“Davie? Where is she?”
“Who? Jeannie? I told her to go home. She was in shock.”
Paul shivered. Davie looked at him sympathetically. “Look, Paul, you need to rest, mate. Get on home.”
“She murdered the guy.”
“What?”
“She had a handgun. I saw her. She shouted something and opened fire. The cops started shooting as soon as she started. She started it, though. I saw her.”
“What did she shout? Spanish?”
“Lotjhani - in Ndebele it means ‘Hello’.”
“Are you sure?”
The files in the bags were exhaustive. Details of murders, of officially sanctioned brutality. Paul shivered as he took in pictures of bodies in streets, strewn in fields, punctured with gunshots, or slashed with pangas, and he felt the sickness in his belly.
“Who is he?” Dave muttered.
“An asylum seeker. We killed an asylum seeker from Zimbabwe,” Paul spat. The pain was washing through him now as he stared at the sheet of paper, and he could feel a cold sweat run over his spine. Nausea roiled in his belly. “And Jeannie murdered him.”
Perhaps, he wondered, the HR team hadn’t only cocked up with his application?
The woman he had known as Jeannie climbed out of the car with the diplomatic plates, and walked in through the guarded doors into the High Commission as the car purred round to the parking space. The lift took her up, and soon she was seated, waiting for the debriefing, running the events through her mind once more.
It had been perfect. The theft of the policeman’s firearm was a calculated risk, but when she had seen the changed rotas, it seemed a good bet. All the police took their guns home occasionally, even though it was officially disapproved of, and when a man had to travel far to his next shift, it made sense for him to keep his gun nearby. And the gamble paid off.
She had waited for the man this morning, and he had passed her the Glock at the airport entrance. The theft had gone without a hitch. The fool was too exhausted to hear the two as they rifled his clothing and bags. After that all she had to do was wait until she saw Bressonard while the policeman was present. Shoot, and run. They’d said that the police expected a terrorist, so they’d shoot as soon as they heard shots, and they’d been right. They always saw what they expected, or what they feared. No one would suspect her, a “spook”.
So the enemy of the country was dead. He had been led carefully down a route preplanned for him. A contact with FARC had agreed to provide obvious ID for him, and then they had known which aircraft he would take to Britain, and now he was dead. Well, now the world would see what a safe country Britain was for asylum seekers. Like the Brazilian, a white farmer had been removed, and the police were guilty of his homicide. Either the machine gun or the pistol had killed him, and both were one officer’s weapons.
The woman who had been called Jeannie removed her ID and placed it carefully before her on a glass-topped table. She wouldn’t need these again. No. She was looking forward to returning to her own name. Her real one.
And returning to the glorious Zimbabwe sun, of course. Perhaps she could buy a small farm. Maybe even take Bressonard’s?
Life was good.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERS by Kevin Wignall
Heg the Peg was the end of it. Marty had known from the start which creek he was up; this was just the confirmation on the whereabouts of the paddle. If it had won, he’d have been in the clear, or as near as made any difference.
True to its name though, the first race had finished five minutes ago and Heg the Peg was still running. So much for Bob and his cast-iron tips, straight from the stable, the whole crowd of them laying money on it like it was the only horse in the race. If there was any cast-iron, it was in Heg the Peg’s saddle.
So now Marty had two choices. First was finding some other way of raising two thousand euros by the end of the month – and frankly, that was looking about as likely as the stewards disqualifying every other horse in the last race. Second was borrowing the money off Hennessey and paying back the interest for the rest of his life.
Three choices – he could tell McKeon to sing for the money, leave Dublin, leave Ireland, and find a monastery in Bhutan that was recruiting. Four choices – his next fare could be some crazy American on his first trip to Dublin, wanting to hire him for the whole week, money no object. You never knew with the airport.
The door opened and Marty turned off the radio.
“Wynn’s Hotel, please.” English, in a suit, overnight bag; no big tip here. The fare leaned over and handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “Could you stop here on the way? I’ll give you a good tip.”
Marty glanced at the address. It wasn’t far out of the way.
“No problem. First time in Dublin?”
“Yes, it is.”
Marty pulled away. He could probably take the guy around the houses and he wouldn’t be any the wiser. He found himself taking the direct route though; that was why he ended up in positions like this in the first place, because he was too honest for his own good.
He looked in the rear-view. The fare looked like a civil servant, or someone who worked in life insurance, nondescript, late thirties, the kind of guy who was born to make up the numbers and get lost in the crowd. But he’d still offer him the same old patter.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to sample some of the good stuff while you’re here?”
“Sorry?”
“Guinness.”
“Oh.” The fare smiled like it was something he wasn’t used to. “Actually, I don’t drink. Very rarely, anyway.”
Marty nodded and said, “So what brings you here, then?”
“Business.” He smiled again, but he wasn’t getting any better at it. “But I’ve been wanting to come to Ireland for a long time. I’m of Irish stock.”
Jesus, who wasn’t? The day he picked up a fare at that airport who didn’t claim to have Irish blood, that was the day he’d win the lottery. Still, he put on his best “that’s amazing” smile and said, “Really? What’s your name?”
“Jeffers. Patrick Jeffers.”
Well, sure, anyone could call their kid Patrick, but he wasn’t so sure about the Jeffers bit. Didn’t sound particularly Irish to him.
“Don’t know any Jeffers. Must be a name from out West.”
“I think it is.” End of conversation.
Jeffers kept him waiting no more than two minutes. He went into the house empty-handed and came out with a briefcase. Now that was suspicious – no other way of looking at it, particularly some guy who’d never been to Dublin having business in a regular suburban street.
By the time he got him to the Wynn’s, though, there was no doubt it was his first time here – he’d been looking out of the window like a tourist for the last ten minutes.
“That’ll be twenty-two euros.”
“Keep the change,” said Jeffers, handing him thirty.
“That’s kind of you, Mr Jeffers. Enjoy your stay in Dublin.”
One thousand, nine hundred and ninety-two to go.
Bryan was a charmer, all right, and there was no doubt about what he thought he’d be getting when they went out later. First day on the job, all the girls had told Kate not to fall for any of his talk, and here she was, second day behind the reception desk, going out with him tonight.
She was smiling at him now as he leaned across the desk. And he thought she was smiling at the silver words coming from his mouth, but it was how much he looked like Danny that was really tickling her. If it weren’t for Bryan’s blue eyes, the two of them could meet and think they were long-lost brothers.
Of course, Bryan would be the good brother. They all thought she was some naive young slip of a thing, but twenty-four hours had been enough to tell her that Bryan was decent to the core. He was one for the girls, sure, but a good family lad at heart, working his way through college, a bright future ahead of him.