From the corner of his eye, Callaghan can see the radiant green of Hannah’s outfit. Despite him asking that she stay away, she’s been here every day. Novak too. Callaghan’s father hasn’t made an appearance.
The judge speeds up as he notes the long record of offences accumulated by Big Brendan Tucker during his 34 years – two hold-ups, a fistful of assaults and one conviction for drug possession for sale or supply. ‘While the victim was undoubtedly a man of questionable character, that doesn’t excuse the defendant’s actions – the cold-blooded decision to seek out Mr Tucker, to bring a golf club as a weapon, the clear intent to do him harm and the ferocity of the assault which resulted in his death.’
Twelve years.
As Danny Callaghan is taken out of the court, Big Brendan’s cousin, Frank Tucker, holds aloft a fist. ‘Dead man, Callaghan – blood for blood.’ His voice is strained, his face red, his eyes alight.
‘And you want me to—?’
‘Set up a meeting with Frank Tucker.’
Novak raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think – Danny, that could—’
‘I’ve been looking over my shoulder since I got out. The last couple of days, maybe you’re right, I’m being spooked by nothing much – but I need to know what’s real. Either I’m a target for Tucker or there’s something else – or there’s nothing.’
‘You go see Frank, maybe you stir things up, things that calmed down over the past eight years.’
Danny Callaghan slumped in the chair, hands in his pockets, long legs stretched out in front. ‘I need to know.’
‘You want me to go see him?’
‘No – I mean, thanks, but—’
Silence while Novak thought it through.
‘Yeah, if it’s going to be done, best you do it yourself.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll call him in the morning. Clear heads in the morning.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Soon as I know, you’ll know.’
Chapter 14
It came to twenty-seven-fifty and the Polish guy gave Walter Bennett a twenty and a ten. Standing on the doorstep, Walter took his time counting out the change – one, another one, fifty cents – and when the three coins were laid out on the palm of Walter’s left hand the Pole reached over and took two of them and gave Walter a big smile and said thanks.
Jesus.
Walter turned and walked away. When the door shut behind him he looked at the euro in his hand and he said aloud, ‘Cheap bastard.’
Up to now he’d done well in tips. Two more stops, all deliveries within a couple of roads from here, then back to Anthony’s place and the way things were going maybe he might offer to work an extra hour. He’d left his mobile number at the pizza place, and Anthony had agreed to call him as soon as Dessie Blue appeared. ‘Believe me, I won’t let him leave until you get back.’
That was if Dessie Blue showed – which Walter by now was reluctantly beginning to accept was more a hope than a belief. At least he was clocking up a little extra for Glasgow. As long as he didn’t come across too many of those Polish bastards.
He started up the van.
It wasn’t that Walter had anything against Poles. ‘It’s just that they don’t understand freedom,’ he used to tell Sissy. ‘Not used to it. Don’t know how to behave. In this country, we were born free and we know how to handle it.’
Sissy gave him another of her smiles.
‘No, really,’ he said.
Walter checked his mobile – just in case he’d missed a call.
Nothing.
Briefly, Walter wondered if maybe before he headed off to Glasgow there might be something to be done about Dessie Blue. By way of revenge, and maybe a small financial return. A call to Detective Garda Templeton-Smith, one last bit of business.
Not worth it.
And if Dessie didn’t cough up tonight – and he probably wouldn’t – when Walter eventually came back to Dublin it might be no harm to have a debt that might still come through.
Live in hope.
Walter slid around a small roundabout that led into the Mansfield estate. A wannabe neighbourhood, Walter reckoned, and very nice too. On the other side of the river, in the days of the boom, these houses would go for an arm and a couple of legs. And they looked after their houses, the people around here. Some of the front lawns looked like they hadn’t been mown, more like shaved. Walter reckoned, what with the way the economy had been going, a lot of people in places like this had trouble meeting their mortgage payments – and that meant before too long a house in a place like this might be halfway affordable.
