by James Deegan
‘Japanese,’ said Skelton. ‘From Lidl. Hard to believe. Clever bastards, your Japs. Scoff-wise, chilli con carne is the best I can do for you, mate.’
‘That’ll be great,’ said John. ‘Home-made I assume?’
‘Fuck off, Carr. What kind of bitch do you think I am?’
Carr chuckled. It turned to a cackle when Geordie opened his Smeg fridge. Skelton had fallen on his feet since leaving the Regiment, setting up a security business which he’d recently sold for many millions. He stank of money, but his short arms and deep pockets were legendary, and the extremely expensive refrigerator in his extremely expensive kitchen – designed by his then wife, who had soon become his ex-wife – was packed with Tesco own-brand value microwave meals.
Predominantly chilli con carne.
In fact, as far as Carr could see, all chilli con carne.
‘You tight fucker,’ he said. ‘You never had any class, did you?’
‘What?’ said Geordie, innocently. ‘I like chilli, and there was an offer on.’
Carr grinned and sipped his whisky as Skelton put a couple of chillis into a cheap microwave.
It pinged a minute or two later, and the Englishman handed a plate over.
‘Come on then, man,’ he said, as Carr started eating. ‘What the fuck happened?’
Carr spent the next ten minutes outlining the events of the past couple of weeks.
After he’d finished, Geordie Skelton said, ‘So that fucker supplied the weapon that the IRA used to kill an ex-Tom? And he’s still alive why?’
‘Do you remember Freckles?’ said Carr. ‘Real name Brian Keogh. Ginger hair. Armourer?’
‘Aye, of course I do.’
‘I’m ninety per cent certain that Freckles knows this Kosovan twat and put Callaghan into him. If I’m right on that it means Freckles is part of the hit. I need the Kosovan to confirm that for me. For bonus points, I’ll get the name of any other contacts he has, and the location of his weapons cache, and pass it all to the Old Bill.’
‘What then?’
‘Then I’m going over there to sort the bastards out.’
‘I meant what then for him.’
‘I’ll tell the cops where to find his weapons, and then I’ll take him somewhere and cut the fucker loose.’
‘You can’t just let him go.’
‘Why not? I don’t need the heat, and he’ll be a dead man walking. With the police all over his lock-up, there’ll be a lot of nasty Kosovan bastards looking for him. Not to mention the Paddies.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ said Geordie. He tipped back his whisky, with a bitter laugh. ‘That’s a very fucking fair point.’
Carr downed his drink, and wiped his mouth.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Shall we see how good our friend’s resistance-to-interrogation drills are?’
86.
NOT ALL THAT GREAT, was the answer.
In ordinary circles, Gjergj Leka would have stood out as a hard man.
He didn’t impress Carr and Skelton all that much.
Mind you, he was tough enough that they didn’t just kick the shit out of him.
Works with some people, not with everyone.
Carr was well-versed in the art of interrogation, and he knew that physical violence just gives some men something to resist.
A focus.
With those kinds of men, it’s just counterproductive, and other, less messy ways work better. Carr and Skelton knew them intimately, having been trained to cope on the receiving end.
The first thing they did was turn on the light, click off the music, and remove the sack that was taped over Leka’s head.
They wanted him to see what was happening.
They needed to get right inside his head.
Carr pulled his pallet round through ninety degrees and placed another one behind it, lashing them together with cable ties to create a flat platform.
‘What you doing, friends?’ said the Kosovan, nervously.
They said nothing, but forced him backwards and tied his arms and wrists to the new pallet. Now he was lying down, and craning his head to watch.
Geordie Skelton walked outside and came back in with two breeze blocks, one under each massive arm. Carr lifted the foot end of the new platform, and Geordie slid the blocks under it. The Kosovan was now at an uncomfortable angle, the blood rushing to his head.
‘What is this?’ he said, a slight tremor in his voice. ‘What the fuck is this?’
