‘About three hundred years.’
She smiled. ‘Yeah, I know how that feels. Do you mind my asking what happened?’
‘Cancer. It was horrible.’
‘God, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. What about you?’
‘Danny was murdered.’
‘Oh, God. What happened?’
‘He was shot by the police. The RUC. One of the last people they murdered before they became the PSNI.’
Jimmy Marsh Mallow set down his own knife and fork and clasped his hands. ‘How exactly was he murdered?’
Tracey dabbed carefully at her lips with her napkin. ‘He never really supported the Ceasefire. He was all for keeping things going. There was a bank robbery in South Belfast to raise funds - except someone squealed on them and the police were waiting. Danny tried to surrender, but they shot him anyway.’
‘Was he carrying a gun?’
‘Yes, he was. But Danny wouldn’t have hurt anyone. Of course he shouldn’t have been there, but there was no need to kill him.’
Their main courses arrived then. They’d both ordered steaks. Jimmy ate because he was hungry, but what he really wanted to do was grab her and shake her and tell her to stop bloody fooling herself, that her husband wasn’t murdered, he was shot dead because he walked into a bank with a gun. And he deserved it.
Marsh finished first. He waited for Tracey to finish, then excused himself to go to the bathroom. Except instead he walked to the front desk, paid the bill, retrieved his coat, then slipped out into the darkness. He’d only had two glasses of wine, so he might have been okay to drive. But he wasn’t going to take the chance. Jimmy Marsh Mallow started walking.
64
Suicide Is Painless
Pink Harrison was in good humour, showing Billy around his house in Holywood, a small garrison town six miles out of Belfast. Pink didn’t need to tell him that this was one of the most expensive parts of the Province in which to buy property. But he did. He showed him the Jacuzzi, the gym, the walk-in dresser, the king-sized bed, his collection of wine, his immaculate lawn, the pond with koi carp, the cobbled driveway, ‘none of yer f***in’ gypsy s**t’, and his Ferrari. Pink smoked a cigar, and offered Billy one. Billy accepted readily.
Billy knew it was worth just over a million, as he’d seen the paperwork. He also knew it was held in Pink’s wife’s name. A lot of his business assets were. Thing was, nobody had ever seen Pink’s wife. He never talked about her and he had no photos of her on public display. Occasionally he alluded to the fact that she was on holiday, or was abroad. Anyone who knew Pink presumed that if she existed at all, it was a marriage of convenience, merely a device to protect what he had earned illegally from the assets recovery people and the taxman and the CID, and that she never would show her face in the home she owned. Twice a year, Pink took long holidays in the Philippines.
‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,’ Pink said, finally settling on a sun-lounger in the conservatory at the back of the house, patting the one beside him for Billy to sit on. Pink had on a white T-shirt, shorts and sandals. Billy wore his usual grey suit and tie. He looked and felt uncomfortable in the heat which, although cool outside, had built up steadily behind the glass. He pulled his shirt out at the neck slightly, but didn’t otherwise bother with the top button.
‘Is it safe to talk?’ Billy enquired immediately.
‘Safe as houses. I have it swept for bugs once a week.’
‘You ever find any?’
‘Oh yes, I have a cupboard full. They keep trying; I keep finding.’
‘How do they get in to do it? I mean, I can understand at the club, it’s public, but here?’
‘Postman, gardener, milkman - who knows. They just keep turning up. Fresh done this morning, so we’re fine for a couple of days.’
Billy knew the stories about Pink being paranoid, or mad, but he thought on the balance of probability, and knowing what he knew about Pink’s business activities, and even then only a fraction of it, that the chances were that he was regularly bugged by Jimmy Marsh Mallow. Besides, Marsh Mallow had told him so.
‘Tell me about your drive with oul’ Jimmy.’
‘Nothing much to tell. He asked me all about you, I didn’t say much.’
‘But you let it slip about Office Twelve.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘You were right. He wanted to know all about it, and he came on quite heavy, but I couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know.’
