Without Mercy Page 10

  He went one way, Billy the other. The sitting room was the height of luxury, but having stayed in such rooms at the hotel before, Dillon knew what to expect. It was like staying in a fine English country house. There was a large TV screen on the wall, a cabinet with video, a copier, a computer link, he knew that. But there was more. A spectacular piece of luck – Levin’s briefcase.

  “Billy,” he called, got the briefcase open, rummaged around and found the envelope containing the Putin warrant. A Russian speaker, it made perfect sense to Dillon.

  “Jesus, Billy, Vladimir Putin and his team sorted it for him.”

  “The bloody Russian President,” Billy said. “If you nick it, he’ll know.”

  “No need. There’s a copier in the cabinet.” He ran the warrant through, folded the copy and put it in his pocket, put the other in the envelope and returned it to the briefcase. “Out of it, fast.”

  Which they did, running down the stairs at the far end instead of using the lift. In the car, Billy did the driving and Dillon phoned Ferguson.

  “We’ll meet back at Holland Park,” Dillon said.

  “What the hell for?”

  “The most astonishing thing you’ll have seen in years. Trust me.”

  In the computer room at the Holland Park safe house, they ranged around Roper and his screens.

  “So, Levin is posted to London as a commercial attaché,” Roper said.

  “With one hell of a warrant to back him up and signed by Putin himself,” Dillon said. “Couldn’t you do something about that, Charles? Speak to head of Station?”

  “They’d claim diplomatic immunity, and in theory, what, after all, does the letter say? It refers to the bearer, not a specific individual. No, I don’t think it would wash. You can’t even prove what it refers to.”

  “I must say I agree,” Roper said. “And I don’t think we’ll get anywhere with Moon and his chum. Sticking to their mugging story keeps them out of court because I’ve got to keep to my story. Keeps me out of court, too, if you take my point.”

  “Right,” Ferguson said. “At least Levin doesn’t know we’re onto him. I’ll leave him in your hands, Sean, while you, young Salter, make for Farley Field in the morning and head for Dublin. Any questions?”

  “Not really,” Dillon said. “I just want answers.”

  7

  The Citation X landed at Dublin Airport mid-morning and taxied to the diplomatic arrivals section. Billy, Lacey and Parry had been through a lot together in the past on Ferguson’s behalf. As they walked to the arrivals section, Lacey spoke.

  “I’m usually dropping you on some beach at night in deep trouble. I sense something different.”

  Billy produced his warrant card. “The General needs a replacement for Hannah. I’m it for the moment.”

  “Good God.”

  “Yes, well, what you see is what you get. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “What can I say? Good luck.”

  Billy moved on, produced his passport at reception. There was nobody around except a man in a raincoat, maybe forty, smoking a cigarette, a scar on one cheek which to someone of Billy’s expertise had been made by a broken bottle. The girl at the desk handed him back his passport.

  “Ah, Mr. Salter, your fame precedes you. How’s Sean Dillon these days?” asked the man.

  “Up and running,” Billy told him. “Who might you be?”

  “Jack Flynn, Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch. I go back a long way with Dillon. You might say I’m an admirer. I’ve heard the whispers about you and him in past years, so when one of Ferguson’s planes comes in with the one passenger, and it’s you, I wonder.”

  “You mean, what’s a well-known London gangster doing here?”

  “In one of Ferguson’s planes is the point.”

  Billy took out his warrant card. Flynn said, “Holy Mother of God, that I should see the day.”

  “We lost part of Ferguson’s team, Superintendent Bernstein.”

  “I’ve heard. She was an outstanding officer. Helped us out in the Garda, many times.”

  “What you haven’t heard is that her death was no accident. She was helped on her way, if you follow me.”

  Flynn’s face was like stone. “You’re saying someone topped that lovely woman? Who would do a thing like that?”

  Billy thought about it, wondered what Dillon would have done and knew it would never be the obvious thing, and in this case it would be to talk to Flynn. But there was something about Flynn, and if Billy knew about anything in this life, he knew about coppers.

