by Hayden, Mark
GREEN FOR DANGER
Part Two of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy
MARK HAYDEN
Paw Press
www.pawpress.co.uk
Copyright © Paw Press 2013
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design - Hilary Pitt, 2QT Publishing.
Design Copyright © 2014
Cover Images Copyright © Shutterstock
This edition published 2015 by Paw Press:
www.pawpress.co.uk
Independent Publishing in Westmorland.
In Memoriam
Kenneth Attwood 1921-2005
Joan Attwood 1927-2013
Together in Life and Death
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Author’s Note
Prologue
Earlsbury, Staffordshire
In the Black Country
Friday 12 June 1992
‘Sláinte.’
Twelve glasses were raised, and twelve shots of Irish whiskey were downed in one. Some of the younger drinkers spluttered a little on the neat spirit, and most took sips from their Guinness to wash away the taste. At the head of the table sat Patrick Lynch: the toast had been in his honour. He rolled the whiskey around his mouth to savour it, before swallowing and smacking his lips.
‘And why shouldn’t a man have two birthdays, especially when he’s forty?’ said Patrick.
‘No reason at all, Patrick, no reason at all,’ responded his brother Donal.
‘Thank youse all for coming. I know some of youse can’t believe I’m forty, but it’s true.’
‘We thought you was fifty.’ said the youngest man there – a second cousin. Probably.
‘Less of your cheek, thank you very much. Who bought you that drink, eh? A proper man’s drink, that is. Not like you get in that godforsaken hole The Frog and Parrot. That’s just an outlet for chemical poison. A proper Irish drink in a proper Irish bar: you can’t beat it.’
Patrick looked around him at the nicotine yellow walls, the frosted glass keeping out the June sunshine, and the little-boy-lost face of the Barley Mow’s landlord, Dave. The Barley Mow was nothing like the Irish theme pubs that were springing up all over Europe. There was no stained glass, no weighing scales, no tricolours, no leprechauns and no smiling colleens behind the varnished counter. What it did have was the patronage of Earlsbury’s Irish community and lots of Guinness taps on the bar. Random posters of long gone rock bands were framed on the walls – Band of Joy, Listen, The Diplomats: they were Dave’s personal collection, and they were as faded as their owner. Thanks to him, it also had occasional live music. Thanks to a merciful God, there was none tonight.
‘So why are you having two birthdays?’ said the young cousin.
Patrick was lighting a cigarette, and Donal answered for him. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go out with your mates rather than have Sunday dinner with your mother?’
‘It’s not instead of,’ said Patrick, ‘it’s as well as. Sure, your Auntie Fran will be putting on a big spread on Sunday. I’m looking forward to that one, too.’
‘Yes, but who heard of an Irish birthday with nothing to drink?’ said Donal. He took a long swallow from his pint and raised it to Patrick.
It was true enough. Patrick’s wife, Francesca, wasn’t keen on his drinking and had insisted that a big Sunday lunch would form the centrepiece of the celebrations, and that attendance at Mass beforehand would be expected. He couldn’t handle the thought of church with a hangover, so tomorrow he would be watching England lose to France at the Euros. Well, he hoped they were going to lose after they’d knocked Ireland out in the qualifiers. He looked over to the bar. ‘Bring the malt round again, Dave.’
The landlord hurried round from the bar with the whiskey bottle and asked who wanted a drink. Only half a dozen held up their glasses for a refill. Dave topped them up and returned to the bar, adding the drinks to Patrick’s tab.
‘A toast,’ said Patrick. ‘To absent friends of all shapes and sizes.’
‘To Micky,’ said one of the gang. ‘To the boys in the Maze,’ said another. Patrick didn’t want talk of the IRA – not with his special guest here.
To cover it up, he raised his glass again and said, ‘And especially to our Honorary Irishman, Solomon King. May God bless him and Theresa with a healthy baby.’
Drinks were taken and glasses replaced on the drip mats. ‘Any news from the hospital yet?’ said Donal.
‘Not since this morning,’ said Patrick. ‘I had a call in the middle of the night to say she’s gone into labour suddenly, and could I mind the stall for her. It’s her third, so she’ll be alright.’
Donal downed his whiskey and looked at the bar hopefully. Now there’s a man with a real drink problem, thought Patrick, it’s beginning to affect his work. He had stayed off the good stuff himself all day because of Theresa’s unexpected admission. His market stall, with its general goods and miscellaneous special offers, was next to Theresa’s sophisticated selection of vintage clothes. Patrick may have called Theresa’s husband their Honorary Irishman, but Sol had been born in Jamaica and was only accepted by the group on sufferance, in part because he had married one of their own: sweet little Theresa Murphy.
‘Speech!’ said Donal.
Patrick was about to stand up and say a few words when Dave shouted from behind the bar. ‘Telephone, Patrick. It’s the hospital.’
He crossed the floor to where the frowning Dave held out the receiver, took the phone, and said hello.
‘Patrick? Is that you?’
‘Theresa! What are you doing on the phone? Is everything all right?’
‘No it isn’t. I’ve had a girl, but there’s a problem.’
