Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  A few more moments and Dempsey had completed a moving mental image of the previous night’s events.

  The small man was still in room 6.6 when Dempsey returned.

  ‘So what makes you think that this damage was done by vandals?’ Dempsey asked.

  ‘What other explanation is there? Doors smashed off of their hinges. Offices smashed to pieces. I don’t see who else could have done it.’

  ‘Who was the first person to find it like this?’

  ‘Danny McKee. The building’s caretaker. I spoke to him earlier. He came in about 7 a.m. and found the place like this; the entry system smashed, the alarm pulled from the wall and all this damage done. Look, I’ve already answered all of these questions once. I don’t see why I have to answer them again.’

  ‘Who were you speaking to before me?’

  ‘The police. They do tend to ask a few questions when we call them, you know. That’s why we’re clearing up so late. They wanted everything left until they’d examined it.’

  ‘Right, OK.’ Dempsey nodded again. The answer made sense. ‘Just one more question: what did Danny McKee say he found in room 6.3? Because there’s a hell of a blood stain on that carpet.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I told Danny it was blood but he wouldn’t listen. Said it was there when he went in but that there was no sign of anyone bleeding, and that it had been cleaned up a lot before he even got there. He figured Professor Rodgers – that’s Professor Rodgers’ room – had spilt a bottle of wine or something and had tried to clean it up.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, this Danny guy. Not the sharpest tool in the box?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The small man laughed as he answered. ‘No, sir, he is not.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like it. But anyway, did he say there was anything unusual in the room? Other than the stain?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  Dempsey stood for a moment and replayed the mental images he had just watched.

  He was already fairly sure of what had happened the night before. The damage to the doors bore the hallmarks of a professional area search. Which meant that the otherwise untouched rooms had been empty.

  But room 6.3 had not been empty. That much was clear. It was the last of the doors to have been hit. Even if it had not been, the bloodstain in the middle of the floor told its own story. What it didn’t say – what Dempsey still did not know – was who was searching and who was hiding. Nor did he know who had covered the whole thing up. There had been no report of a body found in the university, and yet the size of the stain meant the certain death of whoever’s body had previously held that blood. No reported death meant that information had been suppressed.

  ‘Is that everything?’ The small man’s voice broke into Dempsey’s thoughts. ‘Only I’ve got more to do and I’d like to get home tonight?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Yeah, that’s all.’

  Dempsey thanked the small man for his time, left the room and walked towards the far end of the hallway.

  Room 6.11 looked to Dempsey just as it had looked to Michael and Sarah. It appeared to have been ransacked, but Dempsey recognised the work. The search patterns left by agents of the world’s intelligence agencies were familiar.

  Unlike Sarah, Dempsey was confident he could find what they could not.

  He moved around the room. Slowly. Deliberately. Taking in McGale’s personal photographs, Dempsey noted the differences between the man portrayed and the one he had tackled in Trafalgar Square. No more time was spent on the subject than necessary. Instead, Dempsey moved to the desk. Searched the open drawers. Found nothing.

  Closing the final desk drawer, he moved McGale’s chair backwards and took a seat. From here Dempsey surveyed the office, adopting the view of the room that the professor had created for himself. It was a honed technique which put Dempsey in the shoes of his subject. It rarely failed. Now was no exception. Dempsey had barely settled into the seat before his gaze fell on the newspaper clippings that were pinned to the nearside wall.

  Dempsey was up in an instant. He moved towards the clippings, his eyes scanning from one story to another. The pattern told him a story; a montage that extended out from a central core, recounting the death of the McGale family.

  McGale’s past – the fate of his family – was by now well known. To Dempsey and to the general public. There was nothing to be gained from dwelling upon it and so Dempsey’s eyes just skimmed the central headline.

  Instead they searched the branches that spread out from the centre. Studying them for extra information. He found it quickly, in the cutting from the 18th November edition of the Belfast Chronicle. A news report that contained a detail found nowhere in McGale’s dossier; the fact that McGale’s lucky escape from the restaurant, just moments before the blast, had been due to a call from one of his students. A student named Benjamin Grant.

  Dempsey did not believe in coincidence. Chance, yes. But not coincidence. It was cynical to suspect a person just because they pulled a friend clear of a bomb with moments to spare. But cynical was not the same as wrong. The odds that Benjamin Grant knew nothing about McGale’s fate were low. Dempsey had his next step.

  A few more minutes were spent surveying the cuttings. The name ‘Grant’ stayed on Dempsey’s mind, but something else was eating at his gut. Something he could not quite grasp. Finally he stepped away from the wall. Unable to pinpoint what bothered him, instead he gave what was left of the office a half-hearted search. There was nothing more to be found and so Dempsey headed for the doorway.

  He was halfway there when it hit him.

  Spinning on his heel, he rushed back to the wall and reviewed the remaining clippings. Dempsey had already searched for any mention of President Howard Thompson. For something that might justify the shooting. In doing so he had missed the obvious.

