by Jo Bannister
‘You don’t want much, do you? The man who pays my wages and this top hit-man he hired to do your governor. And for that I don’t even walk?’
‘Three years takes a lot of serving. Don’t underestimate what I’m offering you.’
McMeekin seemed to be considering it. Then he reached through the open door of the car, fastened big hands in Donovan’s clothes, and hauled him bodily outside. ‘Come here.’
Even sober and with two hands Donovan would have been no match for McMeekin. He was as tall but only half as wide, and though he had more than a layman’s knowledge of street-fighting he was trained to the use of minimum necessary force. He’d learned a few tricks the Police Complaints Commission didn’t know, and didn’t want to, but a man in McMeekin’s trade must have forgotten more than Donovan knew. He could move faster than the big man, but with one hand in plaster and alcohol dulling his reactions it seemed unlikely to make the difference.
He didn’t resist, only complaining mildly as McMeekin hauled him out of the car and slammed him up against it. ‘What are you doing, Terry? You think I’m carrying? Shapiro kept my warrant card: you think he left me a gun?’
‘I heard about your slanging match in the Ginger Pig. Jesus, Donovan, you were some loss to the Diplomatic Corps.’
‘Yeah, well,’ grunted Donovan, ‘I suppose it wasn’t too smart, shouting the odds in a public bar. You never know who’s listening.’ Slowly, in the glimmer of light from the car, his face changed with the recollection of what he’d been shouting about. He didn’t remember every word but the main thrust of his argument, the reason he’d cornered Shapiro in the pub instead of waiting for him to return to his office, was that the information they now had was enough to make the cat jump. Well, it had jumped.
McMeekin nodded, his voice humorous. ‘That’s right. You told half Castlemere that you and Page together could convict us of Clarke’s murder. You wanted to use the kid as bait but Mr Shapiro wouldn’t wear it. So you stormed out, went on a blinder, and drove up here in the middle of the night with some tom. What did you think was going to happen? Michael Aspel was going to jump out from behind a bush with a big red book?’
Donovan shrugged. ‘So it was stupid. It’s been a long day: I was tired, I lost the rag. It wouldn’t have stood up in court anyway.’
McMeekin sniffed. ‘That’s not what you said in the Ginger Pig. What I heard was, you had it sewn up. As long as you and Page could both testify.’ He waited but Donovan said nothing. ‘Guess what, Donovan? You aren’t going to testify.’
Donovan felt the alcohol like lead in his belly and his veins. He’d have given anything for a clear head. He’d had a reason to drink, but with hindsight it had been a bad move. McMeekin was either warning him off or threatening to kill him: he wished he could be sure which. It mattered.
He got round it with a spurt of bravado that came out as a sneer. ‘So what now, Terry? You want me to wait while you find out if it’s convenient for your man to come over and bust my head in?’
McMeekin sighed. ‘I keep telling you, Donovan, but you don’t listen. There’s no hit-man. There never was a hit-man. Anything Mr Carney needs doing for him, I do. I look after him. I tidy up for him. If he gets something on his shoes, I clean them. That’s all you are, Donovan, something he’s trodden in. You’ll wipe off.’ He sniffed. ‘I thought I’d wiped you off once before. I knew Clarke was finished: I thought you were too. You’re a lucky bastard, Donovan. At least, you used to be.’
‘I knew it was you I saw,’ breathed Donovan. ‘You were alone in the car? It was you driving? You that hit us?’
McMeekin nodded. He seemed pleased with himself. ‘I don’t need help dealing with the likes of you. Not then, not now.’
Now he had his confession it almost seemed that Donovan doubted it. ‘How did you get rid of the car?’
‘The scrap-yard I borrowed it from put it straight in the crusher. It was a half-ton paperweight before you reached the hospital.’ The smugness in his voice was intolerable.
Donovan ached with the desire to shred it. ‘I bet that wasn’t your idea. Too clever for you by half, that. The boss?’
The big man shrugged. ‘I do what Mr Carney says. Always. You know that. And Donovan, he says he wants you dead.’
