by Tony Kent
A press officer stepped up to the vacated podium. He took almost a minute to bring quiet to the crowd. Only then could the man explain that a question and answer session would be inappropriate until Haversume’s nomination for leadership of the government was confirmed. And that could not happen before the result of the vote.
Dempsey’s attention was not wasted on the press officer for even a moment. It remained fixed on Haversume.
As the politician walked away, surrounded by his entourage, Dempsey could not help but notice the change. Haversume had been of interest to the intelligence community for several years, since his first public criticism of Davies’ policies in Ulster. The military and the security services gave him almost unanimous support. It was no surprise that they would sympathise with the sentiments he regularly expressed; that they would agree with his fierce support for their actions and his powerful tributes to their sacrifices. Dempsey knew more than just the public face, though. He knew the man’s history. Things the public could not. And he knew of Haversume’s close relationships with people Dempsey trusted. Still he had doubts. Haversume might be making the right noises, but he remained the consummate politician.
Those thoughts were irrelevant today. Dempsey was not here for politics. What he needed from Haversume was personal.
Walking in the same direction as Haversume’s entourage, Dempsey made sure to move a step or two faster than its members. His long strides brought him level with the rearmost protection officers within seconds. They turned to intercept him. Dempsey flashed his DDS credentials. They were unnecessary. Dempsey had already been recognised and was permitted further into the huddle.
‘Sir, I wonder if I can speak with you?’
Haversume seemed surprised at Dempsey’s sudden appearance. He cast his eye around the accompanying officers, seeking an explanation. Dempsey understood. The man was a perpetual target for assassination. Any unknown face could be a threat.
‘I’m Major Joe Dempsey of the Department of Domestic Security. If I can have a moment of your time?’
‘Ah, that’s where I’ve seen your face before.’
Haversume stopped walking. His entire retinue halted with him.
‘You’re the man who brought down McGale. That was fine work.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Dempsey replied. ‘But I’m not here about that exactly. It really is important that I speak to you alone. Is now a convenient time?’
‘I’m sorry, Major, but I just have no time to spare. What with tonight’s vote. But my staff will make you an appointment for the earliest available opportunity.’
Haversume signalled to a tall, smartly dressed woman stood close by. She stepped forward to take over the conversation as Haversume began to walk away. He did not get very far, halting at the sound of Dempsey’s next words:
‘It really can’t wait, sir. I need to speak to you immediately regarding the murder of Daniel Lawrence.’
FIFTY-FOUR
‘I asked you a question.’
Liam Casey was growing impatient. The sudden appearance of his younger brother seemed an unwelcome shock. Every inch of him suggested a man who was just moments from violence.
Michael, in turn, was dumbstruck. He had enjoyed the advantage of time. An opportunity to prepare himself for this, albeit only an hour or so. But Michael also knew that he was the one to blame for the bad blood that filled the room. It made his position difficult.
‘I’m in trouble, Liam. I need your help.’
Eight small words, they somehow cut through two decades of bitterness and resentment. The look on Liam’s face changed from simmering anger to confused concern. He sat back in his seat and poured a large splash of whiskey into an empty crystal tumbler. He drained a mouthful without offering a glass. A pointed omission.
It was half a minute before he finally spoke.
‘What kind of trouble? Serious?’
‘Serious enough that I’ve come to you.’
‘Bad, then,’ Liam replied, his voice still far from friendly. ‘That’s why someone’s worked you over, is it?’
Michael nodded, instinctively lifting his hand to the wound above his left eye: the cut that had been reopened in McGale’s office.
‘Who was it?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s not just a few cuts and bruises. It’s much worse. They tried to blow me up. They tried to shoot me. Some bastard beat me half to death in London last night, then two more tried to kill us in Belfast this morning.’
‘You’re not serious?’
Liam shifted in his seat. Michael’s reappearance had to have more to it than a mere fight, but what he was saying was something else entirely.
‘Jesus, Mikey, what have you got yourself involved in?’
There was a subtle change in Liam’s tone, a move from animosity to concern. Michael was relieved to hear it. The childhood urge to protect him had not gone.
‘It’s a long story, Liam. But it’s got something to do with Neil Matthewson’s shooting. Whoever was behind that is now coming after me.’
Michael glanced at Sarah before correcting himself.
‘After us.’
‘And what the hell does that have to do with you? You’re no politician.’
‘It’s about my work. You know that Matthewson was killed by a man called Eamon McGale, right?’
Liam nodded.
‘Well, after McGale was arrested a friend of mine, Daniel, was appointed as his lawyer. McGale told Daniel a whole lot of pretty revealing stuff, but before Daniel could tell me most of it both he and McGale were killed. Then, suddenly, the bastards are gunning for us.’
Michael’s second reference to Sarah finally brought her to Liam’s attention.
‘And by “us”, I suppose you mean you and your woman here?’ Liam asked, gesturing in Sarah’s direction.
Sarah hesitated, seemingly caught off guard as the discussion had turned to her. Meeting Liam’s gaze, she stepped forward, leaned across the desk and offered him her outstretched hand.