  Dempsey read the clippings in a new light. Report after report. The same name appeared in every news article that was not directly related to terror. Dempsey could finally see the pattern. McGale’s montage dealt with terrorist attacks and with Neil Matthewson. Not because he was an obsessive on two distinct subjects, but because he viewed them as the same subject. Intrinsically and inseparably linked. Realisation hit Dempsey like a wrecking ball.

  The intelligence had been wrong. The security threats incorrect. And the claim of responsibility from the True IRA? Bogus.

  Whoever Stanton was, he was not behind the failed attempt on the life of Howard Thompson. No. Stanton was behind the entirely successful assassination of Sir Neil Matthewson.

  And Dempsey was going to find out why.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Joshua sat alone at a small table in the Europa Hotel bar. An untouched bowl of honey-roasted mixed nuts rested on the table before him. A large measure of the establishment’s most expensive whiskey was clasped in his hand.

  As alert as ever, his eyes were incapable of rest. They surveyed the layout of his surroundings. Assessed the room’s other occupants. Joshua did not require his skills to place the other patrons. Hotel guests mostly, staying out of business necessity. Men and women whose lives on the road did not interest him. One or two others did not fall neatly into the category. They had taken a little more attention, a second or two extra, but still Joshua had been satisfied of his safety before taking his seat. Constant vigilance was a habit that did not break easily.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone, love?’

  Joshua glanced up, at a tall woman standing just feet away. She had approached from across the bar and Joshua knew her intentions at a glance. Assignments across the globe had exposed Joshua to many women of her profession. He was familiar with the telltale signs.

  Joshua was many things; a husband of twenty-five years and a father to a twenty-year-old son among them. In those years he had not been immune to the charms of such women. A meaningless diversion to fill the empty hours. It was one of many regrets.

  ‘I’m not interes
ted.’

  The words brought the woman to a halt. Her mouth opened to respond but she seemed to think better of it, turned and strode out of the bar. Perhaps it was a strikeout too many for one night.

  Joshua sat back in his chair, drained what was left of his whiskey and indicated to the barman for another. While he waited his mind drifted to the subject that had been preoccupying him since his arrival in Belfast. Family.

  Joshua was a realist. He knew that he had not been a good husband or a good father. But he had been a good provider. A palatial family home. A wife who wanted for nothing. A son who was debt-free after two years at an Ivy League university. Joshua had fulfilled his role as the breadwinner, but he knew that was not enough. In so many other ways he had failed.

  The work that paid for so much necessitated frequent absence. For at least two thirds of every year Joshua would be thousands of miles from home, with minimal telephone or – more recently – Skype contact. Joshua had always told himself that it was for the family good. That he was providing financial stability. But never once did he believe his own lie. The money was a welcome bonus. It was not the driving force. Joshua did what he did because he loved it. Loved the thrill of the hunt. The exhilaration of the kill. Joshua loved doing the job and he loved being the best. And for that he had forsaken his family.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the barman, who placed his third drink of the evening on the table. A leather wallet sat next to it, a paper invoice inside. Joshua signed to charge the drink to his room, tapped each compass point on the glass with his index finger and took a sip of the brown Irish liquor.

  His mind returned to his situation.

  The hopelessness of Joshua’s position would have been amusing were it not so deadly. For years he had been a ghost. A rumour. Never even a hint that the death he dealt across the globe would come back to his door. But now it had. Now Joshua’s life and his own family were under threat, from a man capable of seeing that threat to its end.

  What was left of Joshua’s whiskey disappeared in a single gulp. He stood up and left the bar. Striding through the lobby, he stepped into the cold Belfast evening air and lit the cigarette he could not smoke inside.

  Barely seconds had passed before the mobile telephone in his trouser pocket began to vibrate, as if on cue. Joshua took it out and lifted it to his ear.

  ‘We have a problem.’

  Stanton’s voice was disguised as always, yet somehow Joshua could detect his uncertainty. His vulnerability. Joshua liked hearing it.

  ‘You were right about Michael Devlin. There’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Joshua gave no hint of the satisfaction he felt at being proved correct.

  ‘It seems that Mr Devlin is not the orphan that people have been led to believe. I began to investigate him shortly after we last spoke and he has a family. A family in Belfast. I am as certain as I can be that he’s with them now.’

  ‘Well, surely that’s good for us? Give me the address and I’ll finish the job tonight.’

  ‘If it were that simple, Sergeant, I would already have done it!’ The impatience in the snapped response spoke volumes. ‘But it isn’t. Michael Devlin does not come from any ordinary family, which explains why he lied about them. His only brother, like their father before him, is one of the most powerful gangland figures in Northern Ireland. Which means that Michael Devlin is under the protection of one of Belfast’s godfathers.’

  ‘Shit!’ Joshua was genuinely astonished at Stanton’s bad luck. ‘That’s a serious problem.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that. It means the man has resources we didn’t count on. People who will kill to protect him. It also means that he will have disclosed what he knows to his brother, so now we have yet another target. A very dangerous one.’

