Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  The young man gave a weak smile and nodded.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ Lennon said.

  15

  The Traveller didn’t like this one bit. The broad-shouldered man with dirty-fair hair was clearly a cop. The Traveller hadn’t noticed him pull up, so he had to assume the cop was watching the flat too. Of course, it was possible the cop wanted something with the kid who answered the door, but the Traveller knew that wasn’t so. He knew it in his gut.

  Christ, it had been a long day. When he fled the hospital he drove straight to Portadown, constantly checking the mirror with his one good eye. He considered ditching the car, but the risk of stealing another was greater than the chances of his number plate being caught on CCTV in the hospital car park.

  Once he’d got to Portadown he’d pulled into the first place he could find. He walked until he found a chemist and bought a little tube of antibiotic eye ointment and a bottle of water. The girl behind the counter stared at the orange streaks around his bad eye made by the stuff the doctor had used. He held his hand out for his change. She put it on the counter and stepped back.

  When he returned to the car, he tilted his head back, pulled up his eyelid, and poured the water in. Jesus, it went everywhere, but it seemed to do the trick. He dried his face with his sleeve as best he could, and then put a dollop of the ointment in his eye. He sat there blinded for half an hour before heading for the motorway. It took less than forty minutes to reach Belfast, nudge his way through the traffic on the Lisburn Road, and turn right into Eglantine Avenue. He knew to look out for the church on the corner.

  As soon as he parked, he put another dollop of the ointment in his bad eye, hoping it would ease the stinging and itching. Instead, it left him squinting and swearing. Maybe that was when the cop pulled up. The Traveller cursed himself. He and the cop had been sitting yards from each other, watching the same boarded-up flat, for at least an hour. The Traveller always listened to his instincts, that reptilian part of his brain, and right now it was telling him the cop was trouble. He took the mobile phone from his pocket, entered the password, and dialled the only number it held.

  ‘What?’ Orla O’Kane barked.

  ‘Who’s the cop?’

  ‘What cop?’

  ‘The cop who just went into Marie McKenna’s building. The same cop that’s been sitting watching it for at least an hour.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Orla O’Kane said.

  ‘Jesus what?’

  ‘That wee girl of hers. The father’s a cop. Can’t remember his name, but I’ll find out. What’s he look like?’

  ‘Big fella, good shape,’ the Traveller said. ‘Dark blond hair. His suit looked better than a cop could afford, even with the danger money they get up here. Maybe he’s bent.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can dig up. I heard about our friend in Monaghan on the news, by the way. Pity about his wife.’

  ‘Yeah, pity,’ the Traveller said.

  ‘I suppose it couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘No, couldn’t,’ the Traveller said.

  ‘Fair enough. What about Quigley?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll maybe call and see him a bit later.’

  ‘You do that. I need some progress to—’

  ‘Whisht!’ the Traveller hissed, silencing Orla. ‘The cop’s coming out. I’ll maybe follow him, see what I can see.’

  ‘Don’t take any chances,’ she said, her voice low and serious. ‘We’re not interested in him. If he’s a problem, deal with it, but leave him alone otherwise. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ the Traveller said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just have a wee shufti. Nice talking to you, big lass.’

  ‘Watch your m—’

  The Traveller hung up and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket. The cop crossed the road ten yards ahead and disappeared from view. The Traveller lowered his window a little. He heard a car door opening and closing with a solid thud. Something quality, probably German or Scandinavian, or maybe a late Ford. An engine sparked and caught with an ugly diesel clatter. The Traveller lowered his window a little more so he could lean out. Up ahead, a silver Audi A4 pulled out and accelerated towards the Malone Road.

  ‘Nice motor,’ the Traveller whispered to himself. It looked pretty new. Thirty-five thousand euro, maybe forty, depending on the engine size and the options. He didn’t know what it would cost in pounds sterling, but it would still be big money for a cop. The Traveller turned the old Merc’s key, and the ignition whined until the engine burped and farted into life. He let a Citroën pass so he could keep it between him and the Audi before he pulled out.

