by Tony Kent
‘You were quicker than I thought you’d be, Liam.’ Mullen had no doubt that his assumption was correct. ‘So now what?’
Liam did not hesitate. He reached up with a gloved hand and pulled off his balaclava. The face beneath it was grim.
‘Now, Robert?’ His tone oozed menace. ‘Now we’re gonna have a little chat.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
The live images were beamed across twenty-four-hour news networks worldwide. Every inch of the green benches that filled Britain’s House of Commons was obscured by braying politicians. All were determined to be a part of history. The noise coming from them drowned out the chimes of the world-famous Big Ben as it sounded the passing of 1 a.m.
It had been decades since British politics had been of interest to the world. Who ruled a faded imperial power held little relevance to anyone outside its borders. But the public shooting of a former US president had changed that.
The UK Parliament operated under a system of conventions. Outdated but eye-catching ceremonies that sat uneasily with modern, televised politics. The introduction of cameras into the chamber had revolutionised some aspects of that system, creating a world in which image was everything. It was a minor miracle that someone as charisma-free as William Davies should have risen to power in such times. It was poetic that the world would be glued to its screens as this anomaly was rectified.
The turnout of Members for the occasion was almost unprecedented. They competed for the few available seats and for the lenses of the cameras. Tonight they would all play a part in ending William Davies’ time in power, by voting on their confidence in his government’s policies in Northern Ireland. With public interest galvanised, every one of them was determined to be seen.
The two major political parties – Labour and Conservative – were seated on either side of the historic house. A vote on any contentious matter would usually be supported by one side and opposed by the other. On this occasion, there were no such clear lines.
From the moment he had turned his intellectual attentions to the Northern Irish problem, Davies had not just divided the nation. He had split his own party. The Conservatives were the traditional champions of patriotism and strength. Yet here was their leader, negotiating with terrorists and making concessions to end the conflict. Although not welcomed by many members of his party, they had been silenced by Davies’ initial successes.
The resurgence of terrorism and the rise of Anthony Haversume as an opposing figurehead had seen those critics return with a vengeance. Tonight would be their ultimate victory.
The vote that was to take place tonight had its beginnings in Haversume’s televised comments after the tragedy of Trafalgar Square. He had then taken the decisive step by officially calling for a motion of no confidence in Davies’ leadership. This was a point of no return from which neither man could step back.
To the outside world it seemed dramatic. But within politics it was recognised as the finishing line after years of passionate moral dissent. Haversume had walked away from a ministerial career in protest at Davies’ policies. It was an unusually principled stance for any politician, one that gifted Haversume a foundation of strength unavailable to any other candidate for leadership.
The vote itself was one of Parliament’s oldest traditions, but one that had not been used in decades. The vote Haversume had called for – a motion of no confidence – outwardly concentrated on the government’s Northern Irish policies, but in reality it amounted to much more. The fact that a loss for the government would inevitably lead to Davies’ resignation made it nothing less than a vote of confidence in his overall leadership of the state.
If this made the question posed to the Members of Parliament more difficult, it was one they proved more than willing to answer.
Haversume felt a knot of anticipation in his stomach as he watched the Speaker of the House rise to his feet. Appointed as a cross between a referee and a judge to keep Britain’s rowdy politicians under control, it was the Speaker who would lead the short voting process to decide the future of his country. All eyes would usually be on him. But not today. Today they were on the man of the hour, sitting in what should have been the inconspicuous back benches.
Haversume knew that both the room and the world were watching. He did his best to look professional. Impassive. It was a Herculean effort as the vote for his political future began.
For the first time that evening the House grew silent. All eyes now turned to the Speaker. The hushed atmosphere was maintained as he stepped forward.
Michael French wore the ceremonial robes and ruffles of office, designs that were a throwback to the nation’s past. Somehow his authority was not diminished by the absurdity of his seventeenth-century clothing. Nor by the words that followed, as he addressed the House in the language of yesteryear.
‘The question is that this house has no confidence in Her Majesty’s Government’s policies as they apply to the paramilitary situation in Northern Ireland?’
For centuries the same form of words had been the only acceptable preamble to the open-house vote. French continued, ‘As many as are not of that opinion, say “aye”.’
It was the responsibility of the Speaker of the House to count the ‘ayes’ that followed. He alone would then contrast the number with the ‘noes’ that would come later. Once done, he would decide which of the two possible answers was supported by the majority. It was a monumental responsibility. But on this occasion it was one the Speaker could discharge without fear of mistake.
French could count the responses to his first question on his fingers and toes. From that moment the result of the motion was beyond doubt. But a thousand years of parliamentary history demanded that the vote be seen to its end.
As the murmur of ‘ayes’ trickled to silence, the Speaker spoke again.
‘And of the contrary, “no”.’
French’s voice was this time far louder, in anticipation of what was to follow. Still he was drowned out by the response. Almost six hundred politicians from every party spoke as one. French could say only one thing.
‘The noes have it!’
