Filbin raised his glass. ‘Tiocfaidh ar la!’
‘Tiocfaidh ar la? Our day will come? Our day has come, Jonas. It’s here and now.’
‘And there’s the irony,’ said Filbin, kicking off his boots and wriggling his toes. ‘We’re getting what we wanted, what we fought and killed for, and the likes of Sean are still eating prison food.’
‘He backed the wrong horse,’ said Lynn. ‘Continuity and Real IRA are pariahs now and always will be. There’s no going back for them. And no going forward. The War on Terror has made sure of that. All terrorists are tarred with the same brush, these days. I tell you, Jonas, the Good Lord was smiling down on us. If we’d still been at war come Nine Eleven the Provos would have been smashed, no question.’
‘Aye, timing’s everything,’ agreed Filbin. He poured more whiskey into their glasses. ‘So what’s it like now, Belfast?’
‘Boom town,’ said Lynn. ‘If I didn’t already own a couple of houses, I wouldn’t be able to afford one. It’s gone crazy. We’ve got tourists photographing themselves in front of the Peace Wall and coach trips down the Falls Road.’
‘And the cops?’
‘None too happy with their new name and the fact that Sinn Fein are scrutinising their every move, but fuck ’em, hey?’
‘Aye to that,’ said Filbin. ‘Do you think it was the cops that did for your boys?’
Lynn sighed. ‘Who the fuck knows? The Brits swear blind it wasn’t, but how the hell would they know? If it was rogue cops they’d hardly broadcast what they were doing.’
‘The SAS settling scores?’
‘That’d be more likely in Joe’s case because he had a few run-ins with them. I dare say they wouldn’t mind giving me the old double-tap too, but Willie McEvoy was a wheel man and never shot anyone, let alone a Sass-man. In any case, the Sass are too busy in Afghanistan and Iraq, these days.’
‘Well, it won’t be the spooks because they can’t move these days without some parliamentary sub-committee or another breathing down their necks,’ said Filbin. ‘And they’ve got bigger things to worry about than settling old scores.’
‘Who would have thought London could be more dangerous than Belfast? Bombs on the Tube,nutters trying to get bombs on planes, buying job lots of fertiliser and planning to blow up shopping malls.’
‘Bloody amateurs,’ said Filbin.
‘They’re on a learning curve, same as we were in the seventies and eighties,’ said Lynn. ‘And they’ve got the advantage that they’re happy enough to blow themselves to kingdom come as well. We’d never have got guys prepared to kill themselves for the cause, but the ragheads are queuing up to be martyrs.’
Filbin grinned mischievously. ‘That’s because they’ve got seventy-two virgins waiting for them in Heaven.’
Lynn laughed. ‘Yeah, that was always a problem for us. We could never have found seventy-two virgins in Belfast.’
Filbin drank some whiskey. ‘I went to school with Joe McFee. Threw my first petrol bomb and did my first kneecapping with him. He didn’t deserve to die like that, shot like an animal.’ A faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Who’d do that, huh? You’re right about the spooks, though. MI5 and MI6 aren’t allowed to kill anyone. The cops and the army might have scores to settle, but the spooks are too cerebral for that. University graduates one and all.’
Lynn cupped his glass in both hands. ‘It could be the Prods, getting in a last hurrah,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re laying down their arms, so they say, but they’re not decommissioning and there’s some mad bastards who won’t listen to their leadership anyway.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Filbin.
‘I keep looking over my shoulder,’ said Lynn, and patted his chest, ‘and I’m wearing a vest, though I’m not sure how much good it’ll do because McFee, Dunne and McEvoy were all shot in the back of the head.’
‘And the knees, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which is how the RUC Special Branch guy died, isn’t it? I’m assuming that’s not a coincidence.’
Lynn’s eyes narrowed. ‘What big ears you’ve got,Grandma. The cops haven’t revealed the details, just that they were shot.’
‘I might be a farmer these days but I’ve still got friends in the North. I’m told that Joe and the guys were killed the same way Robbie Carter died.’
