Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  ‘Yes. One of.’

  ‘And you disarmed the shooter?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That was some good work.’

  ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the weapon? Only we can’t find it?’

  ‘I do. It’s in my boss’s vehicle, locked in the safe.’

  ‘Technically, that means you’ve committed the offence of possession of a firearm,’ said the DC.

  ‘I look forward to you explaining to the CPS that they need to charge me,’ said Carr, ‘when I’ve prevented at least one murder, and probably more, and retained a firearm for the sole purpose of handing it to the police rather than allowing it to be picked up and recycled into the London underworld.’

  ‘I’m not saying we’ll charge you. But we can’t have civilians who are unfamiliar with firearms wandering around with automatic pistols.’

  ‘I’m not unfamiliar with firearms.’

  ‘Ex-Army?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was in myself. Signals. You?’

  ‘3 Para, then 22.’

  ‘22? You mean Hereford?’ The copper sat back on his heels a bit.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. That changes things. How long?’

  ‘Nineteen years.’

  ‘Right,’ said the officer. ‘You are familiar with firearms, then. How did you handle the weapon?’

  ‘I took it off him by the barrel and then I held it by the grip. My prints will be all over it, except on the trigger.’

  ‘I need to seize it, please.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Carr, with a grin. ‘You didn’t think I wanted to keep it, did you?’

  They walked to the Range Rover, and the driver opened the safe in the boot.

  ‘I’ve made it safe,’ said Carr.

  The DC nodded in appreciation, picked it up using a pen and dropped it into a clear plastic evidence bag. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Glock?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Carr. ‘Grach PYa. Eighteen-round magazine, 9mm, semi-auto, very accurate to fifty metres in the right hands. Issued to a number of Russian military and police units, including some special forces.’

  The copper nodded in appreciation. ‘I wonder how many of these Grachs are knocking around?’ he said.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Carr, with a shrug. ‘SO15 might be able to give you some idea. My guess would be not too many. Nice weapon, designed to replace the Makarov, but it never really caught on. I dare say you could get hold of a box of them in the Balkans. You can get anything you want over there.’

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Didn’t say a word. I disarmed him, put him out of the game, and we left, in case of any follow-up hit. As soon as we were clear we weren’t being followed we came back. We only went round the corner – check the CCTV, it’ll show we were gone for a minute, two at most. When we got back, I concentrated on the girl and my colleague put the shooter into the recovery position to wait for you guys.’

  ‘Right.’ The police officer looked intently at Carr for a moment. Then he said, ‘Well, I need to take a full statement, and I need to get this thing’ – he held up the pistol – ‘to forensics. Why don’t I give you a lift to the nick? It’ll be more comfortable there, and I can do a proper interview.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No. Entirely voluntary.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Carr. ‘I’ll want a lawyer, though.’

  ‘Will the duty solicitor do?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get going, then.’

  They headed to Charing Cross nick, where the officer got Carr a cup of tea and the duty solicitor, a tidy young brunette in a figure-hugging blouse.

  Once she had confirmed that he wasn’t being arrested, and demanded and received an assurance that he was not suspected of committing any offence, the interview started.

  It was a boring process, thoroughly carried out, and it was 9am before he was shown the door.

  On the steps outside, under the mock-Grecian portico, he looked at the lawyer.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ he said.

  ‘Well, I expect they’ll have charged the gunman by now,’ she said, looking Carr up and down, and clearly liking what she saw. ‘You may be needed to make a further statement, and if so the police will be in touch direct. You’ll certainly be needed at the Old Bailey in three or four months’ time. Given the people involved, and your own unusual background, you might want to make an application to give evidence behind a screen. If you need me to deal with that you can give me a call.’

  ‘Nah, I’ll not need a screen.’

  ‘Well, here’s my card anyway,’ she said, smiling innocently. ‘You never know – something else might come up that you need me to handle for you.’

  Carr grinned. ‘Do you sleep with all your clients?’

  ‘Very few of them, actually.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll give you a bell,’ said Carr.

