Dead Men (9 page)

‘Which is why your legend will be watertight.’

‘Like the proverbial duck’s arse?’

‘I’ll be watching your back, Spider.’

‘I know that, Charlie,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s never an issue.’ He ran his finger through his hair. ‘I’ve done some dirty jobs, but putting away the widow of a dead cop has to rank pretty much at the top of the list.’

‘If she’s doing it, she’s a serial killer. You can empathise with her, you can sympathise, but if she’s a killer we have to stop her.’

‘Even if she’s killing killers? Killing the scum that murdered her man? Would you kill to avenge your husband, Charlie?’

‘That’s not the sort of question you can ask a person, it really isn’t. I’m not a killer, Spider. I’ve never killed anyone.’

‘Well, I have. In combat and in the line of duty. And if someone ever killed someone close to me, I wouldn’t hesitate. I really wouldn’t.’

Button held up her hands. ‘I hear what you’re saying. But what you or I might or might not do is hypothetical. Here in the real world two men are dead and it’s our job to find out who killed them.’ She reached into her handbag and passed a packet of Marlboro across the table. ‘You’ll need to start smoking,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘She’s a smoker. Forty a day. In my experience, smokers tend to trust other smokers.’

‘That sounds like the voice of experience.’

Button nodded. ‘I started when I was a teenager. Only gave up a couple of years ago.’ She gestured at the packet. ‘That’s her brand. Should help you break the ice, if nothing else.’

Shepherd picked up the pack. ‘You’re serious?’

‘You’re not local, Spider. You’ll need all the help you can get to gain her confidence.’

‘And offering her a cigarette will get me in, will it?’

‘Trust me. It’ll help.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Elizabeth, looking up at the grey stone walls of Belfast Castle. ‘But I thought it would be more . . . castley.’

‘Castley?’ said Kinsella. ‘What do you mean?’ They were standing in the grounds by a fountain. Beyond the castle they could see the wooded slope of Cave Hill. The building’s window frames, guttering and downpipes had been painted pink. Two big men in dark suits, Kinsella’s police bodyguards, waited near the stairs that led down from the car park to the gardens.

‘More like a castle, you know,’ said Elizabeth. ‘With a moat, turrets and slits for archers.’

Kinsella laughed and hugged her. ‘It’s not a real castle,’ he said. ‘It’s more of a baronial mansion. It was built in eighteen seventy as part of the British occupation,’ he said. ‘It’s a clone of Balmoral, the Queen’s Scottish home.’

‘Where’s your romance?’ she said, putting her arms round his waist and kissing his cheek. ‘Have you seen the white cat yet?’

‘The what?’

‘The white cat. There’s a legend that the castle will only prosper so long as there’s a white cat living there.’

‘You’ve been reading those guidebooks again.’

‘I want to learn about your country’s history,’ she said. ‘If things work out the way we hope, I might be Ireland’s first lady one day.’

‘You’re an ambitious wee thing, aren’t you?’

‘We want the same thing, honey, and you know it.’ Elizabeth stiffened. ‘Noel, there are three men coming this way.’

Kinsella smiled as he recognised the man in the middle of the group. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. He’s Gerry Lynn, an old friend.’

Kinsella’s minders moved to intercept them but Kinsella told them it was okay, he knew who they were.

Gerry Lynn strode across the grass, his long coat flapping behind him. It had been more than a decade since Kinsella had seen him and he had put on weight. His hair was grey and thinning, but he had the same flint-hard eyes. ‘On the tourist trail, are you?’ he asked.

‘Elizabeth wanted to see the castle,’ said Kinsella. ‘Figured it’d be easier to meet here. My minders prefer me to stay in at night.’

The two men hugged. Kinsella frowned as something hard dug into his chest. He stepped back and patted Lynn above the heart. ‘What the hell’s that, Gerry?’

Lynn undid two of his shirt buttons to reveal a white bulletproof vest. ‘I’m not taking any chances, lad, and if I were you I’d do the same.’ He glanced at the two men shadowing Kinsella. They were in their early thirties, both a little overweight. Their jackets were unbuttoned and their eyes were constantly sweeping the area. ‘Bring them with you, did you, from across the water?’

‘Special Branch,’ said Kinsella. ‘RUC.’

