Shadow Box

by Peter Cocks

  Saying that, she did not get a great deal out of me either. I told her my dad was called Patrick Kelly, a builder; that he had lived in Spain and had also had a few business troubles. It gave us something in common.

  But she seemed to detect something not quite right about me.

  “I hate that jacket,” she said, laughing. “It looks like it belongs to someone else.”

  “It did,” I said, a little offended. “It’s retro. I bought it from a vintage shop for college.”

  “Trying to fit in with the fashionistas, are you?” She was disarmingly direct, like she didn’t care if she offended anyone.

  “I don’t really fit in,” I admitted.

  “That makes two of us,” she said. “You want to try being yourself.”

  I was a bit nervous that Hannah could smell something fake about me. She was that kind of girl. I looked at my watch – it was nearing 7.30 p.m.

  “Haven’t you got to meet your mate?” she asked.

  I had almost forgotten my lie. I took out my mobile and pressed a couple of keys, pretended to read a message. I rolled my eyes and sighed dramatically.

  “I’ve been stood up,” I said.

  If Hannah saw anything phony in this, she didn’t show it.

  “Why don’t we have another one here, then?” she asked. “You can come back to mine for something to eat if you want?”

  I considered a moment. I had no real need to go back to my own place and I didn’t for a second think that she was coming on to me. But after all, my job was to keep tabs on Hannah Connolly.

  “OK,” I said. “Why not?”

  Donnie’s life had become more complicated since Paul Dolan’s release. He’d been given another “little” job: to find out what he could about Dolan’s disappearance. Word from Belmarsh was that Tommy was mad as a cut snake that the Irishman had given them the slip. Tommy wanted Dolan brought to book and given a thorough grilling about his role in his own capture and imprisonment.

  Dave had given Donnie instructions to round up some of the usual suspects. The prospect made Donnie’s heart sink.

  He turned up to a pub near Camberwell Green looking for a man called Jimmy Gallagher. After asking the barman, he found Gallagher in the bookies several doors down. Gallagher was a scrawny man with thin, greasy hair. He was studying the racing papers and chewing the stub of a ballpoint. Donnie stood behind him watching the TV above their heads. Gallagher felt the looming presence and turned, his eyes widening as he clocked Donnie. Donnie noticed a smudge of ink in the corner of the man’s mouth.

  “Jimmy,” Donnie said.

  “Donnie!” Jimmy replied, trying – and failing – to sound cheerful.

  “You winning?” Donnie asked.

  Gallagher gestured at his tatty clothes and dirty trainers. “Does it look like it?”

  “Let me buy you a drink,” Donnie said.

  Gallagher followed Donnie back to the pub. Donnie bought Jimmy a triple whisky in the hope that it might loosen his vocal cords. Gallagher was a well-known, hated grass, but more useful alive than dead. He always had his ear to the ground.

  Donnie boxed him in at a corner booth, where Gallagher could barely be seen for Donnie’s wide back. Donnie took a sip of lager.

  “So,” he said. “You heard about Paulie Dolan getting out?”

  Gallagher’s eyes darted about, but his field of vision was blocked by Donnie’s massive frame.

  “No. Yes. I mean, I heard…”

  “Heard what?” Donnie asked.

  “Only that he was out, Don,” Gallagher said.

  “Have a drink,” Donnie suggested, and pushed the whisky towards Gallagher, who took a sip. “No, have more,” Donnie said. “I’m buying. Fill yer boots.” He sat and watched while Gallagher drank half, and continued to watch until he had drained it. “Good stuff that Jameson’s, innit? Have another.” Donnie pushed the table against Gallagher so he couldn’t move from his chair and then ordered another triple from the bar.

  “Cheers,” Donnie said. Gallagher sipped from the glass again. “So what else did you hear?”

  “Nothing, Donnie, honest. I don’t do this any more.”

  Donnie sighed. “Neither do I, Jimmy. I thought I’d retired. But now I’m here, so whaddya know?”

  “I told you, Don, nothing. I haven’t heard nothing, I swear.”