‘Very good, very good indeed.’
‘He’s a bully. And self-important.’
‘And pride comes before a fall!’ Pink clapped his hands together, then rubbed them fast enough to cause a spark, if they’d been made of stone or wood.
‘Have you ever actually met him?’ Billy asked.
‘Well, no. Why do you ask?’
‘I just thought - you seem to dislike each other so much.’
‘I don’t dislike him, Billy. I respect him, as an adversary. It’s like we’re playing chess, you know? Or Draughts. Or Monopoly! Go direct to jail!’ He laughed, but just for a moment. ‘You know, a few years ago, we were on the same side.’
‘He was a criminal?’
‘Please don’t make jokes, Billy. The road to hell is paved with dead accountants who make jokes, you understand me?’
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean—’
Pink held up a hand to stop him. ‘And don’t apologise, it’s a sign of weakness.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry. I mean …’
Pink took another long suck on his cigar. With the heat of the conservatory, and the pungent smoke having nowhere to go but into Billy’s lungs, he was beginning to feel ill. But it wasn’t just the atmosphere. It was Pink’s whole demeanour. In the club he’d been one of the lads, but separate as well. Here he spoke like the Lord of the Manor, yet not quite. He seemed always to fall short of the desired effect, and that led to uncertainty and awkwardness in those he dealt with. Perhaps that was what he was aiming for.
‘Oh yes, me and Jimmy Marsh. We were both defending our country against the rebels. And our methods weren’t greatly different. He always understood that men could be broken, that they didn’t have the same conviction as they do in, you know, Iraq or Palestine or somewhere.’
‘I’m not sure I—’
‘Suicide bombers, that’s what I’m talking about. We never had that here, did we? We all believed so passionately, it was all No Surrender! And Not Another Inch! But we never had suicide bombers, did we? Jimmy knew that; knew there was always a point where we’d back down or cave in.’
‘The hunger strikers?’
‘Aw, fuck them. Miss a few meals and then you black out so it stops being your choice and becomes someone else’s - that’s not brave, that’s just stupid. Brave’s walking into a restaurant with a bomb strapped to your belly and blowing yourself and everyone else to hell. But we never had that. So Jimmy knew all he had to find was the breaking-point, and he did - that’s why he scared the shit out of everyone. But now …’ Pink sighed. ‘It’s just not the same. The cops, sure the half of them are Fenians these days anyway. They think the war’s over, and even when they do find someone, their hands are tied. Jimmy Marsh Mallow, in his day, his pomp, he knew where the bodies were hid, and if he didn’t have enough to arrest you, he wasn’t shy about tipping off this side or that and you ended up with a bullet in the neck - you know what I mean?’
Billy nodded.
‘Yeah, oul’ Jimmy’s the last of a dying breed. Surprised they haven’t put him out to seed already. Sometimes I think he’s hanging on just so as he can put me away, you know what I mean?’
‘You’ll never let him do that.’
‘With your help, Billy, with your help. Now, what have you got for me?’
‘Just a few things I need you to initial. Everything’s in order - I don’t foresee any problems.’ Billy extracted a folder from his briefcase, opened it at the corre
ct section and passed it across. ‘I’ve x’d where you need to sign.’
Pink quickly scribbled his name, then flipped the cover back over and smiled benevolently at Billy. ‘You’re doing a good job, son.’
‘Thanks, Mr Harrison.’
‘Anything I can do for you? You need another TV?’
‘No, thanks. With that cop watching me, it’s better not.’
‘The money’s still going into the account?’
‘Yes, Mr Harrison, regular as clockwork.’
‘Sometimes if I don’t actually hand it over in a paper bag, I don’t feel like you’re getting it.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ As Pink went to hand the file back to Billy his eyes fell on the words scrawled upside down close to the bottom corner of the front cover. He turned it round. ‘What’s this?’
Billy squinted at it. ‘Oh, nothing. Your man Mallow had a call, needed to write an address down. I think it’s that wee lad’s family - you know, the one who had his head cut off?’
