Once a Pilgrim

by James Deegan

  ‘Get the gate open, Gaz,’ said the other man. ‘The fucking robbing bastard’s going to get away.’

  Carr heard a curse as Gaz dropped the keys and fumbled for them on the floor.

  He broke into a run, hoping against hope that the gate at the opposite entry to the alley would not be locked.

  Just knowing that it would be.

  Behind him, he heard the gate spring open and smack into the wall, and the slap of trainers on the damp ground echoing against the brick walls.

  In the dim light of a streetlamp, he saw the other gate – chained and padlocked.

  Fuck.

  He gave himself three or four seconds until the first man was on him.

  No way to get over it in that time.

  Like it or not, he was going to have to fight.

  Once you’re committed it’s all or nothing, and Carr was now focused on the violence that was about to happen.

  He waited until the running man was nearly there, and then stopped abruptly, dropped down onto one knee, and bent his head. At the same time, he released the bag in his left hand and drew the Browning from his waistband with the right.

  In the dark, Gaz ran straight into Carr’s back and went stumbling head over heels forwards, hitting the floor heavily and momentarily concussing himself.

  Carr turned quickly, as the second man ran up, panting.

  Not as fit as he looked.

  Good.

  The man stopped, briefly confused.

  A low-level player in the Real IRA, he was used to getting what he wanted by intimidation.

  What he wanted – and what he had been expecting to see – was Gaz kicking the shit out of the stranger.

  But instead he saw the stranger standing in front of him, and no sign of Gaz.

  And the stranger wasn’t running any more.

  He hesitated, and his hesitation was his undoing.

  Carr moved quickly, driving his heel forward as hard as he could into the man’s right knee, pushing all the way beyond the upright.

  The knee joint is simply not designed for that movement and, under the pressure of all of Carr’s weight, and his strength and aggression, it snapped.

  The man collapsed, howling and vomiting up the kebab he had just eaten.

  Carr turned.

  Gaz had got back to his feet, and now he rushed towards Carr, swinging a haymaker at his head.

  Carr ducked it, narrowly avoiding the blow, and stepped outwards and to the side, smashing the butt of the pistol into Gaz’s temple.

  He went down on one knee, stunned, and Carr brought the pistol down as hard as he could onto the top of his skull, fracturing it and knocking him out.

  He fell silently forwards, smashing his face into the dirt.

  The first man was still screaming, and lights were starting to come on in the houses in the immediate area.

  Carr stepped forwards and stamped on his head, shutting him up.

  Then he moved to one side, into the shadow of the wall, picked up the bag, and started to walk back in the original direction, the pistol in hand but close in to his thigh.

  A garden gate opened to one side, and a man stepped into the alley.

  He looked at Carr, looked at the pistol down by his side, and the two men lying prostrate on the alley floor.

  He made the obvious assumption – that Carr was IRA, and the two men on the ground had been subject to a punishment beating, the poor fuckers – and nodded at Carr.

  ‘Alright there, friend,’ he said. ‘I never saw nothing.’

  He hurried back into the small courtyard of his house and disappeared.

  Carr walked on, quickly, through the open gate at the end.

  Smiling to himself, out into the street, and he was gone.

  95.

  THE KNOCK AT THE door was loud and firm, and Frances Delahunty heard it well above the sound of the lunchtime telly and the chatter from the grandchildren.

  ‘Who’s that now?’ she said.

  She wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to the door.

  Through the obscure glass she could see two men.

  Jehovahs, probably, she thought.

  She opened the door, ready to tell them to piss off, but one of the men held up his hand.

  Suited and booted, and holding something.

  A card.

  A warrant card.

  ‘Mrs Delahunty?’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ross Vickery of West Midlands Police, and this is my colleague DC Grey. Is Michael Delahunty here, please?’

  ‘Sure, he’s not, no,’ said Frances. ‘He’s away out for his pint.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘What’s it about?’ said Frances Delahunty. ‘I’ve got family here.’

  ‘Can we come in? It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, standing to one side. ‘Come on through.’

  She led the two detectives down the hallway and into the kitchen, her mental alarm bells ringing like Big Ben.

  ‘So what’s this about?’ she said.

  ‘When will Mr Delahunty be back?’ said DS Vickery.

  ‘Oh, in an hour,’ she said. ‘No more. He wouldn’t miss his dinner.’

  ‘And you don’t know what pub he’s in?’

  ‘I wouldn’t. He goes in them all.’

  The two policemen exchanged looks.

  ‘You and your husband own a few rental properties, is that right?’ said Vickery.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Can I ask you about a man who lives in one of your houses? A Kosovan gentleman, by the name of George, or Gjergj, Leka.’

  ‘Well, there’s a few houses,’ said Frances Delahunty, trying hard to play dumb and keep her voice level.

  She had no involvement in Mickey’s PIRA work, but she knew very well what his Kosovan pal was about and inwardly she was cursing her husband. How many times had she told the daft fucker he was stupid to let a house out to the bastard? Let him find somewhere else to live.

