by Denis Byrne
Carter was on the point of replying, but never got the chance, for the Minister, almost on the brink of collapse from his hundredth or so circumnavigation of his desk, still managed to bark out his complaints. ‘It’s a disaster! Nothing short of a disaster!’ He stopped on one of his circuits, placed his hands on the top of his chair, gripping it tightly as though he were trying to strangle it, glaring at the Chief of Police as he did so. ‘Tell me, Carter how in heaven’s name could the Governor of the Central Bank be spirited away just like that? What about Security? It’s virtually impossible the kidnappers didn’t leave some sort of evidence behind them.’
Carter sighed. ‘We’ve already interrogated the security guard, Minister. And taken a statement from the chauffeur after he managed to escape. There were two men in the car with the Governor and his chauffeur, but the guard didn’t think it in anyway strange. Apparently, there’s nothing unusual in that.’
‘Surely he got a good look at their faces?’
‘From what he told us, he wasn’t paying any attention to them. He said he thought the chauffeur looked a bit tense, though.’
‘Wonderful!’ the Minister exploded, taking off again around his desk. ‘How very perceptive of him! I’m sure I’d look tense too if someone was holding a gun on me. The poor man! It’s a wonder he was able to give a statement at all after the callous manner in which they treated him after he’d served his purpose. How he managed to free himself I’ll never know. At least he was able to give a good description of the kidnappers, not like that incompetent security guard!’
‘Unfortunately, Minister, the descriptions don’t match any of our usual suspects. It seems a very strange case altogether. He went through our rogues’ gallery of computer images for over three hours and still wasn’t able to identify anyone. According to the chauffeur, he’s of the opinion the men were members of the Russian Mafia or some such organisation, even if their English was pretty passable.’
The Minister sighed deeply. Again, he was being told what he already knew. Things were going from bad to worse. ‘What about the bank’s car park CCTVs?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation. ‘What’s been shown up on them?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid, Minister’ Carter replied, hesitating for a few seconds before continuing. ‘They sprayed them with paint before they pounced. Blue paint, to be precise.’
‘I’m really not concerned what colour the paint was, Carter!’ the Minister growled, flopping down in his chair from sheer exhaustion, then pulling himself together as best he could, before leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, peering intensely into the Chief’s face. ‘Just get out there and find those kidnappers. There’s an old man with a heart condition and an innocent seven-year-old girl depending on it. And no more excuses, Carter, you hear? Both our careers are hanging by a thread unless you come up with something fast!’
*
Superintendent Clifford hung up the phone. The Chief of Police had just given him an earful. The Superintendent had listened, but said little apart from the odd: Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full, sir! to pass the time. He’d no respect for Carter. All he was interested in was taking credit for solving crimes he’d no involvement in. When the twin brothers had finally been arrested, Carter ensured the media were made aware of how he’d personally supervised the operation, despite the fact he didn’t know anything about it until the Superintendent and Danny had wrapped up the case.
This was different, though. Carter found himself in the spotlight now for all the wrong reasons. And he didn’t like it one little bit. He wanted action, he’d shouted at Superintendent Clifford, and he wanted it now, going on to re-echo almost word for word what he himself had had to endure from the Minister for Justice.
The Superintendent wasn’t in the least bit concerned about what the Chief of Police shouted down the line at him. He wondered what Carter would have said if he’d told him he’d already had a meeting with a twelve-year-old boy and requested his assistance in dealing with the kidnappings. He’d probably have a fit, and wouldn’t believe a word of it. He’d think Superintendent Clifford had lost his mind. And heaven knows what would happen if the Superintendent added that Danny had helped him in the past on numerous occasions.
The Superintendent smiled to himself at the thought of the reaction that would provoke. Steam shooting out Carter’s ears, smoke from his nostrils with, at the end of it all, the Superintendent finding himself rapidly reduced in the ranks. And if Carter got wind of the fact that the Superintendent was in the process of forming a covert team to try and uncover who was behind the snatchings, he’d probably go into orbit altogether.
