Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  I nodded.

  There was a wake afterwards in Past Masters. Bouncers on the door, a guest list. A buffet was laid on and most of the faces turned up. And for the extra-special ones, there was a roped-off VIP enclosure. Patrick O'Brien waved me through, but wouldn't allow Alec Large to follow.

  'We let him in, we gotta let them all – there wouldn't be room to move. You're perfectly safe.'

  Alec didn't look happy about it, but that didn't matter. It had already been three days, and I was beginning to feel as claustrophobic with him as I had with Liam. The difference was that Alec wasn't camp, and he was prepared to take a bullet for me. Liam hadn't been given any option at all about his head exploding.

  Once inside I swapped small talk with Power Listers and would have felt warm about their urging me not to give up on the magazine or the list if I hadn't suspected that one of them was behind both Mouse's murder and Liam's accidental execution. I noticed that nobody cared to chat with me for too long, in case sudden and bloody death was catching.

  I sipped a beer and found myself standing by three sullen-looking lads who seemed vaguely familiar. They were blond and muscular and wore tight T-shirts to prove it, although they were black out of deference to the deceased. They kept muttering amongst themselves and casting evil looks across the room at Kieren Kitt, so it wasn't hard to figure out that they formed the remnants of West Bell.

  'So,' I said, 'do you see much of old Kieren then?'

  'Not if we can help it,' one snapped. I wasn't sure of his name, or of any of the others'. The girls screaming outside the club might once have known their names but they'd chosen to stick with Kieren and condemned these good-looking boys to the eternal hell of boy-band obscurity. Still, they were in the VIP enclosure at a funeral, so life wasn't a total barrel of shit for them.

  I explained who I was and one said, 'The Power List thing. Yeah, right. We were number seventeen two years ago.'

  I said it was before my time.

  'We'll be back,' said the third. 'We're working on new material right now. Then he'll be fucking laughing on the other side of his face.'

  From where I was standing, Kieren wasn't laughing at all. He sat at a small table, with a cute-looking girl in a black mini-skirt. He still had his hat on, and now that he was indoors he'd added a set of sunglasses. They were probably designer, though for the life of me I'd never been able to figure out exactly what designing needed to go into sunglasses. Or glasses. Or hats. Perhaps it was just a reaction to Liam's death. Through no fault of my own I'd robbed the world of his designing, psychiatric, gardening and self-empowering talents, so there was bound to be a little backlash.

  I chatted to the boys for another five minutes, then wandered around the rest of the enclosure, introducing myself and accepting free drinks. They were going on Liam's mother's tab. But what the hell, she could afford it. She'd lost a guru, but gained a fortune. I nodded at Matthew Rye, but he seemed disinclined to talk; he nodded curtly and returned his attention to Eddie Irvine. Terry Breene said hello, and then rested his head on the bar. One of the blonde waitresses asked him if he wanted to lie down, then led him away upstairs, and neither of them returned. A lot of people were talking about the upcoming Masked Ball, as if Liam Miller's funeral was merely another occasion on their packed social calendar, and the Ball was the next. I was asked half a dozen times what I'd be wearing and who I was taking, and was it proper protocol to ask guests to remove their masks to have their photos taken for the magazine, because surely no one would buy the next issue just to see a lot of archaic masks and fancy ballgowns. There was much speculation about Jacintha Ryan, about whether she'd had plastic surgery, or who she was in love with, where she'd next be spreading her money around and what sort of an entrance she planned to make. And everyone had their name down for a Jet, except for those who thought it was crass and vulgar.

  When I'd had enough of smiling through clenched teeth I tapped Alec over the VIP rope and he spun on his heel, ready to cleave my head off. I said, 'Relax. I was thinking it's time to go back to the office.'

  He said, 'We should wait until the crowd outside disperses. They're mostly teenage girls, but there's enough civilians out there to make it dangerous. I don't want anyone taking a pot shot at you.'

  I said, 'I have to get back to work.'

  'I wouldn't advise leaving the building.'

  'Nevertheless.'

