‘Seems fair to me, he did say that Jason gave him no option.’
‘True, but I think his days as a snout will have come to an end, not least because he outed himself to us.’
‘But we are not going to say anything, and he thinks I’m a cop.’
‘Until he watches the news for the first time.’
‘Don’t worry, as of tomorrow, it’s hair up with glasses on in front of camera; and hair down and no specs on with you.’
Vinnie took a second slurp from his glass as Christine continued. ‘What did Harry say?’
‘He says if we believe Dempster in that he was under extreme duress to arrange the motors for Jason, and it was the first time he’d done it, then he can’t see a problem with the CPS. He also says the dedicated source unit won’t actually confirm or deny if Dempster is on their books, but as we know he is, he won’t be for much longer. It’ll be their job to approach the judge before any trial and try to satisfy him or her that Dempster wasn’t more involved.’
‘Do you believe what Dempster told us?’
‘I think so, but I’m not sure. I know it sounds implausible that he wouldn’t even have Jason’s mobile number, but it could be true about him leaving messages for Dempster at the Labour club, and any telephone number to ring was either a phone box, or he had to wait at his phone box, where we picked him up, for a call.’
‘What leans you toward believing him?’
‘Because I made him recite the phone box’s number and checked later. He knew it off by heart. But the real test will be if he rings us after they contact him again.
Christine just nodded as she took a sip of her white wine, before asking, ‘Well how did he know what number to ring when we stopped him?’
‘I asked him that as we dropped him off and he said he didn’t, he was just going to try the last one he’d been given, and before you ask I’ve had it checked, it’s just another phone box.’
They both sat quietly for a couple of minutes as they finished their drinks, before Vinnie filled the void. ‘Are you on this story tomorrow as well? You are making a great partner.’
‘Why thanks, kind sir. But no, I’m having to do more work on my exposé job. I’ll get someone else to cover Preston, it’ll not do any harm to keep my face off camera for a while, and to be honest I don’t do too much of the daily news stuff nowadays. More the feature stuff, but I’m always happy to fill in, as and when.’
Vinnie tried to hide his disappointment by just smiling and thanked Christine for her help earlier. It was time to head home to a microwave meal and a couple of bottles of French lager before an early night. He was tempted to dump the motor and ask Christine if she wanted to make a night of it, but now was obviously not the moment, and they both had busy days ahead.
*
Christine watched Vinnie leave the car park of the pub before she drove off in her own car. She had enjoyed today, and had enjoyed Vinnie’s company. She’d seen the side glances he’d been giving her, which she’d enjoyed. The first job they’d worked on together had been all frenetic over a couple of days, and she’d hardly had time to catch her breath, let alone look at Vinnie that way. She had started to ask herself the question, and she didn’t mind. A good sign.
She drove off in the opposite direction, towards Salford and her new flat. It was handy for the Media City down on the Quays, not that she’d had much time to enjoy it since moving in a couple of weeks ago. Her mind then drifted back to the exposé she was working on, she was getting excited about this and had been tempted to tell Vinnie a little about it. After all, he’d taken her into his confidence totally, and she felt a little bit guilty about that. But no matter, she’d no doubt put that right soon enough. She might have to; she might need his help.
Chapter Thirteen
Quintel never agreed with the idiom that revenge is a dish best served cold - he just knew that to serve it properly, carefully, and without issue usually meant that cold it had to be. If he’d had his way Jim Reedly would have eaten his hot. The hotter the better; as per his client’s wishes. But he’d let caution overstate its need when he’d hired Charlie; he’d overcomplicated things by trying to create distance between himself and his target. It was a mistake that had cost him, one he wouldn’t make again. After all, he had Jason with him who was more than capable. Ok, Reedly’s afters would have to wait now he was aware of the threat, but Reggie Carstair would be different. Quintel couldn’t imagine why Carstair would be aware of the attempt on Reedly, especially after only forty-eight hours, and even if he was, he wouldn’t make any connection, imaginary, or otherwise.
Like Reedly, Carstair was a northerner, although he still spent most of his time in London milking the private circuit like all the other greedy bastards - but he still headed north for the weekends. It was then when he was most vulnerable. Thanks to Jason’s skills they had followed Carstair over a few weekends up the M1 and M6 motorways to get a feel for his habits. In fact, they could have intervened several times ad hoc, but the client wanted things doing in his order. And he was the paymaster.
During those reconnaissance runs Jason has stressed the need to stay far behind Carstair’s 4x4 and to do the fact finding in stages. They knew that Carstair would leave the M6 at junction 29 at Bamber Bridge, south of Preston, before heading to his home in rural West Lancashire, but Jason had still insisted on doing the surveillances up the motorway, saying that Carstair might make a regular stop on the way which might identify opportunities.
The weeks of reconnaissance had paid off. Carstair had a following escort vehicle with him until he left the motorway, and then he finished the short journey home on his own as the escort headed back south. It was typical of the man’s arrogance. In London you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between him and his bodyguards, but once back home, he didn’t need them, or so he obviously thought. Jason was unsure whether the security Carstair had was his own or not, but it didn’t matter to them.
