He heard McEvoy come down the stairs behind him. He turned to look at him. McEvoy's face was set hard and he had the.38 in his hand. 'What are you doing with that?' asked Canning.
McEvoy pulled back the hammer with his thumb. 'She's seen my face, Mick.'
'We'll be well gone by the time the cops get here. She's a seven-year-old kid – she's not going to be able to tell them anything.'
'It doesn't matter,' said McEvoy, pointing the gun at the girl.
Canning stepped in front of the gun so that the barrel was levelled at his stomach. 'George, listen to me. If you kill her in cold blood, they'll never stop looking for us. We'll be branded as child-killers. If they catch us, they'll throw away the fucking key.'
'I'm not happy about this, but she saw my face. You shouldn't have let her get away from you.'
'So it's my fault, is it?'
'I just call it the way I see it,' said McEvoy. He moved to the side, trying to get a clear shot at the girl.
'You've wanted to off her from the fucking start,' said Canning. 'No way are you going to do this.' He grabbed the gun in McEvoy's hand, forcing his thumb between the hammer and the chamber.
'What the fuck are you playing at?' McEvoy shouted. 'Egan said do her. We've got to do her.'
'No,' hissed Canning. 'It's over.'
'She's seen me.'
'She's a fucking kid, George.'
McEvoy tried to pull the gun away from him, but Canning held firm, keeping the barrel pointed down towards the floor. Katie was sitting up on the camp bed, watching them nervously.
'It's all right for you, you've got your fucking mask on. She's going to tell the cops everything. And you've just told her my name.'
Canning seized McEvoy by the throat and pushed him back against the wall. He put his masked face right up against McEvoy's ear. 'Walk away, George.'
McEvoy glared at him. 'They're going to be coming for us, Mick. I heard what happened. Gunfire. Hecklers, Mick. The fucking Sass. Egan's dead. They're all dead – the Sass don't take prisoners. If we don't kill the girl, she'll identify us and the Sass'll be after us.'
'There's a big difference between kidnapping and killing. If we leave the girl alive…'
'What? They'll forget all about us? Yeah, and maybe we can go and live with Elvis.'
'We've got enough time to run. They'll look for us, sure, but they'll be a hell of a lot more determined if we've killed her. It'll be no stone unturned if we're child-killers, George. You wanna be a child-killer, George? You want that on your conscience?'
McEvoy nodded slowly. 'Okay,' he said.
'We lock her in the basement, then we piss off back to Belfast,' said Canning. 'We can make a call on the way.'
'Okay,' said McEvoy.
Canning slowly released his grip on McEvoy's throat. 'Let's get our stuff together,' he said.
McEvoy drove his knee into Canning's groin and hammered the butt of the handgun against the side of his head. Canning staggered back, bent double. McEvoy hit him again with the gun, slamming it against the back of his neck. Canning fell to the floor, stunned.
'It's all right for you, you piece of shit,' McEvoy hissed. 'She hasn't seen your fucking face.' He turned and pointed the gun at Katie. She rolled off the camp bed and ran to the bottom of the stairs, but McEvoy moved to intercept her. 'Stand still!' he shouted.
Katie skidded to a halt. 'Please don't,' she said, her voice quivering with fear.
McEvoy aimed at her face and his finger tightened on the trigger. Canning lurched to his feet, roared and threw himself at McEvoy's gun arm. He kicked the man's legs from underneath him and McEvoy hit the floor, hard. The gun went off but the bullet went wide and buried itself in the ceiling. Canning dropped down on top of McEvoy, fumbling for the gun. He seized McEvoy's wrist with both hands and twisted, but he couldn't loosen the man's grip.
McEvoy bellowed like a bull in pain. He tore at Canning's woollen ski mask with his left hand and ripped it off Canning's head. Canning locked eyes with him. McEvoy grinned. 'Now she's seen us both, what are you going to do?' McEvoy hissed.
Canning said nothing. He grunted, twisting the Smith amp; Wesson around, towards McEvoy's chest. Behind them, Katie edged along the basement wall to the stairs, her arms outstretched like those of a tightrope walker fighting to keep her balance.
