Silent as the Dead

by Scott Hunter

  She turned a corner and there it was. It looked as unfriendly as she’d remembered it.

  You’re here now …

  She went in. It was half-empty. But there he was, on a stool by the bar’s end, reading a newspaper, as he usually did, often commenting aloud if there was an audience to hand.

  He looked up as she approached. ‘Well, look what the fair wind has blown in. Have a seat.’ He patted the empty stool next to him and Geileis shuddered inwardly. ‘Hello yourself,’ she said casually. ‘I was on my way past and just fancied a livener.’

  Buchanan folded his newspaper and called the barman over.

  Geileis settled on the stool, edged it a few inches further away. ’I thought you’d be on duty?’ When you ask a question, make it sound like it isn’t a question. Who’d told her that? Brendan, probably.

  ‘I will be shortly,’ he said, looking wistfully at his watch and empty half-pint. ‘You should’ve said you were coming.’

  ‘Just popped in on spec, like I said. I really thought you’d be busy, what with the murder and all?’

  ‘Who told you about that?’ Buchanan said sharply.

  ‘Jerry was a friend of mine, Liam. And this is a small village, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Buchanan paid the barman. ‘It wouldn’t have been Brendan Moran who told you, by any chance?’

  ‘No. It was Donal, actually.’

  ‘Was it, indeed? And have you seen Brendan Moran today?’

  ‘Why all the interest in Brendan?’ Geileis asked innocently, ‘He’s just visiting Donal–’

  ‘Because we think he might have something to do with what happened to Jerry.’

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous.’

  Buchanan seized her wrist. ‘Don’t you be goin’ tellin’ me what is or what isn’t ridiculous, now. If you see Brendan Moran, you tell me right away, got that?’

  ‘You’re hurting me, Liam.’

  He released her with a muttered apology, withdrew his hand. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day.’

  ‘I have to go now,’ she said. Time for a tactical withdrawal. She wouldn’t get anything more out of Buchanan today, that much was clear. The garda was rattled, under pressure.

  Buchanan protested: ‘No. Listen, I’m sorry I snapped …’

  ‘Another time, maybe.’ Geileis smiled sweetly and left.

  Geileis’ heart was pounding as she retraced her steps. So, Brendan had successfully escaped the gardai’s attentions. Which meant her appeal for help had been heeded. That boded well. Her concerns that her old friend had been heading for trouble had been proved right. Now he had an ally, was less vulnerable. Geileis glanced behind her as a sudden commotion made her jump. A small terrier had spotted a cat and had collided with a metal bin in its haste to catch it. The bin rolled and clanked, came to rest against the little picket fence delimiting the post office garden. Geileis placed her hand on her chest, tried to calm herself. Sure, Brendan had someone watching his back, which was a relief.

  But for now, she was on her own.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Moran heard voices at the door, followed by Aine’s careful response. ‘No. I haven’t seen anyone of that description. Yes, I’m on my own here just now.’

  Another low voice. Not one he recognised.

  Aine: ‘I will, of course.’

  The door closed. Moran breathed again. He made his way downstairs to rejoin Aine in the lounge. Given the current situation in Reading, he admired her coolness.

  As Aine’s mouth formed a question Moran cut her off: ‘I’m doing it.’ He tapped out Charlie Pepper’s number. Two rings.

  ‘Charlie Pepper.’

  ’Update, Charlie?’

  ‘ARU just showed up – hang on, they’re forcing the door … now. George, can you get that view any bigger? Sorry guv, we’ve got the app on a desktop. Easier to see what’s happening.’

  Moran heard familiar Scottish muttering in the background. ‘OK,’ he told her. ‘That’s good. All exits covered?’

  ‘About to be, guv – ah, that’s better. Thanks, George. Guv?’

  ‘I’m here. Any update on the girl?’

  ‘No further shots. That’s all I can say at the mo–’

  Silence.

  Aine’s face paled. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Hang on–’ Moran held up his hand. ‘Charlie?’

  Low conversation at the other end, but Moran couldn’t make out what was being said. George McConnell’s voice, Charlie’s, and then–

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie.’

