Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  He took the paper, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ he said. He bent down and pecked her on the forehead. ‘You get yourself squared away, and have a safe flight tomorrow.’

  He turned on his heel, walked back to the lift, and took it one floor higher.

  Once in his suite, he dialled room service.

  Ordered a burger and chips, fuck the fat and the carbs, a bottle of Evian, and a large Glenmorangie 25-year-old.

  Rang back, made it two large Glenmorangies.

  Rang back again, told them to bring the bottle.

  While he waited for all that to show up, he unpacked his grab bag. His service life had drilled into him the importance of being able to get the fuck out of anywhere at a moment’s notice, and so it contained spare toiletries, his passport, a thousand quid in cash, and a week’s worth of kit. That amounted to seven pairs of Paul Smith socks and boxers, seven light blue Brooks Brothers shirts, two dark blue Hugo Boss sweaters and a dark blue White Stuff fleece, two pairs of Paul Smith jeans, a well-worn Triumph Bonneville waxed Barbour, and a pair of black Salomon Speedcross trainers.

  He put it all away, neatly – something else the Army had drilled into him – and took a quick shower.

  As he was stepping out, towel round his waist, there was a knock at the door.

  He opened it, and a waitress pushed a trolley in with a large silver dome, a bottle of scotch and a bucketful of ice. Carr tipped her twenty quid, said thank you very much, pulled on his jeans and shirt, and sat down on the sofa in the suite’s living room to eat and drink.

  He clicked the TV on and flicked through the channels – late night news, cricket from somewhere hot, a film with Mel Gibson, a film with Keanu Reeves – and settled on an MTV channel with girls in bikinis gyrating around a pair of rappers.

  Turned the volume down, ate his burger, drank his scotch, and watched the girls in the bikinis.

  But all he was thinking about was Kevin Murphy.

  What he was thinking was, Poor bastard. My fault. We shouldn’t have gone anywhere near my flat.

  He thought back to his first meeting with Murphy, way back in the early 1990s.

  That business with Frank Boyd, and Kieran Devine and his mate, wasn’t it?

  Murphy had known that night that he owed his life to Carr, and, in turn, Carr had found the other man to be intelligent, honest, and trustworthy.

  The relationship had quickly developed from there, and despite their different backgrounds and outlook they’d soon become close friends, to the point where Kevin had asked Carr to be godfather to little Siobhan when she’d come along.

  Over the years, they’d spent many a night together in the policeman’s house in Dunmurry, drinking Bushmills, putting the world to rights, and arguing good-naturedly about how to deal with the PIRA.

  Carr was of the view that the Provos could be wiped out in an afternoon, if the politicians found the stones to order it. Murphy, a policeman first and last, had taken a less robust attitude, though in his heart of hearts he sometimes felt that the soldier was right.

  There’d doubtless have been many nights in the future, too.

  For it to all to end so suddenly …

  Didn’t see that coming, thought Carr.

  Poor Siobhan and Liam.

  He’d have to make contact with them and tell them that their dad’s last evening had been good, that he’d been thinking and talking about them, and that he’d gone bravely, as he’d lived bravely.

  Carr had seen too many good men die, in everything from freakish training accidents to the heat of mortal combat in Northern Ireland, in Sierra Leone, in Iraq, in Afghanistan, to let it affect him.

  Or so he’d thought.

  And yet he suddenly realised that he was bitter, and angry.

  Mick Parry.

  Kevin Murphy.

  He’d never forget the military friends and comrades he’d lost, but they had accepted the risk, if not quite embraced it. They’d made a contract with death, and had been happy to do so.

  But Mick Parry? No. He’d left all that behind. He was a van driver, for fuck’s sake – a man about to walk his daughter down the aisle.

  And Kevin Murphy? He’d been on the way to growing old, a widower who had devoted his career, his life, to keeping his streets and his community safe.

  To have it all taken away by that worthless piece of shit…

  It enraged Carr, to the point where the burger started to give him indigestion.

