We had the tape, we had Matthew Rye's dodgy background, and we had a lot of presumptions about what might have happened. The tape was enough to put him with Mouse close to the time of the fire; it certainly wasn't evidence of his having been involved in the murder, but this was Belfast: people had been convicted of a lot worse on a lot less. And clearly he had lied to get the job with Ryan Auto. Even though he had not been convicted of anything in the States, even to be accused of such serious offences would cause any company with an eye on its corporate image to run a mile.
The question was, what to do with this information?
Mooney and Mayne had withheld the tape, and murdered Toothless. But who was to say they were the only cops who'd been bought off? We still needed to get it out there, it was just a matter of deciding on the best method. There was the local TV news, or the radio, perhaps my old newspaper, the Belfast Telegraph – or all of them at the same time. We needed to set up a press conference. No chance of anyone burying it then. I suggested this.
Patrick and Stephen, sitting on a black leather sofa, both shook their heads.
'Dan, we work for Belfast Confidential. That's where we're taking it.'
'Oh no.'
'You brought the story to us – as soon as you walked through that door it became a Belfast Confidential story.'
'Bollocks. It's my story. I only asked for your help.'
'Yes, as Belfast Confidential reporters.'
'No I didn't, I asked you as friends.'
They smiled. 'We're not your friends, Dan. We're your colleagues.'
'Ex-colleagues, at that,' added Patrick.
'It's an important difference,' said Stephen. 'Don't get me wrong, Dan, we like you, but that's not why you're here or why we let you in. You gave us the story. If you were thinking anything else, you should have said right from the off. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.'
I shook my head. 'It's my tape.'
'Dan, let's not be childish over this. It's not your tape. It's a stolen tape.'
'Yeah, right,' I said. I stood up and made to cross to the video recorder. And would have made it, if Stephen and Patrick hadn't beaten me to it. They blocked my way. I laughed and said, 'Wise up.'
I tried to push past them.
They pushed me back.
'Come off it, will ya?'
I went for it again.
Patrick chopped me across the throat.
Stephen punched me in the stomach.
As I crumpled down, Patrick chopped me across the back of my neck.
'Just because we're fruits,' said Stephen, standing over me, 'it doesn't mean we can't protect ourselves, or our gear.'
'Black belts in karate, each of us,' said Patrick.
'It's a jungle out there,' said Stephen.
When I eventually got my breath back, and they'd given me a cool drink and a bit of a massage, they led me to the front door. They were very apologetic. As I stood on their doormat, Patrick squeezed my arm. 'We want to thank you for this, Dan, and we'll acknowledge your contribution.'
'Absolutely,' said Stephen.
'We couldn't just allow you to take it like that. You came to us.'
'Be careful out there, Dan,' said Stephen.
Then they closed the door.
I sat down on the stairs, trying to get my bearings. The back of my neck still ached, and there was a dull throb in my head. My already bruised ribs were in shock. Something had gone badly wrong, and I was too giddy to quite work out what it was. I had arrived full of hope and now I was sitting on a dusty step. I'd thought there was some light at the end of the tunnel, but instead I'd manoeuvred myself into a position where I could get beaten up by two gay reporters with ambition.
I pushed myself up. Perhaps I was thinking too negatively. Getting beaten up had always gone with the territory, and what difference did it really make if they had the tape? Matthew Rye would be exposed, and once it was in the public eye the police would have no choice but to arrest him for Mouse's murder.
That was why I'd started this thing.
For my friend Mouse.
And now he could rest in peace, and I could just rest.
Perfect.
It was all over bar the shouting.
Really.
44
I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.
I wanted to go and tell Mouse that the end was in sight, but May Li had had him cremated, and I had no idea where she'd scattered the ashes. I couldn't go home in case my cop friends were waiting for me. Nor was there any prospect of being able to until Belfast Confidential published its exclusive. I just needed to keep out of everyone's way until then.
Although, of course, it wasn't in my nature to do so. And there were other things I could have been doing. The boys might have my tape, which was the hard evidence tying Matthew Rye to Mouse's murder, but all the other stuff about him – the fake qualifications and the racketeering charges – that was all still out there. I could gather it in again fairly quickly, but what was the point in taking it elsewhere? If it got out, it might only encourage him to go on the run, and I couldn't have that. No, best to wait until all the evidence was presented together in Belfast Confidential. I'd been outmanoeuvred and beaten up again, but curiously I didn't feel too bad about it. Patrick and Stephen kind of reminded me of how I was when I was young. Not gay. But wildly ambitious and absolutely certain that I was in the right. Let them be the focus of attention now. I'd had my time in the spotlight, and didn't like it. Move on, hand over that poisoned chalice to the next generation. I also had to admit that despite my ignoble sacking from Belfast Confidential, I did retain some fondness for it. It was onto its third Editor in as many weeks; if it was to prosper it needed to show that it was still made of the same stuff, and this was just the kind of story to prove that. So Brian Kerr was a bit of an arse. He was still enough of a reporter to recognise the power of the story he would shortly have in his hands. He might not exploit it with all the flair and imagination I would have shown, but he didn't need to. It was a big enough story to make it on its own.
