries.’
‘What do you transport for them?’ I asked.
‘Whatever they pay us to transport. Now, this really is none of your business, Inspector. If you want to see our records, you can get a warrant and see what happens. Except, of course, your warrant will be meaningless up here.’
‘A contract from a company the size of Eligius and you really expect me to believe that you don’t know what you transport for them?’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Morrison replied, smiling. I noticed that one of his two front teeth was slightly crooked and overlapped with its neighbour. ‘I said it was none of your business. And I don’t really give a shit whether you believe a word I say or not; you’ve no authority here. I’ll give you that address, because I’m a good guy. Ask me any more questions and I’ll kick your arse out of here.’
Morrison’s aggressiveness only served to strengthen my determination to find out why his contract with Eligius was so important. I also had the sheet of productivity reports; they meant little to me, but I suspected that someone with a head for figures might be more successful in identifying their significance to Leon Bradley. I was reluctant to ask someone within my own station, in case word would get back to Patterson that I was investigating Hagan. There was someone else, though, who I knew would be delighted to dig for dirt on Orcas.
Ted Coyle had told me he used to be an accountant. As I drove out to the Carrowcreel, I phoned Gilmore and gave him the address Morrison had given me for Barry Ford. He lived in Derry, which was out of my jurisdiction. The PSNI, however, could legitimately go after him, armed if needs be.
I was about three miles from the turning to the Carrowcreel when I got a call from Helen Gorman. She and three other officers had trekked up the river again, she said. They had located the barn in the images we had retrieved from Bradley’s camera. It was a five-minute walk to the east of where we had found the camera. It had looked deserted but as they had approached they noticed a car parked near by. Someone was inside.
I told her to wait for me and then drove back towards Orcas. It would take too long to drive to the campsite and make my way upriver. I recalled seeing the fence at Orcas near the spot where we had found Leon’s camera.
I parked the car against the fence, where I estimated the spot closest to the river to be. Before locking up, I removed my gun from the floor locker between the two front seats, in case Pony Tail was armed. He’d already taken one shot at me with a sawn-off shotgun, and I knew a shotgun had also been used to kill Leon. Best to be sure, I told myself. I was able to haul myself up over the chain-link fence, dropped heavily on to the other side and stumbled down to the river’s edge.
Within a minute or two I spotted the crime-scene tape and cut up on to the bank and headed east. At jogging pace, even with the smoker’s cough that made me stop and gasp for breath every couple of hundred yards, I caught sight of the barn through the trees within a few minutes.
The building, which was constructed of corrugated metal, was located in a clearing in the middle of the forest. Nearer the edge of the treeline close to it, the forest floor was thick with undergrowth. As I approached I saw the four Gardai crouching behind a tangle of bramble bushes about fifty yards due west of the barn. Then I saw Helen Gorman rise, gun drawn, and step out through the bushes behind which she had been crouched. One of the other officers rose to his feet uncertainly, while his two colleagues held their positions.
Beyond them in the clearing, just past Gorman, I could see Barry Ford. He was dressed in a white protective suit, a paper mask covering his mouth. He was leaning into his car and I guessed that Helen had decided to stop him leaving. He looked up at her approaching and his eyes widened slightly. He leant back into the car again. Gorman shouted to him to get out of the vehicle, thinking he was trying to escape. Too late, I realized that that was not the case. From the passenger seat he pulled out a shotgun and twisted quickly towards Gorman, holding
the stock firmly in two hands, at waist level. Gorman froze, her own gun held aloft. Then she lowered her arm as if readying for a shot. I shouted to her as I drew my own weapon. But it was too late.
The blast echoed through the trees, causing the birds above us to break into a cacophony of cries. None, though, matched the visceral scream Helen Gorman made as her body was flung backwards. She landed on the ground near where her colleagues were stumbling to their feet. I managed to discharge two shots in quick succession at Ford, but he ducked behind his car and began to stumble towards the treeline to the far side of the barn.