Walter kept an eye on that kind of thing. ‘You’re mad,’ Sissy laughed at him when he talked about house prices. ‘You stand in the middle of your bedroom, the only kip you can afford to rent, and when you stretch your arms out you can touch both walls.’
‘You never know when you might get a lucky break,’ Walter told her. ‘It’s all about watching the market, seizing your opportunity. And if you don’t keep up to speed with these things you never know what you might miss.’ Sissy just looked at him, a smile on her lips, and after a while Walter started grinning and the two of them had a good laugh.
‘Three twelve-inch pepperoni, three Cokes,’ Walter said when his next customer opened the front door. Karl Prowse showed him a big smile and a small gun and said, ‘That’s right – won’t you join us?’
Lar Mackendrick had several mobile phones, all off the shelf, no contract. The Sony Ericsson had two numbers keyed in – one each for Karl Prowse and his buddy Robbie Nugent. Those were the only numbers the phone had ever called, and the only numbers from which it had received calls. Once the phone was destroyed, there would be no record linking it to Lar Mackendrick or anyone else.
Lar was pouring a sherry for May when the Sony Ericsson beeped notice that a text had arrived. He finished pouring the drink and brought it into the living room, where May was sitting in front of the television. She was halfway through a boxed set of the fourth series of ER, the final series in which George Clooney appeared. She limited herself to one episode per night, eking out the series over almost a whole month. Lar thought George Clooney was an asshole.
‘Thanks, love,’ May said, and as Lar left the room she pressed the button that brought the menu up on the screen.
Back in the kitchen, Lar took out his Sony Ericsson and checked the text message.
Our friend is leaving. Any last requests?
Walter had twice called Lar at home and Lar had already stressed to Karl Prowse the importance of not leaving that kind of evidence lying around. No harm giving Karl a reminder.
Remember to get his phone.
It was a big room and mostly white. Two smaller rooms converted to one. The carpet and the walls were white with a slight golden tinge. The large fireplace was white marble. There was a painting over the fireplace that was all white except for a small swirl of red in the lower-right corner. Against one wall a tall white vase with purple flowers stood on a black marble sideboard. The three-seater sofa, where Walter Bennett was sitting, was white, matching the two armchairs.
Walter sat with his knees together, his hands clasped in his lap. He had given up trying to control the quivering of his lower lip. His forehead and scalp felt icy, his insides had turned hot and liquid.
‘Please.’
The word was a breath, and he doubted if Karl and Robbie heard it.
‘Not hungry?’
Karl spoke through a mouthful of pizza, Robbie was swigging a can of Coke. Both of them, sitting in the armchairs facing the couch, were more than halfway through their pizzas. The third pizza sat untouched in front of Walter, the flat box open on the white marble coffee table.
‘That’s good pepperoni,’ Robbie said.
‘Why?’ Walter said.
Karl said, ‘The cheese is a bit rubbery.’
They each wore tight white surgical gloves.
Walter could feel a drop of sweat on his jaw. He wanted to wipe it aw
ay but he knew that his hand would shake and he didn’t want to draw attention to the depth of his fear.
‘Why?’ he said again.
Karl rose from the white chair, then squatted in front of Walter. His voice was gentle. ‘We know things, Walter.’ He flicked away a tiny piece of cheese from the corner of his mouth.
‘Please, Karl.’
‘We hear things. And what we hear is that you’ve been cosying up with a certain copper – name of Templeton-Smith. Is that right?’
When he spoke, Walter knew how it sounded. ‘What it was, it was other stuff, nothing to do with you, nothing to do with Mr Mackendrick.’
‘I should hope so, Walter.’
‘He offered me money.’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Nothing to do with you, Karl, I swear.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I know people, just small-time – mostly knocking off cars, burglary, a bit of cocaine, that kind of thing. Nothing to do with anything.’
‘And he paid you money.’
