Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  Ellen picked up the juice box and drained it. She popped the lid back onto the tube of Smarties and tucked the sweets into her coat pocket. ‘For later,’ she said.

  Lennon took another swig of tea, but it soured his stomach. He took Ellen’s empty juice box from the table and stood, gripping the litter in one hand. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Ellen gripped his fingers and followed him towards the litter bin beyond the curved walls, over by the kitchen. Lennon struggled to find a way through the people crushing around the till.

  A cleaner tipped a tray of refuse into the bin as he and Ellen drew near. The cleaner dropped the lid and stepped aside. Lennon depressed the foot lever to open the bin. The lid didn’t budge. He tried to lift it with the hand that gripped the tray. It didn’t budge. People jostled as they tried to reach the till. Lennon suppressed a curse as shoulders nudged and shoved him. The cup slipped across the tray, and Lennon released Ellen’s fingers long enough to save it from spilling. He finally lifted the bin lid and dumped the rubbish inside. That done, he added his tray to the stack nearby and reached back for Ellen’s hand.

  He found cold air.

  Lennon spun to where Ellen had stood no more than moments ago. His stomach dropped through the floor.

  51

  The child came to him. The Traveller simply stood and watched her approach from his position behind the curved wall. All the time she had sat eating her sweets with the big cop opposite her, she kept looking the Traveller’s way. More than once he found himself unable to return her stare, her eyes so bright and knowing. Like she could see the ugly things in his head, swirling and snapping at one another.

  And here she came, her doll hanging loose by her side. The naked plastic body made echoes of some buried memory sound behind his eyes. He blinked them away, and a burst of pain like hot needles forced his teeth together.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  The Traveller stared down at her, unsure how to answer the question. He looked back towards the cop who turned in a circle, horror breaking on his face.

  ‘Do you know Gerry?’ the girl asked.

  The Traveller licked his upper lip. ‘Yeah,’ he said. He took her hand. ‘Come on.’

  They were halfway down the curving flight of stairs, ducking between patients and staff, when a voice called, ‘Ellen.’ It was weak, frightened. If the child heard, she didn’t react.

  The Traveller quickened his step, the girl dragging on his hand. ‘This way,’ he said as they reached the ground floor. The Quiet Room stood to their right, facing the shop he’d watched them in a few minutes before.

  ‘Ellen!’

  Louder now, not quite panic yet, but an angry edge.

  The girl resisted, turned to look for the voice that called her name. The Traveller pulled harder. He scanned the shifting crowd for concerned onlookers as they passed the information desk. No one paid attention, so he marched to the Quiet Room, ignored the flare of pain as he shouldered the door open. Low lighting, a hush in the air despite the room being empty but for him and the child. The door swung closed, sealing them in.

  Ellen tried to pull her fingers away from his, but he held firm. His breath sounded alien in this dim and silent place. He realised he didn’t know what to do next.

  Sweat prickled his skin and he swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. The child had come to him, sought him out. Stupid. He’d never been stupid in his life. He couldn’t afford to be. Rash, yes, but never stupid. Not like this. All because the little girl came to him.

  A strange and horrible idea burst in his mind. It took hold, bright and unyielding as only the truth can be. He looked down at the child. She smiled back up at him and all doubt was gone.

  He had not captured her.

  She had captured him.

  52

  Lennon forced the panic back down to his gut, willed himself to be calm even amongst the nausea and trembling. He turned another circle, picking over every detail, looking behind and through the people. He called her name again. Some glanced up from their trays of food, others ignored him.

  The cleaner slipped past, and he grabbed her sleeve.

  She spun, pulled her arm away. ‘What do you think you’re—’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘What?’ Her face turned from anger to confusion and back again. ‘Seen who?’

  ‘The little girl.’ Lennon grabbed her shoulders. ‘She was with me just now. By the bin. You were putting some rubbish in. She’s about five or six, blonde hair.’

