Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  There was movement in what looked like the kitchen, but the blinds were half down. I couldn't ID the shadow, but it seemed too small to be Dom.

  I turned back and it wasn't long before I was knocking with the heavy iron lion's head on the front door.

  'Who is it?'

  The voice was female and Irish.

  'My name's Nick. I'm a friend of Dom's. I was with him last week in Basra.'

  34

  Siobhan was dressed in jeans, trainers and a black sweatshirt. Her big brown eyes were red-rimmed, and her short, straight hair needed a brush. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, but she was still beautiful. She must have been at least ten years younger than her husband.

  'I know who you are.' She smiled weakly. 'You'll have to forgive me. I've been in bed for two days. It's a flu thing.'

  I smiled back. 'Is Dom home?'

  'I wish.' She touched my arm gently. 'How are you?'

  'A few stitches, no bones broken.'

  'He called me, and then I saw it on the news.' She bit her lip. 'I feel so bad about Pete. When is the funeral, do you know?'

  I shook my head.

  'His poor family . . .' Her voice was educated and soft, full of compassion.

  I nodded slowly. 'I've been calling him for days and just get his voicemail. It's not like him. I'm worried maybe he's not picking up because he blames me. I feel responsible. I was supposed to be the one protecting them. I want to find him, clear the air.'

  She started to look about her.

  'Sorry for just turning up on the doorstep – your number's ex-directory but he gave me the address back in Basra. So . . .'

  'Did you go to the studio? Did they tell you to come here?'

  'No. Listen, Siobhan . . .' I hesitated. 'OK – I'll level with you. There's something about Pete's death that doesn't add up. I really need to talk to—'

  She stepped aside. 'Please come in.'

  I crossed the threshold and wondered if I should be taking my shoes off altogether instead of just wiping them like a madman to scrape off the wet grime. The highly polished black-and-white chequered tiles were clean enough to do surgery on.

  I put down my Bergen. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Landscape paintings gazed down at us from every direction. I caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

  'Nice place.'

  'Thanks.' She was already walking down the hall. 'What can I offer you? Coffee, tea?'

  We passed two antique half-tables. Glass trays held keys and change.

  'Coffee would be great.'

  We passed the open door to a front room or reception room, or whatever they called it in a house this size. I saw no framed prints on the walls of Dom being heroic with a microphone, just lots more landscapes. The mountains were too big to be Irish. Maybe they were Polish, or Transylvanian.

  We finally arrived in the kitchen.

  'After Pete got killed Dom just left me a message and did a runner. He OK? I was worried about him.'

  It was a large knock-through that took up the whole of the rear of the building. In the far left corner, the steel banister of a spiral staircase disappeared into a round hole in the floor.

  'Yes, he's fine, still out there. Moira got all excited about another story and Dom said he'd stay on and research it. He needed something to throw himself into, get his mind off things – you know Dom . . .'

  There couldn't have been a bigger contrast with the antique stuff in the hall. We were in a world of stainless steel and glass, limed oak and spotlights. Four gas rings seemed to float in a polished granite island in the middle of the room. Nearby were a BlackBerry and a pack of Marlboro Lights, a lighter and the day's unopened mail. A dead, half-smoked cigarette balanced precariously on a mountain of ash and butts in a nearby ashtray. And, by the look of it, nicotine wasn't the only medicine Siobhan was taking for her flu. A bottle of white wine stood next to a glass. Both were half empty.

  She followed my gaze. 'I'm sorry, would you prefer something stronger?'

  'Thanks, but no.' I tapped my arm. 'Antibiotics . . .'

  She selected a coloured capsule from a tin and dropped it into a sleek, cube-shaped coffee machine and closed a lever. They really did live in a Sunday supplement. One where the necks of two empty wine bottles stuck out of the recycle bin.

  I didn't buy into the flu thing.

  She'd been crying.

  Mourning Pete? Possibly. But had they ever met? Pete said he'd never been to the house.

  'Do you know how I can get hold of him? Has he got another number? I'd really like to talk to him.'

  The machine spat a thin stream of coffee into a small cup.

  'Me too.'

  They were the first words she'd said that I really believed.

  Her eyes stayed on the coffee machine. 'It's nothing unusual for him to be out of reach for weeks sometimes, while he's up in the mountains or wherever. It hasn't been a week yet. Work, it's just his way of dealing with things.' She fiddled about in a tin for another capsule. 'I think I'll join you.'

  'So he's in the mountains? Still in Iraq?'

  She shoved another capsule into the machine. 'I think he left some time yesterday. Sorry, my head's all over the place. Sugar?'

