He heard the plane’s undercarriage lock up into place.
Dolly Finn’s thumb worked the wheel of his iPod. It had been a while since he’d listened to the soaring tones of Johnny Hodges’s sax.
Chapter 47
The radio’s pip-pip-pip at eight o’clock was followed by the RTE newsreader announcing that two bodies had been found overnight in the wreckage of a house fire in Howth. ‘Police have confirmed that the fire appears to have been malicious.’ The newsreader handed over to the station’s crime correspondent.
‘Gardai have not named the two dead, but I understand unofficially that they were a man and a woman in their sixties. Sources say the man is known to gardai as a significant figure on the Dublin gangland scene. Preliminary examination, sources say, suggests that both victims suffered gunshot wounds.’
In a stolen car across the road from Kimmet’s Ale House, Danny Callaghan sat very still.
Mackendrick?
On the radio, the crime correspondent was saying that the burned-down house was known to belong to a crime figure whose brother, too, had been murdered some years ago.
Can’t be anyone else.
Callaghan had delivered the last of the stolen cars to the street near Kimmet’s by seven o’clock and found the nearest newsagent. Most of the front pages splashed the gang killings and the attempted bombing. He picked up four copies of the Daily Mail, went back to Wakeham Street and left the newspapers on the dashboards of the stolen cars.
Lar and his people were half an hour late. No contact, no calls. And now the news on the radio had to be about Lar Mackendrick.
It changes everything.
Stay calm.
No point trying to work out what had happened. With Mackendrick dead and the others probably scattered, they wouldn’t need the cars, they wouldn’t need him. They wouldn’t need Novak. What were the chances they’d let Novak live? Had they killed him already?
In the night, unable to sleep, running the whole thing through his head, Callaghan had tried to remember the names of the businesses he’d glimpsed when Karl and Robbie had brought him from the warehouse. It was where they’d taken Callaghan when they needed somewhere isolated. It might be where they had Novak.
Nothing else to go on.
McSomething.
Some kind of interiors warehouse – Mc—
Something.
And an outfit selling desks – he couldn’t remember the name. A building with something to do with tyres – but all he could remember was a large tattered Michelin poster.
He could find a Golden Pages, spend an hour ploughing through the listings for interiors, for office furniture, for tyres – see if anything rang a bell. If Novak was locked up somewhere, maybe hurt, he didn’t have an hour.
One last time.
It was the fifth time Karl Prowse had told himself that he’d try calling Lar Mackendrick just one last time. Karl had spent the night in the warehouse, dozing fitfully in a too-thin sleeping bag, guarding the prisoner. It was now pushing nine in the morning, and the plan to take Roly Blount’s family ought to have been well under way. Still no word from Lar.
Karl used his mobile and listened again as the call went through to Lar’s voicemail.
He tried Robbie again. Third time, same result.
Picking up the baseball bat, he crossed the floor to where the fat bar owner was sitting, his hands tied, his arms around the steel support. He shoved the thick end of the baseball bat into Novak’s face and pushed. Novak turned his head and the bat slid along his cheek.
‘Won’t be long now, barman,’ Karl said.
One more time. He took out his phone.
Novak couldn’t tell how much of his shivering was a result of the chilliness of the warehouse, and how much was due to fear.
He’d thought it through, all the permutations. First thing to go was any notion of talking his way out of it. That lump of walking gristle with the baseball bat was looking forward to killing him – it was in his eyes every time he looked down at Novak.
The only question was – would he use the baseball bat, or would he use the gun?
Novak thought of the possibility of being rescued by the police – not out of the question, but unlikely.
And the way those people talked openly in front of him, there was no possibility they’d leave him as a witness.
It’s about taking a breath.
Novak’s head was full of his father.
‘It’s about taking a breath,’ the old man had said, all that time ago.
Novak was maybe eleven or twelve, mooching about the house one rainy afternoon. He told his father he was bored.
His father looked at him, one eyebrow raised. Novak was expecting a lecture about how miserable everyone was during the war, how easy his generation had it. Instead his dad said, ‘You can breathe, can’t you?’ At the end of the day, he said, that’s what life’s really about, taking a breath. Once you can do that, you’ve got no end of choices.
‘Look at something or listen to something. Go somewhere or play something. If you can’t go anywhere, go inside your head and think of something nice. Walk, run, jump, fall over, take a nap, it’s all good. Read something, eat something, or put your arms around someone. No end of choices. Unbore yourself,’ he said.
Novak pushed the past to one side and closed his ears to the muttering of the lump of gristle, who was somewhere at the other side of the warehouse, tapping the baseball bat against something hard.
This time I’ve got—
His arms, held in place around the steel support, ached. He tried to ignore the pain. Novak pictured his wife Jane and decided that in the time he had, minutes or hours, it would all be about her, about Jeanie and Caroline and Caroline’s boys, and the things they’d have done over the next few years if this shit hadn’t happened.
McCall’s.
McCall’s Interiors.
Callaghan could see himself leaving Mackendrick’s warehouse, noticing the tyre warehouse straight ahead, something about desks on another sign, the dirty logo on the warehouse door – McCall’s Interiors.
