Crash Course Page 4

  The five men in the room watched Bell in silence.

  “I totally understand your feelings,” Davenport said after a pause. “But quite honestly revenge is a very sour dish. If these men are found, the wheels of justice will have to deal with them. The result may not be exactly what you have in mind. Expensive lawyers have a habit of turning retribution on its head.”

  “You don’t know me.” Bell’s eyes were tear-free and staring. “I didn’t get where I am today by giving up and turning the other cheek. If I say that I’ll get the bastards, then you can rest assured that I won’t stop until I succeed. I have pots of money and I’m ready to spend every penny. Nobody can kill a member of my family and then simply walk away. The bastards will pay, mark my words.”

  “Your question, Detective Sergeant,” Strofeld spoke again. “Was where do we go from here. I think that I should let Mr Bell explain what he has in mind.”

  “Like I said.” Bell leaned forward over the table and stared directly at Kane. His colour had returned to its original red. “I have plenty of money and nothing to do with it except get these bastards. We know that the driver of the boat that killed my Monica is on the professional powerboat racing circuit. I intend to sponsor a powerboat racing team for this year’s events. I’ve already located a boatbuilder who needs the money and we’ve come to an arrangement. All we need now is a man on the inside who can ferret the bastards out. I’ve discussed the idea with director Strofeld but he can’t help. We put the proposition to Superintendent Davenport. He suggested that you were the man we were looking for.”

  “No way,” Kane said, looking quickly at Davenport. “I don’t know a powerboat from a hole in the ground. If you’re going undercover, you’ve got to be able to pass muster. Put me in the middle of the greatest gang of cut-throats in England and I can make them believe that I’m the equal of the worst of them but powerboats are not my game and that means that they’ll suss me out. Then I’ll end up like your French detective with my neck opened from ear to ear.” He looked directly at Bell. “Don’t get me wrong. I sympathise with your loss and if there was anything that I could do to help, I would. But this idea is hare-brained.”

  “I can understand your reserve.” Bell’s eyes bored into Kane. “By the by, may I call you Mark?”

  Kane nodded. “Of course.”

  “Good, I never like to use second names. I wouldn’t want to end up like Lamont either. But I’ve been researching the offshore powerboat scene since the day I heard that’s where I’d find my man. Most of the drivers knew damn all about powerboats when they entered the sport. The boats cost a fortune and most of the drivers are wealthy men who can afford to tear up the tens of thousands of pounds it costs to keep a team in the field. That’s the main criterion. Money. And I have it. According to Superintendent Davenport, you’ve got the gumption for this job and I’m willing to put my money where his mouth is. All I’m asking is that you give it a chance. It might work and then again it might not. Lamont found them, so I’m betting that an experienced undercover policeman like you can find them too.”

  “They found Lamont,” Kane said. “What makes you think that they won’t find me?”

  “Mr Bell has thought of that eventuality,” Davenport interjected. He turned towards the man who had entered with Bell. “This is Detective Sergeant Jimmy Watson, Manchester CID. Jimmy will be with you every step of the way.”

  “How reassuring,” Kane said with more than a hint of cynicism. “I work alone. And that’s one rule I won’t break for anyone. I know that I can take care of myself and I don’t want to end up taking care of Watson or anyone else.”

  “You’ll not have to take care of me,” Watson said calmly. ‘And if you do, you’ll be the first.’

  “There’s no time for a pissing contest,’ Davenport said sharply. “And neither of you are required to put your curricula vitae on the table,” Davenport said sharply. “However, I agree with Jimmy. As an experienced police officer and a former member of the Parachute Regiment, I think he will be a major asset on this operation. He also has another vital attribute. He’s a first-rate mechanic and Mr Bell has arranged for him to work in the powerboat team in that capacity.” He looked at Kane. “He’s already on station so effectively the operation is underway. You’ll still be the point man. We’ve simply arranged that there’ll be somebody there to back you up if things go wrong.”

  “You mean somebody to get the final message out,” Kane said. He looked at Bell. “I don’t like it. It’s an amateur-night plan conceived by someone without any experience of police work.” He could feel five pairs of eyes burning into him. He knew he was saying all the wrong things but he couldn’t help it. “For God’s sake, look at me. I can’t pass myself off as some rich guy getting his kicks from racing a powerboat.”

  “That’s not what we have in mind.” Davenport’s smile creased his face. “You’ll be posing as Mr Bell’s nephew. A bit of a ne’er-do-well with an attitude problem. I don’t think that particular role is beyond you.” He wiped the smile from his face. “The men we’re after murdered a young girl in cold blood to ensure their escape. If you want to become a member of their club, you’ll have to prove that you’re made of the same stuff. I think this is your game alright.”

  Kane sat thinking for a moment. His interest was piqued but he still wasn’t on board. Maybe there was something here. The guys he was after were lawless. Driving the boat might also be a buzz. All-in-all it had to be better than pushing paper at Scotland Yard.

  “Okay, I suppose I’m in,” he said, his tone not totally convincing.

  The five men around the table smiled in unison.

