Vengeance

by Price, Roger A

  Quintel opened his mouth to answer, but thought better of it so said nothing.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘It’s good you’re fully tooled up, it’ll help.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question about why it would matter who I use, if anyone, to complete the contract,’ Quintel said.

  ‘And you never answered my question.’

  Whether it was the three bottles of lager, Quintel couldn’t be sure, but this bloke was really getting on his tits tonight. He dug deep, sighed, and answered. ‘I’m not in anyone’s earshot.’

  ‘Good, now don’t repeat what I say. My name is Bobby McKnowle.’

  He said it in an arrogant way. Quintel wasn’t sure if it was supposed to mean anything, or was just another example of the client’s general big-headed attitude, so he just said, ‘Ok.’

  ‘And the reason you don’t need any more staff is because I’m going to come over and take Jason’s place, so I am.’

  Quintel hadn’t seen this coming, the last thing he needed was this ranting hothead getting in the way. As best as he could, he tried – without losing his rag – to talk McKnowle out of it, while stuffing the last of his one-pound coins into the slot. He reminded McKnowle that by coming over he was putting himself on offer, after all that was the whole point in hiring Quintel in the first place.

  ‘I know you are right,’ McKnowle said.

  This admission took Quintel by surprise; he wasn’t used to him backing down so quickly. Actually, he’d not known him to back down at all. But his elation was short lived.

  ‘But I won’t get in the way, and I still want you to do the business. But with your man being out it gives me an opportunity to join you. I know I’m taking a risk, but if you’d any idea how much and over how long that bastard has made me suffer, you wouldn’t begrudge me this. And if it’s the money you’re worried about, don’t.’

  Quintel had to admit the thought of being back to 50K had flown through his mind, ‘It’s not that,’ he lied.

  ‘You can have it all, and I’ll not be taking issue over the reporter with you, so that’s 110 large, and I’ll throw in a bonus,’ McKnowle said.

  Quintel had to admit the figures were stacking up nicely, but the thought of McKnowle chewing his arse wasn’t a nice one. Then he sighed again, one of resignation this time. ‘Ok, you’re the boss, but we do it my way?’

  ‘Absolutely, I’ll only help. You’re the man, I just want to watch if I’m honest,’ McKnowle said, before telling Quintel that he’d text him his flight details later, he’d need picking up from the airport the following day.

  Call over and Quintel headed back towards the bar. He wasn’t quite sure why McKnowle had revealed his name over the phone. If he wanted him to know it, he could have waited until they were face to face. In fact, why tell him at all; an unnecessary risk. There must be a reason but he’d no idea what?

  He churned the name over and over in his mind. It didn’t mean anything, but there was a nagging familiarity to it.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  It was late by the time Vinnie had arrived home, and he was starting to feel pretty jaded. All he wanted to do was shovel a microwaved TV dinner down his neck together with a couple of bottles of that French lager he liked, and then hit the sack, but he knew he should give Harry a quick ring first.

  He waited until he’d eaten and then put a quick call into his boss. He propped Harry with the suggestion about keeping Christine under the radar for a few days, supported by the disinformation he’d discussed with her at the hospital. Harry was up for it and said he’d get on it tomorrow. The chief’s office was going to release a brief statement early on with a full press conference due at noon. The timing would work well and Harry would personally attend the briefing to support Darlington.

  The call over, Vinnie considered another bottle of lager as his mind was still racing, but as active as it was, the heavy blanket of fatigue was starting to win the battle. He headed for his bed and once there, he laid musing, not so much about the events of the day, as dramatic as they had been, but more on the shock he’d felt at the depth of his feelings towards Christine. They were certainly becoming more entrenched than he would have otherwise admitted to himself. He fancied her, yes, but this was something stronger. He then thought about his estranged wife, also called Lesley, from whom he’d soon be divorced. It was after the race against time to recapture the escaped killer Daniel Moxley that had brought things to a head. It had been true to say that they’d had problems before that job exposed the depth of them, and as much as he had loved her, what she had done was unforgiveable. But that was in the past. Mentally, he had moved on, though it might take a while before he could talk to, or use another Lesley’s name without first thinking of his ex-wife.

