by Mark McKay
‘You mean Siobhan and your wife? You’re being a little optimistic to expect a murder confession on national television.’ He grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. ‘But you’ve won, Harry. Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink on it.’
O’Neill had several drinks before saying his goodbyes. He assured Harry that the story would be all over Ireland, North and South by tomorrow morning, and wished him well for the future. Harry went back to his room in a ruminative mood. Fitzpatrick had been ruined politically, and no doubt his personal life would be miserable from now on too, and that was as much as he, Harry Ellis, could do to hurt the man. Time now to bring down the curtain and make his exit. His thoughts strayed to the shoebox in his suitcase, and he had to resist the urge to entertain fantasies of bringing a more permanent end to proceedings. The man wasn’t worth going to jail for.
The story had certainly reached the O’Reilly household by the time he got to the West Belfast address on Saturday. Mrs McDonald smiled broadly when she opened the door.
‘Harry, you’ve been busy.’ She made tea once again while Harry joined Michael Senior in the living room. He extracted the shoebox from his case and handed it over.
‘Surplus to requirements after all, was it?’ said the old man, who to Harry looked happier than the last time they’d met.
‘I’ve fired one clip, actually. Just to see if I could still hit anything.’
‘Indulging in a bit of nostalgia by the sound of it.’ Michael Senior cradled the gun between his hands and looked relieved to have it back.
‘More like wishful thinking,’ replied Harry, and they both laughed.
‘As a Republican I have to say you’ve done a good thing, exposing that bastard. I hope your Intelligence colleagues don’t take it too badly.’
‘I hope so too.’
He couldn’t stay long, the flight was due to leave in two hours, so he cut his visit short and promised to stay in touch. The taxi had an unimpeded run to the airport, and he checked in then went straight through to departures. When the plane finally left the runway and began its steep ascent into the overcast sky he felt an inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps he wouldn’t see Ireland again. The beauty of the country and the warmth of its people were something to remember with pleasure, but they might never be enough to offset the bitter memories of 1981, and the anguish he’d carried with him ever since. Still, after all that had happened this time, the scales of justice had undoubtedly moved towards equilibrium. Whether that would be enough to satisfy him remained to be seen.
The house was cold and musty, and the Christmas tree was still where he’d last seen it, looking distinctly threadbare and tired. He opened a window to get some fresh if cold air into the place, and the neat piles of needles underneath the tree began to stir and blow across the room, so he shut it again. Judging by the stack of unopened mail inside the door, he could be pretty sure that Sophie hadn’t been here in his absence.
There was a letter from her solicitor in Fulham. Mrs Ellis was starting a divorce action, and she was offering a clean break, which meant selling the house and splitting the proceeds, with no further claims by one against the other. He wondered if the situation could be retrieved, but felt that he had betrayed her even though he loved her, or thought he loved her. And he also knew how bloody-minded she could be. He wouldn’t try to change her mind, the truth was he didn’t want to.
A clean break makes it relatively easy, he thought. There were no children to complicate matters, and on the upside this was a chance for him to downsize and cut back on expenses. He would accept her offer. Of course this meant he’d need to start looking at flats or smaller houses and get this one on the market. He would spend the next week organising estate agents and scouting locations for his next address, and looking for his next contract.
He went upstairs to the bedroom. The gaping space in the wardrobe told him Sophie had taken her clothes, and when he went to the bathroom it looked distinctly empty without her array of toiletries in it. He wondered if she would conduct the whole divorce action through her solicitor, and if so whether he would see her again. Perhaps she’ll appear for the ceremonial distribution of the CD collection, he thought. The prospect was farcical, but he wasn’t laughing. He decided to draft a reply to the letter after dinner and get things moving as quickly as possible.
The next week went by in a haze of activity. He spent the mornings letting in estate agents to value the place and listening to them enthuse about the wonderful job they would do in selling such a desirable residence, and how delighted they would be to send him details of houses and flats in his price range. He rang job agencies and checked the job sites on the web between these morning appointments, and spent the afternoon driving around Kent wondering where to live next.
By the end of the week he could put it off no longer. He needed to know what Jack Hudson had to say and was perturbed by the fact Jack hadn’t tried to call since leaving his message with O’Neill. Perhaps Harry’s fait accompli had taken the wind out of his sails and he had no reason left to talk, but until Harry knew the other man’s mind on the matter he would remain uncertain of Jack’s ultimate intentions. There were no estate agents scheduled that morning, so he did his best to put his worries about the call to one side and dialled the number.
‘Hello, Harry. Good of you to get back to me.’ His tone of voice seemed restrained, almost flat.
‘I was busy, but I’m sure you know that.’
‘Are you calling to resign?’
‘I wasn’t, but it seems an appropriate thing to do. Yes, I resign.’
‘Accepted. You’ve cost us a great deal in time and effort, not to mention the fact our operation against dissident Republicanism has been set back several years. You should have considered your loyalties before talking to the press.’
