Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  No comment.’

  Not the most articulate individual, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ the Traveller said, grinning. ‘I’m articulate as fuck. But all the same, no comment.’

  62

  ‘Tell me about Gerry Fegan,’ Lennon said.

  Marie sat opposite him in the living room while Ellen lay on the floor, drawing. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why you got mixed up with someone like him.’

  ‘Someone like him,’ she echoed. ‘I didn’t know what he was when I met him. It was at Uncle Michael’s wake. He looked so lost.’

  ‘He killed your uncle.’

  Lennon watched his daughter as she drew a slender figure, sticks for arms and legs.

  ‘I know that now,’ Marie said. ‘I’d heard of him. I knew he’d been inside, that he had a reputation. But I’ve known men like that all my life. I didn’t think he was any different. I didn’t know there were so many.’

  ‘So many what?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Ellen drew dark lines for hair around the figure’s head, then sad eyes and a soft smile.

  ‘But he was so kind,’ Marie continued. ‘So gentle. And he was ready to give his life for Ellen and me.’

  ‘He’s a killer,’ Lennon said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘He’s a monster. He’s insane. And he’d do anything to protect us.’

  ‘So would I,’ Lennon said.

  In the stick-woman’s arm, a baby with a small round head, and tiny hands grasping at its mother’s breast.

  ‘Jack, you left us,’ Marie said. Her eyes were cold. ‘The time to protect us was when I had Ellen inside me. But you ran away from us when we needed you most.’

  ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed Ellen.’

  Marie gave a laugh like cracked ice. ‘Jesus, don’t go all sentimental on me, Jack. It doesn’t suit you.’

  Ellen began another figure beside the stick-woman. Slender again, but taller.

  ‘It’s true,’ Lennon said. ‘As soon as I left, I regretted it.’

  ‘Only because she ditched you a week later.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘It’s perfectly fair,’ she said, her face hardening. ‘What’s it called? When you regret a sin only because you’ve been punished. Yes, that’s it. Imperfect contrition.’

  ‘I was punished, all right. You know, she tried to bring a sexual harassment charge against me. She told them I’d been pestering her, calling her up, following her, said I wanted to marry her. It was bullshit, of course. She just couldn’t stand being in the same building as me, so she tried to get me fired. And she almost succeeded. It was a bad time. The way people looked at me in the corridors, especially the women, like I was filth. They offered me a deal, said if I resigned, they’d settle with her. She’d have got a payout, and I’d have been looking for a new job. The way things were it didn’t seem like that bad a deal. I almost took it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’ Marie asked.

  ‘I remembered what it had cost me to be a cop in the first place. How much I’d thrown away just by joining up. I’d be damned if I’d let that crazy—’ He swallowed and glanced at Ellen. ‘I wouldn’t let her drive me out of my job just because she couldn’t face up to what she’d done.’

  ‘Face up to what she’d done? God, that’s rich.’

  Lennon ignored the jibe. He hesitated, wondered if he should tell her. ‘I’ve watched you, sometimes. You and Ellen.’

  ‘You followed us?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Yes. Not followed, exactly. I just wanted to see my daughter. You’ve never allowed me to know her.’

  ‘You never deserved to know her.’

  The new figure beside the stick-woman and her baby was a man. His face was not round like the woman’s, but long and pointed. Ellen’s tongue poked out as she concentrated on the lines that made up his body and legs.

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ Lennon said.

  ‘You’ve no—’

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ Lennon said. ‘I’m her father. I have a right to know her. She has a right to know me.’

  ‘Rights,’ Marie said. She stood and went to the window overlooking the marina. ‘Don’t talk to me about rights. You left me to raise a child on my own because you didn’t have the guts to be a father. You gave up any right to her six years ago.’

  Lennon followed her to the window. Sailing-boat masts swayed below. Seagulls pitched and swooped. ‘You’re using her to punish me. You always have.’

  She looked back over her shoulder. Her face showed no emotion. She said, ‘And I always will.’

  Lennon couldn’t hold her gaze, so he looked down at Ellen’s picture. The stick-man had a pistol in his hand. He hunkered down beside her and put a finger on the figure.

  ‘Who’s that, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  ‘Gerry,’ Ellen said.

  He pointed to the other figure. ‘And that?’

  ‘That’s the secret lady.’

  ‘What does Gerry have a gun for?’

  ‘To scare the baddies away.’ She drew stick-Gerry’s mouth as a thin, straight line.

  ‘What baddies does he need to scare away?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Ellen said.

  ‘Isn’t Gerry a baddie?’ Lennon asked.

  Ellen put her pencil down and gave him a serious look. ‘No, he’s nice. He’s coming to help us.’

  ‘No, love,’ Lennon said. ‘He doesn’t know where we are.’

  ‘Yes, he does,’ Ellen said. She picked up her pencil again. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  63

  Gerry Fegan didn’t slow his pace as he approached Marie McKenna’s flat on Eglantine Avenue. A female cop leaned on a patrol car eating chips from a polystyrene tray. A bottle of Coca-Cola sat on the car roof. Another cop emerged from the house. He threw a stuffed bin liner onto the car’s back seat and closed the door. He tried to filch a chip from the woman cop’s tray. She pulled it away, but not before he snagged a few. He grinned at her as he chewed them.

  Fegan was less than twenty yards away, on the other side of the avenue, when a young man came out of the house. He looked like a student. He exchanged a few words with the cops before heading towards the Malone Road, walking in the same direction as Fegan. Going to the university, or maybe the Student Union building.