McEvoy threw Canning's ski mask away and clawed at his face, hooking his nails into the man's eyes. Canning yelped and thrashed his head from side to side, continuing to hold on to the gun. He forced the barrel towards McEvoy's chin. The gun went off again, the bullet grazing Canning's cheek and slamming into the wall, where it sheared off a hand-sized piece of plaster. Canning's ears were buzzing and he could feel blood dribbling down his cheek.
McEvoy stopped scratching at Canning's face and used both hands to struggle for the gun. He pushed Canning with his knee and the two men rolled across the floor and banged into the table. McEvoy got on top and used all his weight to force the barrel down towards Canning's neck. Spittle peppered Canning's face. McEvoy was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide and staring, all his efforts concentrated on the gun.
Canning twisted to the side, and as McEvoy lost his balance Canning pushed the gun into the man's chest. He managed to get his own finger inside the trigger guard and the gun went off twice. McEvoy stiffened, then blood seeped between his teeth and he rolled on to his back. Canning lay gasping for breath. He pushed himself up off the floor, still holding the.38, and looked around the basement. Katie had gone. He heard footsteps running along the floor above his head and rushed up the stairs. He found Katie in the kitchen, trying to pull open the back door.
'It's locked,' he said.
She stopped fumbling with the handle and slowly turned to look at him. Her lower lip was trembling. 'There's blood on your jumper,' she said. 'And on your face.'
Canning put his hand up to the bullet wound on his cheek. It was smarting and still dripping blood. The blood on his pullover wasn't his. It was McEvoy's. He grabbed Katie by the shirt collar and led her back down into the basement. She didn't struggle or protest, and when he told her to sit on the bed she did as she was told.
Canning flipped out the cylinder of the.38. Two shots left. More than enough. He clicked the cylinder back into place. He pulled back the hammer. 'Close your eyes, Katie,' he said.
'I won't tell anyone,' she said. 'I promise.'
'Yes you will.'
She shook her head firmly. 'I won't. You can run away. I won't tell the police what you look like. I won't tell them what you did to him.'
'They'll find out anyway.'
'You could bury him outside.'
'The police will find me, Katie. They'll find me and then you'll identify me.'
'I won't. I promise. Please don't kill me.'
Canning pulled one of the wooden chairs closer to the bed and sat down on it, facing the girl. 'Katie, you don't know what the world's like. You're just a kid.'
'I know that adults aren't supposed to hurt children,' she said sullenly.
'I don't have any choice,' he said.
'It's not fair,' whispered Katie.
Canning smiled despite the enormity of what he was going to have to do. 'Life isn't fair,' he said. 'When you get older you'll…' He left the sentence unfinished. She wasn't going to get any older. Her life was going to end here and now. In the basement.
Katie pointed at the door. 'You could lock me in and go away,' she said. 'When the police find me, I'll tell them you didn't hurt me.'
'It won't work like that,' said Canning. 'They'll keep looking for me until they find me. What we've done is so bad they'll never stop looking. If you hadn't seen my face, it wouldn't matter, but you know what I look like. And the police will make you tell them.'
'They won't. I…'
Canning held up his hand and she stopped talking, waiting to see what he had to say. 'Let me tell you what would happen, Katie. They'll catch up with me eventually. Maybe in a week. A month. A year. But they'll get me e
ventually. They'll send policemen to talk to your mum and dad, and they'll all take you to the police station. They'll be really nice to you and tell you what a brave girl you are. They'll probably give you a Coke or a 7-Up or something, then one of them will sit down and talk to you. Probably a policewoman. Young. She'll talk to you like a big sister. She'll tell you that they've caught me but that you've got to identify me. She'll tell you not to worry, that they'll put me in prison for a long, long time, and that I'll never be able to hurt you or any other little girl again. Then the nice policewoman will take you to room and she'll show you a window. She'll tell you that there's a line of men on the other side, that you can see them but they can't see you, and she'll tell you to look carefully at all their faces and to tell her which one I am.'
'I won't tell them,' said Katie.
