Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  The second shot had sent Joshua diving for cover, into the undergrowth to avoid the sniper’s crosshairs. As he hit the floor he had turned his head to where he knew Dempsey was hidden and in that instant had recognised the camouflaged recoil of the young officer’s sniper rifle. A single shot in the direction of the South Armagh hills.

  It was a shot that Joshua had not expected. At least not so soon. Even now he marvelled that Dempsey could have deduced the IRA gunman’s location from just two shots. But back then he had not had time for disbelief. The absence of further sniper fire proved that Dempsey had made a miracle shot. The lone sniper was gone. Only the ground force remained.

  What followed was a textbook SAS engagement, ending in the death of all thirty attackers. It was a loss from which the IRA would take a long time to recover. The price was four lives lost. One from the regiment, three from the depot’s guards. There had been many reasons for such a one-sided victory, but it was Dempsey’s actions that stood out.

  Joshua could remember his own reaction like it was yesterday.

  He had felt no pride in a successful mission. No sadness in the loss of a comrade. For Joshua there had been only one consideration: the arrival of a soldier with abilities that surpassed his own.

  It had been unwelcome then. Now – years later and in circumstances that could cost Joshua his life – it was damn near unbearable.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Michael and Sarah stood outside the 32 Counties Bar. It was a large street-corner public house. Green-fronted. Just fifteen minutes by cab from the Europa Hotel. The bar front covered an area the width of several shops, and as a weekday lunchtime approached it was beginning to fill up.

  ‘Michael, we have to go in.’

  Sarah spoke softly. They had been outside the bar for several minutes. In that time Michael had not moved. He had simply stared at the sign above the door.

  Sarah’s quiet words broke through. Michael turned. Their eyes met and Michael registered his prolonged daydream. The sight of a childhood landmark had hypnotised him.

  A deep breath shook off the feeling. He flashed Sarah a smile.

  ‘I know.’ The tone of his voice undermined the smile. Michael was nervous. ‘Come on.’

  Michael took a deep breath and together they walked through the main doors.

  The view that met Michael’s eyes was not the one he remembered. The room used to be much smaller, the furniture sparse and low-cost. The bar itself had always been grim. Under-lit.

  All of that had changed.

  This room was at least twice its former size. The bar had expanded over the years, taking over the shops that had once been its neighbours. It was also now expensively furnished. The polished wood and brass would rival anything Michael was used to in London. Belfast’s years of affluence had not passed the place by.

  Michael’s eyes moved slowly as they took in his surroundings. He was seeing the past, only now in more prosperous surroundings. When Michael left it had been just another rough Catholic bar. His father’s bar. Opened at the height of the Troubles, it was where Michael had grown up. And it was from where he had fled.

  ‘Come on.’

  Sarah seemed to recognise the effect it was having. She took Michael’s arm with her free hand and pulled him forward, towards the long bar that stretched along the room’s right-hand wall.

  Michael allowed himself to be guided. He enjoyed the feeling of Sarah’s hand on his arm. It felt right. But he did not allow himself to be distracted. He signalled to one of the bar staff.

  ‘What can I get you, pal?’

  It was the nearest barman. Tall, thin, dark-haired and somewhere in his late twenties. He spoke with the broad accent that Sarah was growing used to.

  Michael did not answer. His attention had been caught by a collection of photographs on the wall behind the bar. Sarah followed Michael’s eyes.

  The faces that stared back were unmistakable. Four photo frames in all. One showed two young boys aged around nine and twelve, dressed in their Sunday best. At least twenty-five years had come and gone since the day captured in the photograph. But the younger boy – the one with the shock of blond hair – could be no one but Michael Devlin.

  Michael’s eyes, though, were drawn to something different. They had bypassed both the first picture and the frame beside it. It was an older photograph that had transfixed him. Black and white. It showed a large, powerfully built man, with his gnarled left hand on the shoulder of a blonde girl no older than nineteen. The 32 Counties Bar – the bar as Michael remembered it – was behind them.

  Michael felt the burn in the corner of his eyes as he stared at his father, Sean Casey, and the mother he had never known: Katie Devlin. The picture had been taken years before Michael’s birth and he had grown up with it on display. He had his own copy, in fact. Kept under lock and key like all his memories of home. Seeing it now? Seeing it here? It was almost too much.

  ‘I asked what I can get you?’

  The barman’s voice ended Michael’s daydream.

  Michael snapped out of his semi-trance. He remembered why he was here.

  ‘I’m here to see Liam Casey.’

  ‘Liam’s not here.’ The barman’s tone said that his answer was to be accepted, accurate or otherwise. ‘Now, can I get you and your lady friend a drink?’

  ‘Look, mate, I know he’s here.’ Michael was in no mood for games. ‘Now go and get him.’

  The thin man’s attitude shifted. His previous friendliness disappeared. Replaced by a more threatening presence.

  Michael watched as he revealed himself to be more than just a barman.

  ‘I’ve told you he’s not here. Now I think you need to leave before you cause a scene.’

  ‘Listen, mate,’ Michael said, his voice low, ‘because I’m not telling you again. I want to see your boss so you get your arse behind that bar, go into the back room and tell Liam that Mikey’s here to see him!’

