Fear of the Fathers (41 page)

“I was not competing with anyone,” Jennings growled. “I've told you a million fucking times – WE…ARE…JUST… FRIENDS!”

“Perhaps it's for the best though,” Grady continued, ignoring Jennings' protestations. “I mean, at least now you can put it to the back of your mind. Your chance has gone so you can get on with your life. No regrets, hey.”

Jennings shook his head in mild frustration. “Don't I get a coffee as well?” he said, changing the subject.

“Sure,” said Grady. He made a quick trip inside and returned with a full cup which Jennings took gratefully.

“What are you going to do when you get back to the States?”

“I've got some film work coming up, as a consultant. Grant arranged it for me. Then we're thinking of writing a thriller together, you know – spying and stuff, the usual Hollywood fare.”

“You're definitely staying in retirement then?” said Jennings. “This little incident hasn't persuaded you to come back to the fold?”

“Nothing will ever persuade me to do that,” said Grady. “I've got a nice little life going for me out there. I've got Brooke to think about now, as well as the baby when it arrives. This was a strictly one-off affair for a friend in need.”

“You're almost sounding boring,” said Jennings.

“Maybe, but at this particular juncture in my life I'd rather be boring than dead. It's surprising what the love of a good woman can do for you.”

“I wouldn't know,” Jennings grunted.

“You will one day my friend. It'll hit you like a thunderbolt and you'll wonder what the hell you've been doing with your life. All this will seem irrelevant.”

“I'll take your word for it. Meanwhile, I've got more pressing matters to attend to, like not dying or spending the rest of my life at Her Majesty's pleasure.”

“Stop worrying so much,” said Grady. “This time tomorrow you'll be safely out of the country. Probably on board some luxury yacht if this Cronin's as well-connected as he makes out.”

“A luxury yacht? I doubt it. It's probably some knackered old trawler with a one-legged, rum-swilling captain and a crew full of circus freaks and convicts. We'll be put to work gutting fish and swabbing the decks.”

“Well, at least you'll be free. Just remember though, ‘hello sailor' doesn't mean they've accepted you as a deck-hand.”

Stratton clutched his abdomen and winced as another sharp spasm scythed through. The waves of pain, though still intermittent, were gradually growing in frequency. What had been one or two a day had become one every couple of hours. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly expelling the pain with stale air. He straightened himself up and continued to keep watch out of the window.

“Are you okay?” asked Oggi, looking up from his newspaper.

“Yeah, I'm fine mate. Just a little twinge, that's all.”

“You keep saying that. There seem to be an awful lot of little twinges.”

“Maybe,” said Stratton. “But that's all they are. I'm fine now. I'll do a little dance for you if you like. Anything to set your mind at rest.”

“No, that won't be necessary,” said Oggi. “Although it might be amusing. Any movement from Alonso and his sidekick yet?”

“Nothing at all. Apart from the occasional trip to the toilet or to get some food and coffee. They haven't come near the hotel.”

“Yeah. Strange that,” said Oggi.

“It is a bit,” Stratton agreed. “But they're probably just being careful. I guess they don't want to play their hand too soon, or give us a chance of slipping away. They've obviously got no idea we're watching them.”

“Are you sure it's just the two of them?” said Oggi.

“I can't be sure, but I haven't seen anyone else…Wait a second…”

“What is it?”

“Alonso's buddy is getting out of the car. He's heading towards the hotel.”

Oggi sprang to his feet and joined Stratton at the window. “What shall we do?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Stratton. “The girl on reception this morning hasn't seen either of us, he's not going to get anything out of her. We've just got to sit tight and wait for Tags to collect us later tonight. He'll deal with Alonso.”

Stella laced up the shiny combat boots and took a few tentative steps. With Cronin watching her eagerly from his seat she felt like a child parading her new school shoes.

“Are they comfy?” he asked.

“No they're bloody well not,” she said, stamping and squirming her feet. “They feel like bricks.”

“They'll be fine once you've worn them in. Best boots in the world those.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

“You'll be thankful for them when you're treading the jungle trails, it's no place for a light kitten heel.”

Stella gave him a sarcastic smile and sat down and removed the bricks. “What about some lunch?” she suggested. “I fancy some good old pub grub and a couple of drinks. I don't know when I'll be back here again.”

“Sounds good,” said Cronin.

They lunched down the road at the Woolly Mammoth, a traditional style free house owned by a retired policeman and his wife. Stella was good friends with the couple and ate there about once a fortnight. The food was cheap and plentiful and the beer was the best for miles, and had in fact won tremendous acclaim from CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale). After ordering two plates of sausage and mash with onion gravy they sat down next to the window and relaxed with a pint each.

“You're just one of the boys really, aren't you?” said Cronin.

“I wouldn't say that,” she replied. “But today I just fancied something really English, if you know what I mean?”

“Of course. We all like our little tastes of home.”

“I suppose you don't have anything homely over in the Vatican City,” she said.

“No, we don't. But I've been travelling the world for so long now that I don't really think about it. I'm not really sure where my home is anymore.”

“It's where the heart is, isn't it?”

“So they say.”

“So where's yours then?” she asked. “Don't you have somewhere or someone special.”

