Head Shot (43 page)

'I'm sure. When we get home I'll go to see a pal in Whitehall, just to make certain. I've already sent him by courier, via the British Embassy, the item that Clyde Oakdale gave me this afternoon when I passed by him by accident in a crowded shopping mal , out of shot of the video cameras and where we couldn't be overheard by any nearby microphones, like those which are undoubtedly planted in his office.'

She gasped with surprise, then frowned. 'But how did you set a meeting up, without that being overheard?'

'I sent him a text message on his cellphone.'

'You cunning so-and-so,' she exclaimed. 'So what did Clyde give you?'

'A copy of everything in the envelope we left back there. Do you think I'm completely bloody daft?'

'You mean you expected someone to come after me when Clyde gave me the original?'

'No. I knew that someone would come after it, not after you; I just didn't expect it would be so soon, or that the guy who would do it would be the same guy I asked to keep an eye on you after you left Oakdale's office.'

'You mean you asked Brand to look out for me?'

'That's how good he was ... or how stupid I was.'

'And Terry's . . . Brand's people; how will they know about the duplicate?'

'They'l figure out that I wouldn't have given it up unless I had some sort of pretty good insurance.' He looked at her. 'Now trust me on this,'

he said, 'with your life and the lives of our kids.'

Sarah was silent for a long time, knowing that he was the only man she had ever met, other than her father, whom she could trust to that extent. 'Since you put it that way, I must,' she murmured, grimly.

They drove on in silence for a while, back to the Walkers' home. 'How much did you overhear back there?' she asked him, eventual y.

'Nothing. I got there just as he was getting ready to shoot you. Why?

Did I miss something?'

'No,' she said. 'Nothing at al .'

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She had no idea how long she had been sitting there, staring numbly at the wal . Somewhere in the back of her consciousness, she heard the door open again. Somewhere behind her she heard two men enter the room, one of them her husband . .. she knew the very sound of his footfall. . . and the other certainly Neil Mcllhenney, for wherever Mario went in a crisis, his friend would not be far away.

But she made no move to turn; she simply sat there, on the edge of the armchair, her father's gun, and his body, at her feet.

'Oh my Lord,' Mcl henney murmured. 'Mario, here's where I disobey orders; this is for you to deal with on your own. If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen, doing something useless.'

McGuire barely heard him; instinctively, he snapped off the light and stepped into the living room. In the second before Neil turned away, she looked round and up, and he saw her face in the moonlight. Her expression made him shudder; it was that of someone he had never seen before, someone who, for al she knew, was ful y dressed and greeting a surprise visitor, not sitting naked on a chair, looking up at her husband as if nothing untoward had happened. Whoever she was, she wasn't Maggie Rose, not as he had ever known her.

'I didn't appreciate ...' he heard her begin in a chil ingly calm voice

. .. not hers, someone else's ... as he left Mario to what he had to do.

In the kitchen, he fil ed the kettle, found three mugs and dropped a tea bag into each one; he had no idea why he was doing it, other than to pass the time. He stood there and waited, trying to imagine how Pat Dewberry would embellish her story, now that no one was left alive to contradict her.

They had had no time to arrest her formal y; al they had been able to do was call two constables from the nearest patrol ing car to sit with her until DC Alice Cowan from Mcllhenney's Special Branch team could get there to relieve them.

'Neil.' McGuire's voice came from the hal . Mcllhenney stepped out and found him on the stairs, one hand on Maggie's waist as if he was steering her. He had put her bathrobe around her shoulders, but it hung loose on her and he looked away, embarrassed. Mario tossed him a car key, on its dealer fob. 'I dug that out of his pocket. His motor'll be outside; find it and run it into the driveway, as close to the house as you can get it.'

'What are we going to do?'

'I'm going to take him somewhere else. You don't need to have anything to do with it.'

'Fuck off

The big superintendent's smile gleamed. 'Since you put it that way, I'd welcome your help.'