Geordie made a big show of filling two buckets of water from the tap in the stable and carrying them over to Carr.
Carr dipped a small hand towel into the water and started shaking it out.
Gjergj was struggling against his bonds in a way which made clear that he knew what was coming next.
‘What the fuck you doing?’ he was yelling. ‘What the fuck you doing?’
Water-boarding will crack the bravest of men, and it only took two short periods – no more than ten seconds each – for the Kosovan to realise that he was in a hopeless position, at the mercy of these two crazy bastards.
Once he’d reached that conclusion, the dam broke and it all flooded out.
As with many such interrogations, once he started talking he couldn’t stop, and in less than half an hour Carr knew that his weapons were stored in the attic of a rented house in a village not far from Coventry, and had the name and phone number of his contact in Coventry, the nickname of his paymaster in Belfast – it was indeed Freckles – and a lot more about his contacts in Eastern Europe.
He made meticulous notes, to be handed on to the right people at the appropriate time, until Gjergj was all talked out.
They knocked it on the head at 2am, and left the Kosovan gangster well-secured and feeling very sorry for himself in the stable.
Back in the kitchen, Skelton poured the rest of the Japanese whiskey into Carr’s glass, and dropped the empty into the recycling.
‘I don’t want all this,’ said Carr. ‘Especially if you’ve got none.’
But Geordie just looked at him and grinned.
Opened a cupboard door.
Performed a ta-da motion with his hand.
A dozen or more bottles, all the same.
A man of habits, Geordie.
‘Your man out there in the stables,’ said the big northerner, as he took one of the fresh bottles down. ‘I wish we could have done that kind of thing when we were in. Fucking hell, it would have made life a lot easier.’
Carr nodded.
‘Why don’t you leave him with me?’ said Skelton.
‘You’ll kill the bastard.’
‘No, I won’t. I’ll dump him somewhere nice and quiet, well away from here. He probably doesn’t know your name, but he certainly doesn’t know mine. He doesn’t know where he is. It’ll take him a while to get home, and if he gets lucky and the Old Bill pick him up instead of the Kosovans then there’s more distance between you and him.’
Carr thought for a moment.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said.
‘So how you getting over there?’ said Geordie, opening the second bottle and shooting a glug into his own glass. ‘Birkenhead?’
‘Nah,’ said Carr. ‘Cairnryan.’
‘Lot further,’ said Geordie. ‘Six hours from here, and that’s if the traffic’s good.’
‘True. But if I go from Liverpool it’s eight hours on the boat instead of two. I’m going to want to stand out on deck, in the dark. I’d rather not do it all night.’
‘Fair one.’ Geordie poured himself a generous measure and settled down in his chair. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘we had some fun on them ferries.’
‘We did that,’ chuckled Carr.
Both men had travelled on them many times during their days in the Province with the Regiment, usually as part of a surveillance gig on some player who was heading over to the Mainland to chance his arm.
‘Do you remember Dougie McHenry?’
‘I certainly do.’
&nbs
p; McHenry was a PIRA shooter who’d come over as part of a three-man team sometime in the early 1990s. It was a rough crossing, and unfortunately for him he was prone to seasickness.
He’d gone out on deck for a breath of fresh air, and never returned.
The Belfast Telegraph story the next day had told how the poor guy – a family man and well-known local charity worker, who was loved by all – must have fallen overboard.
And in a sense he had – helped by two plain-clothed SAS troopers who’d come up behind him, had a quick shufti around, and then hoiked the bastard over the rail.
‘Remember what he said?’ said Carr.
‘I do, marra,’ said Geordie, laughing. ‘“But I cannat swim ye bastards!” Poor old Dougie.’
‘Famous last words.’
