'I'll tell you inside,' said Ivan. 'I'm Portrush brigade. I need some help.'
The door opened slightly wider, and Matt and Ivan stepped into the dark hallway. A single light was shining in the kitchen towards the back of the house, but otherwise the building was shrouded in darkness. The walls were covered in faded paper, with one or two damp patches evident on the ceiling. The carpet was frayed and worn, and there was a stack of old papers and magazines filling the hall. A smell of old boiled potatoes filtered through from somewhere.
Matt hesitated before stepping inside — but the man had seemed so suspicious of Ivan, it looked unlikely to be a trap.
I'll take my chances.
'I won't be offering you a cup of tea because I don't think you'll be lingering,' said Whitson, revealing a set of grey and broken teeth. 'You can state your business and then be on your way.'
'I think there's a gang after me,' said Ivan bluntly. 'The family suspects I've been disloyal, and they've sent some cousins to sort me out. If there was a nutting squad over here, you'd know about it. I need to speak with them, tell them it's a mistake, sort the whole thing out.'
'And have you been disloyal?'
Ivan shook his head. 'I have not,' he replied.
'But you would say that, wouldn't you?' Whitson said slowly. 'After all, we know what the family thinks about cousins who want to leave.'
'If you just tell me where they are, I can speak to them,' said Ivan. 'If I convince them I'm OK, they can let me go. If not, they can kill me there and then. Either way, it saves them the trouble of finding me.'
Whitson leant towards him, his jaw open. Matt could smell fried onions on his breath. 'Your name again, sonny?'
'I told you once,' said Ivan, 'I don't need to tell you again.'
'Ivan Rowe,' said Whitson, rolling the words over his tongue. 'I don't think I've heard anything about you. You can be on your way.'
Ivan's fist collided with the man's stomach, Matt, just like the victim, was surprised by the speed and force of the punch. Whitson doubled up in pain, clutching his stomach, gasping for breath. His eyes rolled up towards Ivan, and he tried to move away. Another fist collided with the back of his neck, sending him crashing to the floor, spluttering for breath. 'Tell me who's looking for me, and then I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan shouted.
'No one's looking for you, you idiot,' Whitson snarled, spitting on to the floor.
The side of Ivan's foot smashed into his ribcage. Matt could hear the sound of a bone snapping, and Whitson's face screwed up in pain. 'Tell me!' shouted Ivan.
'Fuck off! There's no one!' Whitson screamed.
'Hold him down,' said Ivan, glancing towards Matt.
Matt knelt, half his weight on Whitson's chest, pinning back both his arms. At his side, Ivan slapped the back of his hand hard against the man's face. Matt winced. He could smell the vomit rising in the man's throat. He's an old guy, he thought. There's not much punishment in him.
'Keep holding him,' Ivan said curtly.
Matt dug an elbow into Whitson's chest, crushing the air from his lungs and pinning him to the floor. He moved his hand up across the neck, and used the back of his hand to force Whitson's mouth open. He could hear him struggling for air.
'Tell me where they are!' shouted Ivan.
Whitson coughed. 'There's nobody looking for you, I swear it.'
Ivan smashed his fist into Whitson's face. Matt could feel the force of the blow trembling through the old man's body.
If that doesn't make him talk, nothing will.
'There's no fucking hit squad after you,' croaked Whitson.
'Just tell me where they are, and I'll stop hitting you,' Ivan said coldly.
'There's no one, you have to believe me.'
'Hold the fucker harder,' said Ivan, looking towards Matt.
'There's nothing,' Whitson hissed, the voice gradually trailing away to a whimper. 'There's nothing.'
'I think he might be telling the truth,' said Matt, looking up at Ivan.
But Ivan slammed his fist into the man's face once again, cutting open the skin. Whitson wriggled, then Matt could feel him falling completely still. There was no sound at all. Matt put his hand up over the man's mouth, but could feel nothing.
'Christ,' he said, looking up at Ivan. 'He's dead.'
'Weak heart,' said Ivan matter-of-factly. 'Common with a man of that age, particularly when they eat too much fatty food. The pain builds up the blood pressure, and the heart cuts out. Happens all the time.'
Ivan's capacity for sudden, explosive violence was one side of the man's character Matt had not expected. 'As if we weren't in enough trouble already,' he said.
Ivan stepped away, into the darkness. 'But I think he was telling the truth,' he said. 'There's nobody looking for me.'
Matt stood up. 'You killed the man — just like that?' he said.
'Once we start questioning him, he knows we think someone is looking for us,' said Ivan, looking closely at Matt. 'That means we've definitely done something. If we let him live, someone will be looking for us.' He shrugged, walking back towards the kitchen. 'Anyway, he's a Provo, you're SAS. I thought you liked killing Irishmen.'
Just as we used to say in the Regiment — once a mission starts going wrong, it keeps going wrong.
Ivan was rummaging around in the cupboard. 'Stop getting in a flap,' he continued. 'We needed to find out whether the Provos were on to us, and we've done that. And we need somewhere safe to hole up for a few days.'
'You think we should stay here?'
Ivan flicked a switch on the kettle. 'You wanted a safe house,' he said. 'Well, now you've got one.'
FIFTEEN
Matt fished the mobile out of his pocket, glancing down at the display. It was Reid. He jabbed his thumb against the answer button. 'You OK?' he said quickly.
'A bit bruised, but still breathing,' said Reid.
'What happened?'
There was a pause on the line.
Right now, anything could happen.
'Your poofy pal, Damien,' said Reid, the words twisting on his lips. 'He's buggered off.'
'What?' Matt slumped back against the wall. He was sitting on the floor of the kitchen in Cedar Road. Ivan was brewing up a pot of tea. Ahead of him, Whitson's body was lying stretched out on the floor, waiting to be disposed of.
'Tell me about it,' he said.
The story took about ten minutes to tell, interrupted by some noises in the background from the children. The two men had driven together to Reid's house in Herefordshire, collected Jane and the kids, then driven across country towards the Peak District. In total, they had been driving for about six hours: three hours from London to Herefordshire, then another three hours by the time they arrived in Derbyshire. They stopped briefly in Derby, because Damien said he wanted to rent a car so he had his own transport — after that, he had followed them in a rented Peugeot 205. Reid had been exhausted by the time they got there. Jane had put the kids to bed, then rustled up some chicken and rice for supper. Reid had reckoned they would have a couple of beers to relax, then get some sleep. 'But Damien announces that he has to go out,' Reid continued.
'And you tried to stop him?'
'Of course, I bloody did. Cooksley's already dead, and someone is after us. You said we have to stick together.'
Matt sighed. He knew Damien well enough to know that he wasn't going to put up with Reid telling him what to do. Damien had always been a man who walked along his own path. He knew nothing about teams, or how to work with them.
'He lost it, right?'
'Like a rocket with the blue fuse lit,' Reid said. 'Started telling me I couldn't tell him what to do. I argued with him, said we had to stay together, that it was only one week until we collected the money. He seemed to accept that, calmed down for an hour or so. I was just ready to turn in, when out of the upstairs window I see him slipping out of the lodge, and heading for his car. I was about to run after him, but he'd locked the door to the bedroom and tossed away the key. By the time I got out he'd vanished.'