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‘Lynne’s a tenacious man.’ He paused. ‘He asked me to give you a message.’
‘Oh?’
‘He advises you not to plan another trip to the Bahamas.’
Harry flashed on another image: jade green sea, baking sand and the slick-slick of cards being dealt. She shook her head.
‘Am I being accused of something here?’ she said.
‘Like I said, Lynne is tenacious.’ Hunter glared at her. ‘He doesn’t give up.’
Harry sighed. Suddenly her whole body ached, as if reminders of the past had sapped her energy.
‘Look, if I’m not under arrest for anything, I’d like to go.’
Hunter shrugged. ‘You can go. For now.’
She made her way past him towards the door, then hesitated and looked back.
‘The man with the gun.’ She bit her lip. ‘He saw me.’
‘So you said.’
‘He might find me. He said—’
‘—that he never leaves witnesses. You said that too.’
Harry stared at him. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything about that? Offer some kind of protection?’
Hunter shrugged. ‘We’ll get a patrol car to cruise by your house once in a while.’
‘What good will that do? He’s not going to wait in the street with a rifle, is he?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me.’ Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re the only one who saw him.’
He turned away, dismissing her. Harry’s insides plummeted. She thought of the man in the baseball cap and how he’d locked eyes with her just before he pulled the trigger. She thought of her business card, in plain view on the desk. Her head reeled. She stumbled through the hall and out on to the street. The air was fresh and salty, and she gulped it down. Then slowly, she moved towards her car.
Instinctively, she checked over her shoulder, her eyes sweeping across the array of windows fronting the Georgian terrace. So many places for a man with a gun to hide. She shuddered.
If she could just find the woman she still thought of as Beth, then maybe the police would believe her. But how? Somehow, she was connected to Garvin Oliver, but what did Harry know about him? According to Beth he was a sponging wife-beater, but her version of events was hardly reliable now.
Harry began to regret handing over the laptop. It might have revealed information about Garvin Oliver that could have helped to track Beth down. On the other hand, maybe she should just let the police handle it. Right now, they didn’t believe a word she said, but they were bound to discover the truth eventually.
Raindrops spat against her face. She unlocked her car and ducked inside, and immediately her nose wrinkled at an alien smell. The uniformed officer must have been a smoker; he’d left his tell-tale sootiness behind. She opened a couple of windows to generate a cross-breeze, and did a quick visual survey of her car.
Everywhere showed signs of a cursory search. The pile of computer books on the passenger seat had been rearranged and her notepads had fallen to the floor. She flipped open the glove compartment. Her maps and screwdrivers had been disturbed too. She felt a creeping sense of violation at the thought of someone rifling through her things. Then she checked the back seat, and frowned. Her laptop was missing.
Harry’s spine buzzed. She leapt out of the car, hauled open the boot and stared inside. The raindrops were heavier now, raucous seagulls free-wheeling inland in packs. Harry reached for the case that lay where she’d left it. Inside it, her torch, pliers and the rest of her toolkit were all undisturbed.
And alongside them was Garvin Oliver’s laptop.
5 (#ulink_64fb98e5-789e-524b-8d15-5f58b789f380)
Callan clanked through the turnstiles, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. The only thing inside it was a Browning pistol that he’d already fired once that day. He checked his watch. In another twenty minutes, he planned on firing it again.
He scanned his surroundings. In front of him was an oval of immaculate grass, bounded by low hedges. Adverts for Hennessy and Paddy Power bookmakers lined the railings on the inside. The parade ring was empty.
He tipped up his baseball cap, backhanding the sweat from his forehead. He was cutting things bloody fine. The last job had been a screw-up, throwing him off schedule. He pictured the puffy-faced man kneeling on the floor, pissing himself as he waited to be shot. It should’ve been quick. In, out. No mess, no witnesses. He fingered the business card in his pocket. Now he had the Spanish-looking girl to add to his list.
People swarmed in front of him, beating a path between the grandstand, the bookies and Madigan’s Bar. Leopardstown racecourse always drew the crowds.
Leopardstown. Baile on Lobhair. Town of the lepers.
Pain pulsed through Callan’s skull, and with it an image: baked red dirt, buzzing insects, the stench of rotting flesh. A village in Sierra Leone, bodies butchered for the ritual cannibalism of the RUF. But in all of the rebels’ murderous binges, they never ate the lepers.
Callan blinked, shoved the memory away. He swallowed and edged closer to the ring. Soon the punters would be five deep around it, inspecting the horses for the next race. That was fine with him. He needed the crowd cover.
He opened his programme and checked through the runners for the one o’clock race. There were seven in total, and number four was underlined: Honest Bill. The small print confirmed what he needed to know: Jockey, R. Devlin; Trainer, D. Kruger; Owner, T. Jordan.
