The Watchman

by Chris Ryan

  Alex smiled, and tried not to think about George Widdowes' ears lying grey and bloodstained against the pillow. The same thought evidently occurred to Dawn, for her movements abruptly hardened and became businesslike.

  When she had finished she stepped out on to the balcony with her mobile phone.

  "Can you give me a moment?" she asked, punching out a number.

  "Personal call."

  He took himself into the bathroom. The boyfriend, he thought, and felt a sudden urge to hit Dawn's unknown lover very hard in the face. Several times, preferably.

  He glanced in the mirror, at the angry black stitch-tracks across his face. You look like shite, Temple, he told himself You'd be lucky to trap some swamp donkey from Saxty's looking like that, let alone this foxy little spook. Get real.

  By the time she returned he was down to his boxer shorts and looking for the Nurofen.

  "Turn round," she said.

  "Let me look at that thigh."

  Alex obeyed. Five minutes later she folded her arms.

  "OK," she began.

  "This is the deal. You get the bed and the blankets from the cupboard, I get the quilt on the floor."

  "I'll go on the floor. You take the bed."

  "Normally I'd accept like a shot, but given the extent of your injuries I've decided to be generous. No arguments, Temple,

  OK?"

  Alex inclined his head and climbed into the bed. Dawn went into the bathroom. When she returned to the quilt on the floor she paused for a moment in front of the window, a slight and entirely feminine figure in her white T-shirt and knickers.

  Alex groaned. For the first time that day he found himself in severe physical pain.

  TWENTY-TWO.

  "You're not going to throw up again, are you?" Dawn enquired.

  "I don't think so," whispered Alex.

  "But you couldn't just ask that waiter for a half of lager, could you?"

  "Are you insane?"

  "No, I know it sounds bad but it works. And since it seems to be impossible to get a decent fried breakfast in this hotel ..

  "This is Spain, Alex, not the Mile End Road. Why don't you just lie back and get some sun, and stop being so scratchy?"

  It was 10.30 and they were on adjoining sun loungers by the hotel pool. Dawn was wearing the red bikini they had bought at Heathrow, but not even this could raise Alex's spirits. A bad hangover had coincided with an acute bout of guilt and depression concerning George Widdowes.

  The day before had been enjoyable and there had been an air of promise about things a sense that the mistakes of the past might somehow be redeemed by a little energetic detective work.

  Now, everything seemed curiously pointless. If he weighed up his career and balanced the harm he had done and the deaths he'd caused against the long-term good, he was unable to state as he'd once been able to that on balance the good came out on top. It didn't. The bad came out on top.

  Den Connolly had clearly felt that moving from unattributable operations for the RWW to boosting security vans on the North Circular Road was little more than a side shuffle. It wasn't a question of going into crime you were already there. You had already spent so much of your career so far outside the normal boundaries of behaviour that almost anything seemed logical and reasonable.

  The trouble with crime, though, was criminals. They were stupid, for the most part, and greedy. And boastful, judging by last night, and sentimental, and seriously lacking in taste. No, he decided, you'd have to put your own outfit together. A few good, reliable blokes. Apply military standards of security, planning and execution.

  And then what, assuming you did the bank and made your wad?

  Buy a bar and a big telly, and listen to war stories and get fat? Dawn raised her head from the sun lounger and peered at him irritably. Her face was shining with sunscreen.

  "What was it you said yesterday? Cheer up? Get a life? The sun's shining?"

  Alex turned to face her and felt the day's first pale flicker of lust. The red lycra strap of the bikini top hung undone on either side of her and a single pearl of sweat lay in the small of her back. For a moment he stared at it, wondering how her skin would taste, then a waiter with a tray approached.

  "Una cerveza para el Senor, por favor," murmured Dawn.

  "Y un naranjafresca para mi, gracias."

  "Si, Senora." The waiter nodded and disappeared.

  "That sounded very fluent," said Alex.

  "Yes, I told him you needed an enema for your bad mood."

  "What I need is not to have drunk so bloody much last night."