  I shook my head. She placed stuff on a tray and got ready to move. 'Let's go in the front room.'

  I followed her through double doors that had been punched through the dividing wall. She offered me a blue velvet two-seater on one side of the low coffee-table and sat down opposite.

  The fireplace to my left was tiled. The black grate was far too shiny ever to have been used. The mantelpiece was covered with all the usual pictures of two people's lives together, but instead of picnics on the beach or family gatherings, they featured sailing boats or horses. There were also several of the same boy, from about ten to his teens.

  'That Finbar? He's twenty now, isn't he?' There hadn't been much in the file about the boy either, only his name and DOB.

  She stared at the row of grinning faces. 'Twenty-one this August.'

  'He's the spitting image of you.' I kept my eyes on the frames. 'He still living here, or has he legged it?'

  She turned back to her coffee. 'He's gone now.'

  'This is the time you get to see more of Dom, eh?'

  She gave another weak smile, but concentrated on her cup. The silence quickly became uncomfortable.

  'He at uni?'

  'He works. He's in the financial sector.' There was no gush of pride from a beaming mother.

  'Here in Dublin?'

  She put down her cup and gave a couple of short sharp nods instead of an answer. 'Excuse me – my cigarettes.' She waved in the general direction of the kitchen. 'It's a filthy habit, do you mind?'

  I stood up with her, all smiles. 'Course not. I won't send you to smoke on the street.'

  I sat down again and sipped the brew. She returned in a cloud of smoke. Her hand shook slightly as she sucked at her cigarette. She hadn't brought the packet and the lighter with her. She wanted me out.

  I raised my cup. 'Thanks for the coffee, Siobhan. Sorry again to barge in on you. Can I leave my mobile number in case you need to get in touch?'

  She went over to a small table covered with style magazines. She pulled open a drawer stuffed with pens, pencils, electricity bills, all the normal shit. Nestling among it all was a grey mobile phone.

  I stood up. 'Can I use your loo before I head off?'

  She did her general wave once more. 'Through the kitchen, down the stairs. First on the right.'

  I left as she pulled out a pen and something to write on.

  35

  Once in the toilet the first thing I checked was the window. It was a wooden sash, as I'd have expected in one of these houses, but this one was new. The frosted glass was double-glazed, with a decorative brass latch in the centre of the frame. A hole each side indicated an internal deadlock operated by a star key. It didn't worry me. Keys tend to be left in toilets so no one gets embarrassed after a big
hot curry. I dug about in the unit under the sink cabinet and found what I was looking for, right next to the Toilet Duck.

  I pressed the flush, and unwound both deadlocks while it was noisy. I left the latch closed, so everything looked normal.

  I replaced the key in the cabinet, and washed my hands with plenty of scented liquid soap. I wanted her to know I'd gone where I'd said I would.

  As I came out again, a motion detector in the hallway gave me a flicker of blue LED. So did another at the top of the stairs.

  The door opposite opened easily. It was a teenager's room. There were posters on the wall but no bedding, just a folded duvet on the mattress.

  I took a step inside. Even if Finbar had moved out, there might be something that would give me a clue as to where he was now. I didn't care what the Yes Man had said about the boy not being important. If I found him, I might find Dom. That was why the Yes Man hadn't got a river view.

  Nothing stood out at first glance. The laptop looked steam-driven, and the GameBoy wasn't even from this century.

  Then something caught my eye. A Vodafone USB modem. They'd only come out a few months ago, but you couldn't move for the adverts.

  By the time I rejoined Siobhan, there was a blank index card and a pen waiting for me on the coffee-table. I sat down with a big smile. I could smell the soap on my hands as I wrote out my number.

  I got to my feet and handed her the card.

  She looked at it as we headed towards the front door. I kept my eyes busy. The alarm-system keypad was midway up the wall. Another little blue light flickered below the picture rail.

  I hooked my holdall over my shoulder.

  She glanced past me at the dark wet street. 'Don't you want me to call you a cab?'

  'It's OK. I'm going to walk for a while.'

  We shared a nod. 'Thanks again for the coffee.'

  I headed down the steps, and when I hit the street, I turned right. My mobile was out the moment I heard the door shut.

  I hit the new number I'd burnt into my brain. It was fine to talk in clear. These mobiles were secure. Calls were masked by white noise, courtesy of the Firm's version of the Brahms secure speech system, developed by GCHQ. Not even the NSA could eavesdrop.

  It gave four rings.

  I pulled up my collar against the damp. 'You're sure the house only has their two registered mobiles and the landline?'

