Rider

by Merrigan, Peter J

  She had heard nothing of Kane since he arrived in London and she prayed every night that he was safe, that he was still alive. Whatever feelings she had had for David, though they still throbbed in her chest, were lessening and being replaced by a distinctive anger. She assumed that if Kane had found David there would be only one outcome. She knew Kane would not have taken the derringer like she told him and it was clear that David was a dangerous man. The ones you love, the ones you never suspect, are often the most treacherous.

  Twelve years ago, more than a year after the death of her first husband, Ciarán Cassidy, whose surname Ryan still bore, David Bernhard walked into her life and stole her mind as much as he stole her heart. She seldom mixed in financial circles, but she had been invited to a party by a friend and David had enchanted her within five minutes of their introductions. She spoke little to the others present and spent most of the evening on the sofa with him, drinking wine and discussing subjects she would have otherwise considered far too highbrow for her mind. But David had a way with words, a persuasive way of explaining his ideologies to her that she could comprehend his most detailed conversations without breaking a sweat.

  By the end of the first hour, they had traded email addresses with promises from David to forward to her some document or other—she no longer remembered what—and by the end of the evening they had exchanged phone numbers and agreed upon a date.

  She had worried about Ryan’s reaction. Twelve-year-old boys were not generally given to the ready acceptance of their mother’s boyfriends. Boyfriend was more precise; Margaret had not dated anybody since Ciarán’s death and finding David had come as an unexpected surprise. Ryan, however, had been fantastic. ‘You need someone to keep you busy,’ he had said. ‘There’s only so many times you can tidy my room.’

  She had left a friend to watch over Ryan and David had taken her to dinner on their first date. She even remembered what she had ate—asparagus soup, shrimp and rosemary spiedini, pomegranate sorbet. It was things like those that you never forgot.

  David enthralled her with his talk of the financial world and the politics that encompassed it. Ciarán had had a highly successful career in sales, and they never went short, but never before had money’s prerogative entered her mind. David’s witty character had shone that evening and Margaret felt as though she hadn’t laughed so much in years, certainly not all through Ciarán’s illness and the year that followed his premature death.

  David had proposed to her five months later and they were married in a little church in Cork six months after that. Ryan had looked so cute in his Oxford-grey morning suit, all gangly legs and arms as his growth spurt had become an eruption into early adulthood, his hair soft and combed rather than spiked and hardened by gel. They honeymooned in Switzerland, their hotel room adjoined by Ryan’s room who had come along at David’s insistence. The pair had hit it off instantly and, although neither believed David to be a replacement for Ryan’s dad, they became a close representation of the father-son double act Margaret had seen in years past with Ryan and Ciarán.

  Never would she have considered David’s ultimate betrayal, that he would be the hand behind the murder of her only son.

  Warm thoughts ran cold within her blood.

  As she stared at the magazine but saw images of Ryan in her mind, a nurse entered her private room and said, ‘You haven’t eaten?’

  Looking up, Margaret said, ‘I’m beginning to feel well again. Are you trying to kill me?’

  The nurse glanced at the door behind her. ‘There are some men here to see you.’

  Just then, two men in suits walked in. The one in front said, ‘Thank you, nurse, you can leave now.’

  Margaret took her glasses off and adjusted her position on the bed. The nurse hovered nervously before leaving.

  ‘Detectives Simpson and Parker, Mrs Bernhard,’ said the first man. They flashed their badges. ‘We wonder if you can accompany us to London.’ The tone of his voice implied a command, not a request.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Margaret asked.

  Detective Simpson said, ‘We’ll explain on the way. We can be in the air within the hour.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere without an explanation.’

  Parker wheeled the bed tray away and Simpson said, ‘We have instruction from Interpol in London. I’m afraid I can say nothing other than it’s in connection with a Mr Kane Rider.’