‘He caught me, it was a car thing. Few weeks ago, he makes me an offer – I hardly told him anything about anyone. Nothing about this, about you, about Mr Mackendrick. I swear.’ Walter heard his voice turn squeaky. ‘I swear, Karl, I swear.’
Prowse said, ‘We know that, Walter, we know all about it. We have our sources.’
‘Then why – you tried to kill me.’
‘It’s not what you told the cop, Walter, it’s what you might tell him. You’re a tout, and touts sell information. Maybe one of these days your back’s against a wall and someone offers you a way out if you’ve anything heavy to sell. Once you start touting, Walter, who knows where it’ll end?’
‘Ah, Karl, I’d never—’
‘So you say, Walter. And you expect us to take a gamble on your good character?’
Karl stood up and took his car keys from his pocket. He tossed them to Robbie, who was chewing pizza as he left the room.
‘Karl.’
‘No point, Walter.’
Karl sat down in one of the white armchairs.
They sat in silence until Robbie came back. He was carrying a baseball bat and a heavy-duty clear plastic bag. He put them down neatly, alongside each other, on the white carpet. Then he reached down and took his last slice of pizza.
Walter didn’t intend to make a moaning noise, it just came out.
Robbie stood there chewing for a minute. Then he put down the remains of his pizza slice and used his gloved fingers to wipe his mouth. ‘That’s as much as I can handle.’
Walter knew that if he tried to stand up his trembling legs wouldn’t support him.
‘Your phone,’ Karl said.
Walter didn’t know if this required a response.
‘Give it to me.’
Walter’s fingers trembled as he passed over his Nokia.
‘This the phone you used to call Lar Mackendrcik?’
‘Why?’
‘This the phone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Karl slipped it into an inside pocket.
‘Okay’, Karl said. ‘We don’t have all night.’
Chapter 15
Pros and cons. Swings and roundabouts.
You lose a juicy murder case to detectives from another station – a pain in the arse, yes. But it’s not all downside.
Truth was, when this thing started an hour ago Detective Inspector Dermot Leahy had felt a tension headache coming on. He’d been involved in two previous murder cases, neither of which led to a conviction, both of which did his career no favours. And his diary was quite full enough with assaults and burglaries and road accidents and teenagers staggering home from drinks parties and vomiting in their neighbours’ gardens. The headache began to ease once he got the phone call from his chief superintendent. ‘We pass it on. Ongoing case,’ the chief super said. ‘Someone had a pop at this guy three nights ago, tried to shoot him in a pub on the Glencara estate. Looks like they did a better job this time.’
So the Mansfield Close job was folded into the existing investigation.
‘Sorry about that, Dermot.’
‘Can’t be helped, sir.’
Inspector Leahy waited in the hallway while the member from the Glencara case looked things over in the living room. When Detective Sergeant Michael Wyndham came out into the hallway he was trying to keep his face blank.
He said, ‘They did a thorough job.’
‘You could say that.’
Wyndham said, ‘Who owns the house?’
‘Couple out for the evening. Left around seven-fifteen, got back almost midnight, found the lights on. Didn’t come in – rang 999.’
‘Good.’ Too often, panicky civilians did a headless-chicken routine all over the crime scene.
Leahy said, ‘I hear someone tried to kill this fella already?’
‘Two or three nights back – he got lucky. We’ve pushed all the usual buttons, with no great results. Walter, God rest him, was into a bit of this, a bit of that. Petty stuff – no obvious reason someone would want him dead.’
The hall, long and narrow and done in various shades of brown, made Inspector Leahy feel claustrophobic. He nodded towards the front door and led Wyndham out into the garden. After the atmosphere in the house, the air outside felt pleasantly cold.
Wyndham said, ‘Technical on the way?’
‘Any minute. I’ve had a couple of members knocking on doors, no one heard a peep.’
