Undercover (11 page)

Lydia ran a hand through her hair. The constant rumble and whine from the road works clamoured. McGoldrick's parting words rankled. A chill wind nipped the dry, cracked skin at the corners of her mouth. Rory wasn't going to give up on the idea of a celebratory drink. There was no point arguing. She turned sharply and stopped at a pedestrian crossing, ready to lead the way to The Toucan. Something bounced off the side of her face.

She had just enough time to realise that she'd cut off a hurried pedestrian before a man in a black woollen hat stepped around her and stormed off without a word. Rory found his voice as the hunched figure hurried down the street with his hands jammed into the pockets of a black military-style jacket. Lydia cringed when Rory cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Watch where you're fucking going, mate."

"Rory, leave it." She checked the inner pocket of her business suit jacket to make sure it hadn't been dipped. The phone was still there. "
I
bumped into
him
."

"Aye, but the bastard didn't even take a second to see if you were okay."

"It's London."

Rory took a deep breath and Lydia braced herself for his next yelled insult. He exhaled with a sigh.

"Thanks, Rory."

"Come on, I want a drink."

She let him take the lead this time. He walked with his arms locked out by his sides and his fists clenched. His vibe wasn't lost on those in his path; couples parted, tourists swerved, and fat city-pigeons fluttered. An illogical way to rage against the ill manners of a pedestrian, but that was Rory through and through.

Imagine what he might do to somebody who really crossed him.

Lydia pushed the thought down deep where it was lost in a boiling pot of stronger emotions.

The Toucan was predictably full and yet nobody seemed to recognise Rory. Unusual, considering the column inches dedicated to his career and personal life in the Red Tops. But then, this wasn't exactly the local working man's boozer. During office hours on a Friday, the bulk of the trade came from tourists who sought the real English experience... in an Irish theme pub. The navvy descendents from the nearby road works had a few hours graft left in them before they could invade the place with their dusty tongues hanging. Lydia hoped to be on her way back to Teddington by then.

They found a spot at the bar just wide enough for two stools, though Rory chose to stand. Lydia adjusted herself on the high stool and wished for longer legs. Her feet hovered an inch above the horizontal pole that served the vertically blessed as a footrest. She crossed her ankles and tried not to fidget.

"Hiya, love. A pint of Guinness and a glass of rosé when you've a minute, please."

Rory's Northern Irish accent cut through the pub's background noise like a nuclear icebreaker ship. It attracted bemused smiles from some of the other patrons, though it had little effect on the barmaid. Lydia noted the piercing blue eyes and sickeningly beautiful sculpted cheekbones. She guessed that the girl was Polish. Would put good money on her being of Eastern European origin at the very least. Then she felt a tinge of guilt at weighing her up on such a flimsy premise.

The rosé came first; the Guinness glass stood half-empty under the pump in the way that Irish, Northern Irish and third-generation-removed-Irish men seemed to think so important. Lydia reached for her glass, raised it, paused and sat it back down. Her gut contracted. Rory, mildly puzzled, frowned.

"I'll wait for you," she said.

He crimped one side of his face. "Aye, dead on."

Lydia didn't know for sure if he was being sarcastic. She could have asked but feared where the question might lead. After her meeting with McGoldrick she didn't want to risk another confrontation. Another few taps and the wall she'd built up would tumble.

"Do you want anything to eat?" Rory asked.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

"Feel free to order something for yourself."

"That'd be weird."

She looked at her glass again. Considered downing the lot in one go. Then maybe she'd order another and tell the possibly-Polish chick to leave the bottle. Something classy like that.

"I need to go to the loo," she said.

Rory shrugged then turned to smile at the barmaid as she delivered the topped-up pint of Guinness.

"What part of Ireland are
you
from?" he asked.

The barmaid leant forward a little as if to share a whispered secret with Rory. Lydia tensed her shoulders in expectation of a much deserved rebuke.

"I'm from the county of Poland," the definitely-Polish chick said. "What part of Scotland are you from, love?"

She made "love" sound like
luff
. Lydia smirked, as much at her own insecurities as the barmaid's sass. Neither Rory nor the Pole paid her much heed as she dropped off the barstool and scoped for a sign leading to the bathroom.