Harry was incensed. ‘The same way you did when you set me up to be murdered by a car bomb up in 1981? You bloody hypocrite.’
He thought he must have touched a nerve if the slight tone of apology in the reply was any indicator. ‘That was Litchfield’s decision. I wasn’t consulted.’
‘Then tell Litchfield he’s a bloody hypocrite.’
‘I would, but he died of a heart attack a few years ago.’
Harry took a calming breath. ‘Look, Jack, I had my motives and I think you understand them. I want to know now that I’ll be left alone, and that I’ll have nothing further to do with you or SIS. Can you give me that assurance?’
‘Yes, you’ll be left alone. We’re not vindictive people. Your payments have been stopped and as far as we’re concerned you don’t exist. I hope you’re satisfied with the outcome of your meddling in all this.’
Harry felt a weight lift. ‘Thank you. I did as much as I could to discredit the man who killed my wife. I’ll have to settle for that.’
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
Jack laughed, but it was an ugly sound. ‘Colin Fitzpatrick was shot dead two nights ago outside his home in Dublin. By Michael O’Reilly the elder, two in the chest and one in the head. Got quite a steady hand for a man of his age.’
Harry was speechless for a moment.
‘Do you want me to repeat that?’ asked Jack.
‘What happened to him?’
‘O’Reilly? He’s been arrested of course. He’ll spend the rest of his life in jail.’
Harry couldn’t quite take it in. He mumbled a ‘Goodbye’ and ended the call. He wondered if Jack was lying to him and why he hadn’t heard it from O’Neill, so he called the Irish Times for confirmation. O’Neill wasn’t there but the journalist who answered the phone assured him it was just as Jack had said.
Michael Senior had done what Harry couldn’t bring himself to do. He went straight to the kitchen and found the best whisky he could lay his hands on. He raised a glass in a silent salute to the octogenarian who had dispensed direct justice for the murder of his two children, and by proxy had avenged Natalie t
oo.
Later that day he emailed Sabine, not only to tell her about Fitzpatrick but to let her know he was being divorced on the grounds of adultery, and that he was busy looking for a new house and a new job. He promised to call her when he had all that sorted out.
In the following days he looked at houses for sale and showed people around his own home. But it all felt like it was happening to someone else, and he was only mildly interested.
He dreamed one night that he was on the boat again with Nat in her long, clinging dress, but this time when she turned around she smiled and took his hand. Then she looked into his eyes as if to say ‘it’s done now’ before her image dimmed and faded from view. He woke feeling refreshed and unaccountably happy. If Fitzpatrick’s death was the catalyst for this transformation then he knew it wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t care. Natalie had been exorcised and allowed to rest, and that was all that mattered.
It had been several weeks since he’d last seen Cindy, and although he often wondered if their sessions were actually helping him, he had to admit he felt better for talking to her. Her consulting room was his Confessional without the accompanying absolution. He’d never thought of Catholic priests as unpaid psychotherapists, but there were certainly parallels. Who needed Freud or Jung when 100 Hail Marys would do the job? He called her office and made an appointment.
This time he was shocked to see her in a very smart black trouser suit. It was a first as far as he could recall, and it must have showed on his face.
‘I’m taking a more conservative approach,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Well,’ she began, looking a tiny bit embarrassed. ‘One of my male clients said he found my normal attire distracting, and he wouldn’t talk to me until I changed it.’
He felt a touch of empathy with his mysterious fellow patient. ‘You look very nice.’
‘Thank you, Harry. I must say there’s a change in you too.’
That surprised him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your whole demeanour seems lighter somehow. What have you been up to?’
‘A few things. First of all, the man who killed Natalie, or at least ordered the killing, is dead. It feels like some sort of debt has been paid.’
‘Did he die naturally?’
He smiled, a little grimly. ‘No, that wouldn’t pay any kind of debt.’
‘And this payment of debt – has it relieved your anger?’
‘I think so.’
‘You said “a few things.” What else is there?’
‘Sophie is divorcing me.’
Cindy tossed her head back, probably more in surprise than by habit, but it startled him anyway. ‘What did you do to deserve that?’
‘I slept with another woman.’
‘You wouldn’t be the first man to do that, Harry. Can’t you do anything to get her to reconsider?’
‘I don’t think I really want to.’
‘I see.’ Cindy crossed her legs and he thought she looked just as distracting in trousers. ‘And is this other woman married?’
‘No, she isn’t.’ He smiled to himself. ‘She likes her independence.’
‘What about your illness?’
‘I’ve started the treatment. They’ve given me some anti-depressants too, I was feeling rather low for a while. It’s a common side effect apparently. I’m feeling much more positive than I was though.’
‘You have been busy. Anything else I should know?’
‘I’m de-cluttering my life. Harry Ellis is going to live the simple life and stop helping investment banks enrich themselves and their clients.’
She smiled. ‘That’s interesting. Perhaps you should take up psychotherapy. It has it’s fulfilling moments.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t think I’ve got the legs for it.’
