by Iain Cameron
Matt made them both a coffee, Rosie refusing his offer of something stronger, as she started to relay her story. He took a seat beside her at the kitchen table.
‘How did he get in?’
‘Ladder against the wall and in through the spare room window.’
‘Is he dead?’
She laughed. ‘Fat chance. I was lucky to hit the bloody wall, never mind him. My head was all over the place after tumbling down the stairs. I fired a lot of shots, I don’t know how many, and more by luck than judgement, hit him twice. Once in the leg and the other in the shoulder. Painful, but otherwise not fatal.’
‘Wild shooting by your standards. Don’t say anything to Gill or he’ll have you down in the firing range for the whole of next week.’
‘I won’t say anything if you won’t.’
‘It’s good to know your intruder is still on this side of the Styx. I’d like to have a word with him.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’re going nowhere until the doc gives you the all-clear. You know how this goes; an incident like this can leave mental scars.’
She sighed. ‘I know, but I do feel I’ve come out of this one relatively unscathed. But listen, I don’t want you interviewing him until I can be there too, understand?’
‘No problem. Did you recognise him?’
‘He was wearing a balaclava, but even when the ambulance boys took it off, I still didn’t recognise him. It’s a choice of two.’
He shook his head ‘It wouldn’t be Doherty’s crew. If you think back, only the antiterrorist boys got any mention in the press. If Doherty survived his midnight swim as I suspect, he probably thinks he’s got clean away and nobody’s coming after him. I bet it’s connected to Harris, or it could be someone from your past.’
‘We can discount ex-boyfriends if that’s what you’re getting at; none of them would have the balls.’
‘What, none left after going out with you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘It’s good to hear you haven’t lost your sense of humour, but we won’t know for sure until we can talk to the gunman. Do you have any idea what sort of gun he used?’
‘I do, it was a Sig. Why?’
‘It wasn’t one from the Irish consignment. Another reason to rule them out. I think this feels more like Jack Harris, unless you can think of someone from a previous project.’
She shook her head.
‘It makes sense in Harris’s idiotic world. When they didn’t get me at the warehouse in Fashion Street, they’ve gone after you.’
‘I was about to disagree with you, still thinking of Harris as a copper and forgetting he’s probably got the weight of Simon Wood’s organisation behind him.’
‘The amount of money I found in the offshore bank accounts on his laptop, suggest he’s more than a mere employee of Wood. He might be some sort of money man.’
‘Like a banker, salting away their ill-gotten gains from the eyes of the law and the tax man in off-shore bank accounts. Haven’t drug dealers moved up in the world since the days when I was a cop? Then, the only investment strategy they knew about was stuffing notes into old suitcases and lumpy mattresses.’
‘What they’re doing takes a lot of time, effort, and skill, and yet it’s only worthwhile if they can stay alive or out of jail long enough to enjoy the fruits of their endeavours. The average life expectancy for most operators in the drugs business is about thirty-five, so maybe the odds are against them.’
‘Did Emma ever mention Harris having any expertise with money?’
‘Now you mention it, she did say he was always careful. Whenever she was buying something for the house, he would give her a lecture about wasting money and give her a list of all the places where she could get it cheaper.’
‘Maybe the signs he was working for Wood were there all along, and nobody noticed.’
‘Maybe.’ Matt yawned.
‘It’s after two. You’d better get back to Ealing and off to your bed. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’
‘What about you? There’s no way you can sleep here.’
‘I haven’t given it much thought.’
‘You know what these forensic people are like. They’ll be traipsing in and out of the house until daybreak, banging doors and clumping up and down stairs. You can come back to my place. You can have my room, or the spare room. It’s your choice.’
‘It’s very kind of you, Matt, but the doc said he wanted to see me about… ach, stuff it. Give me a few minutes to pack some things and I’ll be right with you.’
