Thirteen
The stark fact was this. I’d shot and seriously wounded two men while working on an unofficial job. It might have been self-defence but that wouldn’t save my career, or my liberty. Or my conscience, either. I’d taken the law into my own hands, ignoring the fact that I was paid to uphold it, and now matters had spiralled out of control.
I thought through what would happen next. Usually, in infiltration jobs, the path to an arrest follows a pattern. Once I’ve gained the trust of my targets, I use my recording devices to gather evidence of the targets’ planned wrongdoing. If I can gather enough in this manner, I call in my colleagues, and while I’m safely off the scene they come in and make the arrests. If, however, more’s needed, we tend to allow them to carry out the crime they’re planning — usually with me accompanying them — and then move in and catch them red-handed on my signal. These are the best ops from my perspective because I tend to get nicked along with the bad guys, and we don’t have to use any of the taped evidence we’ve got, which means my cover doesn’t get blown.
However, allowing the targets to carry out their crimes and taking them down mid-act can be a dangerous business, especially if there are guns involved and one of the gunmen is an undercover cop. So I knew damn well that the bosses would never sanction it with Wolfe and his crew, which meant I was going to have to wait until I knew exactly where and when the snatch was going to happen and then let Captain Bob know. It was hardly the ideal plan of action, but right then it was the best I had.
After the meeting with Wolfe and Haddock was over, Tommy drove me home. On the way, I again tried pumping him for information on the job, but he wasn’t giving anything away.
It was an unusual situation, because what intelligence there was on Tyrone Wolfe stated that he was the boss of his tight-knit and very small crew, which effectively consisted of him, Haddock and Tommy, and that he masterminded the business himself, rather than doing work for other people, which usually tends to be a surefire way of getting caught. It meant that they had to know a lot more about this op than they were telling. I studied Tommy’s face but, like Wolfe, he was good at keeping his cards close to his chest.
It had just turned five o’clock when we pulled up outside the post-war terrace containing the flat I’d rented in the name of Sean Tatelli. I was officially on long-term sick leave from CO10 suffering from stress, having convinced the police psychiatrist I saw once a month that I was having a nervous breakdown, which had given me the time to focus entirely on the job at hand. Surprisingly, even after everything else, it was this deceit I felt most guilty about. I didn’t like going sick, and until then my attendance record had been one of the best in the unit.
‘Fancy a pint tonight after I’ve taken Tommy Junior for a walk?’ asked Tommy, trying to get out of the way as the dog jumped on him at the mention of his daily exercise. ‘Not a big one, cos this job’s going to come up pretty soon. Maybe even tomorrow. Just a celebration drink to welcome you to the team.’
Normally I’d have said yes. I never liked to miss an opportunity to get closer to a target. But I needed to think. ‘Thanks, Tom, but I’m going to turn in early.’
‘You’re all right, though, yeah?’ He looked genuinely concerned.
I wondered irrationally if he could read my mind. ‘I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Cos you shot two blokes today. It’s not the kind of thing you do on an everyday basis.’
‘They asked for it,’ I said, with a defiance I wasn’t feeling. ‘I was just defending myself.’
He grinned, showing teeth that could have done with some investment, and gave my shoulder a meaty squeeze — an expression of affection that he’d given me on more than one occasion. ‘You’re all right, Sean, do you know that? I trusted you from the beginning. I knew you’d work out. You’re like us. You’re a pro.’
I thanked him once again for getting me the work, before watching him drive off with conflicting feelings. This was the man who’d driven my brother’s killers away from the scene of their brutal crime, and who’d gone on to commit numerous others. For years I’d built him up as a monster who’d not lost a moment’s sleep over what had happened to John. And maybe he hadn’t. I don’t know because I was always careful never to raise the subject with him, but in the three months I’d spent getting to know him, he’d become far more human in my eyes. A flawed character, certainly, an uneducated thug unafraid to use violence when he considered it necessary, but a funny, generous guy as well, who was popular in the pubs we drank in, who doted on his dog, and who genuinely seemed to like me.
Usually, I was good at compartmentalizing the different lives I led. I looked at my undercover one as a fantasy, a risky role-playing game where the people I worked with were little more than fleshed-out characters. A game which came to an end only to be replaced by a new scenario with new characters. But it was different with Tommy. A part of me hated his guts for what he’d done to me and my family, but like some deluded victim suffering from a form of Stockholm Syndrome, another part of me genuinely liked him. Either way, I knew that getting him arrested would give me a lot less satisfaction than I’d been expecting when I first started out on this job.
As I turned away and walked up to my front door, Tommy’s words rang out in my ears: You’re a pro. But I wasn’t. I was an amateur who’d let his emotions get the better of him, and because of that I was about to put everything I’d ever worked for at risk.
Fourteen
‘I can’t believe this,’ said DCI MacLeod as Tina sat opposite him across the desk in his office. ‘We question him on and off for the best part of twenty-four hours and then, while he’s twiddling his thumbs in his cell, he suddenly remembers that he’s got an alibi.’ His tone was more confused than angry, and he was pulling on one end of his moustache, which was a habit of his when stress was getting the better of him.
Tina nodded. ‘He said the anxiety of the arrest made him forget about it. Also, we’re charging him with five murders so he’s not going to remember immediately that he had an alibi for one.’
‘You don’t believe him though, do you?’
She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘I honestly don’t know. The fact is, he’s got what might be a cast-iron alibi for one of our five murders, and as far as I remember this particular murder had exactly the same MO as the others. So, if he didn’t do one. .’
‘We don’t know he didn’t do it. He could just be messing us about.’ The way MacLeod said it suggested he was clutching at straws.
‘I don’t think he is, sir. He seemed adamant. I’ve had to give him permission to call his solicitor.’
MacLeod sighed. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. You know, Tina, I’ve been doing this job for getting on for twenty-five years—’
‘You look too young for that, sir,’ she said, spurred on by the vodka.
He gave her a strange look, clearly not expecting a flippant comment like this from his normally serious DI, particularly in the midst of a serious conversation, and Tina cursed herself for being stupid enough to drink on duty.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘in all my years, I can’t remember the last case I came across where the suspect’s guilt was so bloody cut and dried. He has to be guilty, Tina. He just has to be.’
She was about to say she agreed when his phone rang. MacLeod looked at the handset, clearly pondering whether it was worth picking up or not, before deciding it was.