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  She put her hand on his chest, and ran it left to right across his pecs.

  ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘It might be worth changing your shirt.’

  He looked down: clothes were a weakness of Carr’s, and one of the few things he didn’t mind spending cash on. He was wearing a light blue Paul Smith shirt which had cost him £175. It was ruined, stained with the dead girl’s blood.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ he said.

  ‘Naughty boy,’ said the lawyer, with a tut. ‘Such language.’

  She shook her head and disappeared back inside. Carr watched her backside appreciatively, and then stepped into the street to find a cab.

  A taxi pulled up a few moments later, and he headed for Chelsea Harbour, where Avilov owned a two-thousand square foot apartment overlooking the Thames, bought in 2005 for a couple of million quid and now worth several times the original purchase price.

  He was lucky like that.

  When Carr was buzzed in, he found his boss and Oleg sitting opposite each other on two white leather sofas.

  Both men looked grim-faced.

  ‘Get back okay?’ said Carr.

  ‘Half hour ago,’ said Oleg. ‘They still interview you, so we come.’

  Avilov had stood up, and now he extended his hand to Carr.

  ‘You save my life today, John,’ he said, rubbing a bruise on his temple. ‘You hurt my head when you push me into car, but this I can forgive.’ He smiled weakly. ‘You save my life. We are brothers now. Forever.’

  ‘That’s nice to know,’ said Carr. ‘Maybe they’ll come after me too, now. Being as I’m family and all.’

  The Russian laughed. ‘I think they want only me.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  ‘I get only a little information out of the guy,’ said Oleg Kovalev, with a shrug. ‘Give me one hour with him and I get everything, but one minute… It’s not enough. He speak with Kharkiv accent, he has tattoo on right arm here.’ He indicated his wrist. ‘Skull with beret and crossed knives.’

  ‘Spetznaz?’ said Carr.

  Kovalev nodded. ‘Spetznaz,’ he said.

  ‘Sent by the guy from the Dorchester?’ said Carr. ‘He’s ex-Spetznaz.’

  Avilov sighed. ‘No. Is crazy if it is him. We just did deal, good deal for both of us. You know me, John, I make lot of enemies in my life. But he is not one of them. Is probably just… What is word?’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  ‘Da, coincidence. Lots of Spetznaz leave Army, need work. I have ex-Spetznaz working for me, myself.’

  ‘Most important thing,’ said Oleg, ‘is now we know there is serious problem. Death threats, everyone has them. But this guy was really trying to kill Konstantin. This afternoon, Konstantin flies back to Moscow, stays there for a while. I stay here, and you and I look at all our UK contacts. Who knew Konstantin was in London, how they find out where he was.’ He paused and looked directly at John Carr. ‘The driver?’

  ‘Nah, it’s not the driver,’ said Carr. ‘I ca
n vouch for Terry personally. Forget that. But it could be the car. I’ll have it checked for a tracker.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Oleg. ‘Who else knew?’

  Carr thought for a moment. On Avilov’s insistence, he hadn’t called in extra personnel.

  ‘No-one,’ he said. ‘Where’s Kharkiv?’

  ‘Kharkiv?’

  ‘You said the guy had a Kharkiv accent.’

  ‘Ah. Is in far-eastern Ukraine. On Russian border.’

  ‘Who owns the restaurant we were at last night?’

  Oleg Kovalev and Konstantin Avilov looked at each other, and then back at Carr.

  ‘Ukrainians,’ said Oleg.

  ‘Maybe start there, then?’ said Carr.

  There was a silence, and Oleg said, ‘Also, I have the shooter’s mobile.’

  ‘The number?’

  ‘His phone.’

  ‘His actual phone? Why the fuck did he have that on him?’

  Oleg shrugged. ‘I guess he thought he was safe,’ he said. ‘I took it from him outside the club, posted it through shop door. My friend collect it this morning. This friend, he has some special skills. He is cracking it now.’

  ‘You mad bastard. You’ll be on CCTV. They’re bound to come for you.’