Chapter 27
Matt and Rosie walked through the main entrance of the Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow. Rosie had moved back into her house, and Matt had to admit that while she had been staying with him, it had been good to have a woman about the place, even if she was his boss. Living in such close proximity, he’d also been able to check for any signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, or acute anxiety. He wasn’t a doctor and couldn’t make medical judgements, but he knew enough to know she hadn’t been badly unsettled by the incident.
In some respects, it was reassuring, but in others, unsettling. From an operational standpoint it was great to have his colleague back so soon, but did it suggest they were becoming inured to the stresses and strains they were being subjected to? Did the suffering of victims and dramatic incidents like a shooting become so woven into the fabric of everyday life they could brush it off like dust from a jacket? Or were they hiding broken emotions and shattered personalities until a time when it all rose to the surface and downed each agent like a robot with a dud battery?
Rosie’s gunman was now out of surgery and they’d given him a day to recover. There was a risk he would be so full of tranquillisers and painkillers they wouldn’t get a sensible word out of him, but if they left him until he felt better, he would most likely scarper.
There was also a danger that he could be killed. If he’d killed Rosie and made his escape, he would have received a wad of cash and been sent packing to sunnier climes. With his failure to complete the mission, and his capture by police, his sponsors might be tempted to cancel the contract.
With this in mind, he’d been moved to a private room with an armed guard outside. His outfit, like the armed cops who patrolled the concourses of major UK airports, looked intimidating to patients and visitors alike. Cap dipped low over his brow, a scratched carbine across his chest, and a rugged, hewn face that would frighten children including his own.
‘Hi there,’ Matt said pulling out his ID. He gave him a second or two to look at before he said, ‘You can take a break mate, while we’re with him he should be safe.’
‘My orders are not to leave my post until relieved by PC Terry Davy, sir.’
‘What if you need a piss, or a drink?’
‘I won’t move from here until noon, when PC Davy takes over, sir.’
‘Good man. Myself and my colleague would like to talk to the prisoner.’
‘No problem. If your colleague would like to show me her ID.’
Rosie and Matt walked inside the room and closed the door.
‘I don’t know what you were doing out there, Matt, but I don’t think you made a new friend.’
‘Shame. He looked just my type.’
The man in the bed went by the name of Kenneth Fleming. For a hitman, he had a surprisingly thin police record. A conviction for selling dope, and another for punching a love rival in a bar. He was aged thirty-eight and his last known address was Luton. He seemingly had no connection with Harris, making Matt think he was a gun for hire, a bit like Pinky, the guy Matt had stuck a knife into at Fashion Street.
The patient didn’t stir when he heard, or felt, the door open and close. He wasn’t asleep, Matt could see his eyes move, but maybe frightened to turn his head in case he received a painful jolt in the shoulder. It was a pleasant, airy room with a television and a sound system. Matt had some experience of hospital entertainment, in a place a lot less swish than this. If one thi
ng had made him want to leave at the earliest opportunity, it wasn’t the food or the annoying patients around him, but hospital radio; like BBC Radio 2 on sleeping pills.
‘Morning Kenny. How are you feeling today?’ Matt asked as he took a seat near the window. The strong light behind him would hide his face, making it harder for the man in the bed to read his expressions.
‘Who the fuck are you? If you’re after another statement, I’ve said all I’m going to say. So you can sling your hook.’
‘You’re not being very charitable, Kenny, after we made all this effort to come and see you. I’m Matt Flynn and this is Rosie Fox. We’re from the Homeland Security Agency. Ring any bells?’
Matt didn’t produce his ID. The scumbag could ask for it. Slowly, it dawned on the man in the bed that the woman sitting beside Matt was his intended target from Wednesday night.
‘Sorry doll,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing personal, you understand?’
‘No need to apologise, Kenny,’ Rosie said, ‘it’s not me lying trussed up in a hospital bed.’
‘Fucking bitch. A better aim and I could’ve shut that smart mouth.’
