Silent as the Dead Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Glossary of terms

  Other Titles

  Newsletter

  About the author

  Scott Hunter was born in Romford, Essex in 1956. He was educated at Douai School in Woolhampton, Berkshire. His writing career began after he won first prize in the Sunday Express short story competition in 1996. He currently combines writing with a parallel career as a semi-professional drummer. He lives in Berkshire with his wife and two youngest children.

  SILENT AS THE DEAD

  Scott Hunter

  A Myrtle Villa Book

  Originally published in Great Britain by Myrtle Villa Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Scott Hunter, Anno Domini 2018

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher

  The moral right of Scott Hunter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously

  To the memory of my late grandparents

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Andrew and Rebecca Brown (Design For Writers) for the cover design, my insightful editor, Louise Maskill, and Tom Marcus (author of Soldier Spy [Penguin, 2017]), an inspiration for the character ‘JC’.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘They found him – I take it you’ve been informed already?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’m aware.’

  I try to make myself comfortable. The chair’s hard and I’m tired. Of course I’ve been informed. They found him all right – what was left of him. I lick my lips, look down at my new trainers. There’s a scuff on the right toe. Probably did that against the bar foot rest.

  ‘LK was one of our best,’ the man behind the desk says.

  They always refer to us by our initials. Never a name. Safer that way.

  Anyway, I’ve no quarrel with what the guy just said. LK was one of the best. Was …

  The man fiddles with a pale, meerschaum pipe, taps the bowl. Takes out a pipe cleaner. ‘Can’t smoke the damn thing in here, sad to say. Best I can do is a spot of maintenance.’

  No answer to that. Sometimes I have to put a smoke on, if I’m on ops, but I never inhale. Pipes, smoking – mug’s game, if you ask me. So I just shrug. ‘Yeah, of course.’ Am I supposed to smile?

  He carries on with the pipe. After a bit he looks up.

  ‘You knew him pretty well, JC, is that right?’

  He has one of them old BBC voices, like you used to hear on Radio Four. Still do sometimes. Toffs, the lot of ‘em. But I know I have to be careful. He might be a toff, but he’s not stupid.

  ‘Couple of years, yeah.’ I nod.

  ‘Couple of years,’ the man repeats. ‘Long enough to know someone pretty well.’

  ‘I suppose.’ I scratch my head. Hopefully this won’t take long. We’ve been through a full debrief already, but I guessed this was coming. LK blew it and, for someone who’d been around the block as many times as he had, that was worth a few questions from higher up the food chain. I’ve only met this guy once before, just after they recruited me. I was fresh out of the Army back then, cocky as hell. Maybe that’s what they liked about me. Or it might have been my photographic memory. He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. ‘We used to banter a bit, yeah,’ I say. ‘LK was solid.’

  Truth is, I feel crap about it – about what I had to do. But I need the money. LK knew the risks. He could have got himself out. I thought he would, but Black’s bodyguards, once they were sure, they were right on the money. They didn’t give LK a chance. That Niall guy, he’s a right psycho. The way the corner of the pub cleared and the tables emptied – the regulars knew who the visitors were, all right. Hope I don’t need to drink with Niall again in a hurry. Probably have to, though. He’s close to Black.

  ‘What do you think happened, JC?’ the man asks, all quiet like. As if he was asking me about the weather, or something.

  I’m ready for this question. I look him in the eye. ‘Simple. They sussed him. Maybe he got careless. It only takes the smallest thing to blow your cover. He was a painter decorator, right? That was the scam. So he had the white van outside, the paint on his hands and hair, all that. But these guys are good, they know when there’s something wrong, some detail. Maybe they felt his radio as they brushed past him. Maybe they didn’t like the way he drank. Maybe he paid for his drinks with a twenty-pound note instead of change.’ I shrugged. ‘Could be anything. The smallest detail out of place. That’s the game we play.’

  He’s quiet for a bit. Then he gets busy with the pipe again. ‘Quite so,’ he says after a while. ‘The smallest detail.’ He sighs, put the pipe down. ‘They tortured him, you know, JC.’

  Keep cool. Don’t think about it. Maintain eye contact.

  ‘But I’ll spare you the details. Chap like you has enough on his plate. You mustn’t dwell on it. I’m sure you did your best.’

  Time to toe the line. Sounds like he’s finished. Hope I’ve done enough to convince him. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You’ll catch up with these people. Last night’s setback is just that. They may have won a battle, but they haven’t won the war yet, not by a long chalk. Whatever they’re planning, I have every confidence you’ll come up trumps.’

  ‘We’ll do our best, Sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Not for the time being, JC. Thank you.’

