by James Nally
Of course he had no idea where Mr Bob might currently be. However, his last request had been that Taz drop off the racing-green Volvo behind the Manor House pub some time tonight.
The tank-like Volvo looked like it had suffered no more than a prang.
‘Make yourself scarce, Da, until I deal with all this shit,’ I said. ‘Come back in an hour. Taz here can then you drop you back to Manor House in the Volvo.’
The same question preyed upon my addled mind. What if he kills Karen now? How was I supposed to live with that?
I’d blown our covert operation wide open. I couldn’t stop imagining her, tied up in some ghastly space, listening in dread as her captor’s sick mobile phone ruse came unstuck. What must have gone through her mind? Conlon would have responded in a blind, murderous rage.
He probably killed her, there and then.
‘We all would’ve believed she was in that vehicle,’ said Commander Crossley. ‘We would have instructed you to do exactly what you did, except perhaps for deliberately shunting into it.’
‘You can’t blame yourself,’ said Zoe over the phone. ‘You risked your life trying to save her. What else could you do?’
‘You did what to my car?’ cried Fintan.
They sent me home and insisted I stay there until morning. As soon as I got in, Zoe called.
‘You can’t sit there drinking all night and dwelling on it,’ she instructed. ‘You’re coming to the theatre with me, as planned.’
‘I’d really rather just be on my own tonight,’ I wanted to say, but couldn’t summon the courage.
I showered and changed in a state of mild dread. Nothing reminded me I didn’t belong in England more than a trip to the theatre. To me, it felt like a place where Middle Englanders gathered for a good old sneer at the pompous upper classes and the ignorant working classes. Every British play I’d ever suffered through featured at least one of those elements. Theatre was a club to which I didn’t belong. I made a mental list of what I hated most: the people; the heat; the actorish shouting; at number one, having to jostle violently for your one £3 bottle of pre-paid Becks during the interval.
However, I sensed that for Zoe, being able to tell family, friends, colleagues about our shared night of culture would somehow legitimise our relationship. I hoped she still liked me dry.
At least it was upstairs to a pub. I managed to cram down three pints in advance, and smuggle in two bottles of wine. Not nearly enough, as it turned out. Bang to (Women’s) Rights the play was called, and it turned out to be every bit as preachy, blinkered and anti-male as the title had promised.
Mercifully, the second half barely registered at all; some daft caper in which a hitman and his supposed target plot together to frame her philandering husband. At one stage, I kicked over one of my empty wine bottles and got hissed at. I may have told the hissers to ‘fuck off’.
Next thing I remember, we were making love in my bedroom. Then she got up and left, motivated by maternal duty or crushing disappointment, I couldn’t tell. But she’d piled a shitload of fax paperwork on our sofa, detailing the British clients of that chemical company in Dortmund.
As soon as I woke, I texted Zoe to make sure she got home okay, then tore into the list. I rang each company and asked the same two questions: do you produce a paint with the binding agent Epoxyester D4? Does it also contain reconstituted zinc?
Just one plant manufactured a paint matching these criteria. The man on the phone explained that it’s a highly specialised, super-strong substance used mostly on yachts heading into especially wild seas.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not that I know of. You might be best speaking to the people who sell it. We’ve only got a handful.’
London-based outlets for this torpedo-proof paint numbered just three. The manager of one shop explained just how exclusive this product’s devotees were: ‘People who yacht in extreme conditions and people who own terrazzo floors.’
My whole body shook. My vision of Liz that first night had set me on the trail of this substance. Her non-appearance on the second night, after I’d attended Brownswood Road, seemed to suggest she’d been murdered inside the Florentine Gardens Club. This paint – which an eagle-eyed pathologist had scraped out of her head wounds – might just prove it.
If Jimmy Reilly used this particular brand of paint to repair his terrazzo floor, then that links her body directly to his club. The ball-peen hammer that inflicted these injuries must have come from that building. Could it be buried under that frequently repaired and re-sealed terrazzo floor?