That was neither a warning nor a threat, it was a statement of fact, delivered as unemotionally as a grocery list. Donovan knew the only reason McMeekin was talking like this – was talking to him at all – was that he saw no problem about carrying out his orders. He’d be armed and Donovan wasn’t; he was sober and Donovan wasn’t. He’d waited till Donovan had cut himself off from his colleagues, until he came to a time and a place where the chances of an interruption were tiny. Donovan would fight, he’d have to fight, this was his life they were talking about, but he wouldn’t fight well, he wouldn’t fight for long, and when he went down it would be over.
‘How you going to make this look like an accident, Terry?’
McMeekin laughed out loud. ‘You were going to be another victim of the Castlemere Crazy. That’s why I brought this.’ He produced a sawn-off shot-gun from under his coat. Moonlight touched the abbreviated barrel with a blue gleam, the polished stock with a palely golden one. ‘I’ve been on your tail most of the evening, I couldn’t believe my luck when you came out here, where it all began. I thought that was so neat, hiding your death in the work of a mindless serial killer. Even if the guy was caught later and he denied it, who’s going to believe a homicidal maniac? By then the situation would have been so confused they’d never have sorted it out. I was really pissed off when I found out you’d caught him already, that was why you were all in the Ginger Pig. Your security’s crap, you know that?’
Donovan gave a lop-sided shrug. ‘We had the guy. No one thought there was anything to keep quiet about.’
McMeekin nodded resignedly. ‘So now it’ll have to be those bikers you had a run-in with. They’ll be along in a little while, you’ll be found with the tracks of motorbikes all round you. And over you. Why? Maybe you reported them once for riding without the proper headgear. Another nasty skirmish in the long-running war between rebel youth and the forces of law. Sad, really. But Donovan’s Luck was bound to run out one day.’
Donovan had heard all he wanted to. If he didn’t make a move soon he was going to run out of time. McMeekin had allowed himself half an hour to do this, longer than was either safe or sensible but not very long at all when a man thought of it as the rest of his life. The arrival of the bikes would end any chance he had to out-manoeuvre McMeekin. What he didn’t do soon would go undone.
He nodded at the weapon. ‘Bikers don’t use guns.’
‘No,’ agreed McMeekin. ‘They use knives and chains and boots. And iron bars.’ Without changing his grip on the shot-gun, with sudden violence he struck out at Donovan’s head.
There was neither time nor, with McMeekin in front of him and the car behind, space to evade the assault even though Donovan saw it coming. He tried to roll with it and absorb some of the force that way. It wasn’t enough. The impact exploded fireworks behind his eyes and flung him to his hands and knees on the gritty ground. Nausea rolled over him in a tide. A rough edge where the barrel was sawn had opened a gash under his left eye: he felt the blood wash down his cheek as he knelt by the car, blind and hanging his head, trying to hold back the crowding darkness, the kaleidoscopic pain.
McMeekin bent beside him, peering into his face. He raised Donovan’s head by a handful of hair the better to inspect his workmanship. Then he turned the gun unhurriedly in his gloved hands. ‘And pick-axe handles.’
The stock of the gun, swung like a club, hit Donovan under the ribs, driving the air out of him, spilling him across the gravel in a sprawl of limbs; and when he tried to lift his face out of the grit it smashed across his back, beating him down. He tried to roll out of range but McMeekin followed, calmly, unhurriedly, and kicked him in the belly and in the face.
After that he could not have risen to save
his life. He was breathing knives. His body pulsed in agony and his head reeled. Fear swamped him. What strength remained to him he used to draw his arms about his head and his knees up to his belly, protectively; and with what wits remained to him he thought, If this goes on much longer I’m going to die.
But McMeekin didn’t hit him again. Instead he put the gun aside, lifted Donovan and propped him against a wheel of the car. His head rocked back until it collided softly with the metal panel. His eyes slid open, vacant and appalled.
‘Oh, Donovan,’ sighed the big man, squatting in front of him, his arms resting across his knees. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you? You had to have proof. This proof enough? Now will you believe the only mechanic Mr Carney needs is me?’
Donovan’s gaze was vague, focusing only blurrily. Finally it found its way to McMeekin’s face. Flecked with blood his lips moved in a whisper. ‘So what are we waiting for?’
