by Scott Hunter
O’Shea frowned, muttered something under his breath.
‘Pippa Middleton, right?’
Geileis nodded, remembering. ‘He said something like, “Oh, will you look at this? I tell you, Sean hates the Royals more than anything else on that island.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Royal Berkshire Hospital was blessed with an impressive frontage built from the same grade 2 listed Bath stone as Eldon Square, but since the Eighties the main entrance had been relocated to Craven Road on the east side of the hospital. Bola followed his nose a little further to the A&E department which was, predictably for this time of the evening, beginning to fill up. He checked briefly with Reception to make sure that Caitlin Hannigan had been registered. Yes, the receptionist told him with a patient but weary smile; Miss Hannigan was being seen immediately as a priority case.
So now it was all about waiting. Inconspicuously. Not one of Bola’s favourite activities. He went outside where the usual early evening clientele was gathered in mutual support beneath an awning, dragging nervously at cigarettes or chatting morosely out of earshot of their injured family members. Calm enough now, Bola thought wryly, but come closing time plus half an hour the ambience would nosedive. Alcohol – the world would be better off without it.
Bola walked away from the smokers and down the concrete ambulance ramp to the pavement. The world and DC George McConnell would be better off without it. Bola snorted under his breath. George was going to get it in the neck tomorrow, no doubt about that. Charlie enjoyed a drink like anyone else, but not on shift. Fine, so George was upset about Tess – they all were. But she was going to be OK, so, you know, deal with it, George. Hopefully he’d taken Bola’s advice and gone home.
Bola paced for another few minutes. When the rain began he moved under the awning a second time, but the conversations going on around him were depressing and the smoke was getting up his nose. Literally. A thought occurred to him. Why not pop over to see how Tess was doing, just for ten minutes or so? Better than hanging around here waiting for A&E to do their thing with Caitlin Hannigan. She was perfectly safe in the hospital.
Better get an estimate, though. He went inside.
‘I have no idea,’ the receptionist told him, her earlier weariness giving way to irritation. ‘Police, you say?’
Bola showed his warrant card.
‘All right. A moment please.’ She disappeared through one of the doors. Bola caught a glimpse of curtained cubicles, white-coated medical staff, heard a stifled cry of pain. Or was that just his imagination? He hated hospitals.
The receptionist reappeared and produced her best professional smile. ‘She’ll be another twenty minutes or so. They have to check everything thoroughly, as you can imagine.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
Twenty minutes was plenty. Bola made his way out of A&E and followed signs. The hospital was a maze, though, a bewildering connection of corridors and wards, and before long he had to admit to himself that he was lost. He spotted an information desk and cut his losses. The elderly lady bobbed and smiled. ‘Take the stairs or lift to level 2. Go through Main Entrance building into Centre Block, turn left at the Welcome desk and along the corridor, following signs to South Block. Then take the lift to level 3.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
A few minutes and two wrong turns later he arrived.
‘DC Martin? She’s in HDU. High dependancy,’ a nurse explained in response to Bola’s blank reaction. ‘But there’s someone with DC Martin at the moment, I’m afraid,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have to wait.’
Bola nodded. ‘Sure. The doctor gets priority.’
‘No, a visitor. A friend, he said.’
‘A friend?’ Bola showed his ID. ‘May I?’
‘Well…’ the nurse hesitated. She was a pretty Indian girl in her early twenties.
‘Just for a couple of minutes. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.’ He flashed his best smile and watched the nurse trying to imagine the characteristics of a small rodent applied to the muscular black policeman standing in front of her.
She grinned. ‘All right. If you’re quick. Last bed on the right.’
Bola relaxed the smile as he made his way into the dimly lit ward. A friend? Not George, surely? They wouldn’t let a drunk anywhere near the ICU. HDU, he corrected himself.
There was indeed a visitor – a young guy in jeans, T-shirt and a beanie, sitting at the head of the bed. Looked like he worked out a bit. Not exactly ripped, but close to it. Tess was conscious, and talking. That was good.
