Michael stared at the screen.
Haversume was gone, replaced by the sharply dressed BBC News presenter. He nonetheless still dominated. His performance had been note-perfect, every word expertly delivered. Michael sat in its aftermath, an empty beer bottle now barely supported by loose fingertips, his other hand motionless on Cass’s thick neck.
A flicker of nervous energy rose up in Michael’s stomach. His own first-hand experience of the Irish Troubles told him that Haversume’s view was simplistic at best. But still. Daniel’s godfather – a man Michael actually knew – had just taken his first steps to leading the British government. Michael smiled. He had to admit, the thought of knowing the next prime minister was a rush.
The digitally rendered tune of Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Thunder Road’ broke the silence. It had been Daniel’s favourite song for as long as Michael had known him, and so it now served as his friend’s personalised ringtone. It was not an unexpected call.
‘I can’t believe he just said that.’
Michael had not waited for a greeting. Why else would Daniel be calling?
‘What? Who?’
The tone of Daniel’s voice told Michael that he had not been watching. And the quality of the line told him why. The crackling interference was typical of the hands-free phone system that came as standard in Daniel’s car, meaning that he was nowhere near a television.
Michael could always tell how hard his friend was pushing his car’s engine by how difficult he was to hear on hands-free. Right now the speed limit was a distant memory. It usually was.
‘Your illustrious godfather,’ Michael explained. ‘He’s just been on TV announcing a leadership challenge. Looks like we’ll be getting a new prime minister.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘Deadly serious. Plus he’s pretty much declared war on half of Northern Ireland in the process. I thought that’s why you were calling.’
‘Declared war? Over Thompson’s shooting?’ Daniel sounded troubled.
‘Of course it was. Why? What’s up?’
‘I’ve got to speak to him, Mike. He’s got it all wrong.’
‘He’s got what wrong? What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about what happened today. It wasn’t as straightforward as it looked. Nothing like it. It wasn’t a terrorist attack, Mike. Certainly not True IRA. Or UVA.’
‘What? How the hell do you know that?’ Michael was confused.
‘It came straight from the horse’s mouth. Eamon McGale. The shooter. I’ve just spent the last two hours with the guy in Paddington Green. You’re not going to believe what he told me!’
The interference from the hands-free meant that Michael was not catching every word, but he understood enough from what he could hear. And it was not McGale’s version of events that surprised him most.
‘You’ve got to be kidding, Dan! You’ve got the case? How the hell did you manage that?’
‘We’ve got the case, Mike. You and me! This one’s a career maker for us. And it’s a career breaker for a lot of others. That’s if they’re stupid enough to ever let it come to court.’
‘What do you mean, “a career breaker”? For who? What did he tell you?’
‘I can’t say too much over the phone. It’s not safe. But I’ll tell you this: Tony’s wrong. It wasn’t a terrorist attack. And it wasn’t an attempt to kill Thompson either, whatever the prior intelligence might have been. McGale intended to kill Matthewson. Thompson just got in the way. McGale says that Matthewson was corrupt and was even behind some of the terrorist attacks. That’s why he killed him.’
The interference was getting worse. It was not helped by Daniel’s overexcitement. His voice was breathless, creating more gaps than even the questionable cell-site coverage. But the message was getting through.
‘You can’t be serious. Neil Matthewson wasn’t a terrorist, Dan. This guy’s got to be cracked.’
‘You would think that, Mike. All you’ve seen is him shoot two people on TV. But you have to meet him. You have to listen to him. There’s so much more to it, there’s so many more names. I can’t say any more over the phone and it’s too late to come to you. But let’s meet first thing, yeah?’
Daniel spoke with a tone that Michael had heard before. Many times. His old friend had found a cause.
‘Are you sure about all this? Don’t go staking your reputation on the word of a lunatic. Who else have you spoken to?’
Daniel could not reply immediately; his excited laugh – almost maniacal – prevented that. It was a few seconds before he could speak.