‘That’s what I’ve heard, yeah.’
‘Then it’s as obvious as the nose on your face. Someone’s taking revenge for what you did to him. Family or friend. Has to be.’
‘The cops say they’re looking at that, but they won’t tell me what they’ve got, if anything. I made a few enquiries myself. Carter’s parents are old, he’s got a brother in Canada and his widow’s got no connection with paramilitaries. Neither has her family.’
‘So that just leaves the whole of Special Branch.’ Filbin scowled.
‘We killed Carter in 1996,’ said Lynn. ‘I know revenge is a dish best served cold but waiting this long is ridiculous.’ He grinned at Kelly and Nugent. ‘Anyway, with these guys babysitting me, no one’s going to get near me.’
Kelly lifted his mug of tea in salute. ‘That’s the plan, anyway,’ he said.
‘What about Noel Kinsella?’ asked Filbin. ‘Who’s taking care of him?’
‘He’s thrown in his lot with the Brits,’ said Lynn, contemptuously. ‘He’s got the cops watching over him – and the spooks as well, from what I hear. Lying low in London until they get the killer.’
‘Is it right he’s been promised something in the new Assembly?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And that he’s married well?’
Lynn chuckled. ‘A Kennedy.’
‘Well indeed, then,’ said Filbin.
‘It’s a love match, I’m told.’
‘There’s only one person Noel Kinsella loves and that’s himself,’ said Filbin. ‘Between you and me, I never really trusted him. Always out for what he could get.’
‘He’s destined for better things now,’ said Lynn. ‘In his own mind, anyway.’ He paused. ‘I’d better be going.’
‘Stay the night, Gerry. There’s a spare bed.’
‘We can be back home in a couple of hours,’ said Lynn. ‘It’s motorway and there’ll be no traffic this time of night.’ He drained his glass. ‘It was good to see you, Jonas.’
Filbin hugged him. ‘You be careful, yeah?’ He kissed Lynn on the cheek.
Kelly and Nugent pushed themselves out of their chairs and shook his hand. ‘You take care of this man now,’ he said.
Kelly and Nugent walked with Lynn to their Lexus. Nugent climbed into the driving seat and Lynn sat next to him. Kelly walked to the barred metal gate at the entrance to the courtyard and opened it.
Nugent drove slowly across the cattle grid and waited while Kelly closed the gate and climbed into the back.
‘Right, boys, don’t spare the horses.’
Nugent headed slowly down the gravelled track that led to the main road. As they left the farm, he flipped on the full headlights, their powerful beam flooding the track ahead. A fox hurried away, its tail low, and an owl soared into the darkness.
‘He’s real old-school, Jonas, isn’t he?’ said Nugent.
‘Careful what you say. He’s not much older than me,’ said Lynn.
‘I meant politically,’ said Nugent.
‘He wasn’t over the moon about power-sharing, but Jonas is a realist. That’s the way it’s got to be if we’re going to win the long war.’
‘What’s going on up there?’ asked Kelly, peering out of the side window.
Lynn squinted through the windscreen. A Land Rover was in the ditch to the left of the track, its bonnet up.
Nugent slowed the Lexus. ‘An accident?’
‘Ignore it, man,’ said Kelly. ‘Just put your foot down and get us past it.’
‘I don’t see anyone, do you?’
‘Mark, put your bloody foot down!’ said Lynn.
; ‘We’re in the South here, nothing’s going—’
‘Do as he says, Mark,’ said Kelly, from the back seat. ‘Get us out of here.’
As Nugent opened his mouth to reply, his face exploded in a shower of blood and skull fragments that splattered across the dashboard and windscreen. A second shot shattered the rear window and Kelly slumped forward, blood pouring from his throat. Lynn grabbed the steering-wheel and lifted his right leg over Nugent’s left, trying to get his foot to the accelerator. The engine roared but the car didn’t move. A third shot rang out, and for a moment Lynn thought he’d been hit, but there was no pain. He fumbled for the gear lever, screaming in frustration.
