Stephen Leather - The Double Tap

Lynch dropped the spoon and rushed into the sitting room. Marie was standing at the window, looking out. He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. Down below in the street a police car had stopped behind the Ford Sierra. A uniformed policewoman was talking to a dark-haired woman with a dog while her colleague was bending down and examining the boot. ‘Shit,’ cursed Lynch.

‘Is it yours?’ asked Marie. ‘What’s he looking for?’

Lynch didn’t reply. He turned away from the window and went to the spare room. He retrieved the handgun from under the bed and pulled out the magazine. He checked the firing mechanism, then slotted the magazine back in and made sure that the safety was on. Marie walked into the room and stopped dead when she saw the gun. ‘You brought a gun into my house?’ she asked.

‘Marie, love, I didn’t have any choice.’ He slid the gun down the back of his trousers, then pulled on his jacket, so that it covered the weapon.

‘Is the car stolen?’ she asked.

Lynch walked past her and back into the sitting room. He stood at the side of the window and looked down. The policeman was peering through the rear window of the car, the policewoman was talking into her radio as the woman with the dog stood behind her, looking at her wristwatch. He wasn’t sure how much to tell Marie. She’d offered to help and she knew that he was an IRA volunteer, but he didn’t know how she’d react to the news that he’d killed five men and that one of them was in the boot of the Ford Sierra. ‘Yeah, it’s stolen. And my prints are all over it.’ He pounded the wall with the flat of his hand. ‘Hell, I shouldn’t have left the car there. I shouldn’t have hung around here, I should have legged it.’

‘Thanks, Dermott. Thanks a bunch.’

Lynch turned and went over to Marie and put his arms around her. ‘Hey now, love, that’s not what I meant. I’m just angry at myself, that’s all.’ He rested his chin on top of her head, his mind racing. The Russian gun was also in the boot of the car, next to Foley’s body. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He’d left the clean gun in the car and was carrying just about the hottest weapon in the country shoved down the back of his pants. The police would match the bullet that killed Foley to the bullets that had killed the IRA hit team. Then they’d go through Foley’s place and his own prints would be all over the back bedroom. ‘I’m going to have to go,’ he said.

‘I’ll come with you.’ She said the words urgently, and she held him close as if afraid that he’d push her away.

‘This is going to get really messy, love,’ he said.

‘Are you still going after Cramer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me come with you.’

Lynch closed his eyes. He could smell the apple fragrance of her shampoo and something that reminded him of a field in summer. She was so fresh, so young. She didn’t realise what she was asking. ‘No, love. I can’t. It’s too dangerous.’ He unpeeled her arms from around his waist and went back to the window. The policeman was down on his knees, sniffing at the boot. Lynch wondered if he’d try to force it open or if they’d call out a locksmith. Either way, he didn’t have long. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated. He patted down his pockets, checking that he had the two wallets and the money that Marie had given him.

‘You won’t stand a chance on your own,’ she said. ‘They’ll be looking for you. But if I was with you. .’

‘They’d miss you at work.’

‘I can call in sick.’

‘They’ll be starting a house-to-house search soon.’

‘All the more reason for me not to be here. We can use my car.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘No, I’m not crazy, Dermott. This man Cramer destroyed my family, and I’ll do anything I can to help you get him.’ She stood before him, her hands defiantly on her hips, her chin up like a boxer at a weigh-in.

Lynch smiled.

‘Damn you, Dermott, what are you grinning at?’

‘I was just thinking how like your mother you are.’

‘Don’t try to sweet talk me.’

Lynch held up his hands as if trying to ward her off. ‘I’m not.’

‘We can use my car. I can help, Dermott. And I want to.’

Lynch narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. He genuinely didn’t want to get her involved, but she did have a point: the police would be looking for a man travelling alone. And there was another advantage in having her with him, for a while at least. It wouldn’t be long before details of the Maida Vale killings and the body in the car boot were made public, and it would be useful to see how Marie reacted to the news. It was one thing to offer her help, quite another for her to accept that she was tied in to five murders. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But just until I’m safely out of London. Then we split up.’

Marie grinned. ‘Deal,’ she said. She took a battered sheepskin jacket from a closet and disappeared into her bedroom. Lynch paced up and down nervously until she reappeared with a large Harrods carrier bag.

Lynch raised an eyebrow. ‘Marie, love, I said you’re driving me out of London. That’s all.’

‘Relax, Dermott. It’s cover. It’s far less suspicious if I’m carrying something.’ She opened the front door and ushered him out.

‘Where’s the car?’ he asked, as they walked downstairs.

‘Around the corner,’ she said. She opened the front door. As they stepped onto the pavement a second police car went by and Lynch turned away so that the occupants wouldn’t see his face. Marie looked over her shoulder. ‘Don’t look,’ hissed Lynch.

She jerked her head around. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

Lynch forced himself to walk slowly, trying to make it look as if they were nothing more sinister than a married couple going shopping. ‘Give me the keys,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive.’

She did as he asked. The keys were on a keyring with a tiny teddy bear attached. ‘Down here,’ she said, leading him into a side road. Lynch relaxed a little as they turned the corner, out of sight of the policemen.

Marie’s car was a red Golf GTI convertible. She climbed in and sat next to Lynch. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked as Lynch started the engine.

‘Wales,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder and drove away from the kerb.

Cramer, Allan and Martin stood behind a long table as they checked their weapons: Cramer his Walther PPK, Allan his Glock 18 and Martin his Heckler amp; Koch VP70. ‘Okay?’ Allan asked and the two other men nodded. They turned as one, raised their guns and fired at the line of cardboard targets, emptying their clips as quickly as possible. Cramer finished first because the much smaller PPK only held seven cartridges. Martin was the last to stop firing as his weapon held eighteen.

Cramer’s ears were ringing as they walked forward to check their accuracy. Allan had refused ear plugs or protectors so that they would get used to being under fire. It was hell on his eardrums, but Cramer knew that Allan was right; unless he was used to the sound of gunfire, his first reaction would be to flinch and to close his eyes and, with the assassin moving towards him, the slightest delay would be fatal. All of Cramer’s shots were dead centre.

Allan slapped him on the back. ‘Good shooting, Mike.’ He looked across at Martin’s target and pulled a face. ‘Fuck me, Martin, is your blood sugar low or something?’

Martin sniffed. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.

‘Bad? It’s crap.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not going to be firing at paper terrorists, am I? I was never that hot on the range.’

‘You can say that again.’ Allan began to stick small black paper circles over the holes made by the bullets.

‘Yeah, but I was shit hot in the Killing House, wasn’t I?’