The entrance was cool and inviting. No smell of bodily fluids, disinfectant or old age. Nursing staff were good-looking and friendly and, without exception, white Caucasian. As soon as Kennedy’s shoe hit the plush carpet, he had everyone’s attention. ‘Afternoon, Mr Kennedy,’ rang out in unison.
‘How’s Billy today?’ he asked a tall brunette with flashing eyes.
‘Enjoying the sunshine,’ she replied, smiling warmly. ‘He’s in the garden room.’
‘I’ll see myself there. Come on, Tallis,’ he said, turning towards him. ‘Time I got you up to speed.’
They walked down a wide corridor, doors off, modern art prints hanging on the walls, classical music piped out of a sound system overlaid with the sound of trickling water. Reminded Tallis of the Basilica in Turkey.
Two men, one seated, one walking towards them, greeted Kennedy.
‘All right, Rex?’ Kennedy said, shaking the man’s hand.
Rex nodded. He was an academic-looking individual, clean-shaven, with fashionable oblong-rimmed glasses. After a brief exchange and introductions, Tallis was asked to remove his jacket, socks and shoes. The man who’d been seated, a short, colourless individual with steel-grey hair, patted him down, obviously checking for wires and weapons.
‘It’s all right,’ Kennedy said as Rex studied the Glock Tallis was carrying. ‘He can have it back later.’
To Tallis’s surprise, Kennedy then took off his socks and shoes. Ritual complete, Rex punched in a code to the door behind them. As it sprang open, Kennedy entered, followed by Tallis.
The reason for bare feet became immediately obvious. They were walking into a bubble. The walls were padded, the floor was padded, no sharp corners, no furniture, everything smooth and round. Even the light in the room was moderated by gauze drapes at the windows. The air seemed unusually pure, as if they were standing on top of a mountain in Switzerland. Tallis glanced up and saw two filters, one at each end, embedded in the ceiling.
‘Hello, Mr Kennedy.’
Tallis looked across the room. A middle-aged nurse dressed in a dark blue top and loose white trousers was sitting on the floor, legs apart. Between them, half lying, half propped, upper torso supported, rested the ruined body of a man.
Kennedy fell to his knees and crawled towards him. ‘Hello, Billy,’ he said. ‘How are you doing, mate?’
At the sound of his father’s voice, Billy’s head, which seemed too big for his emaciated frame, lolled to one side, mouth flopping open, saliva spuming forth followed by a grunting sound that seemed to come deep from his diaphragm.
‘Yeah,’ Kennedy said tenderly, stroking his son’s pale cheek, ‘it’s your old dad, isn’t it?’
Without any fuss, as if the routine had been carried out hundreds of times before, Kennedy gently swapped places with the nurse. Tallis crouched down, acutely uncomfortable at intruding on private grief. The man in front of him was hardly recognisable as the same young man in the photographs. Sure, he had neatly cut dark hair, his clothes casual, T-shirt and jeans carefully chosen to resemble any other thirty-something. But physically he was a wreck. Features slack and distorted, his eyes looked as if something in them had died long ago. One arm hung down from his shoulder inert, the hand a claw, fixed as if in rigor mortis, the other arm curled in, spastic. His legs were thin and wasted. The only area of bulk was around the lower half of his trunk. Tallis guessed Billy was wearing incontinence padding.
As for Kennedy, he bore no resemblance to the thug who only hours before had given orders to kill, who had, in his time, cheerfully taken the lives of others. He was simply a father taking care of his son. And he was doing it brilliantly. Humbled, Tallis felt something dark stir inside him. If his own father had shown him even a modicum of the same regard, how different his life would have been.
When Billy was settled, Kennedy asked Tallis to come over. ‘He doesn’t like sudden movements so approach him slowly.’
Tallis dropped on all fours, quietly creeping along, a fleeting memory of playing with his sister’s children flashing through his mind. When he was close enough to feel Billy’s spittle-laden breath on his face, see the vacancy in his injured eyes, Tallis gently took Billy’s hand in his, felt the slab of cold flesh, and wondered how long a human being could survive such disability.