  At the mention of Kane’s name, both worried for him as well as relieved that the detectives hadn’t come to tell her he was dead, Margaret instantly pulled back the covers, winced at some pain, and slid her legs out of bed. ‘Take me home first. I need—’

  ‘There’s no time,’ Simpson said. ‘We have a helicopter prepping right now.’

  ‘You’ll take me home first,’ Margaret insisted. ‘A lady goes nowhere without her clutch bag.’

  Simpson said, ‘I must impress upon you the urgency with which we need to act.’

  ‘Impress all you like,’ Margaret said. ‘You either take me home or I don’t get in your damn helicopter.’

  Simpson shook his head in dismay and said, ‘Come on.’

  They helped her out of the bed.

  * * *

  Battered in body but not in spirit, unable to see through one black and swollen eye, Kane found a trench within his mind to escape from the nightmare ordeal that his life had become. He settled comfortably into a future-memory—a memory that should have happened but never did, never would.

  He had once planned, in a flight of fancy, how he would propose to Ryan.

  Always the outgoing one, Ryan was prone to the necessity of being the focal point of attention. Surrounded by friends, he was a social It Boy, the party animal that everyone loved and admired. Kane, on the other hand, was much more reserved. Certainly no wallflower, but he was the quiet, brooding sort that skirted the boundaries of social engagements, happy to be known as Ryan’s Kane, happy to blend into the background while Ryan took the full shine of the spotlight. Where Ryan was chatty and engaging, Kane was soft-spoken and carefully deliberate.

  The Union had karaoke on Saturdays and made a change from the Kremlin. Kane, Ryan and a group of Ryan’s friends would often visit and have lunch and drinks and sing songs and laugh at how bad they all were. Ryan was up at every chance he could get, finishing one song and selecting his next track almost immediately. He wasn’t blessed with the most seductive singing voice in the world, but he could hold a tune.

  And every time they went there, Kane was asked to get up and sing—‘Do that one you sang me in bed the other night,’ Ryan would say—but he always refused; there was a vast difference in singing in the privacy of your own home and belting out love songs on a stage in front of strangers. ‘No matter how drunk you get me, you will never get me up in front of this angry mob.’

  They egged him and encouraged him, but he would staunchly shake his head and grit his teeth and say no. His social anxiety prevented him from being the centre of attention, from getting up in front of everyone and wilting as they stared at him in gross fascination of whatever song he would butcher.

  But he had a plan. One day, enabled by a double helping of Dutch courage, he would speak to the karaoke DJ in advance, tell her his idea, and then, when Ryan and his friends asked him to get up and sing, at first he would refuse, but would suddenly relent and agree, specifying that this would be the one and only time he ever did, saying they’d better film it on their phones if they wanted a keep sake, and he would rise and walk to the front and take the microphone and smile and wait for the music to start.

  And just before the first line of the song was to be song, the DJ would fade out the music and everyone’s attention—everyone’s—would be on Kane, standing there by the paused lyrics, standing there with a smile on his face and a ring in his pocket. And he would say, ‘I know you were expecting me to sing a song, but to be honest I don’t have the voice for it.’ He wouldn’t pause, couldn’t pause. ‘I’m going to do something a little different,�
�� he’d say. ‘There is someone in the room I’d like you all to meet. Ryan, can you stand up?’ And Ryan would stand and smile, confused, drink in hand, waving to the captive audience.

  ‘Ryan and I have been going out since we were sixteen,’ Kane would continue. ‘He’s been trying to get me to sing on karaoke since we were first allowed into the bars. Today I said I would, but I won’t. Instead, I wondered if no one would mind if I asked him a question.’

  Kane would watch Ryan’s face for any sign of enlightenment, expecting only uncertainty before he would take the ring box from his pocket and hold it up and say, ‘Ryan Cassidy, will you do me the great honour of being my husband?’

  And Ryan would scream and the bar’s patrons would gasp and applaud when he said yes and there would be much crying and calls for champagne and they would embrace and hold each other tight and fall in love all over again.

