To swear that he would find and kill those who had taken his life.
The village, like so many in rural Ireland, was a close-knit place. Almost an anachronism in an age of self- betterment and disregard for others. Within it, stili flowed the kind of community spirit that saw neighbours genuinely caring for one another. Hence the large number of people prepared to brave the elements to bid a last farewell to Vincent Leary.
There were two guarda cars parked beside the cemetery gates, their occupants sheltering from the weather but also anxious not to intrude upon the scene before them.
Leary knew why they were there. He had been expecting them. That was why he had chosen his position high up on the hillside in the shadow of the Wicklow mountains.
Clouds were gathering ever more menacingly over those distant peaks, threatening to bring more of the rain that was still falling. Like tears from the heavens for his departed brother.
‘We’re very sorry for your trouble, Decian.’
The words made Leary spin round, his hand sliding inside his overcoat, fingers closing over the butt of the Giock 17.
‘No need for that,’ said Seamus Mulvey, patting the younger man on the shoulder.
Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the other man who accompanied Mulvey.
Raymond Tracey nodded almost imperceptibly. A gesture designed both as a greeting and a condolence.
‘We thought we should pay our respects to your brother,’ Mulvey continued. ‘On behalf of the organisation.’
‘And for your mother’s sake,’ Tracey added.
Thank you,’ said Leary quietly.
‘It seems that over the years I’ve worn this suit to more funerals than I care to remember,’ Mulvey mused. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have need of it again.’
Leary turned and gazed back down at the grave surrounded by mourners.
‘I hope I don’t need it for yours, Declan,’ the older man continued.
‘Why should you?’ Leary wanted to know. ‘I’m not planning on getting killed.’
‘What are you planning?’ Mulvey enquired.
‘My brother was murdered. I want to know who by.’
‘And if you find out?’
Leary looked at the oider man but initially didn’t answer. ‘That’s my business,’ he said finally.
‘No it’s not, Declan. It’s everyone’s business. Myself, Raymond. Everyone in the organisation. Political and military.’
‘Did you come here today to warn me off?’ Leary demanded.
‘We came to give you some advice,’ Tracey offered. ‘I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do about what happened to your brother. I’d be the same if it was kin of mine. I know how you feel.’
‘You’ve got no fucking idea how I feel, Raymond,’ snapped Leary. ‘I can only stand here and watch while
my own mother and sisters cry their hearts out over the body of my brother. I can’t even go down there and comfort them. The one thing I can give them is justice.’
‘Killing the men who murdered Vincent wouldn’t be justice,’ said Mulvey. ‘It’d be suicide. For all of us.’
‘I’ll take that chance,’ Leary told him flatly.
‘I’m advising you not to, Declan.’
‘In Donegal, you asked me, now you’re advising me. What’s the difference? Does advice come from the barrel of a gun?’
Mulvey looked up at the rain-sodden sky. ‘If it had been the other way round, what do you think Vincent would have done?’ he asked. ‘Run off to find the men who killed youV
I’d like to think so.’
‘No he wouldn’t have,’ Tracey said.
‘How the hell do you know what he would have done? He was my fucking brother.’
‘He wouldn’t have done it because he put the organisation first,’ Tracey continued. ‘He understood that what he’d fought for was more important than persona! matters. He’d have realised that the kind of action you’re proposing is useless.’
‘Bollocks,’ spat Leary.
There was a moment’s silence, finally broken by Tracey. Think about what you’re doing, Declan,’ he said. Think about what Vincent would have wanted.’
‘I am thinking about Vincent,’ Leary hissed. That’s why I’m going to find the bastards who killed him.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ Tracey told him.
‘Am i? We’ll see.’
The RUC will be looking for you after what happened in Belfast,’ Mulvey said.‘So will every fucking SAS and anti-terrorist operative working in the six counties. Look what happened to Finan.That could be you this time round.
Whoever killed Vincent will be expecting you to come after them too. They’ll be ready for you. Just let it go, Declan.’
‘Thanks for coming today,’ said Leary quietly.‘l appreciate your concern. For me and my family. We’ve got nothing more to say to each other.’
He turned his back on the two men and gazed down at the last resting place of his dead brother.
LONDON:
Doyle walked briskly up the steps from Notting Hill Gate Tube station. He paused at the top and dug in his pocket for what he sought. The business card bore an address and he regarded it indifferently for a second.
He’d spent most of the day and night thinking about whether or not it was even worth visiting the place. Finally he’d rung and made an appointment for ten o’clock the following morning. The remainder of the evening had been spent slumped in front of his television set.
His brain had felt like a washing machine (it still did). Thoughts spinning round.Visions forcing themselves into his consciousness like some kaleidoscopic acid trip.
Dead bodies. Blood. Pain.
Georgie.
Guns. Knives. Explosions.
He’d seen the faces of Parker. Of Sir Anthony Pressman. Finan. Leary.
Georgie.
She was always there, somewhere.
He’d succumbed to a headache and fallen asleep in the chair after downing half a bottle of Smirnoff and three Nurofen.
When he’d woken, the business card Parker had given him was still on the table beside his chair.
Doyle had spent a long time staring at it.
Now he looked at it again:
CARTWRIGHT SECURITY
36 CLANRICARDE GARDENS
NOTTING HILL
There was a phone number beneath.
Doyle wandered along the road, checking street names until he found the right one.
It was a narrow cul-de-sac of two-storey mews houses, mostly converted into flats or offices.The number of nameplates outside each electronically operated front door testified to that.
Number 36 bore the name of Cartwright Security. Doyle pressed the buzzer and waited.
Just like old times.
‘Cartwright Security,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘My name’s Doyle,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Cartwright.’
‘We’re on the third floor, please come up.’
There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped inside and made his way up the plush stairs until