  He took a deep breath. 'All right. You wait here – I'll go and get the car. I'll park by the front door, but don't leave the building until I come and get you, okay?'

  'Okay,' I said.

  'No, really – okay?'

  'Okay. Christ All Mighty'

  Alec hurried away. I did some more chatting, then found myself standing by Kieren Kitt's table. I gave it a playful knock with my knuckles and told him who I was and that my office had been in touch about setting up a meeting but he didn't even bother to look up. 'This is a fucking funeral, man, let it go.'

  I said, 'I hear you worked closely with Liam.'

  'I said let it go.'

  'I'm not interviewing you, I'm just making small talk.'

  He looked up. He removed his sunglasses. His eyes were small and bold. 'I'm Kieren Kitt,' he snarled. 'I don't do fucking small talk.'

  'Can I get you a sausage roll?' I asked.

  He began to look about him. His personal bodyguard was on the other side of the rope like all the others, but he was too busy chatting up a canapé waitress to notice.

  'Did you ever meet Mouse – you know, he ran Belfast Confidential before me?'

  Kieren glared at me. The girl in the mini-skirt patted his hand. He looked down at her, and his face softened a little. 'No, I didn't, now—'

  'He was murdered a couple of weeks ago.'

  'Yes, I heard.'

  'He was going to put you into the Power List – you have any problem with that?'

  Kieren laughed disdainfully. 'Listen mate, I'm a star in Germany, France, Spain, Denmark, Sweden, Holland, Switzerland. You name it, I'm a fucking star there, so why would I give a shit about your poky little Power List?'

  'America,' I said.

  'What?'

  'You're not a star in America.'

  'Oh fuck off.'

  He meant it, but I stayed where I was, with a bottle of Bud held close to my lips for fresh breath confidence. He sat fuming, his fists balled tight. He was Monkey-Davy small, and I wasn't overly concerned. If he made a move I could run and hide in the toilets.

  'The boys say hello.' I nodded across the floor of the VIP enclosure. They were still staring across.

  Kieren slipped his sunglasses back on. 'They put you up to this?'

  'No.'

  'I know what they're saying. And if you print a word about the gay thing, I'll sue you for every fucking penny you have now or ever will have, do you hear me?'

  'Actually, they were just saying how much they missed you.'

  He hesitated then. 'Seriously?'

  'Yeah. They were hoping you'd write some songs for them, seeing as how you're multi-talented in that department.'

  His eyes narrowed. 'You're taking the fucking piss, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' I said.

  His eyes returned to the security rope, and this time he made eye-contact with his bodyguard. Kieren pointed at me and made a cutting action across his throat.

  The bodyguard stepped over the rope.

  'Wise up,' I said. The bodyguard kept coming. I took several steps in the opposite direction. 'Seriously,' I said.

  'You fucking wanker,' Kieren growled. Usually it was water off a duck's back, but there was a huge skinhead who'd just been blown off by a canapé waitress coming for me so I slipped sharply to my right and ducked down behind Liam Miller's mother. I heard Kieren shout, 'Find him and fucking deck him!' Discretion being the better part of valour, I stayed in my crouched position and hurried back towards the security rope like a hunchback on a promise. As I stepped over it, I straightened and noted that my evasive manoeuvres had w
orked perfectly, apart from the fact that his bodyguard was coming straight for me.

  I crouched down again. I made it safely across the club floor by ducking and diving through the still happily drinking mourners, then darted down the stairs, taking them three at a time. As I reached the bottom, the bodyguard arrived at the top.

  I stepped out into the early evening gloom. The waiting teenagers didn't even pay me the courtesy of mistaking me for their gorgeous hero by letting out a few hopeful screams. I struggled manfully on. Alec flashed his lights and a moment later pulled up beside me. I dived into the back and we eased away from the kerb just as Kieren Kitt's massive bodyguard appeared in the doorway. He glared after me. I gave him the fingers, and was just smiling contentedly as I turned to settle myself in my seat, when I realised it wasn't my seat, nor indeed my car. A man in the front passenger seat was already turned back towards me. He extended his hand.

  'Christopher Corcoran,' he said, 'but you can call me Concrete.'

