by Peter Cocks
Her phone rang, vibrating on the glass coffee table. She waved the gun at us and reached down for the phone with her other hand.
“Yes? Hi, Mum,” she said. She seemed cool – maybe the coke had placed her in a different version of the reality that Donnie Mulvaney and I were sitting in.
But her calm seemed to dissolve as she listened to Cheryl. “Where? … Why? Of course I didn’t.” Her voice raised in pitch. “No…” She looked at me. “No, I’m alone… OK, OK.”
She finished the call, the gun lowered by her side.
“Alexei’s gone mad,” she said. “He thinks I had something to do with Petrina being taken. Did you?”
“No,” I said.
“No?” Donnie looked confused.
“He thinks Dad’s behind it. He’s sending someone round to pick me up.”
“That levels the playing field a little,” I said. “If we don’t shoot each other, then pretty soon someone else is going to do the job for us. Like it or not, we’re in this together.”
“What do you mean?” Sophie shouted.
“If an angry Russian turns up and finds you here with me and Donnie, it’s not going to look very good for you, or any of us. To all intents, I’m working for your dad, looking for you. Bashmakov’s seen me and he’ll soon find out what Donnie’s job is … it would all add up to a bit of a Kelly conspiracy.”
“We need to go,” Donnie said.
“Fast,” I added.
We made an unlikely group. A smartly dressed, preppy nineteen-year-old with a bruised face and his pretty, wired girlfriend, plus a sweating hulk – their minder? At least we were trying to get out of the country, because sure as hell, they wouldn’t have let us in.
I texted Anna again and cc-ed Tony: belt and braces. Surely Sharp’s death would bring him back into the fold?
I’m bringing them in. SK & DM. BA JFK>GTW asap. Any help gratefully rec’d. ES
I checked in at the British Airways desk. The earlier flight was only half full. I changed my ticket and bought extras for Donnie and Sophie. I looked around, paranoid that every luggage attendant, every other traveller was a potential assassin.
“Donnie, we need to use the restroom before we go through security,” I said.
“I’m all right,” he said. I patted my pocket and he twigged. I made sure Sophie stayed close, told her to lock herself into the ladies’ and ditch any blow she might have while Donnie and I sorted ourselves out.
We crammed into a cubicle together and I told Donnie to give me his gun. He took it out of his waistband, looked at it longingly for a moment as if he was losing a friend, and handed it over. I lifted the top off the cistern and dropped both pistols into the water.
“We need to come to some kind of truce, Donnie,” I said. “We’ve done the job and got Sophie, but we’re going to have to work together.”
“I’m meant to kill you,” Donnie said matter-of-factly.
“I just bought you an airline ticket home, you ungrateful git,” I said. “We have a couple of choices. We can fly back and, once we’re through immigration, we’ll walk in opposite directions and not look back. Or I can speak to my people and get you away and set you up with a false identity – but you know there’ll be a pay-off. Conditions … information.”
“Who gets Sophie?”
“I do,” I said firmly.
“No, you don’t, kid,” he said. “She’s the only leverage I’ve got.”
“She’s the only leverage for me, too. I can’t let you take her.”
“So what do we do?”
“What is it you most want, Donnie?”
“I want out, I’m tired of this. I want a fucking pension. You?”
“I’d like you to stop trying to kill me, for starters.”
“It’s not personal, mate. It’s just business.”
“So if I could get you out, you’d be off my back?”
“Like I said, it’s a job.”
Another scenario started to form in my mind, one that might work for both of us. I held out my hand and he shook it in his bear-like paw, crunching my knuckles as he did so, and for a moment I forgot I was shaking hands with my brother’s murderer.
“We need to go,” I said. We left the cubicle and went back onto the concourse to wait for Sophie.
Donnie’s eyes darted around the airport. He looked edgy as the echoing calls for our flight reverberated around the hall.
“I need your help,” he said finally.
Sophie emerged from the ladies and walked across to us, smiling at me.
“What?” I asked. Donnie leant in to me.
“I’m terrified of flying,” he said.
Belmarsh was as grim as ever – dull red brick against a grey south London sky – but after New York the scale looked more human, the route familiar.
After the usual procedure, I was taken into the interview room and I sat down at a table. A few minutes later, Tommy Kelly was brought in through another door. He looked wary, uncharacteristically nervous. He shook hands nonetheless and sat down opposite me.
“You OK?” he asked.
“I’ve had a bit of a bumpy ride,” I said. “But I’m still alive.”
“So I see.”
“You surprised?”
He shrugged. “Nothing surprises me any more, especially about you. I’ve had a bit of a rough time myself. So what’s new?”
“I’ve found Sophie,” I said. He perked up.
“Is she OK? Where is she?”
“She’s fine,” I said. “She picked up a few bad habits on her travels, but nothing too serious. She’s somewhere safe.”
“In the country?”
“In London.”
“With Cheryl?”
“No, Cheryl’s in New York.”
“New York? What the fuck is she doing there?”
“They were both there courtesy of Mr Bashmakov.”
Tommy’s face knitted in anger and he muttered a few choice expletives.
“I got Sophie away.”
