Dead Men (2 page)

‘Get out, you bastards!’ screeched Carter’s wife. ‘Get the fuck out of my house!’

The child began to cry.

‘You’re upsetting the boy,’ said Dunne, pushing her against the wall.

‘Don’t you touch me!’ she said.

‘Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you,’ said Dunne, raising his gun.

‘Elaine, leave it be,’ said Carter. ‘Don’t antagonise them.’

‘Do as your man says.’ Lynn kept his gun aimed at Carter’s chest. Carter had his hands up but his eyes were darting from side to side, looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Lynn. ‘Start anything and your wife and the boy will get hurt.’

‘You scum,’ said Carter.

‘Pot calling the kettle black, is it?’ said Lynn.

‘Robbie, tell them to go, please,’ said Elaine.

‘I warned you,’ said Dunne. He raised his hand to slap her and she flinched. ‘One more word.’

‘Turn around, Carter,’ said Lynn, gesturing with his gun. ‘And lie down on the floor.’

‘Not in front of my wife and child, lads,’ said Carter. ‘For God’s sake, have a heart.’

‘Turn around,’ Lynn repeated. Carter did as he was told. Lynn pointed his gun at the back of Carter’s left leg and pulled the trigger. Carter’s kneecap shattered and blood splattered across the kitchen floor.

‘No!’ yelled Carter’s wife. She buried the child’s face in her neck before he could scream. ‘You bastards!’ she shrieked. The teddy bear fell out of the child’s grasp to the floor.

Carter’s left leg collapsed and he grabbed at the back of a chair in an attempt to keep his balance.

‘I told yez, down on the floor,’ said Lynn. ‘Now do as yer feckin’ well told.’

Elaine glared at Lynn, her upper lip curled in a snarl. ‘Four of you against one man,’ she said. ‘That’s the way you fight, is it? You cowards.’

The gun barked again and Carter’s right knee buckled as blood soaked through his trouser leg. He pitched forward, face down, and slammed into the tiled floor.

His wife screamed again, an animal howl from deep within her. Lynn pointed his gun at her face. ‘Shut the hell up or I’ll do you too, you bitch,’ he said.

‘Elaine, no!’ said Carter. He tried to push himself up as blood ran down his legs.

‘Robbie!’ she gasped.

‘It’s okay,’ said Carter. ‘Just leave them be.’ He fell forward and lay face down, panting. ‘Leave her be, lads. This is between you and me.’

Dunne stepped forward and pushed his pistol against the back of Carter’s head. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he yelled.

‘Leave him alone!’ said his wife. ‘He hasn’t done anything.’

‘Elaine, please, don’t talk to them,’ said Carter. ‘Don’t give them the satisfaction.’ Blood was pooling round his shattered knees.

Dunne stood up and looked at Lynn. Lynn patted Kinsella on the shoulder. ‘Okay, lad,’ he said.

Kinsella was trembling. He aimed his gun at the back of Carter’s head. His breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps. The gun wavered and he used his left hand to steady it.

‘Get a feckin’ move on,’ said Dunne.

‘I can’t,’ said Kinsella.

‘You have to,’ whispered Lynn.

‘Jesus wept,’ said Dunne. ‘Get on with it.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Kinsella, his voice shaking. His finger tightened on the trigger.

‘Take a deep breath,’ said Lynn.

Kinsella inhaled. His legs were quivering, and Lynn could hear his metal watchstrap rattling on his wrist. ‘Now do it,’ ordered Lynn.

Kinsella pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in his hand and the bullet thwacked into the floor by Carter’s shoulder, then ricocheted into the cabinet under the sink. Carter’s wife screamed.

‘Again. Fire again,’ said Lynn. ‘Come on, just pull the bloody trigger.’

Kinsella took aim at Carter’s head but then his chest heaved and vomit sprayed across the tiles. He staggered against the fridge and threw up again. He fell to his knees as vomit trickled down the front of his jacket.

‘Jesus wept,’ said Dunne. He stepped towards Carter and fired. The back of Carter’s head exploded.

Lynn grabbed Kinsella’s collar and yanked him to his feet.

Dunne pointed his gun at Carter’s wife. She was sobbing into her son’s neck. ‘Say anything to anyone and we’ll be back to do you and the kid.’

McFee headed for the front door, still holding the sledgehammer. Lynn pushed Kinsella after him. ‘Come on,’ he said to Dunne, who was staring down at Carter’s body.

