Undercover (20 page)

"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.

###

S
tephen 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.

––––––––

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

––––––––

D
eclan 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.

"Are you stupid?" Canavan shook his big head in exasperation. "I recommended you to O'Neill. This is the first place he'll check when he comes looking for you."

"He's not going to start a war with you."

"Don't be so fucking sure. The man's a headcase."

"The clock's ticking. What's the best way to do this?"

"Well, not by driving a big fucking ambulance up to my door, that's for sure." Canavan rubbed at his chin; jiggled his jowls. "We'll go get them in my jeep and park up in the alley out back. There's no real lighting there so we'll get them into the house without drawing too much attention."

"That's the spirit, big man." Cormac tucked the Glock away. "C'mon."

###

T
he Lady Gaga ringtone shrieked for attention. Lydia wanted to throw her phone out the car window. Private number. It couldn't be good news.

"Answer the damn thing," McGoldrick said.

She thumbed the green button, held the mobile to her ear and closed her eyes.

"Hello?"

"I don't know how you did it, but you shouldn't have."

The Belfast twang of the man she'd first encountered on the doorstep of a hired cottage on the outskirts of Belfast. His voice seemed thicker, maybe with emotion. She knew the voice, though his ski mask was the only visual memory she had of him. But maybe she'd learned one more thing about him.

"Ambrose O'Neill?"

A pause. "You've just murdered your family, bitch."

The line went dead.

Lydia felt cold. She'd murdered her family. No. That wasn't real. It was the bluster of a scared bully. The silence in the car oppressed. It was as if Rory and McGoldrick had stopped breathing lest they upset her. She looked out her window at Stephen Black who seemed to be finished with his phone call but was taking a private moment on the bench.

Quiet time's up.
She opened her door and sprang out of the car.

Stephen Black turned at the sound of her heels on the paving slabs. He gave her a half-smile.

"Just waiting on a call," he said when she was in reasonable earshot.

"Give me the other phone."

He tilted his head slightly then plucked the dead man's mobile from its resting place on his thin thigh. Lydia snatched it out of his hand. He had the good sense not to complain about her manners. She scrolled through the menu options to find a list of recent calls. Selected the second number on the list. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Who's this?"

The same Belfast twang. Ambrose O'Neill. A name to pin on her horror. "Lydia Gallagher."

"Don't waste your breath begging. My people will track your husband and kid down again within the hour. And when I get back to Belfast I'll take my time killing them."

A raging burst of dizziness mushroomed in Lydia's head.
Track them down again?

"You don't have my family..."

"Like I said, Lydia Gallagher, it won't take long to get them back. Belfast's a small city and we know all the hiding places."

Lydia was reeling in her mind but her deal-making instinct to remain cool kicked in.
Keep him talking until you figure this out.
She went Belfast. "Me and
my
people will track
you
down first, dickhead."

"I underestimated you once, love. I won't make the same mistake twice."

He hung up on her again. She almost smiled.

Stephen Black watched her, his expression catlike in bemusement. "A new development?"

"They don't have my family."

"Did they escape or were they rescued?"

"I'm not sure. If the police had them, they'd have been in touch, surely."

"One would imagine."

She clicked her fingers. "They must have escaped on their own." Pride blossomed in her chest.
How did you manage that, John?

"I should phone my husband." Lydia reached into her handbag for her phone then paused. "No. Wait. They might be hiding somewhere. What if his ringtone gives them away?"

"Good thinking," Stephen Black said. "I'm sure they'll contact you when they can."

She giggled then stopped herself. "Oh, God. It's not over yet, though. Those bastards are looking for them. What'll I do now?"

"Go back to Belfast. Find them first."

She was overwhelmed by obstacles. "By the time I get to the airport and book a plane... and which one should I go to? Would a ferry be faster? No, of course not. A plane... from Heathrow, maybe."

"Need I remind you that there's a ridiculously wealthy man sat in the passenger seat of my car?"

Lydia sprinted back to the Vauxhall Vectra. She yanked open the driver's door.

"Your helicopter," she said to McGoldrick. "How fast can it get me to Belfast?"

––––––––

I
should probably play for the Northern Ireland international team. It'd be a gesture, you know? Like religion doesn't matter any more. This is a squad Catholics and Protestants can support side by side. The problem is, I like winning.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

T
hey laid John Gallagher on Canavan's bed. Donna busied herself with the IV she'd taken from the hospital. Then she examined his wound. John was barely conscious but seemed almost comfortable. Donna checked the time and opened up the brown leather case she'd filled with supplies. She selected a tub of pills and set one on John's tongue, raised a glass of water to his lips. Cormac, Mattie and Canavan stood at the bedroom door, spectators to a live hospital drama.

Since they'd gotten to Canavan's place Cormac had begun to feel edgy. He didn't want to stand still for too long but all of the moving about wasn't good for John. He didn't need Donna to tell him that, though no doubt she'd remind him of it soon enough. But they couldn't stop at Canavan's forever either. Even if O'Neill was busy across the water, as Cormac's handler had claimed, there had to be men scouring Belfast for them. Cormac had raised too much hell to slip through the cracks. And then there was Canavan's ever-diminishing patience.

"He's bleeding on my sheets."