He’d seen it two months ago, when he’d had lunch with Hannah.
‘What do you think of it? They customise.’
She’d been to the gift shop across the street from her print shop, to get Leon a birthday present.
Callaghan had thought it was a bit tacky. The LK was attached to a short, wide strap, near the clasp. Callaghan had said, ‘He’ll love it.’
Now, although coincidence was unlikely, he opened the briefcase and thumbed through a couple of folders. There were several envelopes tucked into a pocket. He took out three of them. They were all addressed to Leon Kavanagh. No coincidence. On impulse, he put the briefcase on the floor and tore the envelopes and their contents in two, then dropped them back into the briefcase.
He knew immediately it was a silly thing to do and he didn’t care.
Leon’s grinning face.
‘Fancy meeting you here.’
It was in the Mint Bar, downstairs in the Westin Hotel in Westmoreland Street, five or six weeks earlier. The pub in Temple Bar in which Callaghan had been drinking had become too crowded, so he moved on to the Mint. Not much better. Fewer people, but louder. The bar’s hard surfaces, the bare walls and the stone floor, amplified the sound. Callaghan had already ordered his Jameson when he spotted Leon at a table on the far side of the bar. Leon was with a woman, big eyes, very thin, with streaked hair. Their heads were close and their smiles intimate. Just then, Leon looked up and saw Callaghan, who immediately took his drink to a table.
‘Didn’t think this was your kind of place.’
Leon was standing beside the table, looking down at Callaghan. Big grin on his face. It was the first time Callaghan had met Leon without Hannah.
Leon said, ‘You come here a lot?’
Callaghan felt like he’d been caught doing something wrong. He had no idea why he should feel guilty, while Leon behaved as though there was nothing to worry about.
‘You’re not keeping an eye on me, I hope?’
His voice was light, his smile wide, but Callaghan felt like everything was going into a skid.
He knows.
Half a dozen times since he’d got out of prison, Callaghan had gone to Hannah’s street, always in the evening or late at night, and parked his car near her house. Just sat there for perhaps an hour, sometimes a lot longer. Then he’d go home. It first happened a few weeks after he got out of prison. Callaghan woke in the middle of the night and lay there, trying to measure what it was he felt. He sat silently on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes closed, palms each side of his head. Thoughts surfacing, then popping like bubbles. No sound in the Hive, no sounds from outside. It was as though the whole world had shut up shop and moved away while he slept. The emptiness was a massive physical presence inside his chest.
He’d been to Hannah’s house in the days after he got out, and now he dressed, went down to his car and drove to her street. After a while, the emptiness wasn’t there.
Looking up at Leon, thinking He knows, Callaghan felt as if the adults had discovered his dirty little secret. Then Leon was bending down. ‘This—’ and he jerked his head towards the skinny woman on the other side of the room ‘—is exactly what it seems like, okay?’ He winked.
Leon had more than a few drinks on him. Callaghan’s panic subsided. If Leon knew about Callaghan’s nocturnal visits he’d be blunt about it. He was letting Callaghan know what was expected.
Callaghan said, ‘None of my business.’
Leon’s smile was larger. ‘That’s right.’
Callaghan said nothing.
Leon said, ‘Nice to see you again.’ Then he left.
When Callaghan told Novak about the night-time visits to Hannah’s street, Novak said, ‘You’ll never get her back.’
Callaghan said, ‘I don’t want her back’ and it was only when he said it aloud that he realised it was true. He had no yearning to rebuild anything with Hannah. Their marriage had run its course, ended for good reasons. The visits to her street had to do with something else. Maybe it was about feeling the emptiness dissolve, feeling reattached to the world around him. Whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t looking to rebuild bridges – it was more like an animal seeking warmth.
When he finished his whiskey, Callaghan left the Mint. As he passed Leon and the skinny woman Leon raised his glass and smiled. Callaghan walked out of the bar, up the stairs and quickened his pace as he hurried across the hotel lobby and out into the air.