‘Sarah Truman, Mr Dev . . . erm . . . Mr Casey. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
Liam took Sarah’s hand and shook it without enthusiasm. He seemed not to have noticed her mistake with his surname.
‘I wish I could say the same. Maybe under different circumstances.’
Liam released Sarah’s grip and turned back to Michael.
‘How did you manage to drag this poor girl into your troubles?’
‘He didn’t!’
Sarah seemed outraged by Liam’s dismissive attitude.
‘I’m a journalist, Mr Casey. My investigation raised questions that the same people don’t want answered. So I got myself into this. And I’m lucky Michael’s in it with me.’
Liam’s gaze returned to Sarah, considering her more closely. A smile flickered into life as he spoke again.
‘Call me Liam, Miss Truman. Only the police call me Mr Casey.’ His eyes flicked to Michael. ‘And I hear no one calls you that any more, right?’
Michael said nothing. The jibe was the very least he had expected.
Liam shuffled back into his reclining chair. With his whiskey glass dangling loosely in his fingertips he slowly shook his head, just staring at his brother without a word.
The gaze was a confused mix of concern and contempt. Michael knew why. Liam was struggling to reconcile his burning resentment towards the man who had abandoned him with an urge that he could not resist. An urge to harm those who had hurt his brother.
No one spoke until Liam finally broke the silence.
‘OK, let’s assume this lawyer fella died because of something McGale told him. How does that lead to you? If he died before he could tell you anything?’
‘Because they don’t know that,’ Michael replied. ‘Daniel rang me after he left the police station. His phone records would show that. They must know about that call. They couldn’t take the risk that he might have told me something over the phone.’
‘And had he?’
Liam’s question came without the slightest hesitation. Michael’s ability for sharp thought and cross-examination ran in the family.
Michael did not immediately respond, unsure that he should burden his brother with more information than necessary. Liam noticed the delay.
‘What’s the matter, Mikey?’ Liam’s voice – raised from the start – grew louder with each word. ‘I asked you a simple question. And what? You can’t tell me? You can’t trust me? Is that it? You come to me for help after nearly twenty years and then you want to keep things from me? Jesus, man, I should slap you all around this fucking room.’
The sudden anger took everyone by surprise. Sarah shifted backwards in the face of Liam’s fury. A fury that Michael met head-on.
‘Of course I trust you!’ Michael hollered back.
Both men were on their feet. A current of aggression surged between them.
‘I just don’t know how much I want to tell you in case it puts you in danger. Everyone else who knows about this is dead, Liam. Everyone but me and Sarah. Maybe I don’t want you to end up that way too!’
Michael meant every word. But it did not matter. His brother was finally venting two decades of frustration. He would not stop now.
‘Ah, bollocks, man! You come back here with your English accent and your pretty wee girlfriend and you ask me for help. You expect me to forget that you’ve been a disgrace to this family for the last twenty years. Twenty fucking years!’
‘I had my reasons and you know it!’
This was what Michael had prepared himself to face. Now he was here he did not intend to back down.
‘You know I couldn’t stay!’
‘No, you couldn’t stay. But you could’ve come back.’
There was the barest hint of regret deep in Liam’s voice as he said those words. It was almost lost in his anger, but there was enough that Michael could detect it. Enough to breach his own aggressive facade.
‘I couldn’t come back, Liam. Not after what you did for me. I had to make it worthwhile. You gave me a chance at a life and I had to take it. I had to make a success of it or I’d have been throwing what you did back in your face. I had to stay away.’
‘That’s shite!’
There was no drop in Liam’s aggression. He seemed unaffected by Michael’s now calm attempt to explain.
‘You abandoned your family when you stayed away. You denied we existed, Mikey. From the minute you left. Jesus, you even changed your name, man. That broke Dad. He could never understand it. You broke him.’
‘I had no choice, Liam.’
Michael’s voice was now quiet. His previous passion gone.
‘You know that. Dad was just too big. Too well known. I couldn’t achieve what I had to as the son of Belfast’s biggest gangster. To succeed I had to separate myself. And I had to succeed, Liam. I had to succeed for you.’
‘Don’t go passing the blame on to me.’
Liam’s voice remained loud but the animosity of just moments before was missing. Now the anger was a show to cover less acceptable emotions, and Liam Casey was no actor.
‘Dad died thinking his golden boy didn’t want to know him. Didn’t want to see him. What the hell do you think that did to him?’
‘And what do you think that did to me?’ Michael bellowed angrily, his passion flooding back as tears filled his eyes. ‘I worshipped that man! Just as much as you did! Walking away was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, Liam, but it doesn’t come close to staying away. I paid a price I’ll never be able to live with, to make your sacrifice worthwhile. So don’t go throwing Dad at me as if I don’t care.’
‘You loved him? You didn’t even come when he was on his deathbed, Mikey. You didn’t even come back for his funeral! So don’t start telling me how you worshipped him because we both know that’s bollocks!’
‘I didn’t know he was dying, Liam. You didn’t tell me! What do you think I am, fucking psychic?’
The anger between the brothers was beginning to boil over. It threatened Michael’s third fight in twenty-four hours.
‘And I did come to his funeral. I was there!’