‘His two gormless muckers walking round the boat looking for him,’ said Geordie, shaking his head and wiping away a tear. ‘Happy days. But Christ, we were naughty. If the Regiment had ever found out…’ The big ex-soldier was silent for a few moments, and then he grew serious. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘why don’t I come with you and watch your back? You’re going to be very exposed over there. People keep telling me the Troubles are over, but you know better than that. Them bastards are still out there.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Carr. ‘And if I was going to have anyone come with me it’d be you. You know that. Even with your gammy leg. But I can’t drag you into this. In fact, you need to forget all about it.’
‘You know it might go wrong?’
‘I do. But when did that ever stop us?’
‘What are you going to do about weapons?’
‘I’ve got a plan.’
‘And where are you going to stay? You don’t want to show your face in a hotel, do you?’
‘Got a plan for that, too.’
87.
BLACK JACKET AND PAT Casey were meeting again, with Freckles along for the ride.
This time, with Dessie dead, they were being much more careful.
Black Jacket had left home at 4am, at about the time Carr and Skelton had finally put the whisky away.
He’d taken the A4 west to Fivemiletown and driving his sisterin-law’s car – he could no longer be sure that his own was clean.
What was normally a journey of an hour and a quarter had taken twice as long because of the counter-surveillance measures he was undertaking.
He’d driven halfway into Crocknagrally Forest in Tyrone before parking up as deep in the undergrowth as he could, and he’d walked the final two miles down a winding track, following the directions which had been written on the inside of the Chinese takeaway delivery leaflet slipped through his door the previous night.
It took him just over the border.
Casey and Freckles had spent the night visiting friends in the Republic, and they approached the meeting point from Knockatallon, sitting in the back of a borrowed van.
At just before 9am, Black Jacket climbed into the back of the van and sat down opposite Casey.
‘Are yous wearing a wire?’ said Freckles.
‘Oh, not this again,’ said Black Jacket.
‘He said, are yous wearing a wire?’ said Casey.
‘No.’
‘Because if you are I’ll have you skinned alive and salted like a fucking anchovy,’ said Freckles.
‘I thought you and my da’ was pals?’ said the Jacket, pleadingly. ‘We go back, don’t we?’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Why would I?’
‘Men do stupid things.’
‘I’m not wearing a wire. I’m on the same side as you.’
Casey looked at him, weighing him up. ‘I think I’ll have you checked first,’ he said, eventually. ‘And I hope you’re telling me the truth.’
‘Right,’ said Black Jacket. ‘Fine.’
The three of them stepped back out of the van, and a couple of men came round from the front.
‘Strip,’ said Casey.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘This isn’t necessary, Pat.’
‘Strip.’
‘Is he not having to?’ said the Jacket, nodding at Freckles.
‘He’s the fucking armourer of the Belfast Brigade of the Provisional Irish Republican Army,’ said Casey, through gritted teeth. ‘So no, he isn’t having to. Now, if you don’t do as I fucking say right now…’
Black Jacket looked at him with a face like that of a spanked puppy. ‘Alright, alright,’ he grumbled.
Slowly, he removed all of his clothes, handing them to one of the two men, who felt everything carefully for batteries and wires.
He stood there in his pants and socks, looking in supplication from Casey to Freckles and back again.
‘Everything,’ he said, coldly. ‘Shreddies as well.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Black Jacket, but he did as he was told and stood there, stark naked. ‘Happy?’ he said. ‘Can I have my clothes back now?’
‘They’re clean, Pat,’ said the man who had been checking. ‘Well, considering,’ he said, with a deep chuckle.
‘Get dressed,’ said Casey.
The Jacket hopped and stumbled his way back into his jeans and shirt, and was still doing up his laces as he sat back in the van.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Pat Casey, by way of an apology. ‘So what do the police know?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘I thought we had volunteers in there? I thought we were paying people?’
‘The investigation’s all happening in England,’ said Black Jacket. ‘It’s being split between the Met and Merseyside, with the counter terrorist people involved. MI5 too, I wouldn’t be surprised. They’re obviously linking the first soldier and John Carr, but all we’re doing so far is helping out with background on Dessie. As far as I know, no-one’s even mentioned you yet.’
