Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  But the uniforms at the flat in Peckham had already accepted him as an undercover cop. A quick adjustment to the sat nav, and it wasn't long before he rolled into the car park, relieved to see Ronnie and Malcolm still manning the same positions.

  Cormac turned to McGoldrick. The old Scot had fumed silently for the whole trip. Cormac could almost feel the heat from his fury. Again, he adopted his upbeat singsong voice, just to piss him off a little more.

  "Okay, big lad. This is your stop."

  McGoldrick clenched his jaw. Little muscles in his face pulsed. Cormac got out of the car and rounded it to open the passenger door. He reached over the old Scot and unclipped his seatbelt.

  "You going to get out on your own or am I going to have to drag you by the scruff?"

  McGoldrick stared dead ahead but he reached up for the Jesus handle and heaved himself out of the seat. He hissed and cursed under his breath. His wounded thighs must have been giving him gip. But he was upright and Cormac wasn't feeling much pity for him. He clamped his hand around McGoldrick's upper arm. His fingers sank into doughy flesh. Take away his money, all the bluster and bravado, and McGoldrick was just a weak old man.

  Cormac led McGoldrick towards Ronnie. The young uniform gave them a guarded look.

  "Hello there, Detective..."

  "Kelly." Cormac shoved McGoldrick a couple of steps forward. "Could you take this guy off my hands?"

  "Who is he?"

  "He's connected to the murder here and a shitload of other badness. If you could cuff him and stash him in the back of your car you'd be doing me a major favour."

  "Could you not just bring him to a station?"

  "I need to keep moving, mate. Don't want to get lumbered with a bunch of paperwork and questions from some jobsworth. You know what those desk jockeys can be like."

  "I don't know... Let me check with Malcolm, yeah?"

  Cormac made a show of glancing at his watch but maintained a friendly demeanour. "Aye, mate. Whatever you need to do."

  Ronnie relayed the situation to Malcolm. He got radio silence for a few seconds before Malcolm responded.

  "I think this might be above our pay grade, mate. Best to leave decisions like that to the big boys. They've got Robinson and Scott on this one."

  "Yeah? Fucking Bert and Ernie? Muppets."

  "They're on their way to check on our... Oi, oi. Here they come now. Look smart, Ronnie. Or give it a go, at least."

  Ronnie's frame stiffened when he caught sight of the Ford Mondeo rolling through the car park entrance. He adjusted his hat and rubbed one of his shoes on the back of his trousers, his earlier irreverence now completely gone. Whether or not these superiors were muppets, they would be shown respect.

  Cormac could feel the situation get more complicated by the second. He wanted to walk away and let the Met boys figure out what to do with McGoldrick themselves. But he couldn't. He needed to make sure they understood that the old Scot was at the eye of this shit-tornado.

  The Mondeo pulled up alongside the Vectra and its engine cut out. Cormac couldn't see through the tinted windscreen; moonlight casting a milky glare. The driver opened his door and stepped out. He had a mop of wild curls and a bushy beard. His brow was knotted with suspicion.

  "What's happening here, Ronnie?"

  "This is Detective Kelly from the PSNI. He reckons this other fellah has something to do with the boy who flew off the balcony."

  "PSNI? What the fuck are you doing over here?"

  "He says he's undercover," Ronnie said.

  "What are you, his interpreter?"

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Well, Detective... what's your story?"

  The passenger door opened and a fat guy with a receding hairline and a Freddie Mercury moustache got out, placed his hands on the small of his back and stretched. He sighed loudly then rested his elbows on the roof of the Mondeo and looked Cormac up and down.

  "Who's this?"

  "Detective Kelly, apparently," the curly haired one said. "He's PSNI."

  "What's he doing here, then?"

  "Just been wondering that myself."

  McGoldrick cleared his throat. "This man kidnapped me, beat me and shot my legs to force me into making a false confession. I want him arrested."

  Cormac almost laughed. But then he saw the looks on the two new arrivals' faces. They looked at the blood on McGoldrick's chinos and then at Cormac.