The second part of the reconnaissance had been to get ahead of Carstair on his Friday trips home and only follow him when he left the motorway. It was a short journey of twenty minutes or so to his private estate. The luxury house was in its own grounds set well back from the public road, similar to Reedly’s place in nearby Fulwood, north of Preston. Quintel also knew that the property wasn’t protected by local plod, God bless the cuts.
It had occurred to Quintel that they could take over the address on a Friday morning, and just wait until Carstair walked through the door – how much fun would that be? But he knew it carried too many risks, he just liked the idea.
They’d spent yesterday rechecking the route from the motorway to Carstair’s home address, no problems. And today they had purposefully kept away from the area, it had been a long day, but the fun bit should start soon. Quintel glanced at his watch. It was nearly 8 pm; he hoped that all the prior reconnaissance would be worth it, especially after what had happened with Reedly. The exact timings were the only variable in Carstair’s routine, the time he actually left the capital could vary by several hours. Today, he’d left later than expected according to Quintel’s paid watcher in London, but no matter, it was still light and would be for an hour. They had found their spot and had been parked up for about twenty-five minutes when Jason spoke.
‘Long range view of a possible contact on the 4x4,’ he said as he sat up in the passenger seat and leaned into the small binoculars he was using.
‘I was bothered he’d stop for a piss, and with the bastard setting off late we would lose the light and have to abort for another week,’ Quintel thought out loud.
‘Me too, Boss. Wait one…Yes it’s a definite contact on the vehicle, with only a driver on-board.’
‘The bastard?’
‘Can’t see with the low sun bouncing off the windscreen - can you move to the junction, Boss?’
They were parked in a narrow lane and normally Jason would do all the surveillance driving, but not today. Quintel had already started the engine after J
ason said he’d clocked the vehicle and slowly drove their hire car towards the T-junction with the A59 Longton bypass. It was a dual-carriageway stretch of road which led from Preston into West Lancashire and eventually to Liverpool. Quintel knew that this stretch only lasted a couple of miles before it returned to a single-carriageway, so he’d have to be sharp. Though one advantage of the lateness of time was that the road was now relatively quiet.
‘Go Boss, go. Confirming that the target is driving the vehicle,’ Jason said as he put the small binos into a nylon bag at his feet.
Quintel joined the main road without stopping, and quickly put his foot down in the two-litre saloon; he could see the rear of the 4x4 ahead of them.
‘Once he starts braking for the roundabout keep your foot down and brake as late as you can before the junction, but without causing a scene, Boss. We’ll make ground on him that way without him realising.’
Quintel didn’t reply, he knew this, he also knew what came next, but he’d forgive Jason in the rush of the moment.
‘Once he’s cleared the roundabout, we only have half a mile of dual-carriageway left.’
Quintel didn’t reply.
The 4x4 was held up at the roundabout as a tractor bumbled around it. It allowed them to catch up nicely. The 4x4 cleared the junction after the tractor left at a different exit and they followed the 4x4 straight on. They were right behind him now on the inside lane, not too close, but not too far away either. Their speed levelled off at fifty.
Before they had even joined the dual-carriageway Jason had climbed between the front seats and was now in position by the rear nearside window.
‘Ready? Quintel asked.
‘Ready,’ Jason answered, as Quintel looked at him via the driver’s mirror.
He could see Jason putting the stock of the three-quarter length shotgun into his right shoulder. Quintel turned his attention back to the road as he pulled out to overtake and slowly started to pass the 4x4.
‘Not too fast,’ Jason said.
Quintel checked the speedometer – fifty-five – perfect, and edged alongside the 4x4. He heard the window motor start to whirl behind him, letting road noise flood in, and felt his pulse quicken. He was desperate to look sideways, but Jason had stressed he should not. According to him if you even glance at someone when you pass them they will notice and instinctively look at you. A second’s warning could make all the difference. He resisted the urge, ceding to Jason’s skills from his past life. But before they were level, Quintel was deafened by the boom from Jason’s weapon going off. He couldn’t believe how loud it was inside the car.
‘Go Boss, as hard as you can.’
As Quintel floored the accelerator he allowed himself a glance to his left. He could see that the driver’s window of the 4x4 was gone, as was most of Carstair’s head Well, he assumed it was Carstair’s head as he hadn’t actually seen it beforehand; he’d have to take Jason’s word for it. The grisly sight excited him.
The shoulders of the body were leaning to their left and the car was starting to veer that way too. He’d asked Jason about this earlier; how he could be so sure that the 4x4 would veer left and not to the right, into their path? Jason had told him to be prepared to step on it to get out the way, as a precaution, but emphasised that the force of the shot should drag the body and steering wheel away from them. It made sense. He seemed to know his stuff.
As Quintel powered towards the next roundabout he checked his mirrors for following traffic –there was none. He also saw that the 4x4 had hit the nearside embankment and flipped, he realised how much he’d underestimated Jason in the past. He was much more than just a bouncer; he felt another twinge of guilt about that. And now that he’d proved himself, he’d definitely give him a pay rise, and endeavour to use his entire skill base in the future. At least this job had gone sweet; the client would be pleased.