Cronin quaffed his beer thoughtfully. “I suppose Belfast is still special to me, but I haven't been back in so long it's becoming a faded memory. And as for someone special – I was married once, but it didn't work out.”

“What happened?” asked Stella.

“Oh, you know, it was the age-old problem of separate lives. I was always away with my unit and she couldn't handle the loneliness. She ended up running off with some insurance salesman. I can't say I blame her, even when I was home I was pretty distant. The job makes you like that.”

“And there's been no-one else?”

“Not since then, no.”

“What about when you were younger back in Belfast? Was there no childhood sweetheart?”

Cronin smiled. “I suppose there was. A girl called Jackie McGinty. She was the most beautiful girl you could possibly imagine. She had long flowing blonde hair and skin like a porcelain doll. Her eyes were wide and blue and could melt you with the briefest of stares, and when she laughed it was like a choir of angels. She was every schoolboy's dream.”

“And you went out with her?”

“Of course not,” laughed Cronin. “I could only admire her from afar like every other spotty outcast. She was way out of my league at the time, but it didn't matter, just to look at her brought a smile to my face, and a skip and a jump to my heart.”

The food arrived and they began to eat.

“What about you then Stella?” said Cronin. “Where's your home?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, where's your heart?”

Stella looked up from her food, for a moment unsure of the question. “You know where it is,” she said eventually.

“Do I?” said Cronin. “When I first met you it was with Stratton, but now I'm not so sure.”

“What do you mean? Of course it's with Stratton. It has been for over ten years. Even when we were apart it was always him. Or didn't you notice how distraught I was at his death?”

“Of course I noticed. But how do you feel now he's alive?”

“Happy, I guess. I haven't really had a chance to think about it. Everything's been such a shock that I don't know what, or even
how
to feel. I'm still trying to assimilate it all.”

Cronin finished a mouthful of mash. “That's fair enough,” he said. “It must be difficult. I can't really imagine what you're going through. It's just that you seem to be torn.”

“Torn?” she said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It's only an observation,” apologized Cronin. “Forget I mentioned it.” He dabbed his fork above his plate. “This food is great isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is,” said Stella, giving a brief frown. She continued eating in silence.

It was a busy afternoon in Trafalgar Square. The sudden change in the weather had brought out a host of frustrated tourists, champing at the bit to get on an open-topped bus or have their portraits done. As the crowds meandered around the fountain, Digger looked on from the sidelines and watched in admiration as a crafty pickpocket plied his trade. The slight bump followed by the swift and casual dip was executed with nonchalant perfection. He didn't entirely agree with the morality, but there was no denying the satisfaction of watching a master at work. Back in the day he had been a bit of a ‘dodger' himself, so he knew exactly what to look for.

He checked his watch and started to get edgy. The girl had rung him at twelve and arranged to meet at one o'clock. It was now getting on for half past. He'd already spent the five hundred pounds she'd given him on gathering information. If she didn't turn up then his landlord was likely to be paying him a none-too-friendly visit, resulting in a change of address to No.1 Cardboard Alley.

At quarter to two, just as he was about to give up on the whole thing, she finally arrived. She was wearing the same clothes as she had done on Saturday night. She made no apology or explanation for her tardiness.

“What have you got for me then?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

“First things first,” said Digger. “What have you got for me?”

Annie pulled an envelope out of her bag and handed it to him. “There's fifteen hundred in there, as promised. Now give me the address.”

Digger opened the top of the envelope and, happy that the money inside was plentiful and real, handed her a slip of paper with Stone's address. “He's got a wife and a four-year-old daughter, both of whom he adores, but his job means he's never home much.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

“No, that's about it really. I didn't have enough time to get any more. Happy?”

“Yes thanks,” she said. She pulled out another envelope and said, “Here's another grand for the information about the wife and daughter.”

Digger pocketed the money and grinned. “Thanks very much,” he said. “It's been a pleasure, as they say.”

“No problem,” said Annie. “Perhaps you can get yourself a haircut now.” With that she strode off and disappeared into the crowds.

Digger watched her go with some regret; she was the sort of girl he could get interested in.

Alonso and Keane continued their watch. 11pm and there was no sign of movement in the hotel. After thirty-six hours with little sleep Keane was overtired and grumpy – he missed his girlfriend, he missed his television, and most of all he missed his bed. He didn't share Alonso's conviction that the stakeout was going to bear fruit, and the longer it went on the more convinced he became that it was all a waste of time.

“This is ridiculous,” he said looking at the clock. “How long are we going to wait? I told you earlier – the girl at reception hadn't seen anyone of his description. And neither had any of the staff in the service station.”

“He is here,” said Alonso defiantly. “Someone must have seen him. We just need to question the correct shift.”

“Maybe,” said Keane. “But all I want at the moment is sleep.”

“Well, go ahead and sleep then,” said Alonso. “I will keep awake.”

Inside the hotel Stratton and Oggi peered out into the night waiting for a sign from Tags.

“It's eleven now,” said Oggi. “He should be here soon.”

“Yeah,” said Stratton. “I hope so. I reckon Alonso's going to make a move some time soon.”

Five minutes later a van pulled up at the far end of the car park, side-on to the hotel and facing the trees. The driver flashed the headlights three times and then killed them.