Despite the specifics of the vote, those four words brought the leadership of William Davies to an end. His resignation now had to follow. And for Anthony Haversume, it could not come a moment too soon.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Dempsey sat on his hotel bed, bare-chested. His bedsheets had been kicked onto the deep carpet of the floor. An hour earlier he had watched the end of William Davies’ premiership with interest, but that had quickly faded. Now his mind had returned to two names: Stanton and Turner.
He was supposed to sleep. It had been an order. But, as 2.15 a.m. flashed on the bedside clock, thoughts and theories were keeping him awake.
The causes of his insomnia piled up, but one fire burned more brightly than all others. The desire to find Sam Regis’ killers. Duty was enough to drive Dempsey to any end. Patriotism took him further still. But the will to bring those responsible for his friend’s death to justice took his determination and ramped it to obsession.
Dempsey knew his next step. So the frustration at being unable to take it was overwhelming. It was matched only by the fear that this delay could set him days behind the pace. Orders or not, rest was impossible. Instead he got to his feet and paced the room as the minutes ticked slowly by.
Dempsey could understand McGregor’s concern for his safety, but it did nothing to lessen his annoyance. Before their call he had been racing from one lead to the next; each time getting closer to finding the mind behind Sam Regis’ death. But now? Now he was cooped up in a hotel room. Ineffective. Stagnant.
He moved around the room. Looked for a distraction. Some way to kill the three and a half hours until his 6 a.m. meeting with McGregor. There was nothing.
His frustration increased by the second. It was only made worse by the lack of anything that could hold his interest. Desperate for an outlet, he stepped into the en-suite bathroom.
It was a l
uxurious space. Larger than most bedrooms he had slept in over the years. There were two basins. Dempsey filled the smaller of the two with cold water and tipped the contents of the suite’s ice bucket into the same sink. He waited for five minutes and then plunged his head into the collected pool. As intended, the shock of the sub-zero temperature focused his racing mind.
Dempsey pulled himself upright. Violently. The force of movement sent the water in his short hair hurtling towards the rear wall. Ice-cold liquid trickled down onto his unclothed shoulders and back. Dempsey barely noticed. Instead he focused on the decision he had finally made.
Sod Callum, he thought, his patience exhausted. If he’ll only help on his terms I’ll just go elsewhere.
Dempsey moved back into the bedroom and slid open the wardrobe door. Inside was the same two-piece suit he had worn on his trip to Credenhill Barracks. In the breast pocket of the jacket was a single white business card.
Dempsey was relieved to see that Alex Henley’s details included a mobile number. Probably the only way that the assistant commissioner could be contacted so late. To Dempsey the time was of no concern. He did not hesitate before dialling the number.
The telephone rang for longer than expected. Dempsey was preparing to leave a voicemail when he heard the sound of a connection.
‘Who is this?’
The grating sound from the back of his throat said that Henley had been unconscious just moments before.
‘It’s Joe Dempsey. I need you to dig out some information for me. Urgently.’
‘Bloody hell, Joe. Do you know what time it is?’
‘I know, Alex, and I’m sorry. But it is urgent. I’m making headway here and this will help me.’
‘Headway where? Where are you?’
‘I’m in Belfast. After the bastards who put Turner on your team and had him kill Sam. I’m sure I’m just a few steps behind them now, and I need your help to catch up.’
‘Still off the books, I take it?’
‘Wouldn’t need to ask you otherwise, Alex. But that does mean you’ll have to keep this to yourself.’
‘That goes without saying. So how’s the investigation going?’
‘It’s growing, Alex. It’s growing quickly. That’s why I need you.’
‘There’s not much I know, really,’ Henley replied. ‘I’ve been kept out of the loop since the bombing. The Americans weren’t too keen on me being involved, not with the shooter coming from my team.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Dempsey explained. ‘It’s just addresses and intel I need. Off-the-book stuff that you’ll have in the intelligence database. It’s to do with two big names over here. Robert Mullen and Liam Casey.’
‘Do you have dates of birth?’
‘No. I was hoping that you could help me with that.’
‘OK. It’s not ideal but I’ll live with it. Where are these guys, Joe? What area?’
‘They’re both based in Belfast. It’s a smaller pond and they’re big fish. You’ll be able to pinpoint who they are real quick.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might speed things up? Any historic points or family details, anything like that?’
Henley was playing the role of information gatherer. A familiar skill for a police officer. Dempsey could tell that he was in his comfort zone.
‘Not really.’
Dempsey paused for a moment. He considered whether to give Henley the one further piece of information that might help in locating Devlin. In the circumstances, it seemed sensible.
‘Actually there is one other thing. The second guy. Liam Casey. It might help to know that he’s Michael Devlin’s brother.’
‘Michael Devlin? The guy whose house was bombed in Islington?’
‘That’s him, yeah.’
‘What the hell does he have to do with any of this?
Dempsey tried to focus. How to condense so many discoveries into a digestible form.
‘I didn’t tell you in London, but Michael Devlin was close friends with another lawyer. A guy called Daniel Lawrence. Lawrence was the other guy in the wedding photo I dug out at Devlin’s house. He was also the lawyer who represented McGale at Paddington Green police station after the shooting, following which they both ended up dead. I think—’
‘Lawrence is dead?’ Henley’s voice betrayed his shock. ‘How?’
