Shadow Box (7 page)

I had spent a week with Sharp putting a credible set of images together. My interest was documentary photography and photojournalism, we had decided. We had driven off to a seaside town on the south coast, where I took shots of broken-down buildings, empty amusement arcades and lonely looking people protecting themselves from the wind in seaside shelters.

Technically they weren’t too bad, and everyone agreed that I had a pretty good eye. Subject-wise I thought they looked a bit corny, but Sharp decided that Kieran Kelly is quite serious-minded, and he helped me write a mission statement about my photos.

I set out to record some of the more desolate areas of “Broken Britain”: areas of high unemployment, high immigration and closed down high streets. Places where people feel isolated
…

It went on like this for a couple of sides. By the time you finished reading it, you would think that Kieran Kelly had quite a social conscience but not much of a sense of humour. I had schooled myself in photography from the depression of the 1930s, World War II and the 1950s. I got quite bored of looking at black-and-white pictures of coaldust-covered workers, stressed soldiers and men in flat caps and baggy trousers, but it certainly set the mood for the kind of pictures I was to be taking.

“Good shot,” a voice said from behind me, the Irish lilt unmistakable.

I turned to find Hannah Connolly looking over my shoulder at a photo I had taken of a Staffordshire Bull terrier walking past a wall in Margate on which the slogan KOSOVANS OUT had been graffitied.

“Cheers,” I said. “I was worried about getting bitten.”

Hannah nodded, serious.

“Documentary stuff your thing?”

“Yeah, photojournalism, reportage…”

“Me too,” she said, unsmiling.

“You Irish?” I asked, stating the obvious.

“Genius,” she said, without sarcasm. “Hannah.”

“Kieran,” I said. “Where are you from?”

“North,” she said. “I was at uni in Belfast. I did my foundation over there.”

“My family are Irish, but they all live here. I’ve never been, but I’d like to.”

“You should,” she said. “Reconnect with your roots.”

“Are they showing?” I asked, putting a hand through my hair to make the lame joke obvious.

“Something terrible,” she said. And for the first time, Hannah Connolly smiled.

“Mike Oxlong,” Donnie said. It was the closest he ever came to making a joke.

“Don?” Dave said.

“Dave?”

“Don’t muck about, Don,” Dave said. “Dolan’s out.”

“Dolan’s out?” Donnie repeated. They were both quiet for a moment.

“’kin hell,” Donnie said.

The news that Paul Dolan was out of prison was not good. Many of the Kelly firm felt that he had let Tommy down when he was collared. Dolan had been caught in the boat with Jason Kelly when the three of them had tried to make a getaway down the Thames. Most people thought the Savage kid had dobbed Tommy Kelly in, but others, Dave included, always suspected that Dolan was up to something. It was in his genes.

He was Irish, for a start, and although Tommy and the rest of the Kelly family made a show of their Irish background, Paul Dolan was a real, dyed in the wool Paddy. He’d been brought up at horse fairs and started a life of crime early on, nicking scrap metal and winning prize fights. He had been in the notorious Maze prison and had IRA ancestry that went back to the 1920s.

All these credentials made him a folk hero on his own turf and a public enemy to the Irish authorities.

Donnie and Dave had never really trusted him for not being one of theirs, but he was hired by the firm because of his reputation as a hard man, and one who combined his killer tendencies with connections and a native intelligence.

“What does Tommy think?” Donnie asked.

“Think? He’s bleeding livid. Paul Dolan’s done less than two years of a fifteen-year stretch – put the appeal in and got off on a technicality. The guvnor’s appeal’s going nowhere at the moment, so he’s doing his nut – changing lawyers, the lot.”

“So where’s Dolan now?” Donnie asked.

“Fuck knows,” Dave said. “Snidey bastard’s given everyone the slip.”

“Paul Dolan’s been released,” Sandy Napier said tightly.

I’d been called to a meeting in Napier’s Whitehall office.

The last time I had seen Paul Dolan was when he was arrested. As far as I was concerned, his and Jason’s boat had been intercepted on
my
intelligence. My superiors, and Tommy Kelly himself, were of a different opinion. While Tony Morris had left me in no doubt as to how critical my intel had been in bringing Tommy and his son to justice, there was a lingering suspicion that, somehow, Paul Dolan had manoeuvred an internal stitch-up.

I still had an abiding image in the back of my mind of Dolan, when he was led away down at Long Reach, winking at me.

I hadn’t known what it meant then, and I didn’t now, but there was something in that gesture that made me feel complicit; that while he acknowledged I’d turned Tommy in, we were both part of a bigger secret.

I kept my thoughts to myself as Sandy Napier huffed and pushed around sheets of paper. A secretary was printing out more information from her computer at another desk.

“It’s a complete cock-up,” Napier said. “It leaves us with egg all over our faces.”

Tony and Sharpie looked at their shoes. It was difficult to make eye contact with Napier when he was unhappy; he looked as though he might bite.

“Dolan was our collar, and a big one. I can only think that someone, somewhere, is jealous of our success and got behind the appeal.” He rubbed his hand over gingery bristles.

“So do we have any further idea where…?” Tony ventured.

“Not a bloody clue,” Napier snapped, looked daggers at him. “We have this picture of him leaving prison. Then this is where you come in, Tony, or, I might say,
should
have come in.”

