Shadow Box

by Peter Cocks

  “Smith & Wesson 9 mm?” Donnie asked.

  “Correct, Don.”

  “Big boy for the job, innit? Silencer?”

  “No silencer, Tommy doesn’t want a quiet job. He wants everyone to know about it. The 9 mm will make sure of a messy kill, Don.”

  “Two guns?”

  “Just in case one of them’s armed. I want a gun pointing at both heads at the same time. Bang, Don. Bang. We don’t want crossfire, we want a clean kill. There will be people in there, and we want them to see a good show; it’ll rattle everyone’s fucking bars. Bang, Don. Bang.” Dave held out two fingers of each hand to demonstrate.

  “Yes, Dave.”

  “No one will be looking at you because their eyes will be on those two chicken-faces crapping theirselves while you shoot them off, and the punters will all be too traumatized to check you on the way out. Livener?”

  Dave offered Donnie a small poly bag of cocaine and a rolled tenner. Donnie didn’t tap any out, simply opened the bag, sniffed half of it through the note and tucked the package into his top pocket for ron. Later ron.

  “Cheers, Dave,” Donnie sniffed.

  Donnie knew what Dave was doing: geeing him up so that when he went into The Lemon Tree he would be feverish to kill someone and wild horses wouldn’t stop him. Like a corner man, psyching him up before a fight. Donnie checked the guns over and stepped out of the car, placing a pistol in each of his jacket pockets. Dave got out and took an oversized, stone-coloured raincoat from the boot.

  “Burberry, Don, nothing but the best for you.” He flashed the checked lining and the label, showing that the pockets had been cut away inside to allow Donnie access to his guns.

  “Thanks, Dave,” Donnie said, putting it on over the grey suit Dave had dressed him in that morning.

  “It’s a high-tone area, Don, don’t want you standing out like a spare prick. There, you look like an American businessman, one of them big, fat blokes that looks like a quarterback but controls an oil company.”

  “Thanks, Dave,” Donnie said, ignoring the sideways compliment.

  Dave took some glasses from a case: pale-tinted, wire-framed Ray-Bans. Donnie put them on.

  “Rosy-tinted spectacles,” Dave grinned. “Now, I’ll drop you off at the end of the road, you go in, straight to the waiter and tell him you’re meeting Mr Komorov. He’ll point him out and you will head for the toilets, just to get your bearings. When you come out, head for the table. Bang, Don. Bang. Walk straight out, a burgundy Merc will be waiting. Johnny Reggae will be driving. He’ll drop you back in Regent’s Park, where Stav Georgiou will pick you up on the south side in a blue Beemer. Bosh. Got it?”

  “Yup.” Donnie nodded. Dave checked his watch.

  “Let’s go.”

  Donnie felt his heart pump and his breathing become heavy as Dave drove back to the end of Regent’s Park Road. He could feel his blood rising, as the combination of adrenaline and cocaine did their work. He held out his hands: they were steady.

  Dave let Donnie out of the car.

  “Good luck, Don.”

  “What’s the geezer’s name again, Dave?”

  “Komorov.”

  “Komorov, Komorov, Komorov…” Donnie repeated to himself as Dave pulled away. He walked back up the street until he was outside The Lemon Tree.

  There was a young couple outside, smoking, drinking coffee in the sun. They didn’t acknowledge Donnie’s presence, too posh to even look at him, Donnie thought. Good. Fine.

  He pushed through the door, and a smiling waiter greeted him immediately. The restaurant was like a big conservatory, half full with a lot of glass and straw chairs, sun streaming in through a skylight.

  “Hi. I’m having lunch with Mr K … Koromov … Russian,” Donnie said, in an accent that he thought was mid-Atlantic but which sounded more like something west of the Welsh border.

  The waiter nodded and gestured to the far corner. Komorov was seated in the back of the restaurant so he could see who was coming in. Another man had his back to Donnie. “Thank you. I just need the bathroom first.”