  When all this was over, he would make a serious play for Christine. He hadn’t expected to feel like this about anyone, not for a long time, but the thought of nearly losing her had certainly crystallised his feelings towards her. Plus, she loved the Blues.

  *

  Vinnie woke up feeling mentally refreshed but still physically tired, though he wasn’t sure why that should be; bar some frantic digging he hadn’t done much exercise the previous day, though emotive strain always seemed to knock him sideways a bit, physically. That would be it. He’d be fine after two cups of coffee.

  Thirty minutes later, he tried ringing Paul Bury. It just rang straight to answer machine. He didn’t leave a message. He then treated himself to a rare breakfast of toast and marmalade and tried the number again. This time it rang out – it was turned on – but eventually rang to the answer machine nonetheless. He left a message, but was careful. ‘This is the person who you agreed to meet via a mutual friend. We have a shared past, though mine is still active, please call back, I’ll be by my phone.’

  That should do, it would tell Bury who he was but mean nothing to anyone else who might listen to it. He didn’t have to wait long for a call back.

  ‘You’d be Vinnie then?’ the voice said.

  ‘Yes, and you’d be PB?’

  ‘Aye, call me Paul. How can I help?’

  ‘It’s to do with a murder I’m deputy SIO-ing. Reggie Carstair. Used to be secretary of state for Northern Ireland, back in the day.’

  ‘Aye, I heard he’d been slotted. But it was a long time since he worked in the Province, not sure how I can help.’

  Vinnie deliberately didn’t mention the attempts on Jim Reedly; he didn’t want to say too much, not at first. ‘It’s just background really, but it is sensitive. I could do with a face to face, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Will our mutual friend be coming?’ Bury asked.

  ‘No she’s a bit indisposed today, though I do hope to be seeing her later.’

  ‘Her phone’s off. I’ve just tried her.’

  ‘I know, it got broke. When she gets a replacement she’ll no doubt bell you. When I see her later, I’ll remind her to.’

  ‘Ok, fair enough. If you are Vinnie, you’ll know where to meet me. The back yard in two hours,’ Bury said, before ending the call.

  Fortunately, Christine had told Vinnie about the pub where she’d met Bury, so he knew about the small rear yard turned beer garden. This guy was certainty cautious.

  *

  Two hours later, Vinnie was enjoying the spring sunshine while nursing an orange juice in the beer garden when a tall, imposing man in his late fifties came through the pub’s back door and came straight over. They were alone and the man quickly introduced himself, as did Vinnie.

  ‘Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff on the phone, but I have to be mighty careful. Has Christine told you anything of our business?’

  ‘No,’ Vinnie lied, as Bury sat down with his back to the garden wall, and placed a pint of Guinness on the table.

  ‘Good. It’s just that when I met her yesterday, I was sure I’d been followed away from the hotel. I’ve spent the last two hours making sure I arrive
d here without an escort, so I have.’

  ‘Change your hotel.’

  ‘Already have.’

  Vinnie wasn’t too sure why a documentary about how Catholics are now being better treated in public office than Protestants – if true – would warrant the sort of attention Bury was suggesting, but he took his word for it. Or at least believed that Bury believed it.

  ‘Anyway, you wanted to talk about Carstair?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Vinnie said, and quickly brought Bury up to speed with details of the murder, keeping to the facts which had been made public, which wasn’t much. ‘Did you know him, personally?’ he asked.

  ‘Aye, as did all senior officers in the RUC – Royal Ulster Constabulary - and as politicians go I have to say I always found Carstair one of the better ones. But why are you looking back then for your killer, or motive? That was back in the nineties. He must have made many enemies later on after he became home secretary, or is there something you’re not letting on?’