  "I expect you've done worse in the service of your country."

  He grunted. The knife wounds were beginning to heal, and in consequence to itch like crazy.

  "I

  forgot to ask did you manage to rescue my weapon from the river?"

  "The Glock? Yes. Plus your knife and a silenced Sig Sauer that Meehan must have been carrying. And while you were out for the count, by the way, we managed to get tissue scrapings and a couple of hairs from under your fingernails."

  "Well, I certainly held on tight. But surely you don't need any proof of who you're dealing with?"

  "Every confirmation helps. But our main hope is that we might be able to learn something about his whereabouts. The Forensic Science Service can tell you a hell of a lot from a hair."

  Alex looked at her doubtfully.

  "Good luck with that. The hair may well turn out to be more helpful than laughing boy down the road."

  "If he's not going to tell us anything, why ask us to come back?"

  "He'll probably produce something just to swing the immunity deal I promised him. The question is whether we'll be able to rely on what he produces."

  Dawn frowned at him.

  "Look, about this immunity deal...?"

  "Dawn, the chances are that if you've got nothing on him now then nothing's going to come up in the future. And you can swing it, can't you, if he leads us to the Watchman?"

  "It's a hell of a big "if"."

  The drinks arrived. Alex drank down his beer in three long swallows, thought it probable for several minutes that he was going to vomit, then suddenly felt better.

  Dressed, they strolled through the port, where Dawn bought herself a scoopneck top and a pair of skin-tight white jeans, and high-heeled mules. To look the part, she explained. Basic tradecraft.

  Back at the hotel she changed into it all, adding a Wonderbra.

  "Blimey!" said Alex, impressed.

  "All you need now is a forty-a-day Rothman's habit and a boyfriend on Crimestoppers!"

  "If we hang around at Pablito's long enough I'll probably end up with both."

  Alex raised an eyebrow.

  "I thought you were already taken. Mr. Lucky-boy in London."

  Dawn rolled her eyes and swung her bag over her shoulder.

  "Let's go."

  Pablito's appeared deserted. The swing doors were locked, the tables untenanted and wasps swung threateningly around an overflowing litter bin.

  Checking his watch, Alex knocked at the entrance. The door was opened by Marie, who was wearing a pink velour tracksuit.

  "Come in.

  "Fraid Den's still sleeping it off. You look a treat, my love. Cup of Nes?"

  "Lovely," said Dawn.

  When the coffee was ready they carried it upstairs. Above the bar was a small landing giving on to a bedroom and bathroom, and a sun-baked roof terrace. On a large rectangle of plastic matting at one end of this, naked but for a faded pair of Union Jack underpants, lay Denzil Connolly, snoring. An ashtray had overturned at his side and a nine-tenths-empty bottle of Bell's whisky lay just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm.

  "He likes to sleep under the stars," said Marie.

  "I had to put down the matting 'cause the bottles kept smashing and then he'd roll on the pieces in the night. He's a big feller, as you can see." She folded her arms in a long-suffering gesture.

  "Den, love, we've got com
pany.

  The sleeping figure stirred and the eyes half opened in pull~ suspicion.

  "Wha' the fuck you..." Seeing Alex and Dawn, he closed his eyes again, groaned and writhed like a hippopotamus.

  "Wha's fuckin' time?"

  "Twelve. And Alex and Dawn are here."

  "Who? Oh, yeah, right. Give us a hand up."

  He struggled to his feet and Marie led him inside. There were unpleasant noises from the bathroom.

  By the time they sat down to lunch on the terrace half an hour later, however, Connolly appeared fully recovered. Bullish, even, in his vast shorts and polo shirt.

  They ate fish and oven chips with vinegar and mushy peas cooked by Marie and drank ice-cold Spanish beer.

  "You two should get a place over here," Connolly said expansively. He winked at Dawn.

  "Can you cook, love?"

  "You betcha."

  "Well, then. Sorted."

  "It would be nice, wouldn't it, Alex?" said Dawn.

  "I'm afraid I'm not quite in the early-retirement league," said Alex.

