‘Cricket?’ enquired Clements, raising an eyebrow and entering into the discussion for the first time. The man seemed to brighten.
‘Jason was a marvellous cricketer,’ he informed them proudly.
‘Did he belong to a club?’ asked Clements.
‘Of course,’ replied the boy’s father, as if it was the silliest thing that he had ever heard.
‘My boy was brilliant, a fast bowler. Why he was only at the club a matter of weeks when he was drafted into the first team.’
‘He must have made you both very proud,’ said Tullen sympathetically.
‘What was the name of the club sir?’ asked Billy, showing little interest in the bereaved man’s feelings.
‘Oh sorry, it was Hillingdon CC, you must excuse me, this is very hard.’
‘Not at all sir,’ said Tullen. ‘It will not take much longer. Did he have any school friends and if so, were any of them members of the cricket club?’
‘As a matter of fact he did have a friend who played for the club. Young Carl Davis, he was the one that took Jason down there. I am still at a loss. How has any of this got the slightest bearing on the murder of our boy?’ the man asked suspiciously. Mr. Leonard I know this is difficult but you really must trust us. We need this information in order to bring your son’s murderer to justice,’ said Clements, frustrated.
‘Now I know it sounds strange but some times information such as this can be helpful. The IRA. has many tentacles and I am sorry to say it but your son may have been targeted from the mainland. These people have no morals, they gather information about boys like your son, boys who have joined the army. They pass on the data to operatives in Ireland and again I am sorry to say it, your son’s death may be attributed to one such person. We must eliminate the possibility or catch the bugger, pardon my language, before he fingers someone else’s son. Your answers may help us to do that.’ Samuel Leonard crumpled at Clements’ onslaught.
‘Let me see if I am hearing you properly. Are you telling me that one of Jason’s friends may be a member of the IRA?’ said Doris incredulously.
‘That Mrs. Leonard, is exactly what I am saying,’ Clements told her, his voice barely audible.
‘My God!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘What have we come to?’
‘If you want information about the cricket club, I suggest you speak to Walter Howlet. He calls from time to time to see how we are coping. The man means well but I wish he would leave us to heal in our own manner,’ she said sadly. ‘He is the wicket keeper I believe. I have his number somewhere,’ she informed them, rising to fetch it. She returned moments later holding out a slip of paper. ‘Here it is.’
‘That’s grand, thank-you for your help. Oh just one last thing, is Mr. Howlet a family man?’
‘Yes he is, at the last count he and his wife had five children. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason really, it’s for future reference,’ lied Clements.
‘Oh I see,’ said Mrs. Leonard, completely baffled by the young man’s answer.
‘Look this is a bit embarrassing for us,’ said the husband.
‘What is Mr. Leonard?’ asked Tullen.
‘It’s er,’ he said, hesitating. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘Jason didn’t live with us before he entered the armed services. We had no contact with him for several months, after the row you understand.’ His shoulders slumped as he raised a clenched fist to his open mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks, the man had disintegrated before their eyes. His wife came over to him compassionately placing an arm around his hunched shoulder. ‘God I’m sorry, I am so very sorry,’ he sobbed, as his wife led him away.
‘Will that be all,’ she asked sternly. ‘As you can see my husband is somewhat overwrought.
‘Yes we quite understand Mrs. Leonard, please accept our apologies for the distress we have caused. It was never our intention to upset either of you,’ said Tullen, as he himself fought for control of his emotions. God forgive me. What have I done? he prayed, as guilt gripped him like a vice. He knew that this day would haunt him for eternity. A flashback of the incident came flooding like a torrent into his mind. He remembered the boys thin body being flung backward as the bullet completed it’s fatal journey. What evil had driven him to carry out such acts of barbarism?
‘Let’s get out of here. We can call this Howlet bloke from the hotel.’
‘We can let ourselves out Mrs. Leonard, thanks for your patience,’ said Clements.
‘Yes of course, I hope you find the bastard, as you can see he has destroyed my husband and me as well.’ Tullen was already out unto the street as she uttered her despairing words. Billy caught up with him at the garden gate. ‘What the fuck was all that about Con? Jesus Christ ye nearly blew our cover in there,’ snarled Clements angrily.
