The Mercy Seat

by Martyn Waites

They discussed options, worked through scenarios. Came up with plausible obstacles, talked through strategies to cope with them. Conscious of time, budget, legality. Of organization and requisitioning. Conscious of needing to get a clear result.

  Donovan, they decided, would still front the meet.

  ‘This is against my better judgement,’ said Nattrass, ‘and I still have to clear it with my Super, but I can’t see any other way at such short notice. I can only ask you to do it. I can’t force you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Donovan.

  ‘I wish we could use one of our own. But it’s too risky. He might recognize them. And we don’t have time to bring in someone from another force. Get them briefed. So it looks like it’s you.’

  ‘Yep,’ Donovan said, ‘looks like it’s me.’

  ‘Usually, we’d have an undercover specialist who’s trained for this kind of work. They know, legally, what they can and can’t say to get the deal to go through.’

  ‘Avoid entrapment,’ added Turnbull.

  ‘Still,’ said Nattrass, ‘you’ll have this lawyer with you.’ She said the word as if handling it with tongs. ‘Hopefully he should be able to guide you.’

  Nattrass insisted that both of them be wired for sound. ‘I can’t risk placing men round the place. He’s a copper; he’ll know what to look for. So we’ll track you through CCTV. Give you earpieces that fit right inside the ear. You won’t know you’re wearing them. More important, neither will Keenyside.’

  Nattrass would try to requisition a firearms team. A calculated risk in a public building. ‘But he’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘Not to mention Hammer,’ added Peta.

  They discussed a signal to move in, a verbal code: ‘What an absolute pleasure it has been to make you a millionaire, Mr Keenyside.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Why a place like the Baltic?’ said Turnbull.

  ‘Because it’s somewhere educated, cultured. Somewhere an undercover cop would stand out a mile,’ said Peta, giving Turnbull another cloying smile. ‘No offence.’

  He stared at her, hard. ‘None taken.’

  They talked some more. Planned some more. Got everything straight. When they started re-treading, Nattrass stood up. Held out her hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Donovan took it. ‘Thank you.’

  They agreed time and place to meet. Speed was of the essence. Turnbull and Nattrass had a lot of coordinating to do in a very short space of time. They left.

  ‘I’d better get going too,’ said Donovan. ‘Lots to do.’

  Peta frowned. ‘Like what?’

  Donovan smiled. ‘Like buying a suit. Coming?’

  She smiled in return. ‘I think I’d better.’

  They left Intermezzo. Jim White: ‘A Perfect Day to Chase Tornadoes’ fading out behind them.

  Mikey had spent the night in Leazes Park. He hadn’t felt like going home.

  Getting out of the estate and away had been difficult but not impossible. Down alleys, over fences, through gardens. He wasn’t worried about being shopped by a resident – none of them talked to the police – but he didn’t want to leave a trail that could be followed, cause any damage, or disturb a tenant who wouldn’t take kindly to having their garden invaded. Or, worst of all, invade the territory of a dog. They bred them fierce round there.

  Leaving the estate and crossing the road, he had managed to board a city-centre-bound bus. Out of breath, shaking and mad-eyed with fear, he was surprised the driver let him on. He sat well away from the other passengers, looking out of the window and avoiding eye contact. When he saw Leazes Park ahead, he got off.

  The night was cold and hard. He had stayed in the shadows, well away from the gays and the gay bashers, with only the rats, the darkness and the inside of his head for company.

  He huddled under a tree. Couldn’t sleep. Tried to remain still, not to attract attention to himself. Curl away from life.

  As soon as he felt morning arrive he was up and off. He raided the tin money box, found, to his surprise, nearly sixty pounds in it. He pocketed the cash, threw the box away.

  Looked for a café to take on food and warmth.

  Sitting there drinking tea, came a revelation. The police would never find him if he stayed like this. Kept beneath the radar. A non-person.

  And a wave of emotion engulfed him. Both pity and self-pity intermingled.

  He thought of Janine. Dead. He a non-person. Neither living any more.

  He thought of his plan. Of the future. Of the things he now wouldn’t have.

  Blue sky. Green fields.

  Love.

  The emotion hardened. Became crystalline.

  Keenyside.

