Two Kinds of Blood

by Jane Ryan

  Two Kinds

  of Blood

  jane ryan

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organisations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published 2020 Poolbeg Press Ltd

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: poolbeg@poolbeg.com

  © JANE RYAN 2020

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd, 2020, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978178199-7673

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Jane Ryan studied with the Institute of Chartered Accountants in Ireland and works in the technology industry. Her short stories and articles are published online and in print and she was shortlisted for the Hennessy Literary Award. Her first novel 47 Seconds was published in 2019.

  Her work has received praise from Jo Spain, Jane Casey, Eoin Colfer and Patricia Gibney. Jane lives in Dublin with her husband and two sons and you’ll find her at @ryanerwriter on Twitter and Instagram.

  Two Kinds of Blood is her second novel.

  Praise for jane ryan

  ‘A gripping thriller’ Sunday Independent

  ‘Ideal for fans of Line of Duty’ Evening Echo

  ‘After devouring 47 Seconds in one sitting, it is safe to say that fiction needs to make room for another master of crime fiction. Gritty, emotional, and utterly enthralling from start to finish, this book left nothing to chance and completely blew me away and desperate for the sequel!’ Booksofallkinds

  ‘Really enjoyable read. It totally drew me in and I could not put it down. Characters are beautifully drawn and subtly revealed over the course of the book. Plot is intriguing and cleverly constructed. There are shocks and surprises to keep you on edge. Highly recommend as a thoroughly engrossing page turner’ Catherine MacDonald, Goodreads

  ‘Highly recommend’ Compelling Crime Drama

  ‘Suspenseful crime drama with interesting and multi-layered characters. Thoroughly enjoyed the many twists and turns and the likeable, if prickly, protagonist Bridge. Look forward to learning more about Bridge and her nemesis, Flannery, in the sequel(s)!’ Fiona, Goodreads

  ‘Excellent. Couldn't put it down’ John O'Connell, Goodreads

  ‘Fantastic book, loved it! Great for fans of Harlan Coban & Jo Nesbo, reminded me of Line of Duty. Can’t wait for the next book!’ Padraig Murphy, Goodreads

  ALSO BY JANE RYAN

  47 Seconds

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As ever, heartfelt thanks to my family the McNamaras and the Ryans for their endless support and interest in my work. To my friends, book club girls, the Eyelash fans, the Willow and Rock girls who ever have my back.

  Thanks to my writerly friends and the Irish crime-writing fraternity for making me feel so welcome. To the booksellers and book-bloggers, I’ve found my tribe. To my publisher Poolbeg – Kieran, Paula, Gaye, David, Caroline and Lee. I could not wish for a better team.

  To my boys, Ron, Adam and Conor.

  I’m writing this after the most extraordinary St Patrick’s Day I’ve experienced in my lifetime. Covid-19 is changing everything. It’s the fear of the unknown and while grief and loss will touch many of us, I know there will be joy in our lives again. If you feel lonely, please know you are not alone. We are in this together.

  -Jane

  Dedication: For Ron, Adam and Conor

  PART 1

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process they do not become monsters.

  Nietzsche

  Chapter 1

  2019

  A siren scream.

  Detectives sprang back from me as though I were a biological hazard. Shock and fear on their faces. Liam O’Shea’s bald head was corrugated with concern.

  ‘My mother.’

  My mouth couldn’t keep up with my brain. I ran from the briefing, Liam O’Shea at full pelt to keep up with me as I made for the car park.

  ‘He has my mother, Liam! Seán Flannery has my mother!’

  I was deranged.

  ‘I’m driving, Bridget,’ said Liam. He pulled open the driver’s door of the nearest car and jumped in.

  My fingernail caught as I pulled open the passenger door. A section ripped off the nailbed and started to bleed. I put it to my mouth and sucked, the pain in tune with my thoughts as I scrambled in.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Liam reversed and headed for the rear entrance.

  ‘Oaken Nursing Home on Colliers Avenue in Ranelagh.’

  The words were sand in my mouth.

  ‘Show me what he sent,’ he said.

  The barricades inched down.

  ‘Hurry!’ I was screaming.

  ‘Show me what he sent, Bridget! They can’t get the barricades down any faster.’

  I opened the WhatsApp and clicked on the message. My hands shook, my fingers thick with fear and fumbling. I hit play, and Seán Flannery’s reedy voice, talking to my mother in sing-song, filled the space.

  ‘Liz-zee? Look at me, Liz-zee. Where’s Bridge? You remember me, don’t ya, Lizzie?’

  My mother’s small face, smiling to cover her confusion. Her eyes searching his face and her mouth full of unspoken fear.

  Then nothing.

  ‘Liam, faster!’ I rocked in my seat. ‘How did he know where she was?’

  ‘Calm down, Bridge.’ He hit the talk button on his TETRA radio. ‘Urgent assistance requested at Oaken Nursing Home, Colliers Avenue, Ranelagh. Any units nearby?’

