by Eoghan Egan
Then another.
And a third.
Feck.
Ferdia released his grip, opened the briefcase and tossed an envelope onto the driver’s lap. ‘There ya go. Debt paid. Slán.’ He wandered around the front of the car, memorised the number plate.
‘Oi.’
Ferdia strolled on, wondering if he’d get time to get the credit card knife from his wallet. Not that it would be much good.
‘Oi, mister.’
Ferdia felt his neck tingle, a presage to violence. He twisted his body around but kept walking. Out of the fog, three men bore down on him. The middle guy, big as himself, had shoulder-length hair. The other two were a little shorter. The man on the left wore a Stetson. Then Ferdia remembered he’d left his wallet in the car. Could he hoof it back to the Merc? Possible. At a stretch.
‘Hey, bud.’ The men bunched in, attempting to block any escape. ‘Story?’
‘No story, lads.’
‘Wha’ didja do to Decaf?’
‘What?’
‘Our mate. Decaf. Wha’ didja do to ’im?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ya throttled ’im. ’e can’t breathe.’
‘Huh. Smokes too much. Occupational hazard.’
‘Whaja got in the case, bud?’
‘Nothin’ worth dying for.’ Ferdia shouldered by and walked on.
‘Give it ’ere.’ A hand tried to prise the case from his grasp.
Ferdia twisted to face the trio, his back against a wall. ‘Hold your whisht, lads. I’ve beaten better than ye just to get into a fight.’
The long-haired man stepped forward, the point of a V formation. ‘Deadly, bud.’ He reached into a pocket. A brief glint of light on steel, as the taxi headlights danced on the blade. ‘You mentioned sumptin’ ’bout a receipt. I’ll tattoo it on yur back.’
The taxi drove away.
Ferdia pushed away from the wall, planted his feet, swung the briefcase up and caught the man under his chin. The jaw broke with a crack, sharp as a rifle shot. The thug’s body locked, flopped, buckled and hit the street.
‘Wha’ de …?’ Together, the other pair rushed Ferdia.
Ferdia stood his ground, dropped the case, gripped both men by their necks and used their momentum to lift. Two heads collided with a liquidy splat. He let go, and they collapsed in a heap beside their comrade. Ferdia looked around. No CCTV. They’d picked their spot well. He coughed, swallowed, let the acid roll back into his stomach, waiting for it to settle and the burn to pass. Then he squatted and paint-brushed the gang leader’s face with a palm. ‘Hey, bud. Wake up.’
‘Mmmpffffff,’ the man mumbled through a broken jaw.
Ferdia picked up the knife. A Bowie Fixation, with a twenty centimetres black blade. He pocketed it, zeroed in on the other pair. One was still out for the count. Stetson man groaned. Ferdia caught him by the collar and jacked him up against the sidewall. ‘Name?’
‘Mellon. Tommy Mellon.’
‘Which of ye’s Dolan?’
‘Isn’t ’ere. I shouldn’t be either, mister.’ Mellon rubbed his head. ‘I’m jus’ helpin’ a frien’.’
‘Me too. Where’s Ciara McGuire?’
‘Who? Whatcha on abou’? I haven’t a—’
‘Grand, so.’ Ferdia’s voice fell through the freezing air like an axe blade. He turned to the gang leader, wedged a knee on his chest, and hit the thug’s nose with a hammer fist. The septum squashed flat as a ball of putty. Air whistled in the man’s throat. Blood spurted, bubbled and dribbled into the slush. Mellon gawked as his mate’s pulverised nose, and vomited.
‘That’s for Charlie.’ Ferdia glared at Mellon. ‘Well, bud, if you’ve nothing to say, you’re no addition to me.’
‘I’m new. Jus’ obeyin’ orders.’
‘What orders?’ Ferdia sensed movement behind him. He kept his eyes on Mellon and drove an elbow into soft tissue behind the third thug’s ear, sending him back to dreamland. ‘Well?’
‘We go where Dessie tells us.’
Ferdia’s mobile bleeped again. ‘Who’s this fella?’ He nodded at the motionless lump under his knee.
‘That’s Jackdaw.’ Mellon’s eyes, wide as saucers, strayed back to his friend’s flattened nose. ‘You broke his fookin’—’
‘Calcium deficiency,’ Ferdia said. His fist thudded with the force of a battering ram into Mellon’s ribs. ‘Pay attention. I won’t ask again.’
