The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (29 page)

       
Most of Jackman’s observations concerned the killer’s psychological make-up and his childhood, and while they made fascinating reading, Cramer knew that they wouldn’t be any use to him. The fact that the assassin didn’t have a university degree wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd. Cramer needed a description, physical characteristics that he could watch out for. Cramer slid his feet off the bed. He padded over to the bathroom in his bare feet and drank from the tap. He wanted to use the toilet but he fought the urge. The last time, he’d seen blood in the bowl and it had frightened him.

Dermott Lynch parked the Sierra in Kensington Park Road and walked to Ladbroke Gardens. Marie Hennessy’s flat was in a terrace of white-painted stucco houses, once homes to the rich but now subdivided into flats for the almost-wealthy. Her name wasn’t on the entry-system bell but she’d told him that she was in flat C and when he pressed the button she answered immediately, as if she’d been waiting for him. ‘I’m on the third floor, come on up, I’ll buzz you in,’ she said, her voice crackling over the speaker.

       
The lock buzzed and Lynch pushed the door open. He could feel the Czech 9mm pistol pressing into the small of his back. The gun had a fifteen round magazine and there were ten bullets still in it. The gun he’d taken from the driver was a slightly smaller Russian-made Tokarev with eight rounds in the magazine. He’d left it in the boot along with the body of Eamonn Foley. The hallway was in darkness but as he stepped inside the lights came on. The stair carpet was dark blue and plush and there were framed watercolours on the walls. The staircase spiralled up and mahogany doors led off to the flats, two on each floor. The door to Marie’s apartment was already open when he reached the third floor, though she’d kept the security chain on. She waited until he got close before taking off the chain and opening the door wide. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you if you hadn’t told me you were coming,’ she said.

       
‘I shaved off the beard,’ said Lynch, stepping inside. He had recognised her immediately. The chestnut hair, the slightly upturned nose, the blue eyes that had been brimming with tears the last time they’d met.

       
‘And you’ve cut your hair,’ said Marie, closing the door behind him. ‘And you weren’t wearing glasses. Go on through.’

       
‘You’ve got a good memory, right enough,’ said Lynch as he walked into the sitting room. It was expensively furnished with comfortable antiques, very much a girl’s room. A small circular table held a collection of painted miniatures behind which he saw several framed photographs. Lynch recognised Marie’s mother, Mary, and her father, Liam. The last time Lynch had seen Marie was at her mother’s funeral three years earlier. Lynch bent down to look at a photograph of Mary and Liam, she in a wedding dress, he in tails, a stone church in the background. Mary was in her early twenties back then, Liam maybe a decade older. ‘You look just like your mum,’ said Lynch.

       
‘I know,’ said Marie, closing the sitting room door.

       
Lynch straightened up. There was a large gilt-framed mirror hanging over the marble fireplace and in it he saw Marie studying him, a look of concern on her face. ‘Are you alone?’ he said to her reflection.

       
She nodded. ‘Why do you ask?’

       
Lynch turned to face her, smiling to put her at ease. ‘Because I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us, that’s all.’

       
‘I’m alone,’ she said. ‘There’s only one bedroom. You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

       
‘I believe you,’ he said.

       
‘I’m honoured.’

       
Lynch grinned.

       
‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked archly.

       
‘It’s the sort of thing your mother would have said.’

       
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him as if deciding whether or not he was trying to flatter her. Then she smiled, showing white, even teeth that would have done credit to a toothpaste advert. ‘Would you like a drink?’

       
‘Coffee, please. Black.’ If he was going to get through the next few hours, he was going to need a clear head.

       
Marie went into the kitchen. While she made his coffee he studied the photographs again. Liam Hennessy, the Sinn Fein adviser who’d been murdered by the SAS. Mary Hennessy, shot by a police sniper in Baltimore. Both had given their lives to the Cause, literally. Lynch wondered how their deaths had affected Marie, and if he could trust her.

       
One of the photographs was of Marie and a young man. Lynch recognised the man as her brother, Philip, one of the pall bearers at Mary Hennessy’s funeral. Philip, at twenty-five, was a couple of years older than Marie and Lynch seemed to recall that he was now working in the Far East, something to do with banking or insurance. Marie returned with his coffee. ‘How’s Philip?’ he asked.

       
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, not since . . .’

       
She didn’t finish and Lynch realised she had been about to say ‘the funeral’. Marie placed the tray and two coffee mugs onto a low table, then sat down in a Queen Anne chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short black skirt and a large beige pullover that tried but failed to conceal her figure. She had good legs, long and shapely, another thing she had in common with her late mother. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ she asked.

       
‘I need your help.’

       
Marie narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Or the organisation?’

       
To the best of Lynch’s knowledge, Marie had never been an active member of the IRA. Neither had her brother. ‘Me,’ he said.

       
Marie stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Lynch.’

       
‘Dermott,’ said Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch is my dad.’

       
Marie gave a small shrug as if she didn’t care either way what she called him. ‘What is it you want?’

       
Lynch sat down on a hard, uncomfortable couch and leaned forward, his hands clasped together. ‘You know Mike Cramer. The SAS sergeant who . . .’

       
Marie’s hand froze above her coffee mug and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could finish. ‘Yes. I know who Cramer is.’

       
‘I think I might be able to get to him.’

       
‘Where is he?’ Her voice was monotone, almost mechanical. The silver spoon remained suspended in her hand.

       
‘Best I don’t tell you too much.’ He ran his hand across his face. The beard had gone but it still itched. ‘I’ll need money.’

       
Marie frowned. ‘Surely the organisation would . . .’

