The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (20 page)

       
‘What is it?’ Paulie asked.

       
‘Cops,’ said Davie.

       
Paulie went to stand by his brother. Down below he saw three grey armoured Landrovers. A couple of housewives in thick wool coats and headscarves watched them drive by. In the days before the ceasefire, the RUC Landrovers would have been accompanied by rifle-carrying troops and the air would have been filled with the sound of crashing metal as the women in the area banged dustbin lids on the pavement, sounding a warning to the Catholic community that the army were coming. Now the police passed through the area without incident.

       
‘The bastards are out in force,’ said Davie. ‘Wonder who they’re after today?’

       
‘It’s us, isn’t it?’ Paulie said anxiously. ‘It’s us they want.’

       
Davie leant on the windowsill and peered down. ‘Relax, there’s no reason they’d be looking for us. They could be after anyone.’ The first two Landrovers sped by the building, and Davie breathed a sigh of relief. But he caught his breath when all three screeched to a halt and RUC officers wearing bullet-proof vests fanned out, guns at the ready. They rushed across the strip of grass in front of the block of flats and towards the entrance. Paulie backed away from the window. The comic fell from his hands, forgotten. ‘It is us, Davie. I know it is.’

       
Davie smiled reassuringly. ‘Nah, there’s lots of flats. There’s no reason for them to be after us.’

       
‘Yeah, but  . . .’

       
Davie interrupted him. ‘There’s no reason for them to be after us,’ he repeated. ‘Remember that.’ He was about to say more when he heard footsteps pounding up the concrete stairs, followed by the crash of a boot against the front door.

       
‘Oh Jesus, it is us,’ said Paulie. ‘They’ve come for us.’ His face had gone white and his hands were shaking.

       
‘It’s okay, we’re clean,’ said Davie. ‘Just don’t panic.’ Downstairs, their mother was screaming. The front door was kicked again, harder this time.

       
Paulie knelt down and pulled out an old tartan suitcase from under his bed, his hands trembling. Davie frowned as Paulie flicked the latches and opened it. Inside was his comic collection. Davie was on his way to the bedroom door when Paulie threw a stack of comics onto the floor and took out their father’s revolver. Davie stopped in his tracks. ‘Oh fuck, no,’ he said.

       
‘I was going to throw it away, Davie, honest I was.’

       
There was the sound of splintering wood, more screams from their mother, then urgent male voices telling her to get out of the way. She screamed again, but the scream was cut short. Heavy boots tramped up the stairs. Something smashed to the floor.

       
Paulie was sitting on the floor with the gun in his hands, staring at it as if he didn’t know what it was. Davie looked at the revolver, then at the window. He had to get rid of it, somehow. Maybe he could throw it up onto the roof, hide it in the guttering, do something, anything, before the police burst into the bedroom. He grabbed the weapon from Paulie and dashed to the window. His heart was racing, the blood pounding in his head. He pushed the sash window up but before he had it fully open he heard the door crash behind him. He whirled around, holding the gun up to show that he wasn’t going to use it, his mouth open to shout that they weren’t to shoot, but before he could get the words out he realised it was too late. Time seemed to freeze. The policeman standing in the doorway couldn’t have been much older than Davie, he had acne on his forehead and a mole with hairs growing out of it on the side of his nose. His handgun was centred on Davie’s chest and Davie could see his finger tightening on the trigger. Behind the young policeman stood another man with a gun. He shouted that Davie was to drop the weapon. Davie wanted to explain that the revolver wasn’t even loaded, but the words wouldn’t come. He felt his bladder empty and he was suddenly ashamed that he’d wet his pants like a frightened child. Paulie’s hands were up in the air as if he was surrendering on his brother’s behalf, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

       
Davie knew what was going to happen but he was powerless to do anything to stop it. The young policeman’s gun jerked up and Davie felt the bullets thud into his chest as he staggered backwards, his head slamming into the window. He heard the glass shatter but didn’t feel the shards tear into his scalp. He slid down to the floor, his hands clutched to his chest, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Cramer was towelling himself dry when there was a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Yeah?’ he called, wrapping the towel around his waist. It was Allan, holding a large pair of scissors. He clicked them, a mischievous grin on his face. ‘What are they for?’ asked Cramer suspiciously.