Now, in Alex’s flat, Callaghan looked again at Leon’s briefcase.
None of my business.
Whatever about Leon’s relationship with the skinny woman, screwing around with Hannah’s friend was scummy.
But none of my business.
Callaghan left Leon’s briefcase on the floor of the bedroom, the closet door open. He pulled on his jacket and went down to his car.
Callaghan was getting out of his car near the Hive when his phone rang. It was Novak.
‘Yeah?’
‘I got a call just now from Frank Tucker and he says yes, okay, he’ll meet you.’
Callaghan locked the car door and stood looking out across the green in front of the Hive. In the distance he could see smoke rising from the embers of the fire the kids had made the previous night, to heat up their drinking party.
‘Good, thanks.’
‘Tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘The Venetian House.’
‘Best to get it over with.’
‘You okay?’
Callaghan was walking towards the Hive. This Frank Tucker thing, he didn’t need to think about it any more. One way or another, it would be sorted.
‘Fine, everything’s fine. But I’ve got a couple of jobs lined up for tomorrow.’
‘Don’t worry. I can get another driver to fill in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll take you there.’
‘No need.’
‘I’ll take you there.’
Day Seven
Chapter 20
Danny Callaghan and Novak drove to the Venetian House in silence. Off the M50 at the Lucan junction and down the N4 to the West End Park Road and out past the Cullybawn housing estate. They pulled into the almost empty car park. Novak turned off the engine.
‘You ready for this?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘No law says we can’t drive away from here – let it go.’
Danny Callaghan shook his head. ‘It’s one thing or the other – and I need to know.’
He sat there, looking across the car park at the pub. After a while, Novak said, ‘That’s some pile.’
Wedged between three vast west Dublin housing estates, the Venetian House was just a few years old but it strained to look like it had been there since the nineteenth century. Mock leaded windows and decorative beams gave it a vaguely Tudor look, mixed with a vaguely Italian style. The pub was an assemblage of units of various shapes and sizes, combining space and intimacy. It was a local institution, the centre of birthday, wedding and First Communion celebrations, gala lunches and post-funeral commiserations. It provided mid-range entertainers at weekends and a consistent level of drinking all week. The Venetian House attracted custom from the nearby estates and from more distant areas that didn’t have similar facilities. It had a kitchen that could cater a soup-and-sandwich lunch or an evening banquet.
A far cry from Novak’s own pub, a neighbourhood convenience used only by locals. He looked across the car park and said, ‘A gold mine.’
Danny Callaghan said, ‘You reckon it’s true – that Frank Tucker owns it?’
‘Could be – probably gossip. My guess is he just likes the place. It’s his neighbourhood.’
If you wanted to meet Frank Tucker, you made an arrangement to come to the Venetian House. He ate there most days, had all his parties there, and had daily meetings in a side room, along with his lieutenants and their soldiers.
‘See that window, looks like stained glass?’
&n
bsp; Novak was pointing to a wide window covering the width of an extension that jutted out into the car park. The image was of a singing gondolier, one arm held aloft, the other holding his trademark pole as he guided a pair of lovers beneath a bridge.
‘Tacky, isn’t it?’ Callaghan said.
‘Whether or not he owns the place, rumour is that Tucker bought that window – because he wanted something fancy in his home from home.’
‘Nice to have it to splash around.’ Callaghan took a long, deep breath. ‘Time to go in.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Callaghan smiled. ‘Keep the engine running – and if you hear a bang—’
‘Nothing like that’s going to happen. Seriously. If Frank Tucker wants you dead, it won’t be done here. In Frank’s business, you don’t piss on your own doorstep.’
Just inside the front door of the Venetian House, a bulky man stopped chewing gum long enough to ask, ‘You’re Callaghan, right?’
Danny Callaghan nodded.
‘The jacks.’
Inside the inner door the pub was doing light business. Lunch was finished, here and there a customer lingered over the remnants of a meal or nursed a drink. The place was well staffed, the bartenders and waiters, male and female, wearing black trousers, white shirts and red waistcoats.
