was there, peering inside. Gerrard tapped her on the shoulder and she turned and nodded, moving to one side to let him see for himself.
A second dead body was there in the front seat, behind the wheel. His torso, arms and legs had been torched by the flames, but his head was the worst mess of all.
Half of it was missing.
Ahead of him, some of the front windshield was smashed out, blood spattered amongst the black char.
‘Someone shot him up close, from the back seat. Shotgun, point-blank. One shell. No cartridge left behind,’ Katic said. Gerrard looked closer at the corpse. He saw the remains of white clothing clinging to his burnt flesh, patches of it on his legs, torso and arms. Katic had said that all the thieves had been wearing white, save for the hostage.
So this guy was one of the four.
‘No prizes for guessing who it is,’ Katic added.
‘Oh shit,’ Gerrard said, realising who the dead man was. ‘Oh shit, shit, shit.’
He stepped back, turning and cursing, walking away from the carcass of the vehicle and kicking over a traffic cone in frustration.
‘There goes our inside man,’ he said.
Katic nodded, walking with him across the tarmac.
‘But we’re making progress,’ she said. ‘Our first getaway car. Two homicides. They’re getting sloppy and careless. And now we know one thing for sure about them.’
Gerrard looked at her, his eyes narrow behind his sunglasses.
‘And what’s that?’ he asked.
‘They’re going to need a new driver.’
TWO
The pub was called McCann’s. It was an Irish joint on Ditmars Boulevard, a long stretch of road which ran through the north-west Greek neighbourhood of Astoria, Queens, the last stop on the N train from Manhattan and Brooklyn. For a Monday night, the place was filling up fast. The two guys behind the bar were hard at work, serving customers, pouring draughts and shots and working the till, whilst a handful of waitresses moved out into the seating area ahead of the bar, taking orders from customers and earning their tips.
The crowd inside was a real blend. Half of them were office workers, most of them still in shirt and tie, having come straight from the office to the bar, the other half sports fans who were avidly watching television screens mounted in various positions around the room. There was some kind of big baseball game going on, the Yankees versus the Red Sox, and fans in navy blue Yankees gear were transfixed by the action on the screens. In most cities and towns around the world, different sports teams carried the hopes and dreams of the neighbourhoods they represented, and Astoria was no different. Around these parts, the Yankees were like a religion. They were the most famous and successful baseball team in the world, and their fans liked to let everyone know it.
Amongst the busy throng of people, a man sat alone towards the back of the pub, his forearms resting on the table in front of him, not interested in the baseball but watching the screen anyway. Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, he was in his mid-twenties, handsome, blond hair and blue eyes, healthy and in the prime of his physical life. He picked up a bottle of Budweiser from the table beside his forearm and took a long pull. The bottle was frosty and cool, and he felt the beer slide down the back of his throat, the liquid ice cold.
The air conditioning in the pub was working flat out despite the slight drop in heat in the air, but it was still hot and humid. He took another pull from the beer, enjoying it, glancing at the bottle in his hand. A droplet of water slid down the bottle and over the logo above his thumb.
The King of Beers, the label told him. With a taste that good, he didn’t doubt it.
Shifting his gaze from the television, he glanced at the interior of the bar around him. It was a welcoming place. Sports memorabilia and signed jerseys were mounted on the walls around Irish flags and three-leaf clovers, typical decorations, designed to bring out patriotism and pride of heritage and make customers nostalgic enough to want to go buy a beer and talk about it. It was a typical local bar, familiar and constant, like an old friend who would always be there for you no matter what kind of day you’d had. He figured pretty much everyone in here was a local, judging by the way different groups greeted