by James Deegan
Truth was he didn’t give a shit about her eye, and he had no intention whatsoever of letting this woman and the unconscious man live any longer than was necessary. But he wanted to ask her some questions before he did what had to be done.
‘What’s the tape for?’ said the woman.
Callaghan ignored her. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Daisy.’
‘Him?’
‘James.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pretty girl like you could do better than that,’ he said, looking at her lasciviously. ‘Anyway, I want the tape so’s I can tape up James’ hands and feet. When he wakes up properly he’s going to be all over the frigging shop, and I’m going to need him to lie still and play nice.’
He looked at her face.
It was very pretty, but marked by fear.
He liked seeing fear in people’s faces, and he especially liked seeing fear in the faces of pretty women.
But this fear needed controlling.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if I wanted to kill either of yous I’d have done it, wouldn’t I?’
At that moment James started to groan, and his eyes fluttered.
‘Quick,’ said Callaghan. ‘Tape first, then phones.’
74.
THE CURRY HAD gone down well, and the three men had enjoyed their evening, Murphy and Carr telling tales from the old days and catching up, Johnson listening in.
‘Fancy a nightcap somewhere?’ said Carr, as he waved away Murphy’s card and settled the bill. ‘If you can call it a nightcap at nine o’clock.’
‘Actually, I’m away up the road to have a late one with my brother,’ said Nigel Johnson. ‘He lives in Holloway, which isn’t far away, is it?’
‘Nah,’ said Carr. ‘Five or ten minutes. Do you want a lift?’
‘Thanks,’ said Johnson, ‘but I’ll get a cab. Actually, looking at the time I’d better get a wriggle on.’ He stood up. ‘John, it’s been an education and a pleasure, and thanks for the curry. If you’re ever over our way, next one’s on me. Boss, I’ll see you at breakfast.’
Handshakes all round, and the big sergeant strode from the restaurant.
‘How about you, Kev?’ said Carr.
‘Ach, no, John,’ said Murphy. ‘Not as young as I once was, and I’ve a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. So I’ll be away back to my hotel, if that’s okay.’
‘No problem. I might take your advice and book in somewhere myself.’ He smiled. ‘Not the Premier Inn at Edgware, though.’
‘Sensible.’
‘I must be getting old.’
‘We both knew plenty who didn’t get that chance,’ said Murphy. ‘So enjoy it.’
‘I will, when it happens,’ said Carr.
The policeman raised his glass in salute, and drained the last dregs of beer. ‘It’s been good,’ he said. ‘You must get over to see your goddaughter before I go to Canada.’
‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘I will.’
‘Grand. Listen, where do I get a cab?’
‘You’ll not need a cab. I’ll drive you. It’s only twenty minutes up the road.’
Murphy argued the toss a little, but Carr insisted, so they left and headed for his Porsche Cayenne.
They chatted some more about the old days, and as Carr stopped at a set of lights a thought occurred to him. ‘Hey, Kev,’ he said. ‘You still like your scotch, do you?’
‘Aye, I do that.’
‘I’ve got something for you back at my place,’ he said, with a grin. He had several bottles left of a box of single malt from the Mess at Hereford, SAS label and all, and they made nice souvenirs. ‘It’s on the way.’
Murphy protested, but Carr waved him away and before long they had pulled into the Scot’s street, and he was parking up near the flat.
‘Wait one, John,’ said Murphy, slipping into police mode. ‘Let’s just see if there’s anything odd.’
They sat in the car for fully five minutes, but all they saw was the normal hustle and bustle of late evening in Primrose Hill.
Eventually, Carr said, ‘Happy?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Murphy, and the two men got out.
75.
JAMES BALLARD WAS SITTING on the sofa, his feet and arms bound by half a large roll of Sellotape. He was also gagged. His eyes were open, but he had suffered a significant concussion and didn’t have much idea where he was.
Daisy was also bound hand and foot. She had a sticking plaster over the small nick in her eyebrow, but she had not been gagged.
Callaghan was by the door, staring through the spyhole, and occasionally looking over at her.
‘I want to ask you some questions about John upstairs,’ said Callaghan, his eye focused on the communal front door. ‘Is that okay?’
She nodded.
‘But first I’m going to tell you something about him and me.’ He paused for a moment, and tried to look as though he was dealing with unpleasant memories. ‘John was married to my sister, and he beat her up. I mean, he really beat her up. So bad she lost her baby.’
Daisy looked horrified – the response he’d been hoping for.
If he could get her onside, it would make the whole process a lot easier.
‘She’s a mess. In the head, like. I’ve come to make him pay up for some treatment for her. Which is why I’ve brought this.’ He lifted the Glock. ‘To encourage him to get his wallet out.’
Daisy looked dubious. ‘Why did you need to tie us up like this, then?’ she said.
‘If I’d asked if I could stand here by your door for an hour waiting for the bastard, what would you have said?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.
‘How well do you know him?’ said Callaghan.