The Superintendent called Reception and summoned Harrington to his office. Harrington had been impressing him more and more with each passing month he’d been in the station. He was wasted at the reception desk. He was going to send him out into the big, bad world, if for no other reason than to test his own intuition that there was a lot more to Harrington than advising his superior on the proper stance to maintain whilst putting golf balls into glass tumblers.
‘Sit down, Harrington,’ the Superintendent indicated to one of the two chairs on the far side of his desk. ‘As of now you’re part of my secret team. One that doesn’t officially exist.’
Harrington remained silent. As was usual with the Superintendent’s many mysterious remarks in the past to him, he hadn’t a notion what he was referring to now either. It could have been anything. Maybe he wanted him to caddy for him at the next inter-station golf tournament. He waited patiently for further enlightenment.
‘What do you think yourself, Harrington?’
‘Whatever you say, sir,’ Harrington replied cautiously, which was another of his standard responses when he’d no idea what was expected of him.
‘We’re in the middle of a crisis, Harrington. I want you to get out there and try and get a handle on a few things for me.’
Harrington was still all at sea. The Superintendent sometimes had this exasperating convoluted way of getting around to what he meant. At other times, he could be so succinct and lucid when giving orders, it was difficult to get it into your head you were dealing with the same person.
‘It’s top priority, Harrington. It’s to do with these recent kidnappings. We were trying to keep it under wraps, but the media have got hold of it. Now that it’s out in the open, the public are going ballistic.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, sir,’ Harrington ventured, then added, ‘Especially when there’s a little girl involved.’
‘Precisely,’ the Superintendent said. ‘And the fact that we haven’t yet had a single demand from the kidnappers is another worry. We need information, Harrington. Some snippet to throw a chink of light on who’s holding them. I know a few dens of iniquity you might be fortunate enough to pick up some leads in.’
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Harrington asked, ready and willing to lay down his life if that was what it took to bring these criminals to justice. In Harrington’s eyes, murder itself was about the only crime more despicable than kidnapping. Putting both the victims and their families thought such mental suffering was too awful to even think about. But Harrington was most definitely thinking about it. It filled him with a terrible rage which he was finding hard to control. Yet he managed to somehow conceal his wrath, realising that a cool, professional approach was what the Superintendent would expect of him.
‘I want you to go undercover, Harrington,’ the Superintendent told him. ‘As far as this case is concerned, you’re no longer a police officer.’ He paused to see how Harrington would react to this, was pleased see him nodding his head earnestly, indicating that he was prepared to do whatever it took to help break the case. ‘Good! Now listen carefully. What I’m going to tell you could make the difference between you winding up in the river in concrete boots or living to a ripe old age.’
Harrington listened avidly for the next half hour, never once taking his eyes off Superintendent Clifford’s face, his heart beating fas
ter as time progressed, the Superintendent’s words filling him with a burning zeal. His eyes were bright when he finally left the Superintendent’s office, shining at the thought that at last he could try and do something to make a difference for the betterment of the world. It was for this he’d joined the Gardai in the first place.
But even through all the idealism which consumed him, Harrington’s head was spinning after the Superintendent told him he’d be working closely with Danny Dempsey. Not to mention lots more about Danny to confirm Harrington’s suspicions that Mrs Pearson mightn’t be quite as crazy as the Superintendent had pretended she was in the past.
Harrington had been sworn to secrecy, though. And had been handed a glass of water to help him get over the shock of what he’d been told. He thought this was a small price to pay to finally be given the chance to get his teeth into some really important police work. He was looking forward to working with Danny after what he’d just learned about him, but wasn’t too keen on meeting Charlie, that’s if Mrs. Pearson’s description of him had been even half-accurate.