Callaghan followed the man to the gents toilet. There the man told Callaghan to take off his suede jacket and hold his arms out from his sides. He ran what looked like an electronic table-tennis paddle along Callaghan’s body – over his arms and legs, between his legs, down his back and across his chest. He then lifted up the front of Callaghan’s T-shirt and checked for wires.
Satisfied, he led Danny Callaghan through the pub to a side room. It was more of a large nook, the kind of place a family might hire for a small birthday party. Most of one wall was taken up by the leaded window with the image of the gondolier. Pub tables and chairs in the centre, with deep sofa-type seating at the back. There, sitting near the window in a chunky wooden chair that could pass for a throne, leaning back, one knee crossed over the other, sat Frank Tucker.
That day in court, all those years back, Frank Tucker had been 19, his dark hair curly and full, his chubby but handsome face spoiled by acne. He was wearing dark blue Nike bottoms and a grey hoodie top.
Dead man, Callaghan – blood for blood.
Today, Frank Tucker was 27, hair cropped to a thin dark layer. He’d lost weight, his face now angular and tight, his frame obviously muscular beneath his well-cut dark grey suit and his open-collared blue shirt.
‘Take a seat.’
Callaghan sat down and the man who’d searched him sat somewhere behind him. An Asian waiter appeared and Tucker said, ‘What’ll you have?’
‘I’m okay,’ Danny said.
Frank Tucker made a gesture and the waiter left.
He looked at Callaghan, his face blank, for a moment. Then he said, ‘You’ve got something you want to say?’ His voice was relaxed.
‘I thought we ought to talk.’
‘Did you, now?’
No sign of tension, no evidence of hate or loathing, just mild interest. Tucker seemed relaxed, even amused. He made a hand gesture. ‘Now’s your chance. Don’t be shy.’
‘It’s been eight years.’
‘That long? How time flies.’ He smiled. ‘Or, in your case, maybe it dragged a bit.’
‘I’m sorry. What I did to your cousin – I wish it had never happened.’
Tucker tilted his head. He nodded and said, ‘There’s a lot to be sorry about.’
‘What you said, that day in the court—’
Dead man, Callaghan – blood for blood.
Tucker said, ‘Bad times, when that happened. For everyone. Brendan’s dad – my uncle – he drank a lot back then, drinks a lot more now. Used to be a man with a future. Brendan’s ma – she’s been in Swansea the past seven years, living with some young bloke.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not saying that’s all on account of what you did to Brendan. I’m just saying, when that happened, it was like something came unplugged in that family.’
‘I never meant for any of it to happen.’
‘You did what you did.’
‘Have you had someone watching me?’
Tucker made an amused grunt. ‘That’s what this is about?’
‘Some people in a blue van?’
‘Fella – I haven’t given you a thought in eight years. Your friend – Novak – when he called, said he was speaking on behalf of Danny Callaghan, I thought Danny who? Then he said it was about my cousin Brendan, and the penny dropped. When he told me you were out – eight years, he said – all I thought was, Jesus, eight years, is it that long?’
‘You threatened me. That day in court.’
‘Did I?’
‘You said you’d kill me.’
Tucker seemed surprised. ‘If I did – we were all upset, relieved it was over, pissed-off. The blood was up.’
‘You sounded like you meant it.’
‘Probably I did, at the time.’
Tucker looked beyond Danny Callaghan, as though looking into the past. ‘Brendan and me, he was, what – about fifteen years older. He saw himself as a sort of uncle, I suppose. He was my cousin and I loved him, but what Brendan did best was throw shapes. He got a swanky car, swanky clothes, jewellery, bodyguards. You could quote any line from Scarface and he’d do the whole scene for you.’ Tucker’s tone changed. ‘Too tall to be Pacino, though. Too fat, and too dumb. Brendan talked to the crime hacks from the Sunday papers, made himself out to be a big player. But everyone knew Brendan would eventually fuck up. He did a bit of boxing early on, wasn’t much good at it but he knew how to push people around. Hardly a week went by he didn’t beat the shit out of someone. No way to build a business. Attracts the wrong kind of attention. And sooner or later—’
Tucker made a face.