  In Donnie’s experience, when people began to say “honest” and “I swear” it meant they knew more than they were letting on.

  “Drink up, Jimmy,” Donnie instructed. He pushed the whisky closer to Gallagher, who lifted it to his lips. Donnie grabbed the bottom of the glass and roughly helped the man swallow the contents. “Have another one.”

  Donnie pushed the third triple whisky at Gallagher.

  “So what are they saying at The Harp?” Donnie asked, referring to the private members’ Irish club in New Cross, once funded by Tommy Kelly.

  “I don’t know, Don.” Gallagher’s voice was beginning to slur, nine shots doing their work on his small frame.

  “Down the hatch,” Donnie said again. He took the glass from the table and pushed it against Gallagher’s mouth, putting his other hand behind the man’s neck. Gallagher resisted, but Donnie’s massive hand pressed until Gallagher’s teeth parted and Donnie was able to tip the glass, raising a red weal where the rim pressed hard against Gallagher’s nose. Jimmy Gallagher spluttered as another three measures of spirit sluiced down his throat.

  The pub was crowded, but the barman, sensing an incident was about to happen, began to walk over.

  Donnie stood up.

  “You’re drunk,” he said to Gallagher for the barman’s benefit, a note of disgust in his voice. “You need some fresh air.”

  “He’s had enough,” he said theatrically, guiding Gallagher past the barman through the crowd.

  They went outside and Donnie pushed Gallagher along the street, turning right into the darkness of Camberwell Grove. Fifty metres along, where the grand Georgian houses started, Donnie turned Gallagher down a side passage, bordered by the cast iron railings of the large house it served.

  Donnie really didn’t have the stomach for this; he knew a big right-hander would take the little Irishman’s head off, so he would have to go easy.

  “You need to sober up, Jimmy,” he said. He delivered an open-handed slap, hard, across Gallagher’s face. Gallagher screamed and cowered like a whipped dog. Donnie backhanded him across the other cheek, straightening him up again. “There we are, sober as a judge, now. Tell me where they think Paul Dolan is.”

  “I’ll tell you everything I know, just don’t hit me again.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Donnie said. He grabbed Gallagher by the throat and pushed him back against the railings. “What are they saying?”

  “Some say America,” Gallagher spluttered.

  “Where?”

  “Dunno. Boston, New York maybe, I dunno.”

  Slap.

  “Don’t hit me, Don. Others say Ireland.”

  Slap.

  “Please, I’m telling you all I’ve heard.”

  “Took your time.”

  Slap.

  “I’ve even heard Russia … someone said Russia.”

  “Which one, who said?” Donnie growled.

  “I don’t know … I’m just saying what I’ve heard.”

  Donnie knew he’d made a start but wasn’t going to get much more from the man today. He lifted him by the armpits and hung him from the railings by the shoulders of his faded denim jacket. Gallagher kicked and struggled as Donnie climbed up and took the chewed biro from Gallagher’s pocket, noting that the blue ink stain had been joined on the other side of Gallagher’s mouth by a fresh smear of blood. He took the pen and wrote a number on Gallagher’s forehead.

  “My phone number. You know what I want to know. Get in touch.” Donnie stuffed some crumpled notes into the man’s pocket.

  “There’s a ton, Jimmy. Get out and buy some drinks. Ask some questions. I want
more details, or you’re toast.”

  Donnie left Jimmy Gallagher dangling from the railings. He dusted himself off and was walking back into Camberwell New Road in search of a cab when his phone rang.

  “Stan Dandyliver.”

  “Don?”

  “Dave?”

  “Don. What’s new?”

  “Not much, Dave. I’ve had a chat with the little Irish nark.”

  “And, Don, and…?”

  “He reckons he’s heard Ireland, America or Russia.”

  There was a pause as Dave Slaughter digested Donnie’s new intelligence.

  “That’s half the fuckin’ world, Don, can’t you be more specific?”

  “Best he could come up with, Dave. I’ve put him on the case.”

  “He’ll have to do better than that. Listen, Don, I’ve got a fix on the kid. Fancy a trip to north London?”