  “I’m teetotal, but I could do with a cup of tea.”

  “Well, this is Ireland, and if you can’t get a decent cup of tea here, where else would you? In the main concourse there’s a decent café. You’ve got a hire car, I see. You can follow me.”

  Which Billy did, noticing that Flynn had a uniformed driver, large and burly. They parked close to the main entrance, leaving the driver in charge.

  “Good man yourself, Donald,” Flynn told the constable. “Don’t let them give you a ticket.”

  They got the tea, sat in a booth at the café and Flynn lit a cigarette. “So what have we got here?”

  And Billy told him: Mary Killane, the link with the IRA, Liam Bell – everything except the circumstances surrounding Belov.

  Flynn said, “Twenty years in the job, nothing surprises me, but it’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “But Liam Bell.”

  “You wouldn’t be IRA yourself?” Billy asked. “I know what you bleeding Irish are like.”

  Flynn grinned. “No, that was my elder brother as you’re asking. You’re all right with me. There was a day, but it’s long gone and we should move on. I’m surprised about Bell. I thought he was long retired.”

  “Well, maybe not.”

  “I assume this is all hush-hush. We shouldn’t even be talking.”

  “Which means you shouldn’t be helping,” Billy said. “I’ve got his home address and a mention of one or two places he might be.”

  “Pubs, you mean. That’s easy. The Irish Hussar down on the quays by the river. That’s where all the old hands go, and a few hangers-on, trying to look big.”

  “So what would you suggest?”

  “Well, as I’ve nothing better to do and it is my patch, I’ll leave first with Donald, just to show you the way. You follow on and we’ll take it from there. One thing, are you carrying?”

  “Now, would I do a thing like that?”

  “Absolutely. Just make sure it stays in your pants.”

  Billy smiled. “This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  The police car led him to O’Connor Street, number 15, a neat bungalow, with garden and garage, nothing special at all. Flynn and Donald kept on going. Billy pulled up in his car and tried the front door of the bungalow. The bell was only an echo in an empty house, he had that feel. He went round the back to check, returned to find a late-middle-aged lady peering over the fence.

  “Can I help you?” Strangely enough, her accent was English.

  Billy said, “I was hoping for Mr. Bell.”

  “You’re English,” she said.

  “So they tell me.”

  “So am I. My husband was Irish, but he’s been dead for twelve years. I should have gone back, really.”

  Billy said, “Like I said, I was looking for Mr. Bell. An insurance claim.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find him around. He’s left his keys with me in case there are any problems.”

  “Did he say when he’d be back?”

  “No. I had to phone when there was a water board problem.”

  “And spoke to him?”

  “No – somebody else. Drumore Place, they said. I left a message.”

  “You’ve been very kind,” Billy told her, and left.

  A couple of streets away, he pulled up behind Flynn and Donald and conferred. Flynn said, “Drumore, now that’s in County Louth on the coast, a known fact, so you’ve
got your link with Kelly. You did a good job there, taking that bastard out.”

  “We just need confirmation that Bell really has taken over.”

  Flynn said, “It’s a strong IRA area and Josef Belov’s been a power in the land. Everybody’s behind him, and that includes the IRA. They’ll never let go in Ballykelly and Drumore.”

  “Fine. I just want to confirm that Bell is running things now, so what do I do?”

  “Go to the Irish Hussar for your lunch and ask questions. They’ll suspect you straightaway, because you don’t drink. Let’s see what happens.”

  “Great. Lead the way,” Billy said.

  The Irish Hussar was on a cobbled street fronting the River Liffey. The police vehicle coursed by and turned into a parking bay. They drove round to the side alley and went in.

  The bar was old-fashioned, rather Victorian, everything an old-fashioned pub should be: plenty of bottles crammed behind the bar, mirrors, mahogany, a fresco painting of Michael Collins holding the Irish tricolor high on Easter, 1916. The modern changes were the tables crammed in, making the pub more a restaurant than anything else.