  He put it to one side, half-eaten, angry at himself.

  Angry at Dessie.

  Angry at Freckles, whose bombs and guns had sent many men – and women and children – to their deaths in the name of a bullshit cause.

  And angry – most of all – at Pat Casey.

  Casey’s brothers were murderers who had been righteously put down by men acting in self-defence. No right of vengeance arose from that.

  Carr swallowed a big mouthful of scotch, and, as he did so, his mind went back to Callaghan’s dying words.

  Crawfordsburn’s a small place. And your little girl’s a pretty wee thing.

  There’s plenty more where I come from… You’re a dead man.

  And he realised that Dessie was right.

  Casey was a significant figure in the Republican movement.

  The PSNI would get precisely nowhere, the Belfast omerta would see to that.

  Probably wouldn’t even nick him, and if they did he’d sit there with a Provo lawyer and a smile on his face, and say fuck all.

  And then they’d let him go.

  He knew John Carr’s name, knew his address.

  Knew his kids’ home address, too.

  Plenty more where I come from.

  Carr could move to a new flat, sell the house in Hereford, run away and hide.

  But eventually they’d find him – and, more importantly, he wasn’t a man to run away and hide.

  He hadn’t wanted this fight – it had come looking for him.

  But he was in it, and he had to win it.

  It was just before 3am.

  He polished off the half-tumbler of Glenmorangie and lay back on his bed.

  He decided sleep was a good idea.

  Not least because it might be in short supply in the coming days.

  79.

  CARR WAS BACK ON Pen y Fan twenty-five years earlier, struggling through Selection.

  Scrambling up the scree in the pissing rain, bent double under his loaded bergen, blisters on his blisters, desperately fighting fatigue and burning lungs.

  A few metres behind him, Geordie Skelton, blowing out of his arse, spitting and cursing and even giggling at the sheer hell of it.

  That fucking racing snake Pete Squire half a mile ahead, gliding effortlessly over the rough terrain.

  It was a dream Carr often had, and it was never pleasant – the endless hill sapping his energy and his spirits, and brutally smashing his hopes of passing the course, as his unconscious mind fought a hyper-realistic fear of failure.

  His uncomfortable sleep in his strange hotel bed was interrupted at just after 7am by the sound of his mobile.

  Head pounding from half a bottle of scotch, he looked at the screen.

  A number he didn’t recognise.

  He answered anyway.

  It was Nigel Johnson.

  He sounded broken up.

  He’d just left Charing Cross nick, where he’d been helping the murder squad detectives.

  Carr agreed to meet him at the Riding House Café on Great Titchfield Street, a couple of minutes’ walk away.

  80.

  NIGEL JOHNSON LOOKED a very different man from the curry house the night before.

  He was a big guy, but he seemed suddenly weak and hunched and defeated.

  Carr bought him a large Americano, and a tea for himself, and sat down.

  ‘You okay, pal?’ he said. ‘You look like shite.’

  ‘I just cannat fucking believe it,’ said Johnson, shaking
his head. ‘I should have been there.’

  ‘Then you’d be in the ground instead of Kevin,’ said Carr. ‘Or maybe with him. Trust me, I know. You can’t think like that. It’ll send you mad.’

  There was a long silence, the detective blowing on his coffee.

  Carr said, ‘If it’s any consolation, he died like a man.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Dessie had taken the people below me hostage. We walked in, he come out with a weapon. Kevin was ahead of me, he saw him and went for him. Didn’t hesitate. But…’

  ‘Did he suffer?’

  Carr clicked his fingers. ‘Like that,’ he said. ‘He wouldnae felt a thing.’

  ‘Dessie?’

  ‘He chased me upstairs. Didn’t know I had a shotgun.’

  Johnson nodded.

  Sipped his coffee.

  Said, ‘Ah shit. He was a good man. I loved him, you know?’

  ‘Aye, I know. How long had you known him?’