  "Are you carrying a gun, Detective Kelly?" the cop with the Freddie Mercury moustache asked.

  "I didn't shoot him."

  "That's not what I asked."

  "This aul' fucker's just chancing his arm. Take him in."

  "I'd like to see your ID, Detective Kelly."

  "I don't have it on me. I'm working undercover."

  "Convenient," the red-haired cop said.

  "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to accompany us to the station, Detective Kelly? You could fill us in on the whole story."

  "I don't have time. I'm tracking another suspect."

  "Let me make this a little plainer," the redhead said. He strutted up to Cormac and pointed a thick finger in his face. "You're fucking coming with us. Get in the car."

  "Ah, fuck this," Cormac said. He grabbed the redhead's wrist and pulled him off balance and straight into a tight uppercut. The punch connected with the tip of the redhead's chin, his beard almost cushioning Cormac's knuckles. His head snapped back and his legs wobbled. He folded forward onto the tarmac.

  Cormac drew his Glock as Ronnie laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and pushed the uniform backwards. Aimed the gun at his chest.

  "Stay back, kiddo."

  "You fucking nutcase," Ronnie said, "you can't do that."

  "Just did. And now I'm going to tootle along, just like I planned. Before I do, cuff this old bastard and bundle him into your squad car. If I find out that you didn't take him into custody, I'll find him and shoot him."

  Cormac sensed movement to his left. He turned slightly but kept his pistol trained on Ronnie. The fat Freddie Mercury had a telescopic baton in his hand.

  "I wouldn't recommend it, mate. Hit me with that and this gun's probably going to go off. Do you want to explain that fuck-up to wee Ronnie's ma?"

  "Put the gun away."

  "Will do, as soon as I'm a safe distance from here. And I'll leave as soon as I see Mr McGoldrick cuffed and bundled."

  Ronnie's radio crackled. Malcolm had noticed the ruckus and wanted to know what was going on. Ronnie ignored him and went about following Cormac's request.

  "You're making a big mistake," McGoldrick said.

  Cormac nodded. "It wouldn't be the first one, mate."

  Chapter 28

  Every second counts in pursuit of that final score. You can't let up or drop your guard.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Light penetrated the blinds. Lydia rolled onto her side. She was half-aware. Stranded between dreams and reality. As she came to she went through her mental checklist. What day is it? Am I working today? Where the fuck am I?

  Info trickled through holes in the wall of fatigue. Then the dam burst. She was flooded by the events of the previous days. Their force punched her to full consciousness with the highlight of tragedy – the brass knuckles – being her husband's death.

  Lydia sat up. It was Sunday but there was much to do. She needed to check on Mattie for a start. And then find out about collecting John's body. There would be a wake and a funeral. She needed to get in touch with John's family back home. Get in touch with her own family. Pick a funeral home, a coffin, flowers. Decide on a venue for the mad Irish attendees to get blitzed at after the service. She'd been to a few of their funerals. John needed to be seen off properly.

  And what about Rory? Stephen Black? They were both downstairs. What were they doing? What were they going to do? Rory had a match to prepare for. Stephen Black would probably be called in for surveillance duty while he trained. But where did that leave Lydia and Mattie?

  Ambrose O'
Neill was still out there. Unless Detective Kelly...

  Lydia reached out to the bedside cabinet for her phone. She noticed that there was a missed call first. Then she saw the time.

  11:37.

  She'd slept for hours. Proper sleep. The pills and exhaustion had overcome her need to grieve. She would have to make the most of her energy. Who knew when she'd be able to switch off like that again.

  Lydia got out of the bed and stretched. Her clothes were damp with sleep-sweat and her mouth felt grimy. She craved a shower and a toothbrush. But she would have to ask Rory first. After everything that had happened, she still wasn't really free.

  She went to the window and parted the blinds. It had rained. The street looked cleaner. A car shushed past, orange sunlight reflecting from its windshield. She let the blind fall back into place and called Detective Kelly.

  "Hello? Lydia?"

  "I've a missed call from you."

  "Yeah, sorry I called so late. Only let it ring a couple of times on the off chance that you'd be awake."