  He was responsible for all this. The one who should be punished.

  Mikey felt the gun in his pocket, burning against his thigh, weighing on it like a hot brick.

  There was nothing left, nothing to lose any more. No other way to fight back.

  He left the café. Breath bad, hair and clothes dirty and smelly. Citizens dropped eye contact, moved aside.

  Please don’t stop and talk to me. Please don’t make me acknowledge you exist.

  He was now a citizen of that separate, invisible city.

  The secret city.

  He walked up Westgate Road, all the way to the police station. Stood on the opposite side of the road.

  Mikey watched. Plotted and planned.

  Waited for Keenyside.

  His car in the car park. But no sign of the man himself.

  That was OK, thought Mikey; that was fine. He would wait. He was good at waiting. He’d had a lot of practice.

  Minutes to hours. Patrolling the same spot. Taking only short toilet or food breaks in a café with the same view. Detaching his mind. Just watching. Planning: the walk up to Keenyside sitting in his car, a tap on the window, a smile and a shot. A walk away.

  But no Keenyside.

  Mikey thinking of giving it up, coming back the next day, when:

  He appeared.

  Mikey tried to hold down the sudden bubble of excitement that had risen within him. He looked around for a break in the traffic, attempted to cross the road.

  No break came.

  He put his hand in his pocket, curled his fingers round the grip of the gun in anticipation. Tried again to cross.

  Traffic solid.

  Panic welled: he was going to miss his chance. His perfect moment. Keenyside in his car and gone.

  But Keenyside didn’t head towards his car. He walked to the gate, looking to cross the road.

  Heading straight towards Mikey.

  Panic rose higher, threatened to burst into bloom. Mikey couldn’t shoot him. Not here. Not now. It wasn’t the plan. He had to get away. He turned, began walking up the road. Found a phone box. Hid behind it. Hoped Keenyside hadn’t seen him.

  He hadn’t. He reached Mikey’s side of the road, stood at the bus stop, checked his watch. Waited.

  Mikey frowned. This wasn’t right. Keenyside went everywhere by car. Enjoyed being conspicuous.

  The bus arrived. Keenyside queued up, boarded it. Went upstairs.

  Mikey took a chance. He ran forward, joined the end of the queue. Got on. Sat downstairs at the back. Faked looking out of the window.

  The bus drove off.

  Mikey’s heart hammering, gun burning into his thigh.

  Down Westgate Road. Along Corporation Street. Round Gallowgate. Pulling up by Grey’s Monument in the city centre.

  Mass embarkation. Keenyside among them.

  Mikey stood up, surreptitiously joined the shuffling throng. Hit the pavement, looked around.

  Keenyside had crossed the road, was making his way down Grey Street on foot.

  Mikey followed. Down Grey Street. Over Mosley Street.

  A crepuscular blanket dragged itself over the sky. Streetlights, vehicle lights, came on.

  Down Dean Street. The Side. Headed towards the Quayside. All the way along, ignoring the eating, drinking, cultur
al distractions. Ignoring the cars, the noise. Crowds thinned, pedestrians became more sparse. Waterfront apartments were left behind.

  Keenyside walked. Mikey followed.

  Streetlights became more sporadic. Good for Mikey. He could drop back, hide in the pools of shadow between.

  And on. Keenyside reached the Low Level Bridge where the Ouse Burn ran into the Tyne beneath the huge Glasshouse Bridge. Stopped.

  Mikey, by a row of shuttered garages, stopped also.

  Keenyside looked around.

  Mikey flattened himself into the ridged metal of the inlaid shutters. Felt the shadow curl round him.

  Keenyside, apparently satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, took out a key and unlocked a padlock holding closed a rusting, chain-link double gate. A sign on the chain-link fence:

  KEEP OUT. BUILDING DERELICT AND UNSAFE.

  Keenyside slipped the lock and was in.

  Mikey risked a look, stepped out. Walked towards the fence.

  Behind it was a patch of weed-choked concrete. And on that, directly below the Glasshouse Bridge, was the building. Crumbling brick and sagging roof with missing tiles, it did indeed look derelict and unsafe. It stood on the edge of the Ouse Burn like it was about to crumble into it.

  The whole surrounding area seemed derelict and unsafe.