Callaghan called one of the directory-enquiries companies. They told him there was no listing for a McCall’s Interiors.
‘McCall’s Furniture?’
‘Sorry, man.’ A young man’s voice. He sounded like he meant it.
‘McCall’s – anything that might be furnishing, interiors, decorating, stuff like that? It’s an emergency, please, it’s really serious.’
‘Doing that now, man – interior designers, interior decorators—’ Behind his voice the clicking of a keyboard. ‘Contractors, furniture, curtains – going through the lot—’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not looking good – not looking – sorry, man, nothing here.’
‘Is there—’
‘That was McCall with an M-C. Trying it again with an M-A-C.’
‘Thanks.’
After a few moments he came back, sounding like it was somehow his fault. ‘Sorry, man – nothing happening here.’
‘Thanks for trying.’ Callaghan rang off.
The police.
But the police had protocols for everything. They’d want detailed statements, with solicitors involved, upward reporting, superintendents overseeing everything – the police were all about procedure and the procedure would take hours and by then Novak might be lying in a ditch, his eyes as unseeing as Declan Roeper’s.
Callaghan’s phone rang.
It was the young guy from the directory service. He had a note of Callaghan’s number and he’d checked back through records of deleted listings. There was a McCall’s Interiors listed up to three years ago.
‘Two outlets in Tallaght, one in the city centre – and a warehouse at Carrigmore Park industrial estate—’
He was still talking as Callaghan gunned the car away from the kerb.
Karl rang again and again all he got was Lar’s voicemail.
Definitely something wrong.
Definitely.
Karl’s orders were to wait here until Lar and the others arrived.
Not going to happen.
The sensible thing to do was kill the fat barman and do a fade.
‘We keep him alive until we’re sure we don’t need him,’ Lar had said.
Karl rang Robbie’s number again and a voice at the other end said, ‘Yeah?’
‘Robbie?’
‘Yeah, who is this?’
‘I want to speak to Robbie.’
‘He can’t speak right now – who is this?’
Karl cut the call off.
Cop.
Shit.
If Robbie had been pulled, chances were that Lar too had been arrested.
Karl rang his wife.
‘Anyone looking for me?’
‘Two fellas.’
Definitely the police.
‘They still there?’
‘They just asked if you’d been home last night, then they went away.’
‘Are they watching the house?’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Are they watching the house?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why didn’t—’
‘Pack a bag for me. Just a shirt and jeans, socks and stuff. Pull out—’
‘Karl, what—’
‘Fuck sake – pull out the left-hand side drawer of the dressing table – can you remember that? The left-hand side drawer – reach underneath. There’s an envelope taped to the bottom of the drawer. Put it in the bag with the clothes. Don’t open it.’
‘Karl—’
‘Bring the bag to the corner shop. Buy something – leave the bag with the guy behind the counter, tell him – tell him you have to go out and I’m coming to collect my clothes, I’ve a job to do down the country, tell him that.’
‘Karl—’
‘Do it now. I don’t have time for messing around.’ He ended the call.
Karl turned and looked at the fat barman.
Best thing to do, no question, was plug him now. If he had to do a runner, no way was he leaving this bastard alive.
What if Lar surfaces and we need this bag of shit?
Lar’s got lawyers ready for a thing like this. They’d be all over the cops, looking for a loophole. Lar might walk. He might yet turn up, with a plan to pull this off. And that plan might need the fat barman alive.
Okay. No need to panic.
It wouldn’t take too long to collect the bag from the corner shop. And if he hadn’t heard from Lar by then, come back here, the fat fuck dies and Karl disappears.
He took Novak by the hair, pulled his head back and checked that the silver tape was secure. He smacked the barman’s face hard against the steel support and was satisfied to see a bubble of blood come from the fat fuck’s nose and run down the silver tape.
As Karl walked away he called back, ‘You said your prayers yet, barman?’
Callaghan tapped the buttons on his phone and held his breath while he listened to it ring at the other end. When his name came up on her screen, she mightn’t even—
‘What do you want?’ Hannah’s voice was cold.
Callaghan reckoned he was a mile, maybe a mile and a half, from the Carrigmore Park industrial estate. He didn’t know what he’d find there, if anything, and he needed to know if Hannah was all right. If he’d had time, it was the kind of call he’d have made while sitting at a table, after a couple of coffees and an hour of working himself up to it. He didn’t know if he’d ever again have an hour of time to do anything.
‘Are you okay?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I just need to know that you’re okay.’
When Hannah spoke, it was as though she was writing the words one by one on a blackboard, big and stark. ‘Do not ever contact me ever again.’ And she was gone.
Callaghan put the phone away, an icy wave flooding through his blood.
Somewhere, an earlier part of his life, a source of warmth to which he had stubbornly clung, was finally closing itself down. Among the emotions still simmering from the abortive call to Hannah he recognised regret, and relief. The future, whatever it was, would have to be handled on its own terms.
Always assuming that the future could be measured in anything other than minutes.
