by Tony Kent
‘Can we have some volume please?’ Dempsey shouted.
The response was almost instant. The sound of a major outdoor press conference filled the room.
Anthony Haversume was standing behind a podium. He was silent. Waiting for the chatter of the crowd to die down. What he had said so far – what Dempsey and Henley had missed – seemed to have been worth hearing.
The man was as impeccably dressed as always. Bespoke suit. Tailored white shirt. Matching silk tie. The last item alone would cost more than a healthy month’s salary. But clothes could only tell half a story, because Haversume looked exhausted. He was pale, with a hint of darkness under the eyes. He looked like a man who had not slept.
The surrounding noise slowly disappeared. Dempsey and Henley had missed Round One of Haversume’s speech, but they were ready for Round Two:
‘There are those who would prefer that I shirk this task. The position I’ve taken in response to the recent terrorism has made me a target for the very criminals I’ve opposed. In the last eighteen months I’ve made huge changes to my life and to the lives of my loved ones, to keep us safe. Those close to me would prefer that these changes were not necessary. If I am honest, I’d prefer that myself. I do not enjoy putting myself at risk. But what would be the price of doing what I prefer, instead of what is right?
‘The price is that William Davies will continue on this route. A route that sees this great nation capitulate to terrorism on a daily basis. That sees us freeing those who have murdered our citizens and our soldiers with impunity. That sees us grow weak in the eyes of the world as we are bombed and we are attacked and yet do nothing. This cannot be allowed to continue, and I can do something to stop it. I will do that, risk be damned!’
Haversume’s voice had been rising throughout this short section of his speech. By his final words it was close to a shout. Not the calm, considered rhetoric of a typical British politician. These were the words of a new breed. A showman. And they were working. The crowd – made up of experienced reporters – were hypnotised. Once again the politician’s words were interrupted by spontaneous applause.
‘They’re eating this shit up.’ Dempsey was speaking to himself as much as he was to Henley.
‘Really?’ Henley seemed surprised. ‘I didn’t expect to hear that from someone like you.’
For the first time since taking his seat, Henley had Dempsey’s full attention.
‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ Dempsey asked.
‘You know, someone with your background. Army, intelligence, DDS. I thought you guys were all behind Haversume. Or against Davies at least? No?’
‘No.’
Dempsey’s one-word answer gave nothing away. Henley no doubt wanted more. He cleared his throat to ask a follow-up question. Before he could form it, the sound of Haversume’s voice once again fill the room.
‘So, as of this moment, I am confirming my position. I will do whatever it takes to protect this country. To fight the evil behind the tragedy of yesterday. I will stand against William Davies’ policies in Northern Ireland, and I will challenge his leadership of this country. And if I succeed I will lead us out of these dark times of cowardly appeasement.’
This time there was no raised voice. It was a cold, determined statement of fact. That did not change the response. Once again the crowd broke into a round of applause.
Henley glanced towards Dempsey as the acclaim began to die.
‘You don’t think that’s good news?’ he asked.
‘What I think is that it’s a load of jingoistic bullshit,’ Dempsey replied. ‘All this criticism of Davies. It’s not right. Yeah, the guy’s gone about things badly in Ireland. But he tried. Which is more than anyone else was doing, At least he did his best.’
‘But you can’t think it’s worked, Joe? They’re bombing us again. Something has to be done, surely?’
‘Of course it does. But does it have to be what this guy’s suggesting?’
Dempsey indicated towards the screen. Haversume was taking questions from the crowd, but neither man was listening.
‘Because what’s his answer, Jim? Sending our soldiers back in? Going back to war? It didn’t work last time. Why’s it going to work now? All we’ll get are more dead men. Women and children, too. Is that what we want? Is that what these idiots are applauding?’
Henley seemed shocked by what he was hearing. It was unusual that a man with Dempsey’s history – a man in his position – would have such distaste for force. To Dempsey, though, it was exactly that history that informed his position. To Dempsey, the cost of war was not theoretical. It was not numbers on a screen. He had seen the death and destruction first-hand. And he knew how little either one of them achieved.
Dempsey turned back to the screen.
Haversume was holding up his hand. The consummate orator, he was waiting for the noise of the crowd to die down. It did so quickly.
‘I know that there are more questions you’ll want to ask. Believe me, I am keen to answer. But I ask that you postpone them for the time being. Many of you will already know that last night there was a further tragedy in my own personal life. A further unexpected death. The loss of my godson in the early hours of this morning has left his family devastated. I intend to do what I can to support them in this hour of need and I ask that I can be left to do that. At least for the next few days. I’m grateful for your understanding. Thank you.’
Haversume was visibly upset. The cause of his haggard looks was now clear. This time there was no applause. Instead the gathered press marvelled at the fact that, in the face of such personal loss, the man could have spoken so well and with such conviction.
‘Jesus.’ Henley’s voice broke Dempsey’s focus on the screen, just as Haversume turned and walked away from the podium. ‘His godson, too. Unlucky chap.’
