Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘I want to make a phone call,’ protested Paulie. He was dragged along the corridor and into a room. He was pushed backwards and he fought to keep his balance, but instead of falling to the floor he collapsed into a chair. He heard a door slam and then the hood was ripped off his head.

A man in a dark brown suit was sitting at a table, a notepad in front of him and a fountain pen in his hand. The tie he was wearing had little ducks on it. Paulie blinked and shook his head. He felt sick and he retched and tasted bile in his mouth. ‘Who was with you, Paulie?’ the man asked. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark brown hair that kept falling across his eyes and an upturned, almost feminine nose.

‘Who are you?’ asked Paulie.

‘Who was with you?’

Paulie realised there was another man standing with his back to the door and looked over his shoulder. He was slightly older than the man with the pen, wearing a green tweed jacket and black trousers. In his hand was the hood.

‘I want a solicitor,’ said Paulie.

‘No, you don’t,’ said the man at the door.

‘I want to phone my mum.’

‘Mummy’s boy, are we?’ said the man with the pen.

Paulie’s face flushed. ‘She’ll be worried about me.’

‘She’s going to be even more worried when she finds out what you did.’

‘I didn’t do nothing. Are you the cops?’

The man with the pen smiled and wrote something down on the pad. ‘We know your brother was with you. Who else?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘The truck. The arms. Heavy stuff, Paulie. Very heavy stuff.’

Paulie swallowed. He could still taste the bile and he snorted, trying to clear his throat. ‘I don’t know anything about no arms.’

‘You know a kid died, Paulie?’ Paulie shrugged. ‘We know you were just a hired hand, Paulie. It’s not you we want. It’s the big boys. We want their names.’

‘You know what they do to touts.’

The man with the pen smiled thinly. ‘They’re going to do it to you anyway, Paulie. Unless you help, you’re as good as dead.’

Paulie’s jaw dropped. ‘You can’t keep me here,’ he said.

‘Oh yes we can,’ said the man at the door. ‘Besides, you’re here for your own protection.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘They know we’ve got you, Paulie,’ said the man with the pen. ‘And they know you’ll talk. You think they trust you to keep quiet? A boy like you?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Paulie. They think you’re spilling your guts right now. And the longer we keep you, the more they’re going to be convinced that you’re talking.’

‘You’re not the police?’ Paulie knew they weren’t RUC because the RUC took the IRA volunteers they arrested to their interrogation centre at Castlereagh. And wherever he was being held, it wasn’t Castlereagh. There were no cameras recording the interview and Paulie had been told that the police had to record all their questions.

‘No, we’re not. But we do have the right to screen you prior to RUC interrogation. You’ll know when that happens, Paulie, because you’ll be arrested and they’ll be over you like a rash. You’re better off talking to us, believe me. But if you really want us to hand you over to the RUC, we will.’

Paulie frowned in disbelief. ‘You will?’

The man sat back in his chair and tapped the pen on his notepad. ‘Sure. We could arrange that right now.’

Paulie stood up. ‘Okay. That’s what I want.’ The overalls were flapping around his legs and the sleeves hung down over his hands.

‘I can assure you that within twelve hours of putting you into police custody, you’ll be dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘The IRA won’t risk letting you live, Paulie. I can guarantee it. They’ll protect the big boys.’

‘Bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Paulie, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Who are you anyway?’

The man with the pen smiled. ‘Five,’ he said quietly. ‘MI5.’

Paulie felt his legs go weak. He sat down and ran his hands through his greasy, unwashed hair.

‘How’s that?’ shouted Cramer, standing with his hand on the door handle of the gleaming grey Mercedes 560 SEL.

‘Too posed,’ answered the photographer from the second- floor window. ‘Look to your right, then slowly move your head back.’ Cramer did as he was told amid a series of clicks and whirrs from the camera’s motordrive. ‘Better,’ shouted the photographer. ‘Okay, Su-ming, you can get out of the car now.’ Su-ming opened the car door and climbed out, a bored look on her face. The camera clicked again.

The Colonel stood at the entrance to the building, leaning on his stick and watching. Allan moved to stand in front of Cramer as if shielding him. The camera clicked again, like an automatic weapon firing rapidly. The Colonel stepped onto the gravelled drive and looked up at the photographer. ‘Get the driver as well, will you?’ he shouted. ‘And make sure Su-ming is in all the shots.’

‘Yes, boss,’ the photographer answered.

Martin was sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands on the wheel. He climbed out of the Mercedes and went to stand next to Cramer and Allan. Su-ming brought up the rear. Above the Colonel’s head, the camera continued to click. It was vital for the photographs to look as if they’d been taken at long range and without the knowledge of the subjects.

The two bodyguards were wearing lightweight bullet-proof vests under their shirts. The vests were barely noticeable, but the Colonel knew that the assassin was a professional. He’d realise that they were wearing body armour and shoot accordingly. The Colonel hadn’t mentioned the fact to Allan and Martin but they were professionals too, and were well aware of the risks they were running. The tailored suits looked well on Cramer, as if he belonged in a boardroom and not in a hospital bed. Cramer wasn’t wearing a bullet-proof vest. There was no point. The assassin’s first shot at his intended target was always to the face.

It was a two-bedroomed flat on the second floor of a Maida Vale apartment block. The flat was long and thin and Dermott Lynch had to walk through the kitchen to get to his bedroom. The room was about the size of a prison cell, three paces by two paces, with a wooden bed, a built-in wardrobe and a single chair.

‘It’s not the Savoy,’ said the man who was showing Lynch around. He was a building contractor originally from Castlebar in County Mayo, a squat man with wide shoulders, a ready smile and a tendency to crack bad jokes. His name was Eamonn Foley and ten years previously he’d lived in Belfast and had been active in the IRA, mainly fundraising and helping to launder the organisation’s illicit revenues. He’d continued to offer whatever support he could after he’d moved to London.

‘It’s fine,’ said Lynch, dropping his suitcase onto the bed.

‘Any idea how long you’ll be staying?’ Foley asked.

‘I’ll be moving on in a week or so. Is that a problem?’

‘Stay as long as you want, Dermott. Mi casa es tu casa .’

Lynch looked out through the window at the gardens below. A small boy was playing on a swing, kicking his legs up in the air as he swung to and fro. He wondered how old the boy was. Probably the same age as the Reed kid.

‘Tea?’ asked Foley behind him.

‘Sounds good. Why don’t I make it?’ Lynch had drunk Foley’s tea before and it wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

The pony kept pulling to the right and it took all the little girl’s strength to keep it heading straight for the fence. She kicked it hard in the flanks with her heels and the pony snorted and jumped, clearing the red and white striped bar with inches to spare. The girl reined the pony to a halt, her face flushed with excitement. The spectators burst into applause at the announcement that it had been a clear round, the first of the afternoon.