Undercover Page 15

  "That won't happen. These people are after Rory for some reason. Once they've got what they want, they'll be done with me."

  "They're after money, Lydia, pure and simple," McGoldrick said. "And Rory Cullen's their latest meal ticket."

  McGoldrick's tone had a real edge to it and once again Lydia wondered why the old Scot wanted to get anywhere near the whole mess. It wasn't personal and it didn't really take anything out of his pocket. Rory's potential earning power wouldn't be affected if he got cleaned out. And no matter how McGoldrick played it, Lydia didn't believe he had an altruistic bone in his body. He'd an angle to work, she just hadn't figured out what it was yet.

  "Look here," Stephen Black said, "we're just a stone's throw away from where our friends are holed up. Seems foolish to turn back now. I assure you, Mrs Gallagher, you have nothing to fear. I'll just perform a brief recce, report back to you and then we can decide what to do next. A little game of peek-a-boo, so to speak."

  "We might not get another chance," McGoldrick said.

  She could feel their anticipation. They wanted action. Craved it. It was a Venus and Mars thing. In their minds they were presented with a problem and now they had a slim chance at a solution. A terrible weariness descended on her and at that moment all she wanted to do was be still. This was a new kind of helplessness. She'd been at the mercy of the kidnappers for too long and now these men, well meaning as they might or might not be, wanted to tackle the situation. Try to fix things. She didn't have the energy to fight them any more.

  The Vectra rolled into a parking space on a residential street. Stephen Black turned off the engine.

  "We're here, Mrs Gallagher," Stephen Black said. "Rory's Land Rover is parked nearby, if his GPS signal is accurate. I'd wager that the quarry is in that most attractive block of flats to our right. Say the word and I'll get to work."

  Lydia gave the four-storey building a once over. White PVC windows, red brick balconies, rusted satellite dishes. There had to be fifty homes crammed into it.

  "The words needle and haystack come to mind," she said. "How are you meant to find them?"

  "I've a hunch that the black Land Rover by those saplings is Mr Cullen's."

  She spotted Rory's car among a small fleet of less conspicuous hatchbacks and saloons. It'd been parked in a space that was almost sheltered by a plot of shrubbery and three young trees. A couple of teenage boys dressed in branded sportswear eyeballed the Land Rover from the doorway of the closest ground floor flat.

  "And I'd bet that those young rogues over there have been paid by somebody to see it comes to no harm." Stephen Black rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. "A higher bidder could easily extract a little inside knowledge from them."

  "What do you say, Lydia?" McGoldrick asked. "You going to sign off on a little detective work here?"

  She doubted they would take heed of her if she said no. It was time to relent.

  "Do what you want, Mr Black. Just make sure you do it well."

  Chapter 18

  I was surprised to see so many of my contemporaries on Twitter. I didn't think a lot of them could read, never mind figure out how to use a computer.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Lydia watched the man tumble over the low balcony wall and plummet. It looked so slow and maddeningly preventable, like a vase toppling from a shelf. He'd crashed through the front door of the flat Stephen Black had broken into just a few seconds previously. Lydia had thought it reckless behaviour on the ex-spook's part but held her tongue. The lights had been off and Stephen Black had spoken to the dodgy-looking youths from the ground floor before venturing up to the flat they'd pointed to. She assumed that they'd told him the place was unoccupied and he'd decided to investigate. No such luck.

  She felt a strange lightness in her lungs as she traced the man's descent from the top floor of the block of flats, like millions of little hands were pushing her diaphragm upwards. And she must have heard the crack of every broken bone on impact. She briefly wondered if a man could survive a four-storey drop. Then the screaming began. The faller wasn't dead but it sounded like he wanted to be.

  "Oh my God," Lydia said. "Who's that?"

  McGoldrick looked over his shoulder. "Don't worry. He's no friend of ours."

  She wanted to vomit but her stomach was empty.

