Shadow Box (23 page)

We stopped in Waverley Place outside the Washington Square Hotel, a large brownstone built like a fortress, and I paid the cab. I felt relieved: it looked safe, and the reception staff were super-friendly and welcoming in the way only Americans can muster. Once I shut the heavy door of my second-floor room, I felt I could breathe again.

I sat on the bed and breathed deeply, then my phone buzzed with Tony’s text.

Sit tight. Don’t panic. Will talk to SS. Await instructions.

I read the text a few times and realized that once again I had bitten off more than I could chew, and once again my fate was in the lap of the gods. Or, at least, the lap of the people who controlled my life. I tried to overcome the feeling that the best thing I could do was get a cab back to JFK, get on a plane somewhere – anywhere – and disappear without a trace.

“New York, Dave,” Donnie said. “New Bleeding York.”

“What?”

“’Merica.”

“I know it’s in America, Don.”

“I got up at the crack of a sparrow’s fart to follow him to Manchester.”

“Well done, Don, but if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t know where he was, would you? So you got a ticket?”

“Ticket for what?”

“New York, Don. New York.”

“No, Dave. You’re having a laugh. I never been to America.”

“First time for everything, Don. It’s only a few hours away. It’s a bit like the Isle of Dogs, but bigger. Get a ticket and I’ll dig about and ask a few questions. We know he’s travelling as Kieran Kelly. I’ve got a bent official at Gatwick who does some bits for us. Shouldn’t take long to find out where he is. They get the full SP at US immigration: where they’re staying, how long, name of their mum’s cat, the lot.”

“No, Dave.”

“Here’s the deal, Don. You go, and I’ll have a word with the guvnor and make sure you get a long holiday after. He’s got a bit of evidence that Her Ladyship is alive and over there. You pull this off and it’s early retirement for Donovan Mulvaney.”

“I’ve heard that before, Dave,” Donnie whined. But he chewed it over; the kid would do the work, he’d just have to follow. Once he’d found Sophie: bang. Job done. Deliver the girl into the safe hands of her father. A wave of chivalry rose in Donnie’s chest as he thought about Sophie Kelly. The girl could do no wrong in his eyes. He remembered her beautiful face and old-fashioned, curvy figure. Nothing improper in his interest, he reminded himself, he just felt protective. Loved her, in his way.

“OK, Dave,” he said finally.

“OK what, Don?”

“I’ll do it, but here’s the deal…”

“What are you thinking?”

“100 k and off the firm.”

Dave laughed.

“I’ll ask, Don. I’ll put some money on your card. Just get that ’effing ticket and get out there.”

Donnie had everything he needed with him: a platinum credit card and a fake passport. He was the type of bloke who could get tooled up anywhere in the world. People would just look at him and offer him weapons or nose candy. He realized that Dave had organized him with a bag so that he could hop on a plane anywhere. He had been manipulated, as before: nothing but a killer puppet for the firm, kept alive on booze and empty promises. He didn’t feel at home in London any more; it had changed. He couldn’t go back to Spain – every villain on the Costa had him marked – and he certainly wasn’t happy here, “up north”. He looked at the fake passport, the false name, fully stamped up US visa, valid for three years. He envisioned a bank account with 500 k stashed. One more job, and a picture of a life by the pool began to materialize. Donnie had heard Florida was nice…

He went to the American Airlines desk, where he had seen the kid check in.

Two hours later, after a Burger King and a couple of large vodkas to settle his pre-flight nerves, Donnie was in the departure lounge.

Donnie hated flying. Even when he’d done the two hours to Malaga he’d never wanted to set foot on a plane again. It was unnatural. He didn’t like the take-off or the landing. He didn’t like the bit in between, either, especially when it got turbulent and bumped along like an old holiday coach with shot springs.

Despite the drinks, Donnie had the jitters by the time he settled into his seat. Dave had said no to business class, and he found himself next to a plump, middle-aged American lady who smelled strongly of perfume. An airline seat was barely wide enough for Donnie at the best of times, but given a neighbour who looked fond of the Dunkin’ Donuts diet, he found himself cramped.

“They never make these seats big enough,” the lady said conversationally.

“No,” Donnie said. She bustled up her handbag, newspaper and stack of novels in an effort to make room for Donnie, but in fact leaving less space than before.

“You English?” she asked.

Donnie grunted and shuffled meaty legs into the small area, trying to kick off his shoes.

“I love your country,” the lady said.

“Stow it,” Donnie huffed. He was in no mood for seven-odd hours of chat.

“Pardon me?”

“Put a sock in it,” Donnie said, attempting to make the message clear. The lady looked absently for what needed stowing, and then at Donnie’s feet.

“Your feet swell when you fly,” she commented.

“Shut up,” Donnie clarified.

The woman looked blankly at Donnie.

“You’re just nervous,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m a frequent flyer. You sit tight and relax. You’ll be fine. I’m Marcie.”

She patted Donnie’s hand, and he was relieved when she opened a novel that looked like it would take six weeks to read.

Marcie kept her headphones on through dinner. Donnie ate microwaved sausage and mash, and after racking up a few miniature bottles of wine managed to nod off during a
Bourne
film, the headphones protecting him from any unwelcome intrusion.

