by Paul Watson
‘You’ll keep us safe in our bed’s son; sometimes you’ve just got to kill the bastards. Now get yourself out of here. Visit that girl of yours, another brave one.’ A good idea; Jamie and Fred shook hands.
The journey to the women’s ward was faster than expected. Frank was a better crutch than the drip stand and kept Jamie upright. Rob gave up his seat at the bedside for Jamie.
‘Any chance of some privacy?’ Amy smiled at Rob and Frank, and they left the reunited pair alone.
Amy held out her hand, and Jamie took it, kissed it, slid the ring from the finger of her right hand and put it on her left.
‘You came for me,’ Jamie said.
‘I did.’ Tears rolled down Amy’s cheek. They held hands in silence, and Jamie lent over the bed and rubbed his nose against the tears.
Amy spoke first. ‘If you’re delirious, then it’s too late now, I’ll get Rob to witness this, you’re trapped now.’
Silence from Jamie.
‘Can we do it soon?’ Amy said. Jamie nodded and smiled. ‘Are you going to speak?’
‘It’s better when I don’t.’
Rob interrupted them. ‘Sorry Amy, but Mike’s here.’
‘I’m sorry too Amy,’ Mike said. ‘I won’t keep you long but I need to go over the hit and run with you. We investigated the partial registration on the BMW. Has anything else come back to you?’
‘The back of the car looked weird, behind the driver. There were duvets and pillows piled up and a man leaning on them.’
‘How old?’
‘Late teens, early twenties, asleep.’
‘We’ve got five hundred cars that could fit that partial index. We’ll visit everyone until we find the bastard.’
‘And when you find him, Mike, call me in, I’ll make the arrest,’ Jamie said.
‘You’ve got my word on it, Jamie.’
Mike hoped that Amy didn’t notice his glance at the bandaged stump below her left knee.
TWENTY-FIVE
A perfect landing. The sooner Roberts was out on the Tarmac the better. The man beside him on the plane had been a total nut job.
After the phone incident, the guy on the plane had done breathing exercises to calm himself, but his eyes had been moist and he had sniffled. A shorter haircut and new clothes would give the guy self-respect. But life coach was not a role that Roberts considered suitable for his talents.
Roberts enjoyed his current job, the killing part was easy and left him, and the victim, cold. He loved the travel, the money and the security though. The army made promises it didn’t keep; private security kept the wolf from the door for a few years, but he’d always wanted more. His edge? Amorality. Clients offered the big bucks for the severe problems. Easy for Roberts; moral dilemma eliminated ninety percent of the qualified competition; he’d killed another five percent, which left a small cartel at the elite level; they didn’t meet for coffee or trade shows though.
Roberts had never travelled to Ireland; he’d love to stay longer, but he was against the clock. Perhaps he’d bring Julia back here in a few weeks or months and show her the West coast; she seemed to like the outdoors.
Roberts cleared immigration; his current employers made sure of that, and he took the yellow and black shuttle bus to car hire. He chose a red four-wheel-drive SUV.
The Sunday traffic was light. Roberts made it to the Port Road tunnel in no time, over the Liffey, and turned left at the toll booth. Roberts drove with the river on his left, and looked out into the Irish Sea, and thought of Julia. He entered Ringsend and parked in the courtyard, outside the office building.
The noise from the green playing fields and tennis courts drifted over the surrounding houses. The Tichi office was a small commercial unit in the residential area: an outpost, close to the docks. Roberts sucked in the sea air through his nostrils and sniffed the ozone mixed with honeysuckle. Seagulls circled over a young couple who ate pastries on a bench.
Julia had arranged Roberts’s meeting for eight a.m. Roberts could be on a plane back by midday if this went to plan. He rang the buzzer at the front office.
A man bundled down the stairs; he was thirty years old, had stubble, wore grey shorts and a black t-shirt with a seagull print. The man twisted a knob on the door inside the reception.
‘Roberts?’
‘Yes, you got something for me?’
‘I’m Jackson. There’s been a problem; you’d better come into the office.’