All three stores selling it in London agreed to let me scan their credit-card transactions from the previous six months. In Laidlaws of Bloomsbury, my eyes fell upon the smoking- gun evidence I needed.
I called Shep right away.
‘Guv, I’ve just found what we need to arrest Bernard Moss.’
Chapter 36
Arsenal, North London
Monday, April 12, 1993; 07.20
When I heard Commander Crossley’s earnest voice on the other end of the phone, every fibre of my being clenched and tensed, braced for the news that would haunt me until my dying day.
‘They’ve found Karen,’ he said. The world stopped spinning, hurling me headlong through space.
‘She was staggering around Finsbury Park in a right old state.’
‘She’s alive?’ I squeaked.
‘She’s alive,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. Tears rained down my face as I tried but failed to swallow a sob.
‘Thank fucking God,’ I managed.
‘She’s at the Whittington Hospital,’ he said, ‘recovering from her injuries. She’d been blindfolded during the whole thing, and raped repeatedly. Sometime early this morning, he forced her into a car and threw her out on the street, still blindfolded.’
As blissful, dreamy relief anaesthetised my agonised soul, his words turned into a jabbering blur.
‘We’re still negotiating with Conlon … it’s no longer a manhunt … Karen’s safety was always our priority … Best left to Special Branch.’
Chapter 37
Archway, North London
Monday, April 12, 1993; 12.00
It was Zoe’s idea that we pay Karen Hartley a visit, delivered via a blunt text message.
I just wanted to see Zoe, find out how badly I’d fucked things last night. Quite literally.
As soon as she emerged from Archway tube station, my guilt and paranoia accosted her.
‘About last night,’ I started, but she cut me dead.
‘Don’t feel bad. You’d had a lot to drink.’
‘But we did, didn’t we?’
‘Sort of.’ She smiled. ‘I think you need to cut down on booze.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s the first time I’ve ever laughed myself to sleep.’
‘Wow, as first-night reviews go, that’s pretty damning.’
‘I’d no idea you were a virgin, or that you loathe theatre so much. It was hard to tell which you felt more passionately about.’
‘You’re right. I need to cut down.’
‘About bloody time,’ said Karen Hartley, sitting up in bed, stopping us both dead in our tracks.
‘Yer coppers, right?’
‘Well, yes,’ I blustered, ‘but we’ve just come to see how you’re doing.’
‘Never mind about that,’ she said in a broad Mancunian accent, ‘you need to catch the bastard.’
‘We’d love to,’ said Zoe, ‘but we were led to believe you couldn’t tell us much.’
‘You didn’t fuckin’ ask. I kept saying I could help but you lot don’t want to know.’
‘Please, shoot,’ I said.
‘I know roughly where he kept me. I could hear train announcements … not specific words, but like the buzz. I could hear underground trains and ambulances. And traffic overhead on the Westway. I was close to Paddington station.’
‘How certain are you of that, Karen?’
‘One
hundred per cent certain. I used to work down at Sussex Gardens. I know what Paddington sounds like.’
‘Lots of places in London have overground and underground stations and flyovers,’ I said, as gently as I could.
‘Yeah, but what about the singing?’ she argued, as if we’d conducted this debate before. ‘I thought I was fucking dying or something when I heard this beautiful singing, like angels. Then I realised it must’ve been about six on Sunday. It was coming from St James’ Church. They always have evensong at six on a Sunday. I used to sneak into the back and listen to ’em. I recognised the songs and the organ.’
‘Is there any way you could identify the actual house where he kept you?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He put a motorcycle helmet over my head when he led me in, but I could see the paving stones. I’d recognise them if I saw them again.’
‘You’ve got to recover first,’ said Zoe. ‘You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.’
‘I wanna go now. I want that bastard caught. I was gonna discharge meself anyway. I was just waiting for you lot to turn up and question me. Are you trying to let him get away with it or what?’