       
Lynch shook his head. ‘I’ve been told not to take it any further. The Army Council doesn’t want the boat rocked. They don’t want anything to derail the peace process.’

       
‘They what? Cramer is one of the men who killed my father. And he was directly responsible for my mother’s death.’

       
‘I know. I know. But they say I’m not to go after him. Let sleeping dogs lie, they said.’

       
‘Who said?’

       
‘Thomas McCormack. But he was speaking for the Army Council. Even if I find out where Cramer is, they won’t allow me to do anything.’

       
Marie leaned forward and put her coffee back on the tray. ‘And you’re prepared to defy the Army Council?’

       
Lynch put two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own coffee. ‘Cramer also killed my girlfriend. She was part of an ASU in London during the late eighties.’

       
‘ASU?’

       
‘Active Service Unit. Cramer was among a group of SAS soldiers who stormed the flat where she was living.’

       
‘And you want revenge, is that it?’

       
Lynch studied her, trying to read what was going on in her mind. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

       
She held his look. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, I do.’

       
‘So you’ll help?’

       
‘There’s a limit to what I can do. I have a job. I have a life, I have . . .’

       
‘It’s okay, Marie. I need money, that’s all.’

       
Marie relaxed. She uncrossed her legs, keeping her knees pressed primly together as if she thought Lynch might peer up her skirt. ‘That’s one thing I can provide. How much will you need?’

       
‘As much as you can give me. I’ve got to tell you, Marie, it won’t be a loan. I doubt that I’ll be able to pay you back.’

       
‘Like I said, I’ve got a job.’ She stood up and walked over to a Victorian side table. Lynch admired her legs as she bent to open a drawer. Under other circumstances maybe he would have tried to look up her skirt, but Marie Hennessy was the daughter of Mary Hennessy and as such was untouchable. Sacrosanct. She straightened up, a bank statement in her hands. ‘I can let you have two thousand tomorrow morning as soon as the bank opens. Will that be enough?’

       
Lynch smiled. ‘That’ll be just great.’

       
‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ Lynch shook his head. ‘You can use my room,’ she said. ‘You’re too big for the sofa. I’ll sleep in here.’

       
‘Marie, I can’t thank you enough.’

       
‘You don’t have to. Just get that fucker Cramer. That’ll be thanks enough.’ She smiled sweetly, the girlish grin at odds with the obscenity.

Mike Cramer could feel the sweat trickle down his back and soak into the handmade shirt. It wasn’t a cold night but he was wearing the cashmere overcoat over his suit. Allan’s orders. Allan was standing slightly ahead of him and to his right, Martin was two paces to Cramer’s left. Both bodyguards were wearing dark suits that glistened under the floodlights. They were walking together across the tennis courts. The nets had been taken down, giving them plenty of space to work in. Cramer had been about to go to bed when Allan had knocked on his door and told him to report outside in his Vander Mayer clothing.

       
One of the lights was buzzing like a trapped insect but Cramer blocked it out of his mind. There were three men standing at the far end of the tennis courts, whispering. Martin moved to cover Cramer, getting between him and the three men. Cramer’s throat was dry and he was dog tired, but he forced himself to concentrate. The three men started to walk, fanning out as they headed in his direction. Cramer kept walking. The overcoat felt like a straitjacket and the shoes were rubbing his heels.

       
Allan’s head was swivelling left and right, keeping track of the three men. The man in the middle of the group, stocky and well-muscled with a receding hairline, moved his hand inside his jacket. Cramer tensed, but the hand reappeared holding a wallet. The man on the left of the group bent down as if about to tie his shoelace but Cramer could see that he was wearing cowboy boots under his jeans. Martin moved to block the kneeling man, but as he did the third walker pulled a large handgun from under his baseball jacket. Without breaking stride he fired at Martin, one shot to the chest. Cramer stopped dead, his right hand groping for the gun in its leather underarm holster. Allan began to scream ‘Down! Down! Down!’ and reached for his own gun. Before he could bring it out the man fired again at close range and Allan slumped to the ground.

       
Cramer grabbed the butt of his Walther PPK. The man walked away from Allan, holding his own gun at arm’s length. He was the tallest of the three, with a swimmer’s build, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes as if to shield them from the glare of the floodlights. He was only six feet away from Cramer, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes narrowed. Cramer yanked out the PPK, swinging it in front of him, trying to slip his index finger into the trigger guard but he was too late, the gun was in his face. The explosion jerked him back and he flinched, his eyes shutting instinctively so that he didn’t even see the second shot being fired.

       
‘Shit!’ he screamed.

       
Allan rolled over and looked at Cramer. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ he said.

       
‘It’s this fucking coat,’ said Cramer.

       
Martin got to his feet and dusted down his trousers before walking over to Allan. He held out his hand and pulled him to his feet.

       
‘You’re getting better,’ said Allan.

       
‘I missed the trigger,’ said Cramer. ‘I had the gun in my hand but I couldn’t get my finger on the trigger.’

       
‘You just need practice,’ said Allan. ‘You’re not trained in quick-draw. In the Killing House you go in with guns blazing, not stuck in underarm holsters.’ He slapped Cramer on the back. ‘You’ll be fine, Mike. Trust me. Come on, back to the starting position.’ Allan, Martin and Cramer went back to their end of the tennis courts while the three other SAS men regrouped.

       
Cramer slipped his PPK back into the holster, then tried drawing it quickly. It snagged on the pocket of his jacket and he cursed. As he tried again he saw the Colonel open the gate in the tall wire-mesh fence which surrounded the three tennis courts.

       
The Colonel walked across the red clay playing surface. ‘How’s it going?’ he called.

       
Cramer pulled a face. ‘Twenty-three runs and I’ve taken a bullet every time.’