  Her expression softened. ‘No, I never saw her. Have you lost her?’

  Lennon turned another circle, searching, the panic climbing back up to his throat.

  The woman pulled on his shoulder. ‘You’d best go down to reception. They’ll announce it on the speakers. She’ll be all right, don’t you—’

  He walked away, calling, ‘Ellen? Ellen!’

  The tide of people on the stairs pushed against him as he descended to the ground floor. He moved faster, ignoring their complaints as he shoved them aside.

  ‘Ellen!’

  A security guard left his post at the exit and approached. ‘You all right there, big fella?’ he asked.

  ‘My daughter,’ Lennon said, continuing to turn and search. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Well don’t worry, we’ll get an announcement out. Kids are always getting bored and wandering—’

  Lennon gripped the guard’s shirt collar. ‘You don’t understand. Someone might have taken her.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He prised Lennon’s fingers away. ‘No need to be putting your hands on me, sir. We’ll get it sorted, but just keep the head, okay?’

  ‘Call the police, Grosvenor Road is closest. Tell them DCI Lennon needs urgent assistance. Tell them a child’s in trouble.’

  ‘You’re a peeler?’ the guard asked.

  Lennon grabbed his tie, brought the guard’s nose to his. ‘Just fucking call them!’

  53

  ‘You can’t get away,’ the child said.

  ‘I know,’ the Traveller said.

  He examined the door for a way to lock it, but there was none. He turned a circle, looking for another exit, but there was none. The quiet pressed hard against his temples, the dimly lit walls butting against his vision, the low rows of seats advancing towards him.

  ‘Jesus fucking bastard of a—’

  The girl tugged at his hand. ‘You said a bad word.’

  The Traveller pulled his hand away from hers. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Why did you do that?’

  She sat down on one of the benches, arranged the doll in a standing pose on her lap. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come to me,’ he said. ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘To say hello.’ She walked the doll back and forth along the bench.

  Maybe he could just walk out and leave her here. Maybe he could slip out of the main doors, past the bloody snake on the pillar, and run. And maybe not. ‘Christ,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know Gerry?’

  You asked me that already,’ he said. Standing here fretting was doing no good, so he sat down beside her. ‘I said yes, didn’t I?’

  ‘Do you really know him?’

  He wrung his hands together, trying to force his mind into action. ‘No, I don’t. Why are you so bloody worried whether I know Gerry Fegan or not? Why would I know him, for Christ’s sake?’

  The girl leaned close until her shoulder pressed against his arm. He inched away.

  You’ve got friends like him,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’ He turned to see her hard blue eyes.

  ‘Secret friends,’ she said.

  He laughed, but it died in his throat.

  Her gaze did not waver. ‘Lots and lots of them,’ she said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He stood, wiped his sweating palms on his jeans.

  She brought a finger to her lips, shush, and gave him a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘What are you talking abo
ut, “friends”?’

  She grinned, then, and giggled. ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Jesus,’ the Traveller said, making for the door. ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I’m getting out. Don’t follow me.’

  He was halfway to the door when she sang, ‘Gerry’s going to get you.’

  The Traveller stopped, turned on his heel. He considered calling her a liar, but the certainty on her face caused a ripple of doubt in his mind.

  A cool draught licked the back of his neck.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ a voice asked.

  Slow, easy, he swivelled to see a middle-aged woman wearing a sweater and a minister’s collar closing the door behind her. She smiled the tepid, condescending smile of the clergy. He put his palm to the side of her head and shoved. She staggered shoulder-first into the wall, the shock on her face the last thing he saw before he wrenched the door open and bolted outside, her scream the last thing he heard before it all went to shit.

  54

  Lennon heard the scream first, saw the pistol second. People scattered, falling over each other, limbs outstretched. He grabbed for his Glock, tried to keep the thin man’s blurred shape in his vision as it wove through the panicked crowd.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted as he levelled the Glock.