There wouldn’t be much from the neighbours. One of those keep-yourself-to-yourself neighbourhoods. Mansfield Close had about twenty houses ranged in a horseshoe layout, with a green area in the centre. Big houses, built in a style most often seen in 1950s Hollywood versions of Olde English villages. The name suggested the estate was probably built in the mid-1990s, when the money was starting to flow but the boom hadn’t yet gathered speed. The North was still leaking blood, and the South’s middle-class aspirations and distaste for the excesses of nationalism came together to create a fashion in housing estates with English labels – Sherwood Park, Tudor Heights, Balmoral Lawns. That was before the economic boom and the winding down of the Northern blood-letting encouraged the middle classes to adopt a bit of the old nationalist swagger.
On the green in the centre of Mansfield Close, where an English village might have had a war memorial, there was an outsize monument commemorating nothing in particular, with a clock on each of its four faces.
A white van was pulling up across the road. Technical was here.
‘The house owners – where are they?’
Inspector Leahy pointed towards a squad car. ‘Back seat, trying to keep their blood pressure under control. Name’s Waterman. Roy and Denise.’
‘They let anyone else have keys to the house?’
The inspector shook his head. ‘Side window open, second floor – access from the garage roof.’
‘So, what do you reckon – Walter’s burgling this place with someone else – and what? Thieves fall out in the middle of a job? Doesn’t look like a spur-of-the-moment thing.’
‘He delivered the pizzas. The name is on the boxes – Anthony’s Pizza Place. Seems this Walter fella did occasional work, delivering. They say the order came in, three pizzas for this address. We checked the phone in the living room, the pizza place is the last number dialled.’
‘Someone broke in—’
‘Picked an empty house at random.’
‘And ordered pizza?’
‘So it seems.’
‘And how did the killers know Walter was working tonight, delivering to this area?’
Inspector Leahy said, ‘I’ve got a member over there now, talking to the guy who runs the pizza shop.’
Wyndham went to meet the two technical people getting out of their van. He gave them the basics as they changed into their white Tyvek coveralls. ‘And bag the remains of the pizzas. Just might get some DNA.’
He
and the inspector watched the two technicians, mouths masked, hoods up, slowly mount the steps and enter the house.
‘Not a job I’d fancy,’ the inspector said.
Sergeant Wyndham said, ‘It’d put you off pizza for a while, right enough.’
Roy Waterman said, ‘Look’s like someone’s finally in charge. Back in a minute.’ His wife, white-faced and murmuring into her mobile, nodded. Waterman got out of the back of the squad car.
The detective inspector he’d already met introduced him to the policeman who’d recently arrived. Waterman didn’t catch the name, but he heard the rank.
‘Sergeant? Has this case been downgraded already?’
‘Don’t worry, sir – we have a full team on the job, all ranks, and no effort will be spared.’
‘How long are these people going to be crawling all over our house?’
‘It’s a murder investigation, sir. It takes as long as it takes – but I can assure you—’
Waterman wasn’t listening. He turned and looked across the road to where he could see the outline of his wife’s head in the back of the squad car. Months, this would take, before they got back to normal – if ever. Waterman could adjust. As long as the place was cleaned up he’d have no problem living there. Denise, though – she’d probably want to move out. And with the property market the way it was – and the added selling point that a man had been murdered in the living room – Jesus, this was just what he fucking needed.
The two detectives were moving away, head to head, talking. Roy Waterman turned and walked up the steps and into his hallway. He was halfway towards the living room when he heard the fat detective behind him.
‘Sir, you—’
From the living-room doorway Roy Waterman hardly noticed the two policemen in their white coveralls. His gaze was immediately drawn to the figure on the floor. Everything about the body conveyed composure – arms crossed on the chest, feet crossed at the ankles – except for the large, shapeless, clear plastic bag tied around the head, the inside painted red with blood, and the red pool leaking out onto the white carpet from where the bag was bunched up, tied around the man’s neck.
Dark Times in the City Page 9