  ‘Do you really not know who you’re dealing with here?’

  The barman’s words were plainly the precursor to a threat, but their effect was broken by the words of a woman until now unseen behind him. A woman visibly shaken by the sight of Michael.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Mikey Casey?’

  The barman turned to meet the eyes of the speaker, his sneer replaced by a look of shock. He had heard the name ‘Mikey Casey’ before. Many times. And much more recently than Michael had.

  The man’s movement to his right gave Michael a clear view of the short, striking redhead who had spoken.

  ‘Mikey, is that you?’ Tears welled in her sky-blue eyes as she spoke again.

  Michael felt his thumping heart beat harder as he registered a face from his past.

  ‘Anne?’ Michael barely managed to choke out the words. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What am I doing here? Jesus, Mikey, you’ve been gone twenty years and you want to know what I’m doing here? What are you doing here?’

  Michael’s gaze was fixed on Anne Flaherty. Both his oldest friend and the long-term partner of his brother Liam. For some reason Michael just had not expected to see her.

  Sarah seemed to sense the history between them. She remained quiet as the two old friends just stared at one another.

  ‘Why have . . . what . . . what have you come back for, Mikey?’

  Anne was the first to speak again. An attempt at formality, but a bad one. Her joy at Michael’s return was etched across her face.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Anne. I need his help.’ Michael’s voice carried no pride.

  ‘Well you look like shite, alright. The other fella’s looking worse though, yeah?’

  ‘It’s not that simple, Anne. And I can’t speak about it out here. Is he in?’

  ‘He’s out the back.’ A tilt of her head indicated a door at the end of the bar. ‘But he won’t be pleased to see you, Mikey. You know that, right?’

  ‘I don’t want to be here any more than he wants me here. But I don’t have a choice. I ne
ed to see him.’

  Anne nodded her head at Michael’s last comment. She accepted it without explanation.

  ‘Well then you two had better follow me.’ Anne turned towards Sarah. ‘But I think you should introduce me first, Mikey, don’t you?’

  Michael’s eyes followed Anne Flaherty’s and settled on Sarah. They lingered, just for a moment. He placed a hand on the small of Sarah’s back and guided her forward. A small intimacy; one which Sarah did not reject.

  ‘Anne, this is Sarah Truman. She’s, erm, she’s a very good friend of mine.’ Michael turned to Sarah. ‘And, Sarah, this is Anne Flaherty. My oldest friend in the world.’

  Sarah reached out and took Anne’s hand. The gesture was returned with a warm, genuine smile, and then an indication for Sarah and Michael to follow.

  Anne showed them through the door at the end of bar. It led from the large room into a narrow corridor. The corridor seemed to stretch further backwards than the building itself seemed to, at least from the outside. Its walls were lined with photographs of boxing legends from the first half of the twentieth century. They hung at regular intervals along both sides, giving the space a masculine edge as it led to the closed office door at its far end.

  As she reached the door Anne put out her hand and gripped the doorknob. Without turning her wrist she looked towards Michael.

  ‘You sure you want to do this?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Michael replied. His heart was racing. ‘But what other choice have I got?’

  Anne responded with a nod. She turned back to the door, opened it and stepped inside the next room.

  ‘Liam, you’ve got a visitor.’

  Anne’s voice seemed distant as Michael’s heart thumped ever harder.

  The office looked exactly as Michael would have imagined. Sparse and masculine. A reflection of Michael’s own style. Something he and his brother shared.

  From the doorway he had a clear view of his brother, who was sat behind a desk with just his upper body visible. And not for the first time he thought that no one would ever question their parentage. Liam Casey really was just another version of Michael. Shorter certainly. Bulkier, yes. And with receding black hair in place of his brother’s thick blond locks. But for all that they still looked remarkably similar.

  Michael did not have long for those thoughts. Liam Casey had glanced up at their arrival and was already rising to his feet. The curiosity that had initially coloured his face had transformed to livid surprise.

  Looking at the brother he had not seen in eighteen years, Liam spat out the first words to pass between them in all that time:

  ‘And just what the fuck do you want?’

  FIFTY-THREE

  Dempsey shook his head at the crowd gathered outside of the Houses of Parliament. It was mostly press, there to hear from the man who would surely be the next prime minister of the United Kingdom. Dempsey was there for a different purpose. But first he would have to endure the inevitable speeches.

  As if on cue, Anthony Haversume strode out of one of the Palace of Westminster’s many side entrances. The entourage that followed him had tripled in size in the last few days. Hardly a surprise. Parasites always flow in the wake of the biggest fish, and Haversume was the great white shark. A shark that took his place at the makeshift podium erected just ahead of the statue of Oliver Cromwell.

  There were many more suitable locations for a press conference. This spot – far lower than road height and with limited standing room around it – left the press packed in, some unable to move, the unluckiest unable to see. But other locations lacked one essential element: the iconic statue now prominent over Haversume’s right shoulder.

  Dempsey could see the sense in the choice. By addressing the world with the statue of one of England’s most famous politicians behind him, Haversume was making a statement. Cromwell had been a committed servant in the history of British democracy. He had also been notoriously ruthless in his dealings with Ireland.

