The Dead Lie Down (Adam Lennox Thrillers: Book One)

by G I Tulloch

  Adam put down his coffee cup. "I was afraid you were going to bring that up. There are the papers that Fran had when she was killed. There are the papers that someone seems eager to kill and maim in order to find."

  "We are fairly convinced that Brad was involved in, if not behind, the smuggling," argued Bel, "and yet he had the opportunity to get the papers from Fran after the killing."

  Adam steepled his fingers in front of him. He liked to think it gave him an air of deep meditative contemplation, but generally it indicated that he was stumped for something useful to say.

  "Ah." he said putting down his coffee with dramatic care.

  "Is that a Eureka moment or just an appreciation of bad coffee?" posed Bel.

  Adam shook his head. "We've been blind. We're dealing with two different sets of papers. It has to be the case. As you've rightly said, Brad retrieved the papers from Fran and was behind the smuggling, so why would our Irish friends be still looking for them?"

  "So," said Bel thinking out loud. "If the other papers weren't to do with the smuggling then they must have been related to..... Granger's death. Papers that are perhaps dangerous now, were they to come to light."

  "So the question is to whom are the papers dangerous and why does he think we have them. " Adam said.

  Bel shook her head. Adam liked the way her hair bounced around like a shampoo advert.

  "No. You're asking the wrong question." she said. "The question is who has the papers and where." She paused. "Who do we know who is still around from Granger's days?"

  Adam smiled. "I think I feel the need of that trip to Sevenoaks, don't you?"

  At this point Mitch arrived and Adam took him to one side.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "Rozzers, the Fuzz," replied Mitch. "Special Branch. I've checked them out. They're the business."

  "So whatever we're into it's political. Is that the inference? We're interfering with the well oiled wheels of government are we?"

  "Could be. You need to be bloody careful. If you're in deep, this crowd could lock you up and throw the keys away for long enough to be uncomfortable."

  "We are in deep already, you know that, but we're locked in now with no way out. Erikson would never forgive us." He nodded to the park exit. "I'll see you later, we need to talk."

  Adam went back to Bel. They finished their coffee and got to their feet as Adam's phone rang.

  The green button on his phone was getting worn, a sign that he needed to replace it. He pressed it anyway.

  "Yes."

  "Mr Lennox. We need to talk."

  The thought came back to Adam. The Irish are getting everywhere.

  Chapter 32

  The apartment looked even bleaker than it had done before. Frank stood in the doorway of the bedroom where he had spent so much time and took one last look around. All the furniture had gone, given away to some poor family who lived in a shack two blocks away along the dirt road filled with pot-holes. The curtains had come down, bundled into boxes for burning. The distemper on the walls, loathed for so long, looked completely in character with the empty shell and the bare light bulbs. The landlord moved around him checking that all the fixtures were still in place. As the shutters were pulled together for one last time and darkness invaded what had been his home these five years he felt as if his life was closing down, his raison d'etre being robbed from him, his value being sucked out.

  Did he regret coming? Perhaps a little. If he hadn't come what would have happened to him? Who knows. The need had been there and in the spur of the moment, many years ago, he had decided to meet it. What was going to happen to him now, he wasn't sure, but it was time to return to England, that place that was now a foreign land to him but would have to become his home once again. Perhaps Gerard would have an idea. Yes, Gerard would have an idea.

  Frank checked the kitchen to make sure that he had remembered to pick up the package, and then noticed it sitting on his cardboard suitcase sitting in the small hallway that led in turn out onto the stairwell. With a decisive gesture of finality he handed the last set of keys to the landlord and tucked the package under his arm. Picking up his suitcase he turned and took the stairs slowly, one at a time, down to the street door. He stepped outside, his jacket and long trousers looking out of place in the heat, but then he wasn't dressed for this place but for somewhere altogether cooler. He blinked in the brilliant sunshine, scorching his eyes after the darkness indoors.