  He had a point Vinnie thought, why then? So he fed a bit more into the conversation. ‘Did you ever meet an English DI on secondment to your old force, a man by the name of Jim Reedly?’

  ‘Ah. Nar I understand. No, I never met Reedly, but I knew of him,’ Bury said, and then went on to outline what he knew of Reedly’s work in examining killings by the police or army.

  ‘It can’t have been an easy job,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘Poisoned chalice, that’s for damn sure. But if you think Carstair’s murder relates to back then, why has whoever it is waited twenty years to extract revenge?’

  ‘A good question to which I don’t know the answer. It may be that they had to wait until he retired from public office to be able to get anywhere near him?’

  ‘But surely former home secretaries get security for life?’

  ‘They do,’ Vinnie said, and then explained that the level of such security would be drastically reduced, unless Intelligence identified a specific threat. ‘But in any event he’s been retired several years now, so it makes no sense not to attack as soon as he left office,’ he added, destroying his own theory.

  ‘Plus, it’s one hell of a grudge to keep alive all this time,’ Bury added.

  Vinnie just nodded and then took a drink of his juice.

  ‘I take it you’re going over all the files relating to Reedly’s job, if that is where your killer comes from?’

  ‘As best we can, but a lot of paper records were destroyed after the peace process was signed, which is why I was hoping you might be able to help, or perhaps if you can’t, can you point me in the direction of anyone who can?’ Vinnie said.

  Bury sat in apparent contemplation for a minute as he took all the top off his pint of Guinness. ‘What about Reedly?’ he eventually said.

  ‘Trust me he has wracked his brains,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘I guess he’s a target too?’

  Vinnie then realised that Bury couldn’t have seen the news put out about Reedly not surviving his injuries from the bomb blast at Blackley. He dearly wanted to tell Bury about the misinformation, and also about the earlier attempts on Reedly’s life. It was not that he didn’t trust Bury, he did, and found him quite charming, but it was all about need to know, and Bury only needed to know what Vinnie had told him. So he stuck to what had been released. ‘I’m afraid Reedly is dead,’ Vinnie said, and then explained about the attack at the cemetery, keeping to the script of Reedly’s faked demise.

  Bury looked shocked. ‘That’s a dreadful shame, so it is,’ and then added, ‘You could have used him as bait; and if your theory had been right, you’d not have been waiting too long, if I know those Provo bastards,’ Bury said.

  As if Bury could see the surprise on Vinnie’s face, he continued before he could comment.

  ‘Yous have to understand, that in the world we worked in back in the troubles we had to take risks sometimes, most of the time. Do the unexpected. Nar I know those Provo boys would expect me to play dirty, but they’d have not been expecting yous over here to do that. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Vinnie said. It was an interesting idea, and not one he’d previously considered. But of course Reedly was not dead, so it could still be used. Of course they’d have to explain to the press the little problem of how he made a miraculous recovery from his mortal wounds. That said, he still couldn’t see the deputy chief constable of Greater Manchester Police being too up for hanging his bollocks out of the window and saying “come kick these boys, I’m waiting”.

  ‘It would have proved or disproved your theory, so it would have,’ Bury said.

  ‘Apart from the fact that he’s dead, logistically it would have taken some serious resources,’ Vinnie said, wondering why they were still discussing what on the surface was just a hypothetical theory. He wondered if Bury really suspected that Reedly was still alive.

  ‘Ah, away with you. I used to get that sort of rhetoric all the time when I was working. It would have been expensive, yes; but I’m telling you it wouldn’t have taken long. And would have worked out a lot cheaper than a murder investigation that dragged on for months or longer.’

  It was as if he knew Reedly was alive and was egging Vinnie on to consider his proposal. Certainly, regarding the finances, he did have a point. But Vinnie knew neither Harry nor Darlington would want anything to do with such a plan. Bury had clearly worked in different circumstances and during very difficult times.