  26

  I said, 'I'm sorry, I appear to—'

  'You were wanting to interview me.'

  'Was I?'

  'Your office called.'

  'Did they?'

  I had in fact instructed Mary, and advised Stephen and Patrick, that I wanted to follow in Mouse's footsteps by interviewing all of the potential candidates for the new Power List, but I had also taken it as read that this wasn't to include a notorious gangster like Concrete Corcoran. I was more than happy to compile his entry from gossip and innuendo. I mean, I might have been a fearless journalist, but I wasn't stupid.

  I said, 'Well, this is hardly the best time. Perhaps I could find a window . . .'

  'This suits me fine.'

  'Okay,' I said.

  I hardly recognised him, despite the fact that I'd flicked through half a dozen photos of him just a few days before. They'd all been snatched, grainy efforts, because he wasn't the type to stand and pose, but the best of the bunch – which I was going to use to illustrate his entry on the Power List – showed a somewhat rotund, balding farmer-type in overalls who looked about as threatening as any rotund, balding farmer-type can. The man in front of me was neither rotund nor balding. He had on a smart suit, and even though he was sitting down it didn't look like there was an ounce of excess fat on him. Of course the photos we had might have been taken a long time ago. And you can sort your weight. And your clothes. Which left the hair. He had lots of it. You don't recover from baldness. It doesn't grow back.

  'I thought we'd go down to the farm, and have a chat.'

  I reached for my mobile and said, 'I should let the office know. I've people waiting to hear from me.'

  He looked at my phone. 'Is that one of the new ones?'

  'I'm not sure, I got it for Christmas.'

  'Let me see.' He clicked his fingers, motioning for me to give it to him. So I did. He turned it over and examined it. He gave a little shrug, then opened his window and threw it out. I couldn't hear it clattering away, but my eyes followed it, receding into the distance, like hope. He smiled back at me. 'Do you know if you murder someone, the cops can trace you right to the murder scene even if you're not using the fucking thing? I'll get you a new one. State of the art. That was a piece of crap.'

  'Okay,' I said.

  We were already on the motorway heading out of the city. The driver was wearing a dark blue denim jacket and when he glanced at me in the mirror his eyes were full of – what was it? Glee?

  'So you're the new boss of Belfast Confidential.'

  'I wouldn't say boss.'

  'Well, you edit it and you own half of it.'

  'I don't own any of it yet.'

  'Not what I heard.'

  I cleared my throat and fixed my eyes on the passing countryside. There was no chance at all of throwing myself from the vehicle. We were travelling far too fast, for a start. There was also the fact that Concrete Corcoran could merely stop the vehicle, and then reverse over my already mangled body. And there were child locks.

  'I understand I'm being considered for your Power List,' he went on.

  'Well. There's a lot of people being considered.'

  'But I'm on some kind of a short list.'

  I nodded. There was no point in denying it, my loyal staff having already clearly given the game away.

  'I'd be interested in what you have to say. It's important to get your facts right. Would you be running a photograph?'

  'I haven't decided. Would you – prefer not?'

  'Not at all. There are a lot of photographs out there, one more won't make any difference. But I don't look like most of them any more. Do you know what I mean?'

  'I do,' I said. 'Perhaps we could take a new one.'

  'God Bless Him,' said Concrete.

  It sat in the air for a while, until eventually curiosity got the better of me. 'Who?'

  'The blessed soul we just buried.'

  I cleared my throat and said, 'You were there?'

  'Of course I was. And isn't it a powerful testament to his abilities that not a critter recognised me?'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'He transformed my life. Put me on a diet. Sorted out my wardrobe. And guess what else?'

  According to my info he was in his mid-fifties, but he looked perhaps fifteen years younger. His skin was smooth, and there were no obvious sags or bags, or crows' feet.

  'Your hair.'

  'Implants. And Botox for my face. If I ever catch up with the cunt that killed him, I'll fucking kill him.'

