Dempsey sat on his hotel bed, bare-chested. His bedsheets had been kicked onto the deep carpet of the floor. An hour earlier he had watched the end of William Davies’ premiership with interest, but that had quickly faded. Now his mind had returned to two names: Stanton and Turner.
He was supposed to sleep. It had been an order. But, as 2.15 a.m. flashed on the bedside clock, thoughts and theories were keeping him awake.
The causes of his insomnia piled up, but one fire burned more brightly than all others. The desire to find Sam Regis’ killers. Duty was enough to drive Dempsey to any end. Patriotism took him further still. But the will to bring those responsible for his friend’s death to justice took his determination and ramped it to obsession.
Dempsey knew his next step. So the frustration at being unable to take it was overwhelming. It was matched only by the fear that this delay could set him days behind the pace. Orders or not, rest was impossible. Instead he got to his feet and paced the room as the minutes ticked slowly by.
Dempsey could understand McGregor’s concern for his safety, but it did nothing to lessen his annoyance. Before their call he had been racing from one lead to the next; each time getting closer to finding the mind behind Sam Regis’ death. But now? Now he was cooped up in a hotel room. Ineffective. Stagnant.
He moved around the room. Looked for a distraction. Some way to kill the three and a half hours until his 6 a.m. meeting with McGregor. There was nothing.
His frustration increased by the second. It was only made worse by the lack of anything that could hold his interest. Desperate for an outlet, he stepped into the en-suite bathroom.
It was a luxurious space. Larger than most bedrooms he had slept in over the years. There were two basins. Dempsey filled the smaller of the two with cold water and tipped the contents of the suite’s ice bucket into the same sink. He waited for five minutes and then plunged his head into the collected pool. As intended, the shock of the sub-zero temperature focused his racing mind.
Dempsey pulled himself upright. Violently. The force of movement sent the water in his short hair hurtling towards the rear wall. Ice-cold liquid trickled down onto his unclothed shoulders and back. Dempsey barely noticed. Instead he focused on the decision he had finally made.
Sod Callum, he thought, his patience exhausted. If he’ll only help on his terms I’ll just go elsewhere.
Dempsey moved back into the bedroom and slid open the wardrobe door. Inside was the same two-piece suit he had worn on his trip to Credenhill Barracks. In the breast pocket of the jacket was a single white business card.
Dempsey was relieved to see that Alex Henley’s details included a mobile number. Probably the only way that the assistant commissioner could be contacted so late. To Dempsey the time was of no concern. He did not hesitate before dialling the number.
The telephone rang for longer than expected. Dempsey was preparing to leave a voicemail when he heard the sound of a connection.
‘Who is this?’
The grating sound from the back of his throat said that Henley had been unconscious just moments before.
‘It’s Joe Dempsey. I need you to dig out some information for me. Urgently.’
‘Bloody hell, Joe. Do you know what time it is?’
‘I know, Alex, and I’m sorry. But it is urgent. I’m making headway here and this will help me.’
‘Headway where? Where are you?’
‘I’m in Belfast. After the bastards who put Turner on your team and had him kill Sam. I’m sure I’m just a few steps behind them now, and I need your help to catch up.’
‘Still off the books, I take it?’
‘Wouldn’t need to ask you otherwise, Alex. But that does mean you’ll have to keep this to yourself.’
‘That goes without saying. So how’s the investigation going?’
‘It’s growing, Alex. It’s growing quickly. That’s why I need you.’
‘There’s not much I know, really,’ Henley replied. ‘I’ve been kept out of the loop since the bombing. The Americans weren’t too keen on me being involved, not with the shooter coming from my team.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Dempsey explained. ‘It’s just addresses and intel I need. Off-the-book stuff that you’ll have in the intelligence database. It’s to do with two big names over here. Robert Mullen and Liam Casey.’
‘Do you have dates of birth?’
‘No. I was hoping that you could help me with that.’
‘OK. It’s not ideal but I’ll live with it. Where are these guys, Joe? What area?’
‘They’re both based in Belfast. It’s a smaller pond and they’re big fish. You’ll be able to pinpoint who they are real quick.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might speed things up? Any historic points or family details, anything like that?’
Henley was playing the role of information gatherer. A familiar skill for a police officer. Dempsey could tell that he was in his comfort zone.
‘Not really.’
Dempsey paused for a moment. He considered whether to give Henley the one further piece of information that might help in locating Devlin. In the circumstances, it seemed sensible.
‘Actually there is one other thing. The second guy. Liam Casey. It might help to know that he’s Michael Devlin’s brother.’
‘Michael Devlin? The guy whose house was bombed in Islington?’
‘That’s him, yeah.’
‘What the hell does he have to do with any of this?
Dempsey tried to focus. How to condense so many discoveries into a digestible form.
‘I didn’t tell you in London, but Michael Devlin was close friends with another lawyer. A guy called Daniel Lawrence. Lawrence was the other guy in the wedding photo I dug out at Devlin’s house. He was also the lawyer who represented McGale at Paddington Green police station after the shooting, following which they both ended up dead. I think—’
‘Lawrence is dead?’ Henley’s voice betrayed his shock. ‘How?’
‘Car crash.’ Now Dempsey was confused. ‘I don’t understand. You knew Lawrence?’
‘No, I didn’t know him,’ Henley explained. ‘But I knew of him. At least, I knew he’d been appointed to look after McGale.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘Everyone present at the COBRA Committee knew that, Joe. It was discussed openly, even in front of those of us who were only there as witnesses. They said that McGale was in custody, that he wouldn’t speak without a lawyer and that the lawyer appointed was called Daniel Lawrence. Lawrence was supposed to see McGale the next day.’
Dempsey’s mind was racing. Henley had knowledge of a fact that had apparently been kept from everyone. What could that mean?
‘Alex, I’ve been told that McGale never saw a lawyer. That he killed himself before speaking to a soul. Now you’re telling me you knew he’d seen Lawrence?’
‘I’m not saying that they definitely saw each other, Joe,’ Henley explained. ‘I’m not part of COBRA so I only know what I heard while I was in that room. But I do know that McGale had committed suicide before the next morning, so they probably didn’t meet. All I know is that Daniel Lawrence was appointed as McGale’s lawyer.’
Dempsey felt an almost physical internal pain as Henley spoke. Something he had not experienced since his time in Columbia seven years before. He was hardly able to ask the next question, but he knew he had no choice.
‘I need you to be clear on this, Alex. Are you saying that the whole of the COBRA Committee knew about Lawrence?’
‘Of course they did. Everyone at the meeting. The COBRA members and the witnesses.’
‘And what about Callum McGregor? From my department? Did he know about Lawrence too?’
‘He’s the one person who definitely knew, Joe . . .’
Henley could not know how devastating his answer was to Dempsey. It made all pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
Dempsey did not need to hear Henley’s last words to know the truth. About McGregor. About Stanton. And about everything else.
‘. . . because it was McGregor who told the rest of us.’