The Traveller feigned offence. ‘Here, now, there’s no—’
‘Shut your mouth.’ Gordon leaned close. ‘We don’t do things the way we used to. I never saw it as torture, just rigorous interrogation. But the bleeding hearts and the politicians took a different view, so that’s that. But it’s not too late to turn the clock back. You’re already looking pretty rough, so I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving too many marks. Now you start talking to me, son, or you’ll be getting a lesson in the police procedures of yesteryear. Understood?’
The Traveller said nothing.
Gordon gripped the Traveller’s face in one meaty hand. ‘Understood?’
The Traveller shrugged.
Gordon took his hand away, wiped it on his trouser leg. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to it.’
He returned to his seat and started the tape recorder.
‘Now,’ he said, taking his pen in hand. ‘Who is your contact in Belfast?’
The Traveller grinned. ‘No comment,’ he said.
Before Gordon could react, the door opened and the pale cop stepped in. The Traveller kept his stinging eyes fixed straight ahead. The pale cop approached Gordon, bent down, whispered in his ear.
Gordon stopped the tape recorder, coughed, and followed the pale cop out of the room.
The Traveller ran his tongue across his upper lip and smiled.
68
‘Shit,’ Lennon said.
‘I’m sorry, there’s no one else,’ Gordon said.
‘I’d rather stay here.’
‘Nobody knows where “here” is,’ Gordon said. ‘You won’t even tell me, so how could anybody else know? Look, I need an officer of your experience on scene for the search. The hotel management are waiting. The only other officer I could send in is Dan Hewitt.’
‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Good lad,’ Gordon said.
Lennon went into the living room and sat down on the couch beside Marie. Ellen dozed in her lap as late-night music videos played silently on Roscoe’s huge television. ‘I’ve been called away,’ he said. ‘But I’ll stay if you want me to.’
‘Go,’ Marie said. ‘I don’t need a guard dog.’
‘You’ll be safe,’ Lennon said. ‘Roscoe has this place done up like Fort Knox. The door’s got two locks and a chain. It’s rock solid. Besides, no one knows you’re here.’
‘That Roscoe knows,’ she said.
‘I trust him.’
‘I don’t,’ Marie said.
Lennon took the Glock from its holster. He held it out to her. ‘Here.’
Marie stared at the gun. No,’ she said.
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ she said.
‘It’ll make me feel better.’
‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it.’
‘It’s easy,’ Lennon said. ‘You just pull this back to chamber a round. Then you point it and pull the trigger.’
‘I don’t want it,’ Marie said.
‘Take it.’ He held it in front of her. When she didn’t take it, he stood and crossed the room. He reached up and placed it on a shelf, too high for Ellen to reach. ‘It’s there if you need it,’ he said. ‘But you won’t.’
Marie didn’t answer, just watched him from the couch as she rocked their sleeping daughter.
‘I’ll be an hour, two at most,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back. I promise.’
69
The sound of heavy boots slapping the tiled floor jerked the Traveller from his doze. His body ached from lying on the thin mattress. He sat upright in the dark, sniffed, and wiped his one uncovered eye. He listened.
Running men and hard voices. Not panic, but some sort of emergency. One voice called for a doctor. Another called for a knife. The Traveller stood and walked to the metal door. He pressed his ear against it.
He heard, ‘Stupid fucker.’
He heard, ‘His trousers.’
He heard, ‘Hanged himself.’
The Traveller smiled. He walked to the toilet, unzipped, and emptied his bladder. He tucked himself away and zipped up. He breathed deep, steadied himself, faced the door, and waited.
Perhaps ten minutes passed as more footsteps hammered along the corridor beyond the door. They all seemed to be travelling the same direction, past his cell, deeper into the custody suite. The footsteps died away, leaving only urgent voices in another part of the building.
The Traveller imagined the pale cop on the other side of the door, waiting for his moment. When Hewitt told him the plan, the Traveller didn’t think he’d go through with it. But, by the sounds of things, he had.
The door clanked and creaked as a bolt moved aside. The Traveller smiled. He squinted as light from the corridor flooded the cell. Hewitt stood in the doorway. The Traveller struggled to make out his features in silhouette, but he could see the cop was sweating, his eyes dull.
‘You did it, then,’ the Traveller said.
‘Yes,’ Hewitt said.
‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’
‘Neither did I.’
The Traveller smiled. ‘First one’s the hardest.’
‘There’ll never be a second,’ the cop said.
‘You sure of that?’
Hewitt stood silent for a moment before stepping into the cell and closing the door behind him. It sealed them together in the dull glow from the nightlight. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s with the kid. The CCTV is down for the whole custody suite. You’ve got four, five minutes at most.’
The cop took a roll of cash from his pocket and handed it to the Traveller, along with a set of car keys. ‘It’s an old Volkswagen Passat, parked on the far side of the playing fields. Once you’re out the gates, turn right then cut straight across the rugby pitch, it’ll be at the other side. Keep out of sight till you’re there.’
‘Don’t worry, I will,’ he said.
‘And here,’ Hewitt said. He undid the catch on his holster, drew the Glock 17, and held it out butt-first.
