The pain was excruciating.
Howard James had felt pain before, but nothing to compare to the agony he felt from his shattered leg.
‘Get me to a fucking hospital,’ he said, frantically shaking the arm of the man who sat next to him.
Robert Crossley looked down at his companion huddled in the passenger seat of the Orion, his broken leg stretched out before him. The splintered bone was clearly visible poking through the rent in his trousers. Blood had congealed thickly on the end of the smashed fibula. There was dark matter oozing slowly from the centre of the bone which, Crossley concluded with revulsion, was marrow. The stench inside the car was almost overpowering.
‘How much longer do we have to sit here, waiting? I need help,’ wailed James, his cheeks tear-stained, his skin milk-white.
Crossley wiped perspiration from his face and looked at his watch.
3.27 a.m.
It was almost thirty minutes since he’d made the phone call, stopping off quickly at a pay-phone before swinging the car off the main road and into Paddington Recreation Ground. The vehicle and its two occupants now stood silently in a children’s playground. The wind, blowing across the open ground, turned the roundabout and Crossley looked up nervously every time he heard it creak. Swings also moved gently back and forth in the breeze, as if rocked by some unseen hand. Beside him, James continued to moan loudly as the pain seemed to intensify.
‘I can’t take this much longer,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Please.’
Crossley nodded and looked round again, as if seeking inspiration from the children’s slides and climbing-frames.
He heard the soft purring of a car engine and saw the Montego rolling slowly towards them, its driver flashing his lights once as he approached.
‘Who is it?’ gasped James.
Crossley didn’t answer. He pushed open the driver’s side door and clambered out, unsure whether to approach the Montego or wait. He decided to wait, watching as the driver switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. He walked with brisk steps.
A strong breeze ruffled Crossley’s hair and made him shiver. Inside the car James was huddled in the seat like a whimpering child.
‘What went wrong?’ Peter Farrell snapped, looking at Crossley then down at the injured James.
‘She had a fucking gun,’ Crossley told him. ‘I wasn’t going to argue with a gun.’
‘So you found nothing?’ Farrell persisted.
Crossley shook his head.
‘Did you check his office. Upstairs?’
‘We didn’t get that far,’ Crossley said. Then, turning towards his injured companion, ‘We’ve got to get him to a hospital, he’s hurt bad.’
‘The police will have put out checks on every hospital for miles. How bad is it?’ Farrell demanded.
‘Look for yourself,’ Crossley told him and pulled open the passenger door.
Farrell saw the smashed bone sticking through skin and material.
‘You were careless,’ he said irritably.
‘We were unlucky,’ Crossley protested.
‘Same thing.’
‘And what the fuck would you have done if she’d pulled a gun on
you
?’
‘Pulled one on
her,’
Farrell rasped, taking a step closer so that his face was inches from Crossley’s. ‘You could have jeopardized everything. We won’t be able to get near the house for a while; they’ll be expecting it. You fucking idiots.’ He turned his back on them for a moment, hands planted on his hips.
‘So what do we do about James?’ Crossley asked. ‘He needs help, for Christ’s sake.’
Farrell turned slowly. His hand went to the inside of his jacket.
Crossley’s mouth dropped open as he saw the taller man pull a gun into view.
The silencer jammed into the muzzle of the .45 made the weapon look enormous.
Farrell fired two shots into James’s head.
The first hit him on the bridge of the nose, almost severing the appendage and taking out an eye as it exited. The second blasted away most of the back of his head, spraying it across the driver’s seat and the side windows.
The body toppled sideways, the eyes still staring wide in shocked surprise, the mouth still open.
‘Get rid of the body
and
the car,’ Farrell said flatly. ‘Call me when you’ve done it.’ He turned and headed back to the Montego, pausing as he opened the door. ‘Crossley, you fuck up this time and I’ll kill you, too.’ He climbed into the car, started the engine and drove off, his lights still out, disappearing into the darkness.
Crossley looked down at the corpse, the breeze bringing the stench of blood and excrement to his nostrils. He shivered and he knew it wasn’t just the wind.
The roundabout creaked again. The swings moved gently back and forth.
Thirty-Six
The porter accepted his tip gratefully, nodded and glanced at Donna as he left, smiling approvingly when her back was turned.
She waited until the door was closed and then crossed to the window of her suite, pulling the curtains aside. The Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin overlooked St Stephen’s Green and Donna gazed out onto the park for a moment, glad to be safely at the hotel. ‘The most distinguished address in Ireland,’ boasted the legend on the desk notepad. Donna stood at the window a moment longer, gazing out at the people in the street below. Finally she lifted her small suitcase onto the bed, flipped it open and began taking clothes out, sliding them into drawers.