She spotted white text on a green-lit background.
Toilets.
And directly below the little rectangular sign, a man sat at a table on his own. He wore a black military-style jacket and a black woollen hat. Lydia gawped. He waved. She won a brief but gruelling battle with paralysing dread and then moved towards him, step by oh-so-slow step.

###

T
he blue van jerked off the road and into the car park in front of Donna's apartment like it had almost missed the turn. Cormac had taken a seat by the doors out to the little balcony, instinctively setting up a watch. His handler hadn't called him back and the passing time made him edgy. The pair of thugs that got out of the blue van made him edgier still. One of the thugs – older than the other one by some years – looked at a piece of paper in his hand, then tucked it into the back pocket of a pair of faded jeans. Cormac lost sight of them as they moved towards the front door.

"Are you expecting anybody today, Donna?"

"Like who?"

"You haven't got a plumber coming around or anything, have you?"

She shook her head.

"Take Mattie into your bedroom. Put something against the door and don't come out until I call you."

"What's happening?" Mattie asked.

"I'm not sure yet, kid. Just go keep an eye on your da for me."

Donna took Mattie's hand and led him to the bedroom. Cormac weighed his options. Go and face them in the hallway or draw them in to the apartment. He expected the doorbell to sound. There was a security pad on the door that could be buzzed open from a little speaker phone in the hall.

There was a knock at the door to Donna's apartment. Somebody else had let them through. Those communal security doors were utterly pointless. In any case, the decision was out of Cormac's hands. He'd have to face these heavies in the apartment.

Cormac made a conscious decision not to draw his gun. It went against his training and his instincts, but there was something in him that wanted to resolve the situation in the safest possible manner. There was too much at risk with Donna, Mattie and John trapped in the bedroom. Besides, he was low on ammo.

The door crashed open, the night latch useless without a Chubb lock to back it up. Cormac held his ground, just a few yards from the doorway. If they had guns he was prepared to dive for cover along the couch. The heavies stepped in, not overly concerned about cover. One of them wore a low-slung tool belt, a claw hammer hung at each hip. He'd plaster dust on his boots and undistinguishable tattoos on his forearms. His face was ruddy and weather-beaten. His partner was dressed for the gym: tracksuit trousers, trainers and a hooded top. He was younger but just as broad as Bob the Builder.

"Did you think we wouldn't find you, dickhead?" Sporty Spice asked.

"You two need to get out of here now," Cormac said. "Consider this fair warning."

Sporty Spice turned to Bob. "This man must have been dropped on his head when he was a child. Do you hear him, like?"

Bob shook his head. "Taking the fucking piss." His voice had a forty-a-day rasp.

Good,
Cormac thought.
He'll be easy enough to handle... so long as the hammers stay in his belt.

"Big Frank sent us. Get the aul' fellah and the kid and c'mon," Sporty Spice said.

"I'll hang about here for a while yet. I've a few questions you two could answer for me before you go, though."

"I think he's a cop," Bob said.

"Wise up," Sporty Spice said. "Sure Frank told us who he is. Kelly's a good fenian name."

"Look at him. Fucking undercover, so he is."

Bob was smarter than he looked. Cormac would have been shot weeks ago if this one had been put on the crew.

"Let's keep it civil, lads," Cormac said. "No need for name calling."

Bob drew a hammer and handed it to Sporty Spice.

"I'm not looking for trouble, lads."

"I bet you're not," Sporty Spice said.

Cormac bit back his temper and continued. "Okay, so me and Frank have a couple of loose ends to tie up. I'll come along with you guys on my own. Then things don't have to get stupid."

"Aye, he'd be pleased as fuck with that arrangement," Bob said.

Cormac rounded the sofa. It didn't look like the heavies were carrying guns. Decommissioning had made them a little tougher to distribute around the greater Belfast area, though it was still a possibility they had a pistol or two concealed. He kept his hands visible and took a step forward; almost within Sporty Spice's hammer-swinging range. "Any other way isn't going to go well for you two."