  Kane already had the memory stored in his head, even though it never happened. At least, he thought, he would always have the memory of wanting to propose to Ryan.

  * * *

  The Belgrave Gentleman’s Club, situated in the heart of London’s Square Mile, was frequented mostly by financial tycoons and wealthy bankers. First established in 1836, it took its name from the district of Belgravia where it was situated until its relocation to the City in 1967. A grand façade gave way to an impressive lobby with two reception rooms at either side of the building and a further eight rooms upstairs, complete with en suite bathrooms, sauna and steam rooms.

  At the rear of the Belgrave, a backroom served as an additional meeting place for the more secretive of business dealings and offered members a full-sized snooker table, several gambling machines, and a jukebox with discs from Chopin to Led Zeppelin, as well as safe storage and private telephone lines.

  David Bernhard was a regular visitor of Belgrave’s backroom during his trips to London—membership at the Belgrave was exclusive and member lists were never released to the public.

  Currently, he smiled down at Kane, who was on the floor, gagged and bound to a leg of the massive snooker table. The two men who had accosted him from his safe house stood sentry by the door.

  David perched on the edge of the table and rolled the cue ball back and forth across the green felt. ‘You’re a fool, Kane.’

  Kane cursed through his gag, his vicious words no more than a mumble. He stared at David with a narrowed eye, the other bruised and closed completely.

  ‘Ryan was like a son to me,’ David continued.

  The accusation was clear on Kane’s face.

  ‘I had no choice. He was in the way.’ He rolled the ball into a corner pocket and picked up his gun. A silencer had been screwed to the muzzle.

  Kane, resigned to his fate, raised his head with determination. He refused to give David the satisfaction of seeing him cower.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, son,’ David said.

  Kane stared hard.

  David nodded his head. ‘How is she?’ he asked. ‘She did make it, didn’t she?’

  He had obviously known about Margaret’s wound, about the death of Dawson and subsequent events. Kane battled momentarily between confirming the truth and lying. Letting David think Margaret had died in the gunfire back in Belfast may not change anything, but it might dampen David’s spirits enough to allow Kane some breathing time. He did love his wife, Kane could see. Although how he could love her and kill her son was beyond Kane’s comprehension.

  Eventually, reluctantly, Kane nodded.

  With a hint of genuine sorrow in his voice, David said, ‘Good. I never wanted any of this to happen.’

  At the door, David’s two goons looked bored, as though abduction and violence were common occurrences, as though David often held a weapon in his hand and had a string of men tied to the snooker table at his feet.

  One of the men walked over to the jukebox, pushed a few buttons to select a track, light a cigarette, and returned to his place by the door. From hidden speakers placed around the room, Janis Joplin’s voice scored out her rendition of Summertime.

  ‘Twelve years I’ve loved her,’ David said. ‘Loved them both.’ The gun rested in his hand, a finger placed almost lazily against the trigger. ‘You’re just like Ryan. If you hadn’t interfered, we could have gotten through this. The house, the cars, the clothes—they all have to be paid for. You know nothing.’

  He stood, towering over Kane, and then turned, walked across to a mini-bar, put his gun down and poured himself a drink.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ he said.

  One of the men stepped up and removed Kane’s gag.

  Turning back to face Kane, David said, ‘Ryan had something that belonged to me.’

  Able to speak at last, Kane moistened his lips and said, ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘I know you don’t. Interpol have it.’ He sank the contents of his glass, picked up his gun again and took a solitary step forward. ‘Start talking,’ he said.

  Chapter 16

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ Wilson said. ‘But Rider’s right, Bernhard loves her.’

  They had handled the officer briefing a little while ago and were now in Wilson’s office, suiting up in their ballistic vests. They had already been down to the armoury.

  ‘But using her like this?’ Clark asked.

  Wilson said, ‘It’s a last resort. If we get the chance, I want her here for the negotiations.’

  ‘He’s not the negotiating type.’

  ‘Which is why we have the ace,’ Wilson said.