Neil nodded and headed off, out into the night. He looked at the key and saw that it was for a Ford. A Mondeo and a Focus were parked close to each other, less than fifty yards away. Squinting in the street light, he found the button which operated the remote central locking. He pressed the unlock sign as he approached the two vehicles, heard a 'clunk' and saw the courtesy light come on inside the Focus. He slid in behind the wheel, adjusting the driver's seat to give himself more leg-room, then started the car and reversed quietly up his friends' drive, positioning the front passenger seat less than six feet from the side door of the house. He glanced around as he stepped out. Mario and Maggie lived in the sort of neighbourhood where people kept conventional hours; all the curtains were drawn in both of the houses that overlooked the drive.

McGuire was back in the living room, waiting for him. He winced as he took his first close look at the body. 'Ouch! What did she shoot him with? A cannon?'

'More or less. Here, help me get him into this.' He held up an old parka he had unearthed from the depths of his wardrobe; it was a winter garment with a big hood. 'Come on,' he said. 'Kevin O'Mal ey the consultant shrink's on his way here and I don't want him to see any of this.'

'Where are we taking him?'

'Home.'

Together they heaved the dead weight of George Rosewell into a sitting position, forced his arms into the jacket, which was, fortunately, two or three sizes too large for him, and zipped it up. Then, pul ing the hood as far over the ravaged face as they could, they pul ed him upright, and hauled him out to the car, looking to any distant observer, had there been one, as if they were seeing off the last drunk to leave the party.

They wedged him into the passenger seat, where Mario fastened the 300

safety belt as tightly as he could across his chest and round his waist.

'Last bloke I saw looking like that,' said Mcl henney, as they finished, 'was Dan Pringle after a CID dance.'

'This bastard's luckier than Clan; at least he won't feel like shit in the morning.' McGuire went back into the house and returned with the rol ed-up, bloodstained rug, which he shoved behind the front seats. 'On

you go now; you head off to Bonnington. Don't park, just drive around till you see me there. I'll be as quick as I can.'

Neil nodded. 'How's Mags?' he asked.

'In a trance; lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.'

'What have you told Kevin?'

'That she's had a breakdown, and that I want it kept quiet. He's going to take her to his clinic and keep her sedated and under observation for a couple of days. He's used to working with us; he'll keep it under wraps al right.'

'Wouldn't she be better here? I mean, shouldn't you be with her when she comes out of it?'

'She may not want to see me when she comes out of it. And to tel you the truth, old pal; I don't know if I want to see her.'

The bathroom was lit only by the strip-light above the mirror, in which he had shaved less than a day before. He lay back in the great oval tub, in the middle of the night, more exhausted than he had ever been in his life.

Paula sat beside him on the lid of a laundry basket, nursing a mug of coffee; with her hair tied in a ponytail and wearing only the long tee shirt in which she had been sleeping when he had leaned relentlessly on the entry-phone buzzer, after Mcl henney had dropped him off.

'Is this going to become a habit?' she asked.

'I couldn't honestly tell you,' Mario sighed.

She stood, drew her makeshift nightgown over her head, and lowered her long olive-skinned body into the bath beside him. 'Come on then, move your bum,' she murmured. He made room for her; it was big enough and then some.

'It won't do you any good,' he murmured, 'you know that, don't you.'

'Maybe not,' she replied, 'but I know when a man needs a hug. It's been a bad day, then?'

'The worst of my life,' he told her, truthful y. 'Remember wee Ivy?

She's dead; Neil and I found her at her place this afternoon.'

Paula sighed. 'Oh, no; the poor kid. What was it? An overdose?'

'An overdose of life.'

'And what about the man who kil ed my dad? Are you any nearer catching him?'

He nodded, sending ripples across the surface of the bathwater. 'We know where he is. We'l go and get him tomorrow.'

'You wouldn't kil him for me, would you?' She smiled as she asked, but he knew that she was deadly serious.

'I won't have to go that far.'

She pul ed back an inch or two, focusing on his face. 'What do you mean by that?'

'Don't ask. Don't ask any more questions. In fact, shut your bloody mouth.' He turned half round towards her, drew her to him and kissed her. Even in the warm bath, she could feel him shiver.

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'Here,' she whispered. 'I thought you said this wouldn't do me any good.'

'It won't,' he told her. 'We're going to hate ourselves in the morning.'