Frantic commentary echoed over the tannoy, winding up the 12.40 race. Punters began staking out their space by the parade ring. Callan adjusted the bag on his shoulder. It was light. In the jungles of Angola and Sierra Leone, every man in his unit had carried an AK-47, ten magazines, an extra ammunition belt, an M79 grenade launcher and a supply of white phosphorus grenades. Here, things were different. Here, you only carried what you could conceal.
Hooves clopped behind him, buckles clinked. He turned to see a frisky black horse being led into the ring. His coat was glossy, his chest muscles bulging. Callan consulted his racecard. Number one, Rottweiler’s Lad.
‘Bit of a sprinter, that fella.’ A middle-aged man had appeared next to him at the railings, chewing on a pipe. ‘Good deep chest.’
Callan grunted, raking his gaze over the other horses filing into the ring. Numbers three, six and five, all dark brown. They jig-jogged past, stirring up an aroma of hay and manure. Where the hell was number four?
The public address system crackled, the announcer giving the all-clear on the previous race. ‘Winner all right, winner all right.’
The signal for the bookies to start paying out. The man with the pipe ripped up his ticket and snorted. Then he turned to Callan, sweet tobacco mingling with stable smells.
‘Who d’ya fancy for this one, then?’
Callan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have time for ring-side tipsters, but rudeness would attract attention. His urban camouflage was anonymity: jeans and casual jacket, cap over the buzz-cut, everything loose-fitting to hide the muscles so at odds with his middle-aged face. After one o’clock, he needed to be forgettable.
He feigned a smile. ‘Honest Bill.’
‘Ah, Billy-boy. Great horse. Brave as they come.’
Rottweiler’s Lad pranced by, tossing his head and snorting. Jockeys began drifting into the ring, and Callan checked the racecard for Honest Bill’s colours: black-and-white cubes. None of the jockeys matched.
‘There’s your fella.’
Callan turned. A honey-brown horse bounced into the ring. His coat looked sweaty, and his hind legs were sheathed in red bandages. The saddle cloth bore the number four.
The muscles in Callan’s neck tensed. His eyes travelled beyond the horse to the jockey who’d stalked in behind him. He was taller than most, wiry like all of them, and his silks were patterned like a chessboard. Rob Devlin. Callan studied him, making sure he’d recognize him again.
Devlin made his way into the centre of the ring, shaking his head at a red-faced man who was waiting for him there.
‘Is that the trainer?’ Callan said.
The man with the pipe followed his gaze, then shook his head. ‘That’s the owner, Tom Jordan. TJ, they call him.’
Callan watched the red-faced man. He was standing eye-to-eye with the jockey, trying to stare him down, but Devlin seemed to be doing all the talking. A bell sounded, and the pair broke apart. Jockeys scattered to mount their rides, and a tall, scowling man broke away from another group to give Devlin a leg up.
‘That’s the trainer,’ the man with the pipe said. ‘Dan Kruger. One of the best.’
Callan narrowed his eyes. So that was Kruger. He edged around the ring to get a better view. The trainer looked to be in his late thirties, with prominent, dark brows and a tanned face. He patted the horse’s neck and saluted the jockey. Then Devlin gathered up his reins and headed out of the ring.
Callan glared at the jockey’s swaying back. For now, he was out of reach. But that still left the other two. He fixed his sights on Jordan and Kruger and followed them as they left the ring. They mingled with the crowd now flowing back towards the stands, and Callan melted into their slipstream.
He unzipped his bag a fraction and slotted a hand inside, grasping the butt of his gun. Keeping the weapon in the bag meant he could place the barrel right up against the target. Two silenced shots and the target would go down. The crowd would think he’d fainted, Callan would disappear, and his ejected cartridges would be caught inside the bag. Neat and tidy.
He followed the two men across the concourse. Kruger disappeared inside one of the bars, and Jordan was about to follow when a small boy of nine or ten raced up and grabbed him by the hand. Jordan turned and laughed, allowing himself to be dragged away.
Callan clenched his fingers around the gun. He tracked the pair along the side of the stands as they hurried towards the bookies’ enclosure.
He checked his watch. It was almost one o’clock. He lengthened his stride, closing the gap between them. The boy scampered off to the nearest bookie and Jordan stood alone, like a springbok separated from the herd.
Callan hesitated, checking his cover. The crowds here had thinned, the punters deserting the bookies for a place on the stands. He hung back. Too exposed.
The tannoy system crackled. ‘They’re under starter’s orders.’
The boy reappeared. Jordan took him by the hand and together they hiked up into the stands.
‘And they’re off.’
Callan strode after Jordan, circling, weaving, slipping through the crowds, using whatever cover his combat zone offered him. The commentator droned out his inventory of horses.
‘And racing now away from the stands, it’s Forest Moon the leader, from Holy Joe and Dutch Courage. Then comes Rottweiler’s Lad, with Honest Bill the back marker.’
Jordan and the boy stopped halfway up the grandstand. Callan was already four steps higher, and he stared at the back of Jordan’s head.
