Vagabond (49 page)

He went once a month, the brigadier driving, and they would wind through the crumbling internal roads looking for old buildings where they had served. He would stand beside the runway, flanked by the hangars, and seem to hear the sounds of . . . It was appropriate that a deal with his friend, Ralph Exton, should be closed there. It was where he had served with pride. He loved it. He lifted the uniform out of the wardrobe.

A mirror covered the inside of the wardrobe door. He wasn’t handsome and had no woman to look after him. He could have made a serious effort to attract one but he had held back: divorce settlements were crippling. He had balked at a marriage that might lead to paying off a woman. There had been girls in Moscow, Ostend, Bulgaria, and a few when he had arrived in Karlovy Vary. Now, he had no need for a woman. He slept alone and had the company of his dogs. He laid the uniform on the bed and closed the wardrobe door. The boots were already on the rug beside it.

He yearned for respect. It had been denied him by the British officer in the seminar on nuclear weapons in Berlin. He never forgot lack of respect: it was always punished. He chased respect and believed he had it from the senior officials at the embassy, who fêted him, and from the men at the Kremlin, who gave him the ‘roof’ and offered well-paid work. The old camouflage uniform no longer fitted. The uniform on the bed was from a theatrical costumier in Ostrava: it had been used in films and on the stage. The boots were his own, no longer waterproof but still wearable. He would feel fulfilled tomorrow when he went to Milovice and did business for his oldest friend, Ralph Exton. Perhaps a quieter life beckoned in which respect would play a lesser role.

He would miss it. It was because of the respect he had gained that he had been approached for a sub-contract to the south-west of London, but he had heard nothing of an execution by rifle fire. He felt frustrated.

‘It was the dog that done him, Guv.’

‘Bronco’s a bit headstrong. I’m not surprised our chum shut up shop.’

Six of the Surrey force had been up on the bank when the dog had been sent in for the gunman. Their chum’s forearm had ended up locked between the German Shepherd’s teeth. The sergeant and a constable had taken off most of their armour-plated protection and their weapons had been made safe. The dog’s track had provided them with a clear view of the gardens of the house below. Word was that a Russian national was being hosted there by a spook team. He would have been under the kitchen table while the arrest was made, but since the handcuffs had gone on, he had been heaved into the back of a transport and shipped out. Lucky lad.

‘It’s hardly going to be a coincidence, our chum in place.’

‘You saw the rifle.’

‘I rather liked it, Guv. A Rangemaster, .338 calibre, more bang than he needed, but it’s as good as they come. No coincidence. It was in the hands of a professional.’

‘He’s not said anything.’

‘Wouldn’t, would he? Slav, I reckon. Co-operative, but he would be with Bronco hanging onto his arm.’

Armed suspects in custody were always a source of fascination. Some were pliant, others weepy and a few wanted to break the bar on the handcuffs. This one had been strangely calm. The constable had done time in the UN’s Civilian Police programme in Banja Luka, part of Bosnia. He’d tried a couple of words in that language but the man hadn’t answered.

‘Did you hear where the tip came from?’

‘A woman phoned in to tell us what her six-year-old child had said he’d seen him. A couple of guys were sent out, the kiddie gave them the briefing and they scrambled on it.’

‘It’s a hell of a call, picking up something like that.’

‘And political. The shit’s going to be flying off the fan. We’re well out of it, Guv.’

They laughed. They’d be the last of the armed-response team to leave and the footpath would be in the care of uniforms awaiting Forensics.

Outside the community centre, Bridie Riordan waited in her car. She had come to collect Oisin from the Irish-dancing club. She was ambushed. They came from behind and she was startled by the rap on the closed window. She knew Kevin’s mother better than she knew Pearse’s. She stared out of the filthy window into the half-light at the edge of the pool thrown down by the big spotlight that covered part of the parking area. She wound it down. There was rain in the air and it flickered on their faces. Their eyes were red but their cheeks were dry, which told her that the weeping was private.

She was civil, calm, wished them a good evening, then expressed her sympathies. Some on the mountain would have gushed but that was not Bridie Riordan’s way. Pearse’s mother said they had been to see the priest and talk to him. Kevin’s mother told her that they’d discussed the funerals with him.

‘Of course.’

She saw her boy emerge from the hall. A woman led him.

‘Because we don’t want any political shite,’ Kevin’s mother hissed.

‘The shite that killed them, berets, gloves,’ Pearse’s mother added.

‘That’s nothing to do with me.’

In unison: ‘We’ll have no guns over the coffins, no shooting. No speeches on the glory of Ireland. Do you hear?’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

She flashed the headlights and the woman who had Oisin led her boy to her.

‘And where’s your husband?’ Pearse’s mother asked.

‘Around is he, or not?’ That was Kevin’s mother.

She hesitated, then reached across, opened the door for her child, then turned back to her window. ‘He’s away on work.’

‘Is it important work, Mrs Riordan, that keeps him away when there’s killing to be done on his say-so, and wee boys are sent out in his place?’

‘That’s a brave man you have, Mrs Riordan, that gives the orders and fills my son’s head with shite and then is not here when he’s blown to his Maker.’

‘I’ll not take it further.’ The child was in, and she helped with his belt.

‘Your husband, Mrs Riordan, might as well have killed our boys with his own hand. He’s had death in his family, but should have known better than to send out our lads.’

‘Can you sleep with the knowledge of what your husband did? If he’s back from his work on the day of the funerals, tell him to keep away.’