  ‘All my career, pretty much. Fifteen years. He knew my uncle, and when I joined up he took me under his wing.’

  ‘Knew your uncle?’

  ‘Aye. My uncle Georgie. My ma’s only brother. He was a constable up at Dungiven – his da was in the Constabulary, too. The cowardly bastards killed him thirty years ago, near enough. Put a bomb under his car. My cousin Kathleen was with him. On her way to school, like. She lost a hand but survived, but my uncle…’ He tailed off, had a swig of coffee and continued. ‘Everything from the waist down was gone. He was in intensive care for three days, and then he...’

  Carr waited a beat or two, then said, ‘Did they ever get them?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Johnson. ‘They knew who’d done it, right enough, but you know how it goes over there.’

  ‘I do,’ said Carr.

  He looked at Johnson, trying to make a judgment about him.

  Wondering whether he could trust the big policeman.

  How much help he’d be.

  Fuck it. I’ve not done anything yet.

  I can test the water.

  ‘Dessie’s dead,’ he said, ‘but you know Pat Casey and his gang will walk away from this.’

  ‘Aye. Probably.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Angry.’

  He looked it, too, thought Carr: his eyes were fathomless in a darkening face.

  Irishmen were hard bastards, Carr knew, steeped in centuries of blood feuds, burning hatreds, and ceaseless war. Especially in the north. There was nothing quite like an Irishman with revenge on his mind, and he could see one in front of him now.

  On the tip of his tongue was a question: What would you think if I told you I’d like to get hold of Casey and his pals and fuck them up? I mean, really fuck them up?

  But then Johnson shrugged, and the anger softened into resignation.

  ‘But that’s the way it goes,’ he said. ‘If we start behaving like them, sure we’re as bad as them. Right?’

  81.

  NIGEL JOHNSON LEFT at about 11am for his meeting at Thames House on Millbank.

  He could have cancelled, but he was adamant that Kevin would have wanted him to carry on.

  Once he’d gone, Carr made two calls.

  The first was to an old friend from his days in the Regiment.

  The second was to Oleg Kovalev.

  They made an appointment for lunch at a very expensive restaurant in Mayfair – John’s dad would have blown a mental gasket at the prices, and the food, but it was the big Russian’s favourite place – and so it was that he found himself walking in there at a shade after one o’clock.

  Oleg rose to greet him, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘John!’ he said. ‘Is good to see you. Last time was not so pleasant.’ An expression of regret settled over his features for a moment. ‘Still, life goes on, yes?’ He chuckled. ‘For us, anyway. Sit.’

  As they sat, a waitress appeared with water and menus.

  Carr waited for her to leave, and then he said, ‘So. What happened with the guy who ordered the hit?’

  Kovalev picked up the menu and put on his Gucci reading spectacles. ‘Let’s just say, guy who ordered hit won’t be ordering no more hits,’ he said. ‘Too busy watching his back for next fifty years in Russian jail.’

  Carr winced. ‘Rather him than me,’ he said.

  ‘I recommend miso blackened salmon,’ said Oleg. ‘Is beautiful. So, what this trouble you had yourself?’

  ‘Some guy from the past tried to kill me,’ said Carr, sipping his water. ‘An IRA man. You know the IRA?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kovalev, with a smile. ‘We helped them out sometimes. Back in the day. You understand, John. When things was different.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Carr, ‘one of the people you guys helped out “back in the day” just killed two of my friends and tried to kill me.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Oleg. ‘Genuine. Very sorry. You okay, though?’

  Carr nodded. ‘The Irish fella’s not. I shot him in the balls.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Kovalev, with a grin.

  The waitress appeared, and took their orders.

  Carr went for fillet, blue, despite the Russian’s advice.

  Then he said, ‘So, is Konstantin back here next week?’

  Oleg shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Plan has changed. I just came to tidy up few loose ends. Konstantin is in New York right now, some business. I fly out there in couple of days, then we go to Aspen together for week of skiing. Boss was going to ask you to join us.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Carr.

