Belfast Confidential

by Bateman, Colin

  Who you gonna call?

  No one.

  Because in this day and age, who else would I get into trouble by calling them up? I could hardly wire a plug, but other people could, and if they were determined enough, would surely trace every last person I spoke to. Not that there was a huge list anyway. I'd been reasonably nice to Stephen and Patrick from work; if I needed a little help there was no real reason why they shouldn't come through. Yes, that made sense. I'd go and see them in the morning, before they left for work. Brainstorm it out. There had to be something we'd missed. Mayne and Mooney had to be working for someone. There would be a connection somewhere. Toothless had found it, and then they had found him.

  I'm not sure at what point I fell asleep. You never are. I was vaguely aware of the Newsnight music coming from the TV downstairs, and then I jolted suddenly awake and it was daylight. My neck was stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. I sat up and peered out into a misty morning.

  Mooney and Mayne's car was parked about thirty metres up on the left.

  I ducked down quickly, crawled across to the window and raised my eyes half an inch above the sill. Yes, it was definitely their car. And they were both inside.

  Christ.

  How long had they been there? And what were they waiting for?

  Then the answer presented itself – the postman, wheeling his bike along, then resting it against our gatepost. He came up the drive. Somewhere close by, Topper hissed. I crossed the bedroom on my hands and knees, then stood as I went through the door. I looked down the stairs. Two envelopes were pushed through the letter box and dropped on the floor; then a thicker, padded envelope appeared, but he had difficulty getting this one through. He pushed at it for several moments, then decided to leave it, half in, half out. He walked away.

  I hurried downstairs and picked up the two envelopes – one with the Nationwide logo, the other with bright red letters saying Competition Winner – Important! Do Not Destroy! My eyes went to the thicker item jammed in the letter box. I crouched down beside it. There was enough through the door to see that it was addressed to me. It was also franked with an official stamp – the Police Service of Northern Ireland.

  Toothless.

  He must have been aware that he was being watched and had sent a back-up copy of whatever he'd found in case anything happened to him. And they knew. Perhaps they had beaten this information out of him, or been unable to stop him putting it into the internal mail system at work.

  Whatever – there it was. Right before me. And I had to grab it. I had to know. But if I did, they would realise I was in the house. If I left it, they would surely come and retrieve it, and I could take the chance that that would satisfy them. I'd be hiding and they'd be walking away with my one chance to see the evidence Toothless had uncovered. Or they could take it, then break into the house and kill me.

  Was I a man or a mouse?

  A mouse, always.

  I stared at the envelope.

  There was a slight buzz of conversation coming from the TV in the lounge, but it was otherwise empty. Alec was gone.

  I stared some more.

  And it suddenly came to me, simplicity itself. Tear the bloody thing at one end, slip out whatever was inside, then hightail it out the back.

  I took hold of the end of it and started to tear, but almost immediately a shadow fell over the glass and two hands grabbed the other end of the envelope and pulled.

  I pulled back, hard.

  It must have come as a surprise. It slipped from Mayne or Mooney's grasp and I fell backwards, pulling the envelope right through the box, ripping it on both sides. I jumped to my feet and tore down the hall and into the kitchen. Behind me, the front door exploded off its hinges. I yanked the back door open – and saw Mooney hurrying up the garden. I slammed the door again and darted to my left. There were two entrances to the kitchen, one through the lounge and another along the hall. As Mayne pursued me through the lounge, I doubled back along the hall, heading for space where the front door used to be.

  Or at least, I thought he was pursuing me.

  Instead he had doubled back himself, and we virtually collided at the end of the hall. He was big and strong and trained in unarmed combat, and I ate a lot of crisps. There was only ever going to be one winner. He slammed me hard against the wall, thumped me once in the stomach, then grabbed my T-shirt and threw me into the lounge. I virtually bounced off our expensive, deeply shagged carpet. As was I. Mayne stood over me, and was joined very quickly by Mooney.

  'You stupid fucker, Starkey,' Mayne growled.

  I was gasping for air.

  Mooney crouched beside me and lifted the envelope where it had fallen. He removed a half-inch of a videotape, nodded at Mayne, then slipped it back in.

  'You were told to keep your nose out,' said Mayne, 'and now we've got no alternative.'