‘He was hit by some louse driving a car,’ Kennedy explained, his voice dull and without inflection. ‘Dragged for 400 metres. Bits of his skull fractured and penetrated his brain. Broke both legs, his arms, shattered his pelvis, ruptured his spleen. Didn’t think he’d pull through.’ Kennedy suddenly erupted, his voice rising in a howl of pain then falling, eyes blinded with tears and rage. Tallis didn’t speak. What could he say? He felt as if he knew nothing about suffering. Nothing at all. Kennedy was speaking again, softly, coldly. ‘Did you know that when a moving head comes to a sudden stop, the brain continues to travel? Does a fucking lot of damage.’ Kennedy bowed his head, kissed the top of his son’s damp hair, and whispered in his ear something that Tallis failed to catch.
‘Who was driving?’ Tallis asked softly.
‘A prat,’ Kennedy said. ‘Stupid prat.’
Not cunt, not bastard. Seemed a very inconsequential word for someone who’d mown down your son, Tallis thought, for he didn’t doubt that in Kennedy’s mind, Carroll was guilty of a grave offence. Why else had Simon Carroll been sent death threats?
‘Hit-and-run,’ Kennedy spat out, ‘and he got nothing more than a fine and points on his licence. You call that justice? I call it corruption. Fucking police. And they have the cheek to come after people like me. That’s right, isn’t it, Billy?’ Kennedy leant forward, hugging his son to his chest. Billy grunted and howled. ‘He likes you.’ Kennedy beamed, looking up at Tallis, a strange light in his eyes.
Tallis smiled uncertainly. Take your word for it, he thought.
‘You haven’t forgotten about tomorrow, have you?’
‘Saturday, no. Kept a space in my diary especially.’ Maybe he’d find out about those repeated connections to Turkey, and why Gabriel, and even Garry, had been killed.
‘Big learning curve.’ Kennedy was still smiling. Only the eyes said something else.
23
* * *
TALLIS didn’t go straight home. He found a back-street pub where his face wasn’t known and ordered a pint. ‘I Will Survive’ was belting out of a sound system. Before he sat down, his mobile rang. It was Crow.
‘Forensics have definitively linked our two poets to Morello’s murder in Turkey,’ she said without preamble.
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘One good turn deserves another.’
Tallis took a pull of his pint. He knew there had to be a catch.
‘Is Johnny Kennedy gold-plated, or what?’ Crow said.
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Every avenue to him has a sod-off sign on it.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m out of the game.’
‘And I’m Jordan.’
Word association conjured up a bizarre image of Crow leaning towards him, exposing a fair expanse of what he imagined would be stretch-marked cleavage. Tallis took a big breath. ‘As far as I know, Kennedy’s turned over a new leaf. He’s got legitimate businesses.’
‘That take him to Turkey.’
‘It’s a nice place for a holiday, Micky.’
Big pause. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’m going to tell you something in confidence.’ She paused again, as if she were suddenly having second thoughts. ‘I really shouldn’t be telling you this.’
‘Go on,’ Tallis encouraged softly, automatically turning away from the bar.
‘In less than seven hours a big operation is getting under way to smash a fairly major Turkish drugs ring.’
‘There are hundreds of established Turkish crime syndicates in London.’ Tallis shrugged.
‘It’s not in London, it’s in Birmingham.’
As soon as Tallis got out of the TT he knew someo
ne was waiting in the shadows. Couldn’t see, couldn’t touch, was unable to smell the presence of another, but some other highly developed sense confirmed the threat was real. He still had the Glock, and took it out, feeling the compact shape mould instantly to his hand.
From out of nowhere, a voice sounded. ‘Long day at the office?’ Then a man Tallis didn’t recognise stepped out onto the path, illuminated by the security light, and introduced himself as Gavin Shaw.
‘I work for West Mids,’ he added, cool and calm, fearless.
‘The building society?’ Tallis said, droll, keeping his gun aimed and steady. He noticed the stocky build, the scar on his forehead similar to one he carried on his own, light brown hair, grey eyes.
‘He’s one of ours,’ another voice said. Although he hadn’t heard it in a long time, and there seemed to be more grain in the tone, Tallis recognised it immediately. He didn’t move a muscle.
‘Shall we go inside?’ Napier said, emerging from the rear of the bungalow into the chill light of the moon. Thin, face lined and older than his years, Napier still cut an imposing figure.