‘Hello,’ Bola spoke to Tess in a normal voice, then remembered his promise. He adjusted the volume to more mouse-like proportions. ‘How are you?’
Tess nodded. ‘OK. Sore.’
Now Bola turned his attention to Beanie Guy. ‘DC Bola Odunsi.’ He extended his hand. The guy didn’t take it.
‘I’m just going,’ he said, and turned back to Tess. ‘If you remember anything else, DC Martin, you know where to get me.’
Tess gave a slight nod. The man got up and left.
Bola took his chair. ‘Hey. What’s up?’
‘Not a lot. A girl’s trying to have a rest, but all these blokes keep interrupting her beauty sleep.’
Bola grinned. ‘Sorry. Just wanted to make sure you’re OK. Look, Tess, I–’
‘Stop.’ Tess waved her hand in a small circle, the best she could manage while various drips and tubes impeded more expressive movement. ‘Not your fault,’ she said, and let her hand drop.
‘Maybe, but I still feel bad about it. I should have been with you.’
‘You were.’ She sighed. It could have been the other way round, Bola. Easily.’
Bola chewed his lip, lost for words. She was right, but still…
‘Did you get him, Bola?’
Bola was aware of the Indian nurse hovering in the background. She would swoop any time now. ‘Tell you all about it later,’ he said. ‘Before I go, who was beanie man? Boyfriend?’
‘Funny.’ Tess made a face. ‘I told you before – no time for boyfriends.’
‘Then who?’
‘He didn’t say, exactly. But it’s not hard to guess.’
Bola’s eyes widened. ‘A spook? You’re kidding, right? What did he want?’
‘Chapter and verse on the gunman. Description, anything else I could remember. Did I see his face, blah-de-blah …’
‘DC Odunsi, that will do for now.’ The nurse was behind him, tapping the chair back with her fingernail.
‘Gotta go, Tess. Can I tell the boss?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Did he give a name? Department? Anything?’
‘Nope.’
The nurse prompted again, ‘DC Odunsi?’
Bola stood. ‘OK, OK. Catch you tomorrow, Tess. Get a good night’s sleep.’
‘In here? You’re kidding. It’s not going to happen.’
Bola shrugged, shot Tess a sympathetic grin, modified it a little for the nurse, and left.
‘Just missed her.’ the A&E receptionist announced with something close to a smirk.
Bola did a double take. ‘But you said–’
‘I can’t be held responsible for how long the doctors take with each patient, can I?’
‘Fine. She left on her own?’
‘No. She was with a young man. Now if you’ll excuse me, officer, I have one or two other patients to book in.’ She indicated the heaving waiting room.
Bola exited via the smokers’ entrance and ran down to the road, hoping to catch a glimpse. The apartments were within walking distance, but then Caitlin’s companion might have brought a car …
Bola skidded to a halt on the pavement, looked right, left. The temporary pedestrian walkways skirting the water board’s soon-to-be-completed (but never-apparently-worked-on) roadworks were empty and silent. Bola clanged along the metal ramp towards London Road. And there they were, under a street lamp.
Bola took a step towards them and checked himself. A heate
d discussion was in progress between Caitlin and the man, wiry, a little younger… Bola stood back, leaned nonchalantly against the low wall of the A&E perimeter, withdrew his mobile, began to fake a conversation.
‘I told you to keep away from me,’ Caitlin was saying in a low, angry whisper.
‘I just wanted, you know… I heard what happened and–’
‘You heard? This is all your doing. I know–’
‘–I swear to God, I had no idea–’
Bola sidled closer. Irish accent. Quite strong.
Caitlin: ‘Oh yeah, right. You had no idea. It was just coincidence, then, was it?’
‘What d’ye mean?’
‘That I get accosted by one of his guys two weeks after our, our … discussion.’
‘Caitlin, let’s go somewhere we can talk.’
The man grabbed her arm and Bola tensed, ready to intervene, but the Irishman glanced round, nervous now, checking if anyone was clocking what was going on.
