Severed (9 page)

There was a bend in the road about thirty yards up ahead, and a tree-covered slope running up behind it. I thought I caught a glint of metal in there somewhere, but such was the thickness of the tree cover that I couldn't be a hundred per cent sure. The rules of engagement in Northern Ireland were strict: only shoot if you're being directly threatened, and use the minimum force required to neutralize the threat. But the potent combination of adrenalin and the frustration of being attacked by an unseen enemy meant I wasn't really thinking about that. I cracked off half a dozen shots in the direction of where I thought I'd seen the glint of
metal, then stopped, my finger tensed on the trigger. There was no return fire. The world was silent once again, save for the angry crackle of the fire across the road.

Meanwhile, Snowy was getting to his feet, using the back of the APC as cover. He had a deep gash on his forehead and he was wiping the blood from his eyes as another of the men, a recently recruited Fijian called Rafo, climbed out of the smoking double doors.

I shouted for the two of them to make a run for the ditch in case the fuel tank ignited.

At that moment, the second APC finally roared into view. I doubt if even a minute had passed since the initial blast, but it felt like hours. The APC drove past us and turned sharply in the road some twenty yards further on, so that it acted as a buffer between the stricken APC and the hostile machine-gun fire.

A second later, the doors flew open and the men inside were disgorged onto the tarmac. The first one I saw was our OC, Major Leo Ryan. He was striding towards me, shouting into a radio and barking orders at the rest of the men, half of whom were following him while the other half took up positions by their own APC,
facing in the direction the heavy machine-gun fire had been coming from.

Just the sight of the major filled me with a sense of confidence. You need leaders who inspire you in adverse circumstances, and there were few men better at it than Leo Ryan. He was a tough little bastard with a prematurely silver Bart Simpson-style buzz cut and a pockmarked, scarred face that looked like it had been hewn out of rock by a blind man - the result of some serious grenade shrapnel injuries he'd received as a young lieutenant in the Falklands conflict, during the battle of Goose Green. Even though the grenade blast temporarily blinded him, he still managed to get two of his more seriously wounded men to safety under heavy enemy fire, before rejoining the fighting and making three confirmed enemy kills. He later got the Military Cross for his bravery.

Even with the first APC on fire, and one of his men clearly dead in the road, the major's expression remained utterly calm. His eyes met mine and he yelled something at me. Something that chilled the blood in my veins.

'Out of there! Secondary device!'

Secondary device. The classic terrorist tactic
of planting a second bomb that could be detonated while members of the security forces dealt with the first. They'd done that down the road in Warrenpoint in August 1979 in a dual attack that had killed eighteen paratroopers - the biggest single military loss of life during the Troubles. It's easy and effective. And what better place to plant it than in the soft earth of a flooded ditch where survivors of the attack were bound to take shelter?

My heart jumped. Was something down there beneath the water? A mine? A few pounds of Semtex? If there was, in all likelihood it would be detonated by remote control rather than a timer in order to maximize casualties, and with the ambush pretty much at an end and the enemy thinking of making good their escape, that meant any second now.

I flung the assault rifle over my shoulder and turned round fast. Lucas was still on his hands and knees, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out of the muddy water.

'Secondary device,' I snapped. 'We've got to move.'

He stumbled into the ditch wall and I could
see that his eyes weren't focusing properly. All my instincts told me just to jump out and get the hell out of there, that in situations like this it's every man for himself, but I couldn't leave him. He was my mate. So I bent down, put a hand between his legs and pushed him up and over the edge. Lucas seemed to realize the urgency of the situation and managed to get to his feet and stagger blindly in the direction of the other APC, while I clambered out after him.

One of the other men came forward to grab him while Major Ryan and the others rushed over to the back of our vehicle. The men took hold of Snowy and Rafo while the major leaned in the double doors, trying to help out whoever was still inside. I started to run over to them, remembering that I hadn't seen Jimmy McCabe come out of there.

Which was the moment there was a loud bang behind me, like a very old car backfiring, and I was sent hurtling forward, crashing and somersaulting over the tarmac like a rag doll, every part of my body feeling like it was on fire. I just had time to think that the major was dead right, there had been a secondary device, before I lost consciousness.

That day was ten years ago, but I will never forget it. I sustained sixteen separate shrapnel injuries, spent three weeks in a military hospital in Belfast, and had to take two months off work. It cost four other men their lives, and gave the IRA a tremendous propaganda victory. Their Active Service Unit - the men who'd attacked us - did indeed escape over the border and for months afterwards the following graffiti appeared round the villages of South Armagh: IRA 4 - Brits 0.

The conflict's long finished now, and already it's turning into ancient history. But one thing hasn't changed: I saved Lucas's life. Without me, he almost certainly would have died.

Which means he owes me. In normal circumstances, I would never hold him to his debt. I like him too much for that. But circumstances are no longer anything close to normal, so today I'm going to call it in.

I've known Lucas since we entered the army together nineteen long years ago, when we were seventeen apiece. He lasted nine years, but left not long after the Crossmaglen ambush. Although his own injuries were superficial, he told me he took what happened as a warning from God to change careers, and when his service was up, he didn't renew it. I don't think the life ever suited him like it did me, but somehow we've always stayed in touch in a way I've never really managed with the rest of the men I served with. We just hit it off, I suppose. There's not much more you can say about it than that. Lucas is a funny guy, always has been. He's got charisma, and charm too. The ladies have
always loved him. He's half Swedish, and he's inherited the blond hair and irritatingly golden skin that you associate with the Swedes, if not their passive neutrality. Add to that the strong jaw and high chiselled cheekbones, and you've got the sort of guy who in his younger days could have been a model.

