The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  It was said that from tiny acorns, great oaks would grow. At this stage of his life, he was well past an acorn. He was a seedling, desperate to take root before he withered and died.

  He was starting to be recognised on the streets. He was getting nods and smiles from the middle aged, and even the older ladies. Children laughed and smiled with him. Maybe Tony was wrong. Maybe he had found what he was looking for already, and it had been under his nose all along; a sense of place.

  He heard the faint refrain of hanging on the telephone, the song by Blondie. He time checked his watch, before taking the phone out of his pocket. Who on earth would be calling at three am. Certainly someone he didn’t know anyway, the ringtone gave it away. He contemplated hanging up, but then thought; fuck it, what the hell?

  ‘Roussel,’ he barked.

  ‘The guy you want, Thomas Eugene O'Neill, aka the Street, aka Street, is currently residing at 30 Grattan Hill, Cork City, Republic of Ireland.’

  Roussel almost dropped the phone in astonishment.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Let’s just say we both work for similar organisations, and we both have similar reasons for catching him.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ laughed Roussel. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Hello, hello....’

  He tapped the phone in annoyance; the caller had hung up. He dropped the instrument into his lap and glugged back the whiskey. What the hell was going on?

  The phone rang again. He snatched it up, and pressed the answer button savagely.

  ‘Listen, who the hell do you think you are?’ he asked forcefully.

  ‘Easy, Charlie, easy,’ said a voice.

  He had to think about it for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Captain?’ he asked hesitantly.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I wanted to leave my phone free, so I rang you on my wife’s phone.’

  He paused.

  ‘I just got a very interesting call.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Roussel, reciting the information he had been given.

  ‘This is too weird,’ agreed the Captain.

  ‘What do you think we should do, Cap?’ Roussel asked earnestly. ‘What do you really think?’

  ‘Are you still at the suites?’ asked the captain.

  ‘Sure am,’ said Roussel.

  ‘Still got that Powers Gold Label?’

  Roussel smiled.

  ‘Sure have.’

  ‘I’ll be over in ten.’

  Seven minutes later, they were both settled back in chairs on the veranda. The captain took a long slow sip of the amber fluid. He held the glass up to the light to study it closely.

  ‘That gets better every time I taste it,’ he said.

  He paused and puffed up his cheeks, and then blew out his breath with a whoosh.

  ‘So, you asked me a question,’ he said. ‘Okay, here’s where I am.’

  He took another sip.

  ‘We’ve a double murder. We know the identity of one victim; we also know someone is looking for him, and that person is in Cork, Ireland. We also know that the identity of the second victim is restricted in some way, and therefore linked to some as yet unnamed Federal Agency. We know who the owner of the house is, and we also know that in all probability, he was there the night of the murders.’

  Roussel nodded, and resumed the recap.

  ‘Don’t forget the gravestone. The name Mary O’Neill must have some significance for him. The date in the past is a mystery, but it does tie him to the property, and she shares the same surname. Wife? Mother? Who knows?’

  ‘True,’ said the captain. ‘But we also now have more corroborating evidence; cryptic maybe, but corroborating evidence nonetheless. So, we have to assume he is indeed in Ireland. We even have an exact address.’

  ‘So what should we do, Captain?’ asked Roussel.

  The captain looked him in the eyes for a full minute.

  ‘You know me, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’m not an impulsive man. But this federal agency angle is really pissing me off. So, here’s what we do. Get some sleep, pack a few things, and get to the airport at first light. First off, see if you can get any information on passenger movements to Ireland over the last few days. He’ll have used a passport; maybe the only one he has?’

  The captain paused.

  ‘Don’t worry if you find nothing. Catch the first flight you can to Ireland anyway. Contact me when you get there, by which time I should have made contact with a local liaison officer in Cork. If I haven’t made contact, you might have to present yourself at the local police station and call me from there.’

  A thought occurred to the captain.