She looked mildly amused. ‘Well, that aside, I think we’re finally making progress.’
Sabine didn’t reply to his email, he knew she was working a lot after the breaks she’d taken, and she had a series of gigs lined up again in Heidelberg and Munich in February, so he wasn’t immediately concerned. He was confident now for her safety and no longer expected daily texts.
The sale of the house was progressing rather slowly. There’d been two offers but far lower than the asking price, and he’d rejected both of them. In the meantime he’d agreed with Sophie, through the medium of her solicitor of course, that he would stay until a sale had been confirmed.
He continued with his medication, and although some days he felt tired and irritable, his body seemed to have adapted. The anti-depressants had stabilized his moods and he was sure there would be no repetition of that suicidal moment in Ireland. There was enough money in his account to keep him going for a year if necessary, so he decided to rest as much as possible and give the therapy the best chance of working. The odd prospective buyer would call in, but apart from that he either spent time sorting his possessions in advance of moving, or simply lazing around the house. It was strange to have so much time to himself, he was used to the 9 to 5 commute cycle and the pressure of a City job, so having so much leisure time brought him face to face with himself. Strangely enough, he found he wasn’t bored. He wondered what else he could possibly do for a living other than what he already did, and came up with a blank. But now the thought had been planted it wouldn’t leave him alone, and he knew that it would be only a matter of time before something realistic occurred to him. The money, of course, would doubtless be much less than he was used to, but he told himself that money wasn’t everything. Until you had none, that is.
Finally the day arrived for his three month hospital check-up. At Thomas’s he sat once more, awaiting an audience with Dr Ashe. He felt nervous and hoped that the tablets and injections, which had left him feeling like something of a human pin cushion, had had the desired affect. After the customary wait he was called in.
Dr Ashe was studying his file, drumming his fingers on the desk. Harry thought it looked ominous. The doctor looked up.
‘Mr Ellis, take a seat.’
He sat and waited. Dr Ashe spent another half minute reading and then finally spoke.
‘Your blood test reveals no trace of your virus, Mr Ellis.’ He was smiling.
‘Really? You mean I’m cured?’ He felt like leaping up and down and only just stopped himself.
‘It means you’re clear at the moment. That’s very good news of course. But to ensure the best possible outcome you should continue the treatment for another nine months. You were told that at the outset weren’t you?’
Yes, thought Harry, I was. ‘That’s a long time. But as we’ve come this far I can’t see any alternative.’
‘We need to be sure. I recommend another three months at the least. If you feel it’s all too much after that we can stop, but our best bet is to go the full year. It is my opinion,’ and here he held up a cautionary finger, ‘that you are on course to make a full recovery.’
‘Alright then,’ concurred Harry, ‘as long as it takes.’
‘Good. I’m very pleased for you. Go and see Isobel now and get next month’s supply.’
Isobel grinned when he appeared, saying how excellent it all was, and actually gave him a hug. When he left Thomas’s and walked back across Westminster Bridge, he was grinning too.
A week later a buyer finally made a realistic offer. He realised with a start that it was finally time to move. He’d had all this leisure time and been so lazy he still hadn’t bothered to look for his next home. He thought he would rent somewhere near the station until he found the right property. He ordered some boxes from a local removal company and began packing as much as was practicable himself. The solicitor doing the conveyancing contacted him to let him know contracts would be exchanged in two weeks, so he redoubled his efforts and found a two bedroom flat only ten minutes walk from the station, and paid a deposit.
Sabine had been on his mind every day. It had been almost two months since his last ema
il to her, and although he’d wanted to call her way before now, he had deliberately refrained from doing so until he knew what the outcome of his treatment was likely to be. That evening he picked up the phone and dialled her number. It rang for so long that he was about to give up, when suddenly she picked up.
‘Harry?’ She sounded hesitant.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I thought I might have heard from you, that’s all.’
‘I thought you might be mad with me, you know, with the divorce. I feel responsible.’
He cursed himself for his insensitivity. ‘It’s me that’s responsible. Don’t feel bad on my account.’
‘I still feel responsible. How’s your treatment going?’
‘I’m clear. Well, for now. I need to keep going, but they have high hopes for me.’
‘Harry, that’s wonderful. What will you do now? Go back to work?’
‘I don’t know exactly. What I would like to do is see you again.’
‘I see.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. ‘I thought you said that was unwise.’
‘Yes, well I was wrong about that.’
She laughed softly and he knew she was happy. ‘I’m quite busy right now. But if you should find your way to Heidelberg in the near future, you know where I am.’
If you enjoyed this book, and would like to read more of my work, then please go to my website, where you can sign up for my mailing list and download a free copy of my second novel (only available free on my website).
http://www.junglekiwi.com
When the only form of justice that counts is your own
DCI Nick Severance investigates murders, a rare occurrence in the City of London. When a man dies violently one morning, only yards from the police station, the motive eludes him. The victim had recently been in India, looking for an ancient tomb that could contain something priceless. Was that reason enough to kill him?