‘Your husband and Brennie Murphy are not welcome, Mrs Riordan. You know what they’re saying? We heard it off the funeral directors and they’d heard the police talking about it in the field where it happened. You want to know what’s said? I’m telling you what—’

Bridie Riordan slammed the car into gear. Gravel and water from the puddles spattered the two women. The small boy cried out in protest. She didn’t know where her husband was or what he was doing. There was blackness on the mountain and few lights showed. She and Oisin were alone, isolated. Bridie Riordan knew nothing and hadn’t wanted to know. She drove back to the farm.

He was irritable. Timofey Simonov shouted down the stairs, ‘Denisov, where’s my fucking shirt?’

An answer from far below: did he expect to sleep in an ironed shirt? What did he need it for?

Another yell from the top of the stairs: ‘When is your wife due?’

She would arrive at the same time as the brigadier had told his boss when he had last asked. Nothing had changed. His wife would care for the dogs overnight, as she always did.

And the cause of the irritability: ‘Denisov, is the TV on the news station?’

The volume must have been tweaked. It was a rolling news station broadcasting from London. On the traversing bar at the bottom of the screen there was no mention of a fatal shooting south-west of London.

‘What do you think I’m going to do?’

Frankie and Malachy had walked to his hotel along low-lit streets past small hotels and bars. She had been cold and wet, hanging on to his arm. He’d seemed barely to notice her.

They were at the door. It looked like a rubbish place. If it had been in the back end of Dublin she would have rated it as a hookers’ hang-out. There were weeds in the pavement cracks, broken glass in the gutter and the paint was peeling on the door. Inside the light was dim but she could see the rack behind the desk with a few keys hanging from it.

He seemed to block her at the door, and there was pain in his face. His hand came across her to grip the door jamb. He didn’t speak. She didn’t know whether he was a big drinker or not. She had bought six cans of strong lager, and he had drunk five, then taken hers and finished it. She knew why she had stayed with him. Frankie McKinney had not sat on a bench in the rain for the sake of her health or his peace of mind. Two kids had been blown up by their own bomb in County Tyrone. Not her problem. What was Frankie McKinney’s problem? That his arm was across the door, blocking her. She pushed it.

‘What’s the matter with you? Are you some sort of priest?’

He dropped his arm. She saw herself in the mirror behind the desk. She was sodden. The clerk ogled her – she wondered if he stood outside the rooms and listened. He held the key, arm outstretched. She took it, pushed past Malachy Riordan and went on up. She heard his steps behind her and left a trail of wet on the thin carpet.

And afterwards?

Her mother had once referred to the glory of discovering a formerly unseen part of ‘life’s rich tapestry’, but would never have known that glory. Frankie McKinney chased it, and went steadily up the stairs. It would be a joy to take off her wet clothes. And afterwards? She would search and find – she was confident. Already she had her coat off and was loosening her belt. He followed.

He was alone, keeping vigil. The policeman had brought beakers of coffee and sandwiches. In the calm and detached way of a professional, Karol Pilar had gone through what would be in place. He had talked, he said, with a London liaison, a woman he identified as Jocelyn. He had remarked that her telephone voice marked her as ‘formidable’. He had caught her at her desk, late, and had imagined a solitary light burning and an empty corridor, beyond her door. Danny had grinned ruefully and muttered about doing ‘stag with a bloody poet’, but the drink had warmed him. It was good to be on the vigil, watching and waiting. Karol Pilar had forced his coat on him. He had taken off his own, unbuttoned his shirt, and used a handkerchief to dry his skin, then had done up the shirt and put Pilar’s coat over it. The Czech knew what Gaby Davies had and had not been told. He had pursed his lips and chuckled. They were in a doorway that smelt of old urine. The windows beside it were boarded up and weeds sprouted from the masonry. He talked about three men from the special-weapons squad, where they would be and the plan for the next day. What would happen to him? Pilar had shrugged: depended on whether or not they won, whether it was clean or messy. If they succeeded, he would be back in Bartolomejska, at his desk, on Monday morning, writing a report distinguished by bland misinformation and submitting expenses. And if they did not succeed? No answer was required. They carried a weighty burden. Pilar said he was sorry he couldn’t walk Danny into Vinohrady, take him up to the attic studio, pour him some wine and have Jana cook a meal. Did he have a girl? Danny had ground his teeth into his lower lip, gazing up at the one lit window and the high dormer. He had eaten the sandwiches, drunk the coffee and pushed Karol Pilar away. The Czech had reached inside his coat and taken out the greaseproof-wrapped cake – supposed to be for Jana’s mother at the weekend. Better for him to eat a slice. Pilar, detective in a specialist squad, was probably the only one among his colleagues who was more than half human, almost sane.

A quick movement from a trouser belt to Danny Curnow’s hand. Cold, hard. He was told the make and the capacity of the magazine, and slid it from sight. The Czech slipped away, moved to the other pavement each time a streetlight threatened to identify him.

It was reassuring to have the pistol. He hadn’t held a weapon since he had checked the Browning back into the armoury at Gough.

The rain eased and he felt warmer. A rake-thin cat sidled close and befriended him, then saw a rat two doors down and left him.

Gaby came.

The Czech would have called her.

She would have been in his room at the hotel across Wenceslas Square, rifled in the drawers and found enough of the few clothes he had brought with him. He stripped. Fresh underwear, dry trousers and shirt, warm socks. He thanked her.

He knew where she had been and what she had done. He could read it in her. She gathered his discarded clothes and bagged them. They would likely be binned. She settled down beside him and must have felt the outline of the pistol because she eased away and pointed down. He took it from his belt and showed it to her. Her face – what he could see of it – clouded. She’d be told what was planned when she needed to know, not before.