  I heard the rustle of paper at the other end. 'Only three numbers registered. Why?'

  'And just a PC desktop on broadband, yeah?'

  'Correct.'

  'I need to check something out tonight. I'll call you.'

  There was no reply. The telephone went dead. Not much of a one for small-talk, the Yes Man.

  I didn't give a fuck. I was in control, and I planned to keep it that way.

  36

  I must have looked a complete dickhead as I checked into the Conrad with my holdall and the world's supply of cheap shopping bags. The other guests' bags said Gucci and Hugo Boss, but mine were from Spar, a corner chemist's, an electronics shack and a charity shop. The receptionist had raised an eyebrow at the half-drunk two-litre bottle of own-brand cola sticking out of one of the carriers.

  It was just as well she hadn't seen the rest of the stuff now spread out on the bed in my very swanky room. There were a couple of shower caps, floral-patterned with some frilly stuff round the sides, a notebook and pencil, a box of forty pairs of surgical gloves, a pair of scissors, a little keyring torch, and a SIM-card reader that I'd have to work out how to use before I left.

  I also had some fishing-line. I hadn't been able to find an angling shop, so I'd bought a reel of four-pound breaking-strain stuff off one of the guys on the banks of the Liffey. Twenty-pound would have been ideal, but this would have to do.

  There'd been an amazing number of druggies down by the river. Even at this time of night, young guys looking like ghosts shivered under blankets beneath a bridge not a stone's throw from Bertie's Pole. I tried to talk to one to ask where the fishermen hung out, but he just stared back, too out of it to string an answer together. This city really did have a problem. But then again, show me one that didn't.

  I had also bought new boxers and socks and a couple of long-sleeved T-shirts. I might be spending the Firm's money on this posh room but even I wouldn't squander it on hotel laundry when it was cheaper to buy new.

  Especially for tonight, I'd bought some grey trousers in a charity shop and yet another shitty brown fleece. I'd also picked up a black balaclava I'd found on a shelf of odd gloves and woolly hats. In the old days, the housing-trust shop would have made a few bob selling them in this part of the world. I'd given the old dear at the till a big grin when I'd handed it over. 'Let the good times roll.'

  None of the stuff needed much doing to it, apart from a bit of remodelling to the cola bottle. I poured myself another glass before tipping the rest away and giving it a rinse. Then I took off the wrapper, and cut off the top and bottom to leave an open cylinder. It was Blue Peter time. I cut up the side of the cylinder and flattened out the rectangle I'd created on the floor, then cut the biggest circle I could from its centre. It curled into a tight brandy snap as soon as I let it go and that was it, I was almost done.

  All I had to do now was shove everything in the cupboard, jump on the bed, get my boots off and check out the room-service menu while I read the instructions for the SIM-card reader. I wouldn't be leaving until dark o'clock.

  I finished off the glass of flat cola. It was just like old times. I remembered being pissed off as a nine-year-old when my mum wouldn't buy real Coke because it was too expensive. I wondered if it had been the same for Pete over Brockwell Park way. I shoved a couple of antibiotics down my neck and ordered up a steak sandwich and chips.

  Siobhan's compassion for Pete had been convincing, I supposed. And she clearly missed Dom terribly. But she'd avoided eye contact on every other subject. She had to be the only mother on earth who wouldn't open up about her little boy when given half a chance. Well, tonight we'd be finding out what she was hiding.

  After my sandwich, it was downstairs to the business suite to get online and see if I could find Finbar on the electoral register. I'd trawl Facebook and MySpace too. I had a few hours to kill.

  37

  Wednesday, 7 March

  0326 hrs

  I heard someone come out of a back gate and the sound of a garbage bag landing in a wheelie-bin. A dog got a bollocking for something or other.

  I was standing outside the toilet window. I'd been playing Peeping Tom since about midnight. I'd had to wait more than two hours for Siobhan to go to bed, and then another hour or so to give her time to nod off. It was really unusual for someone to be up as late as two during the week. My brain worked overtime. Could she have been waiting for a call from Dom on that second mobile of hers? I'd find out soon enough.

  I had one last feel about in my grey trousers and shitty brown fleece pockets to make sure I hadn't overlooked any coins or anything that was going to rattle or fall out. ID-wise I was sterile – no wallet, no credit cards. It wasn't about what would happen if the police caught me. With luck, that was when the Yes Man would come into his own. It was to do with leaving nothing behind. Why take stuff on target you don't need? All I had was forty euros shoved down my socks in case there was a flap and I had to run for a taxi.