  The waiter pointed to the back of the restaurant, to the right of Komorov’s table. Donnie walked straight towards the gents’, catching a glimpse of Komorov from the corner of his eye. The Russian was talking animatedly and didn’t look round. For a big hulk, Donnie had a strange knack of being inconspicuous if need be. Donnie pushed open the toilet door, went in, checked himself in the mirror, took three deep breaths, turned around and went back out. He put his hands in his pockets, grasping the handle of each pistol. Now he could see the identity of Komorov’s companion.

  Nothing would give him more pleasure, he thought.

  Donnie walked over to the table. It was covered with mezze plates of prawns, hummus, taramasalata, green chillies, feta cheese.

  “Mr Komorov?”

  The man looked up; navy business suit, bouffant grey hair. It was him. The other man was dark, bearded, familiar. Donnie slid the guns from either side of his coat and drew them up to face level for each man. Eyes widened.

  “You told me to remember your name,” Donnie said to the second man. “I just did.”

  Donnie pulled the triggers simultaneously and watched, as if in slow motion, as the bullets entered their heads. The rounds had been doctored, Donnie thought – filed or dum-dummed – because rather than leaving a neat entry wound they splintered on impact, blasting flesh, bone and teeth from each man’s face and becoming messier on exit, leaving brain and blood across the cracked glass conservatory and creating astronomical dry cleaning bills for the other diners.

  Certain that the job had been done, Donnie turned on his heel and walked out between the curtain of screams from other tables.

  Oleg Komorov, late of the Russian Embassy and Bashmakov’s man in London, died instantly.

  Martin Connolly, aka Michael Dolan, gave his final death spasms in a spreading pond of blood on the tiled restaurant floor and died a few seconds later.

  I was called into the office. I was in fairly good spirits after a few days’ chilling out in a safe house and a good night’s sleep.

  I took the lift up to the fourth floor and walked through the glass doors.

  Anna was sitting in a leather swivel chair, her eyes glued to the screen.

  “Hiya,” I said.

  Anna swung round. She was looking businesslike in a dark tailored suit nipped in at the waist, the skirt tight across her legs. I always forget how hot she is until I see her again.

  “Here comes trouble,” she said.

  “That’s rich coming from you,” I laughed. “What are you dressed up for? Job interview? Moving over to HSBC?”

  “She looks more like she’s moonlighting as Miss Whiplash in those heels,” Sharpie said archly, walking in after me.

  “Thank you, children,” she said. “I’ve actually just come from lunch with Sandy Napier. You haven’t heard, have you?”

  “What?” Sharp nearly shouted.

  “Martin Connolly’s been murdered.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Where?”

  “North London, Primrose Hill, in a Greek restaurant. Sandy was trying to get an injunction on it until we could find out what was behind the killing, but it was in broad daylight, lunchtime. Shot dead. Primrose Hill is crawling with media wonks who were on their iPhones to newsrooms within five minutes. They even got photos – which can’t be published, they’re just too much.”

  Anna clicked on her screen and brought up some images. I looked and looked away, sickened, and then looked back again. I wouldn’t have known it was Martin Connolly save for a tuft of black, wavy hair and beard, either side of a gaping red hole of flesh and gore. The slideshow continued from other angles.

  “Who’s the other man?” Sharp asked.

  “That’s where it gets really interesting,” Anna said. “He’s called – was called – Oleg Komorov. Worked at the Russian Embassy.”

  “Komorov?” Sharp s
aid.

  “We think he was Alexei Bashmakov’s front man in London.” Sharp leant in and peered closer at the image, as if he might recognize one bag of mince from another. He shook his head.

  “Fuck,” he said. “Who did it?”

  “Professional hit,” Anna said.

  “Anyone see him?”

  “The waiter said he was a big man, sunglasses and raincoat, spoke with a Welsh accent.”

  “Great,” Sharp said. “Let’s comb Cardiff and all the rugby teams between here and there.”

  “So, no clues?” I asked.

  “We know Komorov had connections with Bashmakov. And that Connolly was part of The Harp, and senior IRA. That’s enough to put them together.”

  “So who does Sandy think shot them?”

