Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  McGoldrick continued to speak to her back. "I've got my eye on you now, Lydia. It's only a matter of time before I figure out what you're up to."

  Chapter 8

  I wouldn't marry one of those girl-band singers. They're fit and all that but I imagine you'd be marrying the whole band. And not in a good way. There'd be no chance of a ménage a six, like. That'd probably knacker you anyway.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Donna Grant snipped away the bindings from Mattie's broken fingers. Her designer glasses had slipped down her nose a little and Cormac had the urge to push them back up for her. Maybe even mop her furrowed brow. She looked different. Prettier, maybe. Was it the new hairstyle? Shoulder-length curls with blonde highlights that framed her face in a more flattering way. Perhaps she'd lost weight and her cheekbones had become more prominent. Or was it just that he'd allowed her fine and delicate features to be blurred by the two years since he'd last seen her?

  She held up a length of black string. "Are these laces?"

  Cormac turned his palms upwards. "I had to improvise."

  Donna tutted and reached out to stroke Mattie's face. "You must be in agony, darling."

  "I'm all right," Mattie said. "Better than Dad at least."

  Donna had worked on John's gunshot wound before attending to Mattie's fingers. He'd been fed a painkiller and antibiotic cocktail then cleaned, stitched and bandaged. Cormac had talked him into lying down in Donna's bed once the codeine serene had kicked in.

  "Your da's in good hands, kid. Donna's a terrific doctor."

  Donna smiled at Mattie and when the kid looked away she switched her gaze to Cormac, her eyes like diamond-tipped drill bits. He resisted the urge to smile at her.

  "Rest your hand on this before I strap those fingers back up again." Donna pushed a bag of frozen peas across her kitchen table. "Do you want a glass of juice or anything?"

  "Yes, please."

  Donna went to the fridge built into the glossy white shaker kitchen. Cormac noted the toast crumbs on the worktops, the dishes in the sink and tea stains on the cupboard door under the spot the kettle sat on. He thought about a playful reprimand for her characteristic sloppiness but decided against it. It was probably too soon to get cute with her.

  She took a carton of orange juice from the fridge and half-filled a pint glass. Mattie took it eagerly and swallowed most of it in one go. He went to put the glass down and stopped. He let it hover an inch above the tabletop and tried to look over a cereal box sat in the centre.

  "Do you have a coaster, or something?" he asked.

  "Aren't you well trained?" Donna said. "I don't bother with that kind of thing. Just put the glass wherever's handy."

  Mattie looked a little guilty as he sat the glass down among the existing coffee rings. Donna flicked on the TV, visible from the kitchen table due to the open planning in her apartment. She set the remote down beside Mattie's good hand.

  "I'm just going to have a quick smoke while your hand numbs a bit." Donna said. She drew a ten-pack of Silk Cut from her velour tracksuit bottoms. "See if you can find something decent to watch."

  Mattie smiled at her. "Thanks."

  "Join me for a cigarette, Cormac."

  Donna knew he didn't smoke but her look warned Cormac off declining her invitation. He followed her out of the French doors in the living room onto a tiny balcony with a wrought iron guard rail. The second floor apartment had a decent view of South Belfast.

  Cormac looked out onto the Malone Road. "Nice place you—"

  "What the fuck is going on here, Cormac?"

  "Mattie and his father needed some help."

  "And who the fuck are they?"

  "I'm kind of looking after them for a bit."

  "Well, you're obviously doing a bang-up job."

  Donna lit her cigarette and drew viciously on it. She blew smoke in his face.

  "Why do so many doctors still smoke? Surely—"

  "Fuck off."

  "Look, I'm sorry to bring this to your doorstep, Donna. There was nobody else I could turn to."

  "How did you even know where to find me? I've moved twice since... since I last saw you."

  "You know what I do. It wasn't that difficult to—"

  "Keep tabs on me?"

  There was no point denying it. That was exactly what he'd done. He leant on the guard rail and watched a herd of students plod their way from the Queen's halls of residence towards the university. Donna speed-smoked her cigarette and crushed the butt under her trainer. She flipped open the pack and pulled out another, then she thought again and slid it back.