  'There's always . . . an alternative,' I wheezed. 'Have . . . thirty years of Troubles . . . taught you . . . nothing?'

  I was playing for time, but badly out of tune.

  Mooney kicked me hard.

  'You were . . . were supposed to be the good one . . .' I stammered.

  'Yeah, right,' he growled, and kicked me again.

  'You know,' said Mayne, 'killing a colleague is a real mindfucker. But killing you is going to be such fun.'

  He pulled his foot back for another kick – then stopped. He'd noticed that his colleague was slowly raising his hands. Mayne turned, rather bizarrely balancing on one foot, which he then slowly lowered, just as he raised his own hands.

  I blinked through the pain at the figure standing in the doorway.

  Alec Large.

  His coat on, ready to leave, his hands in his pockets – and his extraordinarily large and drugged-up penis pressing against the front of his coat and forcing it out, like he had a gun concealed in there. He looked as surprised as they did. But they only had eyes for the pistol in his pocket. Which was actually in my pocket, upstairs.

  'What on earth is—?' Alec began.

  I kicked out hard against the back of Mayne's legs, wincing at the pain of the effort. But he was taken by surprise and collapsed down. Mooney took a step backwards. 'Don't shoot,' he said.

  'What?' said Alec, blissfully unaware. But then he made the mistake of taking his hands out of his pockets.

  I didn't give Mooney time to think. I forced myself up and charged into him, knocking him backwards. As he fell, Mayne tried to get up, so I gave him another hard shove. He rolled over and I jumped on him, both feet. He groaned. I groaned. He tried to get up. I pinned him back down; I pushed my hand into his jacket pocket and drew out his gun.

  Alec's mouth was hanging open. 'What the fuck is happening?'

  Mooney pushed himself up. I held his partner's gun on him, then spread it a little to cover them both.

  I didn't look at Alec, but I said, 'I thought you went home.'

  'Nah, I've been stuck in the bog for hours. You're out of toilet roll.'

  'Noted.'

  'Do you want to tell me what . . .?'

  'Later,' I said. I knelt and picked up the envelope. I gave it a little shake. 'Anything good?' I asked.

  'We're going to fucking get you, Starkey,' said Mayne. 'This isn't over.'

  'I know,' I said, 'it's just the commercial break. See ya later, alligator.'

  I backed out of the lounge, taking Alec with me.

  I didn't much like leaving them in the house, but I wasn't about to shoot them. I wasn't that desperate. Not yet. I tossed Alec the car keys, then held the gun on the front door while he got it started. Then I jumped in, and Alec reversed at speed down the drive.

  As we hit the road, Alec pulled the wheel hard left, then slammed on the brakes and threw the car into first. Mooney and Mayne appeared through the open door as Alec gunned the engine again and we heaved forward.

  There was a sudden thump and squeal and he slammed on the brakes again. A moment later Topper, having been hurled into the air, splatted down onto
the windscreen. Blood and guts and fur obscured the view.

  'Just fucking go!' I yelled, and Alec hit the pedal again. I caught a glimpse of Mooney and Mayne in the mirror, racing for their own car. As we approached the corner, Alec fumbled for the windscreen wipers in this unfamiliar car. I stretched across and flicked them on. Topper went back and forth, and back and forth, then as we rounded the corner on two wheels, he fell off.

  42

  Alec thought it was all very exciting. I'd left his gun in the house, upstairs in my jacket. He said that was okay, it didn't work anyway. It was a replica. May Li had recruited an idiot. He wanted to know who was who, and what was what, and I told him patience was a virtue. I directed Alec into a BP garage and instructed him to purchase coffee and sausage rolls. He climbed out, then put his hands in his pockets as he approached the shop, doing his best to cover up the evidence of his Viagra overdose. He seemed to appreciate being given precise orders to follow, although probably to a lesser extent when he emerged to find that I'd driven off. He was a nice enough fella, when you got talking to him, but he was also thick as a plank and embarrassing to be seen with, given the state of his pants. He was fairly harmless, but I didn't want him to end up dead.

  I called Stephen's mobile. 'Are you away to work yet?' I asked.

  'I'm just going out the door now.'

  'Well, don't. Stay there. Give me your address.'