  Stephen Black emerged from the flat, silenced pistol in his right hand, pointed at the starless sky. His head whipped from left to right before he stepped forward and looked over the balcony at the screeching man below. It was hard to tell for sure from their vantage point, but Lydia suspected the little mystery man was smiling. He turned and went back into the flat.

  "What the fuck is the mad bastard doing?" Rory asked.

  "His job," McGoldrick said. "Don't worry. He'll be fine."

  "Fuck him," Lydia said, "what about my family?"

  Rory reached out his bound hands to take hers. She flapped him away. Fuck your consolation, Rory.

  "This is all about your family," McGoldrick said.

  "You sure about that, McGoldrick?"

  The old Scot didn't react to the jagged edge in Lydia's voice. His whole demeanour was boardroom cool.

  "That guy's no daftie, Lydia. He'll get what he needs here then cover his tracks. We've just taken the first step towards getting your husband and son back."

  She clenched her teeth against a tide of abuse. Better to store it up and allow an eruption at a more opportune moment. Most likely in a violent manifestation. The recipient was still to be determined, but at that moment, McGoldrick and Stephen Black were high up on her list. She reined in the rage like only a protective mother could. Watched the flat's door.

  The man who'd fallen from the balcony had stopped screaming. It didn't bode well for him. Then it registered with Lydia that none of the residents of the block of flats had gone out to see what had happened. They'd probably written it off as a gang stabbing and didn't want to get into the middle of it.

  Less than a minute later, Stephen Black sprang from the shadows with a backpack slung over one shoulder. He raced along the balcony towards the communal stairway and spiralled downwards. Then he was out in the open. He went directly to the silent man on the ground, regarded him for a heartbeat and pointed his elongated pistol at him.

  The muzzle flashed. Phut. Phut. Stephen Black's victim jerked twice. Rory made a choked noise. A failed scream. Lydia accepted his hands when he offered them for the second time. McGoldrick seemed unfazed by the coldblooded murder.

  Stephen Black got into the car and handed the backpack to McGoldrick. The swarthy little man twisted in the driver seat to look at Lydia and Rory. His eyes were bright and wide, his face radiant, his breath slightly hitched. He could have been out for a brisk walk around the park.

  "I think we'll get a lot out of that little manoeuvre," Stephen Black said. "Got a bagful of goodies."

  "You killed that man," Lydia said.

  "It was a mercy killing. He'd have died of internal injuries sooner or later after his nasty drop."

  "It's not like the guy jumped off the balcony, though," Rory said. "You must have pushed him."

  "Self defence, I assure you."

  "We can talk about this later," McGoldrick said. "Get us out of here."

  Stephen Black gunned the engine and drove out of his kerbside parking space with all the lackadaisical calm of a Sunday driver.

  "Did you kill the other one too?" Lydia asked.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "I met two men in biker gear earlier and the same two men came to Rory's house to steal the safe. Was the other one in the flat?"

  "He was well hidden if he was."

  "So it's only a matter of time before the second guy sends word back to Belfast about this..."

  No attempt at assurance was offered.

  "You realise that you two are responsible for whatever harm comes to my family now, don't you?"

  Rory wiggled his hand out of Lydia's tightened grip. The men in
the front said nothing.

  ###

  It took them fifteen minutes and three separate sets of directions to locate Donna in the hospital. The Royal was basically two buildings meshed together, one modern and one ancient, and some of the floor numbers didn't even match up. Take the stairs to the second floor in the new building and you could find yourself on the sixth when you navigated your way to the old one – without mounting a single step.

  John Gallagher lay shirtless on a cot, his wound sewn up but not dressed. Yellow dye stained the area around the stitches. Donna stood by his side. She made an adjustment to John's IV drip then faced Cormac.

  "How's he doing?" Cormac asked.

  "Surprisingly well. The wound's clean and he's been pumped full of antibiotics and painkillers. In a few days, maybe a week, we can think about sending him to a hospital across the water, get him closer to home."

  "A week? I don't think that's a good idea. O'Neill's men will be looking for us."

  "What can I tell you? He needs time to recover."

