Rough Justice (37 page)

‘We’ve some digging to do first,’ said Shepherd.

The Major looked up from the map. ‘What?’

‘We dig the hole first. It’ll save time later. Plus, in the unlikely event that anyone sees us digging, we can spin them a line. That’s a lot harder to do if we’ve two bodies in the van.’

‘I get the feeling you’ve done this before, Spider.’

‘I haven’t, boss, but I’ve spent time with enough people who have to pick up a few of the tricks of the trade. And getting rid of bodies is an art.’

‘Where are we going to do it?’

‘I spent a couple of hours on Google Earth and I’ve found a place about half an hour’s drive from the river, farmland all around and not a house for miles.’

‘I envy you your trick memory,’ said the Major. He lifted the map book. ‘I’m pretty good at navigation but you only have to look at a map once.’

‘Just lucky,’ said Shepherd.

‘Did anyone ever tell you why your memory works the way it does?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Never really talked about it with a doctor or anything,’ he said. ‘There’s no real point. It’s not like there’s something wrong.’

‘What about at school? Didn’t it give you an unfair advantage during exams?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t that big a help. My memory’s near enough infallible but that doesn’t mean I understand what I remember. And it’s no help for maths or English.’

‘Languages?’

‘Yeah. I can remember vocabulary until the cows come home, but my French accent is appalling and the grammar has always defeated me.’

‘But navigation has always been a breeze?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, I’ve never done a McNab and got lost in the desert, but just because I can memorise a map and a route doesn’t always mean I know where I am. Where it does come in useful is working under cover because I can memorise files and photographs. The job I’m doing at the moment, I’ve been dropped into a group of more than a hundred cops. A few hours with the files and I know them all by face and name and their personal details.’

‘Investigating cops again?’

Shepherd wrinkled his nose. ‘Yeah, I hate doing it. That’s not why I joined SOCA. There’s a whole department geared up for investigating cops but they seem happier with outsiders doing it in this case.’

‘And I gather the lovely Charlotte is on her way out.’

‘What big ears you have, Grandma,’ said Shepherd, surprised that the Major knew that Button was leaving.

‘I keep them to the ground. You always knew she’d go back to MI5, though.’

‘Yeah, just hoped she might stay a bit longer,’ said Shepherd.

‘What about you? Will you stay?’

‘Not if I get more jobs like the one I’m on now,’ said Shepherd.

‘There’s always a spot for you on the Directing Staff,’ said the Major. ‘The Regiment would have you back in a heartbeat.’

‘My fitness isn’t what it was, boss.’

‘It’s not about fitness,’ said the Major. ‘It’s about technique, it’s about skills, and you’ve got them in abundance.’

‘I’m not a teacher, I’m a doer,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s just the way it is. I want to be out there doing something, not teaching someone else.’

He turned off the main highway and drove along a narrow road, barely wide enough for two vehicles. There was a farm off to the left, and a tractor was driving across a field followed by a flock of seagulls. The road wound around a hill and past a derelict cottage. The Major looked up from the map. ‘I’m lost,’ he admitted.

Shepherd grinned. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere,’ he said. ‘Bandit country. In the old days there’d be patrols out in those fields in deep cover and there’d be helicopters overhead. These days it’s just farmland.’ He pointed at a clump of woodland off to their right. ‘That’s the place,’ he said. ‘The nearest house is two miles away, and this is the only road that goes near it. And the river where the Foxes fish is ten minutes’ drive.’

The Major nodded. ‘Sounds good to me.’

Shepherd slowed the van. ‘I figure if we can just get fifty feet or so into the woodland, no one will be able to see us from the road,’ he said. He spotted a gap in the trees up ahead. He checked the wing mirrors then turned off into it. The van bucked over the rough ground and he slowed to walking pace. He curved to the right behind a spreading beech tree. ‘What do you think?’ he asked the Major.

The Major bent to squint into the wing mirror. ‘Bit further, maybe. I can still see the road.’

Shepherd went forward another twenty feet and stopped. He switched off the engine and climbed out. The two men stood together, listening. The only sound was the click-click-click of the engine as it cooled. Shepherd went around to the back of the van. He opened the door, took out the two spades and tossed one to the Major. They walked away from the van and emerged into a small clearing. ‘This is good,’ said Shepherd. ‘There won’t be so many tree roots. We can hide the disturbed soil with mulch when we’ve finished.’