Liam opened his mouth just as Michael’s final words registered in his mind. They stopped Liam’s intended answer in its tracks.
‘You were there?’ The anger was gone. Liam’s voice was quiet.
‘I was there.’ Michael’s reply was simple. His voice as low as his brother’s. ‘But I knew you wouldn’t want to see me, so I kept out of the way.’
Liam was silenced.
He turned his back and walked to the large window behind his desk. It overlooked the whitewashed brickwork of an adjoining building. Nothing of interest there, and yet now it seemed to fascinate Liam, who refused to look away, lost in his own thoughts.
The silence lingered. Michael looked first to Sarah and then to Anne. No one knew what to do. And no one was willing to interrupt Liam’s thoughts.
Finally he spoke.
‘I’ll help you, Mikey.’ Liam’s voice was now a mix of sadness and resignation. ‘And when it’s done I want you out of my life again. For good this time. Understood?’
‘If that’s what you want,’ Michael replied, keeping his own emotions firmly in check.
Liam stood with his back to them for several more seconds. Then he turned, retook his seat and looked up at his brother.
‘If we’re going to do this we do it right.’ Liam’s tone was now cold. All business. ‘I need you and your girlfriend to tell me everything.’
FIFTY-FIVE
Haversume and Dempsey were alone by the time they reached Haversume’s office on the fourth floor of Westminster’s Portcullis House. Haversume had told his assistant that the two men wished to speak privately, and so his ever-growing team of hangers-on had dispersed as rapidly as they seemed to have appeared.
‘This is an impressive place.’
Dempsey took a seat on the guest’s side of an ornate, classically designed desk. A glimpse of the discreet brand name etched underneath told him this table alone cost as much as he earned in six months. At least before overtime.
‘It’s an improvement on the cubby-holes they expected us to work in across the street,’ Haversume replied.
The politician’s words were an understatement. The growth in government personnel had long ago rendered the Parliament building unfit for purpose. It had been designed when an empire was run by the kind of numbers that might today be trusted with a mid-sized university. And yet it still housed a government and civil service that, since the 1960s, had multiplied in size at a rate that would shame bacteria. This over-population had long required tolerance to hardship from those who worked there. Which was not a virtue held in abundance among Great Britain’s politicians.
It was unsurprising, then, that Parliament had tackled the problem with the purchase of a nearby office building, Portcullis House. What was more surprising was how seemingly unlimited amounts of public funds had been thrown at the place. In an age when soldiers die to save the cost of a flack jacket or an armoured reconnaissance vehicle, Portcullis House was proof that the willingness of Britain’s political elite to make sacrifices did not extend to their own working conditions.
The thought had troubled Dempsey as they had made their way through the building. Much of his time was spent justifying expenditure. Explaining to bean counters why a surveillance operation was necessary. Or why air support was essential to an off-land terrorist intercept. He suspected that there had been no such interrogation before the purchase of the seventy-inch LCD flat-screens that seemed to be on every wall. Or the millions of pounds’ worth of artwork he had seen in the lobby. The hypocrisy disgusted him.
Haversume poured two glasses of what Dempsey assumed to be finest Scotch whisky. He handed one to his guest and took his seat on the far side of his desk. Haversume took just a sip before speaking.
When he did, Dempsey could detect the unmistakable quaver of suppressed emotion.
‘You w
anted to discuss Daniel.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dempsey knew he was about to bring up what for Haversume would be an upsetting subject. Delicacy was needed.
‘I’m sorry for your loss. I’m also sorry if my coming here is going to re-open those wounds, but I have reason to believe that the car crash in which Mr Lawrence died was no accident. Sir, I believe that it was a murder, carried out to ensure Mr Lawrence’s silence.’
Haversume held Dempsey’s gaze. His piercing eyes gave away no hint of surprise. Or of anything else. He slowly nodded his head.
‘Go on.’
‘I have evidence that Mr Lawrence attended Paddington Green police station on the evening of his death. That evidence suggests that he was present there in his capacity as a duty solicitor. In that capacity he spent almost two hours alone with Eamon McGale. Whatever conversation passed between the two men in that time we’ll never know, but one thing is for certain: both men were dead within hours of that meeting. I believe that their deaths are connected.’
Dempsey stopped speaking. He studied Haversume for a response. All he got was the sight of a tear building in the politician’s right eye.
He continued.
‘I believe, sir, that McGale had information that someone didn’t want to be made public or fall into the hands of the intelligence services. I believe McGale was killed to prevent this from happening. And I believe that the same people killed Daniel because they feared McGale had passed some of this information to him.’
Haversume did not reply immediately. Which did not surprise Dempsey. It was a lot to take in.
‘Do you have proof of any this, Major Dempsey?’ he finally asked. His voice sounded sad. Again, hardly a surprise.
‘I have proof of some of it. The rest is common sense and inference.’
‘Never the safest of evidence, Major. So what can we actually be sure of?’
Dempsey hesitated. He did not want to reveal more than he needed to. Even Callum McGregor had not been told everything. He thought of the best way to move forward.
‘Sir, you were Mr Lawrence’s godfather. By all accounts you were close, so I’m sure that you know his colleague, Michael Devlin.’