Another shadow detached itself from the fringing trees and stepped round the back of the car. ‘For me, Sergeant Donovan. He’s waiting for me.’
It was Jack Carney, and by appearing at the scene of a crime he was breaking the habit of a lifetime. It was a calculated risk. McMeekin had made sure there were no witnesses before he stepped out of the darkness, and McMeekin would make sure that nothing Donovan heard or saw could harm him. There remained the remote risk of a chance discovery. Jack Carney was not a man who liked taking even remote risks. That he wanted to be here for this said everything about his feelings for Donovan.
‘Carney.’ He managed a bloody grin. ‘Brought your motorbike?’
Carney laughed, a high light peal that sounded like genuine amusement. There wasn’t enough light to judge his expression but in his voice were mingled malice and something almost like affection. ‘Do you know something, Donovan? I’m sorry it’s come to this. I’m going to miss you. Not much but a bit. Like an old dog that’s constantly tripping you up and getting in your way: you finally get rid of it but you miss it, just a bit.’
‘You could give me to the RSPCA,’ suggested Donovan weakly. ‘Somebody might give me a good home.’
Still chuckling, Carney shook his head. ‘Sorry, boy. You’ve become dangerous. I can’t have that. I could put up with you being a nuisance but not once you started to bite.’
‘Is that why you killed Alan? He was getting close enough to hurt you?’
‘Inspector Clarke? Yes, that’s about it. He was a cleverer man than I gave him credit for – clever and determined. I knew he was rooting round, of course. I didn’t think there was anything for him to find. But it seems my tracks weren’t as carefully covered as they should have been.’ His head moved as if he were flicking an acid glance at McMeekin. ‘Well, that’s all in the past. Neither of you can hurt me now.’
‘Page—’
‘Yes, I know,’ nodded Carney. ‘You really shouldn’t discuss police business in pubs, you know. Page heard Terry say the same words you heard under the viaduct. It doesn’t matter now. It wasn’t much to start with: when you’re dead it won’t be anything at all. Oh, I expect I’ll have Mr Shapiro or Mrs Graham round asking about it. What can I tell them? That Terry watches a lot of TV, he picks up some funny expressions, God knows where that one came from but this reckless driver must have seen the same film. So maybe you thought you recognized Terry’s voice; but you were concussed, weren’t you? Anyway, there’s no way of knowing now. Without you there’s no case.’
‘Lucy,’ slurred Donovan. His grip was slipping, he was afraid he was going to pass out. That would be the end. Carney was only holding McMeekin back because it amused him to talk with a man who’d tried to bring him down and was about to pay for his insolence with his life.
Carney frowned. He didn’t understand. ‘Lucy?’
‘The bag-lady. The old woman who asked to see us behind the gasworks. What happened to her?’
Jack Carney was a busy man. A criminal enterprise requires as much organizing as any other; indeed there are more considerations to occupy the mind. No man with an expanding business can deal with every aspect of it, he has to delegate. He tries to keep his finger on the pulse of major events but often the minor details elude him. That was what had happened here. With devastating honesty he admitted, ‘I don’t remember.’
It knocked the wind out of Donovan like another blow. ‘You killed an old lady, and you don’t remember?’
Carney’s head turned. ‘Did we kill her, Terry? You dealt with it. What did you do with her?’
McMeekin’s voice was bleak. ‘She went on a trip … Birmingham, I think. Third class. Actually, in a shipment of grain.’ He grinned. ‘They’ll find her when people start complaining about the lumpy bits in the bread.’
Donovan’s head tilted back until the starlight was in his eyes. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he moaned. ‘She was an old tramp – how could she be any danger to you?’
‘She couldn’t,’ agreed Carney calmly. ‘Not after Terry’d fixed her up with an Away Day to Birmingham. He really didn’t have much option. She saw him disposing of Mr Potter’s dog – you know, the one he liked almost as much as his children? Well, you can’t cut somebody’s kid’s throat and dump it in the foundations of his latest building project, can you? Not till you’ve exhausted the other possibilities.’
‘Potter got the message,’ said Donovan. ‘He never said another word to us. You didn’t need to kill Lucy.’