  "But surely he'll need to disappear before people start asking you awkward questions."

  "He's had surgery, Cormac. The awkward questions have begun. No doubt the police will be along soon to find out who he is and why he's been shot."

  "They've called this in?"

  Donna shrugged. "I didn't ask them to, but..."

  "We have to leave now."

  John moaned and shifted in his cot.

  Donna's brow furrowed. She spared her patient a quick glance then returned her focus to Cormac: "That's not happening."

  "O'Neill has somebody feeding him information from my unit. If they're even half-awake and John's name comes up in a police report, the goon-squad will be here ahead of whatever pair of uniforms they send this way. You want to explain to them what's best for your patient?"

  "Fuck's sake, Cormac."

  "What can I say, Donna? We need to get moving." Cormac waved his hand at the IV and heart monitor setup. "How much of that stuff is portable?"

  "We can't just wheel him out of—"

  "This isn't a discussion. Gather up whatever you need. Mattie can help you carry some of it. I'll scope the way ahead. We're leaving this minute."

  "In what? We can't fit all this stuff in my car."

  "I'll get something sorted. Meet me at the Falls Road entrance."

  "Cormac—"

  He didn't have time to argue. The door swung shut behind him and cut off Donna's protests. He headed directly for the set of lifts at the end of the narrow corridor. The disinfectant smell of hospital intensified. His footsteps were impossibly loud. He tried to tread lighter without sacrificing speed.

  Cormac got to the lift without incident. He mumbled prayers and threats until the door pinged open. Inside the lift he jabbed at the buttons and willed the piece-of-shit to hurry the fuck up. Every second lost lessened their chances of getting out. The lift juddered to a halt and Cormac entertained images of a dozen cops fanned out on the other side of the sliding doors, weapons drawn. The metal slabs drew back to reveal a porter with an empty trolley. Cormac nodded at the little man in the blue uniform and breezed past him. No cops at the information desk. He jogged to the automatic doors ahead of him. Cold air whooshed in from the street. He stepped outside and scanned the main road.

  No cops.

  He didn't like that feeling. Relief over the absence of his colleagues. It made him think that he'd crossed a line and there was little chance he could turn back.

  Cormac shook his head as if to dislodge his doubts. He had to concentrate on the task at hand. They needed to transport an injured man without causing him further damage. Hijacking a car was out of the question...

  An ambulance pulled up to the kerb in front of him. It seemed like a no-brainer. Cormac reached into his jacket and curled his fingers around the handle of his Glock. He stepped up to the passenger-side door and tugged it open. A pair of beefy paramedics gaped at him, too shocked by his sudden intrusion to form words.

  "I hate to have to do this, lads."

  Cormac pulled out his gun.

  ###

  Stephen Black parked his Vauxhall Vectra under the overhang of the very strange architectural decision that was the Peckham Library. The building was shaped like a top-heavy Tetris block; a chunky L-shape turned on its head. Load-bearing beams supported the upper floors, defiant of gravity. The library was closed for the night but Lydia had to question Stephen Black's logic.

  "This isn't really an inconspicuous place to park, is it?"

  "There's a lot to be said for hiding in plain sight," he said. "Don't fret. We won't be here very long. Fascinating building, though, isn't it?"

  "What's in the backpack?" Lydia asked.

  McGoldrick unzipped it and reached inside. He pulled out a laptop and a mobile phone.

  "I imagine we'll find some pertinent information on those," Stephen Black said.

  McGoldrick booted up the laptop and gave it to Stephen Black. It loaded quickly and he started to flick through various programs.

  "Looks like they've already emailed your information to somebody, Rory old chap."

  Rory cursed. "They didn't hang around, did they?"

  "No, but at least the damage can be somewhat contained now. We'll concentrate on the more pressing matters first." He looked pointedly at Lydia. "And you can get some financially-minded people to sort out this rotten mess in the next few days."

  Stephen Black went back to the keyboard.

  "What are you doing now?" Lydia asked.

