‘You’d better hope that checks out,’ said Doyle. ‘Because if it doesn’t, I’ll be back to see you. And if I do have to come back, by the time I’ve finished, you’ll be putting your make-up on with a fucking spoon for the rest of your life. Got it?’
‘I hope he fucking kills you,’ Shonagh shouted.
Doyle took a step towards her and, moving with incredible speed, he struck her across the temple with the butt of the Beretta.
Shonagh dropped like a stone.
Doyle swept her up in his arms and deposited her on one of the kitchen chairs, her head lolling on her chest.
He pulled out several drawers until he found what he wanted.
Cutting several lengths of nylon string he quickly bound Shonagh’s wrists and ankles to the, chair.
Satisfied she would remain secure he took one last look at her then strode towards the kitchen door. On his way out, he tore the phone from the wall. It
shattered easily.
Doyle glanced at his watch. He might not have much time.
Doyle blasted on the hooter as he drove, clearing any idle pedestrians out of the way.
The mobile was wedged between his shoulder and his ear as he guided the Orion along the streets that led to Dalton Road.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he snapped.‘Tell Robinson he’ll need a couple of armed units.’
The voice at the other end asked the address again.
‘Flat in Dalton Road, number forty-four,’ rasped Doyle. ‘Got it?’
The voice wanted to know if either Finan or Leary were there.
‘How the fuck do I know? It’s possible, that’s why I think Robinson will want armed units with him. But you tell them not to make a move until I arrive.’
He ended the call and dropped the phone on to the passenger seat.
As he turned left two men stepped into the road. Doyle hit the hooter and narrowly avoided them.
He pressed down harder on the accelerator.
The flats in Dalton Road were of a depressing uniformity. Here and there residents had attempted to
individualise their humble dwellings with a lick of paint on the front doors and window frames but, for the most part, the peeling flesh of neglected council gloss was the only colour visible.
Graffiti on the walls. Lifts that didn’t work.The residents were in no position to complain.The council had no inclination to improve their plight.
Some of the windows were boarded up. Some of the flats empty. Most had sustained broken windows at some time and there was still shattered glass on the walkways.
Along with the dog shit, the used condoms and the empty hypodermics.
Number 44 had once sported a blue front door but the paint was now scratched and scabrous. It lay at the top of four flights of precipitous stone steps.
Even young men sometimes had to stop and draw breath during the climb.
Men like Matthew Finan and Declan Leary.
A dustcart was collecting rubbish down the street, the workers swarming around it like ants around a queen. One of them dropped a refuse bag as he hauled it up to deposit it in the back of the dustcart. The bag split open, spilling its reeking contents across the pavement. A chorus of jeers, curses and laughter greeted the mishap. Two of the men began scooping up the rubbish in their gloved hands and shoving it back into the torn bag.
Inside the cab another man sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the wing mirror of the vehicle.Through it, he had a perfect view of the entrance to the flats.
Two teenage girls left, both jabbering away into mobile phones. But apart from that very little moved.
No one, so far, had entered apart from an old woman with a shopping trolley.
PC Adam Sweetman of the Royal Ulster Constabulary kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wing mirror and watched.
And waited.
Doyle brought the Orion to a halt in the street that backed on to the Daiton Road flats.
There were three boys, no older than ten, standing close to the side of the road, kicking a punctured football back and forth, occasionally bouncing it off the other parked vehicles in the street. One was wearing a Manchester United shirt.
Doyle ignored them and reached for his mobile. He punched in a number and waited.
‘I want to speak to Chief Inspector Peter Robinson,’ he said. Tell him it’s Sean Doyle of the Counter Terrorist Unit. It’s important.’
There was a buzz of static then Doyle heard Robinson’s voice. I’ve got one unit in position already at the north end of Daiton Road,’ the policeman told him. There’s another on the way.’
‘Anybody know if Finan or Leary are inside?’
‘How can they? No one knows what they look like.’
‘Have any of your men been up to the flat to check it out?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Fuck it. Leave it. I’ll do it myself.’
‘Doyle, if they’re in there, use the back-up. Understand?’
‘You just be ready to move when I shout.’
‘I mean it. Don’t try being a bloody hero. If they’re in there, use—’
Doyle cut him off. ‘Bollocks,’ he murmured, swinging himself out of the car.
One of the three kids kicked the ball in his direction. Doyle stopped it with the inside of his left foot then rolled it gently between his heel and toe.
‘Manchester United supporter, eh?’ said Doyle to the oldest boy.
The boy nodded.
‘Great, aren’t they?’ he beamed.
Doyle flicked the ball up with his toe then volleyed it perfectly, watching as it sailed halfway down the street.
‘You’ll grow out of it,’ he muttered as he watched them chase off after it, the one in the shirt sticking two fingers up at him.
Doyle dug his hands in his jacket pockets and hurried towards the corner of Dalton Road.
Shonagh Finan had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. All she was aware of as she blinked her heavy lidded eyes was the thumping pain inside her skull.
She tried to rise, forgetting that she was still firmly tied to the chair.
She strained against the restraints for a moment, feeling the nylon string cut into her wrists.
‘Bastard,’ she hissed under her breath.
She could see the phone shattered on the floor in front of her. If she could get free she had a mobile in her handbag upstairs.
Once more she began to strain against her bonds.
A VISIT
Ward had used the girl before. Her name was Jenny. At least that was what it said in the contact magazine where he’d first seen her photo and phone number.
Age: 24. Vital statistics: 32B, 23, 33.
She arrived in a taxi, as she always did, carrying a small, black holdall.
He sat gazing at the television screen until he heard the doorbell ring then he got to his feet and wandered through to the hall.
Jenny was wearing a short, black dress. Balanced on her open-toed high heels she was just under five-two. Her hair was brown, streaked with blond. Her face was round, her lips full. She was wearing too much makeup, some of it to conceal the two spots on her left cheek, but Ward was unconcerned. He ran appraising eyes over her and ushered her in.
She looked around the spacious hallway of the house and smiled professionally.
‘Beautiful house,’ she told him.
‘You always say that,’ he reminded her.
‘Well, it is.’
She knew who he was. What he did for a living. The first time she had told him she’d read a couple of his books.
Ward had been unimpressed,
‘Do you want a drink first?’ he wanted to know, ‘Brandy and coke.’
‘You go up and get ready, I’ll bring it.’
She turned and made her way upstairs.
Ward wandered back into the sitting room, poured her a drink and had another himself, then he switched off the TV and made his way slowly back through the hall, pausing at the bottom of the staircase.