‘Let’s shoot the bitch as well,’ said Dunne. He took aim at her face but she didn’t flinch.

‘We’ve done what we came to do,’ said Lynn.

‘She called us cowards,’said Dunne. ‘I’m no feckin’coward.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ said Lynn. ‘You’ve killed her man. You’ve done enough.’

Dunne’s lips tightened, but he followed McFee and Kinsella down the hallway. The little boy was crying and the woman rubbed the back of his head and nuzzled his ear.

Lynn slid his gun back into its holster. A thick, treacly halo of blood had formed round Carter’s head. He felt no sympathy for the dead man, and no remorse for what he’d done. He was at war, and Carter had been the enemy.

‘I swear before God Almighty, I will find you,’ said the woman, through clenched teeth. ‘I will find you and I will kill you.’

Lynn turned to her. She was glaring at him with a fierce intensity, still clutching the child to her neck. Tears were running down her face and he could see a vein pulsing in her temple. Lynn opened his mouth to speak, then hurried out of the room.

They left through the front door and got back into the car. ‘How did it go?’ asked McEvoy, putting the car into gear and pulling away from the kerb.

‘How it always goes,’ said Lynn. ‘Bang, bang, he’s dead. Now get us the hell out of here.’

McEvoy stamped on the accelerator and the Saab leapt forward.

Lynn took off his ski mask as McEvoy drove down the hill to the dual carriageway that led to the safety of the Republican Falls Road area of West Belfast. ‘Well done, boys,’ he said. ‘You done me proud.’

Kinsella had his head down and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

‘It’s okay, Noel. The first time is always hard, no matter what anyone says.’

‘I fucked up, I’m sorry.’

‘You pulled the trigger, lad, and there’s a lot can’t even do that.’

Kinsella was trembling and put his head into his hands. McFee opened the glove compartment and handed a bottle of Bushmills whiskey to Dunne. ‘Give the boy a wee dram,’ he said.

Dunne unscrewed the top and tapped it against Kinsella’s shoulder. ‘Here, lad, this’ll help.’

‘I’m sorry, Adrian. I let you down.’

Dunne put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Like Gerry says, the first time’s the worst. You’ve been blooded now, that’s all that matters. The next time will be easier, trust me.’

Kinsella nodded gratefully and took the bottle of whiskey. He drank deeply, then coughed as the alcohol burnt into his stomach. ‘I’ll do better next time, lads, I promise,’ he said.

‘That’s for sure.’ Lynn laughed.

 

The barmaid put a pint of John Smith’s and a vodka and tonic in front of the two men and smiled professionally. ‘Can I get you anything else, gents?’ she asked. She was Australian, in her mid-twenties, with a sprinkle of freckles across her upturned nose, and breasts that rippled under her black T-shirt.

The younger of the two men raised his beer and winked. ‘Your phone number?’

The barmaid’s eyes hardened, but the smile stayed in place. ‘My boyfriend doesn’t let me give it out,’ she said.

The older man laughed and slapped the other on the back. ‘She’s got you there, Vince.’

Vince Clarke took a long pull on his pint and scowled at his drinking companion as the barmaid walked away. ‘Probably a lesbian,’ he said. Clarke’s head was shaved and a pair of Ray-Bans was pushed high on his skull. He was wearing a long black leather coat over a black suit and a thick gold chain hung round his bull neck.

‘Yeah, the boyfriend was the clue.’ Dave Hickey sipped his vodka and tonic and chuckled. ‘You never stop trying, do you?’ His hair was close-cropped and, like his companion, he had a pair of expensive sunglasses perched on his head. He wore a sovereign ring on his left hand and a bulky signet ring on the right.

‘It’s playing the odds,’ said Clarke. ‘If you ask often enough, you’ll get lucky.’

‘Yeah? How often do you get lucky?’

‘One in five,’ said Clarke. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

‘Seriously?’

‘Thereabouts. What about you? You’re not married, are you?’

‘Who’d have me?’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No one special.’ He looked at his watch, a gold Breitling with several dials. ‘Where is he, then?’

‘He’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke.

‘How long have you worked with him?’

‘Long enough to know that he’ll be here when he’s here,’ said Clarke. He drained his glass and waved at the barmaid to refill it. ‘You’re a slow drinker, aren’t you, Dave?’

‘I’m on spirits,’ said Hickey. ‘If I kept up with you I’d be flat on my back and no use to anyone.’

