Soft Target (8 page)

The place he'd chosen for the handover was the car park of a pub on the edge of a rough housing scheme - blocks of flats with broken windows and graffiti, shopfronts protected by roll-down metal shutters. It didn't look the sort of place that was regularly visited by the Garda, and he doubted that any of the locals would be members of a Neighbourhood Watch scheme.There were no CCTV cameras and the nearest police station was five miles away. According to the Police National Computer, it was slap in the middle of the area controlled by the gang that was going to buy the heroin. Rose had thought they'd be more relaxed on their home turf, less likely to be trigger happy.

He arrived half an hour before the time he'd told the Irishman. He parked with the front of his car facing the road and slid the cloth-wrapped bundle between his legs. He was wearing sunglasses and leather gloves, with a baseball cap pulled down over his face. A ten-year-old Mercedes pulled into the car park at a quarter to eleven. There were four men in it and Rose recognised two of the faces from the computer files. They were enforcers. The man who ran the gang was keeping his distance, but Rose had expected as much. He flashed his headlights and the Mercedes rolled slowly across the car park.

Rose stayed in his car. The rear doors of the Mercedes opened and two men walked towards him. They wore long coats that flapped in the wind, and had their hands in the pockets. Rose wound down the window. 'Can you guys do me a favour and stop where you are?' he called.

The two men halted, a dozen paces from the car. 'Have youse got the gear?' said the taller of the two. Six feet two,

maybe, with wide shoulders hunched against the wind that blew between the blocks of flats. His nose was almost flattened against his face. A boxer's nose.

'Have you got the money?'

'We're gonna have to see the gear before youse gets to see the cash.'

'I've no problem with that, but just so we know where we stand, what are you carrying?'

The boxer frowned. 'What?'

Rose smiled patiently. 'What sort of weaponry have you got under your coats? I'm guessing handguns or a sawn-off at most.' He raised the gun he was holding, just enough so that they could see what it was. 'I've got an Ingram MAC 10, which fires eleven hundred rounds per minute and holds thirty in the magazine so I don't want you making me nervous - if my trigger finger gets jumpy I could accidentally empty the whole clip in less time than you could say .. . well, before you could open your mouth, actually.' He glanced at the weapon in his hand. 'Recoil-operated, select-fire submachine-gun, fires from an open bolt. Nice, but not especially accurate beyond twenty five metres. And in case you're wondering, yes, it would shoot right through the panel of this door. And with the silencer,

not too many people would hear it. Not that they'd give a shit around here anyway.'

The two men looked at each other, then back at Rose,

whose smile widened. 'I'm not trying to pull a fast one on you,' he added. 'I just want us to know where we all stand.

Let's see what you've got.'

The boxer slid his right hand out of his pocket. An automatic,

probably a Colt. The other pulled back his coat: a Kalashnikov assault rifle with a folding stock hung from a nylon sling.

'Nice,' said Rose. The file had mentioned the gang's links to former paramilitaries so the Kalashnikov wasn't a surprise.

'So, if the shit does hit the proverbial, it's going to get very noisy and very messy. I'm just here to sell the gear and get back over the water. It's good stuff, and it's pure as the driven, so you're getting a hell of a good deal.'

'Youse could be the cops,' said the boxer.

'I could be, but my accent alone should let you know that I'm not working for the Garda. And the fact that I'm cradling a MAC 10 in my hot little hands sort of puts paid to any undercover police operation, doesn't it?'

The boxer nodded slowly. 'So now what do we do?'

'I show you the gear. You show me the money. When we're both happy, we exchange and go our separate ways.'

'Where is it?'

'The boot. Where's the money?'

'Back seat.'

'Okay. Why don't you get into the seat here next to me while your mate with the heavy artillery checks the gear?'

'Youse wouldn't have an itchy trigger finger, would you?'

'I know what I'm doing,' said Rose.

The boxer sighed, opened the passenger door and climbed in. He had his gun in his lap, the barrel pointing at the dashboard.

Rose popped open the boot and watched in his rearview mirror as the guy with the Kalashnikov went to the back of the car.

'Youse came alone?' mused the boxer.

