The Watchman (21 page)

SIXTEEN.

She left early, while he pretended to be asleep. He woke for a second time to find a note on the pillow and a daytime telephone number a work number, he guessed.

Why had she left? Not wanting to spoil things with the awkwardness of a morning after? He smiled in many ways theirs had been the perfect relationship.

He shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't. It felt as if there was a cannon ball rolling around in it. The inside of his mouth was parched and sour, his stomach felt uneasy and he had a morbid thirst. Not for the first time he reflected that it wasn't the drinks that made you pissed that fucked you up, it was the completely unnecessary ones that you drank when you were already pissed. It was those Scotches that you ended up with just because it felt right, somehow, to wind the evening up with a glass of spirits in your hand.

The thought of whisky made his gorge rise, and he staggered to the bathroom and the cold tap. On the way he trod heavily on his old Casio Neptune watch it had survived worse and arrived at the sink just in time to throw up. Don Hammond, an enthusiastic drinker who had always tried to persuade Alex to put in more pub hours, would have been proud of him.

It wasn't until he had showered and dressed that he remembered the Glock. It was still there, thank God, as were all the heavy little boxes of 9mm ammunition.

What would have happened if any of it had left the flat in the pocket of a girl he'd picked up in a pub, he shuddered to think. He'd always been the first to take the piss out of those Box clowns who had their laptops nicked from their cars.

The Glock that he had chosen was the model 34. In the past he'd used the 17, the most popular 9mm Glock model. It held up to nineteen rounds, hardly ever jammed and in general was a dream to use. The 34, developed for competition use, was basically the same gun but with the accuracy advantage of another inch of barrel. It wasn't the easiest weapon to conceal, but it still weighed in at just under two pounds fully loaded and if it came to aimed shots, Alex had decided, that extra inch between the sights might just make all the difference. He had fired off a few magazines on the range and had been stunned by the weapon's performance, given that the general rule for automatics was that at a range of more than twenty yards you were lucky if you could hit anything smaller than a front door.

From the armoury he'd also drawn a silencer and a laser dot-marker sight, which he reckoned ought to cover most eventualities.

And a knife. A standard-issue Government Recon commando knife with a 6.25-inch blade. The instinct that Alex had about Meehan was that he wasn't a firearms man. Firearms were crude, noisy and remote he would regard it a failure to have to resort to them. Meehan, Alex was sure from his modus operandi so far, was a close-up man. A blade man.

Retrieving his watch, he saw that it was almost 9.30 and rang Dawn. She was no party girl. She would be up and about.

Her mobile rang twice and then she answered it.

"Up and about, Miss Harding?" he asked her.

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?"

"Is that Captain Temple?" she enquired in a brisk, businesslike way that told Alex immediately that she was not alone.

"Yes. It is. Can I talk, or are you .

"No, I'm not. What do you want?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were enjoying this' he peered through the curtains 'rather damp morning. And not fooling around in bed. Did you tell me what his name was, by the way?"

"Look, Captain Temple, if you've got something to say..

"I thought I'd let you know where I was. In case you were missing me."

"In your dreams. Where are you?"

"Hereford. I'm chasing up one of our man's ex-teachers."

"You think that'll be useful?"

"I think it's all we've got, for the moment. I'll keep you abreast."

"You do that. Oh, and, um, the object we found. It was the age we thought it might be. And bearing the right prints. Congratulations, Captain."

The phone went dead. Why did he have this irresistible desire to wind Dawn Harding up? Alex wondered. Because she was such a straight arrow? Such a company girl? And whom had she been sleeping with, anyway? Some keen young computer buff from Thames House, no doubt. Some pillar of the Orienteering or Mountain Biking Club. Alex could just see him, weedy and pale, leaning back against the pillows, having a moody post-shag Dunhill. Except that he wouldn't smoke. He'd probably be a vegetarian. A vegan. Drink ground-up acorns instead of coffee.

By ten, having gulped down a half-pint glass of lager from the store in the fridge (an old morning-after trick of Don Hammond's) Alex was feeling a little better. Ready, in fact, to undertake part two of the standard hangover cure a full English fried breakfast.