  A backscatter of voices and static. ‘FH 188 in vicinity.’

  ‘Traffic corps out of Donnybrook.’ I stated the obvious, an attempt to shape a formless situation.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ came from the radio.

  ‘Mrs Elizabeth Harney, possible elder abuse, patient has dementia. Please stay with her until we get there,’ said Liam.

  ‘Understood.’

  He threw on the sirens and drove at speed. Up the narrow street of Morehampton Road forcing other motorists onto the path, taking the hairpin bend at an angle and reaching Colliers Lane. The nursing home was set back off the road.

  I was out of the car and running. The sight of a patrol car gave a second’s ease of piled-on fear, emotions too jumbled together to differentiate. I punched in the door code of the nursing home and ran down the ammonia-smelling corridor to Mum’s room.

  ‘Mum!’ It was more of a sob than a name. ‘You’re OK.’

  She looked small and frightened in her bed and her mouth made shapes for words refusing to come out. Her eyes were how she messaged and she didn’t know me. One of her nurses held her hand, two uniforms I hadn’t acknowledged stationed at her door.

  ‘She’s fine, Bridge,’ said the nurse, an Englishwoman who had welcomed Mum on her first day into the nursing home. ‘Everything’s OK. You need to breathe.’
<
br />   She stood and took my arm, massaging the white inside skin in small circles. I wanted to lay my head on her shoulder and weep, but some impulses I won’t give into. Instead I squeezed her hand, accepted a tissue and blew my nose. I kissed my mother on her head, forcing the trembling in my body to quiet.

  Outside, I barked to the uniforms: ‘Stay where you are until you’re relieved.’ A frightened dog snapping, my hand flared up to my face. ‘Sorry, lads, I should have started with thank you.’

  Liam watched from the mouth of an empty resident’s room. I turned on my heel and headed for the manager’s office, down a long corridor in an offshoot to the main building.

  ‘Bridge! Slow down!’ It was Liam.

  The director of the facility was called Helen. She paled when she saw me and turned, stumbling down the corridor towards her office.

  But I’m fast.

  ‘Bridget!’ Liam caught me. Hauled me up from behind, thick arms banded around my chest.

  My lanky legs flailed in the nothing, blonde ponytail whacking him in the face.

  ‘Jesus, keep her away from me,’ said Helen, a runty-looking woman.

  Liam ignored her.

  ‘I’m going to let you go now, Bridge. Deep breaths. We’re going to talk about this like adults. OK?’

  ‘All right,’ I said, furious, and he put me down. ‘Liam, it’s my mum. Do you have any idea how vulnerable . . .’ My voice failed.

  ‘I know, Bridge,’ said Liam.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Helen. ‘I will not allow threatening behaviour of any kind –’

  ‘I’ll stop you right there,’ said Liam. He stared her down, which wasn’t difficult given the height discrepancy. ‘You had a known criminal in this nursing home today. A dangerous individual.’

  I showed her the video on my phone.

  ‘In Mrs Harney’s bedroom,’ said Liam.

  ‘Do you know what he’s capable of?’ My body shook with leftover anger. ‘Do you? He held a man down and stabbed him in the rectum.’

  ‘Bridge! Enough!’ said Liam.

  The colour drained from Helen’s face and she leaned against a wall.

  ‘I’m sorry – he was here looking at the premises this morning. Told me his mother had dementia and they couldn’t keep her at home, said she’d wandered off last week. We brought him to the Darcy Wing, the recreation room, and Elizabeth was there . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

  My knuckles pressed through the thin skin of my hand, but I’d found some self-control amidst the panic.

  ‘She’s safe at least.’ I showed Helen a recent photograph of Flannery.

  ‘That’s him, Miss – sorry, Garda Harney. I’m so sorry. I’d no idea who he was.’

  ‘I’m going to need all the details you have on him – phone number he used, address he gave. Any information you have. When did he arrange the appointment?’

  Helen opened her office door and went to a cabinet behind her desk, pulling out a folder.

  ‘He contacted us last Thursday, 10th of October, and booked for today, Tuesday 15th. He said it was the only day he could do, and it had to be early.’

  She handed me the folder. The name, phone number and details Flannery used were false – no doubt a burner phone long ditched.

  ‘Seán Flannery told you he was Martin Cahill?’

  ‘Who?' said Helen.

  Her eyebrows were raised punctuation marks on her forehead, but my tone of voice gave her some warning and she worried the navy button on her suit jacket.

  ‘The General, psychotic thug from the eighties. He nailed an associate to a pool table and put a bomb under the state pathologist’s car. Man still walks with a limp.’

  Helen blanched.

  Chapter 2

  Detective Superintendent Niall O’Connor was in full flow when we sidled into the back of the squad room. A block of a man, he’d done something with his hair – instead of his usual cue-ball head, he was growing out his thinning hair and sporting a crinkly comb-over. It didn’t suit him, and I put it down to wife number three’s advice.