Bola laughed into his handset. ‘No way! He said what? Ha ha ha …!’
Caitlin shook the guy off. She was getting pretty agitated. ‘I told you. It’s no, no, no. What part of no do you not bloody understand?’
‘Please yourself.’ He dropped her arm, took a step back. ‘Just remember, you’re not dealing with me anymore. I can’t stop what’s going to happen. If you don’t play ball you know what he’ll do.’
‘Go. Leave me alone.’
Caitlin turned on her heel and walked towards Bola. He turned away, but she’d clocked him. As she passed, she shot him a knowing smile. The other guy stayed where he was for a bit, then set off in the other direction, hands in pockets, head down.
Bola waited thirty seconds or so, fought a brief battle with his conscience, pocketed his phone, and began to follow Caitlin Hannigan.
Finally. JC slipped from the shadows and started to follow the black copper. ‘Charlie Two One, I have control on RED ROOSTER, leaving RBH and moving towards London Road. There’s a friendly black in tow but shouldn’t be an issue.’
‘Confirmed Charlie Two One. You have control of RED ROOSTER.’
The radio was buzzing with the team’s chatter as they organised themselves. Normally it would have boosted his confidence knowing he wasn’t alone, but these days he felt more of a loner than ever. Charlie Two One today, tomorrow something else. Back at base, just his initials: JC. Like he’d lost the rest of his name somewhere along the line, even before he was recruited. Back in his army days.
A loner.
All the more since he’d woken up one morning with the realisation that he’d never live a normal life; that he was so used to working and operating in what his shrink had called a ‘hyper-vigilant state’ that he could no longer differentiate between normal life and life on the grid. This had been brought home to him one Saturday afternoon in B&Q when he’d clocked a guy behaving suspiciously. He’d followed him, had been ready to take him out with a screwdriver if need be, but the guy had turned out not to be some crazy terrorist but just a small-time thief working with an accomplice to nick a TV in broad daylight, the cheeky sod. But he’d been ready to kill the guy, no problem. JC’s wife and four-year-old daughter had seen it in his eyes, that look. Jane had smiled, said it was OK, but he knew it wasn’t. He wasn’t a normal husband and father; he was a dangerous weapon. He knew no other kind of existence. He looked after the British public, he hunted terrorists and foreign operatives, and he was damn good at it. And all was well, until the dreams had begun, the shakes, the sweats, and that time he’d tried to kill Jane at three in the morning because he’d thought that she was a suspect on his current op. His hands had been around her neck until he’d come to properly, realised he was strangling his wife. And his little girl, standing at the bedroom door. ‘What’s wrong, Daddy? Why are you hurting Mummy?’
PTSD, the shrink said. You should think seriously about a change of career.
But what else could he do? The family needed the security of a regular wage, even though, for what he did, the money was crap. There was no choice. He had to keep going.
And so he had, but with a few punts at the bookies thrown in to supplement the money. He’d won at first, but that hadn’t lasted. A few months later he’d been worse off than ever. The team had started to notice his mood swings. There’d been a few close calls. And then, the Irish thing had come around. These people were organised – and to be that organised, they had to be well-funded. Which meant that money wasn’t a problem for them. But he was about to become a problem for them, and a big one at that. He was about to bust their onshore operation right open. Unless they saw fit to make him an offer, of course.
And what do you know? They’d been highly amenable to his suggestion. A little taken aback at first, naturally, because they thought they’d been so damn smart that their every move couldn’t possibly be tracked by British Intelligence. But he’d put them right on that score. How much, they’d asked. And they hadn’t baulked at his figures. It was a nice little arrangement; they needed to be one step ahead, and now they were.
But for him, it had come at a price. And that price was fear and isolation. Not to mention shopping his mates; that was the worst part. What had happened to LK was down to him. The more he tried not to think about it, the worse it got. The dreams kept coming.