  The security guard dropped the telephone and clambered over the reception desk. He tried to grab the fleeing form, but it turned. A boom, and the guard dropped, a hole torn in his shoulder.

  Some threw themselves down, some huddled against any solid surface they could find, and others ran. The thin man found a path through them before Lennon could aim.

  ‘Get down!’ he shouted, knowing the terrified herd would not heed him. He caught the thin man’s silhouette against the glass of the exit doors. ‘Stop! Police!’ he shouted.

  Lennon took two steps towards the glass, then stopped, his fear coming back to him. ‘Ellen?’ he called to the confusion of bodies. Then he saw her in the arms of a woman, a chaplain, by the Quiet Room. He ran to them, pulled Ellen close and kissed her forehead.

  ‘Don’t move from here,’ Lennon said to the chaplain. ‘Keep her safe till I come back.’

  He ran for the exit.

  55

  The Traveller slammed into the side of the ambulance and staggered back, dazed. The Desert Eagle slipped from his fingers and clattered across pavement and tarmac. He almost lost the gun beneath the ambulance, grabbed it before it went under the wheel, and threw his body towards the covered walkway.

  The barrier that had risen to let the ambulance through dropped back into position. He hit it gut first, and his momentum carried his torso over, the earth spinning around him until the ground hit his back hard enough to drive every bit of breath from his lungs.

  He rolled to his side, got back to his knees, then pushed away again. His lungs screamed for oxygen as he hauled the air in with desperate gulps, but he kept moving even as the black sparks danced across his vision.

  Hard, quick footsteps slapping against concrete somewhere behind. A voice ordering him to stop. He spun, fired blind at whoever followed, kept running. Where to? He didn’t know. His mind lurched as it tried to function amid the adrenalin’s phosphorescent burn.

  The car park.

  If he could get there, lose himself among the rows upon rows of vehicles, maybe in the shadows of the lower level …

  The footsteps faster now, closer. ‘Stop!’ the voice called.

  A gunshot cracked, aimed overhead. A warning. The Traveller ignored it, willed his legs to move faster as he ducked under the shelter of the walkway, pedestrians leaping from his path as he tried to use them for cover. Up ahead, the steps down to the lower level with a pay station at the top of them. If he could get that far, he’d be safe.

  He ran from the shelter of the walkway, dodged a car, kept his eyes on the stairway as it came closer. An old man was studying the pay station, coins in his hand, confusion on his face. He turned to see the Traveller barrelling towards him.

  The Traveller pushed him out of the way, scattering coins across the concrete, a curse taking the last of his breath. He didn’t see the nurse until there was no avoiding her. His chin connected with her forehead and the ground disappeared from under him.

  56

  Lennon saw them go down, the thin man and the nurse tumbling from the top step. He crossed the road from the walkway to the pay station, Glock up and ready.

  The old man glanced up as he retrieved coins from the concrete. ‘Bloody lunatic,’ he muttered.

  Lennon went to the lip of the top step. The nurse sprawled on her back, half a dozen steps down the upper flight. She blinked at the sky and moaned, a trickle of blood drawing a bright red line across her forehead.

  A sputtering curse came from the landing below where the steps doubled back on themselves. The thin man sat with his back propped against the railings, the big gun almost within his reach. He pulled his feet back, trying to get them under him. He pitched forward, his hand falling close to the pistol’s grip.

  Lennon charged, taking two steps at a time, until he hit the landing. He let his weight carry him forward, slamming the thin man against the railing. A wounded cry and he slumped on the concrete.

  Lennon rolled him onto his back and straddled his chest. He grabbed the big pistol with his left hand, keeping the Glock pressed against the thin man’s cheek with the other. He eased back and stood, his aim still on the man’s head.

  ‘Sit up,’ he said.

  The man obeyed and cradled his left hand in his right. ‘Jesus, I think you broke my wrist, you dirty fucker.’

  Against the railing,’ Lennon said. ‘Now.’