  ‘My thanks to Detective Chief Superintendent Graham Muldoon for taking the time to brief us on this evening’s operation. Everything you hear is confidential – top priority,’ he said, for the pleasure of hearing himself speak. He clicked a memory stick into the server linked to the overhead. He was in danger of spontaneous combustion at the thought of being involved in an operation with DCS Muldoon, An Garda Síochána’s best boy.

  Graham Muldoon headed up the CAB – the Criminal Assets Bureau. That was the first unit in An Garda Síochána, or any law enforcement organisation, to have worked across government departments and followed organised crime’s cash – confiscating cars, homes and anything else acquired from ill-gotten gains. Not a man to sit still, as though born without the ability, DCS Muldoon was thin and angular with a bristling grey crewcut which showcased surprisingly delicate ears. Books had been written about the man from the Midlands, using high-blown hyperbole to describe his methodology. DCS Muldoon thought it was all ‘cack’ and said as much, but the international Maritime Analysis and Operation Centre (Narcotics), based in Lisbon, rang him not the Garda Commissioner when they had news the Venezuelan cartels were packing their ‘marching powder’ into shipments and heading for open waters.

  ‘Thank you for your attention,’ said DCS Muldoon. He cleared his throat. A gunshot in the silence. ‘We have received intel from MAOC. A shipment of drugs is coming into Dublin port this evening.’

  Groans from the room and a shadow of amusement crossed DCS Muldoon’s face. He raised a hand for silence.

  ‘The cargo vessel containing the primary shipment docked in Guinea-Bissau from Puerto Cabello. We believe the shipment in Bissau was unloaded and repacked into several containers, possibly as foodstuffs, but MAOC’s intel is sketchy. Police on the ground lost sight of the shipment. However, it’s possible the cargo went overland to Morocco. We found two ships with manifests for Dublin and Southampton with similar bills of lading. MAOC are tracking both.’ He paused and ran his eyes over his audience.

  A new detective garda mouthed at me. ‘What’s MAOC?’

  ‘Maritime Analysis Operation Centre (Narcotics),’ I murmured, ‘but everyone says MAOC. M–A–O–C dash N doesn’t roll off the tongue.’

  That got a smile and she bobbed her head in thanks.

  ‘We’ll be searching for a straw in a heap of dung, as each secondary cargo vessel has over eight thousand twenty-foot containers,’ DCS Muldoon continued. ‘But I mean to check all of them.’

  The silence had an overstretched elastic quality and I cast my eye over the assembled detectives. My colleagues were doing the same, making calculations on available people versus size of search. Everyone was coming up short.

  I saw Niall O’Connor staring at me and inched behind Liam O’Shea’s bull’s back out of his line of sight. O’Connor and I had a history of clashing.

  ‘Will we get more manpower, Chief Super?’ Liam asked Muldoon.

  ‘You can pull in from Kevin Street and Store Street. We can take about thirty in total. My office already has those calls out.’

  Some shoulders fell back down at the small reprieve.

  ‘We’ll need every detective with drug-squad experience to lead individual search parties. This is not an exclusive CAB initiative. These shipments are large, and we believe they are here for the Halloween and Christmas rush. Our intel states it’s from the Fuentes cartel.’ He said the last words with emphasis.

  DS O’Connor scuttled to switch on the projector. It made an angry-wasp noise and a florid display of cartoon Simpson faces popped up.

  ‘Some of you may know this, but a recap for those who’ve just joined,’ O’Connor said. ‘The Fuentes cartel has changed its shipping instructions. They were using geometric shapes to denote locations and the gangs they ship to. We now understand they’re using cartoon characters. For instance, Homer’s face means bound for Ireland – include Marge in that combination and it’s headed fo
r Seán Flannery’s crew. Moe the bartender means bound for UK with Bart denoting the Ahmeti mob working out of South London, etc. You can see on the slide’s legend that we’ve deciphered what we can – however, this is a new system so we don’t have all the characters and combinations worked out. We believe they’re still using emojis for weight but keep your eyes open for any new symbols. Questions?’

  I had plenty. O’Connor gave me a vice-grip of a look that closed off my throat. The air was rank with testosterone and the salty anticipation of the fight to come.

  ‘Will we be looking for trafficked individuals?’ a male voice asked behind me.

  He meant women. Dublin was fast becoming a tourist sex-destination with pop-up brothels in the Airbnb unregulated space. The irony of complaints from Irish pimps who couldn’t get clients to wait on corners for local girls. If the intel was solid regarding Flannery’s drug shipment, there’d be no girls shipped.

  I’d been banished from the DOCB – Drugs and Organised Crime Bureau – to the Sexual Assault Unit, ostensibly because of a breakdown after my partner Kay was murdered. Few people knew the correct reason. And while none of the DOCB detectives turned the other way when I approached, they didn’t strain themselves trying to make eye contact. Apart from Liam who, out of loyalty for Kay’s regard towards me, was ever on my side. None of the others wanted me near the squad room. I was a reminder of a cocked-up case and dead detective all in one and many believed my disgrace might be contagious.