Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

‘This Cramer. Describe him.’ McCormack sat hunched over the phone as he made notes on a sheet of paper, the fly forgotten.

‘Just over six feet tall, thin but looks like he can take care of himself, you know. Deep-set eyes, his nose is sort of hooked and looks like it might’ve been broken. Brown hair, a bit long. His accent is all over the place, but he’s definitely not Irish. He told Padraig he was from Scotland originally.’

‘Did he tell Padraig what he was doing in Howth?’

‘Enjoying the sea air is all he said. What do you think, Thomas? Did I do the right thing calling you?’

‘Oh yes,’ said McCormack. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you did the right thing all right. Now listen to me, Aidan, and listen well. Stay where you are. I’ll have someone down there as soon as possible. Make sure no one goes near him, I don’t want anyone asking him questions. I don’t want him frightened off, okay?’

‘Sure. But I don’t think your man’s going anywhere. He’s well settled in at the cottage.’

McCormack replaced the receiver and sat staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Cramer the Sass-man back in Ireland, sitting in a pub as if he didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t make any sense at all.

The young man slowed the blue Citron to a walking pace as he scrutinised the numbers on the houses. ‘There it is,’ he said to his passenger. ‘Number sixteen.’

‘What’s the guy’s name?’ asked the passenger, a redhead in his late teens, pale skinned with watery green eyes.

‘Twomey. Aidan Twomey.’

‘Never heard of him.’

The driver stopped the car and turned to look at his passenger. ‘Yeah, well he’s probably not heard of you either, Paulie. The difference is, Aidan Twomey did a tenner in the Kesh for the Cause and he’s got McCormack’s ear, so I’d be careful what you say, you hear?’

Paulie held his hands up in surrender. ‘I hear you, Davie. Jesus, you’re touchy today.’

Davie shrugged. He was a couple of years older than Paulie and since their father had died he’d become accustomed to being the man of the family. He ran his hand through his thick, sandy hair. ‘This is important, Paulie. We can’t afford to fuck up.’

‘We won’t,’ said Paulie. He opened the glove compartment and took out a revolver, checking that all the chambers were loaded. It was an old gun and had once belonged to their father, though it had never been used in anger. For the last five years it had lain under the attic floorboards, wrapped in an oiled rag.

‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ hissed Davie.

‘We might need it.’

‘McCormack said we were to watch and report on this guy until the boys get here.’

‘So?’

‘So the word was watch, not shoot. We won’t be needing a gun, Paulie.’ He took it from his brother and shoved it under the front seat. ‘McCormack would have your balls if we got caught with that.’

‘Who’s gonna catch us? This isn’t the North.’

Davie glared at him. ‘Just do as you’re told, will you? We watch, we wait, and that’s it.’

‘Then the boys from Belfast get the glory?’

‘That’s the way it goes. Don’t you worry, our turn will come.’ He climbed out of the car and walked down the path to the front door of the pretty bungalow with its views of the sea below. The garden was well-ordered, the grass neatly clipped and there was a stone bird bath in the centre of the lawn. Paulie followed him, glowering resentfully.

Davie rang the doorbell and the front door opened imamediately. Twomey squinted at his two visitors as if he needed spectacles. ‘Hello, boys, your dad’s in the car, is he?’

‘No, we’re. .’ began Paulie, but Davie silenced him with a baleful stare.

‘Thomas sent us,’ said Davie.

‘Oh, it’s Thomas is it, not Mr McCormack?’ said Twomey. He grinned impishly. ‘I’m only messing with yer, lads, come on in.’

He ushered them into his sitting room and poured them large measures of whiskey without asking. He handed them brimming glasses and sat down on a flower-printed sofa. ‘Is it just the two of you, then?’ he asked.

‘There are four coming from Belfast,’ said Davie.

‘Do you know their names?’

Davie shook his head. He felt his cheeks redden as he realised it was a sign of how low down he was in the organisation. ‘Thomas wanted us to keep tabs on the Sass-man until they get here.’

Twomey drained his glass. ‘I’d best be showing you where he is, then. We’ll use my car. I’ll get my coat, it looks like it’s going to rain.’

Mike Cramer stood on the sea wall, his back to the harbour. His face was dripping wet and when he licked his lips he tasted the tang of salt. Through the misty rain he could see the huge hump of quartzite rock called Ireland’s Eye, sitting in the boiling sea like a massive iceberg. The rain lashed against his face but it was a fine spray rather than a soaking downpour. If it hadn’t been for the chill wind it would have been refreshing.

The wall curved around the marina, sheltering the yachts from the rough water, and at the far end was a lighthouse, its beam already flashing out to sea, guiding the fishing boats home. A black Labrador, its fur shining wet, walked over and sniffed at Cramer’s boots, wagging its tail. Cramer patted it on the head absent-mindedly. He turned to walk back along the wall to the harbour. A solitary car was parked in the yacht club. There were three men sitting in it, an old man and two who couldn’t have been much more than teenagers. ‘It’s started,’ he said to the dog. The dog growled as if he understood, and Cramer smiled. An old man and two kids. There’d be more on the way, guaranteed.

The uniformed cop pushed back his wooden chair and stretched out his long legs. He yawned and turned to watch a pretty black nurse walk down the corridor. Her hips swayed sexily and as she turned a corner she looked over her shoulder and grinned. The cop grinned back. A cup of cold coffee sat untouched by the side of his chair, next to the afternoon edition of the Baltimore Sun .

The cop stood up and arched his back. He didn’t enjoy sitting for long periods, especially in the corridor of a crowded hospital. He hated hospitals. When his turn came to die, he hoped it would be out in the street or between the sheets with a hot blonde, not in some antiseptic white-painted room with tubes running into his veins and a stinking bedpan on the floor. He shuddered involuntarily. This was no time to be thinking about death.

The elevator doors at the end of the corridor hissed open and a young doctor in a white coat stepped out. He was tall with a shock of black hair that kept falling over his eyes as he walked towards the uniformed cop. He was carrying a small stainless steel tray covered with a white cloth. The cop nodded a greeting, and the doctor made to go past. The cop held up a hand to stop him. ‘Whoa there, partner,’ he said.

The doctor frowned. He was wearing wire-framed spectacles and he squinted as if he wasn’t used to them. ‘I have to take a blood sample,’ he said impatiently. The cop studied the plastic-covered identification badge pinned to the top pocket of the doctor’s white coat. The small colour photograph matched the man’s face. John Theobald, MD. Cardiovascular Department. ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ said the cop.

‘That’s not really my problem, is it?’ said the doctor. ‘Now are you going to let me get to my patient, or not?’

‘He’s not your patient, though, is he?’ asked the cop. He tapped the clipboard he was carrying. ‘Your name isn’t on the list of approved medical personnel.’ He gingerly lifted the cloth and peered under it. On the tray lay a disposable syringe, a couple of cotton wool balls and a small bottle of antiseptic.