Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  ‘And the wound, or indeed wounds?’

  Lennon stood up and leaned over the body. A fist-sized red stain sat at the centre of Quigley’s chest. ‘Very clean. Most fatal stabbings are done in a frenzy, lots of punctures scattered around the torso, the arms, the shoulders, the neck, even the head.’

  ‘Like your friend Mr Rankin did to Mr Crozier,’ Gordon said.

  ‘That’s right. But this is one, two, maybe three stabs, grouped tight together, directly through the breastbone and into the heart. He probably drowned from the blood filling his chest cavity. Not much mess. The attacker knew what he was doing.’

  Something by the upended table caught Lennon’s eye. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing.

  Gordon crouched beside him. ‘A knitting needle. I do believe that’s blood on the tip.’

  ‘Couldn’t be the weapon,’ Lennon said. ‘Knitting needle wounds are tiny. It was definitely a blade that did for our Declan.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Gordon said. ‘Make sure forensics get a sample of that blood off to Birmingham first thing. If we’re lucky, it’s the murderer’s. And if we’re double lucky, we’ll have him on file.’

  19

  ‘Se easy,’ Pyè said. ‘You just hold him for mwen, yes?’

  ‘Hold him for you?’ Fegan asked.

  ‘Wi, yes, what I say?’

  ‘All right,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè got out of the car. Fegan followed, closing the passenger door behind him. Its alarm system blipped and blinked as Pyè thumbed the key fob. The pawnshop stood in darkness. The Doyles said Murphy lived above it. They said Murphy shafted them on some jewellery deal, that he’d put money in his pocket that should have gone in theirs. Now they wanted that money back. They said Pyè would do the work. Fegan was just for show.

  Pyè hammered the shutters. ‘Hey, Murphy! You home?’

  Fegan watched the windows above for lights. Nothing stirred.

  Pyè kicked the shutters. ‘Murphy! Mwen know you home!’ He kicked three more times, and the shutters rippled with the force of it.

  A window across the street opened. ‘Shut the fuck up! You know what time it is?’

  Fegan and Pyè turned to it. A bald-headed man leaned out of a third-storey window.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Pyè shouted. ‘Mwen fuck you up, motherfucker.’

  ‘What?’ the bald man asked.

  ‘Mwen say fuck you,’ Pyè said. ‘Mwen show you mwen knife.’

  ‘The fuck you talking about?’ the bald man said. ‘You going to talk tough, do it in fucking English, you fucking French-talking son of a bitch!’

  ‘French?’ Pyè turned to Fegan, waved a hand at the angry man across the street. ‘Li say French?’

  ‘What?’ Fegan said.

  ‘Li say French,’ Pyè said. ‘Motherfucker.’ He kicked the shutters again. And again.

  A light appeared above the shop. Fegan stepped back onto the road and peered up at it. The window opened, and a red-headed man appeared. ‘Whoever the fuck’s kicking my shutter better have a fucking good reason, I swear to God.’

  ‘Hey, Murphy!’ the bald man across the street called. ‘You tell your friends not to come round waking people up, you hear me?’

  Aw, fuck off, Cabel!’ Murphy shouted. ‘Mind your business and go back to bed.’

  ‘When people be kicking the shit out of your shop and waking me up, it is my business, you Mick bastard.’

  ‘Fuck you, Cabel,’ Murphy said. ‘Go back to bed or I’ll come over and put you to bed, you hear me?’

  ‘Fuck you, Murphy!’ The bald man slammed his window closed.

  Asshole,’ Murphy said. He looked down. ‘Now who the fuck is kicking my shutters?’

  ‘Open, Murphy,’ Pyè said. ‘Mwen want talk with you.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Pyè Préval. Come down.’

  ‘Pyè?’ Murphy leaned out to see better. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me? Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me. Who’s that with you?’

  ‘This friend mwen, Gerry,’ Pyè said. ‘Li cool. Come down. Open the fucking door.’

  ‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

  ‘What?’ Pyè said.

  ‘Don’t tell him my name.’

  Pyè shrugged. ‘Wi, sure, no name.’

  They waited until they saw a light through the shutter. It rose with a mechanical groan to stop at eye level. The door beyond opened, and Pyè ducked under the metal. Fegan followed.

  ‘Close it,’ Pyè said.

  Murphy obliged. He held the button until the shutter sealed them in.