‘As far as you know?’
‘I can’t do better than that, can I?’ He was almost pleading. ‘I’ve got my ear to the ground.’
Casey looked at him, malevolently. ‘Fucking Dessie,’ he spat, bitterly. ‘That fucking eejit. Send a boy to do a man’s job, what do you expect. Got what he deserved. Mind you, it saved us the bother.’
‘Will you send someone else?’
‘No I will not send someone else. We got one, we’ll have to make do with that.’
‘Just be patient,’ said the Jacket. ‘Sooner or later they’ll have to share more of what they know with our guys, because they’ll want to dig up more on Dessie. When that happens, we’ll be one step ahead.’
Casey snorted. ‘First time for everything,’ he said.
‘Trust me,’ said Black Jacket. ‘Please.’ He paused. Then said, hesitantly, ‘One thing we don’t know is whether Dessie told Carr anything.’
‘If he’d told him anything, sure I’d have been pinched by now, wouldn’t I?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Not necessarily?’
‘I mean it could be worse than that.’
‘Worse how?’
‘I don’t think he’s the sort of guy to start telling the peelers what he knows. I think he’s the sort of guy to come after you himself.’
Pat Casey was silent for a moment.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said.
‘If I can just say, Pat,’ said Black Jacket, ‘I think it would be a good idea to have a look at your own security. It never hurts to be prepared.’
Casey grunted. ‘Has anyone told that halfwit Delahunty?’
‘I rang him on Friday night, as soon as I heard,’ said Freckles. ‘And I spoke to the Kosovan straight after.’
‘You rang him yourself? You didn’t tell Mickey to speak to him?’
‘You said it yourself – Mickey’s a halfwit. I wouldn’t use him for anything important. He’s like my grandson, wit’ the ADDHDD or whatever they call it. He cannat hold a thought in his head. I thought I’d better call Leka myself.’
‘Will he say anything to a
nyone?’
‘Gjergj? Not a chance. Sure, he wouldn’t tell his mammy the time o’ day. I’ve been dealing with him and his mates for twenty fucking years. I trust them like I trust you.’
88.
IN THE LATE MORNING, as Geordie made bacon sarnies and complained about his headache, Carr borrowed his laptop and did a little research.
He made copious notes until, satisfied, he closed the laptop.
Then he dialled a number on the burner mobile, being careful to block his own ID.
A girl answered.
‘McGirks Lettings, Sonya speakin’, how may I help you?’
‘Morning, Sonya,’ said Carr. ‘I’ve just been told I’m being relocated to Belfast and I’m going to need a house. I wondered what properties you had on your books?’
‘Oh, we’ve plenty. What are yous lookin’ for, Mr…?’
‘Miller. I’m bringing the family. I need a detached property with a decent garden and plenty of privacy. Within striking distance of the city.’
‘That’s grand. And what’s your budget, there?’
‘The company’s paying, so I don’t mind. It will need to be unfurnished, though. My wife will want to bring all of our own stuff.’
‘Ach, I don’t blame her. Much nicer to have your own bed and that, isn’t it? So when exactly would you be looking to move in?’
‘That’s the thing. My first day at work there is on the third Monday in March, but we’d want to get our furniture moved in over a couple of weekends. So I suppose a contract starting middle of next month?’
‘Ooh, that is tight. You’ll be needing somewhere that’s already empty, then.’
Already empty.
The crucial part.
‘Yes, I suppose we will.’
‘Not a worry. We’ve a few places that fit your bill just now. Can you hold on a wee minute?’
Within five minutes, Carr had a list of five potential crash-pads and an appointment to view them with Sonya in a fortnight or so.
Geordie put a fat sandwich down in front of him.
‘You always were a crafty bastard,’ he said.
‘You taught me everything I know,’ said Carr.
He attacked the sandwich, went for a piss, and then gathered his kit.