Belfast Confidential

Belfast Confidential Page 28

by Bateman, Colin

  'Yours sincerely, Dan Starkey.'

  She was quiet for a moment. Then, 'Is there a hyphen in chickenshit?'

  'No. I don't know.'

  'What about cocksucking?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  'Cuntbag I've never heard before, but I'm willing to bet there's a hyphen in that.'

  'Mary, it doesn't really matter.'

  'Oh, but I think it does. He's a stickler for good punctuation. You wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him.'

  I sighed. 'Right. Whatever you think, Mary. Are those other two little shits there?'

  'Which particular shits?'

  'Stephen and Patrick. Who else?'

  'Oh, I see. Stephen and Patrick. It's your funny half-hour. No, they're not, as a matter of fact. I expect they're still feeling poorly. Haven't been in all week. It's that bug. The shite just strolls out of you. They called in sick on Tuesday, haven't seen hide nor perfectly parted hair of them since.'

  'They didn't come in Tuesday, later on?'

  'No, I told you. Patrick called and said—'

  'That was the morning – later, I mean. The afternoon.'

  'Nope. Not through me anyway.'

  I thanked her and cut the line. I leaned against the car. What were they up to? If they hadn't even made it into work, then Brian Kerr wouldn't have seen the video.

  Or they might have called him on his mobile. Perhaps it was so sensitive they'd decided to view it outside of the office. Yeah, that could be it.

  Or what if, between the three of them, they'd devised some alternative strategy for exploiting the information about Matthew Rye. Since none of them had stock in Belfast Confidential, maybe they'd decided to sell it to the highest bidder. To television. Or one of the big English tabloids.

  Or what if they were even tempted to sell it to Matthew Rye himself?

  Or Ryan Auto? It had to be worth millions to keep it out of the public eye.

  I drove across town. I parked well away from the boys' apartment, not wishing to tip them off, then stood at the corner of their street and watched it for a while. No signs of life. I buzzed them, but there was no response. I tried their phone, even aimed a few stones at their windows . . . but still nothing. It wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that they'd already started throwing their money around. Maybe they were off to Ibiza. Or San Francisco. Or Portrush. Or what if they were still out negotiating? Would they take the tape with them? What would be the first thing they would do with the tape? If it was me, I'd copy it, in case anything happened to the original. Would they be naïve enough to leave that copy just lying around the house? Or would they have stashed it in a bank vault? How many of us ever stash anything in a bank vault? Can you even stash things in a bank vault any more? Can you take your Clash collector's items into the Ulster Bank and say, 'Look after this lot for me'? No. You hide your valuables where you don't think anyone will look for them. In that under-pant drawer. Behind your CD collection. You mix it in with other tapes of recorded TV programmes you will never, ever watch.

  If the boys had copied the tape, then there was a reasonable chance that that copy was still in there.

  I buzzed the ground-floor apartment and said I was trying to get up to the second floor.

  An elderly man growled, 'Do you live there?'

  'No, I—'

  'Then I can't let you in.'

  'But I—'

  'Bugger off.'

  I buzzed the first floor. A youngish-sounding woman said, 'I sympathise, but you could be anyone, like a mad rapist with a machete.'

  'I'm not,' I said.

  'Well, you would say that. I'm sorry.'

  I tried the third floor, but there was no one in. I hung around for twenty minutes waiting for someone to come out, and eventually a woman in a green wind-cheater with the hood pulled up emerged. I had to presume that she was the one I'd spoken to, so there was no point in rushing up. She made a point of quickly closing the door behind her and then waited for it to click before walking away with her head down.

  I moved to the back of the apartment block. There was a window half-open on the first floor. It was most probably the young woman's apartment. By shinning up a drainpipe I could conceivably stretch across and haul myself in through the window. I hadn't shinned anywhere in a long time, but I'd convinced myself that the tape was in there. I had to have it. So I shinned. With my sore ribs and my stitched head and my cut lip. It wasn't a lot of fun, but there was a weird kind of adrenaline rush that went with it, and once I got started, it wasn't too hard. After about ten minutes of puffing and blowing, I pulled myself in through the window, tumbled noisily forward, then crouched on the linoleum floor, waiting to find out how many people I'd disturbed.