  ‘He’s out. With the girl.’

  ‘How the hell did that happen? What’s ARU doing?’

  ‘Just on the scene, guv. He came out the back. Crossed the canal. Wait–’

  Silence.

  Charlie’s voice came back, cold, stiff. ‘We’ve got an officer down.’

  ‘Who? Who is it?

  ‘Tess Martin. It’s Tess. Guv, I’ve got to go.’

  The line went dead.

  Bola Odunsi was relieved to see the commotion at Jackson’s Corner which signalled the arrival of the ARU. It only took a few seconds before the traffic, just starting to move again, ground to a fresh standstill as drivers slowed to get a look at the action. Six guys, one woman, heavily tooled up, which was fine because that was what they did. Bola approached the lead officer, a thick-set, hefty bloke around the thirty to thirty-five mark and introduced himself. ‘The rear entrance is being covered by DC Tess Martin. Your mark’s inside, armed. One hostage. Single shot fired in the underground car park at the rear of the building. Suspect and hostage believed to have returned to level one.’

  ‘Thank you, DC Odunsi. We’ll take it from here. If you and–’

  The second shot seemed louder than the first, the sound of a twin barrel discharge echoing up the service road, bouncing off the polished glass of the apartment complex. Bola froze. ‘Tess!’

  Before the ARU sergeant could intervene Bola was haring down the service road. The hooded man was out of the car park, running, ducking low, pulling Caitlin Hannigan close to his body, the shotgun bumping against his thigh as he ran. He reached the canal bridge steps, didn’t look back. Caitlin Hannigan was pulling, fighting him, trying to get free. Her abductor cuffed her on the head and Bola flinched, but he had a higher priority; he left the gunman to the ARU, rounded the corner, and froze in his tracks before taking off again at a sprint. As he ran, he yelled behind him.

  ‘Officer down! Ambulance now!’

  Tess Martin was lying face-down by the car park entrance, groaning softly. Bola could see the blood seeping from her midriff onto the concrete ramp as he skidded to his knees beside her prone body. He bent to tend to her, only dimly aware of the clanking of multiple boots as the ARU pursued the gunman over the steel canal bridge.

  ‘Sorry, Bola,’ Tess tried to sit up. ‘I let him go.’

  He pressed her gently down. ‘No, no. You did great. Stay put. You’re going to be OK.’

  Sirens in the distance, ululating.

  ‘It hurts.’ Tess’ face was white.

  Bola cradled her head. ‘Shhh. You’re all right. The medics’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘I’m making a mess of your jacket.’ Bola felt Tess reach for his hand. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered.

  He stripped off his jacket and pressed it to her side. ‘Might as well use it now, eh?’

  Sirens, very close now, and the thrum of an engine almost on top of them.

  Paramedics, and a voice which seemed to come from a long way off.

  ‘All right officer, we’ve got this. Just stand back, if you would, that’s it, thank you…’

  Some time later, Charlie appeared at Bola’s side. Her hand rested on his arm. ‘What happened?’

  Bola’s mind was in stasis. He couldn’t think. ‘I – I don’t know. I thought the rear was secure. He just came out, took a shot, I–’

  ‘OK, Bola. I’m staying with the ARU. Our man’s headed up the s
ide roads near the RBH, still got Caitlin with him. Get yourself a hot drink and get back to the station. I’ll need someone there.’

  ‘You can’t go alone,’ Bola protested.

  ‘I’ve got George. And an ARU team. This bastard is not getting away.’

  ‘I’m going with Tess.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘All right. Yes, do that. Keep me posted. I’ll see you later.’

  Bola clambered into the ambulance and took a bucket seat by the door. He watch the paramedics bend over Tess’ body, juggling tubes and saline as the driver took off and swerved between the kerb-clinging traffic. Five minutes to the Royal Berkshire Hospital. Bola bit his lip and held on.

