organisation. ‘Thomas wanted us to keep tabs on the Sass-man until they get here.’
Twomey drained his glass. ‘I’d best be showing you where he is, then. We’ll use my car. I’ll get my coat, it looks like it’s going to rain.’
Mike Cramer stood on the sea wall, his back to the harbour. His face was dripping wet and when he licked his lips he tasted the tang of salt. Through the misty rain he could see the huge hump of quartzite rock called Ireland’s Eye, sitting in the boiling sea like a massive iceberg. The rain lashed against his face but it was a fine spray rather than a soaking downpour. If it hadn’t been for the chill wind it would have been refreshing.
The wall curved around the marina, sheltering the yachts from the rough water, and at the far end was a lighthouse, its beam already flashing out to sea, guiding the fishing boats home. A black Labrador, its fur shining wet, walked over and sniffed at Cramer’s boots, wagging its tail. Cramer patted it on the head absent-mindedly. He turned to walk back along the wall to the harbour. A solitary car was parked in the yacht club. There were three men sitting in it, an old man and two who couldn’t have been much more than teenagers. ‘It’s started,’ he said to the dog. The dog growled as if he understood, and Cramer smiled. An old man and two kids. There’d be more on the way, guaranteed.
The uniformed cop pushed back his wooden chair and stretched out his long legs. He yawned and turned to watch a pretty black nurse walk down the corridor. Her hips swayed sexily and as she turned a corner she looked over her shoulder and grinned. The cop grinned back. A cup of cold coffee sat untouched by the side of his chair, next to the afternoon edition of the
The cop stood up and arched his back. He didn’t enjoy sitting for long periods, especially in the corridor of a crowded hospital. He hated hospitals. When his turn came to die, he hoped it would be out in the street or between the sheets with a hot blonde, not in some antiseptic white-painted room with tubes running into his veins and a stinking bedpan on the floor. He shuddered involuntarily. This was no time to be thinking about death.
The elevator doors at the end of the corridor hissed open and a young doctor in a white coat stepped out. He was tall with a shock of black hair that kept falling over his eyes as he walked towards the uniformed cop. He was carrying a small stainless steel tray covered with a white cloth. The cop nodded a greeting, and the doctor made to go past. The cop held up a hand to stop him. ‘Whoa there, partner,’ he said.
The doctor frowned. He was wearing wire-framed spectacles and he squinted as if he wasn’t used to them. ‘I have to take a blood sample,’ he said impatiently. The cop studied the plastic-covered identification badge pinned to the top pocket of the doctor’s white coat. The small colour photograph matched the man’s face. John Theobald, MD. Cardiovascular Department. ‘I haven’t seen you before,’ said the cop.
‘That’s not really my problem, is it?’ said the doctor. ‘Now are you going to let me get to my patient, or not?’
‘He’s not your patient, though, is he?’ asked the cop. He tapped the clipboard he was carrying. ‘Your name isn’t on the list of approved medical personnel.’ He gingerly lifted the cloth and peered under it. On the tray lay a disposable syringe, a couple of cotton wool balls and a small bottle of antiseptic.
‘I’ve been on vacation,’ the doctor explained. ‘This is my first day back.’
‘Today’s Tuesday,’ said the cop, dropping the cloth back over the tray.
‘What do you mean?’ The doctor was irritated.
‘I mean, wouldn’t Monday normally be your first day back?’
‘I missed my flight. Look, what is this? What’s going on here?’ His voice rose angrily.
The cop held up a hand as if he were stopping traffic. ‘Doc, I’m just doing my job. That man in there is a very important witness in a federal case. .’
‘That man is a patient, a patient who has just undergone major heart surgery, and there are tests that I have to do on him to check that the operation went smoothly,’ interrupted the doctor. ‘Now, get the hell out of my way. If you’re that worried, why don’t you come in with me?’