  None, as it turned out.

  Satisfied, I wandered into her kitchen and stole a Penguin. Then I went to her bathroom and had a pee, taking care to leave the seat down. I opened her front door, checked the hallway, then slipped upstairs to the boys' apartment. I knocked, but there was no response. I tried the door, and it wasn't locked.

  It should have been, of course.

  If they'd gone out, they would have locked it.

  If they were in, they'd have answered the door, or the phone.

  I did not have a good feeling about this. My life to date was the reason why.

  I stared at the door. It was open just a fraction.

  I ate my Penguin.

  Then I pushed the door fully open with my foot, and the stench hit me at exactly the same moment as I saw their bodies.

  46

  Of course, the first instinct was to run. To pull the door closed and hurry downstairs and let myself out and pretend I'd never been there at all. I'd always scoffed at movies where the hero or heroine entered a dark house or cave when they should have known fine well that death or horror awaited them. And I'd been around long enough and been through enough shit in my time to know that the last thing I should have done was enter that apartment, even though it wasn't dark at all, but nice and bright.

  But of course I did. I always dive in, head first.

  It is the nature of the beast.

  Their heads were half-blasted off. Their bodies bloated and stinking. Four days they'd been lying there. For sure.

  My eyes fell on the video recorder. I hurried across and slipped my hands through the flap, but there was no tape. In fact, there were no tapes of any description, anywhere. Every drawer and cupboard in the apartment had been emptied; shelves and worktops had been swept clear. As I returned to the lounge I happened to look out of the window and saw that an old man with a rake had appeared in the front garden, and was busy tidying up the fallen leaves. I had a sudden flash of envy. How marvellous it would be, to just have to deal with autumn.

  I began a second tour, this time checking for a laptop or notebooks, anything where the boys might have stored any additional information about who they might have talked to about the tape. In the bedroom, their mattress had been ripped open and its contents strewn across the floor. Several pornographic magazines lay on the floor. Back in the kitchen the tape had been removed from the answerphone; and then the machine had been smashed. But I noticed that it wasn't actually connected to the phone anyway. I lifted the receiver and listened, and heard the interrupted dial tone which showed there was a message waiting on their callminder service. Same as we had at home. I called 1571 and listened. The Joanna Lumley voice said the message had been recorded at 4.45 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon, shortly after the boys had chopped my throat and thrown me out. Then I heard a familiar voice. 'Pat – it's Brian, got your message, very mysterious, we keep missing each other, give us a buzz back.'

  They'd never checked their messages, and never would.

  From outside, despite the double glazing, I heard the old man shout: 'I don't care who you are! Keep off the bloody grass!'

  I darted to the window – and saw two uniformed cops. And across the road, just climbing from their car, two more. Another vehicle, this one unmarked, was just pull
ing in behind them. Mooney and Mayne climbed out.

  Shite.

  Rumbled.

  They'd been watching the apartment. Because they'd killed the boys and taken their tape back and guessed I'd come looking for it. And now they could frame me for a double murder. I had to get out. Now.

  Fingerprints.

  I'd been careless, once again. But I could only afford a cursory wipe around the telephone, video and kitchen counter. There were more raised voices from below. I peeked down and saw that the old man was doing his valiant best to stop the police from gaining entry. But they weren't for stopping. As the old man gave up the security code and they surged forward, I bolted out of the apartment and down the stairs to the first-floor landing. Luckily the young woman's apartment was along a short corridor which was out of sight until you were halfway up the first flight of stairs, so I just had time to dart along it and slip inside. I'd taken the precaution of leaving it on the latch, which was most unlike me. Maybe I was getting better at this life. Maybe in a thousand years I'd be almost good at it.