I dropped to my knees beside Gorman, gripping her hand. The blast had caught her on the chest, shredding her Garda shirt. Deep wounds were gouged from the flesh of her breast and shoulder and blood pumped through my fingers as I pressed my hand on the wounds.
‘Call for help,’ I shouted to the three who stood behind me, staring open-mouthed at their colleague. ‘Call a fucking ambulance!’ I screamed. Finally one of them pulled out his phone, whilst the others knelt beside Helen. One pulled up his sweater and tore a strip from the hem of his shirt to use to plug the deepest of the wounds. I had a first-aid kit in my car, but it was too far away.
Gorman screamed as we pressed on her wounds. She gritted her teeth and gripped harder on my hand, twisting my fingers in her own as each spasm of pain hit her. Absurdly, I recalled my wife, holding my hand in the same manner as she gave birth to Penny.
‘You’re going to be OK, Helen,’ I said, smoothing her hair back from her face. In doing so, I smeared her blood from my hand across her forehead, which was already cold and damp with sweat.
‘Jesus, I’m freezing,’ she said. ‘I’m fucking freezing.’
I put my arm around her as her body shook with cold. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her muscles began sporadic contractions.
She screamed once more, a high-pitched yowl such as I had never heard before. Her back arched as she twisted around. She gripped my hand tighter, brought it to her mouth and bit down to relieve the agony she was experiencing.
‘The ambulance will be here soon,’ the officer behind me said.
Gorman attempted to smile, her mouth a tight grimace. Then she looked at me, our hands held together in front of her face. ‘I can’t feel your hand,’ she said. ‘I can’t feel your hand.’ Her voice rose as she started to panic. She began to weep, her words spluttering on her lips, and I realized that tears were dripping from my face too, though I had not been aware that I was crying.
Finally, she gasped once, tightened her grip forcefully, then relaxed. Her eyes shifted their gaze past me to the canopy above and slowly lost their focus. Her jaw slackened and her mouth gaped open. One of the other Guards started CPR, leaning close to her mouth in the hope that she might start breathing, but it was obvious that she was gone.
I marked the sign of the cross in the smear of blood on her forehead, and silently mouthed an Act of Contrition. I pressed her hand to my lips, then placed it by her side. Then, barking orders at the others to remain with her until the ambulance arrived, I lifted my gun and set off after Barry Ford.
As I passed his car, I noticed blood smeared against one of the side panels. If I had hit him, it had been fairly low on his leg, judging by the height of the bloodstain. Still, it would be enough to slow him down.
I ducked in under the branches and entered the woodland proper. To my left I could hear the rush of the river. The forest canopy was eerily silent, the wildlife seemingly scattered by the commotion. Ford must have heard Gorman too. Perhaps he felt some grim satisfaction in her screams.
The lower branches of the pine trees were bare of leaves and needles, and I was able to see a fair distance ahead. Far to my left, heading upriver, I could make out the white-suited figure of Barry Ford. He had a head start on me, though not as much as I had feared.
He obviously caught sight of me at the same time, for he twisted and, steadying himself, raised his gun and fired off a shot.
He was still too far ahead for the shot to count for much and it splintered harmlessly against the trunk of a tree twenty feet ahead of me. The noise of the gun reverberated around us and in its wake the silence of the forest seemed to return with a whoosh.
To return fire would only have been a waste of ammunition at this range. I picked up my pace and kept my head down.
Up ahead I noticed that Ford had stopped and was leaning against a tree trunk. I could make out a patch of bright red on his white trousers. Reloading his gun, he turned and fired a second shot. This one splintered the tree to my immediate left, causing me to duck for cover. At least I knew I had gained on him sufficiently that he was now well within range.
I heard another clunk as he shunted his cartridge into place and a third blast ricocheted off the trees around me. This shot blew off the bark of the tree beside me, causing splinters of wood to rain down on me. My stomach muscles clenched and my legs seemed to lose power.
I glanced around the trunk of the tree I had taken cover behind. Ford was struggling to reload his weapon and I used the opportunity to take aim and fire. The shot hit the ground a foot away from him, scattering dirt and pine needles and causing him to scurry backwards. In his turn he took aim again and fired, though his shot was wide and the pellets lodged in a tree some ten feet away from me.
