He shouted goodbye to Moira and walked out of the front door, gripping a briefcase in one hand while he pushed up his hastily knotted tie with the other. His car, a reliable old Rover which he refused to trade in, was parked in his garage. No one in his profession ever left their car in the street or in their drive. There might be a ceasefire on, but too many colleagues had been killed or maimed by car bombs in the past to ignore that basic precaution. As he backed slowly down the gently sloping paved drive, thinking how pleasantly smooth it was since it had been re-laid, he saw over his shoulder that today the laundry van was parked right beside his gate. In fact it was partly blocking the road he was trying to back into. He was just starting to get out of the car and tell the driver to move out of the way, when he noticed that the driver was getting out. Then he saw there was another man getting out of the van as well.
Alarm bells were ringing loudly in his head. ‘Excuse me,’ the driver shouted out, walking towards Jimmy. He had a smile pasted on his face which the policeman distrusted at once.
‘Would you happen to know,’ the man began to ask, then he stopped, standing about fifteen feet away, and Jimmy saw that the other man, also dressed in white overalls, was coming into the drive. This man had his arms down by his sides, but Jimmy Fergus saw that he held something in one hand.
Reflexively, Jimmy reached for the Glock 9 mm pistol he always carried holstered under his jacket. As he grabbed its grip he saw that the man’s arm was now extended. Gun thought Jimmy, just as the man pulled the trigger.
The bullet caught Jimmy Fergus high in the chest on his right side, next to his gun arm. He lost his balance and began to fall, knowing that he mustn’t let go of his gun – don’t drop it, he told himself, or you’ve had it.
He hit the drive heavily, landing on his side, and tried immediately to roll behind the open car door for protection. But waves of pain were seizing him just below the shoulder, and his legs would not respond to his mental command to move. His fingers still gripped the Glock, but when he tried to lift the pistol and fire, his arm did not obey.
The man with the gun was coming around the rear of the car now, and the van driver stood back to give him space. He turned to face Fergus, who was still lying sprawled on the drive. His gun was a semi-automatic, and as he raised his arm to fire, Jimmy could only think this is it.
But nothing happened. The man stared at his weapon with disbelief. It must have jammed, thought Fergus. He tried to roll underneath the car but he couldn’t move, and he sensed his stay of execution would be short-lived.
Calmly clearing the jam, the man stepped forward, lowering the gun to shoot the policeman.
Suddenly a scream broke through the air, like the sound of shattering glass. Even through his pain, Jimmy Fergus realised it was Moira, coming out of the front door, still wearing the pink housecoat he had given her for Christmas.
The man with the gun jerked back, obviously startled.
‘Get back,’ Jimmy tried to shout. He saw the man turn to face Moira, who was running towards them down the path, still screaming. To his horror the man raised his weapon. And then Jimmy found his fingers could move after all, and he managed to lift the Glock an inch or two off the ground with his hand, and with more hope than expectation, pointed it and fired.
The gun kicked with enough force to fall from his hand. As its sharp crack echoed in the air, Jimmy heard a muffled shout – ‘Agghh!’
He saw his would-be executioner reaching down, to where a dark stain was seeping through one leg of his pristine white overalls.
In obvious agony, the man dropped his gun. The driver of the van ran forward and picked it up. Fergus prayed he would not finish the job. Instead the driver put a rough arm around his wounded accomplice, then half-ran with the hobbling, bleeding man to the cab of the laundry van. Seconds later the van’s engine started up. With a long squeal of tyres, it turned a sharp one-eighty degrees and shot off down the road.
Then a hand was gently stroking his hair, and as he slumped down he heard Moira sobbing.
‘Jimmy, Jimmy,’ she was saying through her tears. ‘Can you hear me? Are you all right? Oh God, please God, tell me he’s alive.’
‘Leave God out of it,’ gasped Jimmy, ‘and ring the ambulance.’ Then he passed out.
18
‘How is Mrs Ryan working out?’ asked Judith Spratt. She was sitting in Liz’s office, waiting for Dave to join them and review where they had got to in the Fraternal Holdings investigation.
‘I haven’t lived in such order since I left my mother’s house. I hardly ever see her though, and when I do she’s not exactly chatty. The strong, silent type, I’d say.’
In her first weeks working for Liz, Mrs Ryan had already reorganised almost everything in the flat, from the pan cupboard to Liz’s underwear drawer. Liz was enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of being able to find things.
Judith took a last swallow of her coffee and put her mug down. ‘Yes, I know. But thank goodness she and Daisy seem to get along OK. Daisy says she talks to her all the time; that’s her excuse for not doing her homework. It’s funny, because she never says much to me, either.’
‘Perhaps she just likes children more than adults,’ said Liz with a shrug.
Dave hurried into the office. It was clear from his face that something had happened. He looked at Liz grimly and didn’t sit down. ‘There’s been an incident. One of the PSNI officers has been shot. I don’t know who.’
‘Oh my God,’ exclaimed Liz. ‘When?’
‘An hour ago. The man’s in surgery and they don’t know if he’s going to make it.’
‘Does Michael Binding know?’ she asked.
‘He’s at Stormont in a meeting. I’m sure they’ll have heard.’
Liz exchanged a look with Dave. What had Brown Fox said? Had the threat been carried out, and so soon? She mentally shook herself. Until they knew more there was no point in jumping to conclusions.
‘Okay, we’d better get on with things here. Judith, are there results from the number plate enquiries?’
‘Yes,’ said Judith, taking her cue from Liz and passing folders round. ‘We’ve got an ID on the owner of the Astra that hung around outside the Fraternity offices.’
Liz looked at the first sheet in her folder, where she saw a photocopy of a driver’s license. The mug shot was of a now-familiar face, and when she turned to Dave he looked up from his folder and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s him.’
Liz said to Judith, ‘This is the walk-in Dave met yesterday, Brown Fox. What have you found out about him?’
Judith consulted her notes. ‘He’s Dermot O’Reilly, a long-time Provisional IRA volunteer. Interned in the Maze in the seventies, and believed to be the quartermaster for Belfast Brigade. After he was released he stayed involved, though he managed to escape prosecution for terrorist activity. But he’s got convictions for two criminal offences: a drunk and disorderly outside a pub – got a fine for that, and a charge of receiving stolen goods – suspended sentence.’
‘So what is he now, a crook or a terrorist?’ mused Dave.
‘It looks like a bit of both,’ said Judith. ‘He lives just off the Falls Road. When we checked his credit history it was terrible, not surprisingly – he’s had cars repossessed for non-payment of loans, mortgage arrears, credit card debt – though God knows how he got a card in the first place.
‘Here’s the interesting thing, though: starting two years ago his situation improved dramatically – suspiciously so, I’d say. He wiped out the credit card debt, paid off half his mortgage, and now has over ten grand in the bank.’