Pink nodded. ‘Right. Sad.’
He handed the file back, then stubbed his cigar out on the tiled floor of his conservatory. He stood up and yanked the door open. ‘All right, mate, keep me posted.’ His dismissal was abrupt, but not unusual. Billy pushed the file into his briefcase, and jumped to his feet, already drinking in the cool air as it rushed into the hot-house. As he stepped into the opening, Pink suddenly spoke his name. Billy stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’
Billy forced a smile, then hurried up the lawn towards the house, certain that Pink was watching him every step of the way, but too nervous to glance back and check.
65
On the Run!
It wasn’t as if you could look up FARC in the telephone directory. If it had been Belfast, then clearly he would have known where to go, who to phone, the safe houses, the right codewords, but this was Bogotá, Colombia, as wild as any city on earth.
Redmond O’Boyle hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t even sure that he wanted to deliver himself back into FARC’s hands, because he knew what he would do in their position. Use him. Parade him like the Elephant Man. And he couldn’t face that. Sure, they’d got him out of the prison, but they hadn’t foreseen that the British Embassy would claim his body, nor had they been able to do anything about his being shipped to the local crematorium. They probably weren’t even aware of it, yet. Redmond was, because of the cremation instructions taped to the side of his coffin, personally signed by Ambassador Brown. He was now alive and free because of his own training, his own finely honed survival instincts - and because the coffin they’d transported him in wasn’t much stronger than cardboard. Sensibly, the undertakers had reasoned, if they were going to burn the coffin, what was the point in making it out of valuable wood? That, or the Brits were real cheapskates. Whatever, it had saved Redmond’s life.
Borrowing some clothes hadn’t been a problem. He was now wearing a very fine suit, although it was slightly large and smelled of death. Purloining a few dollars from the crematorium staff while they ate lunch was easy enough, and sneaking out was straightforward; although security in all buildings in Colombia was pretty tight, it was designed to keep people out, rather than in. Even sauntering down the street towards the city centre wasn’t difficult. He had tanned up during his time in South America, and with that and the ill-fitting suit and fading light, passed quite easily for a local businessman, and thus avoided the traditional greeting for footloose foreigners of being kidnapped and held for ransom. But the fact was, he was quite alone. He could turn to Siobhan, that was true. But what use had she been? With Sinn Fein’s shift to ‘democracy’ she would as likely rat him out as anyone. No, the only person he could turn to, the only person who he might conceivably have any leverage over was that pompous oaf Ambassador Brown.
‘Who do you think you are, calling me a pompous oaf?’ was the Ambassador’s initial reaction.
‘I’ll tell you who I f***ing am, Ambassador. I’m the man you sent to be cremated without checking whether he was f***ing alive or not! I’m the man you would have burned to a crisp if I hadn’t had the f***ing wherewithal to get out of a f***ing coffin. Do you hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ the Ambassador said down the line, already sweated through his shirt.
‘And what’s more, you fat p**ck, unless you help me out, it’s you who’ll be wishing you were in a f***ing coffin, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’
Redmond told him what to bring, and where to meet him. The Ambassador said it would take him several hours to organise. Redmond told him he had sixty minutes, or he was calling Reuters.
This sent Ambassador Brown into a blind panic. There were contingency plans for these kinds of situations. British citizens abroad were always getting into trouble of some kind which required their being spirited out of the country, so there would not ordinarily have been a problem with issuing a new passport, but this was different. If he was simply to hand over the passport Redmond was demanding, and the fugitive then got caught, it would be immediately traced back to him, and his mishandling of the cremation would be exposed, together with this cover-up. No, a British passport would certainly not do. There was also a fund he could draw upon to deliver the cash Redmond was demanding, but everything had to be signed for in triplicate and justified further down the line. How much worse would it look if Redmond’s flight had actually been financed by the British Government?
One and a half hours later, Ambassador Brown hurried into the smoky interior of O’Houlihan’s Irish Pub, and found Redmond sitting in a window seat sipping a pint of Guinness.