‘Calm down, Kenny,’ Matt said. ‘Now, we’re here to tell you something important, so you need to listen good, okay?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘It’s up to us how this shooting incident goes down, you know what I mean?’
‘What the fuck you talking about?’
‘What happened on Wednesday night is not one for the local cops,’ Rosie said. ‘This is our case. Once we’ve had our little chat, we’ll tell them what to charge you with. Understand?’
Nothing was said for several seconds. Matt didn’t know if Fleming was thick, or if it was the effect of the drugs in his system, but it was like watching the cogs move inside an old grandfather clock.
‘Without giving it too much thought,’ Matt said, ‘I can see you serving at least ten. We’ve got possession of a gun, breaking and entering, attempted murder. With a bit more time, I’m sure we could be a lot more creative.’
‘Damaging the walls of my house, for one,’ Rosie said, ‘and chucking me down the stairs for another.’
‘When you put it all together, I think maybe I was being a bit generous saying ten. It’s looking more like fifteen.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I hear you. So, what can you lot do about it?’
‘If you answer a few questions, we could forget about the breaking and entering charge, and the assault.’
‘Yeah, okay, but what about attempted murder?’
Matt laughed. ‘There’s no getting away from it, pal, you did try to kill her. I don’t think anyone is gonna buy mistaken identity, or that you were just trying to scare her.’
Fleming thought for a moment, before sighing. ‘What d’ya wanna know?’
Chapter 28
Patrick Doherty’s first week in enforced isolation was coming to an end, and he believed he was still in good shape. He’d cemented an inverted u-shaped metal tube in the garden, a bit like a set of goalposts without the net, and rigged up a TRX suspension kit. Every morning he did his exercises, and while he didn’t look or feel like the Navy Seal who demonstrated the moves on YouTube, he felt strong.
The chest freezer out in the shed contained enough food to last him four months. He went fishing most days and any fish caught were a welcome break from his defrosting duties. In some ways, he wished he had visited the place more often, and planted a few other things out there in addition to the potatoes. He could do with some fresh carrots and strawberries.
The reason he hadn’t come more often was to ensure he didn’t become a familiar face. In the summer, locals travelling on the ferry were outnumbered by tourists, but in the quiet months, the locals noticed every face and would be tempted to strike up a conversation. In some cases, it was only to pass the time of day, but in others it was born of a suspicion of strangers and something to talk about in the pub on dark, winter nights.
He unplugged his phone from the charger and put on a thick jacket. When he stepped outside, the dull light and dark clouds made it feel as if a gale was in prospect. He didn’t think so, as he looked at weather forecasts daily, particularly when he wanted to go fishing, and nothing so severe had been forecast. He hadn’t lived on Inishmore long enough to know what was real and what was deceiving, so he trusted the information he saw on his laptop more than his knowledge of gathering clouds and the movement of weather systems.
He walked across the bracken and scrub, the wind a gentle breeze against his face. Ten minutes later, he took his place behind the dry-stone wall and, after checking to see there was no one around, hunkered down. Out of the wind it felt warm, a sun trap almost.
He took the phone out of his pocket and could see it displayed three bars of signal. At the cottage he received bugger all. He called Seamus.
‘Where are you man?’ Doherty asked. ‘The bloody sound is fading in and out.’
‘I’m walking to the pub. It’s eight-thirty on a Saturday night, Pat. You don’t expect me to be in the house watching telly with a mug of cocoa, do you?’
‘Well, can you stop walking for a minute and talk to me?’
‘Right, I’ve stopped now. I’m lurking in a shop doorway like a bloke about to take a piss, or break a window.’
‘What’s been happening this last week?’
‘You’ll be pleased to know the papers are saying bugger-all about you. I’m talking here about the locals; the nationals and the English papers forgot you after day one. In the last few days it’s been all about the earthquake in Peru and riots by Palestinians in Gaza. It’s as clear as it’s ever going to be, Pat.’