Chapter 38
Paddington, West London
Monday, April 12, 1993; 14.30
We parked up at St James’ Church in Sussex Gardens. A sign outside confirmed Sunday evensong at 6pm.
‘Could you tell where the singing was coming from, even roughly?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said, pointing to Westbourne Crescent, ‘I was somewhere over there.’
We walked along a row of elegant six-storey Georgian townhouses, inspecting each basement flat for clues.
Then I saw it. The racing-green Volvo, sat outside number 39.
Bloody hell, he had the brass neck to go pick it up at Manor House last night or this morning and drive it back here. I should’ve had it staked out.
I said nothing.
As she drifted past 37, she stopped suddenly. ‘This one,’ she said.
We peered down at the black and white tiled steps.
‘It looks just like the others,’ I said.
‘I remember the drain cover,’ she said, ‘Stanton and Staveley Trojan. And the door handle. I’m certain that’s where he kept me.’
I turned to Zoe. ‘We’d better call in backup.’’
A bang made me jump.
I turned. Where the fuck is Karen? More banging. She was shouting now. I looked down to see her bashing that basement flat door, screaming her head off.
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Karen,’ I called, ‘stop it.’
She kept punching the door.
‘We’ve got to go in now, Zoe, like right now,’ I said, and I piled down those steps.
‘You’re too fucking chicken to face me,’ screamed Karen through the door.
‘For Christ’s sake, Karen,’ I barked, grabbing both her arms, ‘you’re giving him a chance to get out the back.’
I let my fingers sink into her flesh until she stopped flailing. ‘Karen, listen to me. Let me boot this door in. Then let me go in first, okay?’
She nodded.
I kicked at the handle with all my might. It took three more to drive the lock through the wooden frame.
‘Police. Don’t move,’ I shouted, as everything turned woozy and slo-mo.
I crept through the sitting room and kitchen. Clear.
‘Police,’ I shouted. ‘Come out into the hallway now and I won’t shoot.’
No response.
‘Is this the place, Karen?’
‘I’ll know in a sec,’ she said.
She walked slowly to a cupboard door and opened it. She got down on her knees and ran her fingers along the edge of the carpet.
‘What are you doing?’ I whispered.
She turned to me and opened her hand. ‘They’re bits of my fingernails,’ she said, ‘I peeled ’em off and tucked them in between the carpet and the skirting board, just in case.’
‘You’re one smart lady,’ I said. ‘You should’ve been a cop.’
‘I thought you said I were smart?’ she muttered.
I moved slowly down the hallway. The first two of three doors hung open. I peered into one. A bathroom. Empty. Silently opened the second. Empty. As I approached the third, closed door, I said a little prayer: Please God, don’t let him be inside waiting to shoot me.
I took three deep silent breaths. My brain started humming that song again … How much is that doggie in the window …
I pulled down slowly on the handle. When it hit the bottom, I hit the door, hard.
A man lay on the bare, stained mattress, on his front, naked save for a hood over his head. Blood had dried brown on his neck and right shoulder.
‘Why won’t you help me,’ Da’s voice pleads in my head, over and over.
‘Oh Christ. Da,’ I cry. I need to take off that hood. To hold his face. But I know it’s packed with brain maggots …
‘Brain matter looks like puked up shepherd’s pie,’ the crime scene expert had warned us. I rolled the body over with considerable difficulty.
The cellebrum is connected to the … bellend. The angel lust confirmed a swift and brutal end. I pulled up the hood an inch.
It wasn’t Da.
That dream hadn’t been about him. It had been about the man lying here with a single, expertly dispatched bullet wound below his cold dead ear.
Robert Christopher Conlon.
Or had it? Dad had been driven back to Manor House in the Volvo last night. Did he stay with it to keep watch, to trail it here … to finish him off …?