  'Dan – I'm sorry, but I don't work for you any more.'

  'You don't want in on the biggest story of your life, then?'

  He hesitated. 'What story?'

  'Give me the address.'

  He gave it. It was in North Belfast, up past Carlisle Circus. It had been a dangerous place to live in the old days; now you could hardly afford to live there. A second-floor apartment. I parked outside and he buzzed me up. The door was open. There was modern art on the walls and the smell of fresh flowers. It was all open-plan. Stephen was wearing black jeans and a jersey and standing a little awkwardly by a breakfast bar. He glanced towards the bedroom. Patrick, wearing a blue towelling bathrobe, was in there, fixing his hair in a mirror.

  'Okay,' said Stephen, 'the secret's out.'

  'Believe me,' I said, 'it was never in.'

  Stephen got coffee. I said, 'So how's the new boss?' and he rolled his eyes.

  Patrick emerged within a minute, pushing his T-shirt into blue jeans, then smoothing down his damp hair. 'So, what's all this about?' he asked.

  I reached inside my jacket and produced the torn envelope. I removed the videotape and held it out. 'This,' I said. 'Someone got murdered trying to deliver it to me last night.'

  They exchanged glances.

  'That cop?' I nodded. 'Yeah – heard it on the news this morning,' said Patrick. 'They haven't released his name yet. Beaten to death. Shit.'

  'So?' I shook it at them again. Stephen took it. He crossed to the video recorder and ejected a tape. He made a point of not letting me see what they'd been watching together. He placed it face down above the machine and slipped my one in. He handed the controls to Patrick and sat back down on a sofa. A moment later the picture came onscreen: passers-by outside the old Belfast Confidential office, taken from a high angle, probably from the insurance company HQ next door. I was used to CCTV footage being black and white and poor quality; this was crystal clear and in full colour. There was a time-code running on the bottom left-hand corner. It showed it to be 9.45 on the night of Mouse's murder. I had called Mouse's mobile at 7.25 and spoken to a stranger. Then I'd left several messages. At ten I'd decided to drive down to gee him up, arriving ten minutes later when the fire was already raging. So, hopefully between the start of the tape, and the start of the fire, something would show up. The temptation, of course, was to scroll forward, but I insisted on it being played out in real time.

  We sat, glued.

  Hookers drifted in and out. Cars stopped, started. Kids drove past, yelling insults; the girls screamed back, harsher, wittier.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Then.

  We were seventeen minutes into it when a man emerged from the Belfast Confidential office. He was wearing a grey suit, appeared tall and quite thin, but he walked with his head down – until just a moment before he moved out of frame, a car honked its horn and the man instinctively looked up.

  'Freeze it!' I yelled.

  We missed it. Patrick rewound, then let it play again. This time he nailed it. The man. The face.

  Matthew Rye, Project Manager for Ryan Auto.

  43

  We kept his face like that, frozen on the screen, while we walked back and forth and around, debating the possibilities.

  'So he pays an after-hours visit, when Mouse is alone, and he kills him. Cops on the take try to stop the tape getting out.' Stephen nodded to himself. 'We take this as read?'

  'It would seem that way,' I said.

  'You're not convinced?'

  'Well, if I've learned anything, it's that life is twisty-turny. Until he signs his confession I won't be completely convinced. Say ninety per cent right now. But if for the moment we say yeah, then, why? Why kill Mouse?'

  'Well,' said Stephen, 'perhaps Mouse was gay but hid it better than we do. They were having a fling, they were into bondage, it got out of hand, Mouse died, Matthew Rye decides to torch the place, he calls in Belfast's Gay Police Mafia to protect him.'

  Patrick cleared his throat. 'You're projecting your fantasies again, Stephen.'

  'And Mouse didn't have a gay bone in his body,' I added.

  'That's what I said,' said Stephen, 'and look at me now. And even if it is a fantasy, is it any less likely that it's a lovers' tiff rather than some kind of super-conspiracy?'

  'Who mentioned a superconspiracy?' asked Patrick.

  'We're getting there,' said Stephen. Then he glanced at me. 'Aren't we?'