  The cop turned right on the Malone Road, as did the Citroën, but he surprised the Traveller by immediately turning left into the cluster of churches and old houses that led to Stranmillis. The Citroën stayed on the Malone Road, leaving no buffer between the Audi and the Merc. The Traveller had to be careful. He didn’t know the names of these little streets, but he knew Stranmillis Road when the cop turned onto it. The Traveller let two cars pass before he followed, giving him some cover.

  The river came into view as they approached the roundabout at the bottom of Stranmillis. Surely the cop didn’t live down here? A doctor or a solicitor could just about manage a mortgage around these parts, but surely not a cop.

  ‘Jesus,’ the Traveller said when the peeler pulled into a smart apartment block just beyond the roundabout. He didn’t dare follow the cop into the car park, so he kept driving, wondering if it was really his place or a girlfriend’s. Maybe the peeler was shagging some lady lawyer, or a female executive after a bit of rough.

  ‘Dirty fucker,’ the Traveller said. He headed back towards the Lisburn Road hoping one of those fancy new restaurants had pictures on their menus.

  16

  Lennon sat at his Mexican-style dining table eating microwaved lamb rogan josh. The edge of the Mexican-style chair cut into the backs of his thighs. The set had cost almost five hundred, but he’d got it on finance. He was sure the interest rate would have been scandalous if he’d looked at it. But he hadn’t, just signed the form the salesman put in front of him. They delivered the table and six chairs a few days later, and he’d never eaten a comfortable meal while seated here.

  He thought back, searching for the last time anyone else had sat at the table. Months ago, he reckoned, and he couldn’t remember her name. She drank coffee and he drank tea while they barely looked at each other. He took her number even though they both knew he’d never dial it.

  The lamb turned sickly in Lennon’s mouth. He swallowed it and pushed the plate away, then washed his palate with a swig of lukewarm tap water. The silence pressed on him with a cold insistence. He could only take his own company for so long, so he cleaned up, changed, and headed into town.

  He decided to try the Empire’s basement bar. A blues band did their best for an indifferent crowd mostly made up of students getting an early start on the weekend. Lennon scoped the women and felt every day of his thirty-seven years. He wasn’t quite old enough to be anyone’s father, but maybe a creepy uncle. He ordered a pint of Stella as he wondered where else he could go. The small pang of guilt he’d felt at drawing forty pounds cash on one of his credit cards grew sharper and deeper as he handed a twenty over. His bank account had run dry the day before. Anyone with common sense would wait for pay day rather than spend borrowed money, but common sense and money never occupied the same parts of his mind.

  Two girls leaned on the bar beside Lennon. Not young enough to be students, he thought, too well dressed. They both wore the kinds of clothes and jewellery that rich boyfriends or fathers would never buy. They made their own money, probably working in one of the call centres that had sprung up across the city.

  ‘Two Smirnoff Ice,’ one of the girls called across the bar.

  Lennon held out the ten-pound note he’d just got back in change, forgetting any notion of frugality he might have entertained a few seconds before. ‘Allow me,’ he said.

  The nearest
girl looked him up and down. ‘If I wanted my dad to buy my drinks, I’d have brought him,’ she said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  Lennon forced himself to finish his pint before leaving. He phoned Roscoe Patterson to see if he had anything on tonight.

  Less than thirty minutes took Lennon to the apartment block overlooking Carrickfergus Marina. Roscoe said nothing when he opened the door to the penthouse flat, and Lennon followed him through the entrance hall to the living room. The shaven-headed, bull-shouldered man took a seat and resumed his computer game. His thick fingers moved over the controller with a curious grace. Uniformed soldiers died under a hail of gunfire on the massive plasma screen, the shiny new Playstation 3 whirring in the cabinet beneath it.

  ‘Sit down,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s got a punter in. He’ll not be long.’ His face creased in an absent-minded grin. ‘They never are.’

  Lennon lowered himself into the leather sofa facing Roscoe. The floor resonated as the surround-sound system’s woofer made the most of the game’s explosions.

  ‘The neighbours don’t complain about the noise?’ Lennon asked.

  Roscoe winked. ‘Just the once,’ he said. ‘There’s only a couple here during the week, anyway. The rest is holiday lets or weekend places.’

