Severed (8 page)

The phone starts playing the 'Funeral March' and I pull up onto the pavement to take the call.

'Have you got the case?' demands the robotic voice.

'Yeah, but I only just made it out,' I tell him. 'Things went wrong and now the place is crawling with police.'

'What do you mean, things went wrong?'

'The guy I was picking the case up from had some very dodgy security. They decided they wanted his money. There was some shooting and the police got called.'

'But he's all right, is he? The man who gave you the case?'

'No. He's dead. So's his security.'

'If you had anything to do with his death--'

'I didn't. I knew the guy.'

'What?'

Straight off, I know I've made a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut.

'I've met the guy before,' I say, trying to sound casual.

'Where?'

'That's my business.'

'What did he tell you about the case?'

'Nothing.'

'He was supposed to provide us with a code that would open it.'

'Well, I'm afraid he's no longer in a position to help you there.'

'He said the case would be booby-trapped. Is it?'

'It is, and it looks like it's been professionally done as well.'

There's a long silence down the other end of the phone. I imagine him trying to work out how to deal with this unforeseen and most unwelcome eventuality. I find myself enjoying his discomfort, even though it could very easily be deflected on to me.

'You'd better not be lying, Tyler.'

'I'm not,' I answer firmly. 'Check out the TV. It'll be on the news pretty soon. There are four people dead.'

'Where are you now?'

'A couple of miles east of the address you sent me to.'

'All right,' he says, sounding like he's come to a decision. 'I'm going to text you an address in King's Cross. You're to bring the case there in an hour's time, at a quarter to two.' The speed of his voice slows down and becomes calmer as he
assesses the situation. 'When you arrive, knock on the door slowly four times. You'll be asked to identify yourself. Give your name, and say you have an urgent delivery that needs signing for. When you get inside, hand over the case to the man who lets you in, and in return he will give you a plastic evidence bag containing the murder weapon from last night, and the master copy of the DVD which shows you killing the girl.'

'I didn't kill her,' I snap. 'I didn't kill Leah.'

He ignores my protest. It's irrelevant to him. 'When I have confirmation that we have the case, her corpse will be disposed of, along with any further forensic evidence linking you to the crime, and you won't hear from us again.'

I feel a rage building. It's the way she's being described. Like some product that has malfunctioned and needs discarding. I fight to keep it down. Anger won't help me now. I'm almost certain I'm being sent into a trap, but once again I have no choice but to appear to co-operate.

'OK,' I say tightly, 'I'm on my way.'

'And, Mr Tyler?'

'Yeah?'

'Don't be tempted to try anything clever. I
know exactly the type, dimensions and distinguishing features of the briefcase you collected. If you don't hand over the right one, you'll have to answer to the authorities for the girl's murder and mutilation.'

'You'll get the right one,' I tell him, but the bastard's already cut the connection.

I replace the phone in my pocket and look down at the case beside me on the passenger seat. So far, five people have died for whatever it contains, and I'm determined not to be number six.

It's time, I think, for some back-up.

I remember the day so vividly, and always will.

June the nineteenth 1996, a warm if cloudy summer's morning on the back roads of South Armagh, a mile from the town of Crossmaglen, and a few hundred yards from the Irish Republic. There were eight of us travelling in the Saracen armoured personnel carrier and we were responding to reports of suspicious movements at a minor border crossing. Because of the dangers of operating in that area, and the risk of ambush, a second APC containing a further eight members of the platoon was following a short distance behind, while a Lynx helicopter was providing aerial reconnaissance.

You were always a little nervy on any form of
op in the bandit country of South Armagh, because this really was the IRA's home territory, but at the same time there was nothing to suggest that this day would be different from any other, and the mood in the back, where I was sitting, was even quite jovial. I remember that we were talking about the football. Euro 96 was on and England had beaten Holland 4-1 in their group match the previous night, which was, to put it bluntly, a surprise result. We'd wanted to paint the scoreline on the side of the APC, just to annoy the locals who we knew would have been rooting desperately for Holland, but this had been vetoed by our OC, Major Ryan, who knew it would be seen as unduly provocative, and would do little to bolster the 'hearts and minds' approach that was now being fostered by the British government in its efforts to get the IRA to declare a second ceasefire.

I was still smoking in those days and I'd just lit a cigarette and was about to add to the debate on England's chances of winning the competition when bang, it happened. Just like that. There was a deafeningly loud roar that seemed to engulf everything around us, followed by a
sound like an aluminium can being crumpled, and the APC was lifted into the air before being slammed down on to its side. All six of us in the back were flung around the enclosed space like puppets. We were wearing berets rather than helmets, and I remember smacking my head hard against the ceiling before coming to rest in a twisted heap with someone on top of me.

Thoroughly disorientated, for the first few seconds I wasn't even sure whether I was alive or dead. Everything was utterly still, utterly silent. It's difficult to describe adequately, but it felt like I was unconscious, yet somehow aware of my surroundings. Then my ears began to buzz loudly, and I could just about make out the groans of my comrades, although it sounded like they were coming from a long way away. My eyes had squeezed shut instinctively, and when I opened them I saw that the interior light had gone out and I was in semi-darkness. Acrid-smelling smoke was filling the cab and it was difficult to see. The APC's armour plating was buckled and cracked, and flames licked at a thin jagged tear that ran down the side opposite me; but it had done its job and largely withstood the force of the blast that had knocked it upside down.

The smoke was making me choke and stinging my eyes, while the heat from the flames was burning the soles of my feet, and I felt a burst of claustrophobic panic as I realized that at any moment the fuel tank might blow, burning us all alive in this cramped, dark tomb. I had to get out of there.