  Mickey had just laughed at her every time she’d mentioned it: sure, he was just Leka’s landlord. There was no connection to himself if it all came on top, and the fella was guaranteed to pay his rent. What was she worrying about?

  Well, maybe now he was about to find out.

  ‘I can’t say I know the name,’ said Frances. ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘The Moorfield in Stoke Aldermoor.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I know the one.’

  ‘Mr Leka hasn’t been seen for a day or two and his partner is most concerned about him. Apparently, it’s very out of character.’

  ‘And?’ said Frances.

  ‘And we want to find him. Can I ask, when was the last time you heard from Mr Leka?’

  ‘Sure, I wouldn’t even hardly know the fella.’

  The police officer opened a document wallet and produced an A4 colour photograph of Leka. ‘This is him,’ he said. ‘Does that help?’

  ‘Let me get my reading specs,’ said Frances. ‘One second.’

  She left them in the kitchen and walked into the living room.

  Her daughter Emma was sitting on a rug, playing Lego with her young son.

  ‘Call your daddy and tell him the polis is here for him,’ hissed Frances, to Emma. ‘Tell him they’re asking about the Kosovan. Tell him the Kosovan’s disappeared. Tell him my advice is to disappear himself.’

  Emma nodded.

  Frances picked up her reading glasses and returned to the kitchen.

  Took the picture and peered at it for quite some time.

  ‘No,’ she said, eventually, turning her mouth down. ‘Don’t recognise him. But then, he’s just a tenant. We’ve got twenty or thirty of them so…’

  She tailed off for a moment.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, like, I’d love to help you, but I wouldn’t know when I might have heard from him. They all pay by direct debit these days, out o’ the housing, so it’d only be if we
’d had a call for Mickey to go round to fix something. Even then, he usually sends one of the lads. I can have a look in our records and see what’s in there, if you like?’

  ‘Please,’ said DC Grey.

  Again, she left them standing in the kitchen and walked through to their little study, returning a few moments later with a large red hardback notebook.

  On the cover was written in thick black felt-tip pen, ‘TENANT BOOK’.

  She put it on the kitchen table and looked at the detectives. ‘We write everything down in here,’ she said. ‘In alphabetical order. Let’s see.’

  She quickly thumbed through the pages until she’d found the right one.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Okay, his tenancy started in July 2013. He’s up to date wit’ his rents. Mickey last went round in September to sort out a problem wit’ the central heating boiler. We’re holding a deposit for him. He came to us from a refugee hostel in Cheylesmore. We get quite a bit of business from the hostels. In trouble, is he?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said DS Vickery.

  He didn’t mention that someone had made an anonymous tip to West Midlands Police HQ early that morning, or that an hour ago officers had recovered two dozen brand new 9mm automatic pistols, six Skorpion machine pistols, a box of Russian military hand grenades, and some £40,000 in cash from the attic of a house in Meriden, a few miles west of the city.

  Or that Leka’s rented house was currently being gone through by forensics officers in white boiler suits, while his girlfriend sat in a cell at the city’s main police station.

  Or that her husband Mickey had been named as the PIRA connection to Leka, and that there were armed police in the street outside ready to nick him on sight.

  ‘We’d just like to locate him. Which hostel was it, please?’

  ‘The Carlton,’ said Delahunty. ‘It’s in Poitiers Road. Just behind the community centre, there.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grey. ‘We know it. Thanks.’

  Frances took off her reading specs and looked at the two policemen with a level gaze. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d like to help you fellas further, I really would, but I don’t think I can.’

  Vickery put the photograph back in the wallet. ‘Can I ask,’ he said. ‘Do you or your husband have any friends in Meriden?’

  ‘Meriden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘You don’t own any property out that way?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘Are you aware of any criminality that Mr Leka might have been involved in?’ said DC Grey.

  Frances Delahunty tried to hide how flustered she felt. It wasn’t easy, with both coppers now staring at her.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Specifically selling guns to people?’

  ‘Guns? Oh my goodness, no. Listen, we run a tight ship. I’ll get rid of him.’

  ‘If we find him,’ said Vickery. ‘Do you mind if we sit and wait for Michael to come back home? We just want to ask him the same questions, really.’

  ‘I suppose not. But I’m just doing dinner so you’ll have to sit in the conservatory.’

  She led them through to the back of the house, and as they sat down Ross Vickery’s phone rang.

  He listened for a moment or two.

  Then he ended the call and – after Frances had left them alone – he turned to DC Grey and said, quietly, ‘Leka’s been picked up in Lincolnshire. Naked, battered to fuck, and bound and gagged in a ditch, apparently. They’re on their way to collect him.’

  96.

  MICKEY DELAHUNTY HAD been drinking Draught Bass in the Town Wall Tavern in the city centre when the call came through from Emma.

  He’d been in the middle of a story, with the lads all waiting for the punchline, but he just went pale, put his pint down, and left without a word.

  His car was not far away, and he hurried to it, collar up, head down.

  Then he thought better of it, and flagged a cab down.

  Headed off towards the Foleshill area of Coventry, and St Joseph’s, one of Coventry’s bigger Irish clubs.