  Lennon shifted, trying to get comfortable as his jeans slid across the leather.

  ‘I heard you lifted Dandy Andy,’ Roscoe said as he blew someone’s head off.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Good job,’ Roscoe said. ‘He’s a cunt. Will he do time?’

  ‘A little. Not much.’

  Roscoe shrugged. ‘Better than nothing,’ he said.

  Lennon watched the blurred tattoos on Roscoe’s forearms flex and ripple as he worked the controller. ‘You know what Rankin’s gripe with Crozier was?’

  ‘Don’t be asking me that,’ Roscoe said. ‘I’m not touting for you.’

  ‘I heard Crozier was palling up with the Lithuanians,’ Lennon said. ‘He was filling the gap Michael McKenna left when he got his brains blown out. He was supplying the muscle while they supplied the girls. He was letting them set up their own places on McKenna’s old turf.’

  ‘Know nothing about it,’ Roscoe said. ‘Ah, fuck! Look, I got shot now ’cause of you.’

  ‘So you and your boys are okay with Crozier doing business with the Liths?’ Lennon asked. ‘You know they pay dues to the Republicans, don’t you? Crozier’s putting money in their pockets.’

  ‘Dirty business, that,’ Patterson said. ‘Them Liths are trafficking girls in from all over the fucking place, Russia, Ukraine, all them auld shitty holes. Keeping them doped up so they can have them doing punters for fuck all money. Slaves, like. I don’t hold with that. I deal in quality, not quantity. You pay a bit more, but you know the girl’s there of her own free will, and she’s getting her fair share of the money. And she’ll be so clean she’ll squeak when you stick it to her.’

  You’re a prince among pimps,’ Lennon said.

  Roscoe grinned. ‘I should put that on my business cards. Anyway, so long as I’m turning a pound, Crozier can give the Liths free blowjobs for all I care. And the taigs. No offence, like. Now, either change the subject or fuck off.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Lennon said. ‘Who’ve you got on tonight?’

  ‘Debbie,’ Roscoe said.

  ‘Debbie?’

  ‘Edinburgh Uni. She’s doing her Master’s in commercial law, she tells me. Whatever the fuck that means. I normally just bring her over on weekends, but she’s got some bills to pay. Fucking lovely wee thing, she is. You’ll like her.’

  A door opened in the entrance hall, and Lennon heard the rustling of clothes. The shadow of a man, his head bowed, passed the door.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Roscoe called.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ a small voice replied.

  ‘Dead on,’ Roscoe said. ‘You can let yourself out.’

  The apartment door opened and closed.

  ‘Give her a minute to clean up,’ Roscoe said.

  You boys talk amongst yourselves,’ Lennon said. ‘About what’s going on. Who’s doing what to who, that sort of thing.’

  Aye,’ Roscoe said. ‘But like I said, I’m not touting for you. You’re a good friend to have, Jack, but don’t push your luck.’

  ‘Michael McKenna,’ Lennon said. ‘Paul McGinty, too. What do you reckon to all that? The inquiry said it was a feud, all internal stuff. You ever hear anything different?’

  Roscoe smiled. ‘That was a good week,’ he said. ‘My auld da used to say the only good taig was a dead taig. Lot of good taigs that week. No offence, like.’

  ‘None taken,’ Lennon said.

  Roscoe’s mobile phone beeped. He picked it up and thumbed a button. ‘She’s ready for you,’ he said.

  Lennon got to his feet and walked to the door.

  ‘There was one weird thing came of it all,’ Roscoe said.

  Lennon stopped in the doorway. ‘What was that?’

  ‘That lawyer, Patsy Toner,’ Roscoe said. ‘They said he lent that bent cop his car, and the cop wound up getting his head took off. They said it was mistaken identity, said the dissidents meant to get Toner. But then the dissidents blew themselves up, problem solved, everything gets back to normal.’

  Lennon walked back to Roscoe. ‘And?’

  ‘Patsy Toner’s a regular with one of my girls. She says he’s in pieces. He still comes to see her, but he can’t manage anything. She’s tried handjobs, blowjobs, stuck her finger up his arse, everything she can think of. Not a fucking thing.’

