Undercover (12 page)

She could smell blood. Feel the too-recent memory of when stained fingers traced the line of her jaw. But this wasn't the bastard who'd touched her at the holiday home. His bare face lacked the telltale claw marks Lydia had inflicted. It could have been the second intruder from the night before but she didn't think so. She'd sensed a terrible wildness about those two and, from their voices, had pinned them as a little younger than the stranger sat in front of her. He looked about forty. His sunbed tan did little to conceal the pockmarked skin on his cheeks. Momentarily lost in some lechery, he gnawed on his lower lip and Lydia caught a glimpse of gleaming white teeth.

"Who are you?"

He looked up at her face but Lydia could take no comfort from the shift in focus. She tried not to imagine what went on behind his greedy eyes.

"I'm just a messenger, darling."

His east London accent surprised her. She'd expected broad Belfast tones.

"I'm here with a friend." She tilted her head back towards the corner bar where Rory chatted to the Polish barmaid.

"Yeah, looks like he's keeping a real close eye on you. But don't fret, darling. I'm only here for a quick natter. We'll be done before your valiant knight's done chatting up that foreign bint behind the bar."

She wanted to lift his glass and throw its contents in his face. But the need to hear something, anything about her family suppressed the urge. She nodded,
Say your piece, then.

"The men you're working for want you to wrap things up today. They want access to the house in Teddington. Do what you have to do to get them in."

"What about my—?"

"No questions, darling. It's a simple instruction." He paused for a few seconds, daring her to speak again. "Very good. Now, if you've held up your end of the bargain, all will be well. If not... you probably know what to expect."

The man flashed his ridiculously white teeth and got out from behind the table. He winked at her, downed his pint and left.

Lydia sat on and tried to digest what she'd just been told. She needed to get Rory back to his house and... Then what? She hadn't found a kink in his security system yet. Would she be able do that without Rory breathing over her shoulder?

She felt a hand on her back and almost upended the table.

"Whoa, take it easy, Lydia."

"Rory, for fuck's sake, you near put the heart in me sideways."

He gave her a look. "Jesus, my ma used to say that. Did you pick that one up off John?"

She looked away.

"What are you doing over here anyway, you big freak? Staring at the wall like some headcase. They'll be after you with the butterfly nets if you're not careful."

"I'm not a third wheel kind of girl."

"You took off so I could score with the barmaid? Very considerate but I was just being polite. Jesus, do you think I try to bed every woman I meet?"

"I don't give it any thought at all, to be honest."

"Ach, don't get all sniffy about it. God you've had something up your hole for the last few days. Would you not just relax and smile for a bit? These moods of yours are bringing me right down."

Rory held out his hand. Lydia took it and hauled herself off the stool. She didn't look at his face. Her words were directed at his chest.

"Will we finish up our drinks, then?"

"What about one more for the road?"

"Make it a half one, will you? I could do with a few hours at the computer back at yours."

###

Y
ou're going to have to shoot this bastard.

It was the last thing Cormac wanted to do. And it wasn't just down to his ammo shortage. He'd already killed one of O'Neill's men. The man's cousin no less. It was a safe bet his cover was fucked. But Bob – with murder in his eyes and a Stanley knife in his hand – would make for a decent consolation arrest. He might even get a lead on Big Frank Toner out of it.

Sporty Spice was still sprawled out on the floor with no sign of recovery. Bob stood alone against a bigger, stronger, armed opponent. There was only one way it could go. But Cormac had to rely on the aul' fellah coming to the same conclusion.

"Last chance, big man. Put your weapon down."

Bob pounced. His blood-smeared face twisted as he loosed a primal snarl. Cormac skipped backwards and jerked his head back. The blade whistled past his face.

Cormac readied himself for the next swipe. It didn't come as quickly as he'd expected. Bob had overextended himself, his first attack too clouded by anger to be anything but clumsy. The older man tried to plant his feet to attack from a stronger stance. Cormac took his opportunity and sidestepped Bob to move into the open-plan kitchen. He felt a new energy course through him. More fighting space, a choice of weapons, a moment to breathe.