'You're seven years old,' said Canning coldly. 'You won't be able to stand up to them. You'll look along the line of men and you'll see me and you'll point me out. Close your eyes, Katie.'
Katie did as she was told. 'I won't tell,' she said. 'I promise.' She kept her eyes firmly closed and made the sign of the cross over her heart. 'Cross my heart and swear to die.'
– «»-«»-«»Two green-overalled paramedics were wheeling a trolley through a police cordon as Patsy, Martin and Denham walked up. Martin ran over to the trolley. It was Andy. She was paler than he'd ever seen her, her hair tied back in a ponytail, dark patches under her eyes. She reached out with her hand and he interlinked his fingers with hers. A large dressing had been taped to her left shoulder and there were two dressings on her arm which had been placed in an inflatable splint. Blood was seeping through the dressings and she winced in pain as she tried to sit up. 'Katie…' she said.
'Lie down, miss,' said one of the paramedics, a stocky thirty-something woman with short permed hair. 'We have to get you to hospital.'
Andy gripped Martin's hand, her nails digging into his flesh. 'I'm not going anywhere until I know that Katie's safe.'
'She's losing blood,' the paramedic said to Martin.
'I'm okay,' said Andy. She gritted her teeth as a wave of pain washed over her.
'Andy, you have to go to hospital,' said Martin. 'I'll come with you.'
'But Katie
Denham appeared at Martin's shoulder. 'Our people are on their way to Katie now,' he said.
'Liam?' said Andy. Her eyelids fluttered. She was obviously close to passing out.
'Yes, Andrea. It's me. You did well. We'll take it from here.'
'I want to stay here until I know what's happened to Katie.'
Patsy took her mobile phone from her jacket and pressed it into Andy's hand. 'As soon as we know where she is, we'll call you,' she said.
Denham nodded at the paramedics and they wheeled her towards the ambulance. Martin went with them.
'Do you think she's still alive?' asked Patsy as they watched the paramedics lift Andy into the vehicle. Martin climbed in, the doors were slammed shut, and a few seconds later the ambulance drove away, sirens wailing.
'God, I hope so,' said Denham.
A uniformed policeman examined Patsy's credentials and waved her through the cordon. Denham shrugged. 'I'm with her,' he said.
'That's fine, sir,' said the constable. 'I could tell you were in the job.'
Denham smiled to himself as he followed Patsy into the lift. Retired for ten years and he still looked like a policeman. He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.
They rode up to the ninth floor in silence. The doors opened and two more uniformed constables stepped aside to allow them into the office. Half a dozen Scene of Crime Officers in white overalls were moving around like silent ghosts, fingerprinting and collecting fibre samples with pieces of tape, all their evidence going into labelled plastic bags.
Two SAS troopers stood by the window, their automatic weapons clasped to their chests. One was smoking a cigarette, the other was laughing. There was broken glass everywhere, and Patsy and Denham crunched over it as they walked to the pile of black garbage bags in the middle of the main office area. Two Metropolitan Police explosives officers were crouched over the bags, gingerly moving them apart. Both men were wearing olive overalls, and Patsy was surprised that neither of them was wearing protective armour. In Belfast, the EXPOs never went anywhere near an explosive device without full body armour and protective helmets. She realised that it was probably because the bomb was so big that if it did go off, no amount of protection would help.
'Everything okay?' she asked.
One of the EXPOs looked up and grinned at her. 'Safe as houses,' he said. He was barely out of his twenties, with a shock of red hair and acne scars across his cheeks. 'SEXPO's got the detonator. You could drop this lot out of the window and it wouldn't go off.'
'SEXPO?'
'Senior Explosives Officer.' The redhead nodded over at an older man in overalls who was standing by one of the desks. 'Our boss. Dave Hoyle.'
Patsy and Denham went over to Hoyle. He was peering at a digital display through a magnifying glass, examining the wires that protruded from the back of it. There was a tangle of wire next to the digital display and four small cylinders, the size of Parker pen refills. Patsy had seen detonators before, in Belfast.
She introduced herself and Denham, but Hoyle just grunted. He was a big, bear-like man with thick fingers that dwarfed the delicate electronics he was examining.