Lynn chuckled. ‘The RUC’s long gone,’ he said. ‘It’s the Police Service of Northern Ireland now. And there’s no more Special Branch. It’s called the Intelligence Branch, which is an oxymoron if ever there was one.’

‘Leopards and spots comes to mind,’ said Kinsella.

‘Nah, they’re changing,’ said Lynn. ‘There’s more Catholics joining and they’re accountable now.’

‘Are you going to introduce me?’ asked Elizabeth. She smiled at Lynn. ‘You’ll have to forgive my husband,he doesn’t have much in the way of social graces.’

Lynn held out his hand. ‘Gerry Lynn. Pleased to meet you.’

They shook hands. ‘You’re wearing a bulletproof vest?’ asked Elizabeth.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Kinsella, hastily.

‘A bulletproof vest isn’t nothing,’ said his wife. ‘What’s going on, Noel?’

‘Nothing. It’s fine.’

‘You keep saying it’s nothing but he’s wearing a bulletproof vest and he says you should wear one, too.’

‘I was joking, love,’ said Lynn.

‘Please don’t “love” me, Mr Lynn,’ said Elizabeth, frostily. She turned to her husband. ‘We need to talk, honey.’

‘We will, baby,’ said Kinsella. ‘Let me have a chat with Gerry first.’

Elizabeth glared at him. He tried to kiss her but she moved away. ‘I’m serious, Noel,’ she said.

‘So am I, baby. You visit the antiques shop while Gerry and I have coffee and a chat.’

‘Noel . . .’

Kinsella kissed her on the cheek. ‘Baby, come on now, I have to talk to Gerry.’ Elizabeth looked as if she wanted to argue, but then she walked away from him. ‘Elizabeth!’Kinsella caught up with her and they went to the side of the castle where there was an entrance to the antiques shop and a tea-room.

‘Ten minutes,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Sure,’ said Kinsella.

Elizabeth picked up a framed watercolour of the castle as Kinsella and Lynn went through to the tea-room, their minders following.

Kinsella’s eyes were on the men who had arrived with Lynn. One was in his late forties, short and stocky with unkempt red hair, the other tall and lanky, in his late twenties. They were dressed casually in leather jackets, jeans and training shoes. ‘They’re not cops, are they?’

Lynn chuckled. ‘No.’

‘What’s with the vest, Gerry? Do you seriously think someone’s going to shoot you in broad daylight? Those days are gone.’

‘You think?’said Lynn. ‘You know yourself it doesn’t matter whether it’s day or night. Someone’s shooting and everyone gets their head down. We did as many shootings in the day as we did at night.’

‘Speak for yourself, Gerry. I was involved in just the one.’

‘Aye – and then you ran off to America with your tail between your legs.’ He put up his hands as anger flashed across Kinsella’s face. ‘I meant nothing by that, Noel.’

‘When they pulled in McEvoy I knew it was only a matter of time before they’d be knocking on my door,’ said Kinsella.

‘You were a Volunteer, Noel. You should have stood your ground. We were fighting a war and in a war there are casualties.’

‘There was no way I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail,’ said Kinsella.

‘Well, now, luckily it never came to that,’ said Lynn. ‘And look at you, guilty of murder but not a day behind bars. Who says fortune favours the brave?’ Kinsella’s face darkened and Lynn patted him on the back. ‘I’m only messing, Noel.’

They sat at a quiet table. Lynn despatched one of his bodyguards to get two coffees. ‘What did they tell you?’

‘Who?’

‘The cops. What did they tell you about Adrian and Joe?’

Kinsella’s minder was out of earshot at a table where he could keep an eye on the entrance. ‘Same as they told you, I suppose, that they were dead and that until they find out who’s responsible I should be protected.’

‘Did they tell you how they were killed?’

‘Shot.’

Lynn grinned triumphantly. ‘The lying bastards.’

‘They weren’t shot?’

‘They were shot, all right, but it’s the way they were shot that matters. They didn’t tell me, they haven’t told the media, and they’re treating you like a mushroom, too.’ He leant close to Kinsella. ‘They were shot in the knees, and in the back of the head. Does the significance of that hit home, now?’

‘Carter,’ said Kinsella.

‘Carter,’ repeated Lynn.

‘Why didn’t they tell me?’

‘They’re not saying. Scared of bad publicity, maybe. Or copycat killers. But I’ve got a source in the cops who says they were definitely shot in the head and knees.’

