Killer Intent

by Tony Kent

  ‘Mikey, I—’

  ‘I’ve no right bringing trouble to your door,’ Michael said, cutting off Anne’s apology. ‘I can’t stop Liam going after Mullen if I’m here, but maybe if I’m not? Maybe if we leave now he won’t feel he has to do it?’

  ‘That’s not your brother and you know it, Mikey.’ Anne’s voice was softer. Her anger mostly gone. ‘If you run, Liam will think about nothing other than what happens if you’re caught. He won’t take that risk, whether you’re here or not. Which means he has no choice, at least the way his mind works. Liam has to take Mullen. Whatever the consequences.’

  ‘You mean we have to take Mullen.’ Michael’s correction offered no opportunity for disagreement. ‘If Liam goes I’ll be by his side. He’s not doing it without me.’

  Michael’s words hit Sarah like a punch to the gut. The thought of him going up against someone like Robert Mullen was painful to her. The thought of losing him now – before they’d even had a chance to admit their feelings – was a painful prospect.

  She wanted to speak. To object. But even if she had had the courage, she did not have the time.

  Liam strode back into the room without warning. He threw a small sports bag to Michael. When he spoke his certainty demanded obedience.

  ‘Put that on. We’re ready to go.’

  Michael opened the bag. It contained a set of dark clothing, complete with gloves, boots and balaclava. The perfect full kit for what lay ahead.

  ‘That was quick.’ Michael said.

  Sarah noted the tone of his voice. He seemed almost excited now.

  ‘I had Paddy and Jack put a crew together while we were speaking,’ Liam replied. ‘They’re used to doing these things at short notice.’

  ‘You’re sure you want to do this, Liam?’

  ‘Of course I don’t want to do it. But we both know I have to. So let’s go.’

  Liam’s words closed the discussion. Neither man spoke again. Instead they turned away from one another, towards the door.

  Their path there was blocked by two women, concern etched across their features.

  Anne threw her arms around Liam in a tight hug. She pulled him close with a strength her petite body did not suggest. Liam leaned down and kissed her. As he did this he wiped a tear from her cheek with a gentle brush of his thumb.

  ‘You be careful, Liam Casey,’ she said as she let go. ‘Come back in one piece.’

  ‘I will. I’ll see you after.’

  The same moment for Sarah and Michael was more awkward. Neither seemed to know how to say goodbye. But Sarah knew it could be the last time they ever did.

  ‘You’ll be careful?’ Her voice was quiet.

  ‘I will. And don’t worry. I’ll be coming back.’

  Sarah forced a smile in response, but any effort to hide her emotions was betrayed by the tears that welled in her eyes.

  Michael hesitated before placing his hand on Sarah’s wet cheek, just as Liam had done to Anne. For a moment they both just stood there and gazed at one another, until Michael leaned forward and placed the softest of kisses onto Sarah’s lips, lingering for just moments before he stepped back.

  Their eyes remained locked for a second or two more, until Michael finally started towards the door. Once he reached it he turned and repeated the words his brother had spoken just moments before.

  ‘I’ll see you after.’

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Dempsey walked slowly to his car, his mind swimming with the information he now held.

  Benjamin Grant had been the most willing informant he had ever questioned. A man already broken by earlier interrogation, his answers had moved Dempsey’s investigation forward in a leap. The jigsaw of discoveries was becoming clear. Dempsey was close.

  When he reached his car he climbed inside, but made no attempt to start the engine. Instead he used the silence to enhance his clarity of thought. Cocooned from the distractions of the street, Dempsey drew together the information he had collected into a coherent picture.

  Grant had confirmed Dempsey’s suspicions about McGale’s true target. That had been his hope. What he had not expected was what else the young man had told him. The manipulation of McGale. The murder of his family. The counterfeit terrorism. All of it had cost too many lives already. And all of it would be brought to Stanton’s door.