Mellon moaned. ‘Crowe. Stevie Crowe. We call him Jackdaw.’
‘Who’s Decaf?’
‘Nobody. Tommy Coffey. He’s a driver. A bagman.’
‘Where’s. Ciara. McGuire?’
Mellon worked at breathing. ‘Haven’t come across any—’
‘Ye took her. Where did—?’
‘Swear ta God, I know nuffin’ ’bout—’
‘Where’s Dolan?’
‘Dunno. Haven’t seen him. I—’
Ferdia’s fist bunched. Mellon tucked elbows into his ribs for protection. ‘Listen, willya? I swear, I met ’im once. Weeks ago. Everything’s sorted around a middle man.’
‘What middle man?’
‘Tiny.’
‘Argh, feck this.’ Ferdia crashed a punch through Mellon’s guard. The controlled power blow folded the thug sideways, and he puked again. Ferdia hauled him back into a sitting position. ‘Last chance, bud. From the top.’
Mellon croaked, gasped for breath. ‘Dessie’s the front man. He gives orders to Tiny. Tiny’s our contact.’
‘What orders?’
‘If a punter won’t … they can be—’
‘Squeezed? The way ye softened up Charlie McGuire?’
Mellon coughed, hawked and spat blood.
‘Where does Dolan hang out?’ Ferdia asked.
‘In Whispers.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A nightclub.’
‘Where?’
‘Off Stephen’s Green.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Medium size. Longish blonde hair.’
‘You’re no help. What’s Tiny’s name?’
‘Jus’ Tiny.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Near Grafton Street. Hibernian Way to Stephen’s Green. That’s ’is patch.’
‘Begging?’
‘Um … yeah.’
‘Dessie Dolan’s the top man?’
‘I tol’ you, Dessie’s our gaffer. Haven’t a scoobies who the top man—’ Mellon flinched when Ferdia drew back his arm. ‘Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me.’
‘Besides cash collections, what else ye mixed up in?’
‘That’s it. End of.’
‘How many in his crew?’
‘Seven. Eight.’
Ferdia’s mobile hummed for the third time. He pulled it out, squinted at Malcolm’s text:
Detectives are questioning a man named
Adam Styne…
Feck.
‘Listen up, Mellon, you know what fear is?’
‘Wha?’
Fear,’ Ferdia said. ‘It means Feck. Everything. And. Run. If I spot you again, ever, you’d better run or I swear to God, I’ll … Make sure Dolan gets my cash. An’ tell him to call his dogs off, far as McGuire’s are concerned, or I’ll shut down his game. Got it?’
‘Yeah.’
Ferdia slapped the crumbled Stetson onto Mellon’s head. ‘We’re done.’ He picked up the briefcase and walked away. At the corner of Nerney Court, a wave of acid scorched his chest. He stumbled against a doorway, blinded by the fiery sensation, gagged, swallowed several times to suppress the sourness, and lurched on.
In the Mercedes, he gulped a half bottle of Gaviscon, let his stomach settle then pulled out a cigarette pack. The bile churned again. Ferdia threw the box into a water gully and drove out. Halfway along Gardiner Street, he felt the muscles in the back of his neck relax, and at the traffic lights beside Busáras, he re-read Malcolm’s text.
‘Feck.’
A car horn blared behind him.
‘Feck. Feck. Feck.’
Chapter 11
Thursday, 17 January
Morning
‘Hi. I’m Ronan. Um, Hugh asked me to … Hugh Fallon?’
‘Hi. Thanks for calling.’
‘Hi,’ Ronan said again. He shook Sharona’s hand. ‘I saw you on telly. You were, I mean, you sounded cool.’
‘Thanks. Coffee?’
‘Erm, I don’t want to bother—’
‘No trouble.’
‘Well, okay.’ Ronan fumbled with a jacket button, glanced around the kitchen and missed what Sharona said. ‘Sorry?’
‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Please. Thanks.’
Sharona spooned coffee into two mugs.
‘Hugh said you’ve a computer problem.’
‘Yes.’ She added milk, handed Ronan a mug and slid the sugar bowl towards him.