  "It's okay. You didn't reply to my text."

  "Yeah, had just seen it when I called. It was a busy night."

  "I'm sure."

  "McGoldrick should be in custody by now... I think he might squirm out of this, though."

  "It is what it is. Have you seen Donna yet?"

  "Not sure if I should. Things got complicated and I might be in a bit of trouble. Maybe you could check on her for me?"

  Lydia felt like telling him to fuck off. She had enough on her plate as it was. But he'd brought her back her son. And he'd kept John alive long enough for her to see him one last time. It wasn't as if he was asking much.

  "I'm sure I'll be at the hospital later. I'll call you if I can get in to see Donna."

  "Thank you."

  "What will you do now?"

  "I... I really don't know. Like I said, things are complicated. I want to track down O'Neill but I can't... Look, you don't need to hear all this. But I should meet you somewhere later. I need to return Stephen Black's car and, you know, I'd like to see Mattie if it's all right with you."

  "I'll call you in a bit."

  Lydia didn't know if it was all right for this cop to see Mattie. She didn't like how so many things about him were "complicated". But she felt bad for ending the call without throwing him a bone. It was just too much to think about. Her first priority had to be her son.

  The landing floorboards creaked as she treaded towards Mattie's door. She peeked in and saw the jumble of a disturbed duvet and sheets but no Mattie. Her heartbeat ratcheted but she fought the urge to panic with deep breaths and common sense. The boy had woken up and gone downstairs to look for food. Nobody had snatched him away in the night. All the same, she took the stairs a little too quick and noisy.

  Mattie, Rory and Stephen Black were in the kitchen concentrating on her laptop, a newspaper and a disassembled pistol respectively. The smell of men and breakfast was in the air. Rory looked up at her and wordlessly went to the cappuccino machine. It hissed and spat coffee into a little white cup. He added milk without asking if she wanted it and sat it in front of the seat beside Mattie.

  "Thanks," Lydia said.

  "Morning, Mum." Mattie broke away from the screen for a few seconds to look at her apologetically. "Hope you don't mind. Just passing the time, you know?"

  "Course not."

  Lydia took her seat and blew on the coffee's surface. The first sip sent a fizzle of calm across her skin. She started to believe that she could actually cope with the challenges of the day. Just so long as she got through the whole cup of bliss. She closed her eyes and breathed in the steam from the cup. Opened them and found her gaze drawn to Stephen Black's pistol.

  "Could you put that away, please? I've seen enough of them to last me a lifetime."

  Stephen Black folded away the oil-stained cloth he'd been cleaning a piece of the gun with.

  "Sorry about that. Just two ticks."

  His nimble fingers went to work. In seconds the silenced pistol was back in one piece and tucked away under his tracksuit jacket. The gesture didn't do much to settle Lydia. She was tempted to ask Stephen Black to leave – remove all traces of violence from her proximity – but she knew that they were safer with him around for the time being. But she looked forward to a time when she never had to deal with the likes of Stephen Black or Detective Kelly again.

  The sooner they took care of McGoldrick, the better.

  ###

  Cormac stood at the reception desk and waited for the disinterested hospital employee to grace him with her attention. He considered disguising his accent – his Scottish lilt was passable – but figured the effort would be wasted. Even if somebody had circulated his description, the lady in question was unlikely to have paid much attention to the memo. She yawned then looked at him with watery eyes.

  "Help you?"

  "I'm looking for Donna Grant's ward."

  "She a patient here?"

  Cormac took a breath before answering. "Yes, she is."

  The receptionist tapped on her keyboard with her index fingers. She sighed and interlaced her overworked digits. Cracked her knuckles and stretched her arms in front of her.

  "No record of a Donna Brand here."

  "I said Grant."

  "Oh. Must be your accent. Hold on. I'll try again."

  Tap, tap, tap.

  "Okay, Donna Grant. Ward 13C."

  "And I'll find that...?"

  "On the twelfth floor."

  "Lifts?"

  She pointed one of her typing fingers to the wall to her right. "Follow the signs for ‘Lift Core 5'. Take the lift to the—"

  "Twelfth floor. Right, got it."