'I just want to sell the merchandise,' said Rose. 'I don't want to start a gang war. I thought if I turned up mob handed you'd get jumpy and that's the last thing we need.'

'Where did youse get it from?'

Rose tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. 'Need to know,' he said.

The guy with the Kalashnikov bent down and disappeared from Rose's view. Rose was relaxed, but he kept his finger on the trigger.

'Youse look like a cop.'

'Yeah, everyone says that.'

'Except you're as nervous as a cat in a kennel right now,

which you wouldn't be if youse had backup.'

'I've no back-up. Trust me on that. But I do have a gun that can fire eleven hundred bullets a second so tell your mate to get a move on, will you?'

The boxer gave him a curt nod and shouted something in Gaelic to his colleague.

'English,' said Rose. 'If you don't mind.'

'How does it look, Kieran?' shouted the boxer.

Rose took his eyes off the rear-view mirror and checked out the Mercedes. The driver had his hands on the steering wheel. The front passenger was sitting stony-faced, chewing gum.

'Looks good,' said Kieran. He walked to the passenger side of Rose's car. 'Ten kilos. Good stuff. The man walks the walk.'

'So far so good,' said the boxer. 'Now, how do youse want to play it?'

'You and I walk over to your car and check the money.

Kieran stays in front of us and keeps his hands away from the Kalashnikov.'

The boxer climbed slowly out of the car. Rose did the same, sliding the MAC 10 under his jacket as he closed the door. Kieran walked to the Mercedes, his long coat flapping behind him. Rose accompanied the boxer, his finger still on the MAC 10 trigger. He scanned the windows of the flats overlooking the car park but no one was watching. Two plump teenage girls pushed prams away from the block entrance, smoking and swearing.

They reached the Mercedes and Kieran pulled open the rear doors. There were two black Adidas gym bags on the back seat. He pulled them out and swung them on to the boot.

'Watch the paintwork, will youse?' snarled the boxer.

Kieran unzipped one of the bags and stepped to the side.

He kept his hands free, a faint smile on his face. Rose peered 62 li inside the bag. It was full of bundles of fifty-euro notes. He pulled one out at random and flicked through it. Then he sniffed it.

The boxer laughed. 'Think we printed them ourselves?'

Rose put back the bundle and unzipped the second bag.

He checked another bundle at random. It seemed genuine,

and all the notes were used. If they had been counterfeit they would all have been new, Rose thought. He stepped back from the car. 'Everything looks cool,' he said.

'Youse don't want to count it?'

'I trust you,' said Rose, deadpan. 'Plus, you rip me off for a few grand, so what? I didn't see you weighing the gear to see if I'm a few ounces short. It's all based on trust at the end of the day. Trust and artillery.'

'Trust and artillery,' said the boxer. 'I like that.'

'Kieran can put the bags in my boot, and take the gear.'

The boxer nodded at Kieran, who transferred the money and carried the heroin to the boot of the Mercedes and slammed it shut.

Rose backed towards his car, ready to swing out the MAC 10 at the first sign of a double-cross, but Kieran slid into the back seat of the Mercedes. 'It's been a pleasure doing business with youse,' said the boxer, throwing Rose an ironic salute. 'Have a safe trip home.' He got into the back of the car, slammed the door and the vehicle rolled slowly out of the car park.

Rose watched as it drove away, white plumes feathering from the exhaust. His heart was hammering in his chest but he wanted to throw back his head and howl in triumph. He'd done it. He'd bloody well done it.

The bad guy popped his head up from behind a crate and Liam fired twice with the shotgun. The man's skull exploded with a satisfying pop and brains splattered over the wall 63 behind him. Two more bad guys appeared from behind a row of oil barrels, brandishing axes. Liam reloaded smoothly and blew them away.

'Don't those things carry parental warnings?' asked Moira.

She was carrying a tray with a glass of orange juice and some fig rolls on it.

'Parents don't play video games, Gran,' said Liam, his eyes never leaving the screen. His thumbs flashed over the handset and two more villains slumped to the ground.

'You know what I mean, young man. Don't be cheeky,'

she admonished him, as she placed the tray on the coffee table.

'Sorry, Gran,' said Liam. He reloaded and waited for a bad guy to appear at the top of the stairs, then shot him in the chest.