He reached out with his free hand and snatched a knife from the block on the countertop. The ten-inch blade was water-stained but plenty vicious. He tucked his gun away and adjusted his grip on the knife so the dull edge of the blade rested against his forearm. Bob approached slowly. Cocky. He bounced the Stanley knife from one palm to the other. Must have watched a few too many American street gang flicks in his youth.

"You drew blood first," Bob rasped, and pointed a thumb at his busted nose. "It wasn't me."

Not exactly versed in Rambo movie trivia, though.

"That's not the line, dickhead."

Bob shrugged off the accusation. "Whatever, son. You're still fucked."

There was rust on the Stanley blade. Cormac looked beyond the emboldened and approaching Bob. He dropped his jaw and widened his eyes.

"Jesus, Mattie,
don't
."

Bob took the bait and turned to see what the kid was up to. Cormac slashed the back of Bob's right arm. Skin split and tendons severed. The Stanley blade fell to the floor. Bob yowled like a beaten dog. Cormac kicked the Stanley blade under the fridge then grabbed Bob by the back of his neck and ran towards the American style fridge in the corner of the kitchen area. Forehead met brushed steel. It wasn't enough to knock the tough aul' bastard out. He squawked as loud as his smoke-damaged lungs would allow.

Cormac pulled back and shoved him forward again, looking for the knockout. Something went in Bob's neck.
Shit.
He'd silenced the aul' fellah for good.

––––––––

H
ooligans... They're just wankers.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

L
ydia raised her hands to her ears, prepared to cup them. Rory held the champagne over the kitchen sink and popped the cork. The little wooden bullet shot up, butted the ceiling and plummeted to the floor. A dribble of foam ran down the elegant glass neck and trickled over his fingers. He sat the bottle down beside the flutes on the worktop and licked the traces of bubbly from his knuckles. Then he retrieved the cork from the floor and took it to a cutting board on the worktop. As Lydia poured, Rory cut the cork into two identical halves. He wrote the date on each piece and handed one to Lydia. He pinned the other half to a notice board hung on the back of the kitchen door adorned with at least twenty other dated and neatly lined champagne souvenirs.

"That's some collection," Lydia said.

"I've had a lot to celebrate."

Lydia wanted to shove her champagne flute into his face.

The champagne frothed in the glasses as Rory dropped a strawberry into each one. He tilted his towards hers for the obligatory clink. The little red berries bobbed in their drinks.

He affected an effeminate stance. "Fruity."

She granted him a polite smile. It felt like a hard day's work.

Bubbles popped and tickled Lydia's nose as she sipped. The ice-cold drink rolled down the back of her throat and she relished its cool trail. But her pleasure was short-lived. Guilt crowded in and blackened her glimmer of cheer. How dare she enjoy anything while her family suffered? Her second sip turned sour on her tongue.

Rory tipped his glass upright and emptied the champagne and strawberry into his mouth. His cheeks bulged as he tried to chew the berry without spewing the bubbly. He swallowed the whole lot down, hooted and burped.

"Fuck yeah. I'll have another one of those," he held his glass out to Lydia.

She poured him another drink and plucked another strawberry from the top of the punnet. It bobbled around the rim of the glass and fell to the floor. They both lunged for it and their foreheads met with a snooker break clack. Lydia stumbled backwards and Rory caught her by the wrist. He kept her on her feet but splashed them both with his drink.

"Shit, sorry," Rory said.

"Ow, Rory you utter bastard!" Lydia rubbed her forehead.

"Jesus, take it easy, Lyds. It was only an accident, like."

"Lyds?"

Rory opened his mouth. His tongue ran along his lower row of crooked teeth. He pushed his jaw forward. It was obvious he wanted to say something else and Lydia was ready for him. Ready to unload all her pain. But Rory let her down. His face eased into an awkward smile.

He set his glass by the sink and then stepped up to Lydia to examine her forehead. Rory cupped her face in his hands and tilted her head back to examine the damage under the cluster of spotlights. Her heart sped up.

"It's a wee bit red, but I don't think it'll bruise. Sorry, Lydia."