The flight had been smooth but Donna didn’t enjoy flying. It didn’t frighten her; she merely disliked the physical act of getting on a plane and sitting there for the duration of the journey. Fortunately the Aer Lingus 737 had delivered her from Heathrow in less than an hour, so she’d barely had time to become bored.
She’d promised to phone Julie that night to let her know she’d arrived safely and to check on her sister. The break-in of the previous night had shaken them both, but Julie more so.
Donna finished unpacking and crossed to the desk where her handbag was. She sat down, reached inside and took out an envelope, removing the contents.
There were a dozen American Express receipts inside, each bearing the name of a hotel. One of them bore the name of The Shelbourne.
She flipped open Chris’s diary and ran her finger down the entries.
She checked the date on the Amex slip against the entry for Dublin in the diary.
It matched.
So did the one for Dromoland Castle, County Clare.
And The Holiday Inn, Edinburgh.
The Mayfair, London.
Every entry in the diary was matched to a receipt. Only some of them had the initial D beside them; it was these which Donna was interested in.
It had been simple to find out which hotels Chris had stayed in. He always paid by credit card and he always kept the receipts for his accountant. She had merely unearthed them from his office.
How many of these places had he stayed with Suzanne Regan?
Donna swivelled in her seat and looked across towards the bed.
Had he stayed here?
She tried to drive the thought from her mind, feeling an all-too familiar surge of anger and sorrow. If only she’d been able to ask him why, perhaps it would have been more bearable. For a moment, Donna felt tears welling up in her eyes but she fought back the pain, forced the thoughts away. There would be plenty of time for them in years to come, she thought wearily. For now she replaced the receipts in the envelope and pushed it into a drawer beneath some clothes.
She put the photo of Chris and the five men in there too.
The diary she dropped back into her handbag.
Donna got to her feet and padded across to the bathroom where she showered quickly, rinsing away the dirt of the journey. Travelling always made her feel grubby, no matter how luxurious it was. She pulled on one of the towelling robes and wandered back into the bedroom, selecting clean clothes. A white blouse, jeans and some flat suede boots. She dried herself, dressed, brushed her hair and re-applied her make-up, then inspected her reflection in the mirror.
Satisfied, she slipped on her jacket and picked up her handbag, pausing to look at the diary once more and its mysterious entry:
JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.
As she made her way to the lift and jabbed the button marked ‘G’ she found her heart thumping a little faster than normal.
Outside the hotel she asked the doorman to get her a cab.
She was at the gallery in less than five minutes.
Thirty-Seven
It was as imposing an edifice as she’d ever seen. A massive grey building, its frontage decorated with stone pillars, its grounds were dotted with statues. The gallery itself looked as if it had been carved by some giant sculptor, minute details in the stonework wrought by caring as well as skilful hands.
Donna had only seconds to appreciate its beauty; she had other things on her mind. She paid the taxi-driver and walked briskly towards the main entrance of the building, slowing her pace as she reached the flight of broad stone steps that led up to the doors.
This was going to cause more problems than she’d thought, but it was the first place to try.
For one thing, there was no time in the diary for meeting Worsdale. Coupled with that, she had no idea what the man looked like.
As Donna climbed the stairs slowly she looked around at the dozens of people entering and leaving the building, wondering how the hell she was supposed to find someone she’d never seen before. Perhaps her husband and Worsdale had agreed a certain meeting place inside or even outside the gallery.
She entered the building, wondering how she was to find this elusive man, wondering again what she was going to tell him even if she did succeed in locating him.
She gazed around at the paintings which hung on the walls, looking but not really seeing.
It was quiet inside the gallery, an atmosphere akin to a library. That same hushed reverence pervaded the place. Donna glanced at the other visitors, noticing how diverse an audience were drawn to such a building.
There were people of all ages, wandering back and forth, some studying the paintings for long moments others just glancing, some checking their guides, some making notes.
As she looked up she saw what looked like a loud speaker in one corner of the room.
A public address system.
The idea hit her like a thunderbolt and she spun round, heading back towards the main entrance, remembering that there was an enquiries desk there. She could get them to broadcast an announcement for her, spread the word around the gallery that Mr James Worsdale was to come to the main entrance.
She smiled at her own ingenuity, the smile fading as she realized the ploy would only work if Worsdale was actually in the gallery. But, she thought again, her mind accelerating now, there was another way. She could leave a message at the desk. Get them to put a sign up telling Mr Worsdale to contact the Shelbourne Hotel and ask for Mr Ward.
Pleased at her plan, she smiled as she approached the desk.
She’d find him yet.
There was a man seated behind the desk reading a book. He looked up as Donna approached and smiled at her.
She returned the gesture, struck by his good looks. He was in his late twenties, thick-set, dressed in jeans, with his long hair pulled back in a pony-tail.
‘Can I help you?’ the attendant said happily.