  I closed the door gently, then leaned against it until the footsteps had passed by; then I crossed to the window I'd gained entry by earlier and peered out. They hadn't posted anyone at the rear, because they hadn't yet found the bodies, and Mayne and Mooney had to play dumb. For a few more seconds at least. I ducked under the frame and reached out for the drainpipe. I pulled myself across, then shinned back down. I jumped the last few feet onto the grass, then turned to find the old man with the rake looking curiously at me.

  I said, 'Hi.'

  'They're looking for you?'

  'Seems like it.'

  'What have you done?'

  'I stole a Penguin.'

  'We're not allowed pets,' he said, somewhat ruefully. 'Had to get rid of my Benji.'

  'It's a cruel world,' I said, and hurried on.

  Brian Kerr ate his lunch at Past Masters. I followed him there, then waited across the road. When he came out, an hour later, I waited until he had his car door open then hurried up and gave him a shove. He tumbled inside, letting out a surprised yell. When he tried to push himself up I punched him in the ribs and banged his head down on the gearstick. Then I did it again. I wasn't much use in a fight, but given the element of surprise, and the fact that I was younger and bigger and had employed underhand tactics against a scrawny bald guy, I wasn't doing too badly.

  He was going, 'What . . . what . . . what . . .' as I hit him.

  I hadn't intended to give anything away at all, but I found myself shouting, 'You bastard, you fucker, you bastard, you fucker,' in time to the beating.

  Luckily, although the car park was full, there was no one close at hand to witness my attack or hear either my curses or his shouts. Eventually I stopped, and he slumped down, crying into his trenchcoat sleeve.

  Honestly.

  A trenchcoat.

  I know nothing about style, but twice as much as him.

  After a while I pulled him round, and his hands rushed to protect his face. When he wasn't struck again he lowered them a fraction and stared wide-eyed at his attacker, and it took a few moments for recognition to dawn. He mumbled a hesitant, 'St . . . Starkey?'

  I nodded.

  'I don't under . . . I don't . . . What have I done?'

  'You tell me, you fuckin' fucker.'

  'Dan, please! I don't understand.'

  'Why did you do it?!'

  'Do what? Please, I didn't—'

  'You sold them out! Sold them down the river!'

  'What are you talking about?'

  I grabbed him once more and he flinched as if he'd been hit, but I didn't, I held back. But I shook him and said, 'You know.' Then I let go of him. He wiped the blood from his face. I'd struck his head twice against the gearstick, and now there was a vague imprint on his forehead, showing the layout of the gears. The numbers 1–4 and an R for Reverse at top right.

  'Patrick and Stephen,' I said.

  'What about them?'

  'Tell me a-fucking-bout them!'

  He gave a hopeless shrug. 'What's to tell? So they're gay – there's nothing I can do about it.'

  I jabbed a finger into his chest. 'Not that, you stupid fucker. Just fucking stop messing and tell me, or I swear to God . . . Brian, I know they called you on Tuesday. I know they told you about the video. So don't fuck me around.'

  I had him. He knew it.

  'What's it got to do with me?' he spat. 'Ask them!'

  'They're fucking dead!'

  This appeared to hit him harder than my punches. His eyes shrank to pinpoints, then expanded again. Tears which had already sprung once, welled again as disbelief rolled across his face. 'J-Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ,' he whispered before turning tortured eyes back to me. 'You're not serious. You're not . . . they're dead?'

  'Shot dead. Their heads blown off.'

  'But that's not poss—'

  'Oh yes, it is. And the last thing they did was call you.'

  'No! No!'

  'They did. You returned their fucking call – you left a message for them!'

  He shook his head, as if he was trying to convince himself that he was innocent. 'I just returned their call – and they called me back . . .'

  'About the tape.'

  'Yes – all right! They mentioned a videotape!'

  'They told you what was on it.'

  'No, they didn't say. They didn't spell it out. They just . . . you know . . . hinted.'

  'But you guessed – you must have guessed.'