Roberts shoved the door shut, the catch was tight. Inside the reception area were two metal chairs and a glass table with a fruit bowl next to a water cooler. Roberts filled a paper cup with water and downed it. He repeated the manoeuvre twice, took his fourth cupful and sat at the table. ‘Go on.’
‘They had an issue at the plant last night; a fire; they got evacuated, and I couldn’t get in to get the package.’
‘You’re a brave man showing up here.’
‘I thought about driving to Sligo this morning but thought I should meet to tell you.’
‘You made the right choice. You’ll give me all your access passes, codes and keys, and sketch me a map, and you’ll go home and enjoy your Sunday afternoon. Questions?’
‘That’s fine; there is one problem.’ Roberts’s expression was blank. ‘The storeroom has a thumbprint scanner on it.’
Roberts took out his Swiss army knife and extended the six centimetre long blade he’d used to skin the rabbit.
Jackson looked at the front door.
Roberts stabbed the knife into an apple. ‘You’d better cancel your plans for Sunday afternoon, are you ok driving?’
‘No problem.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Jackson pulled out of the courtyard behind the wheel of the red SUV. Back along the Liffey; they got to the toll booth.
A black Insignia pulled up on the other side and Roberts recognised the driver, the fruitcake from the plane. A coincidence? The driver was not a professional: the man wasn’t acting crazy on the plane last night and was too far behind to be tailing him.
Jackson steered over the bridge, back through the tunnel and towards the airport. He pulled onto the M50 and looped back anticlockwise around the city to the N4 and the West.
‘How long?’ Roberts said.
‘Two or Three hours.’
Roberts checked the route on his phone. He reviewed the flights. There was one from Knock at 16.45. He should be OK for that one.
‘You ever been over to the West?’ Jackson said without thinking. He liked to chat when he drove. He forgot his fear of his passenger.
‘Never been. It’s on my bucket list though.’
‘Great day for it, you’ll see all the way to New York today.’
Roberts doubted that. But he was looking forward to a view of the Atlantic.
They continued in silence. Green blankets either side replaced the scorched yellow fields of England. They passed through Mullingar, Longford, Carrick On Shannon. Jackson drove smooth and fast. The sooner this journey ended, the better for him.
They arrived in Sligo at around 10.15 a.m. The rental company would get speeding tickets. Roberts was Hungry.
‘Let’s eat, do you know anywhere?’
Jackson parked on the high street in a marked bay. ‘Yes, I know a great place by the river.’ Jackson put money into the meter and came back with a ticket. They were in the centre of town amongst electrical shops, bars and tattooists. ‘Through here.’ Jackson pointed to a passage through the buildings. Roberts followed him over the cobbles, and they came out onto the riverfront where the path turned into a bridge. ‘I like this place.’ Jackson sat at a wrought-iron table with the river on his right. ‘I’ve been here a few times.’
Roberts took the seat opposite him. ‘What do you recommend?’
‘Get the chowder.’
Roberts watched the river; it was low today, but he pictured it in full flow, dropping over the weir.
An eel fell from the sky and landed on the pavement. Roberts
and Jackson watched it writhe on the cobbles.
‘Would you look at that,’ Jackson said.
A seagull swooped down and picked up the stunned creature. The bird bashed the fish twice on the cobbles and flew away again. Another wriggle; the eel had stamina, but the odds were against it as the seagull sat on a lamppost, close enough to swoop down if challenged for its lunch; the bird thought it best to let the fish thrash a little more.
Bad luck for the seagull; a man picked up the eel and threw it back into the river. The eel floated for a second, kicked and swam away. Roberts checked the man out: the fruit loop from the flight.
‘Here you go, sir.’ A waitress placed the chowder bowl in front of Roberts, and one in front of Jackson too. It tasted great; chunks of cod popped out of the creamy sauce.
Jackson ground pepper on his chowder. Roberts left his untouched and watched the man from the flight, checking to see if he turned back. He didn’t; he kept on trudging to the bridge and onwards.
