Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘Yeah, well I’ll face that when I have to.’

‘I’ll leave you something, take it if and when you have to. And you’ll need something much stronger towards the end. I’ll arrange for you to have morphine and you can dose yourself.’

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘You think that now, but nearer the. .’

‘It won’t come to that,’ Cramer insisted.

The doctor held his look for a few seconds and then nodded acceptance. He opened his bag and took out a plastic-wrapped syringe and a vial of colourless liquid. He injected the vitamins and gave Cramer a bottle of tablets. ‘These are just multivitamins,’ he explained. ‘They’ll make up for what you’re not getting from your food. I’d drink milk if I were you, eggs maybe, if you can keep them down. Fruit would be good for you, but in small amounts. Better to eat a little often than to try to force down big portions.’ He looked over his shoulder at the Colonel. ‘Normally I’d tell him to take it easy, but I suppose that’s not an option in this case, is it?’

‘Sergeant Cramer’s going to be working, that’s true.’

‘Well God help him, that’s all I can say.’

‘I doubt that he will, but thanks for the sentiment,’ said Cramer acidly.

The doctor handed Cramer another bottle, this one containing green capsules. ‘For the pain,’ he said. ‘Not on an empty stomach. Not more than one at a time. And not more than six in any one twenty-four-hour period.’

‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Cramer.

‘I meant what I said about arranging morphine for you.’

‘And I meant what I said about it not coming to that,’ said Cramer, putting his shirt back on.

Dermott Lynch was sitting with his feet on the coffee table watching the BBC Nine O’Clock News when the phone rang. He let his answering machine take the call as he watched the BBC’s industrial correspondent explain the latest gloomy trade figures. He popped the tab on a chilled can of draught Guinness and poured it deftly into a tall glass as the recording announced he couldn’t get to the phone. He put down the glass as he heard Pat O’Riordan’s voice and picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah, Pat, I’m here.’

‘Screening calls, are we?’ said O’Riordan.

‘Just taking the weight off my feet. Figured I deserved a rest. How’s things?’

‘Don’t suppose you fancy giving me a hand cleaning out the pigs, do you?’

‘You’re dead right.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

Lynch looked at the Guinness as it settled in the glass, a thick, creamy head on the top. ‘You read my mind,’ he said.

Mrs Elliott served up a chicken stew with herb dumplings along with freshly-made garlic bread and buttery mashed potatoes. The Colonel and Cramer ate alone in the huge dining hall next to the propane heater. The Colonel had opened a bottle of claret but Cramer had refused. He had a glass of milk, instead. With a large measure of Famous Grouse mixed in.

Cramer toyed with his food, eating small mouthfuls and chewing thoroughly before swallowing. The Colonel watched him eat. ‘Bad?’ he asked.

‘The food’s fine.’ Cramer put down his fork. ‘I never had much of an appetite even when I was fit.’ He picked up the file that he’d been reading before dinner. ‘Have you read this one?’ he asked. ‘The Harrods killing?’

‘The Saudi Foreign Minister’s second wife. Ann-Marie Wilkinson. The Met think it was the first wife who paid for the hit.’

‘Cheaper than divorce, I suppose.’

‘I don’t think the Saudis bother with divorce, do they?’ said the Colonel. ‘I think they just take as many wives as they want.’ Cramer shrugged and took a long drink of milk, then added another slug of whisky. ‘Anyway, the first wife had the money,’ the Colonel continued. ‘She was related to the Saudi royal family and it seems that she resented all the attention Ann-Marie was getting.’

Cramer held up a photocopy of a typewritten report. ‘She was pregnant.’

The Colonel nodded. ‘I know. That’s another reason why they think she was killed. He had three children by the first wife, it could be that she didn’t want any competition. What’s on your mind?’

‘He murdered a pregnant woman. It takes a particular sort of killer to shoot a pregnant woman, don’t you think?’

The Colonel put down his knife and fork. ‘I’ve known plenty who would, without a second thought.’

‘Professionals? You think so?’

The Colonel leaned forward over his plate. ‘You’ve killed women, Sergeant Cramer. For Queen and country. And a soldier’s salary.’

‘I’ve killed terrorists who were female, Colonel. There’s a difference. And the Kypriano killing. The girl. Eight years old. He killed an eight-year-old girl.’

The Colonel gently swirled the red wine around his glass and stared at it. ‘He’s well paid for what he does. Half a million dollars a hit, we hear. Perhaps the money makes it easier.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are you saying that if you were offered half a million dollars you wouldn’t do it?’

Cramer looked up sharply. ‘A child? No, I wouldn’t. Would you?’

‘Of course not. Not for any amount. But we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about someone who’s prepared to kill for money. You’ve been trained to kill. And you’ve killed for no other reason than that you’ve been ordered to. Okay, so there are some things you wouldn’t do, but not everyone has the same degree of moral judgement.’

Cramer nodded noncommittally, but his eyes narrowed as he studied the Colonel’s face. ‘What if it was in the interests of national security, Colonel? Would you do it then?’

The Colonel looked at Cramer for several seconds, though to Cramer it felt as if the silence was stretching into infinity. The Colonel stopped swirling his wine and drained his glass. He was about to answer when Mrs Elliott appeared. The Colonel put down his glass while she collected their plates, frowning at the amount Cramer had left. As she went back into the kitchen, the Colonel stood up and excused himself, saying that he needed an early night. The unanswered question hung in the air like black rain cloud.

The pub was just off the Falls Road, a red brick building with metal shutters over the window and an orange, white and green tricolour flag hanging over the front door. A thickset man in a brown raincoat stood by the door, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes ever watchful.

‘Evening, Danny,’ said Lynch.

‘How’s yerself, Dermott?’ asked the man.

‘Getting by. Busy tonight?’

‘Aye, there’s a fair crowd in.’ He pushed open the metal door and Lynch heard the sound of a fiddle being played with more enthusiasm than ability.

Lynch grimaced. ‘That should soon clear them out,’ he said, and the doorman laughed.

Several heads turned as Lynch made his way to the bar. In the far corner the fiddler, a bearded man in his sixties, wearing a plaid shirt and baggy cotton trousers, was sawing away on his fiddle with gusto. Behind him was an anorexically-thin blonde girl with an accordion and a middle-aged man with a tin whistle, though they sat with their instruments in their laps as they watched the old man perform.

Two men in donkey jackets moved apart to allow Lynch to the bar. The barman came over immediately and greeted him by name. There were few bars in the Falls area where Dermott Lynch wasn’t known and respected. He ordered a Guinness and scanned the bar for familiar faces as he waited for it to be poured. A grey-haired old man in a sheepskin jacket with a tired-looking shaggy-haired mongrel sitting at his feet nodded a silent greeting and Lynch nodded back. A group of teenagers fell quiet as Lynch’s gaze passed over them. Lynch spotted one of the lads who’d kept an eye on the Granada while he’d done the kneecapping, but he made no sign of recognising him.