  He wanted to leave her with a snarky reply or simply turn around and storm off but that would have left a lasting impression. Instead, he smiled like a harmless idiot and made his way along the corridors to Lift Core 5. Inside the lift he faced away from the CCTV bubble camera above. He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. A good cop would smell the unease off him. He was yet to meet one since he'd arrived in London, though.

  The lift doors eventually pinged open on the twelfth floor and he stepped out. Cormac had checked ahead and knew it was half an hour into visiting time. He'd used the hours before then replacing his battle-worn clothes. His newly bought Primark duds were comfortable enough but he knew they weren't so chic. He hoped Donna would be awake and in the mood to take the piss out of them.

  A sour-faced nurse pointed Cormac towards Donna's bay. The curtains were drawn around the bed but the nurse didn't forbid him from seeing her. He looked around for signs of increased security. Nothing. Not even the standard bored uniform on a stool. Jesus Christ. The hospital had been a shooting gallery the night before by all accounts and Donna had been involved. They couldn't spare one officer to keep watch over her?

  Cormac took a few seconds to breathe the hospital aromas deep and allow the irritated scowl on his face to fade away. His gurney gob was the last thing Donna needed to see. He concentrated on the positives. The appalling lack of security made his life a lot easier. He crossed the ward, the soles of his cheap canvas shoes squeaking on the hard floor, and drew back Donna's curtain.

  Ambrose O'Neill looked up from the visitor's chair and winked.

  "The security here's shite, isn't it?"

  Cormac's hand went for the shoulder holster underneath his black fleece. O'Neill raised a snub nose .38 from its resting place on his lap. He shook his head.

  "Let's keep it civil for now, Kelly, eh? Draw that curtain and keep your voice low."

  Cormac did as he was told then looked to Donna for signs of harm. Apart from the obvious dressed gunshot wounds, he saw nothing. She was unconscious; oblivious to their presence.

  "I haven't done anything to her, Kelly. Not yet."

  Cormac thought about diving for him, but he'd have to vault Donna's raised hospital bed first. There was no way he'd make those few feet without getting himself, and possibly Donn
a, shot.

  "What do you want?"

  "What the fuck do you think I want? My crew's been wiped out, because of you. And I'm in the shit up to my oxters with a drug-dealing, scumbag cockney, because of you. My life's basically fucked, because of you... do you see a pattern forming?"

  Cormac shrugged. "So, what now?"

  Donna gasped like she'd just come up from under water. The sudden noise distracted O'Neill long enough for Cormac to snatch the Glock from his shoulder holster. O'Neill returned his attention back to Cormac, saw the gun in his hand, and his mono-brow dipped down in the middle.

  "Put it away, Kelly."

  "What's happening, Cormac?" Donna looked from side to side. Her voice was sleep-slurred. "Am I in a hospital bed?"

  "It's okay, Donna," Cormac said.

  "It fucking isn't, Cormac. Why am I in hospital? Did you let me get hurt?"

  O'Neill sneered.

  "I wasn't there, Donna. I couldn't..."

  "Whatever, Cormac. Just get this caveman out of here and stay out of my life, okay?"

  "Bit of a ladies' man, are you, Kelly?"

  It was easy to ignore O'Neill's shitty comment. Donna had already done more damage than the bullish prick ever could.

  "...stay out of my life..."

  "Let's go, O'Neill."

  "Why should I?"

  "I've got a gun in your face."

  "Snap." O'Neill thumbed the hammer. "Stalemate, mate."

  Cormac looked at Donna. She turned away from him. He lowered his gun.

  "All right, O'Neill. You win."

  "There's a sensible lad. No point in you getting this pretty girl all shot-up again."

  A single tiny sob escaped Donna. It was a shotgun blast in Cormac's chest. He wanted to reach out and touch her. Knew that he couldn't.

  O'Neill stood up and held out his free hand. "Give me your gun."

  Cormac flipped the Glock around and handed it to O'Neill, handle first. The gangster snatched it from his grip. He grunted with satisfaction.