‘No one,’ he finally said. ‘So don’t worry yet. I’ll tell you everything in the morning and you can play Mr Sanity. Then we’ll decide what we make public and what we don’t.’
Michael exhaled a held breath. He was grateful for a small mercy. Daniel had not yet put his hard-earned name at risk by repeating whatever tale McGale had told him.
The frequent gear changes told Michael that Daniel had left the motorway and was now gunning along the country roads that covered the final miles to his Surrey home. He knew how hard his friend pushed his car on this last leg. And how distracted he could be by their discussions. The conversation had to end.
‘OK, Dan, let’s speak tomorrow.’
‘Speak to you tomorrow.’
Michael shook his head as he pressed the disconnect button on his handset and sat back into his sofa. The news had developed throughout the day, before the eyes of the world. It had been tragic. But not for a moment had it touched his own life, and nor had there been any reason to think it would. Not until Daniel’s call. But now? Now he felt himself being dragged into a mess they should perhaps both avoid; a political minefield from which any sensible lawyer would turn and run. But Michael knew that he had little choice. Daniel was going to do this. And Michael would be there to support him.
Daniel smiled as he heard Michael disconnect the line. He knew his friend was concerned for him. That he did not want him mixed up in something so controversial on McGale’s word alone. But Daniel had no such concerns himself. Everything McGale had said rang true. The man was no liar and, above all else, he needed Daniel’s help. Daniel would give him that help, whether Michael was with him or not.
These thoughts came thick and fast as he sped along the country roads that led home. It was a journey he often thought he could complete in his sleep. Which was just as well, as he felt his tiredness begin to engulf him. It had been a long, stressful day. Both Daniel’s emotional strength and his analytical mind had been sorely tested. Only now, on the homestretch and with his excitement winding down, did he realise how hard he had pushed himself in the last twenty-four hours.
If he had been more alert – more awake – Daniel would have noticed the speed of the vehicle behind. Instead he had assumed that the black Land Rover bearing down in his rear-view mirror would either slow or simply overtake. If he had known that its driver intended to do neither then the superior engine of Daniel’s car could have kicked in, taking him clear of any collision.
Daniel was aware of no such thing. And so his Porsche was no match when the road-legal tank hit him from behind at almost 70 mph.
Even at his most alert Daniel would have struggled to regain control after the impact. The sheer weight of the other vehicle had shattered his rear-axle and sent the back of the chassis buckling into the rear-mounted engine. He had barely time to let out a scream as his car hurtled off the road and into an adjoining field. It flipped four times before coming to a mangled rest. The mechanical soft-top that had significantly increased the car’s purchase price offered no protection.
The black Range Rover pulled to a halt by the kerbside. The door opened and a dark-clothed figure stepped out. The man’s jet-black hair completed a black-clad image that rendered his body almost invisible in the moonlight. Only his unusually pale skin lessened the effect.
The figure approached the now-smouldering wreck. Once near he crouched and looked inside through the darkness. Daniel was barely aware of him. His focus was on the blood seeping from a deep wound to his stomach as he tried to escape the tangled belt that seemed to pin him to his seat.
There was no pain. That was unexpected. Daniel knew that he was badly hurt. The sensation that his physical strength was disappearing by the moment told him that. But where was the pain? Where was the cold? Was it a good thing that he felt neither? Or did it mean that he was already too far gone?
Daniel’s efforts to free himself became weaker and weaker as these thoughts raced through his mind. Finally he stopped moving. There was no energy left to fuel it. Only then, with the distraction of escape gone, did he really see the man now so close to his car.
Blood loss had already fogged Daniel’s mind, so it took him a few moments to register the sight of his killer.
His eyes bored into Daniel’s own. They told him that his life was at an end. He was defeated. Helpless. As he watched the pale, black-haired man step forward, Daniel began to quietly sob for the first time in his adult life. For his wife. For his child. And for himself. A man who deserved better.