‘You’re late,’ Redmond snapped.
‘Sorry,’ Martin Brown gasped, wiping a handkerchief across his brow. ‘It just took a little time.’ He glanced nervously about him. ‘You’re sure this is a good idea?’
‘You never heard of hiding in plain sight, Ambassador?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Besides, it might say Irish over the door, and this might well be Guinness, but the barman’s French and every other customer’s gibbering in Spanish, so relax. Did you bring?’
Ambassador Brown pulled out a chair and sat heavily. ‘I brought.’ He took a Manila envelope from his jacket pocket and slipped it under the table for Redmond to take.
Redmond shook his head. ‘This isn’t f***ing Graham Greene, Ambassador. Just f***ing give it to me.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’ He handed it across the table.
Redmond glanced up at the bar. ‘You want a drink?’
‘No, really, I’m fine,’ the Ambassador responded, although he could barely swallow. ‘Must be going. Everything all right?’
Redmond appeared satisfied by the large wedge of dollar bills Ambassador Brown had withdrawn from his own personal bank account twenty minutes previously. Then he removed the passport with its mauve EC cover and flicked it open. The Ambassador held his breath. Redmond’s brow furrowed.
‘What the f**k’s this?’
‘It’s the best I could do at such short notice.’
‘I’m not f***ing Swedish.’
‘Yes, you are. You were brought up in Ireland, but you’re a Swedish national. We have a reciprocal agreement to get each other out of trouble.’
Redmond examined the photograph, which was his, clearly drawn from his old passport, but then his lip curled as he tried to pronounce his new name. ‘V … Viggo Mortensen?’
‘Viggo Mortensen,’ agreed the Ambassador.
‘Why does that sound familiar?’
‘I’m given to understand it’s a very common name in Sweden.’
Redmond looked at it doubtfully. ‘This wasn’t what I asked for.’
The Ambassador nodded. ‘I know that. But you have to realise - I can’t just give you a fresh British passport. I’m helping you on the understanding that you disappear without trace. If by chance you are discovered, it can’t be traced back to us. To me, in fact.’
‘I had no reason to doubt—’
‘I could have been burned alive!’
‘I realise that. Most regrettable. But your wife was most insistent.’
‘Maeve? You spoke to her?’
‘Yes, of course, I was merely following her precise instructions.’
‘How was she?’
‘Well, upset obviously, I think, but hiding it well, bravely. She said she was under tremendous pressure to have you flown home and there was rioting going on and she didn’t want a martyr made of you.’
‘Rioting?’
‘Oh yes, I believe they’re tearing Belfast up.’
‘So they’re getting behind me at last.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m given to understand that last time they had a riot it was because Celtic lost a football match, and that lasted longer. Redmond, please, your wife was right. They wanted to use you, as a symbol, but they were quite happy to leave you here to rot. Which in fact, you did. It’s what killed you. But you’re free now, you have money, and you’re Swedish. You can start again. A completely new life. If only we all had that chance, eh?’
Redmond turned the passport over in his hand. He hated to admit it, but the Ambassador was right. It wasn’t just the British who had tried to cremate him, it was his wife as well, and, ultimately, the entire Republican movement. He had no family now, no cause but his own. And if that meant being Swedish, by God, then he would be Swedish. He raised his glass and tilted it across the table. ‘All right, Ambassador,’ he said. ‘We have a deal.’ He even gave him a wink.
Ambassador Brown breathed an audible sigh of relief. Excellent! He had at least bought himself some time. The Swedish Embassy had only lent him the passport. It was due to be collected the following day by Viggo Mortensen, the visiting star of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, who held dual American and Swedish citizenship, and who had lost his original passport while whitewater rafting. Now the Ambassador had twenty-four hours to find and recruit an assassin who could remove the problem of Redmond O’Boyle for good, rescue the passport and retrieve his retirement fund. How difficult could that be? It was Bogotá, for godsake. Probably the first person he stopped in the street would do it.
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