Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“Take a seat,” said Sheldon, waving Howard to the chair next to Kelly. Kelly moved her chair sideways as Howard sat down as if distancing herself from him. “Kelly was just filling me in on your progress,” Sheldon continued. Howard smiled tightly. The computer-enhanced pictures were spread out across Sheldon’s desk.

“The young one, the one without the radio, used the name Justin Davies on a credit card and driving licence when he booked a rental car,” said Kelly. “His prints were in the car and on the rental agreement he signed. We’re running the prints through our files now. The other credit card and licence were in the name of Peter Arnold but there were no prints on his rental agreement, or his car. His was the car that had been cleaned.”

“And we can definitely place those cars at the scene?” Howard asked.

Kelly nodded. “Forensics had made casts of the tyre tracks they found close to what was left of the towers and we have a match with the rental cars.”

Howard nodded thoughtfully, barely managing to conceal his annoyance. Kelly should have reported to him before briefing Sheldon. “Were the car hire people able to identify any of the photographs?” he asked.

“No, the pictures from the video were too blurred to be of any real help,” Kelly said.

Sheldon turned to Howard. “Did you have any luck with your sniping expert?”

Howard nodded. “It looks as if we’re dealing with military-trained snipers. And I’ve a possible identification of two rifles involved.”

“How will that help?” asked Sheldon.

“Snipers have favourite weapons, it seems,” said Howard. “And one of the rifles, a Barrett it’s called, is quite unusual. I’ve got the name of a SEAL sniper who is an expert with that weapon. I’m planning to approach all the armed forces for any snipers not accounted for.”

“It’s a pity we can’t do more with the photographs,” said Sheldon. “From what Kelly tells me, even the improved ones your father-in-law has supplied aren’t clear enough to make a positive identification.”

“He tells me his researchers should have something more for me sometime this week,” said Howard. “We’re also tracking down the credit cards used to hire the car, right, Kelly?”

“Already in hand,” said Kelly. “The Justin Davies credit card was used to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles on US Air and for a number of purchases since. We’re concentrating the search in California.”

Howard gave them a rundown on his meeting with Andy Kim and Sheldon agreed to contact the Washington office and request that as many computer programmers as possible be seconded to the laboratory. “We’re going to need more manpower here in Phoenix, too,” he added. “I’m going to get McGrath to help Kelly out on the credit card side,” Sheldon said to Howard. “Do you need any help?”

Howard thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I can handle it,” he said. “Though I’d like to make contact myself with the Secret Service’s White House office.”

Sheldon agreed. “Let me speak to them first,” he said. “The Secret Service is always a bit touchy where protocol is concerned. I’ll get someone to call you.” He leant back in his chair. “Right, let’s get to it.” He smiled warmly at the two agents, though Howard had the distinct impression that it was meant more for Kelly than for him.

Joker pulled the metal tab on a can of Guinness and sipped the dark brew as he watched the game. Gaelic football took the most aggressive aspects of soccer, rugby and all-in wrestling and was played as much for the physical contact as for the score. The lunchtime matches in the park in the Bronx were a magnet for New York’s Irish community, and for those native New Yorkers who appreciated the finer points of grown men knocking the shit out of each other. It was a warm day and Joker had unbuttoned his pea jacket. Birds were singing in the tree branches overhead and he’d actually seen people smiling in the street as if they realised that summer wasn’t too far away. Joker walked over to a wooden bench and sat down next to a man in a blue anorak who was reading a newspaper. The man looked up as if defending his territory and Joker smiled and raised his can. “Do yer mind if I sit here?” he asked. The man shook his head and went back to his paper. Joker concentrated on the game. Most of the shouts he heard, from the players and from the spectators, were Irish, and he saw several bottles of Irish whiskey being handed around.

Joker wasn’t due behind the bar at Filbin’s until three o’clock and so he’d decided to leave Manhattan and cross to the Bronx. It was a pleasant enough borough in places and in some ways it reminded him of Glasgow, struggling to outgrow an image of deprivation and poverty which it no longer deserved. He’d spent most of his teenage years in Glasgow, and learnt to love it despite its rough edges, but it seemed that whenever he talked about the city to those who had never been there, the talk always turned to the Gorbals and the razor gangs. Joker had grown tired of explaining that the decaying tenement blocks of the Gorbals had long been torn down and that the bad guys in Glasgow now carried automatic weapons like bad guys everywhere.

Joker took a mouthful of Guinness and swallowed slowly, enjoying the taste and feel of the thick, malty brew. Joker had read that pregnant mothers used to be given a half pint of the Irish stout when they were in British hospitals, it was so full of vitamins and goodness. As he drank he looked over at the paper his neighbour was reading. It was the Belfast Telegraph. Joker began reading the headlines and the man looked up, an angry frown on his face. Joker looked away. He stood up and walked around the pitch, scanning faces and listening to accents, trying to pick up any information which would give him a lead to Matthew Bailey’s whereabouts. He recognised two men from Filbin’s; he didn’t know their names but the tall one with a black, bushy beard and thick eyebrows drank vodka and tonic, the other, red-faced with a paunch that drooped over his belt, preferred Guinness with an occasional malt whisky. One of them waved him over and he joined them. They both knew him by name and they chatted like old drinking buddies. Joker had another can of Guinness in his coat pocket and he offered it to them. The Guinness drinker accepted with a mock bow while the other bemoaned Joker for not carrying vodka and tonic with him. “What sort of fockin’ barman are yez anyway?” he laughed.

Joker confessed that he’d forgotten their names and they introduced themselves: the Guinness drinker was Tom, the other was Billy. As it always did when strangers from Belfast met, the conversation soon turned to the basics: where you went to school, where you lived, and who your family were. The answers to the three questions identified your religion, your politics, and your social standing, and woe betide the Protestant who supplied the wrong answers to a gathering of Catholics, and vice versa. Joker’s cover story was as ingrained as his real childhood, and he had no trouble convincing the two men that he was a working-class Catholic who’d left Belfast for Glasgow while still a teenager.

“What brings you to New York?” Billy asked.

“I was being paid under the table for the past couple of years, and the taxman got on my case,” said Joker, watching the teams run back onto the pitch. “Thought I’d lie low for a while.”

“Aye, it’s in a terrible state, the British economy,” said Tom, wiping white froth from his lips with the back of his hand. “Mind you, it’s not so great here. Yer wuz lucky getting the job at the bar, right enough.”

“Yeah, that was a break,” Joker agreed. “Friend of mine called me some time back, saying it was a good pub to hang out in.” He took a long pull at his Guinness and kept his eyes on the pitch as the game restarted. “Maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”