Was it coincidence seeing the same man three times in a day and 200 km apart? Roberts didn’t know the probability, but it felt wrong. He left the chowder on the table. ‘Back soon.’
Good news for Jackson; he didn’t want to eat under the menacing gaze of his lunch buddy.
Roberts followed the man for a little while and saw him stood by some railings; the guy stared at the river. The man took out his phone and looked at a message. He studied it for some time before replying.
The man hadn’t flown from Dublin, and the best place to park his car was back in the high street, so Roberts returned there.
A black Insignia sat in the bay next to the red SUV; Roberts stared through the passenger window, and on the seat sat Andy Teague’s hire documents.
There was a home address in North London, the same post district as last night’s hospital and the same surname as the hospital kid. The guy by the river had the same burly frame as the kid; could be his father. Best to get rid of this man now.
Folding blades less than six centimetres draw little attention. Roberts had the fourteen-tool Swiss army model; sixteen if you count the toothpick and tweezers. He’d changed his knife to have seventeen uses. Roberts had smeared poison onto the small blade and coated it with tape to give him a useful and discrete weapon for close quarter kills.
He hooked his fingernail into the dent in the blade, extracted it and unwrapped the tape to show a purple coloured viscous coating. He put on gloves and palmed the weapon.
Back through the alleyway on the river bank, Andy stood in the distance with his gaze fixed on the river, Jackson chewed, and the seagull stared.
Roberts walked close to the shop entrances, out of peripheral vision. A lady in a summer dress with a five-year-old girl stepped out.
‘Excuse me,’ Roberts said and continued. He moved a chair aside that blocked his progress. CCTV covered the shop entrances but not the kill zone. Andy looked down at his phone and scanned around the parade; Roberts ducked inside a doorway and observed through the window.
‘Can I help you?’ said the owner of the café.
‘You can keep quiet.’ Roberts stared. The owner complied.
A family of four passed by, Americans. A local teenager teased his girlfriend; his friend strolled next to them, and then the path was clear. Andy was staring at his phone again; excessive screen time can be harmful to health. Roberts marched across the street and thrust the blade at Andy’s lower back.
He hit only air. Andy vaulted the railing and fell towards the river.
Suicide?
Even better, thought Roberts.
TWENTY-SIX
‘Eventually, everything connects:’ the phrase stood out from the others on the airport walkway screen, framed in clouds. Andy cleared immigration, booked a black Insignia from the rental area and sat for a while. A lamp on the dashboard flashed red, and the fuel gauge showed three quarters.
Tichi owned a commercial office in Dublin, out near the docks. Andy doubted that anyone would be there on Sunday, but the drive was short, and he wanted to get a sense of the company. There were three production facilities in Ireland and Andy would check each one if needed.
He made it to the toll booth gateway to Ringsend in twenty minutes. The Liffey reflected the light blue sky, and he felt better than any time since Friday night. He planned the upcoming week: no meetings booked for Monday, must be in London Wednesday, World Cup final tonight. Sadness replaced the momentary excitement; he’d planned to watch the final with Max and Sam at home. Andy’s friends from the club were meeting in a local pub, but he wanted to share this moment with his family. He wept as he drove.
No problem parking outside the Tichi office; the crescent-shaped courtyard had empty car park bays. He reversed into the one closest to the entrance door. The buzzer with intercom had only one button. Andy pressed it, and the burr from inside was louder than expected. The door was closed but not flush with the frame; he pushed, and it opened. Andy had to push hard from inside to close the door; it locked.
The ground floor office spread out from a glass door in the reception area. There was a bank of ten desks in the middle and two meeting rooms created from toughened glass. Frosting coated the glazing in places; a useful reminder for Andy; he remembered his last holiday with Jess before marriage.
They’d roughed it through Thailand for two weeks, and he’d booked an upscale hotel for the final night. The courtesy limo had plucked them from other grimy tourists at the bus stop.
Jess had waited on the balcony and wore white shorts and a pink T-shirt, laundered by the hotel using the express service.