  Donnie looked at his watch: 10.00 p.m. already and he was only a mile or so away from his flat.

  “Not really, Dave.”

  “Tough, Don. Go and have a butcher’s. I’ll give you the address, it’s in Kilburn.”

  Hannah Connolly’s flat was on the second floor, above a bank just off the High Road. It was scruffy and bohemian, with a beaten up sofa and Indian rugs on the floor. A couple of large, black-and-white prints of her work were pinned to the wall. Another photo, in a frame, showed what I assumed to be Hannah, aged about twelve, in a green Irish-dancing costume.

  “Don’t look at that,” she said, and tipped the photo face down. “I’ve got some sausages, that OK? You’re not veggie, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “If God didn’t want us to eat animals, why did he make them out of meat?” I asked, trotting out a well-worn joke. Hannah looked at me blankly and went over to the fridge.

  I sat down on the sofa and flicked through Time Out while Hannah stood in the kitchen and snipped a string of sausages into an already used frying pan. I stood up again.

  “Can I take a slash?”

  “Sure,” she said, pointing at the door. “You’ll find it, it’s not a very big flat.”

  I closed the living room door behind me and checked the other doors off the hall. One was Hannah’s bedroom, easily identified by more prints on the wall. Next was the bathroom: grubby bath and scuzzy shower curtain.

  I shut the bathroom door from outside and ducked into her room. It was untidy, but not a tip. It smelled a bit hempy. There was a full ashtray on a chest of drawers. I picked up a stub and smelled spliff. I opened a drawer and found a small bag of weed tucked in among the clothes. There was a laptop on the table and I could see by the glowing light that it was in sleep mode.

  I had been taught that you needed to take opportunities when they arose, so I booted it back up. It asked for a password, so I typed in “password” and got straight in. Careless.

  I typed in my code, went through the protocols and within three minutes had hacked into Hannah Connolly’s computer. I cleared the history and quit and then heard a door creak behind me. I shut down the lid of the laptop and turned to find Hannah standing in the door of her room.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked.

  “Oh, er… I was just wondering if there was anywhere I could check my email?”

  “On my laptop?” she said.

  “Sorry, I should’ve asked.”

  Hannah pushed passed me, touched the lid of her laptop.

  “You need to check your mail now?”

  “Sorry,” I said again. “Not really … it’s just habit. My phone’s nearly dead. Doesn’t matter, sorry.” I rubbed my hand over my head. “I think I’m a bit pissed.”

  “Lightweight,” she laughed, leaving the bedroom. “You need something to eat.”

  We ate sausage baguettes with ketchup off our laps in front of the TV. I sat in an armchair opposite Hannah, and while she had half an eye on the telly, I planted a bug down the back of the chair.

  After we’d eaten, we sat, not talking, just letting whatever was on the TV drift by. Hannah rolled a joint and offered it to me. I refused and she smoked it by herself, relaxing back into the sofa.

  “Listen, I’d better go,” I said, after a while. I looked at my watch. Nearly eleven. It had been a long evening. Hannah showed no reaction to my departure; she was impossible to read. “Thanks for feeding me.”

  “No worries,” she said. “I was having sausages anyway.”

  “And I’m sorry about, you know, your room, I was just…” I waggled my hand in a mime of too many drinks. “Empty stomach…”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Cheers,” I said, knowing that whatever she did would now be relayed straight back to Simon Sharp and Tony’s department. “So … see you at college.” She clearly wasn’t the type for social kisses on the cheek, but it would have been weird to shake hands, so I just stood awkwardly for a second, then gave a lame wave, opened the door and let myself out.

  Donnie hated public transport but he’d given Jimmy Gallagher most of his folding cash and didn’t have enough for a cab to north London. He half considered going and nicking it back from the man, who he was certain was still hanging off the railings in Camberwell. Instead, he got a bus to Elephant and Castle before taking a shitty old Bakerloo line tube to Baker Street, then switching to the shinier Jubilee line heading north. The passengers were no better on this line, he thought: pasty faced late-night commuters and drunks, sweaty in the bright lights of the carriage. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and thought perhaps it was better not to judge.