  “Guess who?” Anna said. “Since Tommy Kelly’s been inside, Bashmakov’s muscled in on plenty of areas of his business. We imagine Tommy’s got the real pip because the Russians have cut him out of the Irish deals. They’ve dispensed with the middle man. Compared to Bashmakov, Tommy’s funding suddenly looks like small beer, and you know what Tommy’s like about his Irish roots.”

  “So he’s taking it personally?” I asked.

  “We think so,” Anna said. “This shooting has all the hallmarks of a Kelly assassination, showing his reach from inside Belmarsh. It was showy and messy, a loud, clear and bloody message that he’s still a player.”

  “What it shows,” Sharp added, looking at me, “is that we were on the right track putting you on to the Connollys. It’s beginning to stack up. But I think we should rest you for a bit, Eddie. It’s a bit hot for you out there at the moment.”

  Sharp’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and signalled that he had to answer it. As he left the room to take the call, Anna nodded to me to follow her. We went into the canteen area and I got us both coffee while she sat down. I joined her at a table overlooking the river.

  “Why does Sharpie want to rest me?”

  “He thinks you might still be a target,” Anna said.

  “Have you spoken to Tony about this?” I asked. “You must have some contact with him?”

  Anna looked as if she might be about to say something, then changed her mind.

  “No, I haven’t,” she said. “Rules is rules, Eddie. You know walls have ears.” She rolled her eyes for my benefit. “And I’m sure you understand that any contact with Tony would compromise your work?”

  “Right,” I said. “So what’s new?”

  She hesitated a moment, then took an iPad from her bag and flipped it open. “This is,” she said. “Let me show you something.” She put her finger to her lips, then called up some images that looked as if they had been taken on CCTV in a department store somewhere. They were lined and grainy.

  Anna pressed play and they came to life. Two girls, shopping. Both good-looking, one dark, one blonde, like rich kids from an American soap. They were just walking and chatting, checking out clothes. Another angle, cosmetics counter, trying out lipsticks on the backs of their hands.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Who are they?”

  “We think the blonde is Petrina, Bashmakov’s daughter,” Anna said.

  “Whose surveillance is this? Yours?”

  “No, this is stuff we’ve been sent from a contact.”

  “Who’s the other girl?” I asked. Anna froze the picture and zoomed in to the blurred face surrounded by a sharp, dark bob and long fringe. It was a strong look that drew attention away from pretty features.

  “Look closer,” Anna said. I did.

  “Nope,” I said, shaking my head.

  “I think it’s Sophie Kelly.”

  The hair prickled on the back of my neck. I looked again.

  “Can you sharpen it at all?” Anna took a frame of the still and opened it in Photoshop. Then she added contrast and sharpening filters, artificially focusing the face.

  I had been thrown by the hair. It could have been Sophie. It was Sophie.

  “Where was this taken?” I asked. “When?”

  “Last week,” Anna said. “In New York.”

  The car picked me up outside the British Museum.

  Anna was already sitting in the back and I breathed in her fresh, lemony fragrance. It was a sunny morning and London looked like a heritage film set on one side, with the Tower of London behind us, and a futuristic metropolis on the other, with the Gherkin and other tower blocks dwarfed by the Shard, which stabbed violently into the clouds above London Bridge.

  We didn’t say much until we were almost at Bermondsey, an area that brought back memories of my first encounters with Tommy Kelly nearly two years earlier.

  “Sharpie got over his mood?” I asked. Simon had kicked off when Anna told him our plan, but she had pulled rank and told him it was a done deal.

  “I think so,” Anna said. “He only got the blouse on because he wants to run the show. He’s smart and ambitious and wants his name all over this one.”

  “Promotion?” I asked.

  “Well, yes,” Anna admitted. “But this is turning into a bigger, more complex affair than we imagined when you first went to see Tommy.”

  “You’re telling me,” I said. “I thought it was a missing persons thing, but until now the last thing on anyone’s mind seems to have been finding Sophie Kelly.”

  “I’m sure Tony told you it was never simply about finding Sophie. The promise of finding her is the only thing that gives us leverage with Tommy. In the meantime, we get on with the job of finding who he’s dealing with … or who’s trying to turn him over while he’s inside.”