Danny Callaghan said, ‘All those years – in prison, I was warned, his family would get someone to do the job. Then, when I got out—’
‘If I wanted to swat you, you wouldn’t see it coming. Why would I do that? Why would I bother? Have the cops crawling all over me? Like I say, I’m a busy man these days, I’ve got a business to run – didn’t even know you were out. If I knew, it wouldn’t have meant a thing.’
Callaghan felt uncertainty mixed with relief.
Is this real, or is it bullshit?
‘What about the rest of the family?’
‘Brendan’s dad, like I say – the only way he’s going to hurt anyone is some night he’s driving home from the pub and he runs the car over some poor loser. Brendan’s kid brothers – those two, I wouldn’t worry. Dumber than Brendan ever was. Besides, they wouldn’t lift a finger without asking me, and they haven’t.’
Callaghan felt a sudden rush of anxiety – it had been stupid coming here. Just stirred things up.
‘Blood for blood, you said.’
Again, Tucker was amused. ‘Very Italian – I must have been watching The Godfather around that time. If you’d beaten the rap – probably I’d have swatted you. Me or one of Brendan’s brothers – because watching you walk away, that would have put it up to us. Going to jail, that saved your life. The time you spent in there, eight years – you got what, twelve? – that was about right for what you did.’
Tucker was at ease, he wasn’t trying too hard. He didn’t give a shit what Callaghan believed. He was just saying the way it was.
Callaghan said, ‘I appreciate you telling me this – what I mean is—’
Tucker said, ‘I think that’s that, then.’
Callaghan was about to get up. Let it be.
Then, knowing it would be unlikely he’d ever speak to Tucker again, he said, ‘One thing – I’m not dragging all this back up again, but there’s something I want you to know. About that night, with Brendan.’
Tucker didn’t seem at all curious.
‘You were wrong. I know you said what you thought was true, in court. And Brendan’
s dad, too. But you were wrong. It doesn’t matter any more, but I want you to know that. The golf club I hit him with, it wasn’t mine. I didn’t bring it to his house. It was Brendan’s. He came at me, I took it off him, he—’
Tucker nodded. ‘I gave it to him. Birthday present – he taught me the game. Bloody awful golfer, I was. Never took to it.’
Danny Callaghan stared.
‘It was part of the image he was working on – golf. Bought me membership in his local golf club – insisted on teaching me. His birthday, the one before he died, I gave him a club. The one you killed him with.’
Callaghan was breathing hard.
‘Brendan was a prick – okay, we know that – but he was my cousin.’ Tucker leaned forward. ‘You killed him. Why it happened, that doesn’t matter. As far as we were concerned, there was no way you weren’t going to spend a long time in the smelly hotel. Eight years – I think that’s about the right tab for killing my cousin.’
Danny Callaghan stood up. He turned and walked out of the nook, the bodyguard leading the way. The bodyguard held the front door open. ‘Mind how you go,’ he said.
‘Everything okay?’
Getting into the car, Danny Callaghan just nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Novak looked across and said, ‘Take your time – we’ll talk later.’
As the car started up, Danny Callaghan stared at the leaded windows with the coloured glass. Somewhere behind that glass the bastard was sitting, his mind already on something more important than eight years wasted.
‘That fucker!’
‘Take it easy’, Novak said.
‘Eight fucking years.’
‘Tell me about it when we’re clear of this place, okay?’
Chapter 21
It was dark by the time they got back to Glencara. Half a mile from the Blue Parrot, Novak pulled his Audi into the car park of St Aidan’s church and switched off the engine.
‘Okay, tell me.’
‘The golf club I killed Big Brendan Tucker with was the odd one out. It didn’t match any other club in his bag.’
‘I know all about that.’
Dark Times in the City Page 12
