Shadow Box (8 page)

Anna smiled and Sharp nodded his extreme capability at me.

I was worried about Tony’s absence, but Napier’s rock-solid authority and the weight of the service behind him somehow made me mutter my agreement. There was clearly no point in further discussion.

“I’m sure I’m in safe hands, sir. I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Napier rubber-stamped it. “While we’re here, Savage, I just wanted to say how pleased we are with your work. Your first couple of assignments have been by no means easy, but your ability to deal with difficult situations and your behaviour under pressure have been noted at the highest level.” He pointed towards the ceiling. Who was he talking about? God?

“I’ll make sure Savage gets everything he needs,” Sharp assured him, sounding a little smug. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Sharpie smiled at me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Of course, security, protocol and so on means that you won’t be able to communicate with Tony in the meantime. At least not until he’s back in the fold, which I hope won’t be too long,” Napier continued. “So just carry on as you are, Savage … and keep up the good work. That’s all.” Sandy Napier looked at me and smiled, showing his teeth. “Good man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A compliment from Sandy was extremely rare, but a smile from him was as scarce as a hairy snooker ball. I felt quite dazed as I was ushered from his room by Anna and Sharp. It was like getting a gold medal or an England cap.

He’d played me.

I found myself outside on the street. Anna lit a fag.

“Tony’s ‘taking leave’? Bollocks,” I said.

“I know, I know,” Sharp said. “It’s come from above Napier.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tony look under pressure,” Anna commented.

“No,” Sharp agreed. “You know what it is, don’t you? Paul Dolan gave us the slip. Someone has to take the flak; this time it’s Tony. He’s got form with the IRA, so when something goes wrong and there’s an investigation from on high, the spotlight settles on him.”

“Even though Tony did more than anyone to nail Dolan in the first place?” I asked.

“Probably
because
he did more than anyone,” Anna said, exhaling smoke. “That’s the way this firm seems to work. The better you do, the more under scrutiny you are. I’m sticking to my desk.”

Sharp flagged down a black cab.

“And, Mr Savage, now you’re in the picture, you will just carry on at college. We’ll keep in contact. You’re in safe hands.” He nodded at Anna, winked at me, then waved jazz hands at us as he got in the cab.

I laughed and walked on towards Charing Cross Road, actually looking forward to getting back to college the next day and carrying on … as instructed.

A week later, at the end of a college day, I found myself walking into the tube with Hannah Connolly.

“Where you off to?” she asked.

My flat was a couple of stops away, but not wishing to give anything away, I glanced up at the tube map and said, “Willesden”. I immediately regretted my subterfuge: Willesden was only a stop beyond Kilburn, which I knew was Hannah’s patch.

“Just one on from me,” she said. “I didn’t know you lived up that way.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’m meeting a mate for a drink later.”

“Oh,” she said. “What time?”

I looked at my watch; just after six.

“Eight,” I said, beginning to get caught up in my own fiction.

“That’s ages,” she said. “Why don’t you get off at Kilburn and come for a quick pint first? I could murder one.”

There was nothing flirty about Hannah Connolly – she was direct, almost blokeish.

“Why not?” I said.

Twenty minutes later we stepped off a packed tube and out into the bustle of Kilburn High Road. It was a sunny evening – one of those days that lightens your mood. Hannah stopped outside a big Victorian pub that advertised live music and comedy nights.

“Best Guinness in Kilburn,” she said.

We went inside and I ordered two.

We sat in a corner where we could survey the out-of-date St Patrick’s Day disco posters and general Irish paraphernalia. Stocky, red-faced men in late middle age sipped black pints at the bar and exchanged loud bursts of incomprehensible conversation. They looked and sounded as if they’d been there all day, and probably had.

I picked up my glass from the sticky brown table, noting the shamrock that had been carefully drawn in the white head.

“Cheers,” I said.

I took a sip, then put down my glass. Hannah laughed and gestured for me to wipe off a blob of froth stuck to my nose. She took a gulp of hers without leaving a mark.

Hannah did not work hard at conversation; neither did she seem uncomfortable with silence. I was.

“How long have you lived in Kilburn?” I asked.

“Just over a year,” she said.

“You live with flatmates?”

Hannah looked at me, fleetingly.

“No, on my own. My da owns the flat for when he’s here on business, which isn’t very often.”

“What does he do?” I asked.

“Building trade, mostly.”

“So, what got you started in photography?”

“When I was at school in Belfast I did an art project on the graffiti around the city. There are pictures on the wall at the end of every street, not Banksy stuff or tags, but soldiers and IRA martyrs and stuff. I tried to paint my own versions of them but I wasn’t very good. Then I got a camera for my sixteenth birthday, so I started taking photos instead. Then I did a foundation course, and here I am.”

“Pretty political, then?”

“You can’t live in Belfast and not be political,” she said. “If you were born any time in the last fifty years, you would have grown up hearing about the Troubles every day.”

We carried on like this for a bit, me having to squeeze conversation out of Hannah. She explained that their family was Catholic, but that her dad had got into some trouble doing business with Protestants or something, so he’d moved over here for a bit.

We had another drink and Hannah loosened up a little, telling me more about herself; no revelations, but it gave me a slightly better picture of who I was dealing with. She was guarded yet straightforward. It was as if she was hiding behind her persona of black jeans, black T-shirt and leather jacket. Even her dark hair and heavy eyeliner seemed something of a mask.