  Billy chose a table by a bow window. A young waitress descended on him. “Will you be eating?”

  “Considering that the smells from the kitchen are driving me potty, yes I am.”

  “So what can I get you?”

  “Orange juice.”

  Three young men at a nearby table appeared to find this funny. Billy smiled. “Please. And I’ll have the Irish stew, since I’m over from London for the day.”

  She hesitated. “You don’t have an Irish accent.”

  “Well, when you’re London Irish, that isn’t likely. What’s your name?”

  “Kathleen.”

  “Well, Kathleen, I’m an Irish Cockney who seeks orange juice and Irish stew.”

  She smiled. “Coming up.”

  Billy tried Dillon on his mobile and found him. “How are things?”

  “Not too bad. I’ve been mulling over what’s happening about Killane and Hannah. Frankly, I think uniform branch at Scotland Yard are dragging their feet.”

  “Be fair,” Billy said. “Maybe there’s not much coming up.”

  “You could be right. What about you?” Billy went through it. Dillon said, “I remember Flynn. Give him my best. He’s good, Billy.”

  Kathleen returned with an orange juice and his stew and crusty bread. “There you go. Anything else?”

  “I’m here on business,” Billy said. “Supposed to catch up with a Liam Bell, only he seems to be away.”

  She stopped smiling and Billy attacked the stew. “This is fantastic. So, you’ve no idea where he is? I understand he comes here all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She turned and fled and the three men at the next table stopped talking and looked at Billy in silence.

  The stew was so good, he actually finished it and washed it down with the orange juice. The looks from the three men said it all, and Billy checked the.25 Colt in his waistband at the rear. No point in delaying things. These bastards obviously wanted to have him, so they might as well get on with it.

  He called Kathleen over and gave her a twenty-pound note. “Jesus, that’s too much.”

  “It’s been a sincere sensation,” he said, and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Suddenly, she smiled. “My God, I don’t know who you are, but I think you will.”

  Billy reached over, kissed her on the cheek, went out of the pub and turned into the alley at the side. The three young men from the next table erupted after him, and Billy turned to meet the rush, not afraid, he never was. Years on the street had taken care of that.

  “Now then, lads, what’s the problem?”

  One of them grabbed him by the tie. “You’ve been asking after a good friend of ours, Liam Bell, you English bastard.”

  “Now, that’s not nice,” Billy said. “And me as Irish as all of you.” Which was perfectly untrue.

  One of them said, “You don’t even have an Irish accent.”

  “I didn’t know you needed one.”

  The man pulled his tie, the other two moved in, Billy pulled the Colt.25 from the back of his waistband and fired between their legs at the cobbles. He kept a hand on the one who clutched his tie and wiped the Colt across his mouth. The others jumped back.

  “I’ll only say this once, otherwise you can have it in the knee. Where’s Bell?”

  The youth was quaking. “He was recruiting for a job in Drumore up in County Louth last I heard.”

  Billy released him. “There you go. It wasn’t too hard, was it?”

  He replaced the Colt and one of the other two took a swing at him. There was a minor melee, and Flynn and big Donald came running round the corner. A few pokes from Donald’s stick were enough. They went off, dejected, one with a handkerchief to a bloody face.

  Flynn stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

  “I could never see the point.”

  “Neither could I. Let me know what the outcome is. I’m fascinated.”

  “That’s a promise,” Billy said. “You can rely on it. Regards from Dillon.”

  He got in his car and drove back to the airport.

  Dillon showered and changed, wondering how Billy would make out in Dublin, then drove round to Holland Park. He found Roper in the computer room with Ferguson. “Any word on Billy?” he asked.

  “Not yet. You’re expecting a lot, Dillon, but then you always did.”