  Eldon Square, a satellite residential area of the Royal Berkshire Hospital, recalled the ambience and grandeur of a bygone era. In its centre, the small but tranquil King George V Gardens provided a peaceful lunchtime sanctuary for both office and medical staff. Many of the honey-coloured, stone-clad houses had been converted into flats, convenient and popular with hospital locums and registrars. Charlie’s mental health specialist owned one of the larger, more secluded houses. As she arrived, breathless from sprinting the quarter-mile or so from the town centre she could see immediately what had happened. The ARU had horseshoed a building three or four houses in on the left-hand side. A For Sale notice explained the gunman’s choice. A basement flat, potentially unoccupied. One entrance. Maybe another round the back, but inaccessible from the road. Charlie showed her ID to the two uniforms standing guard by their vehicles, parked across the entrance to the square with lights flashing. She was a few paces inside the cordoned-off area when her mobile rang. Charlie hesitated, but decided it might be important.

  ‘DI Charlie Pepper.’

  ‘Ah, I was told you had a good phone manner.’

  The voice was soft, almost soothing, but Charlie’s antennae were immediately on red alert. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  It was a male voice, but it wasn’t the gender that bothered Charlie, it was the confidence. And the accent.

  An Irish accent.

  ‘Who gave you this number?’

  ‘Oh, come now. Let’s not propagate the blame culture. Not getting what I want isn’t one of my problems, DI Pepper.’

  ‘So what do you want?’ Charlie watched the ARU sergeant discussing the approach with his squad. It wasn’t going to be an easy one. Judging from the raised voices, there were a few options being bandied about. She began to move towards them.

  ‘I want your friend Brendan to come out of the woodwork. And I want him to bring his friend with him.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t call this number again.’ Her finger was poised to kill the call.

  ‘She’ll die,’ the voice said. ‘Your wee girly hostage. And it’ll be down to you to tell her ma why you wouldn’t listen.’

  Charlie’s stomach lurched. Whoever this guy was, he was no crank. ‘All right. I’m listening.’ She’d reached the ARU team, flapping her free hand to get the sergeant’s attention.

  The voice went on, the tone reasonable, conversational. ‘DCI Brendan Moran has been poking about in my business. I believe he’s solved a wee problem for me, but I can’t be sure.’

  ‘The problem being?’

  ‘Someone I need to find.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Put me through to Brendan. Don’t tell me you don’t have his number.’

  ‘If I refuse?’

  ‘Then I tell my man to cut the wee girl’s throat. He’s done this kind of stuff before. A lot. No skin off his nose, if you get my meaning.’ A soft laugh. ‘All in a day’s work, you might say.’

  ‘All right. Wait a moment. I’ll speak to the ARU sergeant.’

  ‘You do that,’ the voice purred. ‘Stand them down. No cowboys and indians today.’ He finished with a low chuckle that set Charlie’s skin crawling. She broke into the gaggle of armed police. ‘Please. All of you. Listen up.’

  The sergeant listened, nodded. ‘All right. How long do you need?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ll liaise with DCI Moran. Bear with me.’

  She took a deep breath and went back to her call. ‘All right. ARU are stood down. This is DCI Moran’s mobile number.’

  ‘Much obliged. Keep your line free and those guns in their holsters. Be back to you as soon as I’ve had a chat with Brendan.’

  ‘Right.’ Charlie squeezed the phone until her knuckles whitened.

  The caller rang off.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Moran’s phone buzzed and Aine started, fumbled for a cigarette.

  ‘Moran.’

  ‘Brendan. It’s been too long.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I believe you’re keepin’ company with a friend of mine.’

  Moran knew who it was. ‘Black.’

  ‘As the night.’ Sean Black laughed softly. ‘Now, listen. I have a wee situation here, Brendan. I reckon you can help me out.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Moran was thinking about mobile phone traceability, triangulation. But his handset was a burner. Should be OK for a bit.

  ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘Aine’s not keen. Why’s she so important to you?’

  ‘That’s between me and her. Important thing is, I have a gun to her baby’s head.’

  Moran glanced at Aine, chain-smoking on the sofa, watching his every expression. She seemed to have aged ten years in the last two hours.

  ‘Did you get that, Brendan?’