More cheerful now, and gratified that the fingerprints on the pencil stub had conclusively linked Meehan with the killings, Alex made his way to a cafe. The downside to the discovery was his certainty that the find had been intended by Meehan. It had almost been a greeting to his pursuer.

For all his instincts concerning the Watchman, Alex mused, he really had no idea where the man might be holing up. One possibility was that he was moving around the fringes of one of the larger cities with transients and unaccountables squatting, perhaps, or moving between cheap hostels and bed-and breakfast houses, or hanging out with travellers. If in trouble, the rule went, seek out those who also have something to hide. The Watchman, however, also had to avoid the Irmh Catholic communities among whom visiting PIRA players moved, so perhaps he was avoiding the cities.

A second possibility was that he had constructed himself a completely false identity driving licence, bank accounts, credit cards and the rest of it and was living in a rented flat and passing himself off as a salesman or some other itinerant professional in a small provincial town.

But something told Alex that this was not the man's style. Frank Wisbeach's words reinforced the idea of Meehan as the victim of some grandiose delusion. A man of unwavenng seriousness, the old NCO had said. No detectible sense of humour. A 'true believer'. Alex had met 'true believers' before. The phrase was used to describe soldiers who believed that the purity of their calling somehow singled them out from the rest of humanity. They tended to subscribe to ideas of 'the warrior's path' and 'the mediocrity of civilian life'. "Green-eyed boys' they'd called them in the Paras. This didn't stop them being good soldiers quite the opposite in many cases but it did mean that their behaviour could get a bit weird if unchecked. The Watchman's murder project definitely had the 'true believer' edge to it and it was for this reason that Alex didn't quite believe that the man was pretending to be Mister Average and driving a Ford Escort. It didn't go with the apocalyptic nature of his actions. If he saw himself as some mystical bringer of vengeance (as so many of these nutters seemed to) then he would ensure that his surroundings were appropriately Gothic and elemental. A forest, perhaps.

Something like that.

Did he own a vehicle? Probably, but Alex guessed he would use it only sparingly. Vehicles showed up on CCTV, people noticed and remembered them and they were powerful transmitters of forensic evidence. Stolen cars were especially bad news if you wanted to keep your head down.

Alex addressed his breakfast black pudding, bubble and squeak, eggs, beans, mushrooms, two fried slices and a mug of tea. The business.

He was just supposed to do the chopping, he reminded himself Fine, except that the only time Five were likely to get anywhere near Meehan was when the former MI-5 agent had finished his killing spree and was ready to give himself up. Killing Meehan at that point would be little more than a gesture.

Right now Meehan would be watching Widdowes, just as he had watched Fenn and Gidley. He'd be lying up nearby, entirely aware of the lookalike and the rest of their strategies, waiting for the moment when they stopped fully believing that the attack would come. The moment when they persuaded themselves they had won.

And then, with blinding and brutal speed, he would strike.

Alex had to persuade the Box team to let him take over or at least participate in the guarding of George Widdowes. He'd have to get the MI-5 officer back into his house so that, like a tiger to a tethered goat, Meehan would be drawn to his prey.

The idea was a good one. It could work. He'd have to talk to Dawn about it. They would have yet another row. He discovered he was rather looking forward to it.

Don Hammond's funeral was the usual sombre affair. There was an obvious police presence, some blocking off the traffic, with many of the officers carrying side arms.

Less obvious was the standby squadron, who were waiting in Range Rovers at several of the surrounding crossroads, armed with MP5 Heckler and Koch submachine guns.

Alex arrived in the dark Principles suit that he used for Regimental funerals and metropolitan area surveillance, and was nodded through by the adjutant, also suited.

In the church there were somewhere between a hundred and fifty and two hundred people. There were several rows of soldiers from the Credenhill base, all looking uncharacteristically smart in their Number Two uniforms, and in front of them a tight group of friends, relations and other uniformed soldiers surrounded Karen Hammond, Don's widow, and Cathy, his daughter.

