by James Deegan
‘What can you tell us about Mr Parry?’ said the anchorwoman from the studio.
‘Well, we’re hearing that Michael Parry was a much-liked local man, a driver for the Parcelforce arm of the Royal Mail, a married man with two grown-up daughters who had recently…’
But John Carr was no longer listening.
His mind had wandered back two decades and more, to a young Scouse Parry, a lance-jack at Browning Barracks when Carr had first met him – moustache, like they all had back then, and big, and thickset. A regimental boxer, and a hard bastard, but fair by old school Para Reg NCO standards.
Scouse had been made a full screw at the same time as Carr had got his own first stripe, and they’d become good mates, with a lot of mutual respect.
Shared some rowdy times in Belfast.
And some busy times, too.
Carr thought back to patrols through city streets, and out in the cuds to the south, Scouse with his game face on.
Those joyriding kids on the Ballygomartin Road… Mick never had got the recognition he should have for risking his own skin to save the three of them.
And then there was that incident with the Caseys and Ciaran O’Brien, over in the Clonards. That had been a little dicey – the RMP had tried to suggest that Parry had been out of order there, and Carr vaguely recalled making a long statement to the SIB in that grey interview room at Knock Road, with the redcap sergeant who kept banging on about a delay in calling an ambulance.
Carr had played a very straight bat – not that his own conscience hadn’t been entirely clear, anyway – and in the end it had gone nowhere.
Not least because Gerard Casey had been fucked from the moment that round cut through his arteries.
He looked back at the TV: what was it the reporter had said?
A big guy, forties, Northern Irish accent?
Couldn’t be something from back then, surely?
The screen was now showing Mick Parry in a suit, carnation in his buttonhole, at his oldest daughter’s wedding. Carr had been there, two years ago, at the Catholic Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral, and it had been a big old day – a reunion with half of C Coy going back to when Scouse had joined, and a fair few lads from the Regiment who had served with him before moving on. Carr could still remember the headache, one of very many he’d endured after various nights out with Mick Parry over the years; the two men had been very close in the Paras, and had stayed in touch after Carr passed Selection. They’d met up at least once or twice a year – usually at one of the regular 3 Para boxing evenings, or a seaside day on the piss – and often more.
He grinned, sadly. The last time, after a day at Haydock Park three or four months back, he’d crashed on Mick’s sofa.
Sharon Parry had given them both a bollocking for…
Christ.
Sharon.
On the TV, the news had moved on from Mick Parry, and was now showing the talking head of the Prime Minister, Penelope Morgan, talking about some new terror threat, so Carr hit the remote, and reached for his mobile.
Switched it on – ignoring the immediate pinging of multiple text messages, all doubtless telling him the same thing – and scrolled through until he found Mick Parry’s entry.
Dialled his home number.
It rang out for a long time, before a man picked up.
In the background, Carr could hear the sound of crying.
‘Hello?’ said the man, in a strong Scouse accent.
‘Is that Bingo?’ said Carr. ‘We met at Sarah’s wedding. John Carr. You might not remember me.’
‘John, mate, of course I remember you,’ said Brian ‘Bingo’ Parry, Mick’s older brother. ‘You’re obviously calling because of…’
He tailed off.
‘I just heard,’ said Carr. ‘It’s terrible news. I’m so sorry, mate. What happened?’
‘We don’t really know yet,’ said Bingo. ‘He’d been to the pub and someone attacked him on the way home. The bizzies think it was a mugging, like.’
‘How’s Sharon and the girls doing?’
‘In pieces, mate. I’m here with my missus, and there’s a lot of people been up to the house, so we’re keeping them occupied.’
‘Can I speak to Sharon?’
‘She’s gone for a lie down, John. I can wake her up if you want, but…’
‘Nah, mate. Just tell them all I called, can you? I’ll be up as soon as I can. You keep your chin up, eh, pal?’
‘I am doing, mate. Thanks.’
Carr ended the call and started flicking through the text messages – all of which did indeed bring him the same, terrible news.
He got to the end…
…and saw that message again.
‘Did you get my text John? Do get in touch.’
He scrolled up to the other, earlier message he had received from the same unidentified number.
‘Hello John. Please call me to discuss something that you need to know about.’
He’d half-intended to call the number, just out of curiosity, but there were a lot of blasts in his past, and he didn’t want to be in contact with them all.
And if the sender couldn’t be arsed to tell him who he was…
But then.
Mick Parry.
Maybe it was worth making that call?
63.
THE MAN IN THE black jacket was walking along the seaweed-strewn beach at Portstewart with Pat Casey.
Casey had insisted on meeting somewhere out of the way, and it didn’t get much more out of the way than a cold February morning, an hour north of Belfast into deepest, dampest County Coleraine.
The tide was out, but it was grey and blustery, and they had the sticky sand to themselves. The wind whipped their words away, and they were far enough from the A2 coast road for the passing traffic to be irrelevant, but, all the same, the Jacket kept his collar turned well up and a weather eye all about himself.