  "Maybe I could set up a little security outfit, though. Country clubs, golf clubs..."

  "Protection?" asked Marie brightly.

  "Well, I wouldn't put it exactly like that ..

  The meal, and later the afternoon and early evening, wore on pleasantly enough. Alex had taken a couple more ephedrine tablets at the hotel and so was happy to maintain a steady intake of cold beer. Connolly drank Scotch from the start, occasionally topping up his drink with a splash of mineral water, and by mid-afternoon Alex estimated that the big man had sunk a good third of a bottle. This, he knew, was when you got the best of a heavy drinker: in the five- or six-hour window following recovery. The whisky seemed to have little effect on Connolly other than to cheer him up and he proved a vastly entertaining host, telling story after story about the criminal fraternity who were the bar's main if not only clientele. No mention was made of his own exploits, however, nor of his military past.

  At four o'clock Marie drove them to San Pedro, where Connolly was a member of a country club. In practice this simply meant a change of bar and Alex tried to moderate his alcoholic intake. Dawn did her rum-and-Coke trick, always managing to have a full glass at her side, but for Alex it was harder. Connolly, he sensed, needed to know that he was in the presence of a kindred spirit. He needed company on the long alcoholic journey that would end in oblivion in the early hours of the morning. He needed to see Alex keep pace with him. This was the price for the information that he had to offer.

  At six they returned to El Angel, where Maria prepared the bar for the night's trade and microwaved a frozen chicken-and-pineapple pizza to keep them all going. Despite having drunk more than two-thirds of a bottle of Scotch, Connolly appeared solid as a rock and capable of continuing for ever. Alex, by contrast and despite the ephedrine, was beginning to feel decidedly light-headed. It was a very hot day and he had downed a good dozen beers in half as many hours.

  Surreptitiously palming a glass and a salt cellar from one of the tables he disappeared into the Gents. There he poured a good teaspoonful of salt into the glass, added water and waited while it dissolved. Gritting his teeth, he took a hefty swig. As soon as the salt hit the back of his throat he retched convulsively, bringing up the last few drinks in a warm gush. Twice more, he forced himself to repeat the exercise. By the end of it he was white-faced and nauseated, but reckoned he had probably bought himself another couple of hours of drinking time.

  Soon, the first customers started to arrive and the routine of the night began to repeat itself. Connolly appeared to be in expansive form again, greeting every new arrival with huge enthusiasm, roaring with laughter at their jokes and dispensing drinks liberally.

  Alex began to despair of ever getting him alone. Had the big man, he fell to wondering, remembered a single detail of their conversation the night before? Or had he and Dawn simply been two vaguely recognised faces who, for reasons unknown, had turned up to keep him company?

  The evening passed in a beery, pissed-up blur. He had drunk himself sober, Alex found, and with every minute that passed his irritation grew. He should have known better than to force through this trip on the word of a known head case like Stevo. All that he had done was compound his failure to protect Widdowes by promising information that, when push came to shove, he couldn't deliver.

  "I'm not confident about all of this," he confided to Dawn at about 11 p.m.

  "Last night I was convinced he had something to tell us but now I think he's just stringing me along. That is, if he remembers what I said to him last night, which I'm seriously beginning to doubt."

  "I think you're wrong," said Dawn.

  "I think he's trying to come to a decision. I think we're in the best place we could be right now."

  Alex stared at her, amazed. Her tone was both comp licit and intimate. Her usual operational scratchiness was nowhere to be found.

  "Trust me, Alex," she added, turning her back to the bar and placing a proprietorial hand on his shoulder.

  "I've seen this sort of thing from informants before. It's a sort of dance they do, like cats walking round and round a place before they sit down."

  "I'm glad you think so," said Alex, pleasantly conscious of the small pressure of her hand.

  "I was going to say that I thought we'd blown several grand of your agency's budget on a wild goose chase. That you might have some serious explaining to go through when you get back to Thames House. Swanky hotels and bikinis and all the rest of it."

  "Oh, the bikini won't be wasted," said Dawn airily.