So I drove for a while. I bought Diet Pepsi and sausage rolls and a bag of Jelly Beans. I sat in a lay-by and scoffed them. I phoned Trish, but she was out. It was kind of a relief, because I didn't want to explain to her how I was up to my neck in bad guys again, and why, by association, she was too. I left a message on her phone telling her to stay where she was for the next few days, and then everything would be fine. Then I switched mine off so she couldn't respond.
I couldn't go home, so I checked into a small guest-house in South Belfast. The landlady, Mrs Watson, three chins, and eyes like Puffawheats, smiled when she saw me coming and said, 'Thrown you out again, has she?' I nodded, and she showed me to my usual room. 'How long this time?' I shrugged. She said she'd had to put the price up since last time, but on the plus side, she now had over one hundred digital channels on the TV.
She did too.
And a TV in every room.
The only problem was that, whenever she switched channels downstairs, every TV in the house did as well. I was trying to take my mind off things, trying to relax, but every time I got engrossed in some movie, away the channel went: she liked shopping on QVC.
I did my own shopping in late-night, out-of-the-way supermarkets. I bought fresh clothes and paperback books and beer and built a little nest for myself. My resolve not to contact Trish again failed completely, very quickly. I missed her. She ranted and raved, but understood. Eventually. She wanted me to come to her, but I resisted the temptation. I was a shit-magnet. We both knew it. If I went, somehow they would find me. So I stayed put. I read. I slept. I did a push-up. I suffered hangovers. I watched the local news, but there wasn't much happening. Police were still looking into the murder of Toothless Malone, and had staged a reconstruction. I caught a glimpse of both Mayne and Mooney overseeing it. It looked pretty accurate. But then they had the inside track. Nobody had come forward with any new information. It was probably out there, b
ut old habits die hard in Belfast.
Another night I saw a feature on how Belfast City Hall was being transformed for the Masked Ball which would serve as the official launch of the Ryan Jet project; an interview followed with First Minister Frank Galvin outside a Social Security office in West Belfast which had been deluged with applications for employment at the new auto factory. He hoped that as many people as possible would attend the official ground-breaking ceremony at the factory site the day after the Ball, and help make it into a memorable, nay historic, event. 'People talk about the peace dividend,' he said, 'but this is more than that – it's the peace jackpot. Not only will Ryan Auto transform this part of Belfast, it will lure other companies to our city it will attract investment and jobs and help to raise both our standard of living and quality of life.'
And then there were shots of Galvin being shown the site – by Project Manager Matthew Rye.
Rye looked confident, plausible, very much at home in the public eye.
I wondered if he had any idea at all that he was so close to being exposed.
Probably not.
If they kept to the usual schedule, Brian Kerr and his team would now be putting the finishing touches to the next issue of Belfast Confidential. Then it would be two days at the printers, and straight onto the streets.
I kind of hoped that the big story didn't leak out before publication day. There was something wonderful about a good old-fashioned scoop. You really wanted Matthew Rye to wander into his local newsagent's and pick a copy up himself.
I know it doesn't work like that, but it would have been nice.
Time dragged.
I almost bought a pearl necklace on QVC.
I doubled my push-up regime.
On the evening news UTV ran an interview with Concrete Corcoran about his art school's exhibition at the Orchard Gallery, which was opening that night. They hardly mentioned that he was a terrorist. They referred obliquely to his 'past life' and heaped praise on his landscapes. Concrete explained about the wild animals. When the interviewer said she'd heard that the paintings on show had been valued at over £3 million Concrete smiled enigmatically and said they were just paintings to him.
I was bored senseless in my glum little room, but thankful that my circumstances prevented me from attending. I knew from the boys' research that Ryan Auto had sponsored the exhibition and the chances were that their Irish representative would be there as well.
Keep your head down.
Relax.
It will soon be over.
I drank some more and watched seventy-five minutes of a Liverpool v Porto European Champions League game. My team were one down but had been awarded a penalty. Just as they were about to take it, the channel switched to QVC.
I cursed Mrs Watson loudly, and opened another can.
I called Trish and we had a kind of married phone-sex, which involved me begging her to come to the guesthouse and her ordering me to drive out to the country. But we were both drunk, and neither of us were prepared to make the effort. So we kind of lost interest. I drank some more and fell asleep, and when I woke in the morning, my first thought wasn't about my wife, or the fact that it was one day closer to Belfast Confidential hitting the stands, but whether or not Liverpool had won.
I poked the television news on. The first thing that came onscreen was another view of Concrete Corcoran's exhibition, with guests milling about, drinking wine and admiring the paintings, and I was just wondering how short of news they could actually be, giving him this sort of saturation coverage, when it cut back to daytime, and a reporter standing outside the remains of a burning building.