Moving hesitantly forward, Alex met Karen's eye. She smiled and beckoned him, and a place was made for him in the row behind her. Silently she reached out her hand and equally silently Alex took it. She's as brave as Don was, he thought, turning to the coffin which stood, flag-draped, in the aisle. On it lay his friend's medals, his blue stable belt and his sand- coloured SAS beret.

144w dares wins.

Not every time, thought Alex, catching sight of eight-year-old Cathy Hammond's grief-whitened face. Not every time.

In the churchyard Alex allowed his attention to wander as the chaplain spoke the now familiar words of the funeral service. His eyes travelled over the bare heads and the bemedalled uniforms, and the relatives' dark coats and suits. Karen and Cathy were both weeping now, and Karen's family pressed protectively around them. The eyes of the other soldiers, for the most part, were dowutumed.

Alex himself felt empty. Tears were not what he owed Don Hammond.

And then, as the three shots were fired over the open grave, Alex's wandering gaze met a pair of eyes that were not downturned that were levelled with deathly directness at his own. The man, who was wearing a nondescript suit and tie, and had a curiously ageless appearence, was standing on the other side of the grave behind Karen's family, and Alex realised with stunned disbelief that he knew this narrow face and pale unblinking stare, that he had seen photographs of this man in Thames House, that he was standing just three yards away from Joseph Meehan, the Watchman.

As their eyes locked, Alex felt his scalp crawl and his heart slam in his chest.

No, it was impossible.

Impossible but true. It was Meehan and he had come to scope out his pursuer.

In the icy flame of his regard was a challenge, a statement of ruthlessness and contempt. I can come and go as I please, it said even here, even now, in the secret heart of your world and there is nothing that you can do to prevent me.

And Meehan was right. At that moment there was nothing in the world that Alex could do. Sympathy for Karen Hammond and the dignity of the occasion paralysed him. He couldn't speak, let alone jump over the open grave and grab the man by the throat.

There was a loud clatter overhead as three Chinook helicopters flew past in formation. Alex held Meehan's pale gaze, but the ranks of mourners shifted as they looked upwards, and when they re-formed, moments later, the cold-eyed face had vanished.

Alex peered desperately over the open grave as the churning helicopter blades faded away, but the fly-past had marked the end of the service. As the Hammond family and their friends moved away from the graveside, the regimental personnel held back, Alex among them. Short of elbowing his way through the uniformed men he was trapped.

Finally, the crowd began to disperse. Moving as fast and as forcefully as he was able, given the circumstances, Alex made his way to the churchyard exit.

There was no sign of anyone resembling Meehan either inside or outside. Running to the head of the road he challenged the two uniformed troopers on duty there.

Had a man in his mid-thirties just passed them fair-skinned, dark-haired, five ten, grey suit tough-looking... The words spilt out but the troopers shook their heads. No one like that. No one on his own.

Ignoring the curious stares of the exiting mourners, Alex ran on ahead of the roadblock to the nearest Range Rover and repeated the questions.

Same answer. No one answering that description.

Shit. Shit. Had he imagined seeing Meehan? Had the image of the man been preying on his mind to the point where he was beginning to hallucinate? Was Meehan now stalking him?

Tucking himself into the roadside, Alex called Dawn on his mobile and in guarded terms, given that he was using an open line reported the incident.

"How sure are you that it was him?" Dawn asked.

"Not a hundred per cent. And if it was he could be anywhere by now."

"Why would he want to show himself like that?"

"Check me out, perhaps. Let me know he can come and go as he pleases."

Dawn was silent. Alex could tell that she was unconvinced that the man had been Meehan.

"Look," he went on, "I've got a possible regimental lead. It's not much but it's a possibility. Someone who knew our man. Someone he might have talked to."

"Do you need my people's help?"

"No. Leave it to me."

"OK, then. Keep me informed."

She broke the connection and Alex looked around. Several people were staring at him and he self-consciously brushed down his suit. He had meant what he said to Dawn. Meehan could be anywhere by now. There was no chance of catching him without involving the entire Hereford and Worcester police forces and probably not even then. And, if he was honest with himself, he hadn't been a hundred per cent sure it was Meehan.