  Fronting the building were double doors with a smaller, inset door, also padlocked. Keenyside opened it, entered, closed it behind him.

  Mikey frowned, interested.

  He dropped back into the shadows.

  Mikey watched.

  Plotted and planned.

  32

  The late-autumn day had slipped away. Early night had stepped in as replacement. All along the Tyne the waterfront glittered and twinkled in come-hither picture-postcard prettiness. No sailors but still sirens, ready to entice the wary and the willing into Friday-night frolics.

  But not yet. Five thirty p.m. Still time for culture and coffee at the Baltic.

  An ex-flour mill from the mercantile heyday of the Tyne now reborn as cutting-edge contemporary art factory. A Tate Modern Mini Me nestling among the bars, restaurants, apartment blocks, hotels and cultural centres of the rejuvenated Newcastle/Gateshead waterfront, all twentieth-century reclamation, twenty-first-century aspiration.

  Hammer stood in the gift shop. As incongruous as a nightclub bouncer in a Swan Lake chorus line. He had made an effort at camouflage: beige woollen beanie, black puffa jacket to soften his frame, faded carpenters and tan Timberlands. Fingerless gloves to hide the tattoos. The tooth impossible to hide. So no smiles.

  Fake browsing a heavy Taschen hardback, eyes in reality on the entrance. Hoping to spot hostile faces, undercover cops laughably mimicking liberals, anyone he sensed was there to stop the deal.

  Anything that screamed out ‘setup’.

  A roving brief covering the whole of the building. Scoping out and staying one step ahead of CCTV, making his body language as non-threatening as possible to staff and browsers. On duty all the time. Scrutinizing and scanning.

  But, beyond art lovers, he had seen no one.

  Because they were already there. And had been for most of the day.

  Floor 2a. The administration block. The security suite. A small room to start with for only a two-person crew, now rendered cat-swingingly tiny by the inclusion of Nattrass and her team, plus Peta, Amar and Jamal.

  Nattrass had been violently opposed to having them there, but Donovan had insisted. One of his conditions. Jamal, he had argued, could ID Hammer. And as a minor he needed in loco parentis guardians. Nattrass, seeing the logic if not the practicality, had reluctantly agreed.

  No one had been allowed further than the rest of the administration block, and even then only with permission and for a limited amount of time. No police presence anywhere else in the building. Keenyside had taken part in enough operations like this to be wary. Despite being bent, Keenyside was still a copper. One of their own. And some may have sympathies. So the team was small and hand-picked: two techies, a four-man rapid-response team. Personal mobiles and phone calls had been banned. Communication only through official channels.

  Minimum disruption to Baltic at all times.

  Nattrass had got her wish: the four-man rapid-response team were from the firearms unit. Nattrass and Turnbull were also armed. The danger Keenyside and Hammer posed to the public, it had been decided, overrode any other concerns.

  Her one regret: no marksmen. There was nowhere they could be securely lodged without arousing suspicion.

  The team were focused, concentrated. Nattrass sat at the CCTV desk, eyes on the monitors, headset beside her. Two techies, Rob and Charlie, alongside her. The shooters standing to one side, at ease, but ready to go. The Baltic security staff wide-eyed and butterflied. Like they had been dropped in the middle of a Hollywood shoot ’em up, just waiting for De Niro to walk through the door.

  Turnbull kept sliding sidelong glances towards Peta, which she ignored. She and Amar were pressed against the back wall, out of the way. Jamal was by Nattrass, watching the screens with trepidation.

  Turnbull sneaked alongside Peta. Spoke sotto voce. Skated on the surface tension.

  ‘Wish this was still you?’ he asked, smirk in his voice.

  She turned, looked at him. Frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘This,’ he said, flicking a gesture over the cramped room. ‘The thrill. The rush.’ He sighed, smiled. ‘Can’t beat it.’

  Peta tried for as non-committal an answer as possible. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Her eyes averted from him, straight ahead.

  ‘I know you’re here.’ His voice dropped further. ‘But you’re not on the inside. Not part of it. Not one of us any more. Not a real copper.’ The last two words rolled out. Relishing the syllables.