  The cab dropped him five minutes later, and he hurried inside.

  He walked through the bar, where a slack handful of middle-aged men were drinking and playing darts, and into the club secretary’s office.

  A fat man sat behind a desk, phone to his ear.

  ‘Get off the phone, Belly,’ said Delahunty, curtly.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Belly, and put the receiver down.

  ‘Give me a minute, would you?’

  Belly left the office, head down.

  Delahunty punched in a long number and waited.

  After thirty seconds, he frowned and ended the call.

  Frustrated, he punched in a new number.

  Again, he waited.

  This time, someone answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Delahunty. ‘Mick.’

  ‘What is it?’ said the voice on the other end.

  ‘The fucking police are round my house,’ he said. ‘They’re asking about me and the Kosovan. The Kosovan’s disappeared, apparently.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shit’s the word,’ said Delahunty, sharply. ‘First that dickhead you sent over, now this. I don’t need this aggro.’

  ‘Don’t raise your fucking voice to me, Mickey,’ said the man on the other end of the line. ‘Know your place. The Kosovan’s your responsibility. You need to find the fucker and deal with it.’

  ‘Sorry, Freckles,’ said Delahunty. ‘But Jesus fucking Christ.’

  ‘Why are they interested in you?’

  ‘Fuck. I don’t know. It’s probably just to see if I can help them find the fucker.’

  ‘I don’t want the police talking to him and linking back to us.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We certainly don’t want that SAS fucker talking to him.’

  ‘No,’ said Delahunty. ‘Shit. I’d not thought of that.’

  ‘Like I said, Mickey, this is your responsibility. He’s your man, on your patch. You need to sort this out. And if it comes on top for you, you take it like a man. Jail, whatever. You understand? You mention my name, or anyone else’s, and you’re a dead man. Understand? We can get to you anywhere, any time. Understand?’

  Delahunty was silent.

  ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’ve got to make a call or two of my own now.’

  The phone went dead.

  Mickey Delahunty stared at the receiver for a minute or more.

  His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door and Belly putting his head round it. ‘Can I come back in now, Mick?’ he said.

  ‘No!’ roared Delahunty. ‘Get the fuck out!’

  Belly beat a hasty retreat.

  Delahunty pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through several numbers. He picked up a biro and took various digits from each, combining them into a new number which he jotted onto a piece of paper. Then he dialled the number on the office phone.

  After a few moments, another man answered.

  A deep, guttural voice.

  Eastern European.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Delahunty. ‘We need to talk about your man, Leka.’

  97.

  FRECKLES HAD A FUNNY feeling that Leka had been taken by John Carr.

  If he was right, he had to assume that Carr knew everything – the Kosovan wouldn’t hold out for long just to protect a business relationship.

  And Freckles had another funny feeling that Carr wouldn’t take it lying down.

  That was the trouble with the fucking SAS: they never knew when enough was enough.

  Freckles hadn’t stayed out of jail – or alive – all these years by being stupid or reckless, so he sat for quite some time, pondering.

  He wasn’t concerned for himself – if Carr came, surely he’d be coming for Casey – but he wanted to find a wa
y to warn Pat that he might be in the picture.

  He had to assume there might be people listening in, and so it was important to choose his words carefully.

  He gave it some thought, and then he picked up his mobile and dialled.

  Casey answered after a couple of rings.

  ‘Pat, it’s me,’ said Freckles, conversationally. ‘How’re you doing?’

  The mere fact that he was calling put the other man immediately on his guard, which helped.

  ‘Not so bad, Freck,’ said Casey. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Very well. Are you at home?’

  ‘No, I’m just round at my ma’s, as it happens.’

  ‘Give her my best, would you? Hey, listen, you know I was going to come round tonight? I can’t. That thing with my lad turns out to be a bit of a problem, so I don’t think it’d be a good idea to be at your house tonight.’

  They’d made no such arrangement – in fact, Casey was due at a public meeting in the city between seven and nine – so he cottoned on quickly.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, guardedly. ‘I hope everything’s alright. With the lad.’

  ‘Yeah, it’ll all work out in the end. But I won’t be at your house.’

  ‘Shame. I was looking forward to it.’

  ‘Yeah. I have a funny feeling our mutual friend might pay you a visit, though.’

  ‘Really?’

  Freckles could hear the sudden stress in Casey’s voice.

  ‘Well, it’s possible,’ he said. ‘You never know.’

  ‘True enough,’ said Casey. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Freckles hesitated, wondering whether to tell Pat Casey about the police and Mickey, but in the end he decided against. It wouldn’t help him to know, and it could wait until they next met.

  ‘Listen Pat. Look after yourself, yes?’ he said.

  ‘There was a long pause. Then Casey said, ‘Aye. Well, I’ll see yous when I see you.’

  He put his phone down and stared at the wall.

  He’d have to wait for a face-to-face with Freckles, but the message was pretty clear.

  He dialled another number, and when the other person answered, said, ‘It’s me. I need to come down and stop at your place thenight.’

  98.

  ANY SOLDIER WILL tell you that hardest part of any operation is the waiting at the start line.