‘Why not?’ Tallis’s curiosity was starting to burn a hole in his head. He threw a set of front-door keys to Shaw, which he caught. Tallis motioned with the gun for Napier to follow his colleague inside.
Nobody sat down. All three men stood in the galley kitchen. Tallis placed the gun carefully on the work surface nearest to him, within hand’s reach. He said nothing, watched them with wary eyes. In spite of an impressive show of confidence, it became clear to him that neither man was happy with either being there or with what he was about to divulge. Shaw, hands folded in front of him, short torso leaning against a cupboard, started the ball rolling.
‘I’m an Organised Crime Officer and Johnny Kennedy’s handler,’ he announced, eyes fixed on Tallis. ‘Your every move has been monitored by Kennedy.’
‘My every move?’ Did he tell you he ordered me to kill a man? Tallis wondered.
‘We’ve had you watched,’ Napier said, smug.
‘I know,’ Tallis said, seeing some of the shine fade from Napier’s expression. ‘Lilac VW Beetle. The driver showed out on my first day’s surveillance. Before you consider using her again, for mobile work I suggest she undergoes a period of retraining.’
‘You arrogant shit,’ Napier spat.
Tallis ignored him. ‘Just remember where you are. This is my home, my territory,’ he said, looking pointedly at the weapon sitting on his work surface. ‘What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me all this. An informer’s identity, especially one of Kennedy’s calibre, is supposed to be top secret.’
‘Which is why even our own Organised Crime officers are kept in the dark,’ Shaw concurred.
Including Nick Oxslade, Tallis thought, realising that Oxslade had genuinely been trying to warn him off. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad bloke after all. ‘Let alone someone who’s just returned to civvy street,’ Tallis said with a smile.
‘That might be what you told Kennedy,’ Napier said, mouth twisting. ‘But our intelligence is somewhat better.’
Tallis arched an eyebrow, decided to let it drop. Asim, he thought. That’s what Napier meant. ‘I’m interested to know what pressure you used on Kennedy,’ Tallis said.
Shaw answered. ‘The disappearing man.’
‘Simon Carroll?’ Driver of the car that almost killed Billy.
Shaw nodded.
‘Are we talking disappeared as in disappeared, or dead?’
‘A badly decomposed human head and severed leg were washed up on the beach near Start Point in Devon eighteen months ago. Scientists identified the body parts as Carroll’s.’
‘You’re saying Kennedy issued orders from prison?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first.’
‘But how did you know it was him?’
Shaw glanced at Napier who answered. ‘We were tipped off.’
By whom? Tallis wondered. ‘And what of the person who carried out the killing?’
‘Never found.’
Probably bumped off, Tallis thought.
‘So you gave Kennedy a choice?’
Shaw gave a slow nod.
‘But I thought the judiciary had clamped down on all that.’
‘Depends,’ Napier chipped in.
‘On what?’
‘The level of information.’
Tallis met Napier’s eye and reeled back to 1991, recalling a conceited man with an image to uphold, who hated competition, who, even when he’d made the most appalling mistake, blamed others for it. Had Kennedy led Napier to believe that he could give him something so momentous that his reputation would be secure for ever? Somehow Tallis didn’t think it was the whereabouts of the unrecovered gold from of the Brink’s-Mat bullion robbery. ‘Is that supposed to explain why you’ve given the man such a free hand? How do you know Kennedy’s not running rings around the lot of you? Business as usual.’
‘Desperate times require desperate measures,’ Shaw said.
‘Sprat to catch a mackerel.’ Napier broke into an unlovely smile. Tallis noticed he had several molars missing. His breathing was noticeably fast and shallow. Excitement, not nerves, he deduced. One thing was clear: they were letting Kennedy run.
‘Kennedy’s no sprat,’ Tallis said, remembering Kennedy describing himself as a great white. ‘Expect you want to know my involvement.’
‘We know.’ Napier’s voice was a snarl. Sweat broke out across his brow, even though it wasn’t particularly cold in the room. Shaw flashed him an anxious look.
‘Thing is,’ Shaw said, clearly trying to run the conversation in a different direction, ‘Kennedy isn’t your average informer. He is the best of the best. He’s put his life on the line over and over again.’