I heard Tony sigh. Napier clearly thought he was at fault. I picked up one of the printed sheets. A surveillance photo showed a man walking towards a car. The image was a little blurred and I could barely tell that it was Paul Dolan. The physique was about right: medium build, dark hair, a fighter’s posture. But, to be honest, it could have been anyone.

“He got into this car. We tailed it, of course, for several miles back towards London, and then something happened,” Tony explained to me.

He slid another sheaf of pictures across the table: the same car in a service station. The printout told me that it was Clacket Lane Services on the M25 the day before. The dark-haired man was standing by the car, smoking.

“They go in and order a McDonalds – Big Mac Meal,” Napier said, with his usual attention to detail. “Take their time eating it, clearly not feeling under any pressure…” He glanced through his eyebrows at Tony again. “Then they pull in for fuel. Dolan gets out and goes into the shop, where we lose sight of him. After he fills up, the driver goes in to pay, then comes out two minutes later with what appears to be Dolan, stumbling in front of him.”

Napier swung the screen of his computer round so that we could see the time lapse of the man leaving the service station in jerky close-up. He clicked on the mouse and zoomed in. I compared the man in the new picture with the one outside the jail. The hair seemed bigger and blacker, but the clothes were the same.

“Our chaps tail the car into London and, when they get to South Norwood station, it pulls over and Dolan gets out. The car pulls away fast, so we have the choice of following Dolan, who appears to be about to get on the train, or following the car and the driver.”

“So our guys go after Dolan,” Tony said.

“They went after who they
thought
was Dolan,” Napier snapped. “Only to find that the man is a traumatized salesman who has been forced to wear a wig and another man’s jacket.”

I looked at the photo again: a wig.

“The poor guy had only been having a crap in the services and comes out to find himself locked in and held at gunpoint by two Irishmen while he is forced to swap clothes with one of them and then drive all the way to London with the other,” Napier said.

“So, meanwhile, the real Paul Dolan is hiding out in a lav on the M25?” Sharp asked.

“Either that, or driving happily in the salesman’s car into central London,” Napier replied. “And we’ve completely effed-up. Tony, you should have had a team of twenty forming a circle round a man like Dolan. From the M25 he could have gone in any direction: Gatwick’s only twenty minutes from there.”

“We were caught out, Sandy. We didn’t get wind of his release until a couple of hours before, and we don’t have the staff – you know how stretched we are. He’s got about a dozen aliases and passports,” Tony said. “Slippery bugger could be anywhere. We need to draw him out.”

“Apart from our own failings,” Napier said pointedly to Tony, “my feeling is that we have been stitched up by the Met.” Napier always seemed convinced that the regular police were trying to wrong-foot the service, as if they were as much our enemies as the villains.

“I don’t want to sound stupid, sir,” I said. “But surely if Paul Dolan’s been released, you can’t charge him with anything anyway. To all intents and purposes, he’s innocent.”

“Paul Dolan? Innocent?” Napier asked, incredulous.

And all three of them laughed out loud as I felt my face redden.

“We didn’t
want
to bring him in,” Tony clarified. “We just wanted to keep a tab on him. Where someone like him goes on their release is important, and we fell at the first fence.”

I felt foolish as I left the office and walked down the cabbage-smelling corridor with Tony and Sharp.

“I thought I was supposed to be going after Sophie Kelly,” I said, a little narked.

“You are,” Tony said. “But Dolan’s release has landed me in the doo-dah and delayed the search for Miss Kelly a little. You just keep on doing what you’re doing and we’ll keep an eye on the bigger picture.”

Tony patted me on the shoulder; not for the first time since I’d been recruited, he made me feel like a kid.

A few days later I got a call.

Anna Moore. First thing in the morning. Never good, but worse when it’s not a college day and I fancied lying in till 11.

“Napier wants you back in, Eddie,” she said. No “hello handsomes” today.

“When?” I asked.

“Now.”

I squinted at the G-Shock beside my bed. 7 a.m. Ouch.

Ten minutes later I was in a cab towards Trafalgar Square, and not long after that, knocking on the heavy oak of Sandy Napier’s door as Big Ben chimed the half-hour near by.

“Sit down, Savage.”

Simon Sharp and Anna were already there. I took the chair between them.

Napier looked up from the papers on his desk.

“I want you to be up to speed with what’s going on with Dolan and so on, and I have a bit of news which might affect you,” he said.

“Sir?”

“Tony Morris is taking a sabbatical, with immediate effect.”

“A sab…?” I didn’t know what it meant, but I didn’t like the sound of it.

“Leave, Savage; a few months’ leave.”

The flutter of anxiety in my gut turned to panic. I was only just getting used to the idea of getting back to work, but I couldn’t do it without Tony. Tony was my bedrock of security, the only person I really trusted.

“He didn’t say…” I began. He would have told me if he was going off, surely?

“He’s been under quite a bit of pressure recently: the crash and so on. We’ve advised him to take a break. Man hasn’t had a holiday in three years.”

I knew I was being sold a party line. “Under pressure” and “advised” sounded like euphemisms, like when they say that politicians are “spending more time with their family” or someone is “stepping aside” from their job at the BBC. Of course, I didn’t believe it. Tony had said nothing to me. I glanced at Anna and Sharp, but they were looking straight ahead.

“I realize, obviously, that you work … have worked very closely with Tony and that in many ways he’s your mentor.” Napier steepled his fingers and looked at me over the top of them, making me uncomfortable. “So I just wanted to reassure you that it is business as usual for you. Anna is here, and Simon is an extremely capable case officer…”