  I'd been working on the theory that Concrete Corcoran, being the only outlaw on my list, was the natural suspect. But if, as it appeared, he wasn't averse to appearing on the Power List, and was already well used to bad publicity, then what reason could he have had for killing Mouse? And if he'd been behind the attempt to kill me, then he would already know who'd killed Liam and wouldn't need to issue threats against him. This actually made me feel a bit better, but only for as long as it took me to think about people who protested their innocence too much, and about his record, which was second to none.

  'Maybe we could stop at Newry or somewhere, for dinner?' I suggested.

  'There's plenty to eat at the farm. Besides, there's something I want to show you.'

  'Okay. No problemo.'

  Concrete took his own mobile out and began to talk to someone. I could hear what he was saying, but it was so inane that I had to presume that he was talking in some kind of code. He used words like wine, and cheese, that set my mind racing.

  Wine . . . red wine . . . blood . . . cheese . . . grater . . . what a way to go.

  When he finished I leaned forward and said quietly, 'I have appointments this evening in Belfast.'

  'Cancel them,' said Concrete.

  'Okay,' I said. I sat back. Then I sat forward again and said, 'I have no phone.'

  He glanced back at me, then rolled his eyes and passed me his. 'Make it quick,' he said. 'I'm not made of money.'

  Actually, he probably was.

  I called Mary and asked her to cancel my appointments.

  'You don't have any,' she said. 'I'm just on my way home.'

  'I know it's inconvenient, but just cancel them.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'They weren't set in stone, anyway.'

  'What?'

  'Sorry . . . I'm losing the signal. I said, they weren't definite, they weren't concrete.'

  'I'm sorry, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Are you drunk?'

  'Mary . . .'

  'Please hold, there's another call.' She clicked off.

  'I'll only be a moment,' I said to the back of Concrete's head. 'She's put me on hold.'

  I took advantage of this to cut the line and scroll through his phone book. He was certainly well-connected. I found Terry Breene's name, then Liam Miller's, then Mouse's. I took a deep breath, and kept rolling.

  Jacintha Ryan's. In New York.

  I exited from the phone book, then tutted. 'Lost the bloody line. Still, sh
e got the message. Here.'

  I handed Concrete his phone. He slipped it wordlessly into his jacket pocket. We were off the motorway by now, moving along narrow, unlit country roads. In the old days many of them, leading across the border, would have been blasted closed by the Army, but they were all open now, and almost impossible to police. The skinhead driver roared around sharp corners with all the confidence of a boy racer on e.

  We finally skidded to a halt in front of a set of high metal gates; security cameras blinked down at us, and then the gates began to open inwards. We drove up a winding driveway until Concrete Corcoran's impressively large and floodlit house came into view. Along with the warehouses and tennis court and vast barn and covered swimming pool was a circle of concrete which could just have been a patio, but looked more like a helicopter landing pad.

  I said, 'Nice farm.'

  The driver snorted.

  I was led into a long, wide lounge with plush carpets and a projector bolted into the ceiling which was beaming pristine pictures of EastEnders onto a twelve-foot screen. A middle-aged woman with a blonde bob and an ash tray on her lap hardly even looked up from a black leather couch as we entered.

  'Nice lounge,' I said.

  Behind me, the driver snorted. Concrete leaned over the back of the couch and kissed the blonde on the top of her head. She gave a half-smile, but didn't take her eyes off the screen. 'I'm taping it for you,' she said.

  'Are you sure you're taping the right channel?'

  'Of course I am.'

  'Just checking.'

  He signalled for me to follow him. So I did. I smiled at the woman, whom I took to be his wife, but she didn't notice. It could have been any lounge, in any house, in any country. The only difference lay in what Concrete was now or had once been. He was a smuggler. A counterfeit artist. A bandit. He was IRA. He killed and he bombed. Not always with his own hands, but he directed it. It had always surprised and confused me when I discovered the crushing ordinariness of terrorists' daily lives. They held down normal jobs, they came home at night and watched soap operas and wrote cheques for electricity bills. Except that instead of saying to their wives, 'I'm just popping down to the shops,' they said, 'I'm just popping down to blow up the shops.' But their wives would still keep nodding, and keep watching EastEnders.