‘What is it, love? What’s happened? Is the baby okay?’
‘Yeah, she’s fine. A very healthy little girl with very pink skin.’
Patrick gripped the receiver so hard it nearly cracked. ‘What are you saying?’
‘It’s yours. It must be, because it’s certainly not Solomon’s, and I didn’t do it with anyone else.’
‘Could there not be a mistake?’ Patrick ran his finger round his collar to get some air into his lungs. The sweat was pouring off him. He and Theresa had only done it once after her husband had come out of jail, and they’d used protection. ‘Maybe her colour will change as she gets older. It often happens like that.’
‘Patrick, the baby’s got red hair.’ He could hear Theresa’s breathing getting more ragged. She must have called shortly after the delivery, and he was surprised she hadn’t fainted already. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘Sol stormed out of here in a rage. He knows where you are, and I’m scared he’s going to come looking for you.’
‘How does he know to look for me?’
‘He’s not stupid. He took one look at the kid and shouted, “Whose bastard is this? Is it Lynch’s?” I wasn’t in a position to deny it, was I?’
‘Okay, Terri, get some rest. I’ll…’
Before he could finish the sentence, the bar door slammed open, and Solomon King strode in. Patrick put down the phone and instinctively rejoined his group. Everyone was staring at the new arrival, massive and quivering with rage, his dreadlocks swinging as he looked around the room, hands jamme
d in his jacket pockets. All of his body language screamed aggression, but Donal Lynch didn’t notice a thing.
He blithely stood up and said, ‘Solly, my mate. Has she sprogged? What is it?’
King walked two paces towards the group. ‘I want a word wid you, Paddy. Outside or in here, I don’t care.’
‘Easy, Solly,’ said Donal and moved towards him. ‘What’s the problem, mate?’
‘She rang here,’ said Patrick. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. It was only the once after you came back.’
‘After? After? What about before? I’m in jail and you’re screwing my woman! You Irish…’
Donal had put out an arm to restrain him, but King pulled his hands out of his pockets and shoved Donal aside. Patrick could see a blade in his right hand.
King lunged forward towards Patrick and everyone froze in their places except the shortest member of the group. Big Ben swung his leg and kicked King in the kneecap, then shot out of his seat and chopped down on the wrist holding the knife. King tried to grab hold of the smaller man, but Ben was behind him and pushing him forward. He slammed King face first into a pillar, then grabbed hold of the dreadlocks. The little man had pulled out a knife of his own and used it from behind to slash open King’s neck. Then, in the silence of the bar, they heard the giant Jamaican gurgle as his lifeblood sprayed out on the floor. By the time he had collapsed completely, the blood had stopped flowing.
Patrick’s eyes flicked from the six foot corpse of Solomon King to the vibrant Big Ben. The killer picked up his whiskey glass and his pint of Guinness and placed them on the bar. ‘Wash these,’ he said to Dave. ‘Now.’
The barman did as he was told, and Ben turned to Patrick. ‘You’ll not forget this birthday in a hurry.’ In the silence, his harsh West Belfast accent contrasted sharply with the Dublin and Black Country voices that had been heard before. Ben picked up the bottle of whiskey and spat on King’s leather jacket. ‘That’ll teach you, you black bastard.’ Then he disappeared out of the door.
‘Uncle Don, am you alright?’ said the cousin, nudging Donal Lynch – who hadn’t moved since King had pushed him over. ‘Oh fuck, fuck! He’s been stabbed.’
Patrick shook himself and moved over to Donal. He could see blood coming from underneath his brother-in-law and rolled him over. Right in the middle of his chest was the handle of a knife, wrapped in masking tape. It was the classic shiv: a short bladed prison weapon that King must have had in his left hand. Donal’s face was already drained of colour.
Sirens sounded in the distance, rapidly approaching. Patrick was going to have a lot of explaining to do. And not just to the police.
EIGHTEEN YEARS LATER
Chapter 1
City of London – Earlsbury
Another Friday Night
5 June 2010
The City of London Police building has very few windows with anything that could be described as a view. Some lucky officers had rooms which overlooked the tranquil garden of St Mary Aldermanbury, with its bust of Shakespeare, but most did not. Detective Sergeant Tom Morton thought that the worst prospect was undoubtedly those windows which looked inwards to the courtyard. That was where his office was.
At least they had invested in air conditioning. Even so, Tom had had enough, and he shoved the papers on top of his desk into the drawer and shut down the computer. From the corner office, his boss could see him preparing to leave and came out.
‘All set for tomorrow, Tom?’
‘Yes, sir. No problem if I go home and relax, is there?’
‘Of course not. You’ll be fine.’
DI Peter Fulton, section head of the Money Laundering Investigation Unit, clapped his sergeant on the back and shook his hand. Tom picked up his briefcase and headed to reception.
‘I know what you need, Sergeant Morton,’ said the receptionist, Elspeth Brown.
‘I hope you’re going to suggest a long cold beer,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got the energy for anything else.’
‘As long as you’ve saved some energy for tomorrow, that’s the main thing.’
She fished in her handbag and passed him a small greetings card. ‘Good luck, Tom,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think you’ll need it.’