The Traveller reached for the gun and tucked it into his jacket pocket. They’d taken his belt, so his jeans hung loose from his hips. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said.
‘Wait.’ The cop gripped his sleeve.
The Traveller turned to see him in the dimness.
‘It needs to look right,’ Hewitt said, his voice wavering and cracking.
‘All right,’ the Traveller said. He slammed his forearm into Hewitt’s face.
The cop stumbled back silently, blood spurting from his flattened nose. He slid down the wall, his jacket whispering on the painted concrete, his legs spreading out in front of him.
The Traveller patted Hewitt’s pockets until he found the can of CS spray. ‘Is he paying you well?’ he asked.
Hewitt stared back at him with clouded eyes. The Traveller gave him a sharp slap, sending a fresh spray of blood across the floor. The cop blinked at him.
‘Is the Bull paying you well for this?’
Hewitt coughed and moaned. ‘Well enough,’ he said, the words gurgling in his throat.
‘Don’t scream,’ the Traveller said. He shook the can.
‘No,’ the cop said.
‘You said it had to look real,’ the Traveller said. ‘You scream, and you’re more fucked than me.’
‘No.’
The Traveller covered his own mouth with his lapel, and aimed. He let Hewitt have it. The cop opened his mouth and leaked air. He inhaled, then convulsed as the CS attacked his chest and throat. He collapsed on his side, coughing.
‘Nice working with you,’ the Traveller said as he dropped the can and stood. He went to the door and listened. He heard nothing above Hewitt’s gasping and spluttering. His own throat stung, and his good eye watered. He ripped the dressing from the other and blinked as the cool air washed around it.
He opened the door and glanced up and down the
corridor, his vision blurring and sharpening as it adjusted to the light. He shook his head and blinked, tried to clear it. Voices came from around the corner, where the kid’s cell was. They’d have cut him down, tried to resuscitate him. The Traveller hoped Hewitt had done a decent job of it. He drew the Glock, exited the cell and closed the door behind him. He slid the bar across and locked Hewitt’s whining behind the steel.
The Traveller moved quickly and quietly. Left took him to the booking desk, now deserted as all hands tried to save the kid. Left again took him to the corridor leading to the reception area. He froze as he turned the corner.
Gordon stood by the locked door. They stared at each other, ten feet between them.
Gordon mouthed some words.
‘What?’
Point the gun, Gordon’s lips said.
The Traveller did as he was told, and Gordon raised his arms. The cop stepped aside so the Traveller could see the keypad for the lock.
The door’s small window showed the exit beyond. A camera watched from its perch where the ceiling met the wall.
He understood. ‘Put your number in and open it,’ he said, crossing the distance between them.
Gordon did it without argument. The lock whirred and clunked.
‘There’s no one on the gate,’ Gordon whispered in a voice so quiet the Traveller could barely hear him. ‘You’ve got a clean run at it, so long as you’re quick.’
The Traveller nodded, kept the Glock trained on Gordon.
‘Hewitt said I’d be looked after,’ Gordon whispered. ‘He said your people would take care of me.’
‘That’s right,’ the Traveller said.
He put the pistol to Gordon’s temple, waited long enough to see the realisation in the cop’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.
The Traveller stepped over Gordon’s twitching legs, and went for the outer door. Beyond it, the gates stood open and unattended. The night air cooled his face as he ran.
He didn’t stop running until he found the Volkswagen.
70
Lennon had called Gordon’s direct line the moment he saw the splintered door frame, but got no reply. He had tried three more times since, then tried the station’s front desk. Still nothing. He might have wondered why if not for the more urgent worry of the hotel room. He made another tour of it, circuiting the bed, the chair, the open-faced wardrobe, the small bathroom.
The staff had been as indifferent and professional as he expected. They’d had to wait for consent from the manager to be in compliance with the law, but he’d been at a training day across the water. He’d come straight from the airport and had taken Lennon and the hastily assembled team to the room personally. The manager had looked at the forced door, then at Lennon, and said, ‘Well, at least I don’t need to call the police.’
Now Lennon watched the team work, pointless as it was. He knew they’d have turned up nothing useful, even if the door hadn’t been forced. The suspect was too smart to leave anything incriminating here. Lennon could only stand by and wait for Gordon to reply to his voicemail.
Fergal Connolly, a fresh-faced constable, worked through the contents of a hold all he’d found at the foot of the bed: cheap hoodies, T-shirts and jeans, along with a selection of socks and underwear. Everything was still wrapped in carrier bags from Dunnes, Primark and Matalan. Their man had been disposing of his clothes as he went along.
‘Clever bastard,’ Lennon said.
The room was neat, at least it had been before the search team started on it. The suspect had chosen a decent hotel because he knew the staff would keep it spick and span. Lennon doubted if there’d even be a hair in the plughole.
He checked his mobile for the tenth time since he’d been here. No missed calls or messages. He knew Marie and Ellen would be fine, but still, he couldn’t dislodge that sour weight from his gut.
Having run out of things to lift, turn over, open, or generally inspect, the three constables now ambled around the room like sheep in a pen. They’d start searching one another soon, Lennon thought.