  ‘Yep. I got it.’

  ‘So, I have the royal flush, agreed?’

  ‘For now, maybe.’

  ‘Listen to me, Brendan. I won’t hesitate, you’d better believe it. My man doesn’t give a toss about pulling the trigger.’

  ‘OK, so he pulls the trigger. You still don’t have what you want. What’s your next move?’ He turned instinctively away from Aine, drew the curtain back. The street was deserted.

  Sean Black laughed heartily. ‘I don’t think you’d let that happen, Brendan. You’re tellin’ me you’d look Aine in the eye and tell her her daughter’s brains are all over a wall in Reading? No, no, no. That’s not you, Brendan.’

  ‘So you want me to do what, exactly?’

  ‘You’ll bring Aine to me. I’ll tell you where. When I have her, you say goodbye and the girl walks free.’

  ‘And what about your man?’

  ‘Between me and him, Brendan. He’s a robust kind of character.’

  ‘He’ll need to be.’

  ‘Oh, no threats please, Brendan. Not even empty ones.’

  ‘All right. When and where?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Send the lady to find a pen and paper, why don’t you? She is there, isn’t she?’

  Moran made a writing gesture and Aine scrabbled around, found an old envelope, a biro.

  Black gave an address. It meant nothing. Some obscure coastal village. ‘Got that?’ the voice purred.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you’re somewhere near Dingle. It won’t take you more than forty minutes. Just you and her. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear.’

  The line went dead.

  Aine’s upturned face was chalk-white, enquiring, almost beseeching.

  ‘We have to go.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Get them to back off, will you? At least ten metres,’ Charlie called to the uniforms at the cordon. The press hadn’t wasted any time. Cameras, tripods, intense-looking young reporters with tablets and smartphones had gathered like ants at a honey-spillage. ‘The roads are bad enough already,’ she barked. ‘Get onto traffic – we need a couple of motorbikes on the London Road, by the RBH. Keep it moving.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ One of the uniforms stabbed buttons on his radio.

  Charlie went back to the ARU team. Two had their guns trained on the narrow passage which led to the flat entrance. Another was covering the window.

  ‘What about the re
ar?’ she asked the sergeant.

  ‘Two covering Eldon Terrace. High wall protecting the gardens. He can’t get out that way without being spotted.’

  ‘OK.’ Charlie chewed her lip. Doing nothing didn’t sit right. Not with Tess injured, maybe even–

  No, she wouldn’t think about that possibility. Not yet.

  ‘How long do we wait?’ the sergeant asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. I just don’t know.’ She mussed her hair, chewed her lip, aware how unsatisfactory it sounded. She added, ‘as long as it takes, all right?’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The first problem was wheels.

  The second was Aine. She was half-walking, half-running to keep up with him. ‘Let me talk to her. Please. For god’s sake, Brendan, she’s a hostage …’

  ‘Not yet.’ He waved her objections away. ‘I need to think.’ Moran’s leg was giving him hell after his earlier exertions, but this was not the time for hanging about. Not with the garda out searching, and not with O’Shea missing. Whatever that might mean.

  ‘For the love of God, Brendan – anything might be happening…’

  Moran found a car he thought he could work with. ‘Wait. Keep an eye out.’

  ‘What are you–?’

  The side window caved in under Moran’s elbow thrust. He was in the front seat, feeling under the dash. An older car, so in theory it should have … there. The engine started with a burst of black exhaust while Aine dithered on the pavement.

  He leaned out. ‘Get in.’

  Moran knew his way out of Dingle; it was more a question of avoiding the garda.

  ‘I can’t do this, Brendan. I can’t be near Black.’

  ‘Hopefully you won’t need to be.’ Moran threw her a sideways glance. ‘But you’d better fill me in, Aine – truthfully this time. Your daughter’s life might depend on it.’

  He gave Aine a moment to ponder this as he guided the car through the network of back streets and came to a halt at a set of traffic lights. A garda vehicle was waiting at the lights on the other side of the junction, engine idling. The lights changed. The garda passed by. Moran breathed again.