“Is he holding Cheryl hostage?” Tommy looked concerned.
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m not sure what the deal is, but she seems to be at liberty. Out for dinner with him and stuff; friendly.”
“How friendly?”
I paused. “She appears to be with him,” I said.
Tommy’s face looked as if he’d been slapped. Hard.
“With him? What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, but I saw them together a couple of times. I had a drink with them and it was all pretty cosy. Sophie was flat-sharing with his daughter.”
Tommy shook his head, uttered a few more curses under his breath.
“Someone abducted his daughter a couple of days ago,” I said.
“Hope they cut her throat and send him the pictures,” he smiled grimly.
“I think Sophie would have been next,” I added, and the smile vanished.
“Who?”
“The Irish lot, I suspect.”
He shook his head again. “There’s going to be a major effing war when I get out of here. No prisoners.”
“When,” I said. “But I think you’ll have a hard job working out whose side anyone’s on.”
“All I know is, they’re all trying to destroy me. I’ll wipe out the lot of them.”
I began to feel, like some of the others, that perhaps Tommy had finally lost his grip. His threat suddenly sounded empty from inside a high-security prison.
“What about Soph?” he asked. “When do I get to see her?”
“That depends. I have her in a safe house. Donnie was with me when I found her.”
“Mulvaney?”
“Yes, Donnie brought her back with me. I needed protection.”
“Donnie brought her back with you?”
He looked at me, mystified. I tried to stop myself grinning.
“So, here’s the deal. My lot can spirit Sophie away, give her a new identity and a new life and you’re unlikely to se
e her, or me, again…”
“Or?”
“Or you take the price off my head, get Donnie off my back and put him out to pasture with a pay-off. He’s a spent force.”
“How much?”
“100 k.”
He nodded. “And Sophie’s at liberty?”
“I have to square things with my firm, but she’s committed no crime. I’ll keep an eye on her, of course.”
“Can I trust you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? I found Sophie like you asked. Do you have a choice?”
He held out his hand across the table.
“Done,” he said. “You’re a right slippery little snake, Eddie Savage, but I can’t help but admire you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I pressed the buzzer on the desk. Seconds later a screw opened the door and Sophie walked in.
“Hello, Dad,” she said.
“Hello, baby.” He stood up. She walked across and hugged him tight and Tommy Kelly burst into tears.
“Here comes trouble,” Tony said.
He looked as pleased as punch sitting back behind his desk. He was back in the Vauxhall office with Anna, who gave me a smile as I came through the door.
“Good to see you back, Tony,” I said.
“I never went away, really, mate.” He chuckled. “Sure, I got a disciplinary, but the shit don’t stick to Teflon Tony. My stepping aside was a good move because it allowed Sharpie his head.”
“Look where that got him,” I commented.
Tony nodded sagely. “Out of his depth. I gave him enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.”
“Who got to him?” I asked.
Anna looked at Tony. “He did it himself,” she said.
“Right,” I said. “Bollocks.”
“That’s the party line,” Anna said. “We’re not going to argue with it or open any other line of enquiry.” She handed me a newspaper.
I scanned the headline, a photo of Sharpie and the opening paragraph – the usual stuff: British intelligence agent found hanged … spy Simon Sharp found dead in New York Hotel … Russian-speaker, linguistic genius… I handed the paper back.
Didn’t believe a word of it.
I went to the pub for lunch with Tony.
I felt deflated now I was back. At least I’d done what I’d promised myself, and found Sophie Kelly. I’d done what Tommy Kelly had asked, even though our reunion hadn’t been quite as romantic as maybe I’d have liked. I wondered if I’d have much more to do with her now. Things had changed.
Tony ordered us pints of London Pride and pie and mash. He sensed my disappointment. There was always a natural slump after the adrenaline of any mission. He did his best to fluff me up.
“You done good, mate.” He took a gulp of beer and wiped froth from his lips. You drew the Irish out and you handled Sharpie well.”
As far as I could remember I’d been manipulated into both situations by Tony, who’d then left me to sink or swim.
“You never wrote, you never phoned…” I said in mock Jewish mother tones. Really, I meant it. Tony looked me squarely in the eye.
“I was in a tight spot, juggling some dangerous intel. I had to keep on the down low, mate. Contact with you might just have exposed a chink in the armour.”
“Your armour?”
Tony rolled his shoulders huffily.
“You might recall that I pulled out all the stops when you were up shit creek with the Irish? I had to call in some big favours there.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Tony.” I’d got out alive, I guess.
The things that Paul Dolan had told me about Tony stuck in my mind. Of course, he might have been making them up, but I knew enough about Tony’s manoeuvres for them to have a ring of truth about them.
“Did you kill Sharpie?” I asked bluntly.
He looked surprised. “I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Did you order his killing, then? Did Dolan kill him for you?”
Tony shrugged, face inscrutable.
“Suicide,” he said. “He got himself in a pickle. Sharpie was a double agent. Could have been Bashmakov, couldn’t it?”
“Bashmakov liked him,” I said.