  Dempsey had been told so much. Each part unbelievable in isolation, but it all made perfect sense when looked at as a whole. Dempsey would never have believed that Matthewson had been behind the new Irish terror, but after listening to Grant he could see how Eamon McGale would have bought every word, especially in his grief-stricken state.

  Someone had provided resources to Robert Mullen’s organisation, using it to create the impression of terrorism. And though Grant did not know it, that someone was Stanton. Any proper interrogation of McGale would have ultimately led to this truth, which was what both the professor and Daniel Lawrence had been killed to prevent.

  This knowledge alone took Dempsey no further. But it put him on the right track. Dempsey had the name of Robert Mullen. Of the man who could take him even closer to Stanton.

  But first he had another matter to deal with.

  Grant had told him about Liam Casey, enough that Dempsey had connected the dots between that man and Michael. Circumstance made the brothers his natural allies, and they were hours ahead of him. They could have much to offer.

  Dempsey tapped Callum McGregor’s name on his phone screen. The call was answered in seconds.

  ‘Joe.’ For once McGregor’s greetings went beyond a word. ‘I was planning to call you.’

  ‘You sound pretty awake, Callum. Still in the office?’

  ‘We haven’t caught the bastards yet, have we? So yeah, I’m still in the office. What do you need?’

  Dempsey ignored the tone. He was used to hearing impatience in McGregor’s voice. Particularly in the last few days.

  ‘I just need some information, Callum. Addresses. How long do you think it will take you?’

  ‘Well, that depends on whose address you want. I can give you mine right now.’

  ‘Alright, alright.’ Dempsey was in no mood for sarcasm. ‘I need whatever information we have on two Belfast villains. Robert Mullen and Liam Casey. And I need possible locations for them both.’

  ‘Liam Casey?’ McGregor asked. ‘I know the name. What’s he got to do with any of this?’

  ‘The lawyer from Lonsdale Square,’ Dempsey explained. ‘Michael Devlin. He’s turned out to be Casey’s younger brother. And I think that’s where Devlin is now. With Casey. More importantly, I think they’re following the same leads we are. So it’s important we track them down.’

  ‘Something wrong with Google, is there? Or do you think I’ve nothing better to do?’

  ‘I’m not looking for public addresses, Callum. I need to know the places these people use when they don’t want to be found. I figure you have better access to that sort of information than I do right now, since I’m off the books.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll get you the addresses. Have you found anything else?’

  Dempsey struggled again between his duty to answer and his reluctance to add to an insecure stream of intelligence. Anthony Haversume had admitted that McGregor had disclosed information that he should not. That concerned Dempsey. The more links in any chain made a weak link more likely. That was especially true in the field of intelligence.

  A compromise seemed prudent.

  ‘Yes. But it’s not something I can disclose over an open line. Sorry.’

  McGregor did not immediately respond, but when he spoke again his voice suggested agreement.

  ‘OK, if you think that’s best. In which case you can tell me face to face. I’ll be in Belfast first thing in the morning.’

  ‘What? You’re coming here? What I have to tell you hardly justifies that.’

  ‘I was coming anyway, Joe. Because for once I have information for you.’

  ‘What sort of information?’


  ‘We’ve intercepted a number of calls this evening. They have a bearing on your investigation. I can’t go into detail over the line but it’s something you need to know as soon as possible. Until then, I need you to stay put.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me anything?’ Dempsey was perplexed. ‘I’m making real headway here, Callum. I don’t want to hold things up waiting for you.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe, but that’s exactly what you’ll have to do.’

  McGregor’s answer was friendly but Dempsey could recognise an order when he heard one.

  ‘The information covers a few subjects, all of which you’ll want to hear. But it also relates directly to you. They know you’re in Belfast and they’re looking for you. You’re at risk, Joe. So I don’t want you doing anything more until I can tell you what that risk is.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Dempsey was stunned. ‘I’m always at risk. It’s my job! I can’t stop working just because someone’s looking for me!’