'. . . all the police will confirm,' the reporter was saying, 'is that at around ten p.m., just as the party was winding down, five armed and masked men entered the gallery and ordered the guests to lie on the floor. They then made a heap of Concrete Corcoran's paintings, doused them in petrol and set fire to them. According to the police, Concrete Corcoran made a desperate attempt to save his paintings, but when ordered to retreat refused to do so, and was then shot in the head by one of the gunmen. He died later in hospital.'
'And Frank – do the police have any idea who might be responsible for this?'
'Well, Karen, the phrase I have most heard over the past few hours from other reporters is the one which says, "your sins will come back to haunt you". But as far as the police are concerned, they aren't saying anything just yet. Whether it was indeed someone from Concrete's past, or perhaps a business rival, only time will tell.'
The camera cut back to the studio.
'That was Frank Waddell, from the ruins of the Orchard Gallery. Christopher Concrete Corcoran was a . . .'
They launched into a potted biography, a brief history of one man's war against the State, and then his reinvention as an artist of international repute but disputed talent.
I sat on the bed, too stunned to move. Concrete Corcoran's life had indeed been played out on a broad canvas, a landscape into which he had inserted himself. He was the wild animal, hiding in the trees, ready to pounce. He had never quite grasped the concept of the pen, or the brush, being mightier than the sword, but had instead fallen to another, equally famous cliché: that those who lived by the sword also died by it.
From downstairs Mrs Watson yelled, 'Danny – your breakfast's ready!'
She was the only person I knew who called me Danny. She made me a fry every morning. It usually cured my hangover, but this morning I just sat over it. Mrs Watson said, 'What's wrong with you, Danny?'
I said, 'Nothing. Could you call me Dan?'
'Dan?'
'Yes. Not Danny. I don't like Danny.'
She raised her eyebrows and said, 'Please yourself.'
She lifted her plate and went into the kitchen. I felt kind of numb. Concrete was dead. Mouse was dead. Liam was dead. Terry Breene was dead. It was like God had come up with a fifth, killing season. And they were all, in one way or another, connected to both Belfast Confidential and Ryan Auto. And to me. Connected, yet not connected. They had all died in such a short period of time. But it was such a small city that there were bound to be lots of connections which, ultimately, didn't mean anything.
So don't even think about it.
Ignore it.
None of your business any more.
As soon as BC hit the shops, everything would become clear. Matthew Rye would be unmasked, and then arrested. If there was a connection to the other deaths, it would be revealed; if there wasn't, then they were just unfortunate in their timing.
So forget it. Get on with your life.
Liverpool lost.
45
I went to the movies at noon. I watched three in a row, drifting between screens, sneaking in like a big kid. By early evening I was all movied out. I returned to my room and ate a Chinese while watching QVC. I was beginning to find it quite hypnotic. I was missing my wife. All the little things. Even the bickering and fighting. She was my love, my passion and I wanted to lie in bed with her in our new house, or watch TV and hold hands and order diamanté bracelets. I wanted to wave good morning to the neighbours and go to a steady job. There were too many musty boarding-houses like this in my past. I phoned Trish and told her some of this and she told me to catch a grip.
I slept fitfully, then got up shortly after eight. As I packed my suitcase I thought about Matthew Rye and wondered where he was: racing for the airport, or languishing in a cell. I didn't even bother with the TV news. I wanted to see Belfast Confidential. I wanted that feeling, firsthand, that we'd got him. I wanted to hold it in my hands, then punch the air and shout like a lunatic.
'I had to charge you for the breakfast you didn't eat,' said Mrs Watson, when I went down to settle the bill.
'That's okay,' I said.
As I walked out the door with my plastic bags of laundry and beers I hadn't yet had time to drink she folded her arms and gave me a knowing smile. 'See you soon,' she called after me. I was too excited to shout anything back at her.
I drove about a hundred yards to the local newsagent's, and waited impatiently while the young girl behind the counter unpacked the morning magazine delivery. As soon as I saw the BC banner, I snatched a copy up, threw the money down and hurried outside. There was a photo of Terry Breene on the cover. And lots more of his funeral inside. But there was nothing about Matthew Rye and his shady past and present. Not a word.
I couldn't believe it.
Couldn't fucking believe it.
There was only one plausible explanation. Brian Kerr had bottled out of it again. I'd spent the best part of a week holed up in a crummy guesthouse for no reason at all.
I threw the magazine to the ground, then pulled out my phone. It was now a little after nine. I called Belfast Confidential and Mary answered.
'It's Dan – will you put me through to Brian.'
'Dan who?'
'Dan Dan the baker's man – who do you think, Mary?'
'Oh. Right. That Dan. He's in a meeting. How are you?'
'I'm fine. Can you get him out of the meeting?'
'No, I can't.'
'Give me his voicemail.'
'He doesn't believe in it. I can take a message.'
I took a deep breath. 'Right. Do you have a pen?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Good. Write this: Dear Brian.'
'Dear Brian,' she repeated.
'You are a chickenshit cocksucking cuntbag.'
She didn't repeat this.
Belfast Confidential Page 27