  "Why can't you take them to the hospital? The boy should have an x-ray. And if he doesn't need surgery, he's a definite case for physiotherapy. Sooner he gets it properly sorted the better. As for the father... Jesus, what a mess."

  "We don't have time for all that. Not right now."

  "So you figured you could call on me for an express service?"

  Cormac stood up straight and rounded on Donna. He fought to keep his voice level. "I've never asked you for anything before now. And this isn't even for me. You could do me this one favour, considering..."

  Donna licked her lips and fiddled with the lid of her cigarette packet. "You're laying the guilt trip on me, then? Old reliable."

  "Look, I don't want to get into anything with you now. If you'll just look after Mattie I'll get the hell back out of your life."

  "And what about that gash on the back of your head?"

  Cormac patted the blood-crusted hair around the wound. "The bleeding's stopped."

  "It still needs to be cleaned. Couple of stitches wouldn't do you any harm either. I lifted a whole load of stuff from the hospital after you called, extra needles and thread included."

  "Whatever you think." He realised that he sounded like a sulking teen and wanted to kick himself for his inability to show a bit of gratitude.

  "Come back in, then. I'll see to you after Mattie."

  Back inside, Mattie had settled on a music channel. He tapped his good fingers in time to a hip hop beat. Underneath the table his leg jittered with pent up nervous energy.

  "How's the hand feel?" Donna asked.

  "Freezing."

  "Well, let's get it sorted, then."

  "Can I use your phone?" Cormac asked.

  "Go ahead." She waved her hand towards the living room area. "It'll probably be on the coffee table."

  "Okay." He moved towards the table and stopped. Looked over his shoulder. "Oh, and, thank you."

  She treated him to a stiff smile.

  Cormac found the phone underneath an empty Doritos bag. He took it out onto the balcony and dialled the number he'd memorised before the start of his most recent assignment. As it rang, he held onto the guard rail for support.

  The handler didn't waste any time on niceties. "Where the fuck are you, Kelly?"

  "In Belfast."

  "Specifically."

  "A friendly place. Things went a bit pear-shaped, sir."

  "Fucking right they did. We've found the body in the safe house."

  "But I didn't call that in yet."

  "Big brother's been watching."

  Cormac's grip on the guard rail tightened. "What the fuck for?"

  "Insurance against a holy fuck-up like you managed to land us with."

  A light drizzle started to fall. It dappled Cormac's face but did nothing to cool the burning in his cheeks. If they knew he'd been involved in a kidnapping, they should have stormed the safe house and extracted the family. His default brief was always simple: don't break cover. It was up to the powers that be to make judgement calls based on the available information.

  "Did you manage to keep the hostages alive, Kelly?"

  "The father and son are with me. Frank Toner got away."

  "Uninjured?"

  "So far as I know. Any word on O'Neill and the rest of his goons?"

  "He's gone to London with two cronies. The Brothers Grim. We believe they'r
e going to touch base with Martin Rooney at some point. It's the opportunity we've been waiting for."

  Rooney was a big player in Cormac's case. They were building evidence of a link between the London-based cocaine dealer and Ambrose O'Neill's crew. The kidnapping had cropped up in the middle of the multi-agency investigation and sent everything arse over tits. It had been sprung on Cormac as the new boy in O'Neill's crew and if he'd had a means to communicate with his handler he'd have demanded the Belfast gangsters arrest for kidnap and blackmail that night. Instead, he'd battened down and set his objective at keeping the Gallaghers alive. A decision, he was sure, his handler would have to officially commend him for when they next met. Unofficially... it should have been all about the Rooney case.

  The handler continued. "And they're keeping as tight a watch on Missus Gallagher as our counterparts on the mainland are on them. We're going to have to work on locating Big Frank."

  Mainland. It was this sort of effortless referral to England that still divided the catholic cops from the old protestant boys. But as usual, Cormac didn't raise an objection. He hadn't the inclination for all that mast-nailing shite.

  "Do you know why they targeted this family?"

  "Of course," the handler's voice barked down the line. "I need you to come in for debriefing. When can we expect to see you, Kelly?"