  "But take my advice. Let Connolly come to you. He knows why you're here, all right." She winked.

  "Trust me!"

  "I do trust you.

  "Well, I'm not sure if I should trust you with all these Costa Crime femmes fatales. I've seen a couple of real vampires eyeing you up.

  "Well, then your observational skills are better than mine, girl, because I haven't clocked them."

  She tapped the mobile phone in her jeans-jacket pocket.

  "Would it surprise you that there was a call made to the hotel this morning asking to be put through first to your room and then to mine?"

  "And?"

  "And the caller discovered what he wanted to know, which is that we had the same room number. That I'm really your girlfriend, not some scalp hunter from Box or Special Branch."

  Alex smiled.

  "Well, I'm glad we've got that straight."

  She gave him a long, cool glance.

  "Will you do something for me?"

  "What?" he asked, inhaling the smoky jasmine of her scent.

  "If we get anything from Connolly will you go all the way for me?"

  He narrowed his eyes.

  "What exactly do you..."

  She leant towards him, took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit him. Not hard, but not softly either.

  "Stay on the case. You and me together. As equals. No more bullshit, no more fighting. After all," she murmured, 'we are supposed to be sleeping together."

  He stared into her level grey eyes, dazed by her closeness.

  "So, lovebirds, whassup?"

  It was Connolly, swaying in front of them.

  And Marie.

  "Dawn, love," she said, "I've come to borrow you. You know the words to "Stand by Your Man", don't you? We need more chorus members."

  "Ooh, lovely," trilled Dawn.

  Connolly waited until the women had gone, then nodded towards the stairs.

  On the roof terrace they drew up chairs. A bottle of Paddy's whiskey, two glasses and Connolly's cigarettes were arranged on a low table. The fat man poured the drinks.

  "Joe Meehan, then," he said, raising his glass.

  "What's the story, morning glory?"

  "How much do you know about what you were finishing him for?" asked Alex, sipping the whiskey, feeling the dark burn of its descent.

  "Officially, nothing. Except that it was clear he was goi
ng over the water. And going in very deep, given the attention he was given. And I also knew that he was very good. Almost certainly the best man I ever trained."

  "No one told you anything?"

  "No, we were left to draw our own conclusions. I'll tell you something, though.

  They made a big thing about the secrecy of the operation. It was an RTUable offence even to mention it."

  "Well, notes are being compared now."

  Connolly waited, his glass steady in his hand, immobile.

  Alex leant forward.

  "You were right about Ireland, obviously. He went in deep, joined the Provies, worked his way up.

  "Brave lad."

  "He was," agreed Alex.

  "Until the whole thing went arse-up. They turned him, Den."

  "Not possible," said Connolly flatly.

  "They never turned that lad, I'd bet the bar on it. He was the best I ever saw. The most committed. He'd never have fallen for all that tin pot Armed Struggle bollocks."

  "They turned him, Den," Alex repeated.

  "He joined Belfast Brigade's Nutting Squad. Made bombs for them. Personally tortured and murdered those FRU blokes - Bledsoe and Wheen."

  "Not possible, mate," said Connolly again matter-of-factly, tapping the filter of a cigarette on the table and lighting it.

  "I just don't believe you.

  "It's true and it's verified. The province's worst nightmare, and the Regiment and Box put him there."

  Connolly shook his head in disbelief. Closed his eyes, briefly.

  "So now you're after him, yeah?"

  "Look, I don't know what happened over the water, Den, but the man's certainly killing people now. Three in the last couple of months."

  "And so you've been pulled in to kill him." Connolly took a drag of his cigarette, sipped reflectively at his whiskey and stared out over the sea.

  "I need to find him. Put any spin on that you like."

  Connolly shook his head.

  "You can fuckin' whistle, chum."

  "Den, mate, you've got a nice set-up here, and you've been good to me and Dawn. But do you really want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, worrying that someone's going to grass you up? Worrying that every new customer might have an extradition order and a warrant in his pocket? Armed robbery, Den. Think about it. It pulls down a heavy score.