‘Car crash.’ Now Dempsey was confused. ‘I don’t understand. You knew Lawrence?’
‘No, I didn’t know him,’ Henley explained. ‘But I knew of him. At least, I knew he’d been appointed to look after McGale.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘Everyone present at the COBRA Committee knew that, Joe. It was discussed openly, even in front of those of us who were only there as witnesses. They said that McGale was in custody, that he wouldn’t speak without a lawyer and that the lawyer appointed was called Daniel Lawrence. Lawrence was supposed to see McGale the next day.’
Dempsey’s mind was racing. Henley had knowledge of a fact that had apparently been kept from everyone. What could that mean?
‘Alex, I’ve been told that McGale never saw a lawyer. That he killed himself before speaking to a soul. Now you’re telling me you knew he’d seen Lawrence?’
‘I’m not saying that they definitely saw each other, Joe,’ Henley explained. ‘I’m not part of COBRA so I only know what I heard while I was in that room. But I do know that McGale had committed suicide before the next morning, so they probably didn’t meet. All I know is that Daniel Lawrence was appointed as McGale’s lawyer.’
Dempsey felt an almost physical internal pain as Henley spoke. Something he had not experienced since his time in Columbia seven years before. He was hardly able to ask the next question, but he knew he had no choice.
‘I need you to be clear on this, Alex. Are you saying that the whole of the COBRA Committee knew about Lawrence?’
‘Of course they did. Everyone at the meeting. The COBRA members and the witnesses.’
‘And what about Callum McGregor? From my department? Did he know about Lawrence too?’
‘He’s the one person who definitely knew, Joe . . .’
Henley could not know how devastating his answer was to Dempsey. It made all pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
Dempsey did not need to hear Henley’s last words to know the truth. About McGregor. About Stanton. And about everything else.
‘. . . because it was McGregor who told the rest of us.’
SIXTY-NINE
Fury bristled across Robert Mullen’s skin like an electrical charge. He sat, unblinking and motionless, on a rough hardwood chair. Wrists cuffed behind his back. He looked from face to face. The spitting and snarling had stopped. After two hours it had proved pointless. Now he sat in silence, his control of his temper on a knife-edge.
The sudden ambush had been unexpected and painful. But Mullen had regained his composure quickly. For the past hours he had concentrated on what would probably follow.
Stanton had warned him about Michael Devlin and his relationship to Liam Casey, so he knew why they were involved. It was this knowledge that made Mullen sure of how things would end. With the stakes as high as they were, Liam Casey could not leave him alive.
The only question was what would happen in the meantime. In this respect Mullen had an advantage. Long experience of both kidnap and aggressive interrogation left him with little to learn about either. Mullen was not surprised, then, that Liam Casey had so far left him isolated, with nothing to do but dwell upon what might follow. It was an old technique designed to weaken resolve. To encourage him to grasp any opportunity of survival that presented itself. Seeing it for the first time from the other side, Mullen recognised how effective it was.
The urge to offer information in the hope of securing his safety was overwhelming. For most it might even prove irresistible. But Mullen was made of different clay. The irrationality that had guided him to the top of his trade would not submit to inner torment.
Robert Mullen would not be beaten.
The same irrationality – the same streak of madness – had driven Mullen to react in the only way he knew how. To struggle. To scream. To shout. To threaten. It had proved ineffective. The few men left on guard had ignored him. So now Mullen sat in silence, his anger, his resentment and his anticipation of the end ever growing.
Just as Liam intended.
It would not be anticipation for much longer. Mullen heard the roar of an engine outside. It was exactly how Mullen would have played it. Big delay. Big arrival.
The sound of a ringtone caught Mullen’s attention.
‘I’ll be right there.’
They were Jack Thornton’s only words as he held the phone to his ear. An unconscious glance told Mullen that the call was about him.
Thornton moved to the garage’s main doors and unlocked the four deadbolts that secured them. He opened the small man-sized hatch that sat within the right-hand door. It was designed to allow individual access to the lock-up without opening the main doors. To keep the heat in and the world out.
Thornton stood aside to let the new arrivals enter. Liam. Michael. Paddy O’Neil. And Sarah Truman.
The time between Michael’s departure and his return had felt like hell to Sarah. An ordeal made worse by the helplessness of waiting. By the time Michael and Liam had returned, she had made up her mind. Michael would not leave without her again.
It had not been an easy discussion, but Sarah’s refusal to spend any more time knowing nothing and fearing the worst had won out. It was an argument strongly supported by Sarah’s reminder that her life was under threat just as much as Michael’s.
Michael had seemed willing to stand his ground. Sarah suspected – hoped – this was through fear for her safety. But it had been Liam who had cast the deciding vote, agreeing that Sarah had the right to play a part in securing her own future.
Now, as she looked around the lock-up and set eyes upon a bloody figure secured to a chair in the centre of the space, Sarah began to question her own decision.