  ‘Oh?’ said Oleg, surprised. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because I won’t be around for a few days.’

  ‘Vacation?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Carr. ‘Business. Personal stuff.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A week. Maybe longer.’

  ‘Konstantin will be sad about this,’ said Kovalev. ‘He just bought Aspen place. Fifteen million dollars. Beautiful skiing.’

  ‘Another time, maybe,’ said Carr.

  The sommelier arrived with a bottle of La Mission Haut-Brion Rouge.

  ‘As you requested, sir,’ he said, showing it to the Russian.

  ‘Thank you, Pierre,’ said Oleg.

  The sommelier poured, and the Russian tasted it and nodded. ‘Very good year, 2011,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Carr. ‘Far as I’m concerned, it’s red or it’s white.’

  After the sommelier had poured two glasses and left, Oleg said, ‘So, what is this personal business?’

  Carr hesitated.

  But not for long.

  You didn’t live the life he’d lived without being able to make a decision and carry it through, regardless of the consequences.

  Oleg was cut from the same cloth.

  He would understand, and Carr could trust him.

  ‘I need to go over to Belfast,’ said Carr. ‘They won’t stop until I’m dead, or they are. But I could do with your help.’

  Oleg Kovalev spread his arms wide. ‘John,’ he said, ‘you save my life. It’s like Konstantin say. We are brothers. Whatever you want, if I can help you I help you.’

  ‘There’s a couple of things,’ said Carr.

  ‘I have all ears.’

  Carr slid three items across the table – his iPhone, his keys, and a folded-up sheet of paper.

  ‘First thing,’ he said, ‘is you delay your flight to join up with Konstantin for a few days.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Oleg.

  ‘Second thing. My flat’s closed off by the cops, but can you go up and sleep in my place in Hereford while I’m away? Use my car and phone. Do a couple of trips up and down the M5… That way, the phone looks like it’s in my house every night, and the car’s being picked up on ANPR during the day. Keep the visor down, wear my jacket, you’ll be okay. And send a few texts to various people, including yourself. Don’t take this personally, but your English is shite. I
mean, it’s better than my Russian, but it’s still shite. So I’ve written down a few messages on this sheet of paper, and who to send them to. They’re all non-committal, won’t involve getting into long conversations.’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Oleg. ‘If police suspect you, they check your phone records.’

  ‘I’ll also need you to provide me with a physical alibi, so arrange a couple of business meetings for us. Out-of-the way places, where there’s less CCTV. At night. Don’t forget, you’ll need someone else to drive your car and take your phone to make it believable.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘They’re bound to look at me, and they’ll do a cell site analysis. But if we’re careful they may not have much else.’ He paused. ‘I just need to create a plausible alibi.’

  Oleg sat back in his chair and swilled the heavy red wine around his glass, thoughtfully. ‘So, no nightclubs, for a week. No fancy restaurants.’ He raised his eyebrows. Then said, ‘Okay. I can do this. I catch up on TV. What about your neighbours?’

  ‘It’s a big fuck-off house with a long drive and high hedges,’ said Carr. ‘No-one will see you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So you’ll do all that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks, Oleg. There’s one other thing I need.’

  82.

  THREE HOURS LATER, in a quiet street in Brent Cross, at the foot of the M1, Carr opened the door of a black Audi A4 and slid into the passenger seat.

  He took a moment to familiarise himself with the vehicle – cockpit drill, they called it, the instructors on his surveillance course.

  He smiled to himself: some things you just couldn’t shake.

  Nearly three years old.

  Nice dark colour.

  Not too flash.

  But four-wheel drive and a three-litre V6 engine, which would give him plenty of poke if needed.

  He fished under the seat.

  Found the key.

  Pulled down the driver’s visor.

  A credit card, in a Russian name – Grigory Abramovich – with the PIN written on a Post-it note.

  In the glovebox, a new burner mobile, and the log book and insurance cert for the car, which showed that the car was registered to an address in Watford in the same name.