To be on the safe side, just in case someone came mooching, Karl Prowse had parked his car about forty yards from the warehouse. All the way there, the nagging thought – maybe he ought to just kill the fat bar owner now, take off and not look back. He was reaching for the ignition, still in two minds, when a car came around the old tyre warehouse, just inside the entrance to the industrial estate, Danny Callaghan at the wheel. Callaghan cut the engine, coasted to a stop and came out of the car in a hurry. At Lar’s warehouse he gently tried the handle of the smaller door set into the main door. When that didn’t work he took something from his pocket and worked on the lock.
Christmas is here early.
Karl waited until the smart bastard went inside. Then he tapped the gun tucked into his belt and strolled back down towards the warehouse.
Chapter 48
The silver tape was off Novak’s mouth. Danny Callaghan was leaning over, the Stanley knife cutting the plastic tie and releasing Novak’s hands when Novak shouted ‘Danny!’ and Callaghan turned and saw Karl Prowse coming at speed, a baseball bat at the ready.
He had time to raise an arm before the bat swung. He screamed as his right wrist took the blow and he dropped the Stanley knife and fell back.
Novak was scrambling to his feet.
Karl dropped the baseball bat and there was a gun in his hand and he pointed it at Novak’s face.
‘Sit down, hands on your head.’
Novak did as he was told, his legs stiff and awkward.
Karl bent over Danny Callaghan, who was clutching his right arm.
‘What you got here, smart bastard?’ Karl held the gun inches from Callaghan’s head. He reached down, tugged at Callaghan’s left sleeve and pulled out the carving knife.
‘Not very friendly.’
Karl threw the carving knife towards the far end of the warehouse. Then he picked up the Stanley knife and did the same. He rooted in Callaghan’s pockets, found his mobile and stamped on it until it came apart.
‘How did you find this place?’
Callaghan turned to Novak. ‘You okay?’
‘Still here.’
‘I’m sorry about this. Nothing to do with you.’
Karl was shouting. ‘How did you find this fucking place?’
Callaghan turned back to Karl. ‘You know Lar Mackendrick’s dead?’
Karl said nothing, his gun hand erratic, pointing this way and that.
‘It was on the radio – someone shot him and burned the house down. The police found two bodies.’
Karl said, ‘That’s bollocks.’
Novak lowered his hands from his head. He held them out towards Karl. ‘Look, fella, whatever this is about, holding us here’s only going to make—’
Karl shot him.
Novak knew he was on his back, he knew he’d been shot. He didn’t know if it had happened a moment ago or an hour ago. He could see Danny Callaghan leaning over him, saying something, but he couldn’t make it out.
No pain.
A rush, he could feel it in his blood.
This may be—
People get shot, they come back from it—
Uh—
It was as though a broadsword had suddenly cut a wide channel through his belly, tearing his flesh asunder. The pain enveloped him and he looked up at Danny Callaghan and he moaned and it took a moment before he realised he’d made no noise and Callaghan couldn’t hear him, it was all going dark.
Karl Prowse raised the gun and said, ‘Get away from him!’ and Danny Callaghan said, ‘Fuck off!’ and knelt beside Novak. With every movement, Callaghan’s right wrist blazed with pain.
Broken.
Novak was pale, still. Callaghan touched his t
hroat and Novak’s pulse was ragged.
‘Novak?’
No answer. His eyes were half open but it was hard to tell if he was conscious. His breathing was shallow. He’d been hit in the stomach and blood was soaking his grey shirt. Callaghan reached towards it, then stopped. He had no idea what to do.
He stood up.
‘There’s no need for this. He’s got nothing to do with anything. You’re going to kill me – so do it – get the hell out of here, call an ambulance, give him a chance.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on!’
Karl’s face was blank. ‘Any last words?’
Callaghan braced himself for the impact of the bullet, but Karl was enjoying the anticipation. Killing Callaghan would be a rush, but once he did it the fun would be over.
Karl held the gun as if he was weighing it mentally, showing Callaghan his smile.
Callaghan said, ‘You don’t even know you’re alive.’
Karl pursed his lips, eased the smirk off his face, as though it mattered to him that he be seen to be cool.
Callaghan turned away. He walked over to the sink and ran the cold tap. He watched the water hit the base of the sink, swirl and rush to the plughole. He listened to the sound it made and tried to tune out the pain in his wrist.
He felt Karl’s gaze on him and he resisted the urge to turn and face the gun. Despite the sense of horror that enveloped him, he was fairly sure that Karl wouldn’t shoot him in the back. He was the kind who wanted to see the face of his victim as the end came.
This is how I die.
Callaghan glanced at the drainer, scarred and dented but clean, like someone had taken trouble with it. Nothing in the sink except a mug, a bowl and a soup spoon. A knife or a fork might have made a difference, but probably not.
No point crying about it.
It’s what it is.
He reached down and touched the running water, let the steady, cold flow wash over his hand. He cupped his hand and carried a few drops to his lips.
As soon as he turned around Karl would shoot him and his body would become a vacant container, collapsed untidily on the floor, all life vanishing instantly, like air from a burst balloon. It was important that these moments not be lost to panic.
Dark Times in the City Page 26