Figuring I had thirty seconds until his next shot, I broke cover and ran towards him, trying to keep cover between us. He fired again, the shot hitting the trees in front of me. This time, as he leant back against the tree he was using for cover, the white of his shoulder was still visible. I took aim, steadying one hand with the other, and squeezed off a shot.
The spurt of blood from his shoulder was enough to let me know I’d been successful. Ford twisted onto the forest floor, still attempting to aim his gun despite his diminishing strength. Finally, he seemed to give up and his arm flopped useless on the ground, the stock of his gun heavy in his hand.
I came out from my cover and approached him warily, my gun trained on his chest.
‘Let go of the gun,’ I shouted. ‘Now!’
Ford half laughed a gasp. ‘I can’t. You’ve fucked my shoulder.’
‘I will shoot you,’ I said. ‘Drop the fucking gun.’ In the distance I could hear sirens, and I was aware that somewhere behind me someone was calling my name.
‘I can’t, you stupid prick,’ he spat.
I trained my gun on him as I approached. He was on his side, his arm lying partially beneath him. His shoulder was soaked with blood, the tear at the front of the white suit he wore showing that the bullet had passed through his body.
‘How’s the girl?’ he wheezed.
My gun twitched involuntarily. My mouth seemed suddenly dry. I tried to speak and had to clear my throat before I could form any words.
‘You killed her,’ I said.
‘She startled me,’ he said, frowningly.
I nodded, but did not trust myself to speak. My gun was suddenly heavy in my grip. I glanced over my shoulder, attempting to gauge how far behind me the other officers were. My mouth felt furred and I had to lick my lips several times.
Ford seemed to sense my thoughts, for he struggled to raise himself up on his weakened arm. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her, man—’ he started to explain.
I raised my gun from his chest to his head and swallowed hard. It would be easy, I thought. No one could dispute my story. He still had his gun in his hand.
‘Why did you kill Leon Bradley?’ I asked, almost to prevent myself from acting rashly.
‘Who?’
‘Leon Bradley. You shot him in the back. Why?’
Ford raised his empty hand in a gesture of surrender.
‘I don’t know what . . . I can’t . . .’ His gaze moved beyond me, as he now attempted to see where the other Gardai were.
‘Was it about Eligius? Something about Morrison?’
He shrugged.
‘You mugged a fucking postman to try to retrieve letters that Bradley
stole? Starting to remember yet?’
A laugh gurgled in his throat. ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re on. I never touched a post—’
‘Tell me about Morrison,’ I snapped.
He smiled again, then glanced past me. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with. Don’t fucking get involved with him.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Just don’t mess with him, man.’
‘What’s the connection with Eligius?’
Ford coughed roughly. ‘I don’t know, man. We take stuff into Chechnya for them.’
‘What stuff?’
‘I swear, I don’t know. Something small. A few boxes just.’
‘Who organized it? Morrison or Curran?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What about the people you bring back? Who organized that?’
Ford glanced past me again, his tongue darting onto his lips. He was losing blood and, I guessed, getting thirsty. His admission would mean nothing if I were the only person to hear it.
‘Vinnie. The guys we delivered to in Chechnya made an arrangement. They had people who were looking to get out of the country, we had an empty lorry coming across Europe. No one got hurt.’
‘Apart from the people you bring in. What about them?’
‘I just drive the fucking van, man.’
‘We’re going back now. I’m going to remove your gun. If you even twitch at me, I’ll shoot you.’
‘No you won’t,’ Ford said. ‘You need what I know.’ He looked past me once more, and I knew that he had made his decision. I saw his jaw set, an instant before he attempted to raise his shotgun one last time, and seconds before I pulled the trigger of my gun. My bullet shattered Ford’s cheekbone before lodging itself somewhere in his brain pan. His mouth gaped in a frozen O and his eyes rolled in his head as his body slid off the tree trunk onto the forest floor.
Bleed a River Deep (Inspector Devlin Mystery 3) Page 18