The man on top of me was my best mate, Martin 'Lucas' Lukersson, who'd been sitting across from me in the back. As I struggled to get him off me, his eyes opened and he coughed loudly. I didn't ask him if he was all right. In those few seconds, he didn't even cross my mind. Instead, I silently thanked God that of all the people in the back of the APC, I was in the best position - on the opposite side from the bomb and nearest the rear doors.

My hand fumbled desperately for the handle as I breathed in another mouthful of thick smoke, and I yanked it down hard. It wouldn't budge. I yanked again. Still nothing happened. I remember how frightened I was at that point. As the prospect of cremation came just that bit closer.

Someone cried out from further inside the cab. The words were 'help me' and there was a
pitying desperation in the voice, as if he knew already that all was lost. Though it was faint, I recognized it as belonging to Jimmy McCabe, a lance corporal from Dunfermline and the only man in the APC pissed off about the fact that England had won the football the previous night. He cried out again, and I'm ashamed to admit that at that moment I didn't give him a second's thought either. Survival was everything.

The flames were growing bigger now as they danced through the gap in the armour. They were the only things I could see through the smoke, although I could hear and feel movement as other men crawled towards the rear doors.

I yanked the handle again, then felt another hand grab it. 'Wrong fucking way,' I heard Lucas gasp, before I realized that everything was upside down, and that's why it wouldn't open.

We pulled it together, and the first of the double doors flew open. I scrambled out, knocking open the other door with my desperate momentum, and rolled over on the tarmac. As I turned back towards the stricken APC, Lucas
emerged on his hands and knees through the billowing smoke, followed by a third man I recognized as Private Rob Forbes. I staggered to my feet, keeping hold of my assault rifle, and helped Lucas to his. He looked concussed, but I didn't have time to worry about that now. There were other people to help. I grabbed Rob and managed to get him upright, and then a hand appeared in the gap in the double doors. I got a grip on it and pulled its owner free, dragging him well clear. It was Ben 'Snowy' Mason, another private, so-called because of his prematurely white hair. The back of his flak jacket was on fire, and he was crying out in pain. I hurriedly pulled it off him and threw it to one side while Snowy rolled over, choking.

By now, I was managing to take stock of the scene. We'd been hit by an extremely powerful roadside bomb that had created a deep, wide crater on the grassy bank at the side of the road, and demolished much of the low flint wall bordering a sheep field, behind which the bomb had obviously been hidden. A huge fire was burning, its heat so close and intense that I could feel it blistering my skin. The gouting flames were already setting light to the branches
of some oak trees and a huge black plume of smoke stretched up into the sky, obscuring the Lynx helicopter as it circled impotently overhead. At the front of the APC, I could see the top half of Lieutenant Neil Byron as he clambered out of the passenger side of the cab, which was now upright, his face smoke-stained and bloodied. Our eyes met, and his were wide with shock.

And then I found out why. As he lifted his right arm, I saw that it ended in a blackened stump at the elbow, the wound already cauterized. He waved it uselessly in the breeze, staring at it now, unable to comprehend that it was gone, and that for the rest of his life he would be disabled.

I've got to admit that the knowledge that at any moment the APC could blow, killing us all, was at the forefront of my mind. But in those kinds of situations you simply don't dwell on the dangers involved. You've got to get everyone out before you can even think about retreating.

I could tell the lieutenant needed help, and I started towards him, which was when the dull, ringing silence was broken by a single burst of
heavy machine-gun fire. The lieutenant's body jerked ferociously and it looked like he was being attacked from below by a shark, then two thick, winding lines of blood flew out of his chest and splattered onto the tarmac, leaving behind two exit holes the size of oranges in his flak jacket.

He didn't make a sound. Not even a peep. He simply slid back into the cab and out of sight, and I never saw him again. That's the nature of violence - its utter suddenness. It can be over in seconds, yet so great is the damage it wreaks that the ramifications often last for ever.

I dived to the ground, alongside Snowy, grabbing Lucas as I did so and dragging him down with me. Rob Forbes, a few feet away, wasn't so lucky. I can't remember if he even moved. We were all still in shock, our reactions slower than usual, and as the next burst of machine-gun fire shattered the silence, I watched as he was lifted off his feet and driven backwards through the air, his rifle clattering to the ground.

The bastards had set a clever trap. They would have known that even a powerful bomb would not destroy an APC completely
and that some, if not all, the men inside would be able to evacuate it. But by placing a machine-gun crew nearby with a good view of the ambush point, they could simply pick off the survivors. The brazenness of it was incredible considering that there was a helicopter flying overhead and reinforcements would be on the scene very quickly. It wouldn't have worked if we hadn't been so close to the Irish border, but with barely a few hundred yards to travel before they crossed it and were out of our reach, and with the knowledge that the helicopter was unarmed and therefore unable to fire on them, our attackers obviously considered it a risk worth taking. And Lucas and I were now totally exposed to their fire.

A drainage ditch ran along the other side of the road, and the two of us were facing it. It represented our best chance of cover.

A third burst rang out, the heavy .5-calibre rounds kicking up chippings of tarmac only inches away from where we lay.

'Go! Go! Go!' I howled, leaping to my feet, my hand still gripping Lucas's flak jacket.

I gave him a huge shove and together we charged across the road, limbs flailing,
adrenalin pumping through me so fast I felt like I was almost flying. We launched ourselves headlong into the ditch, landing in a foot of muddy, foul-smelling water. I rolled over in it and got to my feet, while Lucas remained on his hands and knees, coughing and spitting out phlegm. The back of his head was bloody and there was a deep gash at the base of his skull. He'd lost his rifle, but I still had mine. I moved over to the edge of the gully and took up a firing stance, trying to pinpoint the machine gunner's position through the assault rifle's sights.