Rory's hands lingered on her face and Lydia raised her eyebrows. He smirked.

"Want me to kiss it better?"

She pushed him. Hard. He shrugged.

They took the bottle, the strawberries and their glasses to the kitchen table and sat opposite each other. Lydia was glad of the physical barrier. She could still feel the warmth of his palms on her face. The day before, a man in a balaclava, with blood on his hands, had traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips and Rory's touch had invigorated the hangover from that intrusion. She forced down a slug of champagne.

"That's the girl," Rory said, "have a top-up."

Lydia raised her glass to meet the mouth of the bottle. The bubbly sloshed into the flute and foamed. She necked half of it before Rory could offer a strawberry. There were no placemats on the table so she set her glass back on the existing ring of moisture she'd left on the unfinished Mexican pine.

"So, are we going with the old bastard or the slick guy?" Rory asked.

"The old bastard."

"Dead on. I like him, but if he mentions my teeth again, I might have to set him straight." He threw a slow motion hook into the air. It passed over the top of the bottle.

"McGoldrick's veins are full of piss and vinegar. He's a good man to have on your side, so long as you've a thick skin. Powerful isn't the word for it."

"So what am I going to do with all this money?"

"What all you boys do. Squander it on cars and WAGs."

"Yeah, I suppose a chunk of it will go on that. But I don't want to end up skint after my legs go. Too many eejits have done that. I need to invest or something."

"Don't ever say that to a journalist. It'll fuck your reputation."

Fuck.
Casual swearing was one of her getting tipsy tells. Champagne got the job done pretty fast.

"I'll have to give the financial advisor a shake," Rory said. "If I can find his number."

"You're not so hot on the bills and banking side of things, then?"

"Nah. I've no interest. So long as the bank machine spits out cash every time I stick my card in, there's not much else I need to know."

Lydia raised her glass. "To the bottomless bank machine."

Rory raised his and then they knocked back their drinks. Rory poured fresh ones. Lydia fiddled with her phone. No texts. She checked the time. The hours were steadily ticking by. When were the bastards going to arrive?

"God, we got through that fast," Lydia said.

"Goes down too easy, doesn't it? Will I open another one?"

"I think I need something less fizzy. I'll get the hiccups if I stay on this stuff."

Rory sprang out of his seat and made a beeline for the drinks cabinet. "Vodka and orange juice? It'll count towards our five-a-day."

Lydia had to stay alert but a drunk Rory might be easier to get information from. And she needed to arm herself with info. Like the code to his alarm system. Maybe she could convince him to go out and pass on the information when the bastards finally called. And maybe a little Dutch courage would help her too. More alcohol seemed like the answer. Not the best but an answer nonetheless. The champagne had awakened a thirst she knew she should suppress. Or should she? Lydia gave Rory the thumbs-up.

"Make mine a double."

###

C
ormac dumped a mug of cold water on Sporty Spice's face. The young thug gasped into consciousness. His eyes settled on Cormac's and he tried to move. Found himself bound by the strips Cormac had torn from a bed sheet. He writhed on the living room floor seemingly unaware that he was no relation to Houdini. Cormac settled into an armchair and waited for the idiot to wear himself out.

He'd ordered the others to stay in Donna's bedroom until he'd worked a few things out. John was still half out of his mind on the pill cocktail Donna had fed him and offered no argument. Mattie, pale and anxious, barely acknowledged him. Donna hadn't let him off so easily.

"What the fu..." She took a deep breath. "What have you brought to my doorstep, Cormac?"

"The kid doesn't mind if you curse."

"You're not funny."

"I'll get you protection. You'll be safe."

"Safe? I'm hiding in my bedroom because my ex has been fighting God-knows-who in my living room. You think I'm ever going to feel safe here again?"

"I'll help you find a new—"

"Get out of my sight."

"Maybe you should get John ready to go? We might need to leave here quickly."

"Maybe you should fuck off, Cormac."

And he really should have fucked off but that would mean abandoning his second dead body of the day. Self defence or not, the tally didn't sit well with him.

At last, the trussed up hatchet man gave up his struggle with a grunt.