Epilogue
2016
Sitting back in his chair, he eyed the black, below the knee coat, trilby and white silk scarf that hung from the clothes stand in the corner. They were classic garments he'd had to update as time and the elements, such as he encountered them now, took their toll.
He leant forward and ran a finger over the frame of the picture on his desk. A photograph from a happier time, two figures in swimwear on a beach in Belize. It hadn't been a holiday, just a few days respite before they had to mend a local problem and move on to the next; all deniable of course.
They'd travelled the country and the Commonwealth together, places that needed a certain skill, sharing the danger and uncertainty but there had been the occasional real holiday: San Marino, Lake Garda and a lovely little hideaway they found and loved in southern France.
Of all the places to lose one another, it had been nowhere exotic. Returning from Scotland, they'd decided to spend a few days in Liverpool, see the sights while they had the time, the wall had come down and Eastern Europe was opening up though he felt no inclination to go there. It had been surprisingly pleasant and they were returning home, heading for the motorway when they were hit by a stolen car. She died at scene and all he could do was hold her hand while she slipped away as they cut him from the wreckage. He wished they hadn't. He looked again at the photograph and mouthed, "I love you, Clare."
The Sergeant dealing with the case, a Traffic man, visited him in hospital, as he lay recovering; a nice chap, very professional and correct. Nickson, he said his name was but added everyone called him 'Nicks'. He went above and beyond, arranging things, formalities that Gally, himself, wasn't in a position to do and even attended the cremation service that was held locally.
Eventually, returning home with her ashes, he kept them on the little table in the corner of the living room where they would stay until it was time for him to join her to be scattered together at a favourite spot.
He and Deakin had eventually become close friends, despite the initial mutual reticence. It had taken a few years though. People in his line of business tended to shelter behind an invisible shield, a personality that is not entirely theirs but assumed as a form of defence either from others or situations but eventually they had worn each other down to reveal their true nature, as true as it could be. Deakin had learnt to relax, finding the younger man inside his head and Gally had realised that a tendency to be flippant was indeed both tedious and annoying and had learned to find the older man inside his own. They'd met in the middle.
The Old Man's death had been a shock, unexpected, he'd looked well but secretly wasn't. An injury sustained many years before had been ticking away and was the cause of a massive stroke. He was found at his club, in a high backed leather padded chair, seemingly asleep. Sixty-two years old. No age at all, Gallagher thought.
Through Deakin, he'd become close to Don, they'd worked on the revamp of the old cold war resistance movement, officially disbanding it but in reality making it disappear from any outside oversight by diversifying its structure and command in much the same way big business had, creating autonomous regions with no real connection to each other besides the brand name. In this case, there was no 'brand' because the organisation didn't 'exist' and thus, in the land of those who thought they knew, it simply became a rumour. Don, reliable, dedicated and often very humorous, if you knew him well enough, had overseen everything and remained in contact with the first of the regions to be reorganised, the North West. He'd always said it was the flagship.
Sadly, over the years age had crept up on both of them and he blamed himself for not paying enough attention to the possibility of failing faculties in either of them. They'd taken their eyes off the ball, relaxed too much, ignored they were slowing down. The fact that neither of them looked as old as they were hadn't helped their realisation process.
By the time Don told him of his suspicions regarding the scale of the problem it became apparent that a wholesale cleansing operation was needed and they weren't even certain that would resolve everything. They considered a total shutdown but it became obvious that some 'units' had mutated and were almost self– funding. Don's death had been yet another knife in Gally's soul.
Checking his watch, he saw it was time to get a move on. He had damage limitation to do, an artful Chief Constable to control and some keen detectives' ardour to rein in.
Getting up, he rearranged the seat and went to the stand, placed the scarf carefully around his neck and slipped into the coat, leaving it open. He took the hat from the hook, ran the brim slowly through his fingers and smiled to himself. It had started as simple respect for Deakin but he hoped it would become a tradition, like the head of MI6 signing official letters with a 'C' in green ink.
In the corridor, Darren tapped the open door. The newest acquisition, he was coming along nicely. Early thirties, designer stubble, dark curly, fashionably cut hair, his slimly built frame fitted perfectly into a stylish slim fit suit with a fine pair of pointy shoes to finish it all off. No one would have guessed his day job.
"Thomas is waiting for you downstairs, Sir."
He nodded and put on the hat. As they walked towards the stairs he asked, "What time is my appointment with the Chief Constable, Darren?"
"Eleven thirty, Sir. It'll give us time to have a leisurely breakfast at the hotel and an early morning walk, weather permitting," he said as he opened the security door and stood aside.
"And is the weather permitting?"
"I'm keeping my fingers crossed, Sir."
"All this weather technology and satellites and it still comes down to crossed fingers."
Outside, it promised a fine afternoon. Thomas, with a physique that had more than a passing acquaintance with a weight or two, held the rear door open, smiled and nodded.
"Liverpool, Thomas, you know the hotel and this time let's come off the motorway at Holmes Chapel and cut across. I'd like to see some scenery."
Thomas closed him in and took the wheel. "Darren will be tailing us, Sir. Your last stop to use the facilities will be Keele services, the fridge is stocked with water, wraps and sandwiches and the thermos is in the centre console. Sit back and enjoy the drive."
"Thomas, I'm fairly certain you're a frustrated airline pilot. It's the same speech every time." He glanced out the window as he said, in mock annoyance, "Yes, yes, I'm putting the seat belt on now."
Thomas eyeballed the Old Man in the mirror and inwardly smiled.