‘All right, lads,’ said a voice from behind them. The two men twisted on their bar stools to face a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties. He had a long face with a hooked nose and hair that was receding at the front but grown long at the back and pulled into a ponytail. Peter Paxton was wearing a grey leather jacket over a black polo-neck and blue jeans. ‘You ready for the off?’

‘Where are we heading, boss?’ asked Hickey.

‘Need to know, Dave,’ said Paxton. He gestured at the door. ‘Come on, the engine’s running.’

‘What about this?’ said the barmaid, holding up Clarke’s pint.

‘Put it back in the pump, love,’ said Paxton.

Hickey and Clarke slid off their stools and followed Paxton out of the pub. Clarke tossed the barmaid a twenty-pound note and winked at her. ‘Catch you later, baby,’ he said.

A Jaguar was waiting at the kerb. Paxton climbed into the front seat while Hickey and Clarke got into the back. Paxton nodded at the driver, a big man with a boxer’s nose. ‘Nice and steady, Eddie,’ he said.

Eddie Jarvis grunted and eased the Jaguar forward. Paxton said, ‘Nice and steady, Eddie’ to him at least a dozen times a day and had done every day for the two years or so that Jarvis had worked for him. He seemed to find it as funny now as he had the first time he’d said it.

‘What’s the story, boss?’ asked Hickey.

Paxton turned in his seat. ‘You writing a book, Dave?’

‘I don’t like riding into the dark, that’s all.’

‘We’re going to check that an investment of mine is paying off. Why? You’re not late for an appointment, are you?’

‘No rush here,’ said Hickey, settling back in the leather seat.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Paxton.

They drove across the city, and after half an hour Hickey saw a sign for Stratford, the site of the 2012 Olympics. There were cranes everywhere, and trucks full of building materials packed the roads. Billions of pounds were being poured into the area in anticipation of the sporting event – new buildings were going up, existing houses were being gentrified and restaurants were opening.

‘You should all buy places here,’ said Paxton. ‘Prices are going through the roof. I bought six flats as soon as they announced the Olympics were coming here.’

‘Where am I going to get that sort of money?’ said Clarke.

‘Stop playing the horses for a start,’ said Paxton. ‘Gambling’s a mug’s game.’

‘I win more than I lose,’ said Clarke.

‘That’s what every punter says. The only people who make money out of gambling are the bookies. Put your money in property instead.’ Paxton pointed at a set of traffic-lights ahead. ‘Hang a left, Eddie. Then pull in, yeah?’ Eddie made the turn, parked the Jaguar at the side of the road and switched off the engine. ‘Right, lads, pin back your ears,’ said Paxton. ‘The guys we’re paying a call on are Algerians, two brothers, Ben and Ali. They’re the key to getting heroin right into London. Problem is, the delivery they were supposed to make didn’t happen and I want to know why.’

‘What are they, boss? Algerian Mafia?’ asked Clarke.

‘They work at the Eurostar depot at Temple Mills on the edge of the Olympic Park.’

‘They’re bringing heroin in on the Eurostar?’ asked Hickey.

‘They’re cleaners,’ said Paxton, ‘and part of their job is emptying the toilet holding tanks. They’ve got family at the French end where security’s lax. Their relatives put the gear in the tanks in France and Ben and Ali are supposed to get it out at Temple Mills. Except so far they haven’t done what they’re supposed to do.’

‘You want us to get heavy with them?’ asked Hickey.

‘You’ve got it in one, Einstein,’ said Paxton. ‘I had the North Pole sewn up for years, so I want to make sure no one gets the jump on me at Temple Mills.’

‘I thought Santa Claus had the North Pole sewn up,’ said Hickey.

Paxton glared at him. ‘The North Pole is the old Eurostar depot near Paddington. We were bringing in dozens of kilos a month and then they decided to move to Stratford. My guys at the North Pole weren’t moved to the new depot but they introduced me to Ben and Ali. What we’ve got here are just teething problems, and we’re the dentists.’

Paxton climbed out of the Jaguar and went to the boot. Eddie popped it open. Paxton moved aside a tatty sheepskin jacket to reveal a nylon holdall. He unzipped it, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching and pulled out a sawn-off shotgun. He passed it to Clarke, who hid it under his coat.

‘Shooters?’ asked Hickey.

‘You are on the ball tonight, aren’t you?’ said Paxton. He took a revolver from the bag and gave it to Hickey. ‘Not a problem, is it?’