‘Good to know, Seamus, but remember, Irish people are like the internet; they never forget a thing. Even when I come back, I’ll still have to keep a low profile.’
‘Oh, for sure. No way can you stand on the steps of Stormont and declare yourself First Minister.’
‘Is this what you think I want?’ he spat. ‘Is it?’
‘No, Pat. It’s just a figure of speech.’
‘Stormont is an abomination. It’s where the English Secretary of State ran Northern Ireland for decades before it housed that fucking talking shop, the Northern Ireland Assembly, a place where nobody can agree on anything. We’ll do away with it all and turn it into a luxury hotel, or a museum, I couldn’t care less. The six counties of the north will be part of the Irish Free State and the whole shebang will be governed from Dublin.’
‘I know, Pat.’
‘Do you though, Seamus? I think you sometimes forget.’
‘Sorry, Pat.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘The usual place.’
‘Who are you meeting?’
‘The boys: Tony, Andy, Kieran, Gerry, and the rest of them.’
‘Aye, well tell them from me to keep the faith. I’ll be coming back soon, and then we’ll start the fireworks. I don’t want anyone losing heart, or their enthusiasm waning because I’m not around. I’m depending on you, Seamus, to keep everyone focussed.’
‘Trust me, Pat. You know you can.’
‘Listen Seamus, why don’t you treat them tonight? Spend fifty or sixty, take it out of a cash machine if you have to, and buy them drinks until the money’s finished. Take it out of funds when you get back to the office.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Pat.’
‘Make sure they know it’s from me and I haven’t forgotten them, okay?’
A minute or so later, he terminated the call. Seamus was a decent, hard-working bloke, but he needed to be kept on the right track or he would stray. It didn’t mean if Doherty did nothing, he would return to IRM and find the offices empty and everyone dispersed. Seamus was smarter than that. However, without a regular cajoling, Doherty could return to find a state of inertia permeating the place, everyone resigned to accepting the status quo.
During the call he’d popped his head above the wall a couple of times to make sure there was no one about.
In fact, the nearest farmhouse was displaying no lights at all despite the encroaching darkness. Knowing a little about the island people, they’d be out visiting friends or relatives, having a civilised chat around a dining room table or the fire.
All around the house and farm buildings during the day, a large brood of fat hens pecked away to their heart’s content on the dropped grain and straw used to feed the farm’s other animals. At night, they returned to a sizeable hen coop on the far side. He liked eggs, but he liked chicken more. He had a couple in the freezer but nothing tasted quite like a fresh, free-range one. The lack of activity on the farm gave him an idea.
He walked to the gap in the wall and climbed over the rusty gate. He was being guided by moonlight, the final shafts of daylight being extinguished as fast as a draft from an open window on a lighted candle. He skirted the back of the farmhouse, peering into the blackened windows to ensure no one was sitting in the dark, smoking and nursing a bottle of Bushmills, or puffing on a joint.
He approached the hen coop and couldn’t be sure if the little bastards inside had started their low cackling on hearing the approach of a stranger, or if it was a noise they had been making all along. Whatever it was, it was welcome, as no matter how quietly he tried to walk there was so much crap underfoot: twigs, bits of metal, stones, a deaf eighty-year-old at the back of the house could hear him.
He stood peering inside the hen coop, but couldn’t see a thing. He pulled out his phone and activated the torch. He selected a target and shut the torch off. He reached forward for its neck, but the daft bugger must have turned and all he got was a handful of beak. It started to peck his hand, but at least that told him where the neck was. He wrapped his fingers around it and yanked the bird towards him. Christ! It was heavier than he expected.
He held it steady between his legs and wrung its neck. Now, was it his imagination or were the birds cackling louder? He backed out of the coop in time to see the porch light coming on. He ran back the way he had come and hid around the corner.
‘What the fick is going on out here?’ a loud, male voice said. ‘If it’s that ficking fox again, I’ll stick this twelve bore up its arse!’