The passenger door was pulled open and the barrel of a gun was pressed to the side of his head. Lynn raised his hands. ‘I’m not armed,’ he said.
Salih sat in his hotel room and studied the map of the United Kingdom that he’d spread out across the double bed. He had spent an hour in Borders in Oxford Street and had purchased A–Z street directories that covered all the areas that appeared in the list of landline locations the Russian had given him. He sipped a glass of Evian water and eyed the circles he had marked on the map. Most were dotted in and around London and were either police stations or government offices. None of the numbers belonged to private residences. Charlotte Button had made two calls to Leicester, to the police headquarters building where Khan worked. She had made several to Glasgow numbers and two to Belfast. Over the past fortnight she’d made fifty-three calls to landlines and twice as many to mobiles. She’d spent most of this week in Belfast.
Salih inserted a new pay-as-you-go Sim card into his phone and called the Belfast number. The Europa Hotel. He cut the connection and smiled to himself. There was a good chance that Charlotte Button was staying at the Europa, though he doubted she would be using her own name. Belfast was as good a place as any to kill her, but hotels were public places and Salih would need time to kill her in the way that Muhammad Aslam had stipulated.
He walked around the bed, looking down at the map. One of the landlines was located in Culford School at Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. Salih had Googled the name and discovered that it took boys and girls as boarders. It was a place for the rich to educate their children away from home. Khan had said Button had a daughter, and that the daughter had been sent to boarding-school. Now Salih knew where she was, and if he got the daughter, he’d get the mother, guaranteed. Salih had no reservations about killing women or children. People were people, no matter their age or sex, and Salih’s profession was to kill. But the boarding-school was a long shot. If the child was there, it might be weeks before her mother visited.
Salih sat on the bed and studied the map again. At some point Button must have phoned her home. There were two numbers, in Berkshire and Surrey, to the south-west of London. Merkulov had supplied addresses for both. One was in the centre of Windsor, the other a village called Virginia Water in Windsor Great Park, about eight miles from Heathrow.
Salih had a small Dell laptop on the dressing-table, connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi network. He had an account with www.192.com, which he had opened when he was in Dubai. It allowed him access to a huge database, including phone directories and electoral rolls. Salih had been surprised to discover how much information about its citizens the British Government was prepared to make available to anyone with computer access, but he was more than happy to take advantage of it.
He had already entered ‘Charlotte Button’ in the website’s search engine and come up with nothing, country-wide. This time he simply entered ‘Charlotte’and the address in Windsor. It came up blank. He tried with just the address but the search engine insisted on a name or a description of a business. Salih sat back and flipped through his notepad. Khan had said that the woman’s husband was an estate agent. He tapped in ‘estate agent’ and hit the search button. In less than a second the website gave him the name of an estate agent at the address. Salih smiled. Sometimes information was hard to come by; sometimes it was like plucking apples from trees. Now he knew where the husband worked.
He cleared the search engine and entered the Virginia Water address with the name ‘Charlotte’. He hit the search button and, almost immediately, the address popped up with two names above it. Charlotte Pickering and Graham Pickering. Salih muttered a prayer, thanking Allah for all his works. Charlotte Pickering was almost certainly Charlotte Button.
‘Got you,’ he muttered.
Shepherd was stretched out on the sofa watching an episode of Midsomer Murders when his mobile rang. It was Button. ‘We’ve got a problem, Spider.’
Shepherd squinted at the digital display on his wristwatch. It was just after three thirty in the afternoon. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Gerry Lynn was murdered last night near Dublin.’
‘Shit.’
‘Shit is right. Now, tell me you’ve got Elaine Carter under surveillance.’
‘No can do, Charlie. She’s not at home and I haven’t seen her all day.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Home.’
‘I’m coming round.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
‘She’s not there, you said.’
‘I know but—’
‘Stay put, Spider. I’ll be there within the hour.’ The line went dead.