‘Rounding the turn now, it’s Forest Moon and Holy Joe. Then Rottweiler’s Lad improved into third place.’
Callan sidestepped into a gap, lining himself up behind Jordan. Suddenly, the man ducked, squatting low. Callan froze, then relaxed again as he saw the boy climbing up on to Jordan’s shoulders. By the time Jordan was upright, Callan had moved one step down. Two more, and he’d be right behind him.
The commentator’s voice shifted up a key. ‘And into the back straight, it’s Holy Joe, Forest Moon weakening into second, challenged by Rottweiler’s Lad, Honest Bill, then Dutch Courage.’
A murmur rippled through the crowds. ‘Come on, Honest Bill.’
Jordan handed the boy a pair of binoculars. People craned their necks to get a clearer view and Callan took another step down.
‘As they round the final bend, it’s Holy Joe the leader from Rottweiler’s Lad, then Forest Moon, Honest Bill making ground on the outside but Devlin has left him a lot to do.’
The crowd buzzed, shifting restlessly. ‘Come on, Billy-boy!’
Callan inched forwards. Suddenly, the boy swivelled and stared at him through the binoculars. Callan’s scalp prickled. He flashed on another ten-year-old boy. Matted black hair, wild eyes. The child soldier with binoculars around his neck and a machete in his raised arms. Chills swept through Callan’s frame.
A roar went up from the crowd, and the commentator’s pitch shot up an octave. ‘And they’re into the home straight, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad, Holy Joe, Honest Bill accelerating on the outside!’
Callan’s vision blurred. He could smell the child soldier’s unwashed body. He recalled how the boy’s shirt had fallen open, exposing red welts where the initials ‘RUF’ had been carved into his chest with a razor. Callan hadn’t hesitated. He’d fired his sniper rifle, spitting two bullets into the boy’s forehead.
‘And they’re inside the final two furlongs!’ The commentator was in a frenzy, the yells from the crowd filling the stands. ‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad, but here comes Honest Bill surging up on the outside!’
Callan remembered standing over the boy’s body. He’d stared at the bloody initials where the rebels had rubbed cocaine to induce the boy’s savagery. Beside him stood a line of wailing children. The child soldier had been about to hack off their arms.
‘It’s Rottweiler’s Lad from Honest Bill, I’ve never seen anything like it, Devlin has turned him loose, calling on him for everything he has!’
The boy on Jordan’s shoulders turned away. Callan’s chest tightened, the memories choking him. He took a deep breath, then descended the final step. He was right behind Jordan, close enough to smell the scent of cigars from his clothes.
The commentator was yelling now. ‘It’s the final furlong, it’s Rottweiler’s Lad and Honest Bill, stride for stride, Honest Bill digging deep.’
Callan stretched the canvas of his bag taut around the gun barrel.
‘They’re neck and neck, what a race between these two!’
The roars had reached a deafening pitch. It was the crescendo he’d been waiting for, the perfect cover. He pressed the gun barrel into Jordan’s back.
The commentator hadn’t drawn breath. ‘It’s a desperate finish as they come up to the line, Rottweiler’s Lad trying to fight back!’
The stands were a blaring wall of noise. Callan squeezed the trigger twice. The commentator’s voice was off the scale.
‘And it’s Honest Bill the winner! What a horse!’
Callan stepped backwards and sidled through the heaving crowd. From the corner of his eye he saw the boy tumble to the ground, his father crumpling beneath him.
Callan strolled towards the exit.
Winner all right.
6 (#ulink_e5cbc95d-8333-501c-9f9a-21a822ff8275)
The most important thing about pilfering confidential data was not to get caught. Harry flicked a glance in her rear-view mirror and wondered how she’d get away with it this time.
A flash of heat washed over her. What the hell was she thinking? She should have taken Garvin’s laptop back to Hunter the minute she’d realized the mistake. The longer she held on to it, the worse it would get. Already, she felt as if something radioactive was glowing through the boot of her car.
Harry geared down into third, negotiating the bends on the coast road. Waves slapped against the wall to her left, tossing spray into the air like confetti.
She came to a T-junction and slowed down, considering her options. Turn right, and she could loop back to Garvin Oliver’s house and hand the laptop over.
Turn left, and she could be home in fifteen minutes. Harry chewed her bottom lip.
When you got right down to it, the police had been the ones who’d screwed up, not her. After all, it wasn’t her fault the officer had snatched the first laptop case he’d seen.
She checked left and right. Naturally, she wouldn’t dream of withholding evidence. She gripped the steering wheel and swung left. She’d hand over the laptop just as soon as she could, but not until she’d peeked at it herself first.
Harry wound her way south, her whole body clenched, her eyes darting to her mirror. No one seemed to be following her, but it was hard to tell. On her left the beach curved like a bow, the slate-grey water reflecting the rain clouds above. Her arms ached from gripping the wheel, but relaxing them was beyond her.