  ‘I could’ve done without that image,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Me too,’ Roscoe said, his lip curling. ‘But you hear worse in my line of work.’

  Lennon leaned on the back of Roscoe’s chair. ‘I’m sure you do, but what’s your point?’

  Roscoe shrugged. ‘Might be nothing, but she told me he turned up pissed off his face one night. He was blathering about how it wasn’t over, they wouldn’t let it go, it was only a matter of time before they came for him.’

  Lennon stood upright. ‘Is that right?’

  Roscoe smiled. ‘Is what right? I didn’t tell you nothing.’ He turned back to his game. ‘I’m not touting for you. Now go and see that wee thing before she gets lonely.’

  Lennon patted the other man’s muscled shoulder. ‘Thanks, Roscoe.’

  He went back to the entrance hall. A thin streak of light reached across the carpet from the bedroom door. He rapped the wood with his knuckles, and the door opened. She had shoulder-length brown hair and smelled of strong soap.

  ‘Put a hundred on the dressing table, love,’ she said, her Scottish accent easing through her smile. ‘Then we’ll talk about the options. All right, sweetheart?’

  Lennon forced himself to maintain eye contact. ‘Roscoe and me have an arrangement.’

  She stood on tiptoe and called over his shoulder. ‘Roscoe?’

  Roscoe’s voice came back from the living room. ‘Whatever he wants. I’ll sort you, don’t worry.’

  Her face slackened for a moment, whether with contempt or sadness he couldn’t tell. Then it brightened, as if a light behind her eyes had switched on, and her lips parted in a smile that could cut glass. ‘Whatever you want, darling,’ she said.

  17

  Just a few months ago, Declan Quigley had saved Bull O’Kane’s life by dragging his huge bulk into a car and speeding to a hospital in Dundalk. Even so, O’Kane wanted Quigley gone. It wasn’t the Traveller’s place to question the Bull.

  Quigley lived with his mother in a red-brick two-up-two-down off the Lower Ormeau. The Traveller circled the area around the house. He couldn’t park up and hope no one noticed him as he did at Marie McKenna’s place on Eglantine Avenue. This was a close-knit community. Any stranger would draw attention if they stayed in one place too long.

  A gang of fifteen or so youths wandered from street to street, making their way towards the interface with the Loyalist-dominated Doneg
all Pass. Looking for a fight, the Traveller thought. They’d probably get it. He circled back towards Quigley’s street.

  The mother was doting, the Bull said, didn’t know night from day. There was no need to touch her, even if she saw everything. The Bull had been quite clear on that point, and the Traveller intended to honour his promise.

  He tucked the old Merc into a parking bay on the Ormeau Road, next to a fenced-off housing development where the sports ground used to be. It’d be a trek to Quigley’s house, but it was the most secluded place he could find to leave the car. He kept his head down as he walked along the main road, avoiding eye contact with the few people he passed.

  The Traveller walked as far as the Ormeau Bridge before looping back along the river. He counted side streets as he made his way north. The Bull had told him how many. A police siren wailed somewhere towards Donegall Pass, followed by cheers. The youths had got their fight by the sound of it.

  He ducked into the narrow alleyway that cut along the back of Quigley’s terrace. Seven houses along from the river end, the Bull had said. The Traveller kept tight to the wall and counted gates. He worked his way through the alley’s blackness, careful of his footing. Litter snagged his heels, old plastic bags and cigarette packets. He kicked an empty can and froze. Inside one of the houses, a dog barked at the clatter. When it settled, he started moving again.

  A siren screamed along Ormeau Avenue. The Traveller saw a cop car flash past the far end of the alley. A moment later he heard the screeching of tyres and the whoops and laughter of breathless boys. He moved faster, reached Quigley’s back gate, pressed against the painted wood and found it open. As he slipped into the yard he kept his eyes on the far end of the alley. Two youths appeared there, their trainers skidding as they rounded the corner.

  The Traveller eased back into the yard and pushed the gate closed. It stood as high as the wall, would keep him hidden, but it had no latch. He listened to the hammering of feet as the boys sprinted along the alley.