Collusion

56

Lennon saw them go down, the thin man and the nurse tumbling from the top step. He crossed the road from the walkway to the pay station, Glock up and ready.

The old man glanced up as he retrieved coins from the concrete. ‘Bloody lunatic,’ he muttered.

Lennon went to the lip of the top step. The nurse sprawled on her back, half a dozen steps down the upper flight. She blinked at the sky and moaned, a trickle of blood drawing a bright red line across her forehead.

A sputtering curse came from the landing below where the steps doubled back on themselves. The thin man sat with his back propped against the railings, the big gun almost within his reach. He pulled his feet back, trying to get them under him. He pitched forward, his hand falling close to the pistol’s grip.

Lennon charged, taking two steps at a time, until he hit the landing. He let his weight carry him forward, slamming the thin man against the railing. A wounded cry and he slumped on the concrete.

Lennon rolled him onto his back and straddled his chest. He grabbed the big pistol with his left hand, keeping the Glock pressed against the thin man’s cheek with the other. He eased back and stood, his aim still on the man’s head.

‘Sit up,’ he said.

The man obeyed and cradled his left hand in his right. ‘Jesus, I think you broke my wrist, you dirty fucker.’

Against the railing,’ Lennon said. ‘Now.’

The man struggled into position, keeping his left hand tight to his stomach, and rested his back against the blue metal. Lennon studied his face, the swelling on his eyelid, the stiffness in his movement.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ Lennon said.

‘Maybe,’ the man said.

The big pistol was heavy in Lennon’s left hand. A Desert Eagle, the sort of thing American gun nuts loved for its size and noise. He shoved it into his waistband. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

The man laughed and wiped his eye on his sleeve. ‘Many a fella’s wanted to know that.’

‘Who are you?’ Lennon repeated. He took a step closer and steadied his Glock with both hands.

‘Barry Murphy,’ the man said.

‘Is that your real name?’

‘No, but it’ll do for you.’

The accent was southern, more country than city. His left wrist had begun to swell in his lap. A bloodied tear ran from his right eye.

‘You’re a fucking mess,’ Lennon said.

The man, Murphy, snorted. ‘Yeah, well, it’s been a rough few days. Lucky for you I’m not at my best.’

‘What are you doing here?’

Murphy sniffed hard and spat on the concrete. Blood streaked the saliva and phlegm. ‘Just doing a job,’ he said.

‘What was the job?’

‘Look, shouldn’t you arrest me or something? We’re drawing a crowd here.’

In his peripheral vision, Lennon could see people gathering. He heard someone tend to the nurse behind him on the steps. He blocked it all out and kept his attention on the man before him.

‘I’ll arrest you all right,’ he said. ‘But not until you tell me what you’re doing here.’

Murphy held his hands out, wrists together. ‘Fucking arrest me,’ he said.

‘Why?’ Lennon asked, hunkering down. ‘Is there someone inside that’s going to help you if I bring you in?’

Murphy smiled, his face a grotesque caricature of sweetness. ‘As me ma used to say, that’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘Is it Dan Hewitt?’

‘Who?’

‘Dan Hewitt. Special Branch. He told me Marie was flying in today, told me to meet her at the airport. He knew I’d probably bring her here. Did he tell you to be here waiting for us?’

‘Don’t know any Dan Hewitt.’

‘What about Gordon? DCI Roger Gordon.’

Murphy shrugged. ‘I don’t know any cops up here in the Black North.’

Lennon moved closer, levelled the Glock at Murphy’s forehead. He ignored the gasps from above. ‘Then who sent you here?’

Murphy smiled up at him. ‘Arrest me.’

‘Who sent you to kill Declan Quigley and Patsy Toner?’

Murphy’s smile broadened. ‘Arrest me, you Prod fucker.’ The shift on Lennon’s face gave him away. ‘You’re not a Prod? Jesus, a Catholic cop. Not even one of the new recruits. How long you been on the job?’

‘None of your business,’ Lennon said.

‘C’mon, how long? Ten years? Fifteen?’

‘I’m not—’

‘Before it was okay for Fenians to join up, anyway. Jesus, you must’ve been popular all over. I’m surprised you didn’t get your fucking brains blown out years ago by one side or the other. What’d your family make of it?’

‘Shut your mouth,’ Lennon said.

‘Touch a nerve there, did I?’

Lennon swallowed and pressed the pistol against Murphy’s temple. ‘Enough.’

Murphy grinned and another blood-streaked tear ran down his cheek. ‘What, you going to shoot me? Eh? You going to pull that trigger and spray my brains all over the steps with this crowd watching?’

‘Don’t push me.’

‘Like fuck you will,’ Murphy said. ‘Now fucking arrest me, you stupid cunt.’

Lennon sighed. ‘Give me your hands,’ he said.

Murphy held up his hands again, wrists together. Lennon grabbed the swollen one and twisted. Murphy screamed. Then he laughed. Lennon applied more pressure. Murphy screamed again.

‘Tell me who sent you here,’ Lennon said.

‘Fuck you,’ Murphy said between gasps. ‘Arrest me.’

Lennon twisted again. Murphy screamed and kicked at the concrete.

‘Who sent you here?’

Murphy spat in Lennon’s face. It tasted of blood. Lennon slammed the Glock’s butt into Murphy’s temple.

Quiet, then, all around.

Lennon found them in the Quiet Room with the chaplain. Marie held Ellen on her lap. Her mobile phone beeped as she thumbed it off.

‘Who were you calling?’ he asked.

‘No one,’ she said. ‘What happened? Are you okay? Who was that?’

The chaplain excused herself and left them alone

‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘He’s in custody. You’re safe now.’

‘Safe?’ Anger flashed in her eyes and she bared her teeth. ‘From who, for Christ’s sake? From what? From you?’

Lennon sat down beside her. ‘Marie, I—’

‘You were supposed to keep our daughter safe. How could you let that … bastard …’

The words trailed into sobs.

Lennon went to put a hand on her shoulder, but thought better of it. He stood and said, ‘They’ll want a statement.’