‘Nothin okay, just fuckin leave it. I’ll tell ye about it when this shite is over. Look Billy I’m not in the mood for questions, not askin or fuckin answerin them. When you get back to the hotel you can call yer man and arrange te meet him in the morning. I’m goin out te get pissed and if ye don’t mind I’ll be doin it alone. I’m not the best of company right now,’ said Connor menacingly.
‘Whatever ye say, I’m not in the mood for socialising either,’ agreed Clements, in a softer tone. He could tell that meeting the dead soldier’s parents had shaken Tullen badly. Perhaps he was feeling remorse or even responsible for the boy’s death. It was better to let him have his head and leave him to his own devices. I’ll head back to the hotel. That way you’ll know where te find me,’ said Billy.
‘Look Billy I need a bit of space, I’m sorry for snappin. If it’s any consolation I’m goin te have a head like a pulverised turnip in the mornin.’ Tullen turned on his heel and was heading away from Clements before he could reply. As he watched his colleague’s back he felt sorry for the man. There was no denying that despite their political differences, he was beginning to become very fond of his partner.
Fairchilds sat behind the wheel of his car awaiting their exit. His Canon camera was poised and ready to catch as many shots of them as was prudently possible. He was able to get several good shots of Tullen as he came down the garden path. Satisfied that he had taken some excellent stills of Tullen’s face he opted to disappear before Clements came into view. There was always a danger that the wee man would spy him behind the wheel and that would not please Starrett. Driving away his mind turned to his earlier meeting with the lovely Amy. In anticipation of a pleasurable evening he began to sing, Once in love with Amy. He was chuckling at himself as he manoeuvred the car around the corner.
‘Why is it always raining in this God forsaken dump?’ mumbled Black, as he strolled toward the Fallen’s house. As he approached it his pace slowed considerably and he afforded a long glance at the property whilst passing the gate. He was delighted to see that the cottage set well back from the road. ‘Fabulous,’ he whispered. At that precise moment the cottage door opened allowing a long sallow man to exit. ‘Get the fuck out of here ye drunken bastard and I don’t care if ye never come back,’ came the scream of a woman’s voice, followed by a crash as the door slammed behind him. The figure turned to reopen the door. ‘Ach come on love, don’t be like that,’ he answered, his head disappearing from view. ‘Fuck away off te yer cronies and don’t think ye can paw all over me when ye get back,’ screeched the female voice.
‘Ah fuck it, I’m away out, there’s no talkin te you when yer in yer bad month,’ he shouted, as the door once more slammed in his face, almost crushing his nose in the process. He was mumbling aloud as he passed through the gate. ‘A man can’t even catch up on auld times without gettin his head bit off.’ Nathan watched as the forlorn figure sauntered away from him in search, he assumed of some liquid comfort. With his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets the man cut a sorry sight. ‘Fuck it appears that you have enough trouble Mr. Fallen,’ observe
d Black, under his breath. ‘It seems such a waste to relieve you from your misery,’ chuckled the killer. As he watched the man’s hunched figure amble away, he thought of the spies and terrorists in the Ian Flemming novels. You hardly fit the bill Liam, which proves the old adage that, one really can not judge a book by it’s cover. Nathan returned to his digs still chuckling at the thought as he entered. ‘The Gods are smiling on you Nathan,’ he told himself as he began preparations for the attack. If all went well, he mused, his business in this one horse town would be over rather more quickly than planned. Fallen was a fool. A sneer crossed the murderer’s face because he was positive that Fallen was downing his own kind of poison whilst, he Nathan Black, was planning a more fitting demise for the terrorist. Once satisfied that everything was in place, he struggled into a rucksack in keeping with his guise as the stereotyped American tourist. Making the usual clumping racket, he shouted a greeting as he exited the guesthouse. The landlady was enjoying her favourite television game show. She raised her eyes skyward, gave a tut and returned her attention to the set.