These days he works for himself as a private detective. He's been doing it for six years now and claims that he'll take on any job if the money's right, although most of his work involves divorce cases. Those and missing persons. He's good, though, and he's done work for me on three occasions, hunting down people who owed me money through the car business but decided to skip town rather than pay up. Every time he's found them, and every time the two of us have got the debtor to cough up the money. I trust Lucas. I haven't seen him in close to three months, but that doesn't matter. He's one of my best friends, possibly
the
best, and I know that when things are bad, he'll be there.

And they don't get much worse than they have been today.

I've abandoned the stolen car on a back street on the borders of Whitechapel and Aldgate and
I'm walking along Commercial Street in the direction of Liverpool Street tube station, the briefcase in one hand, just one person among the hordes of short-sleeved office workers on their lunch breaks who are out enjoying the early afternoon sunshine. Lucas's offices are above a Bangladeshi textile wholesalers just south of Spitalfields Market, about two minutes' walk from where I am now. It's already 1.30, so I use the phone I've been supplied with to dial his office number.

'Martin Lukersson Associates,' he states confidently, his voice deep and fearless, making him sound every inch the kind of guy you can rely on in times of trouble. 'How can I help?'

'I've got a problem,' I tell him, not bothering with introductions.

'I know,' he answers.

That throws me. 'How do you know?'

'Because you phoned me about it.'

'When?' I ask, surprised.

Now it's his turn to sound surprised. 'Yesterday,' he says impatiently. 'You called me yesterday.'

'What did I want?'

'Don't you remember? Christ, Tyler, what's
wrong with you? Have ravenous women been spiking your drink again so they can get you into bed when your defences are down?'

'It's a long story,' I tell him, thinking he may not actually be that far from the truth.

'Care to explain?'

'Tell me what I wanted first.'

'You asked me to find some information on a young lady you've met.'

'Leah Torness,' I say, having no recollection of this conversation whatsoever.

'That's her.'

I'm having difficulty getting my head round this. 'What information did I want?'

He sounds aghast. 'You really can't remember?'

'No.'

'You wanted an address.'

'But I've already got an address. She's a nanny for a couple in Richmond. I dropped her off there the other week.'

'You said the address was false. That she didn't actually live there.'

His words hit me like hammer blows, and I have to stop walking. So confused do they make
me that I even wonder if this could be some kind of wind-up.

'Are you sure about this, Lucas?' I ask cautiously. 'Because if this is--'

'I'm positive, Tyler, and if you really can't remember what we talked about, then I think we'd better get you to a doctor.'

'There's no time for that now. Did you find an address?'

'No, and I've hunted everywhere for her. Her name doesn't appear on any database. She's not on the electoral register, she doesn't own a credit card, and the mobile number you gave for her is a pay-as-you-go not registered to anyone. So I got Snowy to have a look as well. You know what he's like. The guy's a ferret. If there's information there, he'll find it.'

Snowy, the other guy I pulled free from our stricken APC that day in Crossmaglen, has been a junior partner in Martin Lukersson Associates for the past two years, and he's also proved to be an excellent private detective, maybe even better than Lucas himself. It was Snowy who located two of my bad debtors, one of whom had changed his name and moved to Germany, so he knows what he's doing.

'And he didn't find out anything either?' I ask, more in hope than expectation.

'Oh yeah, he found something out all right.'

I feel a small burst of excitement. 'What?'

'He found out that the name's an anagram. Mix the letters up and guess what you come up with?'

'Lucas, I can't even do the
Sun
crossword.'

'She's not real.'

'What do you mean?'

'Jumble the letters and that's what it spells:
she's not real
. Leah Torness equals "she's not real",' he adds, just in case I've somehow failed to get the message. 'Someone's fucking you around, Tyler.'

I'm silent for several seconds. I can hear my heart beating in my chest. This has got to be some coincidence, surely. If it isn't, then . . . Then what? I push the thought to the back of my mind. I don't want to go there.

'So, what the hell's going on?' asks Lucas at last.

I take a deep breath. 'I've got a serious problem,' I tell him, 'and I need your help. Right now.'

'All right,' he answers, and I'm wondering
if he's remembering that day back in Crossmaglen. 'What do you need me to do?'

I stop outside the Bangladeshi wholesalers and press the buzzer for Martin Lukersson Associates. 'Let me in and I'll tell you.'

It's just turned two o'clock and I'm standing alone with the briefcase in my hand. I'm on the other side of the road from the address I've been given in King's Cross, looking at an empty, three-storey redbrick building dotted with broken windows and graffiti. It's at the end of a street consisting of tired-looking council blocks, many of which also look empty, about half a mile behind the station. A low mesh fence adorned with banners advertising the brand-new two- and three-bedroom apartments that will soon be here surrounds the building, and there's a condemned notice on the unlocked gate.

The area is quiet; only the sounds of
construction work from the huge building site that runs north towards Camden Town puncture the silence. It's strange to think that I'm in the middle of a bustling city, yet this street reminds me somehow of the burnt-out, war-ravaged villages we used to pass through during our tour of Bosnia in the 1990s. It's far more intact than they ever were, of course, and without the smell of death and decay, but there is still that dull air of neglect and abandonment, and I'm thinking that, like them, this place would be a perfect location for an ambush. No witnesses, no potential for interruption, and a ready-made resting place for the corpse among the rubble the bulldozers are going to create any day now. It's unlikely that my body'll be found for days, or even weeks.