70
Lennon had called Gordon’s direct line the moment he saw the splintered door frame, but got no reply. He had tried three more times since, then tried the station’s front desk. Still nothing. He might have wondered why if not for the more urgent worry of the hotel room. He made another tour of it, circuiting the bed, the chair, the open-faced wardrobe, the small bathroom.
The staff had been as indifferent and professional as he expected. They’d had to wait for consent from the manager to be in compliance with the law, but he’d been at a training day across the water. He’d come straight from the airport and had taken Lennon and the hastily assembled team to the room personally. The manager had looked at the forced door, then at Lennon, and said, ‘Well, at least I don’t need to call the police.’
Now Lennon watched the team work, pointless as it was. He knew they’d have turned up nothing useful, even if the door hadn’t been forced. The suspect was too smart to leave anything incriminating here. Lennon could only stand by and wait for Gordon to reply to his voicemail.
Fergal Connolly, a fresh-faced constable, worked through the contents of a hold all he’d found at the foot of the bed: cheap hoodies, T-shirts and jeans, along with a selection of socks and underwear. Everything was still wrapped in carrier bags from Dunnes, Primark and Matalan. Their man had been disposing of his clothes as he went along.
‘Clever bastard,’ Lennon said.
The room was neat, at least it had been before the search team started on it. The suspect had chosen a decent hotel because he knew the staff would keep it spick and span. Lennon doubted if there’d even be a hair in the plughole.
He checked his mobile for the tenth time since he’d been here. No missed calls or messages. He knew Marie and Ellen would be fine, but still, he couldn’t dislodge that sour weight from his gut.
Having run out of things to lift, turn over, open, or generally inspect, the three constables now ambled around the room like sheep in a pen. They’d start searching one another soon, Lennon thought.
He spoke to Connolly. ‘Have one last tour of the place, then pack up and secure the door. I want one officer to stay here and make sure no one crosses the threshold, you understand? Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. I want a word with the desk staff before I go.’
Lennon walked to the elevator bank and hit the button. He looked up and down the corridor. He took the phone from his pocket again and found Marie’s number. Should he call her? Maybe, hopefully, she was getting some sleep. Wouldn’t do to wake her. But he’d be happier if he knew she and Ellen were okay. And Marie would probably be happier if she knew Lennon was concerned enough to check in with her. He hit the dial button.
Marie answered with a sigh. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Just wanted to see how you were,’ Lennon said.
‘I was asleep,’ she said. ‘That’s how I was. Now I’m awake. And so is Ellen.’
Lennon heard a ping, and one of the elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside and pressed G. Ellen’s voice rustled against his ear, all yawns and grumbles. The doors closed, and Lennon felt that odd weightlessness.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘We’re okay,’ Marie said. ‘We’d be better if we were still asleep.’
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you said.’
The phone died. The elevator’s doors opened onto the reception area. Only one of the receptionists had seen the suspect’s comings and goings. Lennon beckoned her over to a pair of soft armchairs. Her badge said her name was Ania, and she spoke Polish, Lithuanian, Russian and English.
‘I saw him only a few times,’ she said, her words spoken with a careful and deliberate clarity, her accent softened by years of Belfast living. ‘He never said hello. He always kept his head down and walked right past. But once …’
‘Once what?’ Lennon asked.
‘On the floor, after he had walked past reception, there was something on the floor, like dirt or mud. It was very small, like a coin. I took a tissue and went around the desk. When I wiped it up, it was red. It was blood.’
Her face remained devoid of emotion, as if she was telling him special room rates. Just a week or two ago, Lennon might have tried his luck with her. Now her hard good looks stirred nothing in him.
‘What about today, has anyone unusual been here? We requested that no one be allowed near that room. Could anyone have got past reception without being noticed?’
‘I saw no one,’ she said. ‘But people come and go all the time. They have meetings here, business people, salesmen.’
‘Is there another way in? A way to get to the rooms without coming through reception?’