  Guitars lined the pawnshop’s walls. Fegan walked in a slow circle, remembering the Martin he’d had back in Belfast, the one Ronnie Lennox left to him. He’d meant to learn to play it, but that hadn’t worked out.

  ‘So what do you want at this time of night?’ Murphy asked. He wore an open dressing gown, revealing a stained undershirt and pyjama bottoms. His slippers didn’t match.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Pyè said.

  ‘What for?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Parle,’ Pyè said. ‘Talk.’

  ‘We can talk down here.’

  ‘Non,’ Pyè said. ‘Upstairs.’

  There on the wall, Fegan saw it. The headstock said C.F. Martin. It looked like the guitar Ronnie had given him, the same shape, the same size. The lacquer hadn’t taken on the same deep gold of age, but it was still pretty. Fegan reached up and brushed the strings with his fingertips. He’d never got to hear what Ronnie’s guitar sounded like. It still sat propped in the corner of his old house on Calcutta Street for all he knew.

  ‘Hey, don’t touch that,’ Murphy said. ‘It’s expensive.’

  ‘Non, non, non,’ Pyè said. ‘You don’t say shit to friend mwen Gerry, hear?’

  Murphy held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Pyè,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean nothing. It’s expensive, is all.’

  ‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

  Wi, sorry,’ Pyè said.

  ‘I didn’t hear your name,’ Murphy said. ‘Touch the guitar if you want. Knock yourself out.’

  ‘Upstairs,’ Pyè said.

  ‘All right,’ Murphy said. ‘Come on.’

  He led them through a back room to a narrow staircase. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors,’ he said as he climbed ahead of them. ‘I would’ve cleaned the place up otherwise.’

  The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a small apartment and a ripe odour. Old newspapers gathered in piles around the living room. Murphy toured the place, picking up pornographic magazines and empty beer cans. He ducked into the kitchenette and dumped an armful of detritus under the sink.

  Fegan and Pyè exchanged a glance and a grimace.

  Murphy came back out. ‘So what’s this about?’ he asked.

  ‘Sit,’ Pyè said.

  ‘Jesus, Pyè, you’re making me nervous. Come on, tell me what this is about.’

  Pyè pointed at the one chair clear of litter. ‘Sit,’ he said.

  Murphy did as he was told.

  Pyè looked at Fegan and nodded at the space behind the chair. Fegan moved to it. Murphy twisted to follow Fegan with his eyes.

  ‘You’re scaring me, boys,’ Murphy said. He kept his head turned to Fegan. ‘You don’t say much, do you? What does he want? Can you talk, Mr No Name? Or are you here just to look mean?’

  ‘Friend mwen Gerry Fegan,’ Pyè said. ‘Li the meanest motherfucker you ever met. Li a lougawou. Li a bòkò, a bad witch. Li fuck you up big time.’

  ‘Don’t tell him my name,’ Fegan said.

  ‘Sure,’ Pyè said. ‘Non worry, Gerry.’

  ‘Pyè, I don’t know what you’re saying to me.’ Murphy turned first to Fegan, then the Haitian. ‘And I don’t know who the fuck this guy is. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you if I can, all right? Just speak English, okay?’

  Pyè stepped carefully over his words. ‘You bought jewels from Doyles. You say jewels worth sa much. You sell jewels,
you say jewels worth sa much.’ Pyè held his palms up and open as he stepped closer to Murphy, raising and lowering his hands like scales. ‘Sa much, sa much. Big different lajan. You put lajan in pocket, wi?’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ Murphy said. He turned in the seat. ‘Gerry. Gerry, right?’

  ‘No,’ Fegan said. ‘That’s not my name.’

  ‘Gerry, what’s he talking about?’

  ‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said. ‘I’m Paddy. Paddy Feeney.’

  ‘Wi, li Paddy Feeney,’ Pyè said. He pointed at Fegan. ‘Paddy Feeney, li fuck you up.’

  Murphy wrung his hands. ‘Gerry, Paddy, whatever the fuck your name is, I don’t give a shit, just please tell me what the fuck he’s saying to me. What does he want?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Fegan said. ‘Pyè, what are you saying to him?’

  ‘Lajan!’ Pyè shouted. ‘Doyles want they lajan.’

  ‘What’s ‘lajan’?’ Fegan asked.

  ‘Lajan!’ Pyè opened his arms wide. ‘Dollar, motherfucker. Dime, quarter, buy stuff, you understand?’

  ‘Money?’ Fegan asked.

  Wi, money!’ Pyè grabbed his own hair in exasperation. ‘Lajan, money. What the fuck I say?’