  The man struggled into position, keeping his left hand tight to his stomach, and rested his back against the blue metal. Lennon studied his face, the swelling on his eyelid, the stiffness in his movement.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Maybe,’ the man said.

  The big pistol was heavy in Lennon’s left hand. A Desert Eagle, the sort of thing American gun nuts loved for its size and noise. He shoved it into his waistband. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  The man laughed and wiped his eye on his sleeve. ‘Many a fella’s wanted to know that.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Lennon repeated. He took a step closer and steadied his Glock with both hands.

  ‘Barry Murphy,’ the man said.

  ‘Is that your real name?’

  ‘No, but it’ll do for you.’

  The accent was southern, more country than city. His left wrist had begun to swell in his lap. A bloodied tear ran from his right eye.

  ‘You’re a fucking mess,’ Lennon said.

  The man, Murphy, snorted. ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a rough few days. Lucky for you I’m not at my best.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Murphy sniffed hard and spat on the concrete. Blood streaked the saliva and phlegm. ‘Just doing a job,’ he said.

  ‘What was the job?’

  ‘Look, shouldn’t you arrest me or something? We’re drawing a crowd here.’

  In his peripheral vision, Lennon could see people gathering. He heard someone tend to the nurse behind him on the steps. He blocked it all out and kept his attention on the man before him.

  ‘I’ll arrest you all right,’ he said. ‘But not until you tell me what you’re doing here.’

  Murphy held his hands out, wrists together. ‘Fucking arrest me,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Lennon asked, hunkering down. ‘Is there someone inside that’s going to help you if I bring you in?’

  Murphy smiled, his face a grotesque caricature of sweetness. ‘As me ma used to say, that’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  ‘Is it Dan Hewitt?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dan Hewitt. Special Branch. He told me Marie was flying in today, told me to meet her at the airport. He knew I’d probably bring her here. Did he tell you to be here waiting for us?’

  ‘Don’t k
now any Dan Hewitt.’

  ‘What about Gordon? DCI Roger Gordon.’

  Murphy shrugged. ‘I don’t know any cops up here in the Black North.’

  Lennon moved closer, levelled the Glock at Murphy’s forehead. He ignored the gasps from above. ‘Then who sent you here?’

  Murphy smiled up at him. ‘Arrest me.’

  ‘Who sent you to kill Declan Quigley and Patsy Toner?’

  Murphy’s smile broadened. ‘Arrest me, you Prod fucker.’ The shift on Lennon’s face gave him away. ‘You’re not a Prod? Jesus, a Catholic cop. Not even one of the new recruits. How long you been on the job?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Lennon said.

  ‘C’mon, how long? Ten years? Fifteen?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Before it was okay for Fenians to join up, anyway. Jesus, you must’ve been popular all over. I’m surprised you didn’t get your fucking brains blown out years ago by one side or the other. What’d your family make of it?’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Touch a nerve there, did I?’

  Lennon swallowed and pressed the pistol against Murphy’s temple. ‘Enough.’

  Murphy grinned and another blood-streaked tear ran down his cheek. ‘What, you going to shoot me? Eh? You going to pull that trigger and spray my brains all over the steps with this crowd watching?’

  ‘Don’t push me.’

  ‘Like fuck you will,’ Murphy said. ‘Now fucking arrest me, you stupid cunt.’

  Lennon sighed. ‘Give me your hands,’ he said.

  Murphy held up his hands again, wrists together. Lennon grabbed the swollen one and twisted. Murphy screamed. Then he laughed. Lennon applied more pressure. Murphy screamed again.

  ‘Tell me who sent you here,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Murphy said between gasps. ‘Arrest me.’

  Lennon twisted again. Murphy screamed and kicked at the concrete.

  ‘Who sent you here?’

  Murphy spat in Lennon’s face. It tasted of blood. Lennon slammed the Glock’s butt into Murphy’s temple.