‘There is an entrance from the car park,’ she said. ‘But the car park is locked, unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘There is a camera overlooking the gate. They are not supposed to, but if a car pulls up, often whoever is on the desk will just press the button to open the gate without checking. The customers get annoyed if they have to get out of their cars and walk to reception, so it is easier just to let them in and out. I tell them not to do it, but they do it anyway.’
‘So someone might have—’
Before Lennon could finish the question he heard the static crackle of a radio over his shoulder. He looked around to see Constable Connolly half running across the lobby towards him, his face sickly pale.
‘What?’ Lennon asked, standing.
Connolly skidded on the tiled floor. He found his balance and said, ‘We need to go.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
Connolly looked like he might throw up. ‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘Really bad.’
71
The Traveller pulled off the dual carriageway and into a small housing development, a fresh clean new-build. Big houses, four and five bedrooms, all with their own paved driveways, four-by-fours and estates parked on them. He entered a cul-de-sac and made his way to the turning circle at the end. The Volkswagen’s ancient brakes whined as he stopped.
At least Hewitt had got him an automatic. Changing gears would have been hell on his throbbing wrist. He flexed his fingers against the elasticated bandage then rolled his shoulder to shift the ache that had settled there. It felt tight where the knitting needle had punctured his skin, as if the flesh constricted on the bone.
He opened the door and got out. A cat watched him from its place curled up on a welcome mat on one of the doorsteps. The Traveller quickly scanned the cul-de-sac, checking for lights or twitching curtains. Satisfied, he opened the boot. There, just as Hewitt had promised, his long kit bag, the kind of luggage cricketers carried bats and pads in. The plastic cable tie still sealed it closed. He was surprised Hewitt hadn’t had a peek inside. The tie was only there to keep the hotel maids out. You’d never know its contents by feeling the outside. Blankets softened the shotgun’s shape.
The Traveller took a moment to get his bearings. Follow the Shore Road, Hewitt had said, keep going till you see the masts.
The lighting around the marina cast oranges and yellows over the moored boats. Some were small sailing craft; others were bigger vessels with powerful engines. The place stank of money. It figured the Loyalist would run his whores from here. The Traveller circled the building, looking for danger. He expected none, the Loyalist had been paid good money for the address and the keys the Traveller had found in the Volkswagen’s glovebox, but still, he would be careful.
He kept the Browning tight against his side, its stock inside his jacket, the barrel pressed against his leg as he walked to the far side of the apartment block where the few permanent residents’ cars sat protected by the street lights. Four of them in all, plus the Volkswagen he’d driven here in. Most of the apartments were weekend getaways or holiday lets. The Loyalist had said his place would be the only occupied flat on that floor. The building’s entrance was a sheltered glass door. He tried one of the three keys he’d been given; it didn’t work. He tried the second and was inside. A plain, clean reception area with a lift. He took the stairs instead, two steps at a time.
Six flights to the top floor. The Traveller peered through the glass in the door leading to the corridor. Soft lighting and no movement. He pulled the door as slowly as he could manage, but still it creaked. He froze as the sound reverberated in the stairwell. No other noise, no disturbance in the only slit of light beneath one of the four doors. He slipped through, keeping his hand on the door to soften its closing. He stepped quietly along the corridor, his shoes whispering on the thick carpet.
The flat was second on the right; he recognised the characters 4 and B. He watched the dim sliver of light below the door as he approached. No sound came from within, not even a television. He pressed his ear against the wood. Silence. He put his eye to the peephole. Nothing but distorted shadows. He stepped back and examined the door. Good hardwood, oak by the look of it, different from the other apartment doors. Fitted special, most likely.
The Traveller slipped the first key into the deadlock and turned it, wincing at the noise of the tumblers. The door loosened in its frame. He withdrew the key, and found the one for the cylinder lock at eye level. It slid home smooth and neat, turned easy, and the door opened. It met something solid and immovable after less than two inches. A rustle from inside, the mewling of a child, another voice shushing it. He pushed again with more force. The hard sound of a chain pulled tight.