  The taxi stood waiting, its bald tyres parked in what passed for a gutter. He stopped one last time and turned, his grey eyes under grey bushy eyebrows gazing up at the building, the shutters standing out quite clearly against the cement rendering. By sunset there would be someone else behind them, and life would go on, as it had done before and would do again. He had known for a while that this time was coming but the arrival didn't come any easier for it. Tears pricked his eyes that had nothing to do with the sun. He said a mental goodbye to those he had loved, and places he had loathed, before fingering in his jacket pocket to check that the flight tickets were still there. Satisfied, he subsided into the back of the taxi and slammed the door.

  The dust cloud followed them down the road as they headed down towards the city, the airport and the world beyond.

  Gerard Kemp's semi stood lifeless so Adam and Bel sat in the car and waited. They had already tried the doorbell without success and scouted round the back for signs of life. Washing on the line implied a return was planned before long and they decided to wait it out. The car was beginning to smell strongly of a McDonald's Drive Thro, Adam's suggestion, against Bel's better judgement. Adam felt all the better for pushing through caveman dominance, although the burger was threatening to repeat on him, and he was starting to have doubts about the age of the brown-edged lettuce he had discovered lurking between bap and burger.

  Gerry had met them at the office on their return from the park the previous afternoon. They had brought him up to date with events, which brought a grin to his face whilst he tried to imagine Special Branch trying to make sense of 'elephants, tigers and cameras'.

  He had tossed a sheaf of papers at Adam. "Our Mr Kemp leads an interesting and varied life, far more than you might imagine."

  "Try me," replied Adam.

  "He appears to have almost daily phone calls to Thailand, never for very long, not to a strict regime or timetable but always to the same number."

  "So he's keeping in very close touch with someone out there. Daily phonecalls would imply things happening or changing on a daily basis?"

  "It might. The frequency seems to have increased as time has gone on."

  "Like something coming to a climax," chipped in Bel.

  "Talking of climaxes," said Gerry. "It gets better. Not only has he run up a humongous phone bill, but he has visited Thailand on an almost annual basis for the better part of fifteen years."

  "So he's got relatives out there," suggested Bel.

  "Or he's a Buddhist," offered Adam.

  "Or he has a preference for young girls perhaps," concluded Gerry.

  It took Kemp no more than forty-five minutes to return, shuffling his way along the road, fishing for his keys in his pocket. He seemed more bowed than Adam remembered him, as if someone had knocked some of the stuffing out of him.

  They followed him briskly up to the front door as he pushed his key into the lock, dulled from years of neglect. He turned at the sound and Adam was prepared for him to bolt, needlessly as it happened.

  Kemp's eyes turned to them with a dull lack of lustre but some vague recognition. He continued to unlock the door.

  Adam interrupted his fumbling. "Mr Kemp we really need to talk. We know about Thailand."

  Kemp frowned but offered no comment. He entered the hall and left the door ajar, which they took to be acquiescence, or resignation if nothing else. They followed Kemp as he dropped his shopping bags on the kitchen table and then to the lounge where he sat in an armchair as if waiting for the inevitable.

  Adam
dropped the envelope they had found in John Bartlett's office onto the heavily stained coffee table. Kemp didn't react but looked at Bel.

  "You're Bel Trent aren't you? John's secretary." The voice was stronger than his appearance would suggest.

  Bel nodded. "He liked you," continued Kemp.

  Adam butted in and pointed to the envelope. "You sent that to John Bartlett didn't you?"

  Kemp's eyes, still on Bel, swivelled to meet Adam's. There was a slight hesitation. "God forgive me, yes I did."

  "Where did you find out that the ships were being used for smuggling?" asked Adam.

  A light came on briefly in Kemp's eyes, he looked passed them into the distance and a smile played across his lips. "So when you say you know about Thailand, you don't actually know, do you?"

  Adam leaned forward towards him. "What don't I know?"

  Kemp paused, an internal debate playing within his mind. Eventually he shrugged.

  "It doesn't matter, he's dead now anyway."

  "John Bartlett, yes he's dead, murdered," confirmed Bel.