Somewhere into the flight, Donnie was awakened by a chime as the cabin lights came on and an announcement came over his headphones.

“The captain has switched on the seatbelt sign. We are entering an area of turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”

Donnie blinked and looked around nervously, remembering where he was. Marcie, next to him, was already awake and belted. She helped Donnie wrestle his unhooked belt from under his legs. Donnie grunted his thanks and looked at the seat back in front of him. He took deep breaths and tried to focus, suddenly feeling, as the plane hit the first bumps of turbulence, the watery-gut sensation that he never felt when confronted by a baseball-bat-wielding thug. As the bumps levelled he let out a long breath, but then he saw the flight attendants lock the trolleys into place and belt themselves into folding seats. He was sure he could see panic in their faces. If
they
were panicking, he thought, he should be shitting his whack. As the plane hit the next, deeper troughs of turbulence, he thought he would. His breathing quickened and his fists tightened on the arms of the seat, his knuckles whitening.

“Don’t worry,” Marcie said. “These bad boys are designed to take this. I used to be a fearful flyer, I went on a course…”

His companion chattered on about air pressure and lift and resistance, stuff that Donnie didn’t understand, but her soft American voice, which came deep from an abundance of chest and chin, strangely comforted him.

Then the plane dropped suddenly. It felt like free-fall on a fairground ride, hundreds of metres.

Donnie gasped and found himself clutching Marcie’s hand.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” she said. “It’s a pressure drop.”

Donnie squeezed Marcie’s hand tight, engulfing it in his massive paw. As the crockery rattled in the galleys and other flyers gasped, Donnie heard himself emit a whimper.

“We’re experiencing an electrical storm,” the voice came over the speakers. “No need to panic. We’ll just be switching off the intercom for the moment and will come back to you as soon as it passes.”

The communication cut-off had exactly the effect on Donnie that the air crew were attempting to avoid. His legs shook, trembling against those of his plump neighbour.

“It’s OK,” Marcie repeated like a mantra. “When things like this happen, we put our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. What’s your name?”

“Donnie,” he told her.

“Well, Donnie,” Marcie said. “If we believe in Jesus Christ, he will see us through times like these.”

Donnie couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about God or Jesus or anything else beyond where the next feed, drink or job came from. He looked out of the cabin window into the darkness and saw lightning flashes momentarily illuminate the wing. He suddenly saw himself as small as an ant, powerless, being tossed around in a storm, trapped in a steel tube in the middle of the sky. He began to say his prayers.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sharpie’s voice was crystal clear despite the distance between us. I didn’t really have a good answer for him.

“Tony told me to come. Didn’t he speak to you?” I asked. I was on the back foot.

“Maybe he did, for what it’s worth. But Tony is not your case officer, Tony is not running this case. Tony’s not even on the firm at the moment. Anyway, he told me quite categorically that he’d told you
not
to go.”

“
What?
” I was thrown. Why would Tony give Sharpie a different version of the story? I decided not to pursue it for fear of getting in even deeper.

“Someone was on to me, up in Stoke,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Thought it best to get away.”

“So you should have come back to me while I decided what’s best. You didn’t tell me about anyone being on to you up there. Who do you think it was? Or are you just making up more lies to cover your tracks? Why aren’t you keeping me in the loop? What are you up to? Where are you staying?”

“Tony told me not to…”

“Don’t give me that!” Sharp shouted. “Where?”

I had been getting on OK with Sharpie, and I was grateful to him for coming to rescue me when he had. Now I felt that all his goodwill had evaporated. I had broken every rule in the book, and I felt bad about it. He had a point: I wasn’t reporting back to him as much as I should. I felt cross that Tony had made a bad decision and landed me in it.

I told him the address of the hotel.

“Shall I come back?” I asked.

“You’re there now,” Sharp said. “Stay put while I decide. I may have to come over myself.”

“What shall I do?”

“Nothing, until I tell you. Take in the sights for a couple of days.”

“OK, I said. “Look, Sharpie, I’m really sorry, I know I’m out of order. I’ll do what I can to make amends.”

“That may be a disciplinary matter above my head,” Sharp said. “You’re a good agent, but you’re a hot-headed little fucker.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, but he had rung off.

I felt chastised, but I had been trained to work on my own initiative. They didn’t seem to mind me making my own decisions when I was out in the field, getting in up to my nuts with Irish gangsters. Then, when it suited them, they reined me in.

I sat on the hotel bed reviewing my case notes, licking my wounds, looking for something to emerge to make sense of it all. Nothing did. It was about three o’clock. I had eaten a massive all-day American breakfast of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and endless refills of coffee several hours earlier and my stomach was still bloated. I was jumpy and agitated. I had been cooped up ever since I’d got here and was getting a little stir crazy. At least Sharpie’s suggestion to go and see the sights gave me licence to stray outside, and a short walk around the park or the shops would be a welcome diversion.

I put on a clean shirt – a Ralph Lauren Oxford – and sailing shoes. I wouldn’t stick out. I wasn’t armed and had nothing to defend myself with, but I made sure I had money and my phone.