  Joshua took a few moments to consider the developments. Only the last posed a problem. Joshua had dealt with gangland leaders before. He would do so again. But the likelihood that an ever-growing number knew the same information that Michael Devlin was to be killed for? It would take more than a few bullets to solve that.

  ‘You need leverage,’ Joshua finally offered. ‘You need something they want, just as much as you want their silence.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Stanton’s metallic voice was flat. As if he remained in control. Joshua did not buy it. He let Stanton continue.

  ‘We need to take something dear to them. Something we can use to ensure their cooperation. And once that’s done – once they are where we need them to be – you’ll kill them.’

  ‘That goes without saying. But I’ll need to know where to find them.’

  ‘I have several addresses; Liam Casey has enemies, which means we have friends. They have given me the address of his bar, although that is far too public a venue for a successful operation. But they’ve also given me a number of other locations where his people do their more, shall we say, nefarious work. You are to search each of them until you find Devlin and Casey. And once you’ve found them you are to follow them. Everywhere. I want to know where they go and what they do. Once we know enough we’ll be in a position to choose our next step carefully. Is that clear?’

  It had never been clearer. The involvement of Liam Devlin – or Casey, or whatever his damned name was – had the potential to derail all of Stanton’s well-laid plans. Stanton knew it. And he was losing control because of it. This, Joshua feared, would be when Stanton was at his most ruthless, and therefore his most dangerous for Joshua and for his family.

  It was therefore imperative that Joshua dealt with this new threat. That he tie up the ever-growing number of loose ends and protect the lives of his family.

  Joshua needed to be as ruthless as Stanton. And he would be.

  ‘It’s clear,’ he said. ‘Give me the addresses.’

  SIXTY

  Benjamin Grant felt the hard wooden chair viciously bite into the small of his back. Grant was unused to violence. It terrified him to the point of paralysis, and so he offered no resistance as his arms were pulled backwards and his wrists handcuffed together. A painful restriction on his movement, joining the blinding hood and the gag that had already robbed him of his main senses.

  Not that sight was necessary. Grant could picture the events that had brought him here without it. Wherever ‘here’ was.

  He had been walking home at the end of a long day of study. His attention elsewhere, there had been no warning before he was grabbed by several pairs of hands. No time had been given for Grant to think through the safest reaction.

  Opening his mouth to scream had been a mistake, as it allowed a coarse fabric to be forced past his teeth and onto his tongue. The rag did its job. It prevented Grant from uttering a sound, and had been instantly followed by a near-black hood forced over his head. Next, before he had even noticed his lost vision, he had been dragged a short distance and thrown into the rear of a large vehicle.

  The journey that followed was as traumatic as its start. Grant’s attempts to call out had been stifled by the rag that inched down his throat. So his only way to communicate was to kick out and punch at the surrounding seats, which had led to injury as he blindly struck at metal with his fists. Soon he had learned his lesson and ended his struggle.

  All of this was both terrifying and painful, but it had been the silence that affected Grant the most. Unable to beg for his life. Unable to seek an explanation. That had been bad enough. But it had been made so much worse by the fact that his kidnappers were just as silent. Not a single word had been uttered. No questions asked. It had left Grant with nothing but his own fears. Fears that had grown as the journey ended and the silence continued until, finally, he had convinced himself that tonight would be his last.

  The conclusion Grant had reached was the logical one. If his kidnappers had no questions for him then their only goal must be his death.

  Grant felt a rope being bound around his chest, tying him to the chair. Next he felt a strong, callus
ed hand make its way underneath his hood. The hand fumbled for an instant before tearing the gag from his mouth. The rag behind it was then ripped out, making him choke as it left his throat.

  Grant caught a fleeting glimpse of a damp concrete floor before the hood fell back into place. He ignored it. This was his chance to make some noise. To scream. Grant tried to take it, but he could not. Strong hands grabbed his skull an instant before his first shout. Grant could do nothing to resist as those hands tilted his head backwards.

  At the same moment a second person lifted the front of the hood to the level of his mouth and brought a cup of tepid water to his lips. The content was rancid but Grant drank greedily. A coarse gag on the tongue for thirty minutes makes any liquid palatable.

  ‘What, what do you want?’

  Grant was spluttering, still suffering the effects of the gag.

  ‘We want to know who paid you to get at Eamon McGale.’

  The answer was simple but firm. And it made Grant’s blood run cold.

  The speaker was a man who knew how to get what he wanted. Grant’s current position told him that. But the speaker was also asking a question that Grant could not answer.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Grant protested weakly. ‘I don’t even know what that means. I’ve never “got at” Professor McGale, I just studied under him.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, son.’ It was the same voice. ‘Someone paid you to get at the man. To mess with his head. You’re gonna tell me who that was. Either that, or things are going to get painful.’

  ‘Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Professor McGale was a friend. I’d never mess with his head, not for anything. Please!’

  Grant doubted his pleas would have any effect, but when they were followed by silence he began to hope that he had underestimated his powers of persuasion. That hope was extinguished the instant it began, by a crushing blow to the temple that sent his chair backwards and slammed his head into the concrete floor.