  “Splendid,” Strofeld said. “Inspector de Vries will coordinate the operation from our side. We are currently developing intelligence on all the drivers on the European powerboat circuit.” He looked directly at Kane. “Mr Bell will launch your inclusion in the powerboat team that he is sponsoring. Sergeant Watson is already on board there as a mechanic. Superintendent Davenport will have your cover story established. That should cover all the bases, as our American friends would say. Luc, I think we should be ready in about one week?”

  “Yes, Director.” De Vries nodded vigorously.

  “Well then.” Strofeld beamed. “We shall expect you to start next week, Sergeant Kane. And good hunting.”

  Chapter Five

  It was nine o’clock in the morning when Kane turned the key in the door of the small Georgian house off Leytonstone High Street. He always felt a sense of nostalgia wherever he entered his parents’ home. So much of his early life had been spent in these surroundings. The boys at the local grammar school had beaten out of him the Northern Irish accent he’d had when he arrived in London. Now the only trace of their roots was the soft burr which still sang in his father’s voice. The hallway of the house was already full of the smell of frying bacon. It was a tradition in the Kane household for the men to have a hearty breakfast and no reports in medical journals on the evils of eggs and bacon would change that tradition. Kane walked quietly along the corridor and opened the kitchen door. His father stood at the cooker. He still wore the shirt and trousers of his security man’s uniform. The khaki brown jacket hung on the back of a chair. Making the breakfast was the first chore after his arrival from a night spent wandering the halls of a private bank in the City of London. Every time Kane looked at his father, he wondered if that was where he would end. Paddy tramped the night-time corridors for less than the minimum wage because there was no place in the Police Service of Northern Ireland for a man whose nerve had gone.

  “The dead arose and appeared to many,” Kane’s father said, looking up from the stove. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to feed your face while you’re here.”

  “It’s great to see you too.” Kane crossed the room to where his mother sat in her customary chair by the old fireplace. As he bent to kiss her, images flashed quickly through his brain and he winced at their intensity. He looked into her glassy eyes that showed
no sign of life. Maybe I should have been like you, he thought. Perhaps blocking it all out by becoming a living vegetable might have been the best way of dealing with the pain. But for him, that hadn’t been an option. He’d passed through one of the gates of Hell and something deep inside him would not allow him to take the route favoured by his mother. He kissed her lips. They tasted dry and soft and lifeless. It hurt him to think that he had probably lost his mother forever and that he had been the cause of her retreat into herself. My God but she looks old, he thought. A lot older than her chronological age. Her white skin sagged over her once fine cheekbones and her now totally white hair was in disarray. She was fifty-seven years old but she looked more than ninety. He glanced over at his father. The old man had had a difficult three years. Forced to work on because of his paltry pension and then turned into a carer for the last part of his life. Kane sometimes wondered how long it could go on. Both he and his father knew that Agnes Kane needed professional care. But neither was yet capable of relinquishing their duty to the woman they loved.

  “No change?” he said as he took a seat at the kitchen table.

  “What did you expect?” Patrick Kane poured out two cups of strong tea before depositing a plate containing enough bad cholesterol to clog the arteries of an army in front of his son. “Maybe we should change our religion and get ourselves off to Lourdes. That’s the kind of miracle we’re lookin’ for these days. But how would you know since we see you so rarely.”

  Kane looked at the fatty mess on his plate and picked up his fork. “I’ve been busy,” he said. “Big drugs bust. I was under for six months trying to nail the bastards.”

  “You and your God Almighty important job.” His father forked some eggs into his mouth. “If it wasn’t for you and your likin’ for your job maybe your mother wouldn’t be sitting there in the corner like a fuckin’ vegetable. You and your job cost me a companion for the rest of my life.”

  Kane looked up and saw the anger in his father’s eyes. There was a time when those eyes only smiled for him. But that was a long time ago. He often wondered when their relationship had changed. For his father, the cataclysm occurred one sunny July day when he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The bomb on the Shankill hadn’t injured him badly. Others had been killed and maimed but Patrick Kane’s injuries hadn’t been life threatening. His son had been at home when the telephone call came telling him that his father had been taken to the Royal Infirmary. The voice on the other end of the line had been reassuring. His father had been injured but not critically. His mother had collapsed in a heap and after he had called the neighbours to look after her, he had marched off to the Royal to see for himself. He walked in on the mayhem of the aftermath of a bomb blast. Doctors and nurses ran in every direction and his first impression was of controlled chaos if such a state existed. He received directions several times before he located his father on a gurney in a corridor. At first, he didn’t recognise his own father. The injuries, although superficial, had been to the face. His father lay perfectly still and he thought for a moment that he might be dead. Flying glass had cut his face to shreds and a deep cut on his forehead had caused blood to fill his eye cavities. Mark had removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the blood away. In that moment, he knew that he loved his father greatly. However, that bomb on that sunny Saturday was to change everything in the Kane household. His father had been unable psychologically to resume his duties; his mood became sullen as his life fell slowly apart. Finally, they had been forced to leave the province in which they had been born. Patrick Kane’s smiling eyes were seen no more.

  “We’ve been through this a thousand times,” Kane said. “Mom’s breakdown wasn’t my fault. I had no idea she’d trip out when Nancy and the kids died.”