  ‘Money?’ Murphy asked. ‘What money?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Fegan said. ‘What money, Pyè?’

  ‘Doyles’money,’ Pyè said. He started to pace. ‘You say jewels worth sa much. You buy jewels off Doyles, wi? But you know jewels worth sa much, and you sell them, put lajan in you pocket. Wi?’

  ‘What?’ Murphy said.

  Fegan leaned down to Murphy. ‘I think I know what he’s getting at. Did you buy some jewellery off the Doyles?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Murphy said. ‘They had some stuff to move. They always have stuff to move. I don’t ask where it comes from, I just find a buyer for it. So what?’

  ‘I think Pyè reckons you told the Doyles it was worth less than it was,’ Fegan said. ‘And then you sold it to someone else for what it was really worth, and you kept the difference. Does that sound right?’

  Murphy nodded first, then shook his head. ‘Yeah, no, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. The market, you know, what you call it … fluctuates.’ He turned back to Pyè. ‘The market fluctuates. I paid the Doyles market price, right? When I sold the stuff on, the market was in my favour, that’s all.’

  ‘Doyles want they lajan, they money,’ Pyè said. He took a knife from his pocket, a big hunter’s piece with a serrated blade. ‘This knife mwen. Money. Now, motherfucker.’

  Murphy turned back to Fegan. ‘Gerry, tell him—’

  ‘I’m not Gerry,’ Fegan said.

  ‘Whatever the fuck your name is, tell him I paid the Doyles a fair price, and I made a fair profit.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll listen to me,’ Fegan said.

  ‘I haven’t got the money,’ Murphy said. He lowered his voice and stretched up to Fegan. ‘You know how much the rent is on this place? It’s only Jersey, I know, but Christ they charge for it, Gerry. I’m one week away from being put out on the street.’

  ‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He looked up at Pyè. ‘He says he doesn’t have it.’

  Pyè raised his eyebrows. ‘Non? Okay.’

  ‘Okay?’ Fegan asked.

  ‘Okay?’ Murphy asked.

  ‘Wi, okay,’ Pyè said. He took two steps forward and stuck the blade in Murphy’s upper arm.

  Murphy screamed.

  Fegan stepped back.

  ‘Lajan, blood, no different,’ Pyè said. He pulled the blade from Murphy’s arm and stabbed him in the thigh.

  Murphy screamed.

  Fegan said, ‘Jesus, Pyè.’

  Pyè stood back and said, ‘What? Li no got money, li get knife. No different. Doyles happy.’

  Murphy wept. ‘Listen to me, Pyè, I got no money. Fuck, I’m bleeding. It hurts. Jesus, I need a doctor.’

  ‘Get lajan, mwen get doctor, wi?’

  ‘I got no money,’ Murphy said. He pressed one hand against his thigh and the other on his upper arm. ‘Jesus, look at the blood.’

  Pyè stabbed Murphy’s other thigh. ‘No lajan, no doctor.’

  Murphy screamed again. ‘Pyè, you bastard! Fuck!’

  Pyè leaned close, his hands on his knees. ‘Mwen say last time. No money, no doctor. Konprann? Understand, motherfucker?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Murphy said. Sweat mixed with tears on his cheek. ‘I got a couple hundred downstairs in the safe. Take any stock you want. Whatever you can carry, all right? Take it all. Just don’t cut me no more. Please.’

  ‘That not enough, Murphy.’

  ‘Please, Pyè, I don’t got it. Please, no more.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Pyè said. He grabbed Murphy’s hair, forced his head back to expose the throat. He drew back the knife, ready to open Murphy’s jugular.

  Murphy said, ‘Please don’t.’

  Pyè put his shoulder behind the blade.

  Fegan leaned across the back of the chair and grabbed Pyè’s wrist. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  Pyè stared at Fegan. ‘What you do, Gerry?’

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè tried to pull his wrist free, but Fegan held firm. Murphy shrunk away from the blade. Pyè tried to prise Fegan’s fingers from his wrist. ‘Let go,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Fegan said. He pushed down and to the side, taking Pyè’s balance.

  Murphy slid to the floor and crawled away, blood trailing behind him. He craned his neck to watch Pyè and Fegan struggle.

