'I don't care about being dead, mister; I've been dead before. But thanks for that advice.' Scotland walked round behind Martin, to the window, out of any line of sight from outside. The kitchen went dark, suddenly. The detective glanced over his shoulder and made out the shape of Venetian blinds, now admitting only the narrowest strips of daylight.
'Is this your standard practice, pre-execution?' he asked. Keep him talking, Andy. He's got a lot to say.
'Was, Mr Martin, was. I'm retired now, remember. Alec Smith retired me about ten years ago: or he thought he did. But as it happens, you're right. I always used to do this in Ireland; the Provos, and the Ulster-based Loyalist guys, they would just kill quick and off. There's the target, bang, another couple in the head to be sure, job done.
'I didn't like that approach. That was much too impersonal for my taste. The way I saw it, the people I was sent to kill were human beings just like me; they had the right to know who was going to kill them, and why. Plus, they had a right to prepare themselves for the end of their lives.
'So I would pick them up, take them to a safe house and sit up all night with them, talking to them about the conflict, listening to their threats often enough, but very rarely listening to them beg for their lives. They were real soldiers, most of those boys, I'll give them that.
'Are you going to beg?' he asked suddenly.
'Fuck off.'
'We'll see, when the time comes. Anyway, we'd have our death watch, my customers and I, then at dawn I'd give them the Last Rites
…'
'You'd what?' Martin interrupted.
'I'd give them the Last Rites. They were all Catholics, the people I killed over there, and I knew the words, sort of, so I gave them the Last Rites. It meant something to them, believe me.'
'Sure, the final insult.'
'Ah, you're a Catholic then. But you don't deserve the Last Rites, you're a copper.'
He leaned over and tapped Martin in the middle of the forehead with the barrel of the big pistol. 'I used to shoot them right there, so they could see it coming. I always wondered whether they did… see the bullet, I mean. Think about it: if someone shoots you right in the middle of the scone at close range, do you see the bullet just before impact? Do you die before you see the flash? I'm pretty sure you don't hear the bang. I used to time that; when I heard the bang the guy's brains were usually on the way out the back of his head. One or two of them flinched though, looked away just as I was pulling the trigger. Fucking brains everywhere then, even on me; top of the head comes right off with a heavy-calibre gun.'
'You're going to make a hell of a mess of your kitchen,' the detective growled.
'Ahh, a hard boy,' said Scotland, knowingly. 'We'll see that too, when the time comes, just how hard you really are. Anyway, I'm not going to shoot you here… not unless somebody rings the bell, that is.' Martin began to think, frantically. Who expected him that night, or might call on him, find him missing? Rhian? No, no more. Karen? No, baby-sitting for Neil. Alex? Unlikely. Pye? No. Mario? Christ, I hope not. Change the subject, change the subject.
'Earlier on, Lawrence,' he kept his tone even; no panic, no fear, 'you said that Alec Smith only thought he'd retired you. Are you saying you've been active since then?'
'No. I'm saying that the likes of big Smith couldn't retire me. I withdrew, because it was too dangerous for the people I worked with for me to be around them. I could never be completely sure that I had evaded surveillance.'
Scotland looked at his prisoner and let out a sort of snort. 'Hhghh. You realise you haven't even asked me how Smith thought he had retired me? That means you know. Probably always bloody known. I imagine that big bastard was really proud of himself, talking it all over Special Branch. Not so fucking cocky now, though.'
'I know what he did,' Martin acknowledged, 'but I only found out this week. I took over Alec Smith's job, but I never knew about it then. Alec never told anybody anything they didn't need to know, not even his family. He was the world's most secretive man and all of his secrets may have died with him.
'We only found out what he did to you because Tommy Gavigan was leaned on after his death. He told us all about it. He's out now, by the way; retired early, sent on down the road.'
'You mean he's got a fucking pension for that?' Another flash of anger.
'Which he'll never enjoy spending for looking over his shoulder. Unless… maybe we'll get him your job at Guardian.'
Scotland smiled, a cruel grin of power. 'You forget,
Detective Chief Superintendent… you won't be getting anything for anyone after tomorrow.'
'As you say, we'll see about that.' Move on, quickly. 'How did you know who Smith was? What he was?'
'Come on, Mr Martin. Our intelligence wasn't that bad: I don't mean my Irish friends, I mean Tony Manson's intelligence. He always knew who all the coppers were, including the Special Branch people. Tony got me involved in Ireland, you know. Some contacts of his needed an outside worker to take on a special job; somebody very big in Sinn Fein, someone they couldn't get near. He could have sent big Lenny Plenderleith, only he didn't want to risk losing him; so, since I had done a few things for him by that time, he volunteered me. The job got done, and I got asked back for the tricky ones. I got paid, of course; I was strictly a mercenary.'
'So why the straight job now? What took you to Guardian?'
'I am straight… or at least I was. Tony's dead, big Lenny's in the nick for ever, Jackie Charles is banged up and his wife's a gingerbread woman, Dougie the Comedian's dead; all of it, or most of it, thanks to Skinner and you. I was a hired gun; now there's no-one left to hire me.
'So I took a job at Guardian. The money was good, the work was easy enough — on-site night-security work mainly, offices, the university, the zoo, even. Then, bugger me, what happens but big Smith gets appointed General Manager. I thought I was for the off right away, but no, he kept me on. He told me that he liked having me where he could see me. But then, after a year, he left. They wanted to make him a star down south, so the story went, but he wouldn't have it.'
'It wouldn't have suited his plans.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't know, but he was up to something. Until last Friday night, that is,' Martin added, quietly.
Lawrence Scotland laughed. 'So you're finally getting round to what you came to talk to me about, are you? I knew somebody would, after that. I hoped it would be Tommy Gavigan, but you'll do. Oh aye, you'll do. A Detective Chief Superintendent, indeed.'
'How did you find out where Alec lived? Did you look at the personnel records at Guardian?'
'Don't be daft. I'm a shooter, not a safecracker. No, I just followed him home; back to his lair, the fucking animal, there on the beach with just him and his fucking dog. I thought about grabbing it off the street, you know, throttling it and dumping it on his doorstep
… just so he'd know.'
'He'd probably have killed you, if he thought you were threatening him.'
'I worked that one out for myself, pal. Anyway, what harm had the poor bloody dog done?'
'So ten years on, you decided to kill Alec himself. The thing that surprises me is that I never really fancied you for it. That's why I was stupid enough to come to see you alone; just for a chat about Alec, to find out what you knew about him back then.'
'You mean you didn't come to apologise,' said Scotland, scornfully. 'No, I never thought you would. You don't really mind what Smith did to me, do you? Come on, be honest, admit it.'
'No, I don't really mind; I can't approve of it, but I can see why he did it. There were no cries of outrage when we found out.'
'Naw, I didn't imagine there would be. I can see why myself, truth be told. I made big Alec angry by slipping his surveillance that last time I went to Ireland, to Armagh. I don't think he was a man who liked to get angry. He was all about control, and anger signifies a loss of control.
'He must have planned it very carefully, and looked at all the reports of the jobs I did. All of them shot in the head, standing up, facing the gun, no blindfold, no bag over the head, nothing like that. He did the same thing to me; exactly the same, on purpose.
'There's an added element to being on the other end of it, you know, when you've done it yourself. I realised