  ‘You can and you will. This is a specific threat. We know who’s behind it and we know how to deal with it. But you need to be in the loop if you’re going to protect yourself. It’s just a few hours, Joe, and then you can get back to the investigation. It’ll hold that long.’

  Dempsey wanted to argue but knew it would be futile. McGregor had information that Dempsey did not. He also held superior rank.

  Dempsey knew when he was beat.

  ‘OK. I suppose I could do with a few hours’ rest. Where will you be?’

  ‘I’m taking a suite in the Fitzwilliam Hotel. Meet me there at 6 a.m. Get yourself some sleep in the meantime.’

  ‘I suppose there’s not much point saying the same to you, is there?’

  ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Joe. So will you. But let’s make sure that’s not too soon.’

  ‘You’ll still get me my information, right?’ Dempsey did not want the reason for his call to be forgotten. ‘I’ll need it, whatever else you have to tell me.’

  ‘I’ll bring everything with me. And once you know what you’re up against, you can use the intelligence as you see fit.’

  Dempsey heard the line disconnect without a farewell.

  He dropped his mobile onto the passenger seat and put his key into the car’s ignition. The engine purred into life. Dempsey hated the idea of a delay. He did not want to slow the investigation just as he was gaining momentum. Whatever McGregor had for him, it had better be important.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Robert Mullen’s office was at the rear of a run-down North Belfast snooker hall. Hardly Hollywood’s idea of a criminal empire’s headquarters, it served its purpose perfectly. Tonight it was full. Six men, all standing while Mullen sat. They were all criminals. Violent. Feared. But each one wilted under the gaze of their employer, a five-foot-six ball of fury.

  ‘There was no sign of Grant?’ Mullen asked.

  He directed his attentions at one man. Andy Ferguson. A subordinate whose size alone should have left him with nothing to fear. But Mullen could see the dread clearly etched on Ferguson’s face.

  ‘No, Rob.’ His deep voice lacked any confidence. ‘The door was off the hinges. The place was a mess. There was no way to tell where he’d gone.’

  Mullen did not answer straightaway, keeping his rage in check. For now. When he finally spoke, he kept his voice calm.

  ‘So his front door was off the hinges, the place was a mess and there was no sign of him?’ Mullen spoke slowly. ‘Don’t you think that sounds like someone took him, Andy?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it does, Rob.’

  ‘And who do you think that someone was? Have you given that any thought?’

  A sing-song tone to Mullen’s voice was accompanied by a dangerous look in his eyes, as he dragged the scene out. He was enjoying Ferguson’s discomfort.

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you that he might have been paid a visit by Liam Casey? That Casey might have traced McGale back to Grant and started to connect the dots? That there were a few questions the little shit could answer? That didn’t occur to you, Andy?’

  ‘No, Rob. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry!’

  The sudden volume and ferocity of Mullen’s voice were off the chart. Nought to sixty in a heartbeat.

  ‘I told you Casey was involved. You knew his brother was back. That they were looking into everything we’ve been putting together! I gave you one fucking job. To make sure Grant couldn’t talk. You couldn’t even do that right, you half-wit!’

  ‘I did what you said, Rob. I swear.’

  Mullen stared furiously at Ferguson as he desperately tried to defend himself.

  ‘I went to Grant’s place just like you said, but I was too late. There was nothing else I could have done.’

  Nothing else was said. The pause that followed Ferguson’s answer lasted less than a second. Long enough that he would have known what was coming. Not long enough to avoid it. Ferguson remained rooted to the spot as Mullen leaped from his seat, grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the desk and brought it crashing into the man’s unguarded temple.

  The first blow alone was ferocious enough to render Ferguson unconscious. A fact that did nothing to save him from what followed.

  His heavy body hit the floor with a sickening thud. It would have remained motionless if Mullen had stopped there, but he did not. Mullen grabbed Ferguson’s unkempt black hair, pulled his defenceless head from its resting place on the cigarette-marked carpet and hit him three more times with the same ashtray.