‘How did you learn so much about disposing of bodies?’ asked the Major.

‘Hanging out with the wrong crowd,’ said Shepherd. ‘After a few days there’ll be no sign that anyone was ever here.’ He started digging. The soil was rich and black and relatively free of stones so it was easy to move. The two men dug one hole, about six feet long and three feet wide. The deeper they went the harder the soil became, giving way to tough clay that soon had them sweating heavily. They stripped off their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and carried on. Once they were down three feet they took it in turns to stand in the hole and dig.

‘How far down do we go?’ asked the Major, as he watched Shepherd dig.

‘At least four feet,’ said Shepherd. ‘Any less than that and there’s a danger they’ll rise to the surface. Five or six is better – let’s see how we do for time.’

The Major looked at his Rolex. ‘We’re well ahead of the game,’ he said. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. ‘You’re okay with this, Spider?’

‘If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here,’ said Shepherd, as he continued to dig.

‘It’s a big thing, what you’re doing.’

‘It needs to be done, boss. I understand that.’ He stopped digging and leaned on his spade. ‘I won’t lose one second of sleep over this,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no guilt, no recriminations. It’s combat. They chose the field of battle – they went into a Chinese restaurant and gunned down unarmed lads. All we’re doing is redressing the balance. In a better world we’d be facing each other over a killing ground and we’d all be wearing uniforms, but they made the decision to fight like terrorists so killing them like terrorists doesn’t worry me at all.’ He started digging again. ‘But one thing’s for sure. I won’t be going to prison for them. We’ll do this, and we’ll do it right.’

Padraig Fox pulled his hip flask out from the pocket of his waterproof Barbour jacket and held it out to his brother. Sean was at the wheel of the Range Rover but he grinned, took it and drank. ‘Twenty-year-old malt,’ said Padraig. ‘Got a dozen cases of it in last night,’ he said. ‘Couple of the guys did a warehouse in Belfast, and that’s our taste.’

‘Excellent,’ said Sean, giving the flask back to his brother. ‘Are you gonna sell it or keep it?’

‘What do you think?’ laughed Padraig. ‘Too bloody good to sell on.’

‘Make sure six cases come my way, then,’ said Sean.

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, little brother,’ said Padraig. He swigged from the flask, screwed the cap on and put it back into his pocket. ‘Hits the spot, all right,’ he said.

Padraig’s phone rang and although the number was blocked he took the call. ‘The parcel’s arriving on Wednesday,’ said a voice, then the line went dead. ‘The ciggies get to Dublin on Wednesday,’ he told his brother.

‘Grand,’ said Sean. They had arranged for five million cigarettes from Panama to be shipped to Miami and from there to Dublin, hidden under the wooden flooring and insulation of an elderly freighter. They stood to make a profit of more than half a million pounds once they’d sold the cigarettes on to gangs in Ireland and the UK.

Sean slowed down, turned off the main road and drove along a narrow track that wound through a patch of woodland. Shadows flicked across the windscreen. ‘Did you hear they’re planning peace marches in Belfast and Derry next weekend?’ he asked.

‘Are they now?’ said his brother. ‘And who’ll be doing the organising then?’

‘Some women’s group, Housewives For the Peace Process or something. They’re talking about hundreds of thousands taking part. Martin and Gerry might be there.’

‘Like hell they will,’ sneered Padraig. ‘If they know what’s good for them they’ll keep well away.’ He scratched his chin. ‘We should put something together. Show those bitches that they’d be better off in the kitchen or the bedroom than walking the streets waving placards.’

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘Be nice,’ said Padraig. ‘We’ve got the Semtex.’

‘Yeah, but do we have time to make a decent car bomb? And the cops will be on full alert for sure.’

‘Doesn’t have to be in a car,’ said Padraig. ‘We could do an office or a shop on the route. I’ll talk to a few people this evening, see if we can’t get something going.’

‘Just like the old days,’ said Sean.

‘The old days never went away just because some of the boys lost their fire,’ said Padraig. ‘But we’ll show them what for.’