The cop held the doctor’s look for a few seconds, then he nodded slowly. He opened the door and followed the doctor inside. A heart monitor beeped quietly. The only other sound in the room was the patient’s ragged breathing. The cop kept his hand on his holster as the doctor put the tray down on the bedside table. The doctor snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, pulled back the cloth and wiped antiseptic along the patient’s left arm, then quickly withdrew a sample of blood and pressed a small plaster over the puncture.
‘Satisfied?’ said the doctor, putting the blood-filled syringe on the tray and carrying it to the door. The cop moved out of the doctor’s way and held the door open for him.
‘Doc, I’m just doing my job.’
‘Yeah,’ said the doctor. ‘You and the Gestapo.’ He looked as if he were going to say something else, but then just shook his head and walked out.
The cop bared his teeth at the back of the departing doctor and slowly closed the door. He walked over to the bed and looked down at the patient. The man’s eyes flickered open as if he was aware that he was being watched. The electronic beep quickened. ‘Am I going to be all right?’ the patient rasped.
‘Peachy keen,’ said the cop, removing his gun from his glistening black holster. From the inside pocket of his leather jacket he took out a bulbous silencer and carefully screwed it into the barrel of the gun. ‘Just peachy keen.’ He pointed the weapon at the man’s face and fired once, then as his body went into spasm he fired a second shot into the newly-repaired heart.
Aidan Twomey was brewing a pot of tea when the doorbell rang. He put the kettle back on the stove and walked through the hallway. He could make out four figures through the rippled glass of the front door. He opened it and took a step backwards. ‘My God, talk about a face from the past,’ he said.
The broad-shouldered man at the front of the group was grinning widely. He was in his late forties, a decade younger than Twomey, with black, curly hair and a bushy beard. ‘Aidan, you old rascal. How’ve you been?’ said the visitor. The two men embraced. Aidan Twomey and Dermott Lynch had done time together in the cells of Long Kesh — Twomey for being in possession of an Armalite rifle, Lynch for assaulting a soldier at a checkpoint — and during their imprisonment it was Twomey who had shown Lynch how to brew the perfect cup of tea. In return, the younger man had taught Twomey how to manufacture explosives from fertiliser and engine oil. ‘I thought you’d retired, and here you are bringing us a Sass-man,’ chuckled Lynch. He introduced his three companions, hard-faced men with tough bodies. They were all carrying sports holdalls, like a football team geared up for an away match. There were two large nondescript cars parked on the roadside.
Twomey took them through to the sitting room and then brought out the teapot. Lynch shook his head in amazement. ‘Your timing was always damn near perfect,’ he said.
Twomey nodded at the cabinet by the window. ‘Get the cups out, will you, Dermott? And there’s a bottle of Jameson’s there too.’
‘Who’s watching your man?’ asked Lynch, pouring out generous measures of whiskey.
‘Two wee boys. Davie and Paulie Quinn.’
‘Aye, I knew their old man,’ said Lynch. ‘How are they shaping up?’
‘They’ve been watching the cottage all day, one of them phones in every hour.’
Lynch pointed to one of the sports bags the men had carried in. ‘We’ve walkie-talkies in there, there’ll be no more need for phoning,’ he said.
‘Jesus, I hope you’ve brought more than walkie-talkies with yer,’ said Twomey.
Lynch laughed heartily. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to teach your grandmother to suck eggs now, would you?’ He leaned over and opened the bag by his feet. Inside was a Kalashnikov with a folding metal stock, disassembled into its component parts. He swiftly reassembled it and slotted in the curved magazine. He grinned. ‘Now, show me the Sass-man.’
The telephone rang and Twomey went over to answer it. ‘It’s Davie,’ he said, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Do you want a word?’
Lynch shook his head. ‘Where’s Cramer?’ he asked.
Twomey relayed the question to Davie. ‘He’s on the harbour wall again,’ Twomey said to Lynch, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Doing what?’
‘Just standing there. That’s all he does. He walks and he stands looking out to sea.’