He spoke to Connolly. ‘Have one last tour of the place, then pack up and secure the door. I want one officer to stay here and make sure no one crosses the threshold, you understand? Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. I want a word with the desk staff before I go.’
Lennon walked to the elevator bank and hit the button. He looked up and down the corridor. He took the phone from his pocket again and found Marie’s number. Should he call her? Maybe, hopefully, she was getting some sleep. Wouldn’t do to wake her. But he’d be happier if he knew she and Ellen were okay. And Marie would probably be happier if she knew Lennon was concerned enough to check in with her. He hit the dial button.
Marie answered with a sigh. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Just wanted to see how you were,’ Lennon said.
‘I was asleep,’ she said. ‘That’s how I was. Now I’m awake. And so is Ellen.’
Lennon heard a ping, and one of the elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside and pressed G. Ellen’s voice rustled against his ear, all yawns and grumbles. The doors closed, and Lennon felt that odd weightlessness.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘We’re okay,’ Marie said. ‘We’d be better if we were still asleep.’
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you said.’
The phone died. The elevator’s doors opened onto the reception area. Only one of the receptionists had seen the suspect’s comings and goings. Lennon beckoned her over to a pair of soft armchairs. Her badge said her name was Ania, and she spoke Polish, Lithuanian, Russian and English.
‘I saw him only a few times,’ she said, her words spoken with a careful and deliberate clarity, her accent softened by years of Belfast living. ‘He never said hello. He always kept his head down and walked right past. But once …’
‘Once what?’ Lennon asked.
‘On the floor, after he had walked past reception, there was something on the floor, like dirt or mud. It was very small, like a coin. I took a tissue and went around the desk. When I wiped it up, it was red. It was blood.’
Her face remained devoid of emotion, as if she was telling him special room rates. Just a week or two ago, Lennon might have tried his luck with her. Now her hard good looks stirred nothing in him.
‘What about today, has anyone unusual been here? We requested that no one be allowed near that room. Could anyone have got past reception without being noticed?’
‘I saw no one,’ she said. ‘But people come and go all the time. They have meetings here, business people, salesmen.’
‘Is there another way in? A way to get to the rooms without coming through reception?’
‘There is an entrance from the car park,’ she said. ‘But the car park is locked, unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘There is a camera overlooking the gate. They are not supposed to, but if a car pulls up, often whoever is on the desk will just press the button to open the gate without checking. The customers get annoyed if they have to get out of their cars and walk to reception, so it is easier just to let them in and out. I tell them not to do it, but they do it anyway.’
‘So someone might have—’
Before Lennon could finish the question he heard the static crackle of a radio over his shoulder. He looked around to see Constable Connolly half running across the lobby towards him, his face sickly pale.
‘What?’ Lennon asked, standing.
Connolly skidded on the tiled floor. He found his balance and said, ‘We need to go.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Connolly looked like he might throw up. ‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘Really bad.’
71
The Traveller pulled off the dual carriageway and into a small housing development, a fresh clean new-build. Big houses, four and five bedrooms, all with their own paved driveways, four-by-fours and estates parked on them. He entered a
cul-de-sac and made his way to the turning circle at the end. The Volkswagen’s ancient brakes whined as he stopped.
At least Hewitt had got him an automatic. Changing gears would have been hell on his throbbing wrist. He flexed his fingers against the elasticated bandage then rolled his shoulder to shift the ache that had settled there. It felt tight where the knitting needle had punctured his skin, as if the flesh constricted on the bone.
He opened the door and got out. A cat watched him from its place curled up on a welcome mat on one of the doorsteps. The Traveller quickly scanned the cul-de-sac, checking for lights or twitching curtains. Satisfied, he opened the boot. There, just as Hewitt had promised, his long kit bag, the kind of luggage cricketers carried bats and pads in. The plastic cable tie still sealed it closed. He was surprised Hewitt hadn’t had a peek inside. The tie was only there to keep the hotel maids out. You’d never know its contents by feeling the outside. Blankets softened the shotgun’s shape.
The Traveller took a moment to get his bearings. Follow the Shore Road, Hewitt had said, keep going till you see the masts.
The lighting around the marina cast oranges and yellows over the moored boats. Some were small sailing craft; others were bigger vessels with powerful engines. The place stank of money. It figured the Loyalist would run his whores from here. The Traveller circled the building, looking for danger. He expected none, the Loyalist had been paid good money for the address and the keys the Traveller had found in the Volkswagen’s glovebox, but still, he would be careful.
He kept the Browning tight against his side, its stock inside his jacket, the barrel pressed against his leg as he walked to the far side of the apartment block where the few permanent residents’ cars sat protected by the street lights. Four of them in all, plus the Volkswagen he’d driven here in. Most of the apartments were weekend getaways or holiday lets. The Loyalist had said his place would be the only occupied flat on that floor. The building’s entrance was a sheltered glass door. He tried one of the three keys he’d been given; it didn’t work. He tried the second and was inside. A plain, clean reception area with a lift. He took the stairs instead, two steps at a time.
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