  ‘Do you actually have a passport?’ he asked.

  Roussel extracted it from the side pocket of his Bermuda shorts.

  ‘Never thought I’d ever get to use it, mind,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Thanks for the drink,’ said the captain, knocking the rest of the whiskey back and making to leave.

  Before he descended the steps, he turned to Roussel.

  ‘Just remember, Charlie. This guy ain’t no girl scout. Be careful over there.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Roussel grimly.

  #

  The first thing he saw, as he walked from the skyway to the baggage reclaim, was a sign advertising Powers Gold Label. He supposed he should have made the connection; Irish whiskey, you would generally assume, was made in Ireland.

  He cursed his decision to check his bag onto the plane. It had caused him nothing but trouble. No amount of ID had persuaded the Department of Homeland Security that buying a ticket to Ireland and leaving immediately was anything other than suspicious. In fact, in some ways, it had annoyed them even more.

  Once he had cleared the security area, there was yet more drama. The plane had sat for two hours on the tarmac at New Orleans, waiting for clearance, and then another hour’s delay at JFK. Still, as a man not used to travelling, it was very odd to think that only the previous morning, he had been drinking whiskey on his landing in Louisiana, pondering the mysteries of home, and here he was now, three thousand miles away; the miracle of modern travel.

  He had a moment of brain fade, as he was clearing the baggage hall. There was a green channel, a red channel and a blue channel. It took his weary mind a second to work out which one he needed. The automatic glass doors opened in front of him, like the star ship enterprise, and he was home free, straight into the main body of the arrivals hall.

  As he stopped to adjust the shoulder strap on his holdall, he noticed, like in all airports, people were holding up signs. They were bits of card really, with names scribbled in black marker. His eye was drawn to one in particular. He read it once and then read it again. It said Charlie Russell. No, he thought to himself, it couldn’t be. He looked at the young man holding the sign, bored looking, about the same age as himself. He had brown hair, spiked up in an effort to look younger, maybe? He was early to mid thirties, with pale blue eyes, but it was his world weary expression that gave him away. This guy was a policeman, no doubt about it.

  As Roussel approached, the man studied him with interest.

  ‘Charlie Russell?’ he asked, in what seemed to Roussel to be a very soft and melodic Irish accent.

  ‘Charles Roussel,’ he answered.

  The man's face relaxed and he smiled.

  ‘Charles, nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘James is my name, James Murray. Detective James Murray,’ he added, with the emphasis on detective.

  ‘So you must be my liaison?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘Your captain rang through last night,’ said James. ‘He spoke to our station superintendant. Based on the information supplied, and some brief follow-up, your boss was transferred to my boss, Inspector Ryan.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Roussel, as they started walking.

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us a bit more,’ said James, glancing at Roussel. ‘But the major reason you were referred to us was the drugs connecti
on.’

  ‘Drugs connection?’ asked Roussel, in genuine surprise.

  ‘Scott Mitchell,’ said James, handing him a photo which Roussel recognised. ‘Petty criminal, extortion, protection, and latterly drug dealing.’

  Roussel thought about it.

  ‘So Scott Mitchell is a dealer?’

  ‘Was a dealer,’ corrected James. ‘A very small time petty criminal and dealer. But it’s not necessarily Mitchell we had the major interest in. It is more the man he works for. Or should I say, the guy he ultimately works for.’

  Roussel digested that for a couple of seconds.

  ‘Ok, that’s a potted history of Scott Mitchell,’ he said. ‘So, what can you tell me about the other guy? Thomas O'Neill, the man they call The Street.’

  ‘Yeah, we checked him out; not much of value on him at all. The only thing we could find out, was that he left Ireland in about 1988 as a legal emigrant to the US; got a visa in one of the lotteries in the eighties. No indication of any police record or illegal activity up to that point. But we did a bit more digging.’

  At this stage, they had reached the entrance to the airport.

  ‘Shit,’ said James quickly.