The stakes were very much higher than they had been when they had last met.
‘Tell me again,’ said Casey, his eyes burning with anger. ‘Short version.’
‘Basically, he got to Parry as he was walking back from the pub and did him there and then,’ said Black Jacket. ‘So far, so good. The bad news is that Parry managed to get a dig in as he went down, and Dessie’s blood was all over him. They knew it was him before the sun rose.’
‘I knew he should have used the gun,’ hissed Casey.
‘To be fair, like we said, that might have caused different problems. Midnight in the middle of St Helens… The gunshots, and all.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Casey, bitterly. ‘What a balls-up. But they haven’t found him yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. No-one knows.’
‘Has he not called Freckles?’
‘If he had, would Freckles not have called you?’
That answer earned him a withering look from Casey.
‘I mean, with the greatest of respect, obviously,’ said Black Jacket, his voice full of contrition.
He decided he’d shut his gub for a wee while.
They trudged on through the soft sand.
It was hard going, and the Jacket was breathing hard and sweating, despite the cold.
Eventually, Casey stopped and turned to face the roiling sea.
‘How long has he got before the Brit peelers pinch him?’ he said.
Black Jacket looked at the angry water, narrowing his eyes against the salt air, watching the boiling waves spill onto the beach.
‘Who knows?’ he said. A lone seagull hovered on the gusting wind a few feet overhead, its dead, black eye looking him up and down. ‘They could pick him up five minutes from now, or it could take five days. We have one thing in our favour. They’ll know Dessie’s pedigree, and they know Parry’s ex-Army. They must be wondering if it’s something to do with over here, but I doubt they’ve made the whole connection yet, so they don’t know exactly what they’re d
ealing with. They certainly don’t want to rush into a big political shitstorm by talking about IRA men assassinating ex-soldiers on the mainland.’
Casey looked at him. ‘So?’
‘Well, they haven’t named Dessie, and they haven’t released pictures. That means the public aren’t looking for him, which makes him harder to find. Obviously, within the police and the other agencies they’ll have circulated him, and doubtless they’ll be going through every bit of CCTV they can, visiting hotels, doing that sort of stuff. But it gives him a bit of breathing space.’
‘Will I get a visit?’
‘Why would you?’
‘If the eejit talks when they find him.’
‘Why would he talk? You can get to him in jail, if you have to. He’s not frigging suicidal.’
Casey brushed his thick grey-black hair back from his forehead. ‘What about the other one?’ he said.
‘Until we hear otherwise, I suppose we should assume the other one’s still on.’
‘But then they’ll definitely make the link,’ said Casey. ‘I mean, I know the plod aren’t that clever, but they didn’t come down the Lagan in a bubble, neither. It wouldn’t take a genius to look back at Parry’s Army file, cross-ref it with the other fella’s, and put two and two together. And where does that leave me?’
‘Sure, it makes no difference,’ said Black Jacket. ‘Dessie’s getting life for one murder, so two makes no odds to him. And, sure, the police will work out the link, right enough, but then they probably always would’ve. Doesn’t mean it’ll come back on you. Isn’t Dessie an IRA man? Isn’t it every IRA man’s dream to kill an SAS man or a Para? Or both? He’s just doing what comes naturally to him. They know fine well your brothers were involved way back in the original thing. But so what? They’ll never be able to link Dessie to you unless someone who was at that meeting talks. Nobody will, so that’s that.’
‘I suppose there’s the Kosovans in Coventry,’ said Pat Casey. ‘But they’ve been dealing with us for years. They know the form. They were asked to supply a clean gun, and I’m damned sure they wouldn’t let it be traced back to them.’
They trudged on, heads down.
Then Black Jacket said, ‘I hate to raise it, but there is another loose end.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Marie Hughes. The woman at Strandtown. She met you in the Beehive, did she not?’
Casey looked at him, a strange smile on his face.
‘Don’t you worry about her,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t be trusted, so that’s already been taken care of.’
Something in those words, and in the way he’d said them, sent a cold terror coursing through Black Jacket’s body. He tried not to show it, but he felt like he had stared into the eyes of some ancient demon.
Overhead, the clouds somehow parted, and a weak sun shone on them for a few moments.
Pat Casey brightened. ‘Ach,’ he said, ‘maybe you’re right, and there’s nothing to worry about. Have you time for a pint?’
64.
SEVERAL HUNDRED MILES away in Primrose Hill, the intercom at John Carr’s flat buzzed.
He got up and loped over to the screen.
Two uniformed bobbies, one scratching his head, the other yawning.
For a moment, Carr’s heart rate ticked up a beat or two.
The Ukrainians?
Then it dropped again.
Nah. If it was something to do with that they’d be sending detectives and SC&O19, not a pair of woodentops.
Not to mention, there was no way they could ever tie him in to it anyway.
No idea what you want, but I think I’ll give you a miss.