‘Shit,’ said Kinsella.

‘Yeah, shit,’ said Lynn. ‘If I were you, I’d lose your police minders and let the boys take care of you.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘You can’t trust the cops,’ said Lynn. ‘For all we know, it could be cops doing it.’

Kinsella shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, Gerry. It wouldn’t look good.’

The bodyguard returned with cappuccinos. He put the cups on the table and rejoined his colleague.

‘I’m going to be offered a role in the Assembly,’ said Kinsella. ‘That’s why I came back. They’ve got big things planned for me, Gerry. Big things.’

‘Because of your wife?’

‘It’s sod all to do with Elizabeth. It’s me they want. The Assembly’s the future, Gerry. It’s the way to a united Ireland.’

‘And that means turning your back on your old friends, does it?’

‘It means aligning myself with Sinn Fein rather than the IRA,’ said Kinsella.

‘Be careful who you turn your back on, Noel,’ said Lynn.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Kinsella.

Lynn stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just be careful, that’s all.’ He walked out of the coffee shop, flanked by his bodyguards.

Hassan Salih settled back in the buttery leather seat of the white Rolls-Royce and looked out over the waters of the Persian Gulf.

‘There are drinks in the cabinet in front of you, sir,’ said the driver.

‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Bangladesh, sir,’ said the driver. ‘You are here on business or holiday?’

‘Business,’ said Salih. He stared at the back of the driver’s head. Like most of the countries in the Middle East, at least those with oil, the locals brought in overseas workers to do the jobs they felt were beneath them.

‘You have stayed at the Burj Al Arab before, sir?’

‘I’m not staying, just visiting,’ said Salih, ‘but it will be my first visit. And this is my first time in a Rolls-Royce.’

‘All the hotel’s cars are Roll-Royces,’ said the driver, ‘and every suite has its own butler.’

‘Amazing,’ said Salih.

‘The Burj Al Arab is the only seven-star hotel in the world.’

‘I heard that,’ said Salih.

‘And it is the most beautiful,’ said the driver. ‘It was designed to represent the shape of a dhow.’

The hotel was ahead of them, a thousand-feet-high steel and glass structure on an island some three hundred metres offshore. It gleamed in the harsh sunlight, and to Salih it looked more like a curved blade than a ship. The Rolls turned to the right and headed over a causeway. Uniformed flunkeys were already waiting as it glided to a halt. Salih climbed out, and explained that he had no luggage and would be attending a meeting in one of the suites. A bellboy escorted him to the reception desk and handed him over to a blonde woman with Slavic cheekbones who took him up in the lift to the fifteenth floor, where she passed him on to a Bangladeshi butler. The man knocked discreetly and stood aside to let him in.

An Arab man in his early forties was sitting on a sprawling sofa. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and black patent-leather shoes that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea. The man did not get to his feet, merely indicated the second sofa. ‘Please sit,’ he said, in accented English. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ He stroked his greying moustache as he studied Salih.

‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. His own English was perfect. He had spent two years as a postgraduate student in California and was a frequent visitor to the United Kingdom. He had worked hard to lose his accent. The man dismissed the butler as Salih sat down. ‘You have my money?’ asked Salih.

‘Of course,’ said the man. A black leather attaché case stood beside the sofa. Salih picked it up and clicked open the two locks. Inside he found bundles of hundred-dollar bills. American dollars. The only kind worth having. ‘I do not as a rule fly to meet a man I do not know,’ said Salih.

‘The fact that I sent you a first-class ticket and ten thousand dollars, along with a promise of the hundred thousand you have there, persuaded you, I suppose,’ said the man.

Salih took out one of the bundles and riffled through it. Then he selected a note and held it up to the light.

‘Do not worry, they are genuine,’ said the man. ‘I would not have gone to all this trouble to give you counterfeit notes.’

Salih put the note back into the bundle and closed the briefcase. ‘We agreed that the hundred thousand dollars buys you one hour of my time,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’

‘I have need of your skills. A man and a woman. The man is American, the woman is British.’

‘And how did you hear of me?’

‘Your reputation is second to none.’

‘Really?’ said Salih. ‘The fact that you are a senior officer of the al-Shurta wouldn’t have had anything to do with you getting in touch with me?’