Recovering Commando Box Set

by Finn Óg

  “You’d be wise not to come closer.”

  “Who on earth do you think you are!” bellowed the captain placing an arm on Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam span with the encouragement and before anyone knew anything the captain’s nose was plastered up his face and he was panting on the dry dirt floor.

  “Ch-charge,” was all the shocked captain managed to say.

  “Sir,” said Sam.

  “What?” said the captain, eyes streaming and blood gushing.

  “Charge, sir.”

  “Left it a bit late, you foolish fucking buffoon,” said the captain, still stunned by what had happened. “Do you realise what you have done?”

  “I’m more aware of the situation than you are, captain.”

  “What?” spat the Rupert, blood spattering out with his disbelief.

  “You shall address me as ‘Sir’,” Sam said slowly, mocking the captain, “and you shall apologise.”

  The dawning was a delight as the captain finally registered his miscalculation. He had two black eyes to take back to his troops and no explanation other than he went into a tent with an unidentified special ops bloke and emerged without his dignity, a tooth and a straight nose.

  Sam’s gaze fell back to the curly wig on the barrister. He appeared to be closing, his cloak swooshing and swaying as his sheaf of papers was brandished towards the jury.

  “You must brace yourselves for some disturbing testimony.” He lowered his tone for gravitas. “For this is a serious case with the most serious of outcomes.”

  Sam looked at the accused, passive in the dock. The woman at his side was a wreck. Then he looked at the heiress, who was chewing her lip and looking anxious. Then he looked at Áine, who looked like she might kill dead things, and he resolved to pay more attention from that point on.

  Anthony fidgeted, paced, he even did some press-ups. There was no TV and he had no phone. He had to get out – just for a while.

  “Where you goin’?” said the son, as Anthony made for the front door.

  “Just gonna take a walk along the beach.”

  “Not supposed to.”

  “I know,” he replied, looking at the man in his slippers and a wife beater above tracksuit bottoms. He reeked. “But it’s been four days.”

  “Pish,” said the man.

  “What?”

  “Four days is pish,” he repeated. “Wait till you’ve done fourteen years.”

  Anthony understood what he was being told: tighten up. If you can’t sit in a room for four days, what chance have you of doing jail time?

  “That what you did?”

  “And the rest,” the man replied.

  “What for?”

  “Possession, then a killin’, but it wasn’t me.”

  “So why d’ye go down?”

  “Forensics. Had lifted the weapon for the boy that done it, then handled it after to put it away again. They done me on the ballistics and the residue.”

  “How did they catch you?”

  “Boy that did the shooting was a tout.”

  “You went down for the fella that actually did the shooting?”

  “Aye.”

  “Fuck me. You can’t have been happy about that.”

  The living room door opened onto the hall and the mother emerged. “That’s enough now. Come on in, son. Pointless is comin’ on soon.”

  “Right y’are,” he said and walked past her.

  The mother closed the door behind her son and stared at Anthony.

  “He got injured, in the jail.” She tapped her temple. “Screws beat him after a fight on one of the wings.”

  “Did they?”

  “He’ll not be going back, ok? So nobody’s to know you’re here, y’understand? You’re not to go out. If you go out, you don’t come back, ok?”

  “Ok,” said Anthony.

  “You can come in and watch a bit of telly if you want, but we’ll have to pull the curtains.”

  “Ok,” said Anthony. “Did he really do fourteen years?”

  “He did,” she said. “Man and boy. And now he’s like a boy all over again. So my advice to you is – whatever you’re doing – don’t get caught.”

  The morning was moderately more interesting to Sam as two Garda divers described how they had recovered the body of Ann Seeley. An angler, who made a brief appearance in the dock, confirmed that a day’s fishing on a lower-than-usual Lough Derg had produced no fish and one handbag – the contents of which betrayed its owner. The fisherman immediately recognised the name on a library card as that of a missing woman who had been in the news a month before. He called the Guards who, two days later, recovered the corpse.

  “What was your impression of the body when you recovered it?”

  Sam tuned in.

  “Well, it was fairly manky,” said the guard, unchecked, before he corrected himself. “I mean, like, it had been down there for some time, you know?”

  The barrister floundered as someone in the courtroom sobbed, and Sam turned to see an elderly couple consoling an older woman – the dead woman’s mother, he presumed. Sam stared at the callous guard who didn’t know where to look.

  “Is there anything else you would like to convey about Miss Seeley’s remains?” the exasperated barrister tried again.

  “She was weighted down,” he babbled, “with dumb-bell rings.”

  “Dumb-bell rings?”

  “For, like, on an Olympic weights bar. The yokes like big saucers you put on the ends to make them heavier.”

  The barrister then referred to exhibits that were shown to the jury and displayed on a large screen for the court to see. The guard confirmed that the weights were the ones that had weighted down Ann Seeley’s body.

  Next, forensics and a pathologist took turns describing in nauseating detail what the woman had gone through. Sam’s attention turned to the older woman, and he willed her friends to take her from the court rather than have her hear what had been done to her daughter. Then he looked for a long time at the accused who sat utterly passive without a glint of emotion.