He watched them as they buzzed again, had a quick conflab, and then one of them produced a card, scribbled something on it, and pushed it through the door. Then they put their hats back on and walked back to their car.
They’d be back if it was anything vital.
He looked at his watch.
Time to head to the gym.
It was as he was walking through to collect his kit that he saw his mobile, lying on the sofa.
He paused.
Pondered.
Finally, gave in to curiosity, and dialled his mystery texter.
After three or four rings, a man answered.
65.
THE DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT in charge of Merseyside’s hunt for Dessie Callaghan had spent the last hour on a conference call to MI5, his counterparts in the Police Service of Northern Ireland, West Mercia and Essex, and the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorist Command.
They had been trying to work up a strategy for capturing the elusive Provo.
It involved covertly watching John Carr’s addresses in London and Hereford and the various addresses Dessie might be using in the North London Irish diaspora. He had a brother, an uncle and half a dozen friends of various closeness in Kilburn and Camden, and officers were on every one, with armed backup.
They agreed to maintain to the media the fiction that they didn’t know the identity of Michael Parry’s killer – the Met were taking instruction direct from the Home Office to that effect, with Downing Street worried about the effect on the fragile politics of Northern Ireland if it was revealed that the IRA was back in business carrying out mainland hits. A photofit had been produced and disseminated, ostensibly from eyewitness reports but in fact from Callaghan’s numerous arrest photographs.
They discussed informing the Directorate of Special Forces, but the CTC counselled against it, for now. No need to call Hereford in: it was only one man, and if it all went noisy the police could surely handle that on their own.
And then the conference call ended.
The Merseyside D Supt sat back in his chair, looked idly at the framed Wales rugby shirt on the wall opposite, and sighed.
Michael Parry had been a decent family man, with a good record of service to his country: scrotes like Dessie Callaghan needed locking up, and the key chucking across the road into Salthouse Dock.
He was frustrated that their man was still outstanding.
Still, with the manpower and technical back-up now involved he would doubtless be picked up later that day.
Probably at that ex-SAS bloke’s flat.
66.
DESSIE CALLAGHAN HAD passed another night of almost no sleep – the throbbing in his nose and upper jaw hurt like buggery, and only seemed to be getting worse – and he was starting to think he might have a broken cheekbone, too.
He tried to smile as he handed back his room key to the farmer’s wife, but the best he could manage was a weird, twisted grimace.
‘Toothache,’ he said, as best he could, pointing to his cheek. ‘D’you know where I can get some painkillers? Like a chemist, or something?’
‘Oh, poor you,’ she said, head on one side. ‘I don’t think there’s a worse pain than toothache. I’d say Harlow’s your best bet for painkillers. Down the drive, turn left, follow your nose. It’s not far.’
She handed him the bill, and as he was digging in his pocket for some cash she said, ‘You sound like you’re from Northern Ireland?’ she said. ‘Underneath all that, I mean.’
Dessie looked at her face – her fat, ruddy-cheeked, English face – and briefly considered strangling her where she stood.
But then the farmer shouted through from the back – something about silage? – and he decided against. The farmer was a big old boy, and he didn’t need the aggro.
‘Uh huh,’ he said, nodding.
‘Yes, I thought so. Only, we know a beef man from near Ballymena.’
Dessie’s hands contracted involuntarily into fists, and then relaxed. He nodded, and tried to smile. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Small world, eh? Right, I’ll be off, then.’
He cursed himself all the way to the Mondeo, and all the way down the drive, and he was still going as he turned left onto the lane to Harlow.
Why in the living fuck had he not just stuck two rounds in Mick Fucking Parry from a safe distance? It wa
sn’t a mistake he’d make again, that was for sure.
A short while later, as she was having a morning cuppa before going up to clean the guest bedroom, the farmer’s wife turned on her TV and caught the BBC Breakfast news roundup.
Police had issued an artist’s impression of the man they were seeking in connection with the murder of a Parcelforce delivery driver somewhere up north. It was ‘based on eyewitness reports’, they said, and showed a man – a man from Northern Ireland – whom they wanted to talk to. Blond and shaven-headed, broken nose, narrow eyes. Over six feet tall, the reporter was saying, and well-built with it.
Extremely dangerous, and not to be approached by members of the public, under any circumstances.
The farmer’s wife put her hand to her throat, and put down her tea to avoid spilling it with her shaking.
No doubt about it: the man on the screen was the man who’d stood in front of her not fifteen minutes earlier.
It took her fully five minutes to stop shaking and recover her composure, and then to telephone Essex Police.
67.
BY THEN, DESSIE had spotted a little shopping plaza on the eastern edge of Harlow, with a branch of Boots nestling in the row of stores.
He parked up in a residential side street, well away from any CCTV.
Then, scarf pulled up around his face, a cap pulled down over his eyes, he half-jogged into the pedestrianised area.
Head down, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, he headed for the pharmacy.