Moira sat down on the sofa next to Liam. 'Did your father buy you that?'

'Nah, he got me two racing games. I got this with my pocket money.'

'An hour we said, remember? An hour a day.'

'Okay.'

'Would you mind switching it off and talking to me?'

'Gran . . .'

'I'd like to talk to you.'

Liam sighed and switched off the console. He reached for his orange juice and gulped it down.

'You know your granddad and I love having you here,' she said.

Liam wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

'And you're happy at school?'

'It's okay.'

'But it's a good school, isn't it? And there's a better mix of children in your class. Not as many . . . well, you know what I mean, don't you? It's not like London.'

'The teachers are nice,' said Liam, 'and I like walking to school.'

'There you are, then,' said Moira. 'You like your room here, too, don't you?'

Liam nodded, and bit into a biscuit.

'Your granddad and I were thinking that perhaps you'd like to stay with us.'

Liam frowned. 'For ever?'

'Not necessarily, no,' said Moira, hurriedly. 'But your father's very busy at work, you know that. And remember what happened last night. He said he'd phone but he didn't.

He isn't very reliable, so Granddad and I think you might be better off here with us.'

'Is this Dad's idea?' asked Liam. Tears sprang to his eyes.

Moira put her arm round his shoulders. 'No, it's not. He's still talking about you going to London to be with him. But it's going to be difficult, and it might be better for him if you stayed here.'

Liam wiped his eyes on his sleeve. 'It isn't fair.'

'What do you mean?' asked Moira.

'It's like you're all trying to force me to do something I don't want to do.'

'No one's trying to force you to do anything, Liam.'

'Dad never asked me if I wanted to come and stay here.

He just dumped me.'

'Now you're being silly.'

'He doesn't want me. That's why he left me here and it's why he didn't call.'

'He does want you, Liam, of course he does. We want you,

too - and we all want what's best for you.'

'I want to be with my mum!'

'Liam!' Moira protested. 'Calm down.'

'I don't want to! I wish I was with Mum right now. I wish I was dead like her!'

Liam rushed out of the room, knocking over his glass with what remained of the juice.

Tom came in from the garden as Moira was dabbing at the carpet with a damp cloth. 'I heard shouting, what's wrong?'

Moira shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Nothing's wrong.'

Even from the far side of the field Shepherd could hear the crunch of bone against bone as the two men collided at full pelt. The rugby ball bounced into touch and the two men helped each other up, grins on their mud-splattered faces.

Hargrove was sitting on a wooden bench outside the pub,

which overlooked the rugby pitch. Shepherd sat down next to him, wearing his black leather jacket and blue jeans. He hadn't shaved.The superintendent was immaculately dressed as always, in a pristine blue blazer, grey flannels and gleaming brogues. He sipped his shandy. 'Can I get you a drink,

Spider?'

'I'm okay,' said Shepherd. He stretched out his legs and sighed.

'Not a rugby player, are you?' asked the superintendent.

'Not really, no.'

'Too many rules?' said Hargrove.

'Something like that.'

'I'm a cricket man myself,' said Hargrove. 'Never understood why it isn't played all year round.'

'The weather, maybe,' said Shepherd.

'The thing I like about it is that it's a team game,' said Hargrove, ignoring Shepherd's comment. 'But at the same time you function as an individual. When you're batting, it's all down to you. No back-up, no support. When you're fielding, you're working as a team.'

Play restarted on the pitch, but after a few seconds there 66 was another juddering crunch, three players went down and the referee blew his whistle.

'You're a runner, right?' asked Hargrove.

'It's a way of keeping fit,' Shepherd said. 'I don't run for fun.'

'What do you do for fun?'

Shepherd ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It was a good question. He used to go to the cinema and for long walks. He used to eat, drink and make merry. But that was before Sue had died. He still tried to have fun with Liam,

but more out of parental duty than from the desire to enjoy himself. He'd kick a football with his son, play video games and take him to matches, but no matter how much he loved Liam, the boy was an ever-present reminder of the wife he'd lost. Fun hadn't been a major part of his life in recent months.

Hargrove took a sip of his shandy. 'Charlie Kerr,' he said.