  He gave a pained little shrug. 'Look, they said they had this tape, they wanted me to come and see it at their place, but they wouldn't say exactly what it was, just that you'd brought it in so I guessed it had something to do with – you know, Mouse, or something – but I was trying to get the bloody magazine out and they'd phoned in sick already, so we were short-staffed and everyone was shouting at me to do this and do that and do this and do that, and I couldn't just go traipsing out to their place, so I told them to bring it in. And that was it, that's all I said to them. They're really dead?'

  'Yes, Brian.'

  'But who—'

  'Well, he's on the fucking tape, isn't he, Bri?'

  He stared at me. 'Who is?'

  Fuck it. He didn't know. He really didn't. I was sure of it. I shook my head.

  'Dan – who is it, man?'

  'Wouldn't you fucking like to know.' I pushed the door open again and climbed out. I walked away.

  He shouted after me, 'The cops are looking for you!' I ignored him. 'They'll fucking get you too!' I kept walking. 'For all I know, you killed them! You're fucking mental, you are!'

  I stopped then, and looked back. He quickly ducked into the car and started the engine.

  I scare few people.

  But one is better than none.

  47

  Patricia emerged from the costume shop looking quite pleased with herself, and lugging two large bags over her shoulders. As she approached the car she said, 'Don't bother giving me a hand, these only weigh a ton.'

  'I'm in hiding,' I said. 'It's not worth the risk.'

  'Swell,' she said.

  'Swell?' I queried. 'Have you been watching too many old movies? Have you missed me that much?'

  'Yes, and no.'

  When she'd stowed the bags in the boot and climbed back into the car I asked her how it had gone.

  'I played the role of a harassed PA to an unnamed but obviously very important mover and shaker who simply doesn't have the time to pick up his own costume. They said I was very late, that most of their best stuff had gone already. Phenomenal demand, they said. They even had to bring in extra stock from their branch in Dublin.'

  'And it looks like?'

  'There were some fantastic outfits for women. I would love to be going.'

  'And it looks like?'

  'But you could only rustle up one measly ticket.'

  'And a stolen one at that. To get back to the point: it looks like what?'

  'You'll love
it,' she said, and started the car.

  Patricia was there because I'd nowhere else to turn. I didn't think it was safe any longer to use the mobile that the late Concrete Corcoran had given to me, nor to phone Patricia at her sister's. If they were capable of bugging the Belfast Confidential office, and I was convinced they had, then they were also more than capable of either tracking my mobile phone calls or monitoring the calls received by members of my immediate family. Call it paranoia, but there were enough dead bodies littering the landscape to justify it.

  The look of shock in Brian's eyes when I told him about the murders of Patrick and Stephen was enough to convince me that he hadn't betrayed them. So I'd phoned Trisha's sister's work from a call box; gotten her to drive home, pick up her sister, and take her to another call box, and then she'd phoned me. In a state of panic.

  I'd said, 'So how're you doing?'

  And she'd screamed at me for putting her to such trouble, flying to the phone like a banshee because she thought I was lying mortally wounded somewhere.

  'I'm not,' I reassured her, 'though my pride is a bit dented. Do you know I haven't got a single friend in the world to phone and help me out? What does that say about my life?'

  She cleared her throat. 'That you're happily married, and I'm your best friend.'

  'Ah,' I said. 'So you're the one going to get me out of this hole?'

  'Yes,' she said.

  And she did.

  Now, we were on our way to a hotel she'd had her sister's niece book by phone, by credit card. She picked up the key, and I went up the fire escape. Once inside we began to get amorous.

  Patricia said, 'Put on your mask.'

  'My . . . ?'

  She nodded at the plastic bags. I'd been so intent on getting her clothes off that I hadn't even peeked at my costume for the Masked Ball.

  'Sex first, mask later,' I said.

  'No, mask first, sex better.'

  'You like me better with a mask on?'

  'No, I like you different, with a mask on.'

  'But I could be anyone.'

  'You would think that. But no, Dan, there's only one you. You're unmistakable.'

  'Then why the mask?'

  'Would you humour me, before I go off the whole idea?'

 

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