A frightened whisper from within, the child crying briefly, the patters of socked feet on carpet. The Traveller shoved hard against the door with his uninjured shoulder. He might as well have pushed the wall. It was a good security chain, a proper locksmith’s job, not the crap you’d buy in some discount DIY warehouse. Doors slammed inside, followed by more whispering feet. He put his good eye to the narrow opening. Now the shadows moved.
‘I’ve got a gun,’ a woman’s voice called.
‘So have I,’ he said. ‘I bet mine’s bigger.’
‘I’ve called the police,’ she said.
‘That was quick.’
‘I’m doing it now.’
‘Can you work the gun and the phone at the same time?’
The Traveller lifted the Browning and stepped back. He pumped a shell into the chamber, steadied himself, and blew a chunk out of the door where he reckoned the chain was. He chambered another shell and blasted the same place again. Once the smoke cleared, he saw he hadn’t done as much damage as he thought. He stepped closer and examined the hole. A good amount of wood had been torn away, but twisted steel bordered the small tear the shotgun had opened. He looked through.
A shaking hand held a pistol, the same kind of Glock that Hewitt had given him, pointing back from a doorway. He could just make out her shape slumped against the door frame and heard a hiss, a moan, a gasp. The pistol’s muzzle flashed and he ducked away from the gap. No matter. The bullet hit the steel reinforcement at least a foot away from where his eye had been.
‘Jesus, you should practise with that thing,’ the Traveller said. ‘You’re a fucking terrible shot. Still, no need to call the cops now. I’m sure some of the neighbours has done the honours.’
‘Go, then,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘Don’t think I will,’ he said. ‘Listen, open this thing up and I’ll go easy on the wee girl. Can’t say fairer than that.’
Another bang from inside, another slam like a fist against the door. Then he heard ragged weeping. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You had your chance.’
He examined the door frame, found where the chain was attached. He raised the shotgun, pumped a shell, and blasted the door twice, leaving mangled craters and twisted metal. He reloaded the shotgun, straining through the ringing in his ears for approaching sirens. Nothing but the child’s squealing from deeper inside the apartment, though even that was mixed with the high whine the shotgun blast had left behind. The bastards at the cop shop had taken his good Vater earplugs.
A mobile phone rang somewhere inside, its high chime cutting through the whine.
The Traveller took a step back, then forward, raising his right leg so his foot carried his body’s weight as it slammed against the door. It burst inwards and hit the wall. The Traveller peered through the smoke as he pumped the shotgun. The phone stopped ringing. He raised the shotgun when he saw the woman cowering in the living room’s doorway.
She did not move as he entered. He drew nearer and saw the red pocks on her cheek. A brighter bloom of red above her right breast. She inhaled and coughed as she stared up at him, her eyes full of fear and hate.
Beyond her, in the living room, the mobile phone rang again. Its screen doused the room in a dull blue glow. It inched across the coffee table as it vibrated.
‘Let me get that for you,’ the Traveller said.
72
Lennon kept the phone pressed to his ear as the Audi’s engine roared. He squeezed it tight with his shoulder as he changed gear, then brought his hand back to catch the phone just as it fell. The answering service again. He changed up, the car hitting sixty as he neared the junction of York Street and the Westlink. Lennon leaned on the horn as the lights turned red, barely slowing as the few late-night drivers braked hard to avoid his path. The Audi’s traction control indicators blinked on the dashboard, the car struggling for grip as it made the turn onto the M2. The wheels hit the kerb on the far side hard, and Lennon heard a screech as the rear quarter grazed a lamp post before the car bounced back onto the road.
He redialled for the third time, whispering, ‘Come on, come on, come on …’
No dial tone this time. Instead, it went straight to the answering service. Who was she talking to? Was she calling him back?
‘Marie, if you get this, call me right now. Right now, you hear me?’
Lennon hung up. His eyes flitted between the phone and the road ahead as he looked up his station’s number. The dial tone clicked and switched three times as the call was bounced around. The drama in the custody suite had left the phone unmanned. He would be routed to the nearest station. When he got an answer, he said, ‘Put me through to Carrickfergus.’