“So did I, until he turned me over,” Tony said. “Remember the car crash, the blow-out? I had a dig around. That was no accident. I knew it wasn’t. Sharpie had been seen sniffing about by one of the car-pool boys. The car was rigged. Sharpie wanted you and me out of the way. He even leaked snippets about you back to Tommy Kelly’s boys. It would have been very useful for him if they’d got to you. The Russian who tried to do you in the hotel?”
“That was Sharp too? You sure?”
“Almost a hundred per cent,” Tony said. “He was a busy boy. Dobbed me in over the Paul Dolan release when I was on the right track letting Dolan go. Napier took a view.”
“Dolan did me a favour in New York,” I said.
“Sure.” Tony nodded. “He gave you a good steer, although you can never be completely sure with Paul. He’s his own man, but he owes me a big one. Meanwhile, you turning up when Sharpie was meeting Bashmakov and Mrs Kelly rattled their bars so much they didn’t suspect anything about Dolan. They were reassured by his presence: it was Sharp who suddenly looked like the rat in the kitchen.”
“So did you order his killing?” I asked again.
“Makes no difference whether we did or the Russian did or he topped himself. He was going to get it one way or another.”
“What about a simple kid in Northern Ireland, Christie something? Beaten to death.”
Tony looked up from his pie, which had just arrived at the table.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, kid. Like I told you, there are plenty of grey areas in this business, and everyone has their version of the truth.”
He looked at me, impassive, and I knew deep down that Tony was capable of doing all the things I’d heard about.
I watched him tuck into his pie and mash as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
My temporary safe house was Sharpie’s flat in Pimlico.
It was comfortable and smart, with nondescript art on the walls. Any trace of Simon Sharp had been forensically cleared as if he’d never existed. And in some ways, he hadn’t. Once a spy has gone, especially a double agent, all records are swept away and hidden somewhere dark in a vault in Beaconsfield. All that was indelible about Simon Sharp, aka Peter Pasternak, was the image of his bizarre death scarred on my mind. I would have to move somewhere else. Soon.
I turned on the lights. The flat was quiet. The bedroom door was open a chink; I went to look in. A little daylight poked through the gap in the curtains.
“You OK?” I asked.
“Still a bit jet-lagged,” Sophie answered wearily. “I wondered when you were coming back.”
“I’m here now,” I said.
“Thanks for bringing me home, Eddie,” she said.
“Wherever home is,” I commented.
“Here will do for the moment.” She turned back the duvet a quarter.
In the half light I saw the girl I remembered, warm and soft from sleep.
I padded across the carpet and climbed into bed.
Donnie locked up the flat in Brockley.
It was damp and smelled of mildew and loneliness.
He hadn’t taken much in his bag; he was used to being light on his toes. He felt a new sense of freedom as he drove through Deptford, up and over Blackheath and out onto the A2, leaving the sprawl of south London behind him.
Driving the old Beemer at a steady 80 mph, he arrived in Dover an hour or so later. The Channel opened up in front of him, greeny-blue, and the sun shone on the four or five ferries that manoeuvred around the harbour like toys in a bath.
At the bottom of the hill, white cliffs behind him, he drove into the ferry terminal and waited in a queue.
He checked his phone. Dave, missed call. Dave, text.
Call me. D.
Donnie ignored them, but a few minutes later, Da
ve rang again. Donnie thought he’d answer this time. He was nearly away. He walked over to the quayside, where gulls squealed over the call.
“Wayne Drops,” Donnie answered.
“Don? Dave.”
“Dave?”
“What’s going on, Don? Where are you? Southend?”
“I’m taking a break, Dave.”
“A break from what, Don?”
“I done the job.”
“You didn’t finish it, did you?”
“I done a deal.”
“Not with me, you didn’t. When the guvnor’s inside and gone soft, the only person you do a deal with is me.” Dave’s voice hardened.
“Whatever,” Donnie said, confident of the wads of banknotes he had with him. “But I ain’t going to kill him, Dave.”
“I don’t like your tone, Don, after all the stuff I did for you.”
“You got me in the shit in the first place, mate. I’m not taking orders no more. I’ve had it.”
“Listen, Don, you disobey orders and I’ll shoot Eddie Savage my bleeding self, or find someone who will cut his throat for a monkey … and yours, an’ all. And you, mate, will be personal non gratis.”
“Sorry, Dave. Don’t speak French. Ta-ta.”
Donnie dropped his mobile phone in the Channel and drove the BMW onto the ferry bound for Calais.
“We found him face down in the mud at Long Reach. Near the Dartford bridge. Looks like he might have jumped off.”
Eddie Savage makes two shocking discoveries in quick succession.
One: his brother, Steve, has been working undercover. Two: Steve is dead.
Eddie refuses to believe that his hero elder brother killed himself, and there’s only one way to find out the truth: follow in his footsteps.
A gritty, glamorous thriller with a heart-stopping, brutal conclusion.
“Well, Eddie, I’m glad to see you looking so well,” Napier said. “For a dead man.”
Eddie Savage is back.
While his physical scars are fading, the emotional scars are taking longer to heal.
Eddie heads for Spain on the promise of sun, sea and beautiful women – but is drawn, irrevocably, back into the criminal underworld. It appears that greater forces are at work.