Yes, Tallis thought, Kennedy had. Why would he give so much for so little? All he had to do was serve the time. This way he’d always be running, always looking over his shoulder, waiting for that knock at the door, the bullet in the head.
Shaw was still speaking. ‘You only have to look at the fount of high-grade information involving drugs and huge amounts of money…’
‘Like the drug bust going down in the city in a little under five hours’ time.’
‘How the hell—?’ Shaw began.
‘Which we’re hopeful might lead to other criminal activities,’ Napier butted in, ignoring another warning look from Shaw. Tallis realised just how rare and valuable Kennedy was to Napier, indeed to the Serious and Organised Crime Agency. The track record for nailing anyone higher than a tea-boy was not a particularly good one. When they’d stumbled across Kennedy, a veritable Mr Big, they’d believed they’d struck gold. ‘Including possible terrorist plots,’ Napier added. Bingo! Tallis thought. Kennedy would prove even more valuable to the security services.
From the cold light in Napier’s eye, Tallis knew that Asim had been stamping all over them, that whatever they had accomplished, whatever they were about to achieve, was about to be snatched away and they both resented it like hell. Then another thought struck him. ‘Does Kennedy know about me?’
Once more Shaw and Napier exchanged glances. ‘Gabriel does,’ Shaw offered.
‘Gabriel?’ Tallis said, astounded.
‘He’s our man on the inside.’
‘To shadow Kennedy?’ Jesus, was that why Kennedy wanted him dead? Tallis thought.
‘To protect him.’
‘But Gabriel’s dead.’
‘What?’ Shaw said, eyes narrowing.
Tallis told them both what happened. Shock, then anger registered in both men. And fear—of losing an officer, of screwing up an operation, of receiving a bollocking and possible demotion. Oh, he understood only too well and was glad to be outside that kind of gladiatorial arena.
Tallis rewound Kennedy’s more recent history with the police, imagined and went through the operational moves in his head. First, Kennedy comes under the spotlight of West Midlands Organised Crime Officers on the ground. Pressure applied, he t
urns informer and moves into a slightly different circle, coming under another chain of command headed by Shaw. Second, and because of Kennedy’s high-profile status, SOCA start sniffing around in the form of Napier who in turn takes over operational command, although Shaw remains in place as Napier’s handler. Third, and because of a whiff of terrorism, Asim, under the auspices of MI5, assumes overall responsibility, cutting out any number of other agencies on the way. In effect, Napier and Shaw were receiving a kiss-off. Thanks, chaps. Go back to what you’re used to and let the experts take over. That added up to an awful lot of egos being bruised, an awful lot of individuals pissed off. And he was bang slap in the middle of it.
‘Something you should be aware of,’ Tallis finished up, ‘Kennedy ordered me to kill Gabriel.’
Shaw shook his head. ‘No. Doesn’t add up.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing I’d get wrong.’ He also told them about Kennedy’s extensive armoury.
Napier, who’d been listening intently, suddenly spoke. ‘He’s testing your loyalty.’
‘Testing it?’ Tallis said, his voice a howl of frustration. ‘He wanted me to kill the man.’
Nobody spoke. Eventually Shaw broke the deadlock. ‘Aren’t we forgetting something? Someone got to Gabriel first.’
Napier shrugged, in a shit happens fashion.
‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,’ Tallis said, beginning to feel the discussion sliding off course.
‘We want you, Paul, to take Gabriel’s place,’ Asim said.
Three pairs of eyes swivelled to the doorway where Asim, sleek and composed, was standing.
Tallis raised his gaze to the poorly painted ceiling. Ten steps ahead, Asim, he thought. ‘They’ve known all along?’ he said, casting Asim a reproving look.
‘Not exactly.’ The dissembling expression on Asim’s face was one Tallis instantly recognised.
‘Would have been simpler if we had,’ Napier said, curt and pale.
Too bad, Tallis thought. Napier was pissed off to be missing out on his moment of glory; he, however, remained more concerned about his personal safety. Without realising it, he and Gabriel had been working on the same side. His back had been protected. But now Gabriel was dead and the Organised Crime team had been shown the door, he was, in effect, completely on his own. ‘How can I possibly take Gabriel’s place?’
The Mephisto Threat Page 20