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ Carney said, though not as if he meant it, ‘but that was down to you. Everyone in Castlemere knows Lucy lived on what you gave her for street-gossip. We could have frightened her off but it wouldn’t have lasted: next time she was cold and hungry she’d have called you. You’re the reason Lucy’s dead.’
‘You made her call me. You knew I’d come where she told me. You knew I’d bring DI Clarke if she asked to see him.’
‘Me?’ said Carney, the negligent little half-smile broadening. ‘I was miles away, tucked up in bed with a nasty attack of palpitations. Ask my doctor.’
Donovan gave a languid drunken grin. ‘Hey, Carney, this is me you’re talking to. I know how long your reach is.’
Like many men who think themselves a cut above the average, Jack Carney was susceptible to flattery. He took it as a compliment and preened visibly. ‘Well, all right – just between the three of us. What I can’t do in person Terry does for me. You know that. You underestimated Terry, Sergeant. You thought he couldn’t handle the heavy stuff, that I needed outside help for that. Terry was really quite offended, weren’t you, Terry?’
‘I was, Mr Carney,’ McMeekin agreed obediently.
‘But Terry’s a big boy now. He can deal with the likes of Lucy. He can deal with the likes of you. I don’t need to be here tonight. Do you know why I am?’
‘Nothing on the telly?’
It wasn’t a great joke but anyway it was wasted on Carney. All the humour had died out of his voice. He sounded at last like what he was: a vicious little thug with a cold hatred in his heart for anyone who opposed him. ‘Because I want to watch you die, Donovan. You’ve done your level best to destroy me. You tried to snare me in your laws. You spied on me. You tried to make it impossible for me to conduct my business. You tried to make me a laughing stock, in my own town, among my own associates. And you failed. Now you’re going to die, and I’m going to watch so I’ll never be tempted to worry about little things like policemen again. There’s nothing special about policemen. You bleed like men; you die like men.’
‘We breed like flies. There’ll always be another, every way you turn.’ In spite of the nausea, fear was pushing the words out faster than he would have wished. They were true, but they weren’t much consolation.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Donovan. No one’s going to make a crusade of avenging you. Terry?’
Carney stepped back. The last thing he wanted was blood on his overcoat. McMeekin was wearing a plastic mac. He reached for the gun and, after a moment’s consideration, picked it up slowly by the barre
ls. ‘Sorry, Donovan,’ he said.
And Donovan groaned, ‘Beam me up, Scottie.’
Powerful lights sprang out all round the car park, catching the little tableau – the man on the ground, the man poised to beat the life out of him, the third man watching – like actors on a stage. A woman’s voice rang out. ‘Armed police officers. Stay where you are.’
For an instant McMeekin seemed to think of using the gun. If he’d picked it up by the stock perhaps he would have done. But he couldn’t turn it quicker than a marksman could drop him, and by the time he’d thought that he knew there was no point anyway. He couldn’t get away. He was surrounded, he couldn’t reach the woods, if he went over the escarpment there was no cover between here and the river.
Slowly he let out the deep breath he’d snatched for action. Still holding the gun by the barrels he offered it to Donovan. ‘Some you win, some you lose.’
Without moving from the ground Donovan took it. It was heavier than he expected. The weight of it seemed to carry the stubby barrels slowly, inexorably towards Jack Carney, settling on his broad belly. The little man jolted with the unfamiliar emotion fear.
There was light enough in the car park now for Donovan to see his face, to see his eyes. By concentrating hard he could keep the black mist far enough back in the corners of his head to see the shock there turn to panic and then to a recognition that it was over. That the cleverest brief on his payroll couldn’t get him out of this. That he’d been played like a fish, like the wily old trout he was, but he’d finally met a bait that was too damned tempting and snapped at it. Now he’d condemned himself out of his own mouth with most of Castlemere CID listening. They had him. It was over.
When he saw in Carney’s eyes the sick understanding of how he had been trapped, Donovan nodded his heavy head ponderously, raised the heavy barrels till Carney was staring down them. He drawled, ‘Life’s hard, Jack. Then you die.’
Still he waited. For all the people in and around it, the car park was silent. No one spoke, no one moved. They wouldn’t let him get away with murdering Jack Carney but he didn’t think they’d shoot him first to stop him. He watched Carney’s face along the barrels.