The Double Tap

and along a corridor to a large room containing a bed, a sagging armchair, an old oak wardrobe and matching dressing table. Under a sash window stood a table piled high with files. The Colonel waved his stick at the paperwork. ‘They’re copies of the files held by the various law enforcement agencies who’ve been investigating the killings. For those in Europe I’ve only included the Interpol paperwork. Languages weren’t your forte, I remember.’

‘Mais oui, mon colonel,’ Cramer replied dryly, his accent deliberately atrocious. He went over to the table and ran his hand over the files. His window overlooked the rear of the school and he could see a large car park with half a dozen vehicles bunched together in one section and, to the right, a line of single storey buildings with large metal chimneys. Through the windows he could just make out huge ovens, cooking equipment and rows of stainless steel cupboards and shelving so Cramer guessed they were the former school’s kitchens.

‘I’ll have some food sent up to you. Read as much as you can today and we’ll start in earnest tomorrow,’ said the Colonel. He stopped at the door. ‘Do you have any questions?’

Cramer shook his head. ‘I probably will have after I’ve read all this. Just one thing.’

The Colonel smiled. ‘Famous Grouse?’

Cramer was surprised. ‘Am I that transparent?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought whisky was doing your stomach any good.’

Cramer shrugged. ‘That might have been good advice a few years ago. Now it’s a bit late.’

‘The man whose place you’re taking drinks red wine. He never touches whisky.’

‘So when I take his place, I’ll drink wine.’

‘Just so you know.’

‘I hear you, Colonel.’ It was general practice in the SAS for troopers and noncommissioned officers to refer to their officers as ‘Boss’, but Cramer had never been able to bring himself to use the more informal term with the Colonel.

The Colonel tapped his stick on the bare floorboards. ‘I’ll have it for you this evening.’ He closed the door behind him.

Half an hour later, while Cramer was still reading through the first file, there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, not looking up. A middle-aged woman, plump with a pleasant face, her hair tied back in a bun, elbowed the door open and carried in a tray containing a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk. She introduced herself as Mrs Elliott, with the emphasis on the Mrs, and left the tray on the dressing table. He thought it best not to ask Mrs Elliott about the whisky. She didn’t look much like a drinker.

The dogs leapt out of the starting gate at full stretch, their paws kicking up puffs of sand on the track. The crowd yelled and screamed as the greyhounds hurtled after the mechanical hare, but Thomas McCormack seemed more interested in the programme he was holding. ‘Next race, number six,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Yeah?’ said Dermott Lynch. ‘Is it one of yours?’

McCormack gave Lynch a crafty sideways look. ‘No, but it’s going to win.’

Lynch studied the dog’s form as the greyhounds rounded the first bend. It had finished unplaced in its last three races, but he knew better than to question McCormack’s advice. McCormack owned a string of greyhounds and on at least two nights a week he could be found at Dublin’s Shelbourne Park dog track.

Lynch looked up as the favourite crossed the finishing line and was engulfed in the waiting arms of a girl. She was a pretty young thing, shoulder length hair the colour of copper, and a figure that even the blue overalls couldn’t conceal. On any other day Lynch would have been tempted to strike up a conversation with her, but the visit to the dog track wasn’t a social event. He’d been summoned there by McCormack.

Lynch looked up at the results board at the far end of the stadium. The short odds on the favourite meant that no one would get rich on the race, but the dog McCormack had tipped would be running at twelve to one. The two men walked back inside to the betting hall and stood in a queue, waiting to place their bets.

McCormack gave the cashier a handful of notes and asked for it to be placed on number six, to win. Lynch took out his wallet. He dithered for a second or two and then took out all the banknotes it contained. He considered an each-way bet, but McCormack was standing at his shoulder, watching. Lynch handed over all the notes. ‘Number six, to win,’ he said. McCormack smiled and nodded.

They went outside to watch the dogs being walked. Number six looked good, its coat glossy, its hindquarters strong and well developed, holding its head up high as if it knew it was due for a win. ‘Have you got a dog running in this race?’ Lynch asked.

McCormack nodded at a brown dog at the far end of the line, sniffing listlessly at the shoes of its handler. ‘He’s coming on but it’ll be a few months yet before he peaks.’ They left the showing area and headed towards the track. ‘So, Dermott, what happened?’

‘A helicopter came from nowhere. Bloody nowhere. Lifted him off and flew away with him.’

‘Army?’

‘No. Not army. Red, white and blue it was. Not a soldier in sight. It’s a mystery all right, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a mystery.’

McCormack took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. ‘What do you think he was up to?’

‘I don’t know. Whatever it was, I think there was a change of plan. I don’t think he was expecting the helicopter. Or the man who appeared on the sea wall.’

‘This man, any idea who he was?’

Lynch shook his head. ‘Military, I think. He walked like a soldier. Carried a stick.’

‘Armed?’

‘Couldn’t tell.’

‘What about the helicopter? Did the crew have guns?’ McCormack put his spectacles back on and peered over the top of them.

Lynch thought for a second and then shook his head. ‘No. I only saw one of the crew, he pulled Cramer in, but he wasn’t armed, I’m sure of that.’

McCormack tapped the programme against his leg as he walked, his head down in thought. He didn’t speak for almost a minute. ‘I think we’re going to have to let this one go, Dermott.’

‘I want the bastard,’ said Lynch fiercely.

‘Connolly wasn’t over happy about us going after Cramer in the first place, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie, he said. He took some persuading.’

‘Yeah?’ Lynch scratched his beard as if it itched.

‘Yes. I had to take sole responsibility for it. If it had gone wrong, I’d have been the one explaining to the Army Council. And it damn near did go wrong. We were lucky it wasn’t a trap, right?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, Thomas. We had Howth pretty well sewn up. If the SAS had been there, we’d have known about it.’

‘That’s as may be. But whatever Cramer was doing, it’s over now.’

‘I want him,’ said Lynch.

‘I know you do. But you’ve got a personal interest, Dermott, let’s not forget that.’

‘Let me go after him. Please. I’m asking as a friend.’

McCormack snorted softly. ‘You can’t ask me that as a friend, and you know it. You can only make a request like that to me as a member of the Army Executive.’

The next race was about to start and the spectators began to pour out of the betting hall and cluster around the track. The on-course bookmakers were frantically chalking up new odds. Lynch could see that the odds on number six were already shortening. ‘And if I do ask you as a member of the Army Executive?’

‘Then I’d have to refuse your request. If you’re adamant then I could put it before the Army Council, but I know what their answer would be. And so do you. They’ve too much to gain from the peace process, they’re not going to jeopardise it over one man.’

‘Not even a man like Cramer?’

‘Not even for Cramer. Look, Dermott, if it was up to me, of course I’d say yes. Hell, I’d even help pull the trigger. But you know what we were told in 1994. No mavericks. No splinter groups. We speak and act with one