  Oleg chuckled. ‘I was very careful. Cameras will show nothing. If police suspect me…’ He spread his hands. ‘What they find? I don’t have phone no more. Maybe we find information from it. Maybe then I am not mad bastard?’

  38.

  TO THE UNTRAINED eye, Amcomri Street was just like any other dreary residential road in any British town.

  But the large, pro-Republican mural painted onto the gable end wall of a house at one end – and the other murals in surrounding streets, and the tricolours hanging from many of the houses – left no room for doubt: this was the pulsing heart of west Belfast’s nationalist movement.

  Amcomri Street had been named after The American Committee for Relief in Ireland, a charity set up on the other side of the Atlantic in the 1920s to funnel cash to people who’d suffered hardship during the Irish War of Independence. The street itself had been built with some of that money, and a meeting was currently taking place in one of the cramped houses within it.

  The electoral roll said that the house was home to Peadar and Constanza Mulligan. They paid their bills on time, and never caused anyone any bother, but then they were never – ever – at home. If anyone knocked on a neighbour’s door, the neighbour would have said that Mr and Mrs Mulligan were away seeing relatives in Australia, or touring Europe, or enjoying the cruise of a lifetime… Wherever they were, they were away for the foreseeable future, enjoying their richly-deserved retirement.

  None of that was true, of course. The neighbours were hard-core Republicans, and Peadar and Constanza Mulligan didn’t actually exist, and never had done: their ‘home’ was one of a number of PIRA safe houses, kept on after the worst of the Troubles was over, because you never knew when they might start up again.

  There were five men in the living room of the little terraced house.

  The first was there to sweep for bugs and provide security.

  The second was Black Jacket, the man who had met Freckles in the bar down the road the day before.

  The third was Freckles.

  The fourth was MLA Pat Casey, presently cleaning the grease off his thick black specs.

  The fifth was Desmond ‘Dessie’ Callaghan, a six-foot two-inch, part-time doorman and IRA enforcer, with a broken nose and narrow eyes. A veteran of the Belfast Brigade since 1990, he had got in on the final days of the Troubles, but there had been less call for his undoubted skills in recent years.

  ‘Of course you can rely on me, Pat,’ Dessie was saying, indignantly. ‘When have I ever let anyone fucking down?’

  ‘Watch your tone, Dessie,’ said Security. ‘Remember who it is you’re talking to, now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ryan,’ said Dessie. ‘But fucking hell.’

  He scratched his crewcut, looking distinctly unhappy.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Casey. ‘If I give you this job it never comes back to me. Understood?’

  ‘I don’t know how you can even fucking ask me that,’ said Dessie.

  ‘I said is that understood? Because if it does come back to me I’ll have you fed into a woodchipper, feet first, slowly.’

  ‘It won’t. If it goes wrong, it’s on my back. I know that. I’m a fucking volunteer, Pat, I understand.’

  Casey looked at Black Jacket. ‘Do you recognise this fella, Dessie?’ he said.

  Dessie followed his eyes. The man in the black jacket was fat and scared – he had a damp upper lip and trembling hands.

  Way out of his depth, he thought. Not a fucking player.

  He took an instant dislike to the Jacket.

  ‘I dunno. I might have seen him around. Why?’

  ‘Never mind why. You’ve never seen him before and you’ll never see him again, got it? He’s going to fill yous in on the job and then we’ll talk about it.’

  Dessie nodded.

  ‘Tell him about the targets,’ said Casey.

  Black Jacket nodded, and started talking.

  Callaghan’s eyes widened slightly as he listened, and by the end his heart was pumping, good and proper.

  ‘This is a big job,’ said Casey, softening his tone. ‘No-one’s to know about it. Not your woman, your ma, your best pal. No-one. It’s not official. It’s not sanctioned. It’s personal. For me. What do you reckon? Can you do it?’

  Dessie looked at him.

  Inside, his mind was racing.

  Pull this off, and he’d be a legend; he’d never need to buy a pint again, and everyone who mattered would know what he’d done.

  But he was determined to retain a professional detachment.