They’d found LK in a garage, in four pieces. LK was a nice guy. Nice family, wife, kids. The funeral had been the worst day of his life. Playing the supportive buddy, the family friend, when he was the one who’d delivered LK up to Niall Briggs and his torture team. At least Briggs was out of the picture now – but there’d be others. It wouldn’t take them long to find a replacement. That guy with the scar, he looked like bad news. The idiot copper had got well lucky tonight. If he hadn’t been there … what had happened made JC feel slightly better; he’d saved a good guy. But it was getting harder every day to live with the double game he was playing. That and the constant worry, of course; not about money, but when his luck was going to run out.
‘Charlie Two One, update please.’
‘Charlie Two One. I still have control. RED ROOSTER approaching King’s Road apartment. Believe home to roost.’
‘Base, Roger. Love the pun. Stay in position.’
‘Roger, Base. Will do.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Geileis was preparing food.
O’Shea was out front, on duty.
Moran was thinking.
Or, more accurately, he was dealing with the irritation that he’d been outmanoeuvred by Black; Black had been waiting to pounce the moment he’d given Moran an address. He’d known the route Moran would take. A simple matter to lie in wait and make an early move, catch him off guard. And, Moran conceded, they had done exactly that.
He was angry with himself, worried for Aine, and unsure what to do next. But he was also nursing a hypothesis. Which went something like this: Black fails to entrap Aine, goes after Caitlin as leverage. He lets Caitlin walk after Aine is secured. Why? Maybe because now he’s had the chance to brief Caitlin? I have your mother. You’d better toe the line, do what I ask…
But what could a young, high-flying civil servant possibly have to offer a man like Black? The answer had to be one of three things: influence, information, or expertise. Moran favoured influence. Information could be extracted relatively easily. But influence, having a key player at your beck and call – now that could be useful if Black was planning something big.
But Caitlin was hardly a key player. Moran sipped his mineral water thoughtfully. Or was she? What if Black had gone for Aine purely and simply to get to Caitlin? And then, with Aine secured, Black contacts Caitlin, makes his threats, obtains Caitlin’s co-operation. Very neat, Moran conceded. Black uses Caitlin to flush Aine out, and with Aine safely in the net he turns the tables, applying the pressure of Aine’s kidnap against Caitlin. At which point the gunman finds himself surplus to requirements. He’s done the job, albeit a little ham-fistedly – and surely more publicly th
an intended?
Maybe option three was the most likely, then: expertise. But what did Black want Caitlin to do? What was her expertise?
Did the basement finale hold the answer, perhaps? Sudden suicide, a bullet in the head? But why such a drastic ending? If the gunman had indeed shot himself – and there was a fifty percent probability that that was precisely what had happened. Only fifty percent, though, because there had been two people in that basement flat.
The gunman.
And Caitlin Hannigan.
His call went straight to Charlie’s voicemail. Moran left a brief message: Call me when you can. And check out any dignitary visits due in the county – royalty, celebrity, whatever. Could be something, could be nothing. Take care. Bye. Charlie was flat out busy, so Moran wasn’t unduly surprised he couldn’t get through.
After they’d eaten, Geileis showed Moran into one of the spare rooms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so exhausted. They embraced, and Geileis lingered at the door as he wearily removed his jacket. He sat on the edge of the bed and bent to untie his shoelaces. He didn’t make it; sleep ambushed him before his hand had reached his shoe. He was dimly aware of someone swinging his legs onto the bed, the door closing softly. Then he was gone.
‘The where’s not a problem,’ O’Shea was saying. ‘It’s the how.’
Moran joined Geileis and the islander at the table, neatly laid for breakfast in Geileis’ inimitable style, tablecloth and all. Crisis, what crisis? seemed to be her watchword, and Moran admired her all the more for it.
‘Well good morning, DCI Moran,’ Geileis said as she poured him a generous measure of coffee. ‘You’re back with us, then? Nine and a half hours out for the count, I make it.’ And then the smile, the subtle evocation of Janice gripping his heart. Flowers. He would take flowers to the grave when this was over.
O’Shea simply nodded a greeting. Moran wondered if the man had slept at all.