  “I just expect people to come up to expectations. Coming up with the goods is another way of looking at it, which Scotland Yard seems to be rather spectacularly failing to do in Hannah’s case.” He turned to Roper. “Any news at all from the Murder Squad?”

  “It’s early days, Sean. You’re expecting too much.”

  “It’s one of their own we’re talking about,” Dillon said.

  “Leave it alone,” Ferguson said. “This is a job for uniform and Special Branch and certainly not for us. You don’t interfere.”

  “Sounds definite enough,” Dillon said. “I’ll give it my consideration.” And he went out.

  Levin had been on his tail since leaving Dillon’s cottage in Stable Mews, which could have been difficult with someone of Dillon’s experience, but there was London traffic to help. Not that he was exactly inexperienced himself, and he stayed well back and followed.

  Dillon went to Mary Killane’s place. He really was worried that the Murder Squad didn’t appear to be making much progress. Where she had lived, Kilburn, was the most Irish area of London. There were pubs there that would make you think you were back in the old country. Republican, Protestant, take your pick.

  Dillon was an expert on all of them, had lived there as a boy newly come from Belfast with his father, so if you were a nice Catholic girl who was going out for a drink, you’d never go to a Prod pub, only a Catholic one. Mary Killane didn’t have a car, so you were talking about walking unless she’d a fella who picked her up at the flat. In any case, within a reasonable walking distance to here, there were a few Catholic pubs.

  Most were clean enough. He showed her photo and got nowhere. There were others that had IRA connections, especially from before the Peace Process, there being little action in London these days. One such was the Green Tinker, the landlord one Mickey Docherty. A huge IRA supporter in the old days, he’d been picked up twice although nothing had ever been proven.

  Dillon found him just before noon, when the bar was empty except for two old men in cloth caps drinking ale at a corner table and playing dominoes. Docherty was reading the Standard at the bar, and the look on his face when he saw Dillon was comical.

  “My God, it’s you, Sean.”

  “As ever was. Get me a large Bushmills.”

  Docherty did as he was told, and when he turned, Dillon had a computer photo of Mary on the bar. He took his whiskey and drank it. Docherty’s face said it all.

  “I can see by your face y
ou know her.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “Got herself killed.”

  Docherty crossed himself. “Mother of God.”

  “Don’t start getting pious with me. Who did she come in with?”

  “And how would I be knowing that?”

  “Because there’s an IRA connection and a possible Liam Bell connection, so tell me what you know. If you don’t, I’ll be back tonight to haunt you. I’ll cripple you, both knees. This is important to me.”

  “All right, Sean, I hear you.” He turned, poured a whiskey, hands shaking. “Nice girl. A nurse. She was a sleeper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I took letters from Dublin for her and the fella.”

  “Which fella?”

  “Well, he was a sleeper, too. Dermot Fitzgerald.”

  “What did it say in the letters?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Because you steamed the envelopes open.”

  Docherty was panicking. “I only did it a couple of times. They were just notes, no signature. Things like phone a certain number at such and such a time. Fitzgerald was a handsome rogue. A real scholar. Doing an MA at London University.”

  “A scholar and a gentleman thinking it was romantic to be in the IRA?”

  “There was word about him.”

  “What kind of word?”

  “That he’d killed three or four times.”

  There was silence. “Do you have his address?”

  “Only round the corner, but he’s gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Ibiza. He told me a couple of days ago. Said he’d made a bit of money and was going over there for a while. Likes to dive.”

  Dillon thought about it, then took another computer photo out, Levin’s this time. “Anyone you know?”

  Docherty shook his head. “Definitely not.”

  Dillon put the photos away. “I hope I don’t have to come back.”

  Igor Levin, following Dillon to the Green Tinker, had glanced through a window, seen him approach the bar to talk to Docherty. He moved on and discovered a door to a separate saloon bar. He moved in. There was no one there, but there was an access door into the other bar, and when he put his earpiece in, he could hear what passed between them from the moment Docherty recognized Mary Killane and was told she had been killed.