  Roussel could see where he was pointing and laughed. Airport police had stopped and were just about to clamp his car. James ran over and showed them some ID. A heated exchange ensued, which made Roussel laugh even more. It seemed that inter-agency cooperation was the same in any country and in any jurisdiction. The airport cops finally drove off, after trading insults with James.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Fucking jobsworths! Where were we?’

  ‘Left Ireland in 1988,’ said Roussel, prompting him.

  ‘Ah yes,’ responded James. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he asked. ‘Do you have anywhere setup to stay while you’re here?’

  Roussel shook his head, as he replied.

  ‘No, thought I’d leave that to you,’ he said. ‘Or at least, get a local recommendation,’ he continued hastily, in case the first part was misconstrued; didn’t want the guy thinking he regarded him as a servant.

  ‘Sure, we’ll get you fixed-up,’ said James. ‘But no check-in means we can go straight round to the place.’

  ‘What place?’ asked Roussel, as they pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘That’s where it gets interesting,’ said James. ‘We traced Thomas’s mother. She’s dead; died in 1990 I think, I don’t have my notes with me, sorry.’

  ‘1990 would make sense,’ said Roussel, thinking back to the simple yet tasteful headstone.

  ‘Yeah, and her name was Mary; same as the name you found, so another loop closed there, I think.’

  James paused to collect his thoughts.

  ‘We checked out the arrangements after the funeral. He was an only child. She left everything in her will to Thomas, including the house and all the contents.’

  ‘So, I'm guessing he never sold it,’ said Roussel.

  ‘How did you know that?’ asked James quizzically.

  ‘Well, the gravestone for me indicates guilt; I’m guessing he couldn’t come back for the funeral. Maybe he kept the house, so he could eventually make peace with a few memories.’

  ‘Very insightful,’ said James, studying him thoughtfully.

  ‘Personal experience,’ said Roussel. ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ said James.

  ‘So, following this through,’ said Roussel, ignoring the comment. ‘If Thomas flees the US to come back home, and he's fairly certain that nobody is looking for him....’

  He paused.

  ‘....or would be able to find him,’ he qualified.

  ‘Then he would probably stay in a house that he already owned,’ finished James with satisfaction.

  ‘Which just so happens to correspond to the address we provided?’ ventured Roussel.

  ‘Exactly,’ said James. ‘Confirms the story even more, wouldn't you think?’

  He slapped his forehead in sudden remembrance.

  ‘Also,’ he said, ‘I forgot all about it with the arrival of the dickheads, but we checked incoming flights for the last few days. Nothing into Cork, so we widened our search. Bingo, he flew into Dublin on the morning of the thirteenth of May.’

  Roussel felt a small swell of satisfaction. He loved it when cases started coming together.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, by all accounts,’ said James, ‘this man, at the very least witnessed a double murder; may even have perpetrated it. We’ve got to assume he’s pretty dangerous, so we should try and play it a little bit clever.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘I was thinking a story about a hit-and-run on the road into the estate; a dealer got hit by a car, hence the drug squad are the ones doing the snooping. Case the neighbour’s each side, see if we can find out anything and then call on the house itself. See how cool a customer he really is.’

  ‘Do you carry?’ asked Roussel.

  ‘I'm sorry, what?’ asked James.

  ‘A piece; do you carry a piece?’

  James looked at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘A piece of what?’

  ‘A gun; do you carry a gun?’ asked Roussel in exasperation.

  James’s expression cleared and he smiled.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Generally, we only carry weapons in restricted situations; very few and far between really. Very isolated incidents, when we know there is a real danger, both to us and the public.’

  Roussel raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do we not think there’s a fair chance of that here?’

  James laughed.

  ‘You’re in Ireland now; it’s not the Wild West. No offence, but we do things a little differently here. Anyway,’ said James as he glided into a parking spot and pulled up the handbrake. ‘We’re here; too late.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ Roussel queried, pointing to his shorts and sandals.