*
Harry the Hustler knew easy meat when he saw it. He’d been watching the guy who’d been practising by himself on the pool table in the dinghy basement in a side street not far from the centre of town. It was only midday, and the place was practically empty. Two teenagers were shooting balls on one of the twelve tables standing on the cement floor.
Times were lean for Harry right now. He could hardly remember when he’d last taken a sucker for some easy money. He was too well known, that was the problem, and the regular lowlifes who drifted in as the day wore on and turned to night wouldn’t cross cues with him even when he was prepared to let them have three shots to his one in every rack. All Harry could do was while away the hours watching them labouring at the tables, making a perfectly simple game look like it was rocket science or something. As the night wore on, Harry just sat on the bench and drank a bottle of beer now and then to pass the time. That was when he could afford it.
Old Baldy Bradford, who owned the hall, sometimes gave Harry a free bottle to ease him through the torment of it all. The look of disgust on Harry’s face as he watched lesser players complicate the game he loved always gave Baldy a lift. It was comical to watch Harry’s features distort into a painful grimace as he witnessed the butchery unfold.
Harry was into the hall as soon as it opened at eleven each day. And left when it closed at four in the morning. He took a break for a Big Mac or a Kentucky Fried in the local outlets when the hunger pangs assailed him, but apart from that, Harry only went home to his one-roomed flat in a crumbling tenement when Baldy was switching off the lights in the early hours of the morning.
When Bradford had asked him one night as he was heading off why he didn’t go and get himself a job, Harry had looked at him as though Baldy had suddenly been stricken with dementia. He could hardly believe that someone of his talents had been asked such an idiotic question.
‘Because I’m an artist, Baldy,’ he replied frostily, before heading off to his dingy room.
‘Sure, you are, Harry!’ Bradford called after his retreating figure. ‘A con artist! But everybody’s wise to you now.’
Though Harry doubted that the stranger dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a Man United shirt was one of them. He eased himself off the bench and went over to the counter where Bradford was scanning the cartoon page of a tabloid, smiling at the antics of Hagar the Horrible.
‘I smell a pigeon, Baldy,’ Harry whispered in his ear. ‘Stake me for twenty euros, and I’ll let you have double back before you know it.’
Baldy eyed the prospective pigeon pottering around the table, shooting nine-ball by himself. While he didn’t look exactly like a millionaire, Baldy was of the opinion he wasn’t as down on his luck as Harry was. He was in his early twenties, about an inch over six foot, well-built, but with an innocent look about him, despite the day-old stubble adorning his chin.
After forty years running the pool hall, Baldy considered himself an infallible judge of human nature. In his opinion, Harry couldn’t go wrong. Baldy slipped his hand in his back pocket, fumbled about before extracting two tens, then slid them across the counter into Harry’s waiting hand. Harry winked at him, straightened up and headed off to perform one of the missions he’d been specifically born to carry out.
‘Not much fun playing on your own,’ Harry remarked, leaning his backside against an adjoining table. ‘Not for someone who shoots like you do.’ He smiled warmly to draw the sucker in. ‘I’ve been watching you for a while. You seem to know your way around a pool table.’ He nodded towards where Baldy had resumed his reading of the tabloid. ‘Old Bradford there reckons so too. Fancy a few racks?’
Harrington shrugged indifferently. ‘Why not,’ he replied, taking some of the balls he’d already potted out of the pockets and racking them up with the ones remaining on the table, ‘A bit of competition is what it’s all about, isn’t it?’
‘You said the words, pal,’ Harry answered, smiling like a Cheshire who’d finally discovered that elusive bowl of cream. ’What do you say to five euros a rack?’
‘Suits me,’ Harrington told him, not finding it at all surprising when he won the first two racks comfortably, nor that Harry was acting as though he wasn’t one bit pleased to be on the losing end of both, shaking his head in disgust as he deliberately missed balls he could have potted in his sleep.