Crossley’s words from earlier drifted in. ‘We’re still negotiating with Conlon … it’s no longer a manhunt … Karen’s safety was always our priority … Best left to Special Branch.’
Negotiating what, exactly?
I took a look around the room as my brain careered around the case.
There are always bigger plays, Lynch. Always. Remember that.
Da had found those mobile phones strapped together in the footwell of the Volvo’s passenger seat. That breathtakingly simple ruse had convinced us that Conlon had been driving around London with Karen in the car. All that time, he’d been holding her here.
I stalked out to the hallway and heard sirens approaching.
‘He’s dead,’ I told Karen. ‘Shot once in the head. Feel free to leave now.’
She just stared.
‘Go in and see for yourself,’ I told her, ‘if it’ll help.’
She strode to the door. ‘Good fucking riddance,’ she said, finally.
‘Where would they have put his clothes?’ I asked her.
She turned with a frown on, walking past me towards the kitchen. I followed.
She opened the washing machine’s circular door just as those wailing sirens hit Westbourne Crescent. A red light flashed in the top corner of the Toshiba.
‘They switched on the power and set it,’ she said, ‘but they didn’t press the start button.’
My mind flashed back to our kitchen, Tuesday night, Da’s well-intentioned but ultimately doomed tilt at domestication.
I leaned in and patted Conlon’s clothes, in search of those keys to the Volvo. Their presence would confirm he’d driven it here himself from Manor House. Not Da.
I didn’t find the keys. But I did pull out something else, a device that I’d seen in action a few days earlier.
Fuck me, I thought, this might reveal everything.
‘Place your hands where I can see them, both of you,’ commanded a voice behind me as I slipped it into my jacket pocket. ‘Don’t turn around or we’ll shoot.’
‘What the fuck were you thinking, Lynch?’ barked Superintendent John Knox from Special Branch.
‘You can’t just spirit people out of hospital and go charging into properties. Not when it’s clearly a matter of national security. Did you not think for one second about the potential consequences?’
‘Sir, my friend over
their called in back up as soon as Karen identified the property. Believe me, I didn’t want to go in. Had she not attacked the door and made a scene, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t want him to get away. Not again.’
‘I’ve a good mind to demand your warrant card, here and now.’
‘I’d like to refer this to the Police Federation, sir.’
Indignation wobbled his entire frame for twenty seconds before he flounced off.
There are always bigger plays, Lynch. Always. Remember that.
What had been the bigger play here? I felt certain that it’d catch up with me very soon.
‘I need to take a walk, Zoe,’ I said, ‘clear my head.’
‘I can’t believe what you just did, for her,’ she said, gripping my right shoulder. ‘It was so brave. I could never have done that.’
I smiled. ‘I didn’t have time to get scared.’
‘Thank God you’re okay, Donal,’ she whispered, her eyes welling up, ‘because in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m falling in love with you.’
She came in for a hug as I ordered myself not to crack. Not now.
After what seemed like several minutes, she broke off.
‘I need to get back to work,’ she sniffed and smiled. ‘They’ll never believe what happened here.’
‘I’ve a feeling we haven’t heard the last of it.’
I marched down to Praed Street tormented by questions. Conlon’s killing bore all the hallmarks of an IRA execution. How the hell had they found him? Did Da set him up after all? And where was this damning footage that could make or break the peace process?
None of it made any sense.
I stood at a set of lights, waiting to cross when a shop sign snagged on my brain.
‘Money Transfer’, 222 Praed Street. Then I remembered; this had been the Bureau de Change co-owned by Helen Oldroyd, the Jaguar driver stabbed to death in the car park of that West London leisure centre eighteen months ago.
‘How strange,’ I thought, as I pulled my phone out to call Fintan.
‘Where’s Da? He’s not picking up.’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘We’ve just found Robert Conlon at an address near Paddington. Classic IRA-style execution of an informant. Naked except for a hood, one-behind-the-ear.’