  Only when the force of the blows caused the glass to shatter did he stop.

  Mullen raised himself upright. Breathless. He paused to consider his work. For a moment he seemed to have come back to his senses. For a moment. Then, without warning, Mullen renewed his assault, repeatedly kicking Ferguson in the stomach, chest and head.

  Silence filled the room as Mullen continued his attack. A silence born from long experience. No one would ever challenge Mullen. He knew, as did they all, that none was a match for him.

  Mullen finished his assault as suddenly as he had started it. He pushed his lank, greasy hair away from his eyes and addressed the room.

  ‘That’s what complacency gets you.’

  Mullen, breathing deeply, pointed at the heavily bleeding near-corpse in the centre of the office.

  ‘But it’s better than what Liam Casey will do to each and every one of us if we lose this.’

  A bare murmur of agreement went around the group.

  ‘Are you lot not fucking listening?’ Mullen felt his temper beginning to flare again at the lacklustre response. ‘Casey has Grant. That little bastard won’t hold out for long, and when he cracks, Casey’s going to know everything. He’s going to know that we’re in this up to our ears, and then he’s going to realise that there’s only one way to keep that brother of his alive. When that happens it’s gonna be a fucking war. We need to be ready.’

  This time the reaction was the one he wanted. Mullen looked for certain skills in his team. Intelligence did not top that list, but an appreciation of danger helped. That appreciation was finally on the faces of the men present.

  ‘So what do you want us to do?’

  The question was asked by Dermot Stephenson, the closest thing Mullen had to a Number Two.

  ‘First I want that piece of shit out of my sight!’ Mullen pointed at Ferguson. ‘Two of you deal with that. The rest of you come with me. We need to find out what Casey knows and stop this before it starts.’

  As the first two men moved towards the barely breathing Ferguson, Mullen stormed off towards the darkened, empty snooker room with the rest of his men.

  He had owned the building for over fifteen years. A long time for a base of operations, especially one so well known. But it was the only place he felt completely safe, sheltered from the threats of his chosen career. No one would dare attack him here.

  It was a complacent feeling he would soon regre
t.

  It took half a minute to walk through the large hall. Just seconds more to get down the stairs and to the building’s main door.

  Mullen stepped out into the dark night and immediately felt uneasy. It took a moment to work out why.

  It was the absence of the sodium streetlight that did it. Every night for fifteen years the light had lit up the entrance to the snooker hall. That it was missing tonight could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything.

  Mullen found out which before his brain even registered the choice.

  The impact of a full-sized aluminium baseball bat on Mullen’s right knee brought him crashing to the floor. The blow to his head from the same weapon kept him there, struck senseless by the force.

  As his head began to clear the pavement around him came into focus. Mullen’s men were employed from their size and tendency towards extreme violence, but they had been overwhelmed by the sudden attack. It had lasted fifteen seconds at most, leaving his best men as motionless and damaged as Ferguson had been.

  Mullen could not tell if they were dead or alive, and he was given no chance to check. Instead he was hauled up by the hair and dragged ten metres along the street. Finally he was thrown – broken and bleeding – into the rear of a battered Ford Transit van.

  Mullen’s usual bravado escaped him. Shock will do that to anyone. Still, he tried to struggle to his feet. To escape. A hopeless effort; he was sent crashing back to the floor with a second blow to the head, this time from a fist instead of a bat.

  Staggering from the punch, he rolled onto his hands and knees. Involuntary tears ran down his cheeks as he slowly regained his composure. The embarrassment of allowing himself to cry proved more agonising than any blow.

  The van began to move, making escape and rescue equally unlikely.

  Mullen took a series of deep breaths, bringing his pain under control. Finally he looked up, towards the six masked faces that surrounded him. Mullen concentrated on the closest silhouette.