  The lack of importance placed on Sophie’s whereabouts rankled me; as well as being Tommy’s motivation, it was my own. I wanted her back.

  “A visitor. How lovely,” Tommy Kelly said, chirpy. “Hello, stranger. What do I call you these days? Kieran?”

  I stood up and we shook hands, his grasp dry and warm as I had remembered, the visiting room at Belmarsh as stark and institutional as ever.

  “You look well,” I said. He did. He had a light tan and his hair had been recently cut.

  “I am,” he smiled. “I’ve been outside, doing a bit of gardening. Privileges for my immaculate behaviour.” He laughed. “Grown some tomatoes.”

  “You’ve had a haircut.”

  “One of the nonces used to work for Vidal Sassoon,” he said, brushing a palm across his hair. “Before he chopped up a fifteen-year-old rent boy.” He laughed again. “I wouldn’t buy a pie off him.” He appeared in good spirits. “So what’s new, old son?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Or not much I can tell you.”

  “I shouldn’t worry on that score,” he said. “I tend to keep abreast of current affairs.”

  “I brought you a present,” I said. I lifted a heavy art book: Contemporary Art, 2000–2015. It had already been heavily vetted by prison security and was found not to contain a file, gun or length of rope.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and a bit of painting myself. I’m big on Lucian Freud at the minute. I can knock out a fair copy. Maybe you can sell them to some Russians for me?” He smiled at his own joke. “I didn’t think much of him when he was alive, but in here I’ve had time to have a proper look. Fantastic flesh tones. He doesn’t do likenesses as such, but really gets at the soul of his sitters, like he’s looking under their skin.” I nodded my agreement. “Apart from the one he did of the Queen. Made her look like a blind cobbler’s thumb.”

  “I haven’t had much time for culture,” I said. “But this is a great book. I’ve been getting into Gerhard Richter a bit.”

  “Photo-derived stuff.” He curled his lip.

  “Yes, like surveillance photos, video-based work … there’s an interesting one on page 236.”

  He flicked through the book, stopping to look at things that held appeal until he arrived at the designated page. I leant over.

  “This is one of his New York pieces.”

  I pointed at the
picture on the page. It was the photo of Sophie in New York, which had been carefully Photoshopped and printed onto a false page, the typography and paper quality identical to the rest of the book.

  “Nice work,” he said.

  “Yes, it was part of a series taken in New York department stores, using surveillance cameras. Read the bumf, it’s interesting.”

  Tommy ran his finger over the small print buried within the art-speak: Miss S Kelly, Barneys Department Store, New York.

  It was dated a week before. Failed to mention the name of the second girl, who had been cropped from the picture.

  “You sure?” he said. He looked up at me, eyes locked on mine.

  “Sure as we can be,” I said. “It’s from a good source.”

  “Hair’s confusing,” he said. He looked closely at the photo. “But I think it’s right.”

  He used the language he would use to describe a real painting over a fake, and could not conceal a smile at the thought that his daughter was alive and apparently free in New York.

  “I think it’s right,” I said.

  “Good work,” Tommy said. “So what are you waiting for?”

  Sharpie’s objection to me going to New York was stronger than his objection to me visiting Tommy. Although he was my case officer, Anna seemed to have engineered my visit to Tommy and was encouraging the possibility of my going to the States. I couldn’t work out why she was apparently working against Sharp’s wishes. Did I detect the guiding hand of Tony Morris somewhere in the background? Whatever the case, Sharp was having none of it.

  “You’re diving in too quickly,” he said crossly. “You don’t know what sort of hot water you might be jumping into.”

  “It’s never stopped anyone throwing me in at the deep end before,” I protested.

  “Yes, well, I wasn’t your case officer then.”

  “You have been recently,” I said sniffily, “and I’ve been in some pretty deep water in the last week or so.”

  “New York is a different kettle of fish,” he said. “It’s a big place, we have few leads. I’m not sending you off on a blind Sophie-hunt.”