  ‘Sir.’ I’m on my feet and at the door. I’m knackered. It’s been a long night. Suddenly, he calls me back. I stop, half-in half-out, look back. He’s smiling.

  ‘Thanks for everything you do, JC. Take care of yourself, won’t you? I can’t afford to lose any more of my best.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The corridor’s empty. I lean on the wall, my shirt sticking to my back. I feel sick to my stomach, but it looks like I got away with it.


  For now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The salt-laden breeze hit him like a slap in the face. Nowhere else smelled like this, and for sure nowhere else felt like this. DCI Brendan Moran watched the land approach, only subconsciously aware of the noise of the ferry engines, the crashing of doors and bustle of passengers. He took a deep breath and went below.

  Twenty minutes later the port was behind him and he was heading west on the N25. The plan was to arrive at his destination by tomorrow – mid-afternoon at the latest. At least that’s what he’d told Donal. Moran didn’t mind either way; if he was half a day out, so be it. This trip was off the record and by the time he got there, if what Donal had told him was to be believed the trail would have been cold for over a fortnight. And when it came to abduction, a cold trail was a poor starting point. If it was abduction. Moran hadn’t said as much on the phone, but it could just as easily be murder.

  Or suicide.

  He pulled into a service station; the engine was sucking air after the long journey through Wales to Fishguard. He filled the tank till the pump clicked; he’d need all the fuel he could get, driving as he was to a tiny village on the Dingle Peninsula, about as far west as you could go. Moran grabbed a sandwich, paid, smiled to himself at the cashier’s accent and got back on the road. After an uncomfortably early start he intended to find a B&B somewhere near Youghal and catch up on his sleep. He wasn’t getting any younger and journeys like this took it out of him in a way he found annoying and slightly alarming. Funny how the small things that never used to matter seemed to get under your skin after you’d hit fifty. Or fifty-something, he grudgingly conceded.

  But certain things had always annoyed him.

  Like being followed.

  Moran glanced in his rear view a second time, just to be sure. The Passat was still there, about the same distance behind him as before. Moran wasn’t doing much over fifty-five; it could have overtaken anytime.

  Time to put its commitment to the test.

  Moran floored the accelerator. It took a heartbeat for the Passat to respond, but respond it did, closing the gap and maintaining the same distance as before. A lay-by appeared a few hundred metres ahead. Moran checked his mirror and slammed on the brakes. The Passat sailed past in the fast lane as Moran dragged his vehicle off the road, tyres screeching in protest. He had just a second to clock the Passat. Two guys, the passenger bearded, heavy-set, looking his way. Couldn’t see the driver. Moran let the engine idle.

  Paranoia?

  He waited four, maybe five minutes before rejoining the dual carriageway in the wake of a passing Guinness lorry. Moran settled himself a few car-lengths behind and chewed on his sandwich. Not for the first time he questioned the wisdom of agreeing to Donal’s request. It had felt risky from the start.

  But that’s probably why you agreed in the first place, Brendan …

  The service station was twenty minutes behind him before he caught sight of the Passat again, easing itself into its customary position. Observation, Moran decided. That’s what these guys were about. They’d had plenty of opportunity to run him off the road, sidle up to him at the service station, bundle him into the boot, or whatever else they might have intended. As it was, they seemed content just to keep him in view. Which was OK with Moran. They were going to have a boring twenty-four hours, what with him stopping over and all. Moran resolved to find an opportunity to make life more interesting for them – should such an opportunity present itself.

  Casting an occasional glance at the rear-view to check the Passat’s position, Moran turned his mind to more pressing concerns, the frontrunner being how he was going to cope with meeting his late fiancée’s family for the first time in years. This was something that had been worrying him since Donal’s phone call. Sure, dealing with the reality of Janice’s murder was no longer as intolerable and ruinous as it had been in the early days. Nowadays it was more of a distant ache – but nevertheless an ache that didn’t take much prompting to flare up. A date on the calendar, a whiff of perfume, a song on the radio – these were the minutiae waiting to derail him. Small things, big impact.

  And there was the Hannigans’ attitude towards him to take into consideration, too. Donal had always, albeit irrationally, blamed Moran for his sister’s death. It went something like this: the bomb had been intended for Moran, therefore if he’d never existed, Janice wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the car. Moran got that; Donal’s thinking was an inevitable consequence of post-traumatic ‘what if’ syndrome, and Moran had engaged in plenty of that himself. What if they hadn’t changed their plans that day? What if he’d sent Janice home, as he’d originally intended? What if he’d decided to drive himself to the meeting instead of walking? What if he’d never suggested she take his car to save herself a soaking? What if it hadn’t rained that afternoon? And so on, and so on.