Stilling himself for the evening ahead, Black pushed open the door and entered Feeney’s bar. A quick glance around the room told him that Fallen was drinking alone. In all, there were six customers present. Two couples, one pair huddled intimately in the far corner of the bar. The other middle aged and presumably married, were seated as far away from the other patrons as was humanly possible. The remaining customer, a male pensioner, leaned on the bar studying a newspaper. Fallen stood at the other end of the bar staring into a half-consumed pint of Guinness. The couples were engrossed in their own company, neither bothering to look at the bar’s latest occupant. The lone drinker gave him a slight scrutiny before returning to more important issues. Perfect, thought Nathan as he sidled to the bar taking up a position two barstools down from Fallen. ‘Evening barman, could I have a beer please?’ The barman flashed
a humourless smile before moving toward the bogus American.
‘Sure thing sir, any particular kind?’
‘Sorry?’ replied Black with a vacant stare.
‘We have draught and bottled sir, which do you prefer?’
‘Oh yeah, gimme a pint of Harp lager please?’
‘Good choice sir, are ye just passing through?’ asked the barman, feigning interest. You never could tell with Yanks, some tipped very well and others were tighter than Hattie Jaques’ G-string. It doesn’t do any harm to spread a little smarm, he reasoned.
‘Passing through, no why do you ask er, Sean,’ he pronounced it Seean,’ making a big thing of reading the label on the barman’s chest.
‘That’s Sean, pronounced Shawn sir, he informed the other helpfully. ‘I was askin if ye were just passin because yer wearin a rucksack. Thought maybe ye were on a hike or somethin.’
‘Oh yeah the bag. I have stuff in it for emergencies. I’m staying just a few hundred yards along the road. At Mrs. Brant’s place. She sure is a great old girl, do you know her?’ Sean nodded without comment.
‘I always carry the bag with me when I’m on vacation, I’m a regular boy scout, be prepared,’ he chuckled. ‘I see,’ said the barman, rapidly losing interest. Big tipper or not, this guy was as interesting as a lecture on bunions. Holding that thought he drifted toward the other end of the bar, picking up the empty glass left behind by the other sole drinker, who had vacated the premises a few minutes earlier. Nathan turned to his right. Fallen’s pint was almost gone. ‘Why hello there,’ greeted Nathan loudly. ‘You seem to be as lonesome as your glass looks. Can I buy you another?’ Fallen turned slowly eyeing the stranger, gave the bar a cursory glance and returned his stare to Black. ‘My name is Amos, Newton Amos,’ he informed The Irishman thrusting his hand out.
‘Liam Fallen.’ answered his prey, somewhat confused.
‘Do you mind if I buy you a drink buddy? You look like you could do with a bit of cheering up.’
‘Shit, does it really show that much?’ he said gloomily, accepting the American’s hand. Black turned on the charm and it was not long before they were conversing like lifelong friends. Black was enjoying playing the gullible yank and felt that he was carrying it off well. Playing the game to the utmost he boasted about Life in the States, of sexual conquests in the far east and South America. Fallen, as was Nathan’s intention, was feeling secure in the company of his newest acquaintance. The night progressed, the terrorist became more and more inebriated. No way was he to be outdone by his blowhard from across the pond.
‘What do ye do for a livin Newton,’ he slurred.
‘I’m in the computer business. Got my own company and it’s doing very nicely, yes sir. Started from scratch and now employ more than fifty people. How about you Liam?’
‘I’m in the ranks of the unemployable,’ he tittered at the self-incrimination.
‘Don’t follow you there buddy.’
‘You are in the company of a very bad man Mr. Amos. I am a convicted terrorist,’ Fallen whispered conspiratorially, pointing at himself..
‘The hell you say,’ replied Nathan, looking suitably impressed. ‘Hope your on the right side. I’d hate for people back home to hear that I’ve been drinking with a Brit. Shit man, I’d never live it down,’ boomed Black.
‘Shush,’ hissed Fallen, pressing a finger to Nathan’s lips. ‘Don’t ye know it’s dangerous to discuss stuff like this in public,’ he chided, the other drunkenly.