‘Thanks.’ His hand shook. The sugar spoon clattered to the floor and dinged like a tuning fork. ‘Sorry. Here, let me.’
‘It’s okay. I’ve got it.’
Ronan’s eyes flashed across Sharona’s facial bruising. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. When did you meet Hugh?’
‘Few months back. Had a gig with his crew until we were made redundant two weeks ago. I’m searching for a job, but may go abroad.’
‘Oh?’
‘Haven’t decided yet.’
‘Oh.’ Sharona sipped coffee.
Ronan gulped his. ‘Isn’t my first option, but—’
‘I see.’
A cat strolled in and rubbed against Ronan’s leg. When he scratched under Cleopatra’s neck, she arched her back and purred. ‘So, um, is it a desktop or laptop?’
‘Laptop. I’m convinced my email account got hacked.’
‘Err, can I …?’
‘Oh, sure.’ Sharona powered up the laptop and inserted a broadband dongle. ‘Can you tell me if I’ve imagined this?’
‘Easy. Company email account or personal?’
‘Personal.’
‘Cool. Checked your email access logs lately?’
‘My what?’
‘Pop3 or IMAP?’
‘No idea what you’re on about.’
‘Who’s your email provider? Hotmail? Yahoo? Google?’
‘Gmail.’ Sharona logged in and pushed the laptop to Ronan.
‘You scroll down here. See this box?’ Ronan moved the pointer. ‘When you click on “Details” it shows you the log-in history. If you notice a weird IP address, we can track it. Let’s check “Recent Activity.” Ronan scrolled and clicked.
‘What’s an IP address?’
‘Internet Protocol. All machines linked to a network must have an identity number.’ Ronan pointed. ‘Here’s the IP number for this laptop.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘What mobile do you use? Android? iPhone?’
‘Nokia.’ Sharona showed her phone.
Ronan stared. ‘Wow.’
‘Wow, what?’
‘A Nokia 5610. That’s—’
‘I don’t need to read emails the second they’re sent or check social media every hour. If something’s urgent, people can phone or text. You think my Nokia’s ancient?
‘No, um, it’s got a brilliant long-life battery. So, did you log into emails from an internet café last week?’
‘Nope.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Ah.’
‘Why?’
‘Here’s what we’ve got.’ Ronan’s fingers skipped across the laptop keys. ‘Someone logged into your account last Saturday at four twenty-three p.m., and again at a quarter to twelve.’
‘Wasn’t me.’
Ronan thumb-flicked through his own mobile screen, found an app and tapped in the IP address. ‘Ooookay. If I take that reference, copy and paste it into this lookup site, it gives me a location … That’s quick—you’ve good reception up here. Voila!’ Ronan pointed at the screen. ‘Ganestown.’
‘I was in Belfast. Can you see who the IP belongs to?’
‘Yep, with a court order.’
‘Crap.’
‘You could buy an IP locator.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Geographical locators. They give a locality. Reverse DNS, or Traceroute—’
‘Sounds pricey.’
‘Depends. Anyways, the gardaí’ll put on a trace. Won’t cost you a cent.’ Ronan looked at Sharona. ‘This is criminal. You are gonna get them involved?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Of course. Can you see if my Facebook or bank account’s got hacked as well?’
‘Facebook? Easy peasy. Bank accounts? Best check direct with—’
‘Okay,’ Sharona said.
Ronan gazed out the kitchen window while Sharona typed in a password and gave him back the laptop.
‘See, Facebook gives your history in the security section of “Account Settings.” They notify you if your account gets logged into by a different device. Yeah, there’s that IP again.’ Ronan minimised the screens, maximised another window. ‘Wonder if the hackers routed your emails back to themselves.’
‘God, what does that even mean?’
‘They can set up the person’s mail, so the Inbox gets auto-forwarded to themselves if they believe it’s worthwhile. That avoids the hassle of re-hacking the account. Less traffic reduces the probability of getting caught. Or noticed. What happens is, they create a … anyway, it’s no biggie. Nope, it’s clean. Whoever it is, dips in and out. An amateur I’d say. Maybe a jealous boyfriend.’
‘Don’t have a boyfriend.’
‘Oh. So, yeah, it’s good to browse Recent Activity on Gmail once in a while.’ Ronan pushed the laptop across to Sharona.