  ‘Pat, you’ve been a leader to us,’ he said, ‘and it’d be an honour and a pleasure to do this for you. But even if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be in. Won’t be a problem as long as it’s planned right.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Casey.

  He nodded to the Jacket, who produced a photocopied page from the Merseyside A-Z – no-one would be using the internet to research this job.

  ‘The obvious thing is to do Parry first and Carr second,’ he said. ‘Carr’s the better target, but he’s going to sound more alarm bells because of who and what he is. An ex-SAS man who works for a Russian billionaire… That’ll be all over the papers, and that would bring a lot of heat we don’t want. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Casey.

  ‘So, Michael Parry’s a Parcelforce driver, these days,’ said the man with the black jacket. ‘Works out of the depot in Huyton, on Merseyside, half an hour away from where he lives, which is here, in Dawson Avenue, bottom end of St Helens. Council estate, two or three miles from the police station. Shares the house with his wife, who’s called Sharon, and a daughter in her twenties. The neighbours are elderly on both sides. The house is a mile from the A58, and then it’s three or four miles south to the M62, so that’s an obvious route away.’

  Dessie Callaghan studied the map, and then looked up at the Jacket.

  The Jacket looked away, unwilling to meet his gaze.

  ‘So I shoot the fucker in his house and get on my toes,’ said Dessie. ‘Is that your plan?’

  Black Jacket cleared his throat nervously. ‘Well, I…’

  Dessie pulled a scornful face. ‘Do ye want to have me pinched, do ye? People don’t use firearms over the water. It’d bring all sorts of shite down on my head. They’ll flood the area. Detectives, TV appeals… I’d never get anywhere near the second man.’ He shook his head. ‘Nah. I’ll do the fucker up close, with a knife. He’s a Parcelforce driver, is he? I’ll get to him while he’s out making his deliveries. I’ll make it look like a robbery gone wrong.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Black Jacket.

  Dessie raised his eyebrows. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘You cheeky fucker. Do we know what hours he works?’

>   ‘Not yet, but we will by the weekend. Hoping we’ll have a current photo, as well.’

  ‘What about the other fella? The SAS wanker?’

  ‘John Carr. He has a house in Hereford but he spends most of his time in a flat in Primrose Hill in North London. He’s younger than Parry, so he’ll be quicker and more alert, but he won’t be armed so he’ll be no trouble.’

  Dessie looked at him again. ‘That’s easy for you to say, pal,’ he said, sharply. ‘Sure, you’ll be sat on your fat arse watching The X Factor while I’m at work, will you not?’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech, is all, Dessie,’ said Black Jacket. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way.’

  ‘I don’t take nothing the wrong way,’ said Dessie, coldly. ‘Anyone live with him?’

  ‘No,’ said Black Jacket. ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Are they still in contact with each other, these two bastards?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’

  ‘Anything else you don’t know?’ said Dessie.

  He was glowering at the other man, now.

  ‘Look, don’t get me wrong here,’ said Black Jacket, hastily. ‘I’m doing the best to bring you what information I can,’ he said, looking to Pat Casey for support. ‘If you want me to leave, I’m gone.’

  Casey cleared his throat, and raised his hand to calm the situation.

  ‘What we have here, Dessie,’ he said, ‘is a great opportunity to avenge three volunteers. My two brothers and Ciaran O’Brien died that day at the hands of these two. We can make them pay for that. We can also make Carr pay for Seán Savage and Danny McCann and Mairéad Farrell, and the poor lads at Loughgall, too. No-one here is taking the piss. We’re all on the same side. Soldiers like you need intelligence to help you carry out your missions, and people like your man here are just there to provide you with what you need.’

  Dessie sat back in his chair, brooding.

  Eventually, his face lightened. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Fair enough. My da’ was a good pal of Ciaran O’Brien’s. I’ll do Parry first, and then Carr. That fucker, if I get the chance I’ll bind him up and take my time with him first. If not, I’ll shoot him but I’ll make sure he knows it’s coming and why. I reckon I can be done and away back over here before they can react.’