Shepherd made himself a mug of coffee and went on watching Inspector Barnaby. Like most television shows Midsomer Murders bore almost no relation to reality. Two polite middle-class detectives were knocking on the doors of well-kept cottages asking questions over cups of tea and cucumber sandwiches. In the real world ninety per cent of murders were solved within the first hour or so of the victims’ deaths. More often than not a family member or business acquaintance had killed them, and the motive boiled down to anger brought on by money, revenge or sex, with drugs or alcohol fuelling it. Usually there was no real detective work involved. It wasn’t easy to take a life and most people who killed were immediately stricken with remorse. They’d stay with the body until the police came or walk into a police station and confess. Those who tried to cover their tracks were usually caught because a few simple questions asked of the deceased’s nearest and dearest would throw up the names of any suspects. Then it was simply a matter of nailing down where they had been at the time of death. Rarely was there any mystery to be solved.
One of the nice middle-class detectives was about to reveal who the murderer was when Shepherd’s doorbell rang. He muted the television’s sound and went to open the front door.
Button was wearing a fawn belted raincoat over a dark suit and carrying a Prada bag. She walked past him and down the hall to the kitchen. ‘Got any wine?’ she asked. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Red or white?’
‘I don’t care what colour it is.’ She took off her coat, threw it over a chair and sat at the kitchen table. She put her head in her hands.
Shepherd opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Frascati. Button groaned when she saw the label. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘There’s champagne,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elaine gave it to me. But I like Frascati. It’s crisp, clean, and you can drink it with anything.’
Button laughed. ‘Just pour it, Spider.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Shepherd, as he uncorked the wine.
‘The Garda Siochana called it in last night,’ said Button. ‘They found the bodies on a farm in County Dublin.’
‘Bodies?’
‘Lynn and his two IRA minders. The guy who owned the farm, Jonas Filbin, was in gaol with Lynn and was released under the Good Friday Agreement at about the same time. He moved south and took over the family farm. Lynn and his minders had left and were heading back to Belfast. There was a Land Rover in a ditch on the road outside. Looks like they stopped to see what was going on and the minders were shot through the car windows. Lynn either got out or was forced out and was walked into a field. A bullet in each knee and one in the back of the head. Filbin heard th
e shots but the Garda took their time getting to the scene and the killer was long gone.’
‘Killer or killers? One woman taking out three men?’
‘Don’t get sexist on me, Spider. You’re starting to sound like your dinosaur of a colleague Jimmy Sharpe.’ There was a packet of Marlboro on the table and she reached for it, then plainly had second thoughts. ‘He sends his regards, by the way.’
‘I can’t see Elaine Carter taking on three IRA killers in a shoot-out,’ Shepherd said. He pushed the cigarettes towards her.
Button picked up the packet and took one out. Shepherd lit it for her. ‘The driver was shot in the back of the head, the guy in the back seat took a double-tap to the chest and didn’t even have his hand on his gun,’ she said. ‘Lynn wasn’t armed. It was hardly a shoot-out.’
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘I don’t want to get all forensic on you, but if this happened in a field, there must have been footprints.’
‘It happened in Ireland, and they’re not as forensically minded as we are,’ said Button. ‘Half a dozen of the Garda’s finest were trampling around before anyone thought to cordon off the area.’
‘But the same gun was used?’
‘They’re going to check the bullets and will send us the results, but they’re insisting on doing the work themselves. The murders took place on Irish soil so we’ve got no claim on the evidence. But the way Lynn was shot makes it a fairly safe bet that it’s the same killer. Now, talk me through this. When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘So she’d gone when you got up this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she could have left last night?’ She looked around for an ashtray.
Shepherd retrieved one from the draining-board and put it in front of her. ‘Her car’s still in the driveway,’ he said. ‘She either walked or called a cab, and before you ask I didn’t see a cab.’
Button put her still-burning cigarette into the ashtray and ran her hands through her hair. ‘This is one hell of a screw-up, Spider.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m not saying it’s your fault – I’m not saying it’s anyone’s fault – but the shit has really hit the fan. We were tasked with monitoring the single suspect in a multiple-murder case and now it looks as if she’s killed again.’
Dead Men: The Fifth Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 17