‘Coffee, please. Black.’ If he was going to get through the next few hours, he was going to need a clear head.
Marie went into the kitchen. While she made his coffee he studied the photographs again. Liam Hennessy, the Sinn Fein adviser who’d been murdered by the SAS. Mary Hennessy, shot by a police sniper in Baltimore. Both had given their lives to the Cause, literally. Lynch wondered how their deaths had affected Marie, and if he could trust her.
One of the photographs was of Marie and a young man. Lynch recognised the man as her brother, Philip, one of the pall bearers at Mary Hennessy’s funeral. Philip, at twenty-five, was a couple of years older than Marie and Lynch seemed to recall that he was now working in the Far East, something to do with banking or insurance. Marie returned with his coffee. ‘How’s Philip?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen much of him, not since. .’
She didn’t finish and Lynch realised she had been about to say ‘the funeral’. Marie placed the tray and two coffee mugs onto a low table, then sat down in a Queen Anne chair and crossed her legs. She was wearing a short black skirt and a large beige pullover that tried but failed to conceal her figure. She had good legs, long and shapely, another thing she had in common with her late mother. ‘So, what brings you to London?’ she asked.
‘I need your help.’
Marie narrowed her eyes. ‘You? Or the organisation?’
To the best of Lynch’s knowledge, Marie had never been an active member of the IRA. Neither had her brother. ‘Me,’ he said.
Marie stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’m not sure that there’s anything I can do for you, Mr Lynch.’
‘Dermott,’ said Lynch. ‘Mr Lynch is my dad.’
Marie gave a small shrug as if she didn’t care either way what she called him. ‘What is it you want?’
Lynch sat down on a hard, uncomfortable couch and leaned forward, his hands clasped together. ‘You know Mike Cramer. The SAS sergeant who. .’
Marie’s hand froze above her coffee mug and she spoke quickly, interrupting him before he could finish. ‘Yes. I know who Cramer is.’
‘I think I might be able to get to him.’
‘Where is he?’ Her voice was monotone, almost mechanical. The silver spoon remained suspended in her hand.
‘Best I don’t tell you too much.’ He ran his hand across his face. The beard had gone but it still itched. ‘I’ll need money.’
Marie frowned. ‘Surely the organisation would. .’
Lynch shook his head. ‘I’ve been told not to take it any further. The Army Council doesn’t want the boat rocked. They don’t want anything to derail the peace process.’
‘They what? Cramer is one of the men who killed my father. And he was directly responsible for my mother’s death.’
‘I know. I know. But they say I’m not to go after him. Let sleeping dogs lie, they said.’
‘Who said?’
‘Thomas McCormack. But he was speaking for the Army Council. Even if I find out where Cramer is, they won’t allow me to do anything.’
Marie leaned forward and put her coffee back on the tray. ‘And you’re prepared to defy the Army Council?’
Lynch put two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his own coffee. ‘Cramer also killed my girlfriend. She was part of an ASU in London during the late eighties.’
‘ASU?’
‘Active Service Unit. Cramer was among a group of SAS soldiers who stormed the flat where she was living.’
‘And you want revenge, is that it?’
Lynch studied her, trying to read what was going on in her mind. ‘Don’t you?’ he asked quietly.
She held his look. ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘So you’ll help?’
‘There’s a limit to what I can do. I have a job. I have a life, I have. .’
‘It’s okay, Marie. I need money, that’s all.’
Marie relaxed. She uncrossed her legs, keeping her knees pressed primly together as if she thought Lynch might peer up her skirt. ‘That’s one thing I can provide. How much will you need?’
‘As much as you can give me. I’ve got to tell you, Marie, it won’t be a loan. I doubt that I’ll be able to pay you back.’
‘Like I said, I’ve got a job.’ She stood up and walked over to a Victorian side table. Lynch admired her legs as she bent to open a drawer. Under other circumstances maybe he would have tried to look up her skirt, but Marie Hennessy was the daughter of Mary Hennessy and as such was untouchable. Sacrosanct. She straightened up, a bank statement in her hands. ‘I can let you have two thousand tomorrow morning as soon as the bank opens. Will that be enough?’
Lynch smiled. ‘That’ll be just great.’
‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ Lynch shook his head. ‘You can use my room,’ she said. ‘You’re too big for the sofa. I’ll sleep in here.’
‘Marie, I can’t thank you enough.’
‘You don’t have to. Just get that fucker Cramer. That’ll be thanks enough.’ She smiled sweetly, the girlish grin at odds with the obscenity.
Mike Cramer could feel the sweat trickle down his back and soak into the handmade shirt. It wasn’t a cold night but he was wearing the cashmere overcoat over his suit. Allan’s orders. Allan was standing slightly ahead of him and to his right, Martin was two paces to Cramer’s left. Both bodyguards were wearing dark suits that glistened under the floodlights. They were walking together across the tennis courts. The nets had been taken down, giving them plenty of space to work in. Cramer had been about to go to bed when Allan had knocked on his door and told him to report outside in his Vander Mayer clothing.
One of the lights was buzzing like a trapped insect but Cramer blocked it out of his mind. There were three men standing at the far end of the tennis courts, whispering. Martin moved to cover Cramer, getting between him and the three men. Cramer’s throat was dry and he was dog tired, but he forced himself to concentrate. The three men started to walk, fanning out as they headed in his direction. Cramer kept walking. The overcoat felt like a straitjacket and the shoes were rubbing his heels.
Allan’s head was swivelling left and right, keeping track of the three men. The man in the middle of the group, stocky and well-muscled with a receding hairline, moved his hand inside his jacket. Cramer tensed, but the hand reappeared holding a wallet. The man on the left of the group bent down as if about to tie his shoelace but Cramer could see that he was wearing cowboy boots under his jeans. Martin moved to block the kneeling man, but as he did the third walker pulled a large handgun from under his baseball jacket. Without breaking stride he fired at Martin, one shot to the chest. Cramer stopped dead, his right hand groping for the gun in its leather underarm holster. Allan began to scream ‘Down! Down! Down!’ and reached for his own gun. Before he could bring it out the man fired again at close range and Allan slumped to the ground.
Cramer grabbed the butt of his Walther PPK. The man walked away from Allan, holding his own gun at arm’s length. He was the tallest of the three, with a swimmer’s build, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes as if to shield them from the glare of the floodlights. He was only six feet away from Cramer, his mouth set in a straight line, his eyes narrowed. Cramer yanked out the PPK, swinging it in front of him, trying to slip his index finger into the trigger guard but he was too late, the gun was in his face. The explosion jerked him back and he flinched, his eyes shutting instinctively so that he didn’t even see the second shot being fired.
‘Shit!’ he screamed.
Allan rolled over and looked at Cramer. ‘Bang, bang, you’re dead,’ he said.
‘It’s this fucking coat,’ said Cramer.
Martin got to his feet and dusted down his trousers before walking over to Allan. He held out his hand and pulled him to his feet.
‘You’re getting better,’ said Allan.
‘I missed the trigger,’ said Cramer. ‘I had the gun in my hand but I couldn’t get my finger on the trigger.’