‘Can we gather evidence?’ she asked. ‘Put the culprit behind bars.’
‘I’d say you’ve enough evidence already,’ Ronan said, ‘The gardaí will link the IP to the hacker, and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘I don’t want this dragging on.’
‘It won’t. Guaranteed. Um, what’s with your bruises?’
‘A man kidnapped me Sunday night.’
‘No! Wow. Bummer, dude.’
‘Did Hugh tell you he rescued me?’
‘All he said was you’d a computer problem. There’s no way he’d brag about … you alright?’
‘Bit sore. I’ll survive. So, what way should I present this? Can you help me get the information together for the gardaí?’
‘I’ll go with you. If you like, I mean. Thing is, they might ask technical—’
‘Fluffy bits?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Never mind. Bad joke.’
‘I’m sure you can handle—’
‘I’d appreciate your help. Thanks.’
‘No probs, dude, um, Sharona. We can grab a coffee on the way. Discuss tactics, if you want, that is.’
‘What, my coffee isn’t acceptable?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Your coffee’s cool—’
‘I’m messing. I’d love a decent coffee. After we’ve visited the bank and Garda station.’
‘Cool.’
Mid-Morning
Detective Marcus Mulryan rang Hugh and asked him to call into Ganestown Garda Station for a follow-up interview and sign the official report. Again, it didn’t sound like a polite request. En route, Hugh crossed paths with Sharona and Ronan. They’d given statements and handed in the laptop.
The interview took longer than he’d expected.
Mulryan quizzed Hugh, queried each minute, beginning when he’d phoned Sharona. He rechecked and cross-referenced Hugh’s replies on pages of handwritten notes, until he’d exhausted his questions.
‘Did Sharona’s abduction lead you to question Styne about Ciara McGuire?’ Hugh asked.
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘Malcolm texted me last night. Has there been any news?
Any sightings? Why is Styne—?’
The stenographer brought in the printed statement and gave Hugh a copy to sign.
‘We’ve a way to go,’ Mulryan said. ‘Real life crime isn’t CSI. It takes more than an hour to solve the case.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Officials are speaking to the family now, and it’ll be on the one o’clock news bulletin, so I’ll give you an update: Styne was arrested earlier on suspicion of murder. We’ve found human remains on the farm.’
‘What? Who’s remains?’
‘Not confirmed yet.’
‘But you’ve an idea?’
‘Ciara.’
‘Ciara? Ciara McGuire?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ciara McGuire? Dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘On Styne’s farm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Styne killed her? Adam Styne’s a killer?’
‘Possible serial killer. We’ve located other remains. Formal identifications will take a while.’
‘A serial killer? Here? In the Midlands?’
‘Huh-uh.’
‘Jesus.’ Hugh was glad he was sitting. ‘Ciara. This’ll kill Ciara’s father, Charlie.’
‘Yeah. Tough on all concerned.’
‘What now?’ Hugh asked. ‘Will the farm be dug up? How long before—?’
‘No, no. A specialist team with GPR equipment will search for soil disturbance.’
‘What’s GPR equipment?’
‘Ground-penetrating radar. It transmits echoes wherever…’ Detective Mulryan scratched his chin. ‘Terrible ordeal for families, waiting for word. They’re the ones who have to sew their lives back together. Crimes of this magnitude not only robs victims of their lives; it destroys families, neighbourhoods. One day, we’ll get closure for relatives.’
Hugh thought on that. ‘God. We read about the crimes people commit. In cities. You never consider them happening in your own backyard, involving neighbours and friends.’
‘Happens in every town.’ The detective changed position and rested an elbow on the desk. ‘So, there you have it. A forged painting leads to a killer.’
‘Christ.’
‘The evidence gathering will continue for the foreseeable. Edmond Locard’s exchange principle states every contact leaves a trace. It’ll gel, in time.’ Mulryan twirled a pen between his fingers. ‘That aside, you left a few marks on Styne.’ He pulled a report from a stack. ‘Looks like he’ll need a lot of screws and bridge plates. Must’ve been a helluva kick. You blew out his knee; he’ll walk with a limp forever, and be on a liquid diet for a while. Are you a kickboxer, or always this reckless?’