Sean slowed the Range Rover, then headed down a muddy track past a wooden sign that read ‘Private Property’. Off to the left was the farm owned by the man who had sold the Foxes the fishing rights to the river that ran through his land. The farmer was a Republican sympathiser and a long-time friend of the brothers, and throughout the Troubles he’d allowed them to use his land to store arms and equipment.

They drove around the copse. The track ended at a five-barred gate that led to a potato field. Sean switched to four-wheel drive and steered the Range Rover off the track and followed a thick hedge to the river. ‘Now, what the hell do they think they’re doing?’ asked Padraig, pointing at the two fly fishermen standing on the riverbank. ‘Don’t they realise this is private property? Stupid bastards.’

‘They can’t be locals – everyone around here knows that’s our stretch,’ said Sean. ‘Probably tourists. Yanks, I bet.’

‘Well, they can sod off somewhere else and anything they’ve caught is ours,’ said Padraig.

Sean brought the Range Rover to a stop under a spreading beech tree and the two men climbed out. The sky was clear of clouds but there was still a chill in the air and Padraig zipped up his Barbour. ‘I’ve got a shotgun in the back,’ said Sean.

‘Yeah, if they give us any lip we can spray their arses with buckshot,’ said Padraig. He took out his flask and drank from it while Sean opened the back of the Range Rover and pulled a double-barrelled shotgun from under a tartan blanket. He rummaged under the blanket for a box of shells and slotted two in, then handed the gun to his brother and slammed the door.

Padraig kept the gun broken over his left arm as they walked across the meadow to the river. The two fishermen didn’t hear them coming and continued to flick their flies over the fast-running water. ‘Where’s their car?’ asked Padraig.

‘Must be somewhere – they couldn’t have walked from the village.’

‘Well, they’re going to be walking back, that’s for sure,’ said Padraig, clicking the shotgun closed and pulling back the hammers. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘Do you realise you’re on private property?’

The two men turned around. One was tall and broad-shouldered, a couple of inches over six feet with a wide chin and a nose that had been broken at least twice. He lowered his fishing rod and smiled amiably. He was wearing waders and a tweed jacket and had on a floppy cotton hat peppered with brightly coloured flies. ‘We thought this was a public river, didn’t we now, Danny boy?’

The other man nodded. He was also wearing waders but had a green anorak with the hood up. He was younger than the first by a good ten years. ‘That we did,’ he said.

Padraig kept the shotgun pointed towards them. The older of the two fishermen had a Dublin accent but his companion was English.

‘We’re on holiday – I’ve brought Danny up for a spot of fly fishing, show him the ropes and all. Asked at the pub and they said the river was jumping with fish this time of year.’

‘They did, did they?’ said Padraig. ‘They didn’t happen to mention that the Fox brothers own the river, did they?’

‘No, they didn’t,’ said the man. ‘But it looks as if there’s plenty to go around.’

‘Did you catch much?’ asked Sean.

‘Half a dozen big buggers,’ said the younger fisherman.

‘You’ll be leaving them with us,’ said Padraig.

‘That’s not fair,’ said the bigger man. ‘We caught them fair and square.’

‘The river’s ours and so are the fish in it,’ said Padraig, gesturing with the shotgun.

‘You shouldn’t be waving that around now,’ said the older man, his eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Someone could get hurt.’

‘Just give me the bloody fish and get the hell off our land,’ said Padraig.

The fisherman bent down and picked up a canvas shoulder bag.

‘Come on, toss the bag over here,’ said Padraig.

‘My father gave me this bag,’ said the man.

‘Think of it as the fine you’re paying for trespassing,’ said Padraig.

The man shrugged. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ he said.

Padraig smiled. The fisherman was a big man but even big men paled at the sight of a gun, especially a shotgun. ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said. ‘Now sling the bag over here.’

The man threw the bag into the air and it landed in the grass, just out of Padraig’s reach. Padraig bent down to pick it up. The man moved so quickly that Padraig didn’t have time to react and before he could straighten up he felt something hard press against his neck. ‘Now my gun’s not as big as yours but if I pull the trigger it’ll blow your brains right into your precious river,’ said the man, and now his accent was English, not Irish.