Andy picked two champagne glasses, fizzing with promise, from the tray on the mini bar inside the room, and carried them out towards the balcony. Bang. Andy’s nose hit the glass balcony screen first, then his forehead. ‘Not a drop spilt,’ he said, as Jess opened the screen.
The Tichi office was a bright, fresh and airy place. Andy returned to reception and climbed the feature stair to the first-floor landing; two doors opened off it. One entrance led to another open-plan space.
Andy pushed the other door and entered a small office. The screen on the desk still had a spreadsheet open; Andy wiggled the mouse and sat in the chair.
The email account had interesting reads: one from a maintenance company apologising for not making it to fix the door; one from Seamus Bradley, about a delivery and a fire at the plant; one from Steve George, confirming a meeting for Friday.
Was Steve here?
Andy’s mobile rang.
‘Mr Teague?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Mike Baker here, CID.’
‘I’m listening to you Mike.’
‘Andy, someone took your son from the hospital last night; it was a man impersonating a doctor.’
‘Tell me everything Mike.’
‘We know he was driving a blue BMW and we’ve narrowed it down to about five hundred possible vehicles. He was the same man that killed a street robber in the custody suite on Friday night: the street robber that tried to steal your friend’s bag.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He ran down a police officer while getting away and gave her life-changing injuries. We’ve got a sketch of him from a good description by the injured officer; the suspect deleted the CCTV tapes from the custody suite before he left.’
‘Send it Mike and let me know anything you find out.’
‘Will do.’
Andy thought he might vomit and his head throbbed.
He looked at the email signature of Seamus Bradley; the man worked at the Tichi building in Sligo. Andy checked the directions: ‘2 hours 45 minutes in light traffic.’
Back in the Insignia, Andy programmed the sat nav. The map showed a line coast to coast, the N4 motorway. His phone beeped, showing an incoming message. The message was from Max: ‘Thanks for the photo of the plane dad. Hope you enjoyed the flight, looking forward to tonight.’
Andy typed: ‘Where are you?’
No rep
ly.
Andy looked at the phone for a minute but couldn’t figure it out, so he drove. He retraced the route back down the Liffey; it didn’t raise his spirits this time. He exited the toll booth, traversed the tunnel, looped back around the city and then hammered into the West, with the sun reflecting in his rear-view mirror.
Andy’s phone rested on the passenger seat ready for more messages from Max. None came. The black Vauxhall chewed up the miles, and the West arrived by mid-morning. Another beep from the phone then prompted Andy to stop at a petrol station just out of Sligo.
The message from Max was, ‘Meet me at the bridge.’ Andy checked the map of Sligo and saw a few bridges in the town centre over the river. A lake upstream forced the river along its route, through the town centre, on its way to a weir near an old mill.
A car’s horn blasted behind him and a woman in a white range rover glared. Andy put the Insignia in gear and cleared the water and air pump he’d blocked during his stop.
The road into town passed a sign to the local airport, an aerodrome perhaps? The traffic slowed and filtered into a high street. There were pubs and houses and signs of redevelopment. A few offices were springing up inside sympathetic conversions. The high street came to a halt at a T-junction. Right or left? Andy wasn’t sure.
White lines on the tarmac formed a mini car park, and a bay stood free next to a red SUV, another rental vehicle; Andy had seen a few of them back at the airport collection yard.
He’d driven SUV’s and had a seven-seater before the Passat. Max picked it from the company list, reasoning that the seven seats would better; Max could invite five friends to his birthday party. Andy had hated the vehicle then with its imprecise steering and body roll; the clunky gear changes calloused his left hand.
He loved it now, with hindsight. On long journeys and overnight stays, traces of his family travelled with him. There were crisp packets stuffed into side pockets and Sam’s dinosaurs and monsters littering each of the seven seats. He was a bus driver on away matches; three dads, four kids and kit, no problem. The car made holiday packing simple; the hellish game of suitcase Tetris suspended. Max had chosen it, a taste of man fun for him.