Saying that, she did not get a great deal out of me either. I told her my dad was called Patrick Kelly, a builder; that he had lived in Spain and had also had a few business troubles. It gave us something in common.

But she seemed to detect something not quite right about me.

“I hate that jacket,” she said, laughing. “It looks like it belongs to someone else.”

“It did,” I said, a little offended. “It’s retro. I bought it from a vintage shop for college.”

“Trying to fit in with the fashionistas, are you?” She was disarmingly direct, like she didn’t care if she offended anyone.

“I don’t really fit in,” I admitted.

“That makes two of us,” she said. “You want to try being yourself.”

I was a bit nervous that Hannah could smell something fake about me. She was that kind of girl. I looked at my watch – it was nearing 7.30 p.m.

“Haven’t you got to meet your mate?” she asked.

I had almost forgotten my lie. I took out my mobile and pressed a couple of keys, pretended to read a message. I rolled my eyes and sighed dramatically.

“I’ve been stood up,” I said.

If Hannah saw anything phony in this, she didn’t show it.

“Why don’t we have another one here, then?” she asked. “You can come back to mine for something to eat if you want?”

I considered a moment. I had no real need to go back to my own place and I didn’t for a second think that she was coming on to me. But after all, my job was to keep tabs on Hannah Connolly.

“OK,” I said. “Why not?”

Donnie’s life had become more complicated since Paul Dolan’s release. He’d been given another “little” job: to find out what he could about Dolan’s disappearance. Word from Belmarsh was that Tommy was mad as a cut snake that the Irishman had given them the slip. Tommy wanted Dolan brought to book and given a thorough grilling about his role in his own capture and imprisonment.

Dave had given Donnie instructions to round up some of the usual suspects. The prospect made Donnie’s heart sink.

He turned up to a pub near Camberwell Green looking for a man called Jimmy Gallagher. After asking the barman, he found Gallagher in the bookies several doors down. Gallagher was a scrawny man with thin, greasy hair. He was studying the racing papers and chewing the stub of a ballpoint. Donnie stood behind him watching the TV above their heads. Gallagher felt the looming presence and turned, his eyes widening as he clocked Donnie. Donnie noticed a smudge of ink in the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Jimmy,” Donnie said.

“Donnie!” Jimmy replied, trying – and failing – to sound cheerful.

“You winning?” Donnie asked.

Gallagher gestured at his tatty clothes and dirty trainers. “Does it look like it?”

“Let me buy you a drink,” Donnie said.

Gallagher followed Donnie back to the pub. Donnie bought Jimmy a triple whisky in the hope that it might loosen his vocal cords. Gallagher was a well-known, hated grass, but more useful alive than dead. He always had his ear to the ground.

Donnie boxed him in at a corner booth, where Gallagher could barely be seen for Donnie’s wide back. Donnie took a sip of lager.

“So,” he said. “You heard about Paulie Dolan getting out?”

Gallagher’s eyes darted about, but his field of vision was blocked by Donnie’s massive frame.

“No. Yes. I mean, I heard…”

“Heard what?” Donnie asked.

“Only that he was out, Don,” Gallagher said.

“Have a drink,” Donnie suggested, and pushed the whisky towards Gallagher, who took a sip. “No, have more,” Donnie said. “I’m buying. Fill yer boots.” He sat and watched while Gallagher drank half, and continued to watch until he had drained it. “Good stuff that Jameson’s, innit? Have another.” Donnie pushed the table against Gallagher so he couldn’t move from his chair and then ordered another triple from the bar.

“Cheers,” Donnie said. Gallagher sipped from the glass again. “So what else did you hear?”

“Nothing, Donnie, honest. I don’t do this any more.”

Donnie sighed. “Neither do I, Jimmy. I thought I’d retired. But now I’m here, so whaddya know?”

“I told you, Don, nothing. I haven’t heard nothing, I swear.”

In Donnie’s experience, when people began to say “honest” and “I swear” it meant they knew more than they were letting on.

“Drink up, Jimmy,” Donnie instructed. He pushed the whisky closer to Gallagher, who lifted it to his lips. Donnie grabbed the bottom of the glass and roughly helped the man swallow the contents. “Have another one.”

Donnie pushed the third triple whisky at Gallagher.

“So what are they saying at The Harp?” Donnie asked, referring to the private members’ Irish club in New Cross, once funded by Tommy Kelly.

“I don’t know, Don.” Gallagher’s voice was beginning to slur, nine shots doing their work on his small frame.

“Down the hatch,” Donnie said again. He took the glass from the table and pushed it against Gallagher’s mouth, putting his other hand behind the man’s neck. Gallagher resisted, but Donnie’s massive hand pressed until Gallagher’s teeth parted and Donnie was able to tip the glass, raising a red weal where the rim pressed hard against Gallagher’s nose. Jimmy Gallagher spluttered as another three measures of spirit sluiced down his throat.

The pub was crowded, but the barman, sensing an incident was about to happen, began to walk over.

Donnie stood up.

“You’re drunk,” he said to Gallagher for the barman’s benefit, a note of disgust in his voice. “You need some fresh air.”

“He’s had enough,” he said theatrically, guiding Gallagher past the barman through the crowd.

They went outside and Donnie pushed Gallagher along the street, turning right into the darkness of Camberwell Grove. Fifty metres along, where the grand Georgian houses started, Donnie turned Gallagher down a side passage, bordered by the cast iron railings of the large house it served.