  Vinnie thanked Bury for his help, and said he would get Christine to bell him later. He also asked him to give what he’d said some thought, in case he could remember a potential suspect, even if it made no sense why he or she would wait this long.

  ‘I take it you’ve checked those in Prison, no offence,’ Bury asked.

  ‘Yeah, a lot were released early as part of the peace process and we’ve got a team tracing the others. But apparently, there have been none released in the last eighteen months, which is the timeframe we are using, though we will broaden that if needed. What about me speaking to anyone else?’

  ‘Not safe for you to be asking those sorts of questions. You’d get nar answers anyway, but let me make a couple of calls; I’ll bell you if I come up with anything.’

  Vinnie thanked him again and left.

  As he reached his car his phone – which he’d set to silent during his meeting – vibrated in his pocket. It was a text from Christine, ready for a lift home. Just before he reached his car he turned around and took in his environment. There was no sign yet of Bury following him out of the pub, and as over-cautious as Vinnie thought he was, something in the way he spoke gave his concern credibility. Vinnie then spent a couple of minutes checking out all the parked cars, and recesses on the street. There was no one about. He headed to the driver’s door of his Volvo.

  Chapter Fifty

  Quintel had been enjoying his Full English breakfast until the text message from McKnowle informed him of his arrival later at Manchester Airport’s Terminal Three, on a Ryan Air jet from Dublin. He also asked him to source two pay-as-you-go mobiles for them both to use during the operation. He told him to wait in the arrivals lounge and he’d find him once he was through customs. At least he hadn’t bothered with his A and B payphone bollocks this time. Though he’d much prefer that, rather than have to endure him personally over the next few days. He was the client, and he had said he mostly wanted to observe and wouldn’t get in the way. Quintel knew he’d have to lay out the ground rules when he saw him. That said, he still didn’t know who the target was, or why? Though the latter wasn’t too important; he was just intrigued.

  After breakfast he asked reception for directions to the nearest mobile phone shop and went and bought two disposables as requested. He put them both on charge in his room and preloaded each’s number in the other’s phone memory under the initial A for McKnowle in his, and B for him in McKnowle’s. He’d appreciate the A and B theme, and then he scratched the screen of his with the car key so he knew which was which. He then checked and cle
aned both guns, as Jason would have done, and then removed the rounds to give the loading springs in the magazines a rest. Jason had always advised doing this when the gun’s readiness was not needed. A worn spring in a magazine was apparently one cause of ammo load failure. And it was something to do. At midday he packed everything up into the holdall he’d also bought that morning and headed to the car. On his way through reception he reserved a second room for McKnowle and then went to the Nissan and stored everything back in the boot, together with the grenades. Time to head leisurely towards the airport.

  He arrived at the multi-storey carpark at Terminal Three at 1.30 pm and had a leisurely late lunch in one of the food outlets in the arrivals hall. At 2.20 pm he checked one of the screens again and saw that the short flight from Dublin was due in any minute. He checked that his personal mobile was on, and then glanced up and saw that the flight status on the large info screen had changed to “Landed”. He made his way to the Information Desk and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, a stream of passengers started to filter through and one in particular stopped and looked around before settling his gaze on Quintel. This must be him; they had never met before but this was him. A man in his early sixties, Quintel reckoned, but he was short, with a thin build, and balding short grey hair to match his prison-like pallor. He was not half as imposing as Quintel had expected, but then sometimes the shorter in height and stature a person was, the shorter their fuse. He made directly over to Quintel and introductions over, Quintel gave him his disposable phone and charger.

  ‘Good, now turn your private one off and don’t use it again until we’re done. And no personal calls on these ones,’ McKnowle said, adding, ‘now let’s get to whichever shithole town you’ve booked us into. I want to discuss the dirty bastard you are going to kill.’

  Once away from the airport, Quintel tried to engage McKnowle in a bit of light conversation to ease him in, but he was having none of it, so Quintel went straight in. ‘You said on the phone, that you’ll not interfere, that you only want to watch.’