Bob squinted. The cogs were beginning to spin behind those eyes. Cormac allowed himself a few seconds of hope. He was handling the situation, tense as it was, with nothing more than—

Sporty Spice lunged forward and swung the claw hammer in a big downward arc. Cormac scrabbled backwards, dodged the wild swing but bumped against the back of the couch. He relaxed his muscles and tumbled backwards. His body flopped onto the seat cushions and he rolled onto the floor. As he rose onto one knee Cormac snaked his hand into his coat and closed it around the grip of the Glock 17. He drew the weapon and stood. Supported his right wrist with his left hand. Levelled. Grinned. At this range he couldn't miss. Sporty Spice knew it too. The young thug had the hammer held above his head, cocked for a lethal strike. It froze there.

Bob's husky voice grated; "Back up, wee lad."

Cormac spared the older man a quick glance though his aim on Sporty Spice didn't falter. Bob looked worried. He didn't want to have to report back an almighty fuck-up to his superiors. The man knew the score. He'd the calm carefulness of experience. Cormac reckoned he could work with that. The other eejit, though, he could be a problem. The raised hammer began to visibly shake. Lactic acid or a ruse, Cormac couldn't be sure. Either way they weren't going to be locked in the stand-off for much longer.

"Do as he says," Cormac jabbed his Glock at Sporty Spice. "Lower that weapon very slowly and step the fuck back."

"Why don't you lower yours?"

"Mine's a gun, dickhead. Who's going to come off worse?"

Bob offered his two cents. "You know, if he was going to shoot, he'd have done it by now. Might be worth a go, son."

Sporty Spice twisted at the waist to look over his shoulder. "You want to swap places?"

Cormac took advantage of the distraction and kicked out at Sporty Spice's floating ribs. The blow rocked the thug backwards. Cormac took a backhand swing at him and caught the side of his head with the barrel of the Glock.

Bob pushed past his injured partner. He held his left hand up as if to ward Cormac off; his right hefted his claw hammer. Cormac considered shooting him but opted to save the ammo. He darted forward, clattered into Bob and made a grab for the shaft. Bob reeled backwards. Cormac stuck close and went with him. They hit the wall adjacent to the open front door. Bob's back absorbed all the impact. His stinking breath clouded Cormac's face. The hammer came down. Cormac raised his left arm. Slipped it inside Bob's. The attack slid away like rain off a roof. Cormac sank his forehead into the older man's reddened face. Cracked the nose. Felt a wild surge of joy. He drew back his head to butt him again. Then something wrapped around his legs.

This was Sporty Spice's half-hearted effort to re-enter the fray.

The younger thug attempted to lift Cormac but he couldn't break his stance. He grappled for Cormac's hips, intent on throwing him to the ground. No chance. The blow to the head must have shaken something loose. The big lump had abandoned his hammer and just wasn't fighting smart. Cormac turned in his opponents rubbery hold and took advantage of his position. He used one free arm to grab a handful of his attacker's ear and the other to pistol-whip the back of his head. Sporty Spice went limp and Cormac let him fall to the ground. He lifted a foot to finish him but Bob wouldn't stand for it. The older man shoved Cormac from behind. Cormac tottered a few steps to recover from almost tripping over Sporty Spice. He turned to face Bob.

Blood poured steadily from the aul' fellah's busted nose but his eyes were clear. Cormac edged backwards. The push had landed him back in the middle of the room. Bob closed the fighting space in two strides. Cormac's patience ran out. He raised his gun.

"I
will
shoot."

Bob spat blood. "No you won't." He plucked a Stanley from a loop on his tool belt. Thumbed the switch and bared a wicked triangular blade.

––––––––

M
oney is killing this game. I'd play for three square meals a day and a roof over my head if that's all it paid. Fucking love those Ferraris, though.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

T
he man in the black military-style jacket indicated that Lydia should sit on the barstool opposite his. Her rubbery legs folded a little too quickly and she laid her hands on the round table for support. It wobbled under her weight and rocked the amber contents of a pint glass. She settled on the worn cushion and rested her clasped hands in her lap. The man fixed his eyes on her breasts.