She blushed, slightly. ‘Not very,’ she said. ‘We bump into each other in the hallway sometimes.’
‘What’s he like?’
She looked over at James.
Then back at Dessie.
‘I don’t really know him,’ she said. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to him. But he seems friendly enough. Nothing special to look at.’
Dessie leered at her. ‘You’re fucking him, aren’t ye?’
Daisy blushed again, this time properly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’
Dessie laughed. ‘Don’t you fib to me, my girl. He’s riding the arse off you, isn’t he?’ He chuckled, shaking his head. Then he was suddenly serious again. ‘So where is he now?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Daisy, trying to keep the embarrassment and anger and defiance out of her voice. ‘Out, I suppose.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Getting something to eat? At his girlfriend’s? I don’t know.’
‘Has he a girlfriend?’
‘Not a specific girlfriend,’ said Daisy, shifting to ease the numbness in her legs. ‘He has lots of different ones. I don’t know any of their names.’
‘Where might he have gone to eat?’
‘There’s so many restaurants. I don’t know. I know he likes curry, if that helps.’
‘Does he always stay here?’
Daisy thought for a moment. ‘No, not every night. He’s got a strange job. Something to do with security. He’s away quite a bit.’
‘For days at a time?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘This morning. He was going out for a run as I left for work.’
‘Did he say he was going away?’
‘No. But I’m only his neighbour. He doesn’t tell me his movements.’
Callaghan looked at his watch. Just before nine-thirty. If Carr didn’t come home tonight that presented him with a problem.
‘So what do you do for a living, then, Dais?’ he said, conversationally, eye back to the spyhole.
‘I’m an estate agent,’ she said, gabbling slightly in her eagerness to talk about something else. ‘James is a barrister. Chance
ry law.’
‘Ach aye, Chancery law.’
He hadn’t a Scooby what Chancery law was.
‘Yes, you know. Trusts, probate, that sort of thing.’
‘Course I fucking know,’ he spat. ‘D’ye think I’m some sort of eejit?’
‘No, no,’ she said, trying to keep the desperation she felt out of her voice. There was a long silence, and then she said, ‘I’ve just been given a big house to sell on Regent’s Park Road. It’s…’
Dessie zoned her out, humming the sad, lilting melody to The End by The Doors while he tried to work out how to play this.
His best hope of clipping Carr was to stay right where he was and wait until he did come back, whenever that was.
But what if the bastard didn’t come back tonight?
He’d have to stay put.
So what did he do about Daisy and James?
He couldn’t let them go into work tomorrow, and he wasn’t going to trust them to call in sick.
If they didn’t turn up for work, work was bound to ring them.
And when there was no answer – after a day, or maybe two – they’d send someone round.
Family or friends might come looking, too.
And eventually it would be the police knocking on the door, searching for a missing couple, and that was going to be awkward.
So…
‘Can I get up, please?’ said Daisy. ‘I need to go to the loo.’
‘No,’ said Callaghan. ‘I need to keep my eye on the front door.’
‘Please?’ said Daisy. ‘I’ll be quick.’
The gunman took a long look through the spyhole. Better to keep the bitch onside for now, he thought. He’s not going to come back in the next two minutes.
‘Quickly,’ he said, striding across to her and helping her up.
‘You’ll need to cut the tape off my legs,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Otherwise, how can I…?’
He felt for his combat knife, and then realised he’d left it in the Mondeo.
‘I need something to cut it,’ he said.
‘In the block on the kitchen work surface.’
Dessie crossed to the kitchen and switched on the light, and as he did so it crystallised in his mind.
Why was he trying to keep her onside?
Why was he even keeping them alive any longer?
He’d half been thinking of having a little fun with the girl, but the end game wasn’t in doubt. He couldn’t have them telling tales later, so they were getting offed.
Shame as it would be not to get to know Daisy a little better, the fact was she and the boyfriend were taking away his focus.
It was as he reached for the knife in the block – a smile just starting to play at the corner of his mouth – that he heard the lock on the main front door click open.
76.
JOHN CARR WAS a logical and sceptical man who liked to deal in hard facts and predictable outcomes, but his time at the sharpest end of the military had convinced him of the existence of something like a sixth sense.
It was very hard to define, and you weren’t born with it, but you could learn it – usually through painful experience.
The best way he could explain it: it was the little voice in the back of your head that somehow told you which door the bad guys were hiding behind.
Trouble was, most people’s heads were full of voices screaming that there were bad guys behind every door.
So the trick was to dial down the white noise and locate the signal.
And now, as he shut the front door behind him and followed Kevin Murphy forwards into the shared hallway, over the pizza leaflets and free newspapers, that familiar voice spoke to him.
Actually, it yelled.
From somewhere in the depths of his consciousness a thought exploded into his mind.
He’s here.
The fucker’s here.
Maybe it was the silence from Daisy’s flat – the lights were on, but there was no TV, no music, no talking.