He was too polite to stuff the card in his pocket, so he opened it in front of her: Good Luck in your Exams! exclaimed the little leprechaun on the front, dancing a jig and waving a four leaf clover. He flipped it open to see that she had signed it with Love from Elspeth, but hadn’t put any kisses: that was a relief.
‘Thank you so much, Elspeth,’ he said. ‘It’s very kind of you to remember.’
‘It’s been on the duty roster for weeks, so I couldn’t miss it, could I? Talking of rosters, have you worked out when you’re taking your summer holidays yet?’
‘Yeah. I’ve told the boss.’
‘You must get away,’ she said, placing a comforting hand on his. ‘Somewhere completely new…’
‘You mean where I can forget about Caroline?’
Elspeth blushed and took her hand away, shuffling some papers and looking down.
‘Sorry,’ said Tom. ‘That came out wrong. It was kind of you to ask.’ Marooned in his embarrassment, he tried to paddle out of it. ‘As it happens, I am doing something new. I’m having a week on the farm in Yorkshire, then I’m going to a cordon bleu cookery school in Spain. I’ve eaten enough tapas, so it’s time I learnt how to make it.’
She looked up again. ‘That’s lovely. I look forward to hearing all about it.’
He left the dry coolness of the building and found the warmth outside still pleasant, not too sticky to enjoy. It was only a short stroll to his flat down London’s narrow lanes, some unchanged since the Great Fire. He liked to vary his route and discover new businesses or say goodbye to old ones that had shut down as the recession bit harder. Some of the narrowest lanes had A-board mazes of special offers to negotiate. He took the shortcut through Paternoster Square, eyes on the pavement to avoid looking at the depressing concrete pillars, then casting his gaze up again when he emerged into St Paul’s Churchyard.
Wren’s masterpiece was almost white against the blue sky, and for a few moments the sun was able to fight its way through the concrete forest to warm the whole area. Looking up was a moment of respect for higher forces, but he had no idea what might be up there and whether they were looking down at him. His older sister would have gone in to the cathedral and said a prayer, just to be on the safe side, but Tom preferred to rely on hard work and making his own luck. Nevertheless, if there was someone watching over him, he had made his obeisance.
Offices were starting to empty out for the weekend as he cut through Dean’s Court into Carter Lane, and finally turned into his own little piece of the City – Horsefair Court.
Tom lived in a studio flat at the top of the only building. From Carter Lane, he had gone under an archway into a dead end which had brick walls on three sides and a three-storey Georgian house on the right. The developer had started at the top of the property, and Tom’s flat had been finished first. No one would buy into a building site, so the developer had rented it to him for a year. The fact that a policeman would be living there was probably a consideration, too.
It was his second return home today. Last night had been city-hot and had made sleep almost impossible, so Tom had left the house at five thirty to do some shopping. He was the only pedestrian on the Millennium Bridge (joggers didn’t count) and quickly weaved his way past the Tate Modern to Borough Market. The City of London was well provided with restaurants and delis, but had few outlets for fresh food which was why he had crossed the river. The lemon sole were almost flapping at the Furness Fish & Game stall, and he added a serving of their speciality – Morecambe Bay potted shrimps.
He hoped that by being out and active so early he would sleep properly tonight. With no aircon in the flat, he quickly got changed to start preparing the meunière sauce for the sole. He took the receptionist’s card from his suit po
cket, put it next to the kettle and switched it on for a cup of tea. He was reaching into the cupboard when the landline rang. That would have to be his mother – no one else used it regularly and certainly not on a Friday night. He was right.
‘Have you called to wish me luck?’ he said.
‘What for? Don’t tell me I’ve forgotten something.’
‘Inspector’s exams. Tomorrow.’
‘Oh, you’ll be fine. You got a first in law, so they can’t be that difficult.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence … I think. Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, Mum, but if it wasn’t to wish me luck, why have you called?’
Tom thought of her in the little sitting room in York, door firmly closed in case his father wandered in, her hair and make-up perfectly prepared for tonight’s social event. There would be one because there always was on Fridays.
‘We’ve had a bit of bad news, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh?’
It couldn’t be that serious: if there had been a real problem, she would have come straight out with it.
‘Your Great Uncle Thomas’s cancer has come back. They can’t treat it this time, so he’s gone on to a palliative care regime. They’re quite good at that over there.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Will Granddad go to the States and see him, d’you think?’
‘Yes. He’s already been invited – first class tickets paid for, so he’s got no excuse.’
‘That’ll be nice for him. Well, as nice as it gets to see your brother dying, I mean.’
‘Yes, but it’s a special invitation – there’s going to be a wedding.’
His mother paused for dramatic effect, and Tom tried to think who on earth might be getting married. His great uncle had gone to America during WWII in mysterious circumstances and hadn’t come back. Well, he would come back for visits, but he’d settled down in Boston and become a Harvard professor of something to do with history. Tom had no idea of the marital status of any of his American cousins, nor why it should be of interest to Granddad, his mother, or him. ‘Who’s getting married? Is it whats-her-name with the funny voice?’