  Clark sighed. She hated wearing the vest but had already felt, firsthand, the protection it offered. It had been a particularly violent raid on a trafficking operation in Manchester six years ago.

  Lyon had been tracking the organisation for a while before they were able to mount busts in both the UK and Libya, a country where the forced labour and sexual exploitation of illegal migrants was endemic, as well as their exportation to other countries.

  Wilson had headed up the UK task force and Clark had only been a detective for two years. She was a subordinate and always knew her place, carried out orders to the letter, and filed comprehensive reports that shamed many others on the team with their detail and detachment. But on this particular raid, she let her heart cloud her mind and acted impulsively. They had every reason to suspect that the property they were raiding contained not just the traffickers but also a number of forced Asian prostitutes, women who had been too afraid to go to the police or make a run for it—those who tried to run where usually caught and butchered in the most horrendous ways.

  Clark had given it too much thought, allowed her feelings to get in the way of the operation, a straightforward enter-and-extract situation.

  Dawn raids were mostly successful because they held the element of surprise. They had taken down both the front and rear entrances simultaneously. In Libya, their counterparts were acting in unison.

  The UK team stormed the building and were almost immediately under fire. Wilson issued orders for cover and consideration, but Clark had seen a young girl, no more than fifteen, running naked through a door to her right. ‘Got a vic,’ she shouted, referring to the girl as a victim, and she took off after her.

  She followed the girl into the room, weapon raised, ready in case any of the perpetrators were in there, and discovered the girl alone, on her knees beside a makeshift and messy bed, rummaging in a hessian sack.

  Clark lowered her gun. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re going to get you out of here.’ The Asian girl looked up at her, eyes wild with fear, and Clark asked, ‘Where are the men?’

  The girl said something in her native tongue, lost in translation, and pulled her hand from the sack. Before Clark knew it, the girl was shooting at her. The bullet hit her squarely in the chest. When Clark went down, stunned but not unconscious, she saw, foggily, Wilson standing over her and firing at the girl. Her blood coated her naked body like a sheet.

  Wilson checked Cla
rk’s vest for impact, took her hand, helped her stand, and said, ‘Everyone’s allowed one mistake. Next time I give you an order, if you ignore it, I’ll shoot you myself.’

  When the operation was locked down and marked up as a success, Clark was treated for a cracked rib and Wilson said, ‘Come on, you owe me a drink for that.’ They had been firm colleagues—even friends—after that.

  Now, she secured her vest and said, ‘It’s not often we get to play the tough guys any more.’

  ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ Wilson said.

  ‘I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m getting too old for the theatrics.’

  Wilson laughed. ‘You’ll never be too old for a showdown.’

  Outside the office door, Dixon slouched by. Life on the top floor with Biggs was clearly getting to him. ‘Dixon,’ Wilson called.

  Dixon stopped, smiled. ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Don’t call me that. And suit up. We need all the men we can get.’

  ‘Is Adams on board?’

  ‘We have our man cornered,’ Wilson said. ‘We’ll tell Adams later that we pulled you off your important paperwork.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Dixon said. He hurried down the corridor.

  ‘Are we sure,’ Clark asked, ‘that they have him at the Belgrave?’

  ‘They were seen going in through the back entrance. Couldn’t be sure it was Rider but if it wasn’t, Bernhard’s playing two games.’

  ‘How’d they get passed Intel?’ Clark asked.

  ‘Watch me get my hands on Mickey Brown.’

  ‘Mickey Brown’s a tank. I’d pay to see that.’

  Checking each other’s straps, Wilson said, ‘You gamble too much.’

  ‘Only on sure-fire wins.’

  Wilson lifted his gun from the desk and checked the magazine. ‘Good to go?’

  ‘Let the fun commence,’ Clark said.

  * * *

  David slapped the butt end of a cue across Kane’s face and Kane spat the resulting blood on the carpeted floor, his cheek stinging and his head hollow.