quickly found along with Andrew Young’s hand. He hurries back here. He drives Tommy’s car off into the woods and torches it. But he doesn’t leave the car burning all night in case it attracts attention. He waits until Tommy’s body is found and then he calls the police and finds out my name and writes a bunch of gibberish on a postcard and sends it off to me. He calls the Confidential Telephone and starts in with the threats and false clues. He calls the
“But why, Sean? Why kill Lucy? Why kill Tommy?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. I’ll arrest him and charge him with terrorist offences and question him and crack him. Come on! Let’s go back to his house and call Carrick RUC. I don’t care if I do get bloody suspended, I’m taking him down.”
“I still don’t see-” she began but was interrupted by a loud crack and bark flying from the chestnut tree behind her.
“What was tha-”
“Hit the deck!” I yelled at her. “And stay down!”
She dived into the thick layer of leaves on the forest floor. I took out my service revolver and turned to look behind me.
No one.
Another crack and this time the bullet missed my head by inches.
Where had it come from?
Somewhere up ahead in the direction of the house.
I ditched my raincoat, slithered through the undergrowth, got back into a crouch and ran through the trees in a big semicircle to my right.
I kept Laura and the car in view and looked for him.
He had anticipated my move and was waiting for me near a lightning-struck oak. I saw him out of the corner of my eye a split second before he fired. I dived to the ground and heard the crack of the 9mm three more times, I rolled behind the nearest tree, a slender Scots pine and then kept on rolling down a little embankment.
Back on my belly again, moving sideways, silently, deliberately, holding my breath.
“Where are you?” he yelled and I could see his profile ten yards to my right. He was still wearing his office suit, holding the gun in two hands and looking into the space where I had been.
This time I had successfully outflanked him.
I got to my feet.
One step in front of another, carefully, toe then heel in my Converse gutties. Gently down onto the leaves, onto the twigs, gently right up behind the fucker.
I placed the barrel of the.38 on his neck.
“Drop the gun and slowly put your hands on your head.”
He did as he was told.
I took a step backwards. “Laura! It’s all right now! I’ve got him.”
“Are you sure?” she called back.
“See if you can find my raincoat, it’s got my handcuffs in it.”
Scavanni turned and looked at me. He was grinning. I felt like pistol-whipping that smile off his fucking face.
Laura gave me the raincoat. Her face was flushed. Her chest heaving. For an insane second I wanted to blow his brains out and lay her down and fuck her into next week.
“Hold your hands out!” I said to Scavanni. “Laura, reach into the pocket, take out my handcuffs and cuff him.”
She seemed reluctant.
“Don’t worry, if he so much as twitches, I’ll put one in his left ear.”
“It’s not that. How do these things work?” she asked.
“Put his hands in and close them tight,” I explained.
“Oh, I see.”
She cuffed him.
“What now, Sergeant Duffy?” Scavanni said.
“Now, Mr Scavanni, we go back to the house, I call Detective Chief Inspector Todd and he shows up with a bunch of men anxious to have a wee chat with you. You get lifted, I get a fucking medal and maybe a promotion and you get life in prison. Probably in solitary cos I think they’ll be out to make an example of you, won’t they?”
Scavanni did not seem ruffled or concerned in any way.
“There’s a phone in my living room,” he said.
“All right, let’s go.”
We went back inside the garden walls. His car was in the driveway and the front door was open. The phone call to his office had obviously spooked him and he had driven home to see what, if anything, was up. Better for me.
“Why did you kill her?” Laura asked him.
“My dear, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Scavanni said.
“Dr Laura Cathcart. Pathologist.”
“Charmed. Freddie Scavanni, Sinn Fein Press Officer,” Freddie said.
“Why did you kill her?” she asked again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.”
“Who were you shooting at in the woods?”
“I thought it was that dreadful fox again. He causes havoc in my bird feeder. I suppose I should have gotten the shotgun.”
“Fox my arse. You saw us near the car. You knew the game was up. There’s no point running your bullshit any more, Freddie.”
We reached the living room and I put Freddie in the beanbag chair. Laura sat in the sofa and I sat in the chair next to the phone.
“Before you call Carrick RUC, would you indulge me in my one phone call?” Freddie asked.
“No fucking way.”
“I think you’ll find that it explains everything.”
“Yeah, it goes right to an IRA hit squad who’ll speed down here and try and save you before the coppers come.”
“Oh no,” Freddie said. “Nothing like that. It’s a London number. 01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, tell them it’s Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”
“Pardon?”
“01 793 9000. When you get through and they ask who’s calling, you tell them Stakeknife. And when they ask for the reference number, tell them 1146.”
“What are you playing at, Scavanni?”
“Dial the number. You’ll see. If you don’t, your entire career will go down the shitter.”
“Don’t threaten me, my lad!”
“That’s not a threat, believe me. Call the number. And if at any stage you are not completely happy, immediately hang up and call Carrick RUC. What have you got to lose?”
“Well, I’m slightly curious,” Laura said, still flushed and excited by it all.
“All right, I’ll indulge you. Consider this your phone call. And if I don’t like it I’m hanging up.”
“It’s a deal.”
I dialled 01 793 9000.
“Hello? Who’s calling, please?” a young female, English voice said.
“Stakeknife.”
“What is your four-digit reference number, Stakeknife?”