  “If they’d simply died then maybe she could have handled it.” Pieces of chewed egg shot from the corner of Patrick Kane’s mouth as he spoke. “She was more of a mother to those children than ever your wife was. The poor wee critter.”

  “Like I said. We’ve been through all this and it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” Patrick Kane rose and walked to where his wife was sitting. “Look at her, will you.” He stared down at his wife. “Every strand of hair on her head is white. She hasn’t spoken a word for three years and for the past six months she pisses whenever and wherever she pleases. None of that gets me anywhere. I’m the one who has to spoon-feed her and change her nappies.” A tear crept out of his right eye. “I never thought that we’d end like this. I don’t know how much longer I can cope.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

  Kane looked at his mother. Her eyes stared steadfastly ahead, seemingly impervious to her surroundings. He and his father had become used to discussing her while she sat motionless staring into space. Sometimes he wondered whether there was some sector of her brain which still received and dealt with sensory data. Perhaps the many arguments they had had concerning her had punctured her brain and caused her grief. He couldn’t bear that thought. The retreat into herself had been to escape hurt. But the doctors were right. That woman sitting in the corner was no longer his mother. The part that had been his mother – the spirit and the humour and the love – had left and all that remained was the shell that she had inhabited. She wasn’t like the people on life support machines. The heart, lungs, and other organs continued to function. But she was as comatose as any brain-damaged patient. The prognosis was that the longer she stayed in this state, the deeper she would descend into her self-induced coma. “Maybe it’s time to think of a more permanent solution,” he said moving his gaze to his father.

  “Aye, I’ve thought of several permanent solutions. If I was still on the force, I might have already blown my brains away and left you to clean up your own shit. But I know how you would react. She’d be shipped off to some asylum or other while you continued with your so important job.”

  “And who put the idea of being a copper into my head.” Kane clenched his fists. “She wanted something different for me but you were always pushing me to become a policeman. You weren’t man enough to handle it yourself so you decided to live through me. Bad decision. And I was fool enough to fall for it. I wanted you to be proud of me so I put all my energy into my so-called career. You’re the one who pushed me into the Met. You’re the one who wanted me to become a detective and you’re the one who danced with joy when I was accepted by Davenport into SO10. Take your own blame for the shit.”

  Patrick Kane moved back to the table and slumped into the chair.

  Kane said. “I’ve come to tell you that I’ll be away for a while. Another undercover job. Maybe here in England, maybe abroad. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back to see you.” He took an envelope from his inside pocket and dropped it on the table. “That’s six hundred quid. It’s all I can raise right now. It might make things easier.”

  His father picked up the envelope and held it in his hand for a moment. He seemed unsure what to do with it but eventually stuffed it into his trouser pocket. “Why don’t you give up SO10? Tell Davenport to go fuck himself and find another boy.”

  “I can’t. I couldn’t live without the excitement. If I had time to think, I might conclude that I was somehow responsible for the death of my wife and children. Then I’d surely put my Glock in my mouth and end it all.”

  Patrick stood and came behind his son. He laid his hands on Kane’s shoulders. “You know there are times when I pity you. You’re sicker than your mother. She ran away by switching her mind off. You’re out there planning to get yourself killed in the line of duty.”

  “At least you’ll get the pension.” Kane tried a wry smile but it wasn’t returned.

  “Do us all a favour and give it up, Mark. Go somewhere far away and pick up pieces of driftwood on a beach until you start liking yourself again. Davenport isn’t the answer. He’s part of the problem. Stop trying to kill yourself and try to start living again.”

  �
�I thought you were a security guard…” Kane stood and moved towards the door. “But in reality, you’re a fucking philosopher.”

  “Wait, son.” Patrick Kane put his arms out towards his son.

  Kane stood for a minute looking at the man before him. He’d always known that the old man had been too soft to be a copper. Maybe someday he would try to find out what had set him off on the road that he had followed. But before that happened some barriers would have to fall. He moved forward into his father’s arms. They embraced and he could feel the heaving and then the shudder in the old man’s chest. It had been a long time since he had had the inclination to cry and he fought with all his will to stop the smallest drop of moisture from forming in his eye.

  “Take care of yourself,” Patrick Kane said, releasing his son from the embrace.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Kane said and hurried from the room.

  Chapter Six

  Davenport’s office at Scotland Yard lacked the grandeur of Strofeld’s palace at Europol. The walls were covered with maps of London’s less salubrious areas and the photographs of Davenport with the good and the great were conspicuous by their absence. The desk behind which Davenport sat was littered with papers. There would have been no room for family photographs even if Davenport had had them. Superintendent George Davenport was married to the Metropolitan Police. He looked up from a sheaf of reports as Kane entered the room.

  “Ah, Mark,” he said, closing one of the manila folders. “All cleared up down below?”

  Kane dropped into the chair in front of the desk. “My cases are pretty much cleared and I’ve distributed what I can’t finish to the other boys.”

  “I assume that there are some rumblings in the squad room; I can only imagine the envy that your latest assignment would generate. Half the officers in SO10 would give their right arms to go on a continental holiday at the expense of the Met.”