  Moran took a deep breath. There was Janice’s sister, Geileis, to consider as well; what did she think these days? As far as he knew, Geileis still lived in London, and he’d not seen her for years. Just Donal for the moment, then. He let his breath out in a long sigh. The first few hours would present the greatest challenge.

  Just get through those, Brendan, and then the next hour, then the one after that …

  He tapped the radio button, checked for the Passat’s by now almost reassuring presence, and fixed his speed at sixty. The music did its distraction thing and he settled into the rhythm of the road, humming the tunes he knew and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the ones he didn’t. It passed the time and he found himself entering a trance-like state as the car sped westwards.

  Moran toyed with the idea of pressing on towards Cork, but it was getting late and he didn’t fancy kerb-crawling in the dark in search of a half-decent B&B. He turned off the N25, following signs to Ardmore. His buddies in the Passat were almost taken unawares but they made the turn in time and settled for a thirty-mile-an-hour, unhurried ‘we’re taking in the sights’ sort of pursuit – which seemed to confirm Moran’s earlier assessment of their intentions.

  Thirty minutes later he had found a B&B with sea view, a pleasant if talkative landlady, an opportunity for high tea and a bedroom with a picture window. It was one of many boarding houses dotted along the coast road but Moran had selected this one not for its ambience, but for the fact that there was nowhere for the Passat to lurk while he was in residence.

  It was a pleasant evening, if a little chilly, and after he’d excused himself he took a stroll down to the beach. As the sun sank he thought about Janice and the life they might have had. When the tide began to lick his boots he retraced his steps. Over to his left, towards the edge of the car park by the toilet block, the Passat was one of three remaining cars, an empty windscreen gazing sightlessly out to sea.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Moran would never have claimed to be one of nature’s early risers, but the following morning he felt an unexpected lightness of heart. Something to do perhaps, with his midnight visit to the beach car park where he had used a pair of steel clippers to sever the ignition coil wire on the Passat’s distributor cap. He’d been right about his shadows: once they’d figured he was settled for the night they’d only had a couple of entertainment options: the car or the local bar. Moran put his money on the bar. After all, he’d gone out of his way to create the impression that he was in for the night.

  Nevertheless, he’d been quick with his sabotage. To have been caught in flagrante wouldn’t have been a great idea, not with him being a copper and all – the Gardai would have taken a dim view. But everything had gone to plan. His only real worry had been the landlady, whom he suspected would have taken an equally dim view of a guest creeping about during the night. However, Mrs Keene had proved herself a heavy sleeper and his clandestine exit and re-entry passed without incident.

  It was in this happier frame of mind that Moran rejoined the N25 and pointed the car towards Cork. He reckoned it would take most of the morning for the Passat guys to source a new ig
nition coil, and by that time he would be way west. They’d no doubt track him down eventually but by then he would have figured out who he was dealing with.

  Know your enemy …

  Who had said that? Moran racked his brain. Some Chinese warlord, maybe? Well, it was damn good advice. Know their strengths, know their weaknesses …

  Traffic began to thin after Cork and the towns and villages he passed through were quiet and nondescript. A bar, a café, a church, the houses mostly grey-rendered and run down, but a few picked out in vibrant yellow, blue or red – an attempt, Moran suspected, to bring a little colour into routine, unremarkable lives. By the time he’d passed Killarney Moran was beginning to miss the Passat’s companionship; it had given him something else to think about. Its absence meant that his mind inevitably found its way back to the late Seventies and once there the film began to roll without any further prompting.

  A last-minute arrangement to meet Janice for lunch, the deferment of a meeting until later in the afternoon. They laugh, make plans. Chicken sandwiches and a glass of orange juice for him, for her, smoked salmon salad and a Babycham. She’s wearing a cord jacket and a silk scarf picked out in autumnal colours. Her hair is loose, full of sun. They leave the pub and the bright morning has succumbed to grey, a light rain beginning to fall as they walk arm-in-arm to the car, parked just up the road near the local butchers. A sudden thought: why don’t you take the car? Save you getting soaked. I’ve only to visit number thirty-six, just up the road. Meet you at your ma’s tonight? I’ll get the bus, no problem. A kiss. Watch her walk to the white Cortina, a cheap old banger – all he could afford on a junior garda’s salary – just a few hundred yards away. She turns, smiles, waves. They’ll be married in three months. He watches her unlock the car, get in. Smiling, he turns away. Then comes the blast of hot air, driving him back, sending him sprawling. Shock, confusion. What just happened? He rolls, dazed. Now he’s on all fours. He turns his head and the sight which greets his eyes is impossible to process. Flames, smoke, drifting flakes of upholstery settling on wet tarmac like fiery butterflies …