  "Availing of the rather excellent Wi-Fi connection this area provides. It's amazing what you can find out about somebody who hasn't the wherewithal to delete their internet browser history."

  "Anything useful?"

  "In the right hands, this could provide an entire legal case. In the short term..." Stephen Black rattled out another burst on the keyboard. "Does the name Ambrose O'Neill mean anything to either of you?"

  It didn't.

  "Well judging by the email activity here he's quite central to all of this. I'll run his name by some contacts and see how he might be linked to our cocaine king, Martin Rooney."

  "How long will that take?" Lydia asked.

  "More than a few minutes, less than a few hours I would imagine. I'll make the call in a moment. Could you hand me that mobile phone, please?"

  McGoldrick passed him the handset.

  Stephen Black thumbed a few buttons and clacked his tongue off the roof of his mouth. "No numbers in the contact list. Just a few in the recent call log." He handed the phone to Lydia. "Any of these yours?"

  "Yeah, the top one." She noted the time of the call and handed the phone back to him. "They used this to call me before they raided Rory's house."

  "I'll arrange a trace on the other numbers in the log. Maybe we'll be fortunate and one of them will lead us to your family."

  "You can do that?" Rory asked.

  "Quite easily, yes."

  This is all a little too good to be true, Lydia thought.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, time is of the essence." Stephen Black opened his door and moved to leave the car.

  "Why can't you make the call here?" Lydia asked.

  "In my line of work discretion is paramount. It's best if I conduct certain things out of earshot." He waggled his fingers in a limp-wristed wave and got out of the car. Then he marched swiftly to a curved bench beyond the shadow of the library's overhang.

  Rory loosed a blast of air through pursed lips. "He's good isn't he?"

  "The best," McGoldrick said.

  Lydia watched him through her window. He gesticulated with his left hand as he spoke on his own phone, the other handset balanced on a thin thigh. "I don't like him."

  "That's all right," McGoldrick said. "He'll help you anyway."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm paying him to."

  "And again, I have to ask, why would you do that for me?"

  "I just want to help you get your family back, Lydia.
Is that so hard to believe?"

  Lydia left the question unanswered. Whether or not McGoldrick's motives were true, at that moment trusting him was her only option.

  Chapter 19

  I suppose talent has a lot to do with success. But you can't rely solely on it. I find the more I practice, the harder I train, the more talented I get.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  Declan Canavan's face filled up the little square window set in his front door. Cormac gave it a second for the disgust to register on the fat man's face then he tapped the glass with the muzzle of his Glock. The door opened and Canavan dragged Cormac into the hallway, his meaty hands clamped on Cormac's shoulders. Cormac pressed his gun into one of Canavan's jowls.

  "I don't have time to fuck around, Canavan. Let go of me."

  "Get that gun out of my face before I shove it up your hole."

  Cormac twisted in Canavan's grip then laid his free hand on the big bulldog's sternum and shoved. Canavan stumbled back a few steps. Cormac pointed his gun to the floor as a show of good faith.

  "I need your help."

  "Fuck off, Kelly. You've already worn out your welcome here."

  "I'm not asking. You're going to help me whether you like it or not."

  "No, I'm going to turn you in. You think I haven't heard about your capers? Best thing you can do is head straight to the station and give yourself up."

  "I'd be more worried if you'd thought to answer the door with a gun in your hand. I've got the drop on you without even trying."

  "And what if one of the boys shows up here? That's you fucked."

  "You better hope that doesn't happen. I'm willing to take you down with me."

  Canavan pointed a thick finger at Cormac. "That's me and you done, dickhead. You've run out of credit with me."

  "Shut the fuck up and listen to me."

  Cormac spoke fast. He told Canavan that John Gallagher was in the back of an ambulance parked a few streets away. Cormac had driven him to the closest place to the hospital that he could think of. It wasn't ideal but he knew that Canavan wouldn't turn them away. They needed a place to lie low until Cormac could get in touch with Lydia and figure out what to do next.