  It was a clear message to anyone with a knowledge of history.

  The murmur of the crowd grew to a din as Haversume finally took the podium. No individual questions could be heard through the wall of noise. Not that it mattered. Haversume had no intention of answering them.

  He took his place and signalled for silence, waiting patiently as voices gradually died. Soon there was nothing but the sound of slowly passing traffic. Only then did Haversume begin.

  ‘As you all know, tonight sees a motion of no confidence in our government’s policies in Northern Ireland. You all know where I stand on this issue and what my intentions will be if this vote leads to William Davies’ resignation. But this is not a decision for me alone. It is an open vote, taken by all Members of Parliament. By those who represent the British public. By those who represent you.

  ‘Most who hear these words will be familiar with my opinions. And I hope they are sentiments with which you agree. For those unfamiliar with my position, I say this: the Member of Parliament who represents you will tonight have an opportunity to end William Davies’ shameful years as prime minister. I ask you to contact that Member’s office today and ensure that he or she does their duty. They represent you. They cannot ignore you. Use that power. End this surrender to terrorism. Instruct your MP to vote. To free us of the burden of William Davies.’

  Haversume stopped speaking. But his jingoistic plea remained hanging in the air. A round of applause did nothing to shift it. From so close Dempsey could see the domestic press join in only half-heartedly. The podium-thumping style was just not the British way.

  After a few seconds of silence, the questions began. Reporters stumbled over each other’s words as they fought to be first. They were all ignored. Haversume waved a hand, calling for more silence before he would continue.

  ‘You may well be wondering why I take this view. Why I believe that William Davies has been a disaster for this country and a shame upon us all. Why I believe that he must go, and that he must be replaced by a figure of strength. A figure of resolve. Once and for all, I want to make it clear.

  ‘For many years our country bore the brunt of terrorist atrocity. We stood alone against the longest campaign of terror endured by any Western power. The rest of the world stood by and watched as our streets, our buildings, our very homes were destroyed. Destroyed by Republican fanatics who regarded a disputed border in the north of Ireland as more important than the lives of British men, women and children. We received no help. No support. There was no coalition. No allied military force. We faced this thirty-year threat with no friend alongside us, but face it we did. Generations of young men and women from our armed forces stood as a barrier against this tide of mass murder. They stood together to keep the rest of us safe. They fought this terror, many to their last breath, and they were determined to beat it. They were men and women to be proud of. Men and women to honour. Men and women who gave their youth and, in too many cases, their very lives, to protect you, me and every other citizen of Great Britain.

  ‘And then came William Davies. A good man. An intelligent man. But by no means a brave man. William Davies made it his mission to bring this war to an end. It was a fine ambition, but he pursued it in an unacceptable way. A war is won through strength. Through sacrifice. A war is not won through concession and surrender, and yet this is exactly what our prime minister has done. William Davies met these people around a negotiating table but he failed to negotiate. Instead, he released all so-called ‘prisoners of war’. He emptied the prisons of both the mainland and Northern Ireland of their most dangerous inmates. He freed those whose very lives are dedicated to the defeat of this country. Worse still, he has invited the most treacherous of them to join him in the government of the United Kingdom. And for what? What did he receive in return? A promise that the terrorists would lay down their arms. In other words, he gave our enemies what they wanted to stop them attacking us. What is that if it is not surrender?

  ‘But it gets worse. The assurances of peace ha
ve failed. Yes, the IRA as it was is gone. Yes, the UVF as it was is gone. But they are just names. Titles. There has been no cessation of terror. It just comes with a different acronym. For IRA, read True IRA. For UVF, read UVA. They are one and the same. They are still attacking us. They are still killing our loved ones. They are still killing our soldiers. And what does William Davies do? Does he eject their political leaders from government? Does he re-imprison those murderers who walk our streets through his surrender, and who are no doubt behind the majority of the fresh attacks? No. He does none of these things. He sits on his hands and makes our once-great nation weaker by the day.

  ‘And so tonight we have an opportunity. Tonight Parliament – men and women who represent you – can say that enough is enough. Tonight they can remove William Davies from power and bring to an end this travesty. They can stand as one and say that their confidence in the government’s policies in Northern Ireland is gone. And in doing so they can tell the world that Great Britain is ready for a new form of government. One that will stand against those who attack us. One that will not be bullied. One that will stand firm and say “attack us at your peril”. That is the government I will offer and that is what Great Britain deserves. Give me the opportunity to provide it. Contact your MP. Instruct him or her to represent you, to say that you have no confidence in William Davies’ policies. Today is a day of reckoning. You have the power to ensure that reckoning occurs. Thank you.’

  Haversume’s thanks came with a self-conscious smile. He turned away without another word and walked towards his waiting entourage. He did not look back and he did not respond to the questions that were erupting around him.

  A press officer stepped up to the vacated podium. He took almost a minute to bring quiet to the crowd. Only then could the man explain that a question and answer session would be inappropriate until Haversume’s nomination for leadership of the government was confirmed. And that could not happen before the result of the vote.