Chapter Fourteen
Christine Jones had spent the first half of Friday catching up and clearing her emails. She wasn’t due to meet her contact until late afternoon at the earliest. She’d been working on this particular story for some time and her editor had kept reminding her of the need to get the balance right. The armed struggle by the Provisional IRA may have ended with the start of the peace process, but there was still plenty of hardliners out there that would never give in until Northern Ireland was back under southern Irish rule. And she knew that that would never happen whilst the majority of the population of Northern Ireland wanted to remain as part of the United Kingdom. The fact that the majority were Protestant by religion only antagonised the other side of the secular divide.
What she had found interesting through her research was the alleged way in which the police service had changed, and not just in name but in structure. The Royal Ulster Constabulary, as it was before the peace agreement, had been staffed by a largely Protestant workforce, and now it was split into two as the Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI), and the Northern Irish United Crime Squad (NIUCS). Both had far more Catholics among their numbers than the RUC ever had. Surely, a good thing.
She’d made the mistake of saying as much during an earlier visit to the Province where she’d sought comment from officers from both sides of the divide. One particular officer had vehemently informed her that he now felt unfairly treated - that it was politically correct to encourage and support Catholic officers to progress over Protestant ones. Or so it seemed.
As far as she could tell, each police force had equal standing. The PSNI covered everywhere at a local and regional level, whereas the NIUCS – or Nyucks as it was pronounced - operated only on a regional level, tackling serious and organised crime. The splitting up of the old Royal Ulster Constabulary had clearly been done for political reasons. She’d also come across the same biased accusations among local politicians. What was hard to establish was whether there was indeed, any fact to this, or was the bias being fuelled by false perceptions of those with unmovable beliefs on either side of the equation. She would dearly love to find evidence of this one way or another, as it would greatly enhance her documentary. Whether she ever would, she wasn’t sure.
Christine hated watching documentaries which asked a great question in its title and premise; only to find out an hour later that the question remained unanswered. She needed to dig deeper, and her interview with today’s contact just might provide a lead into this, or so she hoped. It had taken a lot of time, many phone conversations and many promises from the programme’s producers to get to this stage; the first physical meeting. She was quite nervous, but also excited by the prospect. It wasn’t every day a retired assistant chief constable broke ranks and spoke to the press; or an unretired one for that matter.
*
Seven-thirty, the text had said, and her contact was already ten minutes late. Christine was starting to get fidgety as she forced herself to only sip from the large glass of white wine in front of her. Nerves always quickened her thirst but she was determined to stay clear-headed; if today went well, then this could be the first of many meetings, and her current angle aside, who knew where it could lead. She checked her watch once more before calming herself. It was only ten minutes past, it just seemed so much more because she’d been ridiculously early.
She’d arrived at the bar at seven. It was a non-descript pub situated down one of the many side streets off Deansgate in central Manchester. Most of these backstreet boozers had long gone, or been replaced with trendy wine bars, but this was one of the few that remained. She was sat in the front snug which was largely empty, except for a homeless looking sort in a large brown overcoat who was engrossed in the Racing Post and had made his half pint glass of what looked like coke last longer than her wine. She was sat in the far corner with several tables between them. Her back was to a rough brick wall and she had a good view of the outside through the large bay window, and sight of anyone entering the pub, as they who would have to pass the open doorway that connected the snug to the rest of the pub.
She saw
a middle-aged man in a lightweight raincoat pass the window on a beeline for the front door. It was his ramrod straight back and mien that caught her attention. Seconds later he passed the snug doorway as he entered the bar proper. She waited, one minute, two, but he didn’t show himself. It was now seven-forty-five. She sighed. The man with the Racing Post got up to leave. He picked his coke up, and she figured he must be going into the main bar, but he hesitated in the doorway. Christine watched as the man looked both ways before turning around and then walked back into the snug. But he didn’t stop at the table where he’d been moments earlier, but headed straight to Christine’s and sat to one side of her.
‘Would you allow me to introduce myself, Christine; I’m Paul Bury, ex-RUC and NIUCS ACC.’
Christine just stared at him as he took the smelly overcoat off and slung it over a chair by the next table. He must have seen by her expression what she was thinking, as he then answered her unasked question.
‘Bought it off a tramp for thirty pounds, call it an act of charity, but I had to be sure you had come alone, and didn’t receive any unexpected visitors, I hope you don’t mind?’
Having got over her astonishment, Christine answered, ‘No, not at all, I was just a little surprised.’
‘You have to remember that during the troubles one learnt to be extra careful about everywhere one went. Can you imagine never standing with your back to a room full of strangers, always with your back to a bar when in a pub; never the other way around? Looking under your car every time you approached it? I learnt to be a cautious man and although times are different now, some habits are hard to break, that’s for sure.’
Christine accepted his explanation for what had seemed at first as a little eccentric, and then thought about what he’d said. No, she couldn’t imagine it.
‘I’ve done my homework on you, as you have no doubt done the same, and that’s why I’ve agreed to meet you. As you know the press and the police have had a turbulent relationship at times, so they have, but you seemed to be one of those who report fairly.’
Vengeance Page 6