Maybe it was just plain old paranoia.
Or maybe it really was that elusive, indefinable extra sense.
But Carr knew it, as surely as he knew his own name.
He stood there, a few steps inside the hallway, holding his breath.
Listening.
And then, in front of them, he heard the click of the Yale lock to Daisy’s door.
‘Wait, Kevin,’ he said.
But Murphy either didn’t hear him, or misunderstood, and carried on into the hallway.
Then the door opened, and there was a man.
Big bastard.
Broad-shouldered.
Shaven head.
Busted nose.
Something black in his right hand.
Pistol.
Dessie.
Kevin Murphy saw him and reacted as brave men do, by launching himself immediately at Callaghan.
But he was older and slower than once he’d been, and although he closed the six feet between them quickly he was not quick enough.
Callaghan was able to raise the pistol and fire into the centre of the policeman’s body mass at almost point-blank range.
One round went through Murphy’s left arm and buried itself in the plasterwork of the hallway.
The second glanced off his sternum and ripped through his heart, stopping it instantly.
The last conscious thought Kevin Murphy had was a picture – dirty and fuzzy and slightly surreal, like a polaroid.
A family day out at Strangford Lough.
His children, aged about five and nine, holding their mother’s hands in the golden sunshine, rippling water behind them.
Mary smiling at him, love in her eyes.
He experienced a sensation of great calm and happiness, and then he was gone.
But his dying momentum had driven him on, and now he barged into the shooter and knocked him down.
The pair of them sprawled on the floor just inside the downstairs apartment.
Although the dead weight of Kevin Murphy lay on top of him, Callaghan had a free shooting arm and a clear view of John Carr and of the front door.
Carr’s sub-conscious mind had assessed the situation and evaluated his options before he even knew it himself.
Kevin Murphy was beyond help.
He couldn’t stand where he was – Dessie Callaghan’s eyes were fixed on him and the muzzle of the pistol was already moving off the floor.
He didn’t have the time or space to get to the weapon before it was levelled at him.
And he couldn’t go back out the way he’d come in, because that would give the shooter a clear view of his back.
He moved just as the pistol sounded again, the report deafening in this confined, empty space.
Dessie had snapped a shot, but the 9mm round whipped clear past Carr’s legs, taking a chunk out of the wall and showering his feet in plaster and brick dust.
The Glock chambered a replacement round almost instantaneously, and Dessie’s finger was snatching again.
But by now, driven by instinct, Carr was onto the stairs in front of him at an electric run.
Keys in hand.
His heart racing, but his mind icy.
Panicking got you killed, so he didn’t panic. It was a simple equation.
Behind him, Dessie Callaghan had pushed Kevin Murphy’s body off himself and as he was scrambling back to his feet he fired another un-aimed, opportunist shot after his target.
But it missed by even more, and now Carr bounced off the half-landing on the stairs and raced up the six steps to his own front door.
‘You’re a fucking dead man!’ screamed Dessie, his voice an octave higher than normal through adrenalin, excitement, and fear.
Before the words had died away, Carr had his keys in the lock.
He heard Callaghan charging up the stairs as he opened the door.
He slammed it, but it bounced back and came to rest slightly ajar.
No time to go back.
Ran into
his darkened bedroom and dived over the bed onto the floor opposite.
Reached under the bed.
Even former SAS NCOs are not allowed to keep automatic weapons in the UK, but they are allowed to own shotguns.
Carr had a very nice Beretta 687 EELL Classic – a beautifully-engraved, over-under twelve-bore which had been presented to him as a leaving gift from the lads in the Squadron when he’d finished as Sergeant Major.
He’d never expected to need it – other than for a bit of rough shooting, now and then – but his professional life had taught him to expect the unexpected, which was why he kept the Beretta loaded and lying under his bed, rather than locked away in the gun cabinet as the law dictated.
Better to fall foul of the cops than need a weapon and not have one.
He knew the Beretta was loaded, but he broke the barrel anyway.
In the dim streetlight streaming in through the window, he saw the brass heads of two cartridges, loaded one over the other.
Mammoth Magnum Lead. Double propellant, 12g, imported from the USA.
Lots and lots of stopping power.
He’d have preferred a few more shells, but two would have to do.
He snapped the weapon shut, slipped off the safety, then moved back to the bedroom doorway.
He got down on one knee, his body protected by the bedroom wall, and faced the main door.
The 7lb Beretta tight into his shoulder, he took careful aim along the length of the barrel.
His mind was clear and icy.
The tables were turned.
The weapon felt good in his hands.
His heart rate had now steadied.
He was back in his own world, playing the game of life and death, against Dessie Callaghan.
For one of them, life was now measured in seconds, not years, and Carr had plans for his old age.
He waited.
Counting.
Breathing, Come on, you cunt.
Ten seconds went by.
On the landing outside, Dessie had hesitated.
The first floor flat’s front door was the breach – fondly known in the Regiment as the ‘murder hole’.