‘Hell yeah, sorry Liam, me and my big mouth,’ replied Nathan, duly chastised.
‘Last orders gentlemen please, let’s be havin ye,’ called Sean.
‘Ach shit, I was just beginnin te enjoy meself. Tell ye what Newton, why don’t we get a wee carry out. We can get some fish-n-chips and take the party te my place. My Gina’s a lovely girl and she thinks Yanks is great, what d’ya say?’
‘Carry out?’ said Black, seemingly confused.
‘Shite ye may be a computer whiz but ye know fuck all about drink?’ chuckled Fallen. ‘We can buy a couple of dozen beers and a bottle of vodka from Sean. That is what we, and our Scottish neighbours, call a carry out,’ he explained patiently.
‘Now that sounds like a very civilised custom but are you sure your wife won’t mind?’
‘As sure as shit Newton my man. I wear the trousers in our house,’ winked Liam. Nathan could not believe his luck. Was it possible that this would be wrapped up tonight? He purchased the required alcohol from the barman who feigned reluctance, ‘You know how it is Liam, licensing laws an all.’ His expression of concern was replaced by one of greedy pleasure as the American handed him a ten-pound note. The two friends staggered to the door followed by Sean. ‘Goodnight sir,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘Bloody Yanks,’ he muttered, his thoughts already fixed on the mess awaiting him inside.
A cold sweat broke on the forehead of Walter Dane. It was three thirty in the morning and his phone was screaming for attention. Frightened of whom he knew would be on the line, he deliberately leaned over to pick it up. ‘Dane here,’ he said apprehensively, certain that the familiar abomination would be whispering it’s perverse message in his ear. He had no idea of how he knew but the premonition of evil was overpowering. He had not been in contact with the murderer for months. A call at such an hour was unusual although not unheard of. Minor irritations, such as early morning calls, were expected, they came with the job. Was dealing with a madman considered part of the job? Dane blinked, checked the time on the luminous dial of the clock on the bedside table and resolutely steeled himself. ‘Good evening Mr, Dane,’ The reporter’s eyes flew open. He was certain of the caller’s identity but hearing the silky whisper was as shocking as having iced water thrown in his face. ‘I know that it is an ungodly hour to be calling and I apologise for the inconvenience but there is something that you simply must know. I have completed another successful escapade and simply had to share my news with someone,’
he continued.
‘Why me? Why have I been chosen as your personal confessor?’ spat Dane.
‘Tut tut Walter, confessor? Don’t you think that you are being a teeny bit melodramatic? At the very least you are stretching poetic license to the limit. Perhaps you are right, I should give a more deserving hack the chance to achieve immortality. What do you really want Walter?’
‘Sorry, you caught me at my lowest ebb. People have forgotten that you exist, you know how fickle the public can be. As you so rightly pointed out I am a mere mortal and I’m afraid that I don’t share your penchant for butchery,’ retorted the reporter. ‘Well Mr. Dane, people will realise soon that I am very much alive and regarding your stomach for butchery, I did not hear you complaining when you were basking in journalistic orgasm over the scoop I laid on a plate for you. Nevertheless I accept your apology. Now listen Walter,’ spat Black. ‘Get into your excuse for a car and drive to Dungiven. There is a public phone box in the centre of town. In said phone box, you will find a postcode. You should be able to see it easily enough. It is written in blood. After you have read the postcode, pick up the receiver and dial the local constabulary and inform them that another parcel of rats has been eradicated. I imagine that even they should be able to work out the address from the postcode,’ he added disdainfully.
‘Good God no more please, Why are you murdering innocent women and children? In the name of all that’s holy, have you no soul man?’
‘Oh Walter, can you not see? That is precisely why I am doing it. My soul was ripped from me and discarded as one would, yesterday’s paper. This is my way of redeeming it.’ God this bugger is as mad as a hatter, thought Dane. ‘Why are you keeping up the pretence, by whispering? They are aware that you are an Englishman,’ snarled Dane. ‘Why don’t you be a man and speak properly, this bloody whispering is damaging my hearing.’
Seeds of Evil Page 32