  "A couple of hours."

  "Hours? Are you lost?"

  His handler, "Big Brother", was acting as if he'd lost track of him. Something gnawed at Cormac's gut. He deliberately withheld his position.

  "Gallagher and his kid need some medical attention."

  "Oh, for fuck sake. Are they badly hurt?" It wasn't a question born out of concern.

  "One of the crew broke a couple of the kid's fingers—"

  "We can see to that here."

  "And the father had a through and through gunshot wound. Lower abdomen."

  The handler clacked his teeth. The sound burrowed its way from the earpiece right into the centre of Cormac's brain.

  "We'll have a doctor and an ambulance waiting for him. Just get here."

  "They're both in safe hands now. What's the rush? I'm handling the situation."

  "You're not a doctor. You're not qualified to make..." The handler took a deep breath. "Fine, we'll see you in two hours."

  Too easy. Something was up.

  "What about the woman? Lydia Gallagher? The kid's going to want to speak to his mother."

  "Don't call Missus Gallagher. O'Neill's lost a lot of leverage but he's still got close tabs on her. We'll ensure she's safe. But for now we'll have to take a step back and see if O'Neill has the balls to go through with his plan now that it's gone out of control."

  The handler cut the call. Cormac stood on the balcony for a few more seconds and let the drizzle soak into his hair. When he felt calm enough to face Mattie and Donna he went back inside. Mattie held up his freshly strapped hand.

  "She's a lot better at this than you are."

  Cormac smiled at him. "Well, she is a doctor."

  "Only just," Donna said. "Now, come over to the sink so I can get started on you."

  "The kitchen sink? Is that hygienic?"

  "Don't worry. I've got anti-bacterial washing liquid."

  Mattie reached out and grabbed Cormac's arm as he passed him.

  "Are you going to call my mum after this?"

  Cormac patted the kid's shoulder, self-conscious that Donna was scrutinising him.

  "We're just waiting on word from the station that the bad guys are taken care of. But you'll all be together soon. I promise."

  ###

  Soho Square. The name would always hold illicit connotations in Lydia's mind. When she'd first moved to London the Soho area still hadn't quite shaken its reputation as a sex industry hotspot. But with every visit to the city centre square she was a little disappointed to see nothing more out of the ordinary than upmarket offices, trendy pubs and obstructive road works. She raised an arm to shield her eyes from a cloud of dust kicked up by a nearby jackhammer jockey. Rory placed a hand on the small of her back and ushered her away from the door to McGoldrick's office. She imagined the old Scot looking down at them from his window and quickened her pace just enough to break contact. If Rory noticed her mild rebuke he didn't show it.

  "Come on," he said. "I'll buy you a drink at The Toucan."

  She spoke to him over her shoulder as they walked. "An Irish theme pub? Are you serious?"

  "They do a decent pint."

  "John says they charge an arm and a leg for bad Guinness in those places."

  "You're worried about paying an extra fifty pence on the pint after the deal you've just worked out? Wind your neck in. It's time to celebrate."

  "My head's really banging, Rory."

  "A decent drink's better than a couple of paracetamol. We'll be fifteen minutes. Half an hour, tops."

  Lydia ran a hand through her hair. The constant rumble and whine from the road works clamoured. McGoldrick's parting words rankled. A chill wind nipped the dry, cracked skin at the corners of her mouth. Rory wasn't going to give up on the idea of a celebratory drink. There was no point arguing. She turned sharply and stopped at a pedestrian crossing, ready to lead the way to The Toucan. Something bounced off the side of her face.

  She had just enough time to realise that she'd cut off a hurried pedestrian before a man in a black woollen hat stepped around her and stormed off without a word. Rory found his voice as the hunched figure hurried down the street with his hands jammed into the pockets of a black military-style jacket. Lydia cringed when Rory cupped his hands around his mouth.

  "Watch where you're fucking going, mate."

  "Rory, leave it." She checked the inner pocket of her business suit jacket to make sure it hadn't been dipped. The phone was still there. "I bumped into him."

  "Aye, but the bastard didn't even take a second to see if you were okay."