  Lunchtime recess was a silent affair during which the heiress rocked in her seat and ate nothing while her parents gazed into the distance in mild shock. The case turned to Ann Seeley’s personality. Vulnerable and kind were the themes, as witness after witness described an impressionable, caring woman with an affection for children and small animals. Sam noted that Ann’s mother hadn’t returned after lunch and he found himself wishing she was present for the testimony that was, in effect, a tribute to her daughter.

  At four o’clock the prosecution suggested to the judge that they’d done a day’s work, which caught Sam on the hop. Tomorrow, said the brief, they would focus on the technology that had led the police to the accused. The judge seemed keen to get to the sherry, and so everyone stood as he swept out like a Hollywood movie star.

  As they filed out Sam kept an eye on the accused and on Áine, but there was a quietness about the departure. Nobody, Sam guessed, believed the man was innocent, and that, he reasoned, meant that the greatest danger to Áine and the heiress was in the hours before they gave evidence. Which meant a few tough hours for Sam.

  Grim hated his encounters with the boss. There was just no warmth to him at all; he was cruel to the core. His eyes were stone dead and his pallor made him look sick, yet his wiry frame was fit. He had a habit of twisting the unruly ends of his beard, which made it possible for him to speak without anyone ever properly noticing his lips move. His voice was soft, and he never used one more word than was necessary.

  “The mix?”

  “They’ve got everything they need and they’re in location.”

  “Car?”

  “Sorted. We have it months now. Nobody’s actively looking for it. It’s been modified – suspension lifted, so nobody’ll identify it as laden.”

  “Routes?”

  “All recced. The kid’s been well versed.”

  “Comms?”

  “Comms?” Grim�
�s neck tightened.

  “Yes,” said the boss, neither annoyed nor angry, yet somehow still menacing.

  “Eh, well, we thought no comms cos of the tracking. Just a briefing – delivered already, then get the car to the kid.”

  “Simple as that.”

  Grim couldn’t make up his mind if he was being asked a question or being commended. The boss just stared at him. Eventually he stuttered a reply – just to fill the vacuum.

  “Not saying it’s simple, just keep moving parts to a minimum. Reduce liabilities, you know.”

  “Not simple, then?” the boss said, hushed, and Grim nearly shit himself.

  The boss blinked slowly and turned his head away while keeping his eyes fixed on Grim’s. Eventually the eyes rotated to align with his head and he walked away in his curious gait.

  Grim was deeply relieved to see the back of him.

  Sam couldn’t cover two bases, and certainly not two as far removed as those of Áine and the heiress. Áine and her twin shared a flat in the Liberties which was, in part, due to Sinead’s sensibilities. Combined, the pair could have afforded more, but it didn’t feel right to Sinead to be away from the people for whom she worked. The heiress lived with her folks in a Georgian three-storey in the leafy and loaded Southside suburb of Ballsbridge. Sam had to find a way of bringing them all under one roof, so he had a quiet word in the ear of the brief.

  “You’ll be talking to the women tonight?” Sam nodded at Áine and the heiress gathered in a huddle in the atrium outside the court.

  “Eh, no, as a matter of fact.”

  “I think you should. I need them to be persuaded to stay in one place tonight.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well, you want them both to give evidence tomorrow, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And yer man’s not on remand, is he?” Sam nodded at the accused who was looking around for his wife.

  “No, he’s free to go home,” confirmed the barrister.

  “Then probably best they’re looked after. And there’s two of them and one of me, so if they’re in one place, that’s handier.”

  “Well, I really don’t think there’s any actual risk—”

  “I really don’t give a bollocks for the risk assessment of a lawyer in a wig, sunshine. Just you make sure those two women are at the same address tonight and not at different ends of the city, and I’ll make sure they’re both here and happy in the morning.”

  The barrister stiffened and tried to summon the courage to remonstrate. “This is not the north of Ireland,” he stuttered.

  “And this is not a fucking debate,” Sam said calmly. “Just tell them you’ll call in about ten tonight, leave it till eleven and I’ll make sure Áine has a bed in Ballsbridge.”

  Sam was used to people doing as he asked.

  “Fine,” said the barrister uncertainly, and scuttled off under his curly toupee to convey the bad news.

  Then it was Sam’s turn.

  “You ok?” he asked Áine as she passed.

  “Yeah,” she said, which felt like an opening. Any time she didn’t tell him to F off was a bonus.

  “Tough listen for you.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what I’ve read in his messages to her,” she replied as she kept walking.

  Sam kept pace.

  “The brief says you’ve a late-night prep session.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “Ballsbridge.”

  “Oh, mega.”

  “Look, Áine, why don’t you stay in Ballsbridge tonight?”

  “So you can protect me?” she mocked, stopping.

  “Áine, I don’t have the skills or intelligence you have. I don’t have any way of making up for the mess I caused when you lost your job. But I can do this … and I owe your sister – and I owe you. And he’s a dangerous bastard and you’re about to send him to jail for the rest of his life. So what do you reckon? One night. I’ll be around and then you’re shot of me.”