       
‘Got to make you look decent,’ said Allan. ‘Colonel’s instructions.’

       
‘Yeah? What part of my anatomy are you planning to remove?’

       
‘Short back and sides,’ explained Allan, motioning for Cramer to sit on the bed.

       
Cramer sat down. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

       
‘Not really, but I’m willing to give it a go.’ He clicked the scissors menacingly.

       
‘You’ve got to be joking.’

       
‘Come on, Mike. How difficult can it be? Just keep still, that’s all.’ He move towards Cramer, the scissors held high.

       
Cramer put his hands over his ears and lay back on the bed. ‘Keep those things away from me, you mad bastard,’ he shouted.

       
Allan roared with laughter and pulled open the door to reveal Mrs  Elliott standing there. ‘Afraid of a little snip.’ He handed her the scissors. ‘Mrs  Elliott here’ll be doing the business.’

       
‘I’ve got three children, Mr  Cramer, so I know what I’m doing,’ said the woman.

       
Cramer squinted up at Allan. ‘Why?’

       
‘Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately. You look like shit.’

       
‘Thanks, Allan.’

       
‘Nah, seriously, we’ve got to get you ready for the photographs. The way you look, no one’s going to believe you’re a man worth bodyguarding. You look like you’ve been in a ditch for the past three weeks, your hair’s  . . .’

       
‘Okay, okay,’ said Cramer, sitting up. ‘I get the message.’ He saw Mrs  Elliott looking at the scars on his stomach and chest with a look of horror on her face. ‘The last barber did that to me,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m nervous of scissors.’

       
Mrs  Elliott frowned, then realised that he was joking. She tutted, went into the bathroom and came out with another towel which she draped over Cramer’s shoulders.

       
‘Do you have a parting there somewhere, Mr  Cramer?’

       
‘The left side, I think,’ said Cramer. It was almost a year since he’d been inside a barber’s shop. He usually did the job himself with a pair of nail scissors when it got too long. Allan stood watching, his hands on his hips. ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ Cramer asked him.

       
‘No,’ said Allan, grinning at Cramer’s discomfort.

       
Mrs Elliott began to comb Cramer’s hair, the wet strands sticking to the side of his face. Cramer knew that Allan was right, he did look like shit. They might be able to change his appearance but he doubted if a new haircut was going to change the way he felt.

Paulie Quinn lay face down on the mattress, but even with his eyes closed there was no escape from the light. He’d banged on the cell door and yelled until his throat was raw, but they wouldn’t turn off the fluorescent lights which glared down from behind a sheet of protective glass. They’d taken away his clothes and given him a pair of green overalls to wear. They were way too big for him and rough against his skin, like fine-grade sandpaper.

       
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, he knew. He should have been asked if he wanted a solicitor, he should have been allowed to make a phone call, they should have at least given him a drink of water. His throat was so painful he could barely swallow. He had no idea how long they’d keep him in the cell, or how long he’d already been there. With the constant light he had no way of knowing if it was day or night.

       
He rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes, still wet from crying. The RUC officers who’d dragged him into the armoured Landrover had refused to answer his questions, they’d just sat next to him in sullen silence, nothing but contempt and hatred in their eyes. There had been no windows in the vehicle and he had no idea where they’d taken him. He was eventually dragged out and handed over to three men in casual clothes, tough-looking men with short haircuts and wide shoulders who looked like they might be army but weren’t wearing uniforms.