‘Looks like I’m out of my depth here,’ he sighed, as Harrington sank the nine ball of the second rack. ‘I guess I should have stayed where I was sitting on that bench. Where did you learn to play like that?’
‘Here and there,’ Harrington told him casually, finding it hard not to smile at the way Harry was playing him like a fish with a beautifully controlled performance, which would have won him an Oscar had someone nominated him for one.
He wondered what Harry would have thought of the here and there he’d referred to as being the Garda Social Club, where he’d eventually learned to pot the odd ball without ripping the cloth and making a show of himself. He also wondered how long it would be before Harry stopped practically rolling the balls over the pockets for him, before getting down to plucking his feathers. Before he had time to wonder any further, the answer was on its way.
‘Ah, what the hell!’ Harry exclaimed, doing his best to look like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair. ‘Let’s make it interesting.’ He took the second ten euros out of his pocket and looked at it as though he were donating it to charity. ‘You want to double the stakes?’
‘Why not,’ Harrington responded, taking a leaf out of Harry’s book, and trying to look bemused that Harry was prepared to be so generous after the first two racks. ‘It’s your money.’
‘Or what’s left of it,’ Harry replied dismally. ‘But it’s almost worth it to learn a few finer points of the game.’
Which was what Harrington did over the next hour or so. Harry made it look so easy making it appear difficult to scrape through the following rack, Harrington almost felt like applauding him. The balls just weren’t running for him, Harry moaned, in between hitting the cushions about fifteen times with some of his shots to make them look like pure flukes, though the ball always managed to somehow trickle into a pocket after its geometrical journey.
It was a masterful performance, added to by the fact that Harry gasped every so often at his good fortune, and on two occasions held up his hand in a show of apology to Harrington to acknowledge the luck he was enjoying. When the nine ball finally disappeared, he actually went so far as to take a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe away non-existent sweat from his brow.
‘Would you believe it?’ he said in relief, after successfully clearing the table. ‘After that, I might invest in a Lotto ticket. That’s if I’ve still got any cash left after another couple of racks.’
Harrington felt a bit like a member of the Saint Vincent de Paul Society after a while. Every time Harry fortunately won another rack by
the skin of his teeth, he handed over another ten euros. This continued until Harry had one hundred and twenty stashed away in his back pocket. He felt like Christmas had come early for him this year.
Then he let Harrington win forty back, just to show the whole operation wasn’t a total scam, also enabling him to up the stake money, without appearing to do so merely because he was on a winning roll. The guy seemed to have an endless supply of cash. Every time he had to pay up, he produced a roll of notes big enough to choke a whale, peeled the necessary off, then let it flutter to the table close to Harry’s eager hand. So Harry had let him win four racks on the trot, both to boost his confidence and fed his recklessness. At thirty a rack from here on in, Harry didn’t intend to let him win too many more. Just a few here and there until the guy had no more stake money left to play with.
Harrington had to keep running his hand across his mouth to prevent himself from laughing outright. After all, it wasn’t his money, and watching Harry’s performance at close range, especially when Harrington was the one who was pulling the strings, was pretty funny. The Superintendent had supplied the cash out of what he called the special snitch slush fund, explaining to Harrington upon giving it to him that it didn’t really exist, just as he’d told him the secret team he was now part of didn’t exist, either.
Harrington was thrilled at the thought of this covert stuff he was now engaged in. He was excited by every minute of it, though like the dedicated lawman he was, he never lost sight of the fact that an old man’s and a little girl’s welfare depended on him finding out what he had been sent to this seedy poolroom for. He even deliberately missed a nine ball on two occasions Harry had set it up conveniently for him, just so he could reach his real objective as soon as possible.
Harry shook his head in disbelief when the nine balls twice came back off the angle of the pocket. The poor guy, he thought to himself, as he slotted each opportunity home, what’s the point in stringing him along any longer? His nerves are shattered. I’ve got almost his complete stash. Why bother with the measly twenty he’s got left?