  Pyè grabbed Fegan’s throat with his free hand, the chair still between them. Fegan kneed the back of it, taking Pyè’s feet from under him. The Haitian fell forward and lost his grip on Fegan’s throat. Fegan smashed his forearm across Pyè’s jaw. Pyè’s head rocked to the side, and he blinked. Fegan shifted his weight, taking Pyè’s body with him, and the Haitian slumped to the floor, his eyes blank. Fegan took the knife from his fingers.

  ‘Stick him, Gerry,’ Murphy hissed. ‘Fucking stick him.’

  Fegan looked up from the blade.

  Murphy lay in his own blood, hate and fear on his face as it dripped out of him. ‘Go on, stick that motherfucker.’

  ‘No,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè moaned and blinked. His eyes focused on Fegan and the knife. He gasped and scrambled backwards.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Fegan said. ‘Tell the Doyles I won’t do their dirty work.’

  ‘They kill you, Gerry.’ Pyè wiped blood from his lip.

  ‘Maybe,’ Fegan said. ‘Go on, get out.’

  Pyè got to his feet. He opened and closed his mouth, worked his jaw from side to side. ‘For him?’ he asked, looking at Murphy. He shook his head. ‘Doyles right. You a crazy motherfucker.’

  ‘Go,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè walked towards the door. He paused at Murphy’s side. ‘Soon,’ he said.

  Murphy crawled away from him.

  Pyè turned in the doorway. ‘See you round, Gerry.’

  Fegan stayed silent and watched him leave. In the quiet, he became aware of Murphy’s ragged breathing.

  ‘Thank you, Gerry,’ Murphy said as he struggled towards the telephone.

  ‘That’s not my name,’ Fegan said. He crossed to the telephone, lifted it, and placed it on the floor by Murphy’s bloodstained hand. ‘Call an ambulance,’ he said.

  He left Murphy alone and bleeding.

  20

  Lennon stood waiting in the hallway of the terraced house when the forensics team arrived from Carrickfergus at first light. They picked over Quigley’s corpse first while the photographer took daylight shots of the boy in the yard. Lennon’s eyes were dry and hot as he watched from the kitchen window. He’d gone home for a couple of hours, but sleep had eluded him.

  He looked at the boy’s body, his face turned up to the sky, the tarpaulin that covered the yard overnight pulled back to let the light in. The acute angle of his neck suggested the blow to his head hadn’t kill
ed him. Seventeen or eighteen, nineteen at most. He wore a tracksuit and Nike trainers, most likely fakes bought at a market stall somewhere. Chances were he was from the neighbourhood. He probably made a point of carrying no identification, but they’d know who he was before long. Some mother would find her son’s bed had not been slept in, and when the talk of a youth’s dead body lying in a yard nearby reached her, she would know. When she came running to Quigley’s door, he would deal with her.

  The photographer came back into the kitchen. He brought the camera to Lennon and showed him the little screen. ‘Look,’ he said, scrolling through the images. ‘Here.’

  The image showed a knife in the boy’s hand, tucked beneath him. Lennon looked out the window again. The body obscured the weapon.

  ‘The killer didn’t get far,’ the photographer said. ‘Looks like he slipped and fell bad.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. ‘He’s lying on his left side, but his back and his right’s dirty too. Look where his head is. He didn’t break his neck and roll over.’

  ‘Who’s to say where that dirt came from?’ the photographer said.

  ‘We’ll let forensics have a look before we jump to any conclusions. Have printouts of those on DCI Gordon’s desk as soon as you can.’

  ‘Will do,’ the photographer said as he headed for the living room.

  Lennon went to the back door and scanned the yard, taking in every piece of litter, every puddle. A layer of scummy green algae covered the concrete, a muddle of footprints just visible on the surface. They could be anybody’s from the old woman’s to her dead son’s, from the boy to the doctor who confirmed him dead. The rain that had fallen before the tarpaulin could be raised dulled them all the more. Useless.

  ‘It’s too perfect,’ Lennon said to himself.

  His mobile rang. He answered it.

  ‘Something interesting just turned up,’ DCI Gordon said.

  ‘Same here,’ Lennon said.

  ‘You go first,’ Gordon said.

  Lennon told him about the knife the photographer had spotted.

  ‘Well that’s that, then,’ Gordon said. ‘Almost.’

  ‘Almost?’

  ‘The duty officer at North Queen Street logged a report that two officers broke up a fight between rival gangs at the interface between the Lower Ormeau and Donegall Pass. They chased some of the youths along the Lower Ormeau. The kids split up, and the officers followed two of them into the alley behind Quigley’s house. That’s where they lost them.’