‘Let’s hope he’s the only one,’ Dempsey replied. He took an extra-large mouthful of his fresh Guinness before continuing. ‘Because if he gets his way and we go back into Ulster, a whole lot more godsons are going to find themselves on mortuary slabs.’
THIRTY-TWO
Michael Devlin stood at the mirror in his downstairs washroom. He filled his large cupped hands with cold water from the running tap and buried his face in the contents. Next he placed his hands on the square bathroom sink and leaned forward to look closely into the reflecting glass. The toll of the last twenty-four hours looked back at him.
His eyes were red. Not from tears but from fatigue. The damage had come from holding himself together. From being the rock that Daniel’s wife had needed. That had taken every ounce of strength he had. The strain showed on his face.
Michael left the bathroom and walked from the hallway to the lounge. The sight of the leather sofa in the centre of the room was welcome. The thought of letting it take his body’s weight was almost a physical pleasure, but it was a pleasure banished in an instant. Replaced by the memory of a telephone conversation from less than a day before.
The memory was forced from his mind. Michael would not allow himself to fall apart. Not now. The strength he had shown throughout the day may have left him, but his mind remained clear. Instead he thought through the past hours. The loss of his closest friend was more than painful. As was the need of those Daniel had left behind. Michael had been there for them. They were his responsibility now. What was it Daniel used to say to him? Family doesn’t stop at blood? For the first time he really understood what that meant. He would not let Daniel down.
Michael had already taken every responsibility from Claire Lawrence’s shoulders. He had made the calls no one would want to make.
Claire’s family had come quickly to her side, comforting her as best they could. Michael had played no part in this. Instead he had kept himself busy, scouring Daniel’s contacts for details of anyone close to his friend. Those who should hear first-hand.
It had been an unhappy task, but he could not leave it to Claire. Or to anyone else. It was his duty.
The reactions had
been varied. Some were stunned, the conversation stopped in its tracks by shocked silence. Others, including Daniel’s secretary, simply collapsed. Others still took the news with stoic but no less devastated acceptance.
Tony Haversume had fallen into the third category. He had been the hardest to contact. Michael had finally managed to reach him in the late morning, and when he did the news was taken as expected. No tears. No sobbing. No self-pity. Tragedy was accepted in silence until – in a voice that betrayed the enormity of his loss – Haversume had asked if there was anything he could do to help. Michael had assured him that there was not, but still Haversume had sworn to be with Daniel’s family as soon as possible.
This had been Michael’s last call. But not his last responsibility. That was something altogether worse. Explaining to Harry Lawrence why his father had not come home.
Michael had sat and gazed at the child for what now seemed like a lifetime. The boy had always strongly resembled his father, but never more than at that moment. Just eight years younger than Daniel had been when they had first met, Michael could not help but see his lost friend in this child’s eyes. It had been almost unbearable. The closest he had come to falling apart. Somehow he had not.
The conversation had gone as well as it could. Placing his hand lightly on Harry’s knee, Michael had told him in the softest tone that there had been some bad news. At that Harry had begun to sob. The bright ten-year-old seemed to know what was to come. But he still needed to hear it.
Michael spoke slowly. Gently. Explained how Daniel had been driving home late when his car had been involved in a road accident, and what that meant. Harry had taken it in. He had cried pitifully in Michael’s arms until no more tears would come. Only then did the questions begin. Questions Michael was duty-bound to answer until Harry knew everything a child in his situation should know.
The next three hours were a blur. Michael could remember long, strained conversations with Hugh and Deborah Lawrence, Daniel’s parents, and with Tony Haversume, who was much more restrained but in obvious pain. There had been talk of autopsies, of coroner’s inquiries, and Michael could now recall Haversume’s promise to Deborah that no one would touch her son’s body; he would see to that.
Above all else Michael could remember a family that was torn apart by the memory of Daniel. Parents. A child. A wife. All of them needing to grieve with no restraint. So Michael had left them, returning home at last to mourn privately and in his own way.
THIRTY-THREE
It was almost 8 p.m. as Sarah Truman and Jack Maguire drove the relatively short distance to Michael Devlin’s Islington address. Even at this time of night the journey through the congested heart of London seemed to take forever.
Sarah was silent as she reflected on the day that had passed, and as she thought of what might still be to come.
For as long as she could remember she had yearned to be a reporter. A serious journalist. Her entire working life had been aimed at that ambition. She would do anything to achieve it. Right now she was as close as she had ever been.
Sarah knew that they were on the cusp of a huge story. That something big was being covered up. This fact put her ahead of the game, because – aside from her and Maguire – the press were blindly accepting the party line: that Eamon McGale had taken his own life, before having the chance to speak to anyone about his actions. And why wouldn’t they?
But Sarah knew better. She knew that McGale had spoken to someone. Someone who was now in a morgue. It could not be a coincidence.
The moment her suspicions had been confirmed was the most exciting of her life. The exhilaration of being thrown out of Paddington Green police station had been a rush like no other, but it had all been an anticlimax, grounded by a reality check. That check had come from Maguire. It was well and good, he had said, to know they were being lied to. The problem was, they did not know what that lie was hiding.