       
Paulie sat up and rested his back against the whitewashed wall. Apart from the mattress on the floor, the cell was empty. There wasn’t even a toilet. As far as Paulie knew, there were always toilets in police cells. And observation hatches in the door so that they could look inside. The door to the cell was white-painted metal and there was no hatch, not even a keyhole. Wherever they’d taken him, it wasn’t to a police station. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob. He wanted his mother, and he wanted Davie. Thoughts of his brother made him cry all the more. Davie had been shot three times, maybe four, and Paulie had seen the life ebb from his eyes, leaving them cold and staring. The police hadn’t allowed Paulie to touch his brother, he’d begged and pleaded but they’d dragged him away.

       
It was his own fault that his brother had been killed. He should never have kept the gun, never given it to Davie. He began to bang the back of his head against the wall, softly at first, then harder, not caring about the pain, wanting to turn back time, wanting to die in his brother’s place.

Mike Cramer heard the gunshots as he walked along the corridor to the gymnasium. He counted the rapid-fire shots. There were eighteen in all, fired in less time than it took Cramer to take two strides. He opened the door to see Allan inspecting one of the man-size cardboard targets. ‘Morning, Mike,’ he said over his shoulder.

       
‘How did you do?’ asked Cramer.

       
‘You don’t want to know, it’d just depress you,’ grinned Allan, popping the empty magazine out of the pistol. ‘First-class haircut. Maybe I’ll ask Mrs Elliott to give me a going over.’ The floor was littered with empty brass casings. ‘Have you seen one of these?’ He handed the gun over, butt first.

       
Cramer shook his head. Across the barrel were the words Heckler & Koch and VP70 was stamped into the butt. ‘It’s a Heckler & Koch VP70 machine pistol. Fires double action only, so there’s no safety, muzzle velocity of 1,180 feet per second, eighteen in the clip, weighs two and a half pounds fully loaded.’

       
‘Feels good,’ said Cramer, weighing it in the palm of his hand. ‘Are you going to be carrying this?’ He gave it back to Allan.

       
‘Nah, this is Martin’s, I’m just playing with it. I’ll stick with a Glock 18.’ Allan picked up a shoulder stock from the table and slotted it into the back of the pistol. ‘This is the kicker, There’s a selector switch here on the top front of the stock that lets you set it to fire three-round bursts, fully automatic.’ He gave Cramer a pair of ear protectors. ‘Watch this.’

       
Allan flicked the selector switch to ‘3’ and aimed at the target, pushing the stock into his shoulder as he sighted down the barrel. He pulled the trigger and three shots rang out, so close together as to be almost indistinguishable. Allan fired all eighteen shots at the target, and Cramer was impressed to see that they all hit the centre of the bullseye. Allan was one of the best shots Cramer had ever seen.

       
Cramer nodded his approval. ‘Nice shooting.’

       
‘Yeah, well I’m not used to it. Like I said, it’s Martin’s baby really.’

       
He walked over to the table and waved his hand over a selection of handguns. ‘Have a look at these, Mike.’

       
Cramer bent over the table and studied the three handguns. All three were considerably smaller than his Browning Hi-Power.

       
‘The one on the right is a  . . .’

       
‘Walther PPK,’ interrupted Cramer. ‘7.65mm calibre, blowäback, semi-automatic. Seven in the clip.’ He pulled back the slide and chambered a round. ‘It’s what James Bond used, right?’

       
‘That I don’t know, but it was designed for the German services. PPK stands for Polizei Pistole Kurz. And that’s a 9mm version you’ve got there. We’ve given it a very light trigger, just over two pounds pull will do it. That goes for all the guns here.’

       
Cramer clicked the safety on and put it back down on the table. The second gun was a Beretta Model 1934. Cramer picked it up. It was shorter than the length of his hand by at least an inch.

       
‘It weighs the same as the PPK, about one and a quarter pounds, and it’s also got a seven-round magazine. It’s another 9mm. Not much to choose between it and the Walther, to be honest.’

       
Cramer put it back down on the table and picked up the third handgun. It looked like a child’s toy and the word ‘Baby’ was spelled out at the bottom of the butt. Above it he noticed the FN logo that denoted the Fabrique National Herstal Líge Company of Belgium, the manufacturers of Cramer’s Browning.