  He got out at Kilburn and walked a block up the High Road before turning left and ducking into a shadowy doorway opposite the address he’d been given. He smoked a cigarette and waited.

  After about ten minutes, a light went on in the hallway of the flat above the bank. Donnie stubbed out his fag and drew further into the shadows. A minute later the street door opened and a young bloke came out. Donnie didn’t particularly recognize him. He looked pretty ordinary: medium height, medium build, wearing a tweed jacket. He was so ordinary looking that Donnie could have lost him within seconds in the dark, but he kept his eye on him and followed, hugging the walls, keeping back from the kid he took to be Eddie Savage. He followed him onto the tube at Kilburn station. Donnie got into the next carriage, keeping his distance, his face shielded by an Evening Standard. He could only get the odd glance at the kid’s face. The reddish hair and the old man’s jacket were all that distinguished him from a bar of soap.

  The kid got off at Bond Street, and Donnie slipped out onto the platform behind him, changed to the Central line and continued to follow from a carriage away. He sat down and appeared to shut his eyes for a while, giving Donnie a chance to move a gnat’s closer to observe better. At Tottenham Court Road, the target opened his eyes and hurriedly stepped off the train, almost wrong-footing Donnie, who scraped between the closing doors. They left the station. Donnie ducked around the roadworks that clogged up the junction of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street and followed Eddie along New Oxford Street. The kid was easier to follow now that there were fewer people around, but that made Donnie’s life more difficult. Years on the job had made him light on his toes despite his bulk, and he stuck to shadows and doorways. Then the kid turned left up towards the British Museum and stopped outside a red-brick mansion block. Donnie watched from the doorway of a sandwich bar while he pressed in a security code.

  Donnie could have killed him there and then, he thought. He’d done it before. A few steps across the pavement and a silenced shot to the head would be quickest, or he could have done it with a knife: cut his throat or stabbed him through the ribs. Or he could have strangled him with his bare hands. Save a lot of time and energy, he thought to himself. But that wasn’t the job he’d been given.

  The door buzzed and the kid went inside. Donnie waited long enough to see a light go on three floors up – that narrowed down the options of where the boy lived.

  Donnie walked b
ack along New Oxford Street, looking for a night bus back to New Cross. He took out his mobile and tapped in a message to Dave Slaughter with clumsy fingers.

  D. I no wear he lives. D.

  I woke up late.

  Sun was streaming through the blinds and it hurt my eyes. I felt groggy, and realized that I had drunk too much the night before. I pieced together my evening, remembering the pints of Guinness in Kilburn that had given me the Dutch courage to go back with Hannah, probably too soon. That had given me the bravado to go into her room and hack her computer – and nearly get caught.

  I kicked myself for being sloppy; I was out of practice.

  I tried to remember my return journey to the flat: a slightly fuzzy tube ride on a late-night train. I had taken none of the usual precautions coming back, none of the back alleys and side-street swerves that I usually took to disguise my destination.

  Careless.

  I checked around the flat, made sure all my tricks of the trade were in place. I lifted off the bath panel and checked the loose floorboard behind. There were still a couple of automatic pistols and some live rounds under there and a box full of bugging devices. I retrieved a handful of bugs and pocketed them. Then I went back into the living room and fired up my laptop. I cleared the history and changed my password, then changed the entry code on the door to the flat. I was meant to do this every two days or so, but I hadn’t done it for weeks. I’d been letting things slip, and it was time to tighten up.

  My mobile rang at 10. Simon Sharp.

  “Good morning,” he said chirpily. “So you were at Hannah’s last night? Good work.”

  “Eh?” I said. I had almost forgotten that his computer would now be connected with Hannah Connolly’s.

  “Very good work,” Sharp said. “I want you to come in.”

  “When?” I asked. “Where?”

  “Come down to Vauxhall at 12. I’ll be having a coffee with Anna in a Portuguese caff next to the bike shop opposite Vauxhall Bridge.”