  She glared at him for a solid minute.

  “Sinead sent you for me, didn’t she? This isn’t about them at all, is it?” She nodded to the heiress and her folks.

  Sam said nothing. Áine eventually wilted under the weight of her sister’s concern.

  “The only reason I’m doing this is because they live in a fucking mansion and I will probably have my own bathroom. Now, you can drive me to the flat and I’ll get some clothes.”

  Sam was relieved not to have to spend another night in a car outside the Delaney’s house. He told Áine to wait where she was and went to get the Subaru, content that he had finally managed to do something helpful for Sinead.

  “I’m quite sure there is nothing to worry about.” The barrister mustered a little bit of bravado as he hurried down the ornate hall in the Ballsbridge mansion. Sam had waited for the briefing to finish before he locked down the house for the night. He held the enormous Georgian door open as the barrister turned on the step to speak his learned mind again but Sam closed the door in his face.

  Something caught his eye as he did so. He moved to one of two front reception rooms and, keeping the light off, took a look outside. The street was wide, littered with superior SUVs, Land Rover Discoveries fit for a horse stud and low, sleek BMWs and Audis. There were also thunderous trunky trees lining the plush street like a guard of honour – plenty of cover for anyone wishing to remain concealed. Sam opened the door to the marble-floored hall, allowing sight and sound lines between the front door and back, and remained in position for almost an hour. He could just make out the sound of water running and toilets flushing as the household retired for the night.

  Eventually he pulled up an armchair and sat in the shadows, gazing through the full-length window. He allowed himself to doze, waking to take a good look around whenever the nod of his head stirred him. Hours passed as he stiffened into a right angle, the silence of the house and the travel catching up with him.

  And then she was there, staring through the window, right in front of him.

  5

  Nothing was what it seemed, but then nobody in the unit expected it to be. Each member understood that the team was made up of people with very different interests. There were the military bods who did the scary stuff, there were the bosses who fought a lot, there were the techs who handled all the sneaky-beaky kit and there were the intelligence types who watched and listened and ultimately pulled the strings – or the plug.

  Libby was a chosen name. No reason. She watched the monitors in the briefing room. It was like gazing out onto peaceful countryside. She had seen the men enter the shed and had a fair idea what they were doing in there. The operations officer came in behind her but said nothing. He was the senior rank on the base but had no control over her. Having a spook in the team was part of the deal: his guys and girls gathered the information and Libby interpreted it – along with whatever else her colleagues in other units fed in. Of course there was a puppet master somewhere, with one eye on politics and one on security – that was just the way the thing worked.

  “Good signal,” she commented for lack of anything else to say.

  “They’ve done well. Hard to make everything so clear given how desolate the place is.”

  “How long do you think we can keep them in the field?”

  “Long as it takes,” he said. “We can leave them food drops if necessary. Question for me is – how long do you think they’ll need to be in there?”

  Libby looked at him squarely. “I haven’t been given that information as yet.”

  The operations officer knew there was no point in asking anything else. Even if Libby did know, she probably wouldn’t tell him.

  Sam wasn’t easily startled but a bolt of alarm gripped his neck and shot down his spine.

  She was just standing there, frumpy and silent, watching him. He got the impression she’d been there for a long time, just waiting for him to stir. And when he did, she hadn’t flinched. Utterly disconcerting –
utterly eerie – utterly fascinating.

  Sam recognised her immediately. He stood up and looked beyond her, searching for her husband. He had no choice – if she stayed where she was, just staring like a zombie, she would unnerve the neighbours or even the inhabitants of the house and he wouldn’t have done his job. If he went out to her, she could attack and he would have to deal with her, and hurting a woman was an unattractive proposition. A street full of neighbours watching made it even less so. She could also be a decoy for the husband. If she caused a commotion at the front, maybe he would try to slip in the back. He weighed it in seconds and decided.

  He closed the curtains in her face, entered the hall, opened the front door and wedged it to prevent anyone sliding in and locking him out, took five paces and grabbed the woman by the arm and hauled her into the porch before closing the door again. He considered masking her mouth to keep her silent but she hadn’t so much as yelped – compliant and resigned as if she was used to manual handling.

  He took her into the room that moments ago she’d been watching him sleep in and sat her in the armchair. She was cold to the touch – like she’d been outside for hours. She was dressed only in a light rain mac, a flowery old-fashioned skirt and blouse and sensible shoes. The attire was fit for a woman twenty years her senior.

  “Who else is outside?” Sam whispered forcefully.

  The woman’s quizzical gaze rose to meet his.

  “Nobody?” she said, more of a question than a statement.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To help,” she said absently.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To warn this young woman,” she said with a vacancy that suggested she was medicated.

  Sam assumed she was talking about the heiress. “Warn her about what? How dangerous your husband is?”

  The woman’s eyes had dilated and found interest in the soft focus of a middle distance.

  “There is that,” the woman said with a curious mixture of confidence and carelessness.