  Kemp shook his head gently. "Not John, Granger."

  Adam frowned, "But Granger died twenty six years ago. Murdered by the IRA and faked to look like a car accident. He wanted to get out of Republican violence so they killed him didn't they? It was all hushed up."

  Kemp gave Adam a pitying smile. "How important is this to you?"

  "Vitally," replied Adam. "It may give a clue as to who murdered my wife."

  Kemp frowned. "Fran, murdered? That was an accident."

  Adam explained. "We have enough evidence to confirm that Fran was murdered." He didn't look at Bel who had registered mild surprise. "What we don't know is by whom and why, but we believe it's tied into Granger's murder."

  Kemp sat back and folded his hands on his lap. "It doesn't matter any more I suppose." But he hesitated nonetheless. "Granger Bartlett got deeper into the Republican movement than he intended. His motives were entirely honourable at the start, but some said they were misguided. I don't judge. Granger made the mistake of allowing some guns to be smuggled into Ireland aboard one of his ships, ostensibly to defend innocents against the British Army.

  But then they had him hooked, and blackmailed him into smuggling all sorts of explosives and weapons from sympathisers on the Catholic continent. And then something happened that convinced him that come hell or high water he had to get out."

  Adam interrupted. "The ambush of the army patrol. A civilian was killed."

  Kemp nodded. "An American reporter. The IRA tricked Granger. They told him the explosives were just going to close the road by blowing a crater in it. He was the one who detonated the charge."

  There was a moment of silence whilst the enormity of it sunk in.

  Kemp continued, "He arranged to fake an accident in a way that would convince everyone that he was dead. Whether they thought it was an accident, a suicide or a murder was irrelevant to him as long as people were convinced of his death."

  Bel butted in. "So who did die in the crash?"

  Kemp smiled. "No-one. Through a contact, Granger managed to acquire a body from a mortuary abroad. What he didn't know at the time was that the body was that of a gunshot victim. That provided the police with a headache when they found out, so in order to prevent fuelling the Irish conflict they suppressed the evidence. Ironically it would have been wrong anyway."

  "And you identified the body," Adam said, various things beginning to click into place.

  "And Granger took off with his million pounds to some far flung corner of the world, namely Thailand." suggested Bel.

  "He did, but Granger was not one to leave anything to chance and he still had a schoolboy son to protect even if his wife was already dead."

  Adam smiled to himself. "So he gathered together evidence identifying the perpetrators in the IRA, to be released on his death."

  "Or the death of his son."

  "There are a number of Irishmen currently doing unmentionable things to try and get hold of that package, and they seem to think that I have it."

  "That's unfortunate. They must presume that John had it and passed it to you."

  "And John didn't have it?" asked Bel.

  "John didn't know of its existence." Kemp hesitated before continuing. "John didn't even know that his father was still alive."

  There was a momentary stunned silence from Bel and Adam before Kemp continued. "A few months ago we discovered that they were starting to smuggle arms again and we decided it was time that John knew what was going on. So I sent the letter to warn him. We didn't expect him to go investigating himself."

  "You said Granger was dead?" asked Adam.

  The light in Kemp's eyes died a little. "Granger Bartlett died in Bangkok two days ago in a squalid flat virtually penniless as a result of ultimately trying to do the right thing."

  "But still as a result of his own foolish actions which resulted in the loss of innocent lives," charged Adam.

  Kemp made no reply.

  Adam continued. "Do you know where the package is now?"

  "It was in a bank vault in Bangkok."

  "So why hasn't it come to light?"

  "When Granger came close to death we retrieved the package, and when we learned of John's death it didn't seem so important any more."

  "So they were nothing to do with the papers Fran had?" asked Adam.

  Kemp blinked. "What has Fran got to do with any of this?"

  Adam ignored him. "So where is the package now?"

  Kemp shook his head. "I don't know."

  Something in his manner caused Adam to doubt whether he was telling the whole truth but he was more interested in getting to his final question.