It was then that the real work had begun. Following up on the luck that had seen them in the right place yesterday afternoon, and the good judgement that had placed them there last night. It was this work that had led them to Michael Devlin.
Careful research had told them that Michael Devlin and Daniel Lawrence were close friends and habitual work colleagues. It seemed logical to Sarah, then, that if Lawrence had told anyone about McGale it would be Devlin.
‘Nearly there,’ said Maguire, breaking into Sarah’s thoughts. ‘So how do we play it?’
Sarah considered her response. She glanced through the van’s window. Watched the Angel Underground station pass on her right-hand side as Maguire veered left to take them from Upper Street to Liverpool Road. They were now only minutes away from Devlin’s home. A decision had to be made.
‘I think we go in without the camera rolling at first.’
‘What?’
Maguire’s reaction was as Sarah had expected. The suggestion that a doorstep approach should not be caught on film went against every lesson he had taught her.
‘And how exactly does that help us? Anything he says off-camera will be deniable.’
‘I just don’t think we’ll be getting anything that he needs to deny, Jack.’ Sarah was keen that Maguire understood her reasoning. ‘I don’t see this guy being involved. So what’s he got to confess? They’ve been friends for years and nothing we dug up points to Devlin having any other connection with this. They’re just buddies.’
‘We can’t know that,’ Maguire replied. ‘Devlin could be up to his neck in this. And if he is then we need his reaction on tape. Just like we have Henry’s. When you doorstep someone, Sarah, you make sure your finger’s pressing Record.’
‘Not this time. I know I’m right. Devlin’s not involved. He’s just some guy who’s lost someone close to him, and who might just happen to have the information we need. If we go about this the right way we get him on side. Shit, once he hears what we have to say we probably won’t be able to stop him from helping us. But if we do it the usual way we might lose him for ever.’
‘You’re certain you want to go with your gut on this one?’
The cameraman was by far the more experienced of the two. But Sarah was the reporter. The final say was always hers. Maguire continued.
‘Because if we blow this then we lose the story. And that’s your loss, Sarah. Not mine. You know that, right?’
‘I know that. And if I’m wrong I’ll be the one who has to doorstep Lawrence’s widow. I know what’s at stake.’
Maguire nodded. Sarah’s attitude had hardened over the last forty-eight hours. Her confidence in her instincts had grown. Maguire seemed to recognise this. He returned his concentration to the road.
Moments later, Maguire was driving around the quiet Victorian-era square, searching for a place to park while Sarah read house numbers aloud. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, neither noticed the black-clad figure whose job it was to stay in the shadows.
THIRTY-FOUR
Michael jerked upright at the sound of the bell, his unexpected sleep interrupted. The movement and sound combined to rouse Cass. The Rottweiler barked loudly in response. Michael shushed him with a stroke of his neck before climbing to his feet. Still half-asleep, he walked through the living room and into the hallway. It was only when he turned on the light – blinding himself for just an instant – that he stopped moving forward.
For a moment Michael just stood there. Questioning if he really wanted to open the door. After the last twenty-four hours, did he really want company? Then again, how could he be sure this visitor was not bringing some important news? Something about Claire or Harry?
‘Just a minute,’ he finally called out.
He walked into the bathroom, ran the tap and washed his face. Still, any effort to look respectable was doomed to fail after what he had been through. He settled for clean, left the bathroom and opened the front door.
The sight that greeted him would have ordinarily led to one reaction: a charm offensive directed towards the rather at
tractive woman on his doorstep.
But today was not a normal day. Today Michael was in no mood to flirt.
His first words were muted and empty.
‘Can I help you?’
Michael could feel Cass behind him as he spoke. Ignorant of his intimidating presence, the overgrown puppy was excited to greet visitors. Michael, though, was used to the effect that a glimpse of Cass could cause, and so he kept his own body between the Rottweiler and the door, and pushed Cass away with the back of his leg.
The distraction dealt with, Michael turned back to his visitor. If his mind had been clearer he would have noticed Sarah’s awkward silence and her darting eyes. And they would have told him a lot. Michael’s profession made him a keen observer of human behaviour, with body language sometimes saying more than words. What Sarah’s would have revealed to him was her discomfort with the situation.
But tonight he noticed none of this. Those skills were muted by a mix of tiredness and devastation.
What Michael did suddenly notice was a man, standing directly behind the silent woman. Something about him seemed out of place. Out of the ordinary. It caused the fog in Michael’s mind to begin to shift.
Who are these people?
The woman spoke before Michael could find his answer.
‘You’re Michael Devlin?’
‘You’re standing at my front door, so I think you know that.’ The fog was disappearing fast. ‘And who might you be?’
‘My name’s Sarah Truman. And this is my associate Jack Maguire. We’re from CNN. If you have a moment I have some questions I’d like to ask about Daniel Lawrence.’
Sarah spoke quickly, as if the clock was against her.
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
Michael felt his heart rate spike. A surge of anger. It infested his voice, becoming more evident with every accented word.
‘The body isn’t even cold and you’re attacking him?’
Sarah attempted to interrupt. To explain. Michael ignored her.