  ‘Sure,’ said James. ‘Hop in the back there.’

  Five minutes later, with Roussel changed into much more suitable Irish summer clothes, James rang the doorbell at number twenty nine. They could hear loud music pumping from the inside. Roussel stood back a bit and glanced up at the house. There were no curtains, just bed sheets, and in some cases, newspaper taped over the windows. He was thinking, definitely a rental property.

  Eventually they heard the click and clank of multiple locks and bolts being undone. The door swung open, and Roussel and James were simultaneously assaulted by the unmistakeable aroma of burning cannabis.

  The man in front of them was dressed in black jeans and a black Metallica T-shirt. His greasy greying hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing the skull and cross bones earrings that were glinting in the midday sunlight.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked roughly.

  ‘Drug squad,’ said James. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  Roussel could barely contain his amusement. The man had gone from hero to zero in about a second. It looked like he was shitting himself on the spot. His mouth worked for a few moments, but nothing came out.

  ‘It's not mine I swear,’ he eventually managed to croak.

  ‘Relax,’ said James. ‘We’re not here for you or your junk. We’re looking for information.’

  The man’s face cleared and the relief was palpable.

  ‘Certainly officer, whatever you want!’ he said enthusiastically.

  Roussel heard the sound of multiple toilets flushing in the background, and he could see the man groan slightly.

  ‘There was a hit-and-run on the main road,’ said James, indicating the way they had come in. ‘A dealer was killed. Did see anything?’

  ‘What day was this?’ asked the man.

  James looked back at Roussel; his mind had gone blank.

  ‘Sunday,’ Roussel mouthed silently.

  ‘Last Sunday,’ said James turning back to the man. ‘It would be this day last week, in fact.’


  ‘Sorry mate,’ he said. ‘I was in Dublin all last week visiting friends.’

  ‘What about next door, would they know anything?’ asked James.

  ‘Next door,’ said the guy. ‘I think there’s somebody in there now, but I couldn’t be positive. I’ve seen a guy going in the odd time. If he’s there, he certainly keeps to himself. The old biddy next to him; she can probably tell you the car registration number of the vehicle that hit your man, and what the driver had for breakfast too,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ said James, extracting his notebook and making a big show of writing down the address. ‘You may be hearing from us again.’

  ‘Was that a threat, officer?’ asked the man, some of his lost bravado returning.

  ‘Merely a statement of fact,’ said James.

  They both turned on their heel and walked away, collectively flinching as the door slammed behind them. They walked past number thirty, for now anyway.

  ‘I didn't say it before,’ said James. ‘But leave the talking to me.’

  ‘I kind of figured that,’ said Roussel, accentuating his southern accent.

  James smiled, and rang the doorbell of number thirty one. They heard the sound of at least two chains being put on, before the door was opened a tiny fraction.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a frail voice.

  ‘Police, ma’am,’ said James.

  ‘Let me see some ID,’ she demanded.

  All signs of frailty were gone from her voice, as James reached for his pocket. She studied his credentials closely, before handing them back and opening the door wide.

  ‘What can I do for you, detective Murray?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re investigating a hit-and-run. A drug user was killed on the road last Sunday.’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘I’m sorry, young man. I rarely go out these days, but on Sunday I leave early for morning mass and then round to the parish centre for lunch and bingo; I don’t normally get back till about eight pm.’

  ‘That’s okay ma’am,’ said James. ‘What about your neighbour; number thirty?’

  ‘Who, Thomas?’ she said and smiled.

  Roussel and James looked at each other.

  ‘I’m not sure he would have seen anything. I don’t think he was even here on Sunday. He’s just come back from the US, you know,’ she couldn’t help adding. ‘He lived in this house as a child; I didn’t recognise him. He came over the following morning to apologise; said he had been a little bit short with me. He really has matured into such a delightful young man.’