'It was live?' asked Patsy.
'Oh, yes. Timer was set. Twenty minutes left on the clock before we got to it.'
'No problems?'
'Simple circuit. Nice work. A woman, they said?'
'That's right.'
'They always do neat work, women. Tidy. Precise. Just look at the soldering.'
He handed the magnifying glass to Patsy, and she used it to examine the wiring. She had no idea what she was looking at and she gave it back to Hoyle none the wiser.
'No booby traps?' asked Denham.
'No, it was a simple enough circuit,' said Hoyle. 'No photoelectrics, no tremblers, no collapsing circuits. EXPO-friendly, it was.'
'What about the remote control?' asked Patsy.
'The what?' Deep frowns creased Hoyle's forehead.
'The infrared remote control. She had it rigged so that if she pressed it, it would go off.'
Hoyle's frown deepened. 'No way,' he said. 'Timer, batteries, detonators. There was nothing else in the circuit. Pressing the remote control wouldn't have done a blind thing.'
'Are you sure?'
Hoyle looked offended. Patsy began to laugh, and Hoyle stared at her in surprise. She shook her head, still laughing. 'She was bluffing,' she said to Denham. 'She was bloody well bluffing.'
Denham's mobile phone warbled and he took it out and put it to his head. Patsy stopped laughing as Denham listened, then frowned. 'Yes, Eamonn.' Patsy watched Denham's face, wondering if it was good news or bad.
Denham put his hand over the bottom of the phone. 'They've found Katie.' A smile spread across his face. 'She's okay. They locked her in a basement. She's scared but she's okay.'
Patsy grinned. She took a quick step forward and hugged Denham, burying her face in his chest and squeezing him so hard that he gasped.
Denham hugged her back, then pulled away. 'I have to call Andy,' he said, then he smiled. He held out the phone to Patsy. 'Why don't you do it?'
THREE MONTHS LATER
The wrought-iron gates swung open and the Mercedes nudged slowly into the compound. Deng didn't recognise the man standing guard by the gate, but that wasn't significant. The firm that supplied him with bodyguards changed the personnel on a regular basis. The only constants were his driver and the man who was sitting in the front passenger seat. Like the rest of the guards assigned to protect Deng, they were armed. Ever since the debacle in London, he'd had three men in the house protecting his wife and sons, and there were always at least two others with him.
He climbed out of the Mercedes and went into his house. The maid wasn't there to take h
is cashmere coat from him, so he hung it up himself and went through to the sitting room.
His two sons, the elder aged twelve, the other just eighteen months younger, were sitting together on the sofa, an expensive white leather model that Deng had had flown in from Milan. He glared at the boys. 'Didn't we tell you not to sit on the sofa in your school clothes?' he said. 'Why haven't you changed?'
The boys said nothing. The younger one was close to tears.
'What's wrong with you? And where's your mother?'
'She's with me,' said a voice behind him.
Deng froze. He turned slowly. Michael Wong was standing at the door to the kitchen, Deng's wife at his side. Her eyes looked at Deng fearfully, then over at her sons. She gave them an encouraging smile and made a small waving motion with a neatly manicured hand, trying to reassure them that everything was going to be all right now that their father was home. Deng took a deep breath. It wasn't going to be all right. Michael Wong had come for his revenge.
Wong pushed Deng's wife into the room and she tottered forward on her high heels, then ran to Deng and grabbed him around the waist and buried her face in his chest. Two big men in cheap suits and red-and-black-striped ties followed Wong into the sitting room. As the door swung back, Deng could see three bloodstained bodies on the kitchen floor. His bodyguards. And against the fridge, sitting up but with her head slumped against her chest, the maid. Her throat cut wide open.
The two men who came out of the kitchen were Red Poles, Triad heavies, but they weren't the two men who'd been in the love hotel when Wong had murdered the nightclub hostess. These two were shorter and heavier and had the rough skin and bad haircuts of mainlanders. One of them was holding a silenced automatic. The other had a roll of insulation tape in his hand. Deng looked at them over the head of his sobbing wife. 'I'll pay you ten times what he's paying you,' he said to them.
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