Free The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers) by Stephen Leather

only make a request like that to me as a member of the Army Executive.’
            The next race was about to start and the spectators began to pour out of the betting hall and cluster around the track. The on-course bookmakers were frantically chalking up new odds. Lynch could see that the odds on number six were already shortening. ‘And if I do ask you as a member of the Army Executive?’
            ‘Then I’d have to refuse your request. If you’re adamant then I could put it before the Army Council, but I know what their answer would be. And so do you. They’ve too much to gain from the peace process, they’re not going to jeopardise it over one man.’
            ‘Not even a man like Cramer?’
            ‘Not even for Cramer. Look, Dermott, if it was up to me, of course I’d say yes. Hell, I’d even help pull the trigger. But you know what we were told in 1994. No mavericks. No splinter groups. We speak and act with one voice.’
            The handlers began walking the dogs towards the starting gate. ‘We were so bloody close,’ hissed Lynch. ‘A minute earlier and we’d have got him.’
            ‘But you didn’t,’ said McCormack softly. ‘So now it’s over.’
            Lynch wanted to argue but he knew it would be futile. ‘Whatever you say, Thomas.’
            ‘Good man.’ The race was about to start, but McCormack was already perusing the programme as if the outcome was a foregone conclusion. ‘Number two in the race after this. Guaranteed.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘You’ll be able to use your winnings from this race.’
            ‘Thanks. Thanks for the tip.’
            ‘When are you going back to Belfast?’
            ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll catch the first train.’
            ‘Good. There’s a wee job I want you to do for me when you get back.’
            ‘Sure, Thomas. Whatever you say.’
            McCormack studied the programme as the traps sprang open and the greyhounds burst out, like shells from a mortar.
           
           
           
           
    Mike Cramer lay on his back and listened to the blackbirds, a pleasant contrast to the savage cries of seagulls he’d heard the last time he’d woken up. He opened his eyes and squinted at his wristwatch. It was just before five o’clock though it was already light outside. He rolled out of the single bed, padded across the bare floorboards to the window and pulled open the thin curtains. A thickset man in a grey sports jacket stood in the middle of the lawn, a walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth. He looked up and gave Cramer a half-wave. Cramer waved back.
            To the right, beyond the lawns but still inside the wall that surrounded the property, were three tennis courts, lined up like playing cards in a game of Find The Lady, and beyond them a croquet lawn, the hoops still in place. Cramer ran his hands through his hair. He smelled his armpits and wrinkled his nose. He needed a shower, badly. By the bed stood a three-quarters empty bottle of Famous Grouse. The Colonel had brought it up after darkness had fallen and had sat on the bed keeping Cramer company, drinking the whisky and toasting the old days, the days before Cramer had been shot and tortured and before the cancer had started to grow. Cramer unscrewed the cap off the bottle, swilling it around like a mouthwash before swallowing and grimacing as it went down his throat.
            He tossed the bottle on the bed and went into the bathroom, which was tiled from floor to ceiling. The grouting was black and stained and a mouldy smell was coming from the bathtub. The showerhead was as large as a saucepan lid and Cramer turned it on. To his surprise the water came out steaming hot almost immediately.
            On a shelf above the sink stood a can of menthol shaving foam, a pack of disposable razors, a toothbrush still in its plastic wrapping and a tube of Colgate tartar control toothpaste.