  "It's London."

  Rory took a deep breath and Lydia braced herself for his next yelled insult. He exhaled with a sigh.

  "Thanks, Rory."

  "Come on, I want a drink."

  She let him take the lead this time. He walked with his arms locked out by his sides and his fists clenched. His vibe wasn't lost on those in his path; couples parted, tourists swerved, and fat city-pigeons fluttered. An illogical way to rage against the ill manners of a pedestrian, but that was Rory through and through.

  Imagine what he might do to somebody who really crossed him.

  Lydia pushed the thought down deep where it was lost in a boiling pot of stronger emotions.

  The Toucan was predictably full and yet nobody seemed to recognise Rory. Unusual, considering the column inches dedicated to his career and personal life in the Red Tops. But then, this wasn't exactly the local working man's boozer. During office hours on a Friday, the bulk of the trade came from tourists who sought the real English experience... in an Irish theme pub. The navvy descendents from the nearby road works had a few hours graft left in them before they could invade the place with their dusty tongues hanging. Lydia hoped to be on her way back to Teddington by then.

  They found a spot at the bar just wide enough for two stools, though Rory chose to stand. Lydia adjusted herself on the high stool and wished for longer legs. Her feet hovered an inch above the horizontal pole that served the vertically blessed as a footrest. She crossed her ankles and tried not to fidget.

  "Hiya, love. A pint of Guinness and a glass of rosé when you've a minute, please."

  Rory's Northern Irish accent cut through the pub's background noise like a nuclear icebreaker ship. It attracted bemused smiles from some of the other patrons, though it had little effect on the barmaid. Lydia noted the piercing blue eyes and sickeningly beautiful sculpted cheekbones. She guessed that the girl was Polish. Would put good money on her being of Eastern European origin at the very least. Then she felt a tinge of guilt at weighing her up on such a flimsy premise.

  The rosé came first; the Guinne
ss glass stood half-empty under the pump in the way that Irish, Northern Irish and third-generation-removed-Irish men seemed to think so important. Lydia reached for her glass, raised it, paused and sat it back down. Her gut contracted. Rory, mildly puzzled, frowned.

  "I'll wait for you," she said.

  He crimped one side of his face. "Aye, dead on."

  Lydia didn't know for sure if he was being sarcastic. She could have asked but feared where the question might lead. After her meeting with McGoldrick she didn't want to risk another confrontation. Another few taps and the wall she'd built up would tumble.

  "Do you want anything to eat?" Rory asked.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Well my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

  "Feel free to order something for yourself."

  "That'd be weird."

  She looked at her glass again. Considered downing the lot in one go. Then maybe she'd order another and tell the possibly-Polish chick to leave the bottle. Something classy like that.

  "I need to go to the loo," she said.

  Rory shrugged then turned to smile at the barmaid as she delivered the topped-up pint of Guinness.

  "What part of Ireland are you from?" he asked.

  The barmaid leant forward a little as if to share a whispered secret with Rory. Lydia tensed her shoulders in expectation of a much deserved rebuke.

  "I'm from the county of Poland," the definitely-Polish chick said. "What part of Scotland are you from, love?"

  She made "love" sound like luff. Lydia smirked, as much at her own insecurities as the barmaid's sass. Neither Rory nor the Pole paid her much heed as she dropped off the barstool and scoped for a sign leading to the bathroom.

  She spotted white text on a green-lit background. Toilets. And directly below the little rectangular sign, a man sat at a table on his own. He wore a black military-style jacket and a black woollen hat. Lydia gawped. He waved. She won a brief but gruelling battle with paralysing dread and then moved towards him, step by oh-so-slow step.

  ###

  The blue van jerked off the road and into the car park in front of Donna's apartment like it had almost missed the turn. Cormac had taken a seat by the doors out to the little balcony, instinctively setting up a watch. His handler hadn't called him back and the passing time made him edgy. The pair of thugs that got out of the blue van made him edgier still. One of the thugs – older than the other one by some years – looked at a piece of paper in his hand, then tucked it into the back pocket of a pair of faded jeans. Cormac lost sight of them as they moved towards the front door.