  I nodded. We were, and we could have spent the next forty days and nights batting around the different scenarios, but we were hampered by a lack of useful information. 'We need to find out more about Matthew Rye,' I said. 'Who he is, where he's from, what exactly he does, where he eats, drinks, does his shopping, who he screws, if he screws. Everything. All right?'

  I looked from one to the other.

  'We're due in work . . . five minutes ago,' said Patrick.

  'This is more important,' I said.

  'I know it's more important,' said Stephen, 'but it's our job.'

  'We could phone in sick,' said Patrick.

  'Both of us?'

  'Well, when I get the flu, you certainly get it. Besides, Brian Kerr is such a wanker, he's destroying that place. I could do with a day off.' He glanced at me. 'Not that it would be a day off. You know he's postponed the Power List?'

  'I didn't, but I presumed he would. Okay, then, make your calls, and let's get to work.'

  Patrick gave me the thumbs-up. 'Yes indeedy,' he said. 'Woodward and Bernstein, watch out!'

  Stephen smiled beside him. 'Absolutely,' he beamed. 'Forget yer Watergate, this is . . . Ryegate!'

  I cleared my throat. 'Isn't that a small town in—'

  'Fuck that!' exclaimed Patrick. 'It's fucking Ryegate from here on in!'

  They were young and enthusiastic, and not yet beaten down by the horrors of life. It was still early in the day, though.

  I used the phone in their bedroom. Patrick sat with his mobile in the lounge and Stephen sat at the kitchen table, using his laptop to track Matthew Rye on the internet. Once in a while we emerged to compare notes. Gradually a picture emerged. He was a member of Past Masters, but according to the guest book not a regular visitor. He wasn't married. He was born in Chicago, raised in New York. A profile of Ryan Auto staff included with the initial press pack showed that he attended and graduated from Harvard Business School.

  'That's what it says,' Patrick said from the bedroom doorway 'except Harvard has no record of him.' He raised an eyebrow and went back to work.

  About noon Stephen let out
a delighted 'Bingo! I love you, Google!' and we rushed out to find him drumming on the table. He finished with a flourish, and went: 'Ta-da!' before pointing at the screen and saying, 'Am I great or am I not?'

  Onscreen was a newspaper article culled from the archives of the Miami Herald. It was a five-year-old report of a court case in which three Miami residents were acquitted on charges of racketeering and money-laundering. One of the three was named as a Matt Rye, an ex-Green Beret. The case against them had collapsed due to the non-appearance of a crucial witness who had, according to the local DA, 'disappeared without trace'.

  'Interesting,' I said, 'but who's to say it's the same—'

  Stephen pressed another button. 'Voilà!'

  A second, earlier report appeared, filed at the time of the original arrest, but this time also showing photographs of the three men. One of them was undeniably Matthew Rye. Younger, of course, slightly more ragged-looking, but definitely him.

  Stephen rubbed his hands together excitedly. 'Have you any idea how many web pages for Matthew Ryes there are out there? Thousands! Luckily most of them are about a musician with the BBC Symphony Orchestra. So this one stuck out a mile.'

  Patrick put a hand on Stephen's shoulder and squeezed.

  'Well done,' I said, 'but what does it tell us? He was arrested, not convicted. He's innocent.'

  'Bollocks!' Stephen exploded. 'It more or less says the chief witness was disappeared. He's a gangster. And he was in the Army, a Green Beret, so he knows how to kill people. And we already know he never went to Harvard Business School. He's up to his neck in it, Dan.'

  'In what?'

  'This!'

  'This what?'

  'This this.'

  I was playing Devil's Advocate. 'Go on.'

  Stephen glanced at Patrick, who gave him a nod of encouragement. 'Well, isn't it clear? Matthew Rye cons his way into Ryan Auto, with his fake degree from Harvard and who knows what else kind of shit, with the intention of fleecing money out of the company. He gets sent here to oversee the project, he has a huge budget, he's thousands of miles from Jacintha Ryan, so he thinks he's free to milk the company, maybe use his previous experience to launder the money. Except Mouse somehow finds out about it, and gets killed for his trouble. Matthew Rye's worried that the information might have been passed on to you, so he tries to take you out as well, but gets Liam Miller instead. Plus he's got enough company money to throw around to buy himself some protection from the police as well.' He gave a little bow. 'I rest my case, Your Honour.'