The Courier

‘Lynne’s a tenacious man.’ He paused. ‘He asked me to give you a message.’

‘Oh?’

‘He advises you not to plan another trip to the Bahamas.’

Harry flashed on another image: jade green sea, baking sand and the slick-slick of cards being dealt. She shook her head.

‘Am I being accused of something here?’ she said.

‘Like I said, Lynne is tenacious.’ Hunter glared at her. ‘He doesn’t give up.’

Harry sighed. Suddenly her whole body ached, as if reminders of the past had sapped her energy.

‘Look, if I’m not under arrest for anything, I’d like to go.’

Hunter shrugged. ‘You can go. For now.’

She made her way past him towards the door, then hesitated and looked back.

‘The man with the gun.’ She bit her lip. ‘He saw me.’

‘So you said.’

‘He might find me. He said—’

‘—that he never leaves witnesses. You said that too.’

Harry stared at him. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything about that? Offer some kind of protection?’

Hunter shrugged. ‘We’ll get a patrol car to cruise by your house once in a while.’

‘What good will that do? He’s not going to wait in the street with a rifle, is he?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’ Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re the only one who saw him.’

He turned away, dismissing her. Harry’s insides plummeted. She thought of the man in the baseball cap and how he’d locked eyes with her just before he pulled the trigger. She thought of her business card, in plain view on the desk. Her head reeled. She stumbled through the hall and out on to the street. The air was fresh and salty, and she gulped it down. Then slowly, she moved towards her car.

Instinctively, she checked over her shoulder, her eyes sweeping across the array of windows fronting the Georgian terrace. So many places for a man with a gun to hide. She shuddered.

If she could just find the woman she still thought of as Beth, then maybe the police would believe her. But how? Somehow, she was connected to Garvin Oliver, but what did Harry know about him? According to Beth he was a sponging wife-beater, but her version of events was hardly reliable now.

Harry began to regret handing over the laptop. It might have revealed information about Garvin Oliver that could have helped to track Beth down. On the other hand, maybe she should just let the police handle it. Right now, they didn’t believe a word she said, but they were bound to discover the truth eventually.

Raindrops spat against her face. She unlocked her car and ducked inside, and immediately her nose wrinkled at an alien smell. The uniformed officer must have been a smoker; he’d left his tell-tale sootiness behind. She opened a couple of windows to generate a cross-breeze, and did a quick visual survey of her car.

Everywhere showed signs of a cursory search. The pile of computer books on the passenger seat had been rearranged and her notepads had fallen to the floor. She flipped open the glove compartment. Her maps and screwdrivers had been disturbed too. She felt a creeping sense of violation at the thought of someone rifling through her things. Then she checked the back seat, and frowned. Her laptop was missing.

Harry’s spine buzzed. She leapt out of the car, hauled open the boot and stared inside. The raindrops were heavier now, raucous seagulls free-wheeling inland in packs. Harry reached for the case that lay where she’d left it. Inside it, her torch, pliers and the rest of her toolkit were all undisturbed.

And alongside them was Garvin Oliver’s laptop.

5 (#ulink_64fb98e5-789e-524b-8d15-5f58b789f380)

Callan clanked through the turnstiles, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. The only thing inside it was a Browning pistol that he’d already fired once that day. He checked his watch. In another twenty minutes, he planned on firing it again.

He scanned his surroundings. In front of him was an oval of immaculate grass, bounded by low hedges. Adverts for Hennessy and Paddy Power bookmakers lined the railings on the inside. The parade ring was empty.

He tipped up his baseball cap, backhanding the sweat from his forehead. He was cutting things bloody fine. The last job had been a screw-up, throwing him off schedule. He pictured the puffy-faced man kneeling on the floor, pissing himself as he waited to be shot. It should’ve been quick. In, out. No mess, no witnesses. He fingered the business card in his pocket. Now he had the Spanish-looking girl to add to his list.

People swarmed in front of him, beating a path between the grandstand, the bookies and Madigan’s Bar. Leopardstown racecourse always drew the crowds.

Leopardstown. Baile on Lobhair. Town of the lepers.

Pain pulsed through Callan’s skull, and with it an image: baked red dirt, buzzing insects, the stench of rotting flesh. A village in Sierra Leone, bodies butchered for the ritual cannibalism of the RUF. But in all of the rebels’ murderous binges, they never ate the lepers.

Callan blinked, shoved the memory away. He swallowed and edged closer to the ring. Soon the punters would be five deep around it, inspecting the horses for the next race. That was fine with him. He needed the crowd cover.

He opened his programme and checked through the runners for the one o’clock race. There were seven in total, and number four was underlined: Honest Bill. The small print confirmed what he needed to know: Jockey, R. Devlin; Trainer, D. Kruger; Owner, T. Jordan.

Frantic commentary echoed over the tannoy, winding up the 12.40 race. Punters began staking out their space by the parade ring. Callan adjusted the bag on his shoulder. It was light. In the jungles of Angola and Sierra Leone, every man in his unit had carried an AK-47, ten magazines, an extra ammunition belt, an M79 grenade launcher and a supply of white phosphorus grenades. Here, things were different. Here, you only carried what you could conceal.

Hooves clopped behind him, buckles clinked. He turned to see a frisky black horse being led into the ring. His coat was glossy, his chest muscles bulging. Callan consulted his racecard. Number one, Rottweiler’s Lad.

‘Bit of a sprinter, that fella.’ A middle-aged man had appeared next to him at the railings, chewing on a pipe. ‘Good deep chest.’

Callan grunted, raking his gaze over the other horses filing into the ring. Numbers three, six and five, all dark brown. They jig-jogged past, stirring up an aroma of hay and manure. Where the hell was number four?

The public address system crackled, the announcer giving the all-clear on the previous race. ‘Winner all right, winner all right.’

The signal for the bookies to start paying out. The man with the pipe ripped up his ticket and snorted. Then he turned to Callan, sweet tobacco mingling with stable smells.

‘Who d’ya fancy for this one, then?’

Callan’s jaw tightened. He didn’t have time for ring-side tipsters, but rudeness would attract attention. His urban camouflage was anonymity: jeans and casual jacket, cap over the buzz-cut, everything loose-fitting to hide the muscles so at odds with his middle-aged face. After one o’clock, he needed to be forgettable.

He feigned a smile. ‘Honest Bill.’

‘Ah, Billy-boy. Great horse. Brave as they come.’

Rottweiler’s Lad pranced by, tossing his head and snorting. Jockeys began drifting into the ring, and Callan checked the racecard for Honest Bill’s colours: black-and-white cubes. None of the jockeys matched.

‘There’s your fella.’

Callan turned. A honey-brown horse bounced into the ring. His coat looked sweaty, and his hind legs were sheathed in red bandages. The saddle cloth bore the number four.

The muscles in Callan’s neck tensed. His eyes travelled beyond the horse to the jockey who’d stalked in behind him. He was taller than most, wiry like all of them, and his silks were patterned like a chessboard. Rob Devlin. Callan studied him, making sure he’d recognize him again.

Devlin made his way into the centre of the ring, shaking his head at a red-faced man who was waiting for him there.