Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Because they’re so small?’

‘That’s right. Too easy to conceal. For you, that’s a real plus.’

Cramer felt the weight. ‘Half a pound?’ he asked.

‘Seven ounces,’ said Allan. ‘It’s really something, isn’t it? Barrel length of two and one-eighth inches, total length, four inches.’

‘It’s a lady’s gun,’ said Cramer.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Allan. ‘Mechanically it’s the same as the.25 ACP vest pocket automatic that Colt used to make. You wouldn’t use it in a fire-fight and beyond ten feet it’s a peashooter, but close up it’ll bring a man down.’

Cramer stared down at the gun. It was hard to believe that the tiny weapon could kill a man. The barrel was shorter than his index finger. ‘I don’t know, Allan,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t look like it’ll pack enough of a punch to me.’

Allan shrugged vaguely. ‘It’s up to you. We don’t have to decide yet, but I’d like you to get familiar with all three.’ He handed Cramer a leather underarm holster with webbing straps. ‘Put this on. It’s time we started to practise the draw.’

Cramer put down the Baby Browning and Allan helped him fasten the straps and adjust the holster so that it lay flat against his shirt. Cramer picked up the Walther PPK. The leather was smooth and supple and the gun slid in and out with the minimum of friction.

‘Take it easy at first,’ said Allan. ‘Withdraw the weapon with your right hand, then as you push the gun forward, bring your left hand over your right, same as you were doing with static firing. Remember, a strong grip with your left hand and relax the right.’

‘Got it,’ said Cramer, sliding the gun in and out of the holster.

‘Fire off a few clips to get the feel of the draw, take your time and fire with your arms fully extended. Once you’re familiar with the action, I want you to forget about the sight picture. I want you firing before your arms are extended, just empty the clip as quickly as possible. You’re going to be so close to the target, aiming will be a waste of time.’

Cramer donned his ear protectors. ‘Okay, let’s get to it.’ Allan took down the target he’d been using and fitted a fresh one. ‘Seven shots, rapid fire,’ said Allan, standing to the side.

Dermott Lynch yawned and opened his eyes. He rolled over and stared at the long auburn hair of the girl lying next to him, wondering how quickly he could get rid of her without causing offence. She was a nice enough girl, and an amazing lay, but Lynch liked to be alone in the morning. Maggie, her name was. Maggie O’Brien. She was voluptuous, plump even, with a pretty face and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen outside of a cat. She worked as a barmaid in a pub off Grosvenor Road and was an occasional visitor to Lynch’s bed. She had only just turned twenty and knew that the relationship had no future, but the sex was great and Lynch was perfectly happy to turn to her for physical comfort from time to time. He just wished she’d get into the habit of leaving before morning.

Lynch had several girlfriends in Belfast. He’d made the decision many years earlier not to get married, not even to enter in a long-term relationship. His position as an active member of the IRA meant that relationships made him vulnerable, both to the security forces and to Protestant terrorist organisations. Better to be single. He came from a big family and had more than enough nephews and nieces to make up for the lack of children of his own.

Whenever possible Lynch preferred to make love to his girlfriends on their turf, so that he could slip away afterwards, a quick kiss on the cheek and then a cab home. Maggie lived with her parents, however, so he had no alternative but to take her home with him to his small terraced house. She murmured in her sleep and pushed back against him. Her naked flesh was warm against his thighs but Lynch moved away, putting distance between them. Sex was for the night, something to be done in darkness. Maggie’s hand slid behind her and reached between his legs and he realised that she wasn’t asleep. She took him in her hand and squeezed softly, encouraging him, wanting him, but Lynch wasn’t aroused in the least. He slid out of bed and padded to the bathroom.

‘Dermott. Come here,’ moaned Maggie.

Lynch pretended that he hadn’t heard and closed the bathroom door. He leant over the washbasin and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, the result of a heavy night’s drinking, and there were crumbs in his beard. He’d eaten a bag of salt and vinegar crisps before going to bed. He grinned wolfishly. God alone knew why Maggie wanted to touch him first thing in the morning. He looked like shit. He cupped his hand around his mouth, breathed out, and then sniffed. Yeah, he smelled rough, too.

He ran a bath as he cleaned his teeth. As he spat foam into the sink, his front doorbell rang. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went back into the bedroom. Maggie was sprawled across the bed, covered only by a sheet. It did little to conceal her ample body, but Dermott wasn’t tempted. He went over to the window and peered out. It was Pat O’Riordan, dressed as if he’d come straight from his farm.

Lynch went downstairs and let him in. O’Riordan looked at his wristwatch pointedly. ‘I know, I know,’ said Lynch. ‘I had a rough night. What’s wrong?’

‘The cops were at the Quinns’ house yesterday. Davie’s dead and Paulie’s disappeared.’

‘Fuck,’ said Lynch.

‘Yeah. Fuck.’

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Got anything stronger?’

‘Never touch the stuff,’ said Lynch with a smile. He took O’Riordan through to the sitting room and poured large measures of Jameson’s whiskey. They clinked glasses and drank. Lynch waved O’Riordan to the sofa.

‘It gets worse,’ said O’Riordan.

‘Worse? How can it get worse?’

‘You haven’t seen the papers, have you?’ Lynch shook his head. O’Riordan let out a sigh. ‘The guy who was driving the car, he’s related to an American politician. A member of the House of Representatives.’

‘Oh fuck,’ said Lynch. He rested his head on the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

‘Yeah, tell me about it. He’s been one of the guys pushing for more Green Cards for the Irish.’

‘Oh Jesus.’

‘There’s more. His wife’s related to the Kennedys. The Kennedys, Dermott.’

Lynch closed his eyes. ‘Pat, if you tell me that she’s the Pope’s sister, I think I might just top myself.’

‘This is going to get very messy,’ said O’Riordan. ‘They’re going to move heaven and earth to get us. The Americans are going to put pressure on the Irish Government, and the Brits. We’re up shit creek.’

Lynch sat up and ran his hand through his beard. ‘Only if they know it was us,’ he said. ‘Davie’s dead, you say?’

‘Shot by the cops. He had a gun.’

‘Not one of ours?’

O’Riordan shook his head. ‘His father’s. From what I’ve heard, it wasn’t even loaded.’

‘Poor bastard.’

‘Yeah, well, if you ask me it serves them right for having the bloody thing.’ He paused. ‘You haven’t asked the big question,’ he said.

Lynch sat down on an overstuffed easy chair and put his bare feet up on the coffee table. ‘You mean why were the police at their house?’

O’Riordan raised one eyebrow. ‘Careless talk costs lives.’

‘It wouldn’t have been Davie. I’m sure of that.’ He took a mouthful of whiskey and rinsed it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Paulie’s gone, you said?’

‘We’ve sent a solicitor to the family, and he’s trying to find out where he is. But we don’t think the RUC have got him any more.’