Hostage to Murder. V. McDermid L.

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       4

      People would cross the road if they saw Michael Conroy walking towards them. Whether they knew him by sight or by repute or not at all, they instinctively knew better than to block this man’s piece of the pavement. His eyes were the greenish amber of a bird of prey; his narrow face involuntarily called up memories of a wood-axe. He looked precisely what he was. Dangerous and mean. To Patrick Coughlan, this limited his usefulness. He’d never have dreamed of sending Michael undercover unless the aim was to scare the shit out of everybody he came into contact with.

      Michael didn’t mind. His idea of being a soldier wasn’t pretending to be a librarian in North London or working on a building site in Derby while other people did the dirty work. He liked what he’d spent the past fifteen years doing. Ceasefire didn’t suit him and he knew it.

      He sat in the chair facing Patrick, his eyes calm and watchful. Dressed in an olive green combat jacket and blue jeans, he would have fitted in perfectly with any group of squaddies in a bar anywhere. Entirely self-contained, he cleaned his nails with the blade of a penknife, an absent-minded habit that he was unaware was marked down on the file MI5 had held on him for some years.

      Kevin O’Donohue was the gopher. A thin, wiry greyhound, he fetched and carried without the wit to question what or why. Loyal to the point of stupidity, he was reliable only in the sense that he didn’t have enough brains to act on his own initiative. He did what he was told, and mostly he did it well enough. Michael tolerated him for his sister’s sake. Siobhan got Kevin’s share of intelligence in the genetic share-out. It wasn’t imbecility that had got her caught in the aftermath of the Docklands bomb. Just bad luck. Michael hadn’t seen her for three years, but he’d kept his word and made sure Kevin was sorted. Kevin, of course, had no idea of this pact.

      Kevin looked like a harmless rodent, which was appropriate enough. Coarse auburn hair badly cut so it emphasized the jut of his forehead, the sort of freckles that looked like a nasty rash and the fashion sense of Man at Millett’s told any casual encounter all they needed to know. He fidgeted in his chair, nervous in the presence of Patrick, who always made him feel like he was about to make his first confession all over again.

      ‘I’ve a wee job for you,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s what you might call private enterprise. You’ll need to keep your mouths shut, but you’ll be well looked after.’

      Michael nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Patrick.’

      ‘It’s a matter of finding somebody I have an interest in.’ Patrick pushed a photograph across the desk. Michael leaned forward and picked it up. He gave it the hard stare, then off-handed it to Kevin.

      ‘She used to work downstairs,’ Michael said, his voice as uninterested as if he’d been asked the time.

      ‘That’s right. She did a disappearing act six, seven years ago with something that belongs to me. I’ve had the word out in a quiet sort of a way, and now I’ve got intelligence that she’s in Glasgow.’

      ‘And you’d like us to find her for you.’ It wasn’t a question.

      ‘D’you have an address, then?’ Kevin asked.

      Patrick ignored him. ‘She was seen at the weekend in a supermarket at the top of Byers Road. Behind the Grosvenor Hotel. It’s the only lead I’ve got. Obviously she’s not going to be using her own name, so there’s no point in looking in the phone book or the voter’s roll.’

      Michael folded his knife shut. ‘We’ll manage,’ he said.

      Patrick opened his desk drawer and took out a brown envelope. ‘I don’t want you using any of our people over there, so you’ll need a float. Theresa’s got tickets downstairs for tonight’s ferry.’

      ‘What about a car?’ Michael asked.

      Patrick raised one finger and smiled approvingly. ‘There’s a British driving licence in the envelope. You can use it to hire a car if you need one.’

      Michael pocketed the envelope without looking at the contents. ‘Daily calls?’

      ‘At least. You’ve got a clean mobile, haven’t you?’

      Michael’s grin would have put Red Riding Hood’s СКАЧАТЬ