'You speak for yourself, big boy.'

They arrived outside the tenement building just after ten on Thursda morning; Mcllhenney looked the fresher of the two, but it was marginal.

Mario had awakened in Paula's bed three hours earlier, to find her propped up on an elbow beside him, looking down at him with a smile on her face. 'You did it again, you big bastard,' she had chuckled. 'You fell asleep on me.'

'Oops, sorry,' he had murmured in reply, reaching up to draw her down beside him. 'But I'm half-awake now.'

'You real y know how to make a girl feel wanted.'

He had barely finished shaving . . . the sign of the modem single woman, he had decided, was a Gil ette Mach III, stil in the wrapper, and a can of foam, in her bathroom cabinet... when his friend had arrived to collect him. He had asked no questions on the drive out to Ormiston, and Mario had told him nothing.

Pat Dewberry was cleaned up, made up and composed, when they walked into her living room, after Alice Cowan had let them in. 'He hasn't come home, you know,' she had said.

McGuire had simply shrugged. 'We'll have to look somewhere else, then.'

They had cautioned her and had told her that she would be taken into custody for questioning in connection with fraudulent claims from several insurance companies, and had called in a team from Detective Superintendent Brian Mackie's division to take her to their office in Lasswade.

And then they had headed for Bonnington, where they had found Willie Haggerty, Dan Pringle, Stevie Steele and four armed, uniformed officers, a sergeant and three constables, waiting for them.

'What's this about then, Mario?' asked the head ofCID. 'Stevie said you wanted me here, and an armed response team, but that was al . I thought I'd better tell the ACC too, then I found you'd phoned him.

You're fuckin' about with the chain of command here. Superintendent, and I don't like it.'

'Easy, Clan,' said Haggerty, calming the belligerent DCS. 'The lads 304

have been operating under my orders. You want to shout at anyone, shout at me.' He looked at McGuire. 'Okay. Tell us al your story.'

The big, swarthy detective nodded. 'We have information that the man who called himself Magnus Essary ... his real name is George Rosewell.. . may be holed up in a flat here; the one next door to where the girl was killed yesterday. We also believe that he killed her; we should be able to prove that when we get hold of him.'

'What else do you know about him?'

'He shot my Uncle Beppe. He also killed the priest Father Green, and the doctor who certified the death; we have his accomplice in custody.

She's spilled the lot.'

Haggerty frowned. 'If he killed the girl, what the hell's he doing hiding next door?'

'We think he probably watched the place,' Mcl henney volunteered, 'and came back here after our guys had finished. Not entirely daft when

you think about it.'

'And you think he's armed?'

'We must assume that.'

'Agreed; let's do it.'

The ACC nodded to the uniformed officers; weapons drawn, they led the way upstairs, moving silently until finally they reached the landing for which Ivy Brennan's taped-over apartment told them they had been heading. McGuire pointed to Rosewell's flat, and one of the constables stepped forward. He swung a heavy wooden bludgeon at the door; the frame shattered, it swung open, and the armed team rushed inside, their shouted warnings announcing their presence.

Inside a minute, the sergeant stepped out on to the landing. On floors above and below, they heard doors opening. 'He's in here, sir,' the officer told Haggerty.

The ACC led the detectives into the flat, following the armed sergeant. George Rosewell lay on his back, on a bloodstained rug, with half his

face gone; a great silenced automatic hanging loosely in his right hand.

Haggerty looked down at him. 'You've done us a favour then, pal,' he said, as if the man could hear him. 'Good idea, bad bastard that you were.'

'He's had two whacks at it,' Steele murmured, pointing at a shattered mirror, above the cold fireplace. 'His hand must have been shaking the first time he tried.'

'Made no mistake next time,' Haggerty grunted. 'Okay, that's it; cal up the meat wagon, Stevie, and let's have him carted off for post mortem.'

'Are you not going to get Dorward's team in before we move him?'

asked Pringle.

'Nah. No need for them. It's clear what happened; we'll do a residue test to prove he fired the gun. That'll be enough for the report to the fiscal.'

He looked at McGuire and Mcllhenney. 'That's it all sorted then, lads is it?' '

'Everything.'