  "So who was behind the IRA unit at the time?"

  Kemp told him and the name came as no surprise.

  Before he left Adam went into the hallway and taking his mobile out of his pocket, rang a number in memory. After two failed attempts at getting through he texted two numbers, "Kemp knows everything. He needs protection."

  Chapter 33

  As he watched Adam and Bel leave, Gerard thought briefly and made a decision quickly. The situation in Thailand changed everything and things were fast becoming unstable. He moved quickly through to his bedroom and pulled out the bag from under the bed where it had been left from his last visit to the apartment in Thailand. It was still half packed and it took no more than three minutes to fill it with the remaining essentials. He checked is watch. If he was quick he could be out of there and reach the safe house in Brighton before dark. He just knew that he needed to get out and lie low until the package arrived safely. He grabbed the bag and hurried down the stairs. As he went, something struck him as wrong, and as he reached the bottom he realised what it was. A cold draught was percolating through from the kitchen door, a door he had firmly shut not five minutes ago. A cold dread filled him. A sudden change in the light made him turn just as the fist caught him in the kidneys and he fell pole-axed to the floor with little more than a grunt.

  Hands picked him up as if he was a feather and carried him into the lounge where he was dumped face down on the wood block floor like a rag doll, his attacker with a knee on his back. His spine felt like it was going to snap like a twig.

  Reilly had moved in quietly behind them and faced Kemp. He said nothing for a moment, letting Kemp realise his situation whilst Reilly established his next move.

  "Good afternoon Gerard, it's been a very long time."

  There was a blank response for a moment before a measure of recognition crossed Kemp's features. He struggled to speak as someone was now kneeling on his head but the words were just distinguishable.

  "Reilly. You've grown up."

  Reilly smiled again. "Gerard, just one question and then I'll go. Where's the package?"

  "What package? Don't know what you're talking about."

  Reilly sat in one of the easy chairs and took up a relaxed posture.

  "You've been less than honest over the yea
rs Gerard. I don't like that in a man. You led us to believe that Granger had died in that accident."

  Kemp laughed and got a vicious kick in the ribs, causing a coughing fit, he felt something snap inside his chest. Eventually, when his breathing had returned to near normal, Reilly continued.

  "Where is Granger, Gerard?"

  "He's dead." The boot swung at his ribs again. Now it was painful to breathe.

  "I repeat, where is Granger?" insisted Reilly.

  Kemp's breaths were coming in rasping gulps but eventually he managed to get the words out.

  "He died, two days ago, in Thailand, from TB."

  Reilly considered for a moment before issuing his verdict.

  "You know Gerard, I believe you. Good riddance. So where is the package now?" he repeated.

  "What package? Don't know what you're talking about."

  So Reilly went and fetched the hammer. He generally brought one with him but using the victim's own was somehow all the more poetic in his mind.

  Kemp's arms were thrust out in front of him and his hands pinned to the floor.

  "The package. Just to remind you." whispered Reilly.

  The hammer came down on a middle finger, smashing bone, joints and tendons.

  The scream was stifled by a large hand clamping over Kemp's mouth.

  Reilly sighed. "One more time Gerard."

  "What bloody package?" hissed Kemp through gritted teeth.

  There was no warning this time, the hammer came down on his index finger, blood spilling out across the woodgrain, running in small rivulets along the grains.

  Again the scream as the pain tore through his brain, numbing all his other senses.

  "I'm losing patience," growled Reilly.

  There was a pause while Kemp's breathing stopped coming in gasps.

  "You're a real little shit, Reilly." Kemp declared, defiantly.

  A spasm crossed Reilly's face and he brought the hammer down on Kemp's wrist with as much force as he could. The blood started to flow more freely now.

  Kemp blacked out briefly, the pain overloading his nervous system. It took ten minutes for him to regain some semblance of consciousness. Five more minutes and Kemp was mumbling incoherently in between groans. Reilly was starting to get concerned. The clock was ticking on and it was only a matter of time before someone noticed or heard something.