  Peta turned to him, eyes blazing. ‘No, I don’t miss it,’ she said, voice rising, ‘because the force is full of impotent little needledicks like you.’

  Turnbull reddened, turned to face her. ‘You bitch. You fucking bitch. You—’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  Turnbull and Peta stopped, turned. Nattrass was staring at them angrily. The whole room was staring at them.

  ‘Call yourself professionals?’ Nattrass pointed at Turnbull. ‘You, over there.’ Turnbull slunk away into the corner of the room like a naughty schoolboy. She pointed at Peta and Amar. ‘And you two, out.’

  ‘What?’ said Peta.

  ‘I’m not arguing,’ said Nattrass. ‘This is a police operation and I’m in charge. Now get out.’ She pointed to the door.

  Peta, not without difficulty, bit back what she had been about to say and walked to the door, Amar with her. Jamal detached himself from the screen he had been studying, went to join them.

  Nattrass looked at him. ‘Where are you going?’

  Jamal sniffed, shrugged. ‘With me mates, innit.’

  ‘You can’t. You have to stay here.’

  He looked between her and Amar and Peta. Being left alone with police made him feel nervous. Past experience taught him not to trust them. No matter what promises they made him.

  ‘Nah,’ he said, sucking his teeth and aiming for nonchalance, ‘I ain’t Five-O material, y’get me?’ He reached the door. ‘Don’ worry. I see him, you the first to know.’ He followed them out.

  Nattrass sighed, shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words had to be permanently delayed.

  ‘We’ve got target on visual.’

  Charlie, the techie watching the monitors, pointed. Alan Keenyside was entering the café bar, finding a seat. He was carrying an aluminium case.

  The tension level in the room shot up to high-wire levels.

  Nattrass got to the desk, jumped in the chair. She pulled on her headset, flicked a switch on the desk unit.

  ‘Helen to Faust and Mephisto. Helen to Faust and Mephisto. Target is in place. Are you ready?’

  Faust and Mephisto. Donovan’s idea of irony.

  There was a pause. It seem
ed to last ten hours. Then:

  ‘Hi, Helen. This is Faust.’ Donovan’s voice. ‘Ready as we’ll ever be.’

  Nattrass looked at her watch. Two minutes to six. She took a deep breath. Then another. Opened the channel on the mic.

  ‘Go,’ she said.

  Donovan and Sharkey walked from Newcastle to Gateshead over the Millennium Bridge, heading towards the Baltic.

  Both suited, both carrying briefcases. Donovan striding, Sharkey hurrying alongside, trying to stifle the pain of his broken ribs.

  ‘Stop grunting and groaning,’ said Donovan as they passed a busker mangling an old REM song. ‘They can hear it on the mics.’

  ‘Couldn’t be any worse than that … bloody awful racket,’ said Sharkey between gasps.

  They were both wired. Transmitter/receiver units in their briefcases, radio pieces placed deep in their ears. Donovan’s was hidden by his hair. Sharkey would have to rely on body posture and placement.

  Both focused, intense. A temporary cessation of hostilities. They had a job to do.

  They crossed the square, approached the Baltic. The Riverside Café Bar was on the front to the right. Glass wall frontage with a door inset. Inside were people meeting after work, planning evenings with friends, family. Normal Friday-night relaxation.

  And Alan Keenyside.

  Two worlds side by side.

  Donovan’s heart was hammering. He didn’t realize how pumped up he was until he saw his hand shaking as he grasped the handle. He took a couple of deep breaths, forced the nerves from his body. Kept the adrenalin. Controlled its use.

  They went in.

  Keenyside was sitting at a table, coffee before him, aluminium case at his feet. It matched the décor. He looked up as they approached, guessing correctly they were his contacts.

  Keenyside rose, shook hands.

  Donovan and Sharkey sat down. Sharkey angled his head away slightly.

  No one spoke.

  Donovan broke the deadlock. ‘Where’s the other one? The one we spoke to initially?’

  Something flashed behind Keenyside’s eyes. ‘He’s … indisposed. I’ll be taking care of the negotiations.’

  Donovan appeared to give the matter some thought, then nodded. Tension surreptitiously ebbed from Keenyside’s shoulders.

  ‘I presume you have the compound with you,’ said Donovan, easing into the part he was playing.