  Fegan lifted his pace to match the boy’s. The cops were too busy arguing over their chips to notice him. What had happened there? The cop he’d talked to on the phone said Marie and Ellen were safe, and Fegan believed him. But for how long? If someone had tried to harm them, then they would try again. He quickened his steps to close the distance between him and the boy. By the time they reached the corner of Eglantine Avenue and the Malone Road, Fegan was just steps behind him.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Fegan called, his voice light and friendly.

  The boy slowed and looked back. ‘What?’

  ‘Back there,’ Fegan said as he drew level with the boy. ‘The cops outside that house you came out of. Was there trouble?’

  Unease creased the boy’s forehead. He looked around him. The Malone Road teemed with life. Fegan kept his hands in his pockets, his voice friendly. He tried a smile. ‘Just curious,’ he said.

  The boy kept walking. ‘The woman who used to live there,’ he said, ‘she had some trouble yesterday. Something at the hospital.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’ Fegan asked, keeping in step with him.

  ‘I only heard what was on the news,’ the boy said. ‘Someone tried to snatch her daughter. Then the police came today to get some of her stuff.’

  ‘Are they all right? The little girl, is she okay?’

  ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘Did they say where she is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is she with that cop?’

  The boy stopped. He looked north towards the university, then back along the Malone Road. ‘What cop? Listen, who are you?’

  Fegan’s
cheeks grew hot. ‘No one. I was having something to eat in the café at the other end of the road. The waitress said there’d been trouble. I was just curious.’

  The boy started walking, but kept his gaze on Fegan. ‘I don’t know where she is. It’s nothing to do with me. Look, why don’t you ask those cops? I need to go. I’m late for class.’

  Fegan watched the boy walk away, caution and desperation fighting within him. He followed. ‘Were they hurt?’

  The boy quickened his pace. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Look, I really need to go.’

  ‘What about—’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything about it.’

  Fegan slowed, let the boy leave him behind. ‘Thanks,’ he called after him.

  The boy looked over his shoulder once, but said nothing. He broke into a run when he reached the traffic lights at the end of the road.

  64

  The pale cop let himself into the Traveller’s cell, closed the door behind him, and stood there, sweating. The Traveller lay on the thin mattress, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. The skin itched beneath the strapping.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ the cop asked.

  The Traveller could make no sense of the tag that dangled from the cop’s breast pocket. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I?’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  The Traveller sniffed. ‘Fair play, then.’

  The cop stepped closer. ‘You’ve been a good boy so far,’ he said. ‘You’ve kept your mouth shut.’

  The Traveller went to sit up. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Be quiet and listen.’

  The Traveller eased himself back down.

  ‘We have a mutual friend,’ the cop said. ‘He is very displeased. He considered arranging for you to have an accident in this cell. Maybe you couldn’t cope with the fear, the guilt and finally being caught. You’re not on suicide watch, so it could happen quite easily. Nobody would be watching you. Nobody would expect it.’

  The Traveller picked at loose threads of elasticated bandage. ‘Tell our mutual friend to make his threats in person, if he’s got the balls.’

  The cop moved closer still and leaned forward. ‘Don’t play the big man with me, you piece of shit, or you’ll be swinging by your neck before midnight.’

  The Traveller sat up. The cop stood back and paled a shade closer to white. He pulled a small canister from his trouser pocket and shook it.

  ‘You stay there or I’ll spray you.’

  The Traveller smiled. ‘You’ll have to explain why you had that. You shouldn’t carry CS spray unless you’re on the beat.’

  ‘I’m in a cell with a suspect known to be violent. It’s a sensible precaution.’

  The Traveller stood. You’ve only got one eye to aim at, so you better aim good.’

  ‘Sit down,’ the cop said, the canister held in front of him.

  The Traveller grinned. ‘Fuck you, you black—’

  The spray hit like hot needles in his one good eye. He sucked in air to scream, but the burning swamped his throat and nostrils. The scream came out as a strangled hiss. A hand on his chest pushed him back. He sat down hard. Even though he knew better, his sleeve went to his eye.

  ‘Don’t rub it,’ the cop said. ‘You’ll only make it worse. Let your eye water to flush it out.’

  ‘Bastard fucking shit-eating cunt of a whore.’ He would have cursed more, cursed the cop to hell and back, but his throat closed against the burning. He coughed and spat as every part of his head and chest that could excrete a fluid kicked into action.

  ‘Shut up and listen,’ the cop said.

  The Traveller hissed through his teeth. He stamped his feet on the floor.

  You listening? I’ll get you a wet cloth just as soon as you’ve listened to me. Are you listening?’

  The Traveller stilled himself. He nodded, his eyes screwed shut.

  ‘Good,’ the cop said. The Traveller could barely make out his shape in the fiery blur as he hunkered down. ‘Now, our mutual friend is a very generous man. That’s why you’re not going to have any accidents in your cell tonight, just so long as you do as I say. There’s a way to make things right. A way to get your little project back on track, and help me out of a fix at the same time. Now, have I got your attention?’

  The Traveller exhaled through his nose, felt the snot bubble and dribble across his lips. ‘Talk,’ he said.

  65

  ‘He’s giving me nothing,’ DCI Gordon said.

  Lennon watched Ellen play from the kitchenette. He cradled the phone between his shoulder and his ear. Gordon sounded tired. ‘Fingerprints throw anything up?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Not a thing,’ Gordon said. ‘DNA swabs have been sent off, but I’m not holding my breath. Every name and address he’s given us has checked out to a real person, a male around his age. He must’ve rhymed off a dozen. He had them all memorised. He’s wearing cheap clothes from Dunnes and Primark, all new. His wallet had nothing but cash, sterling and euro, and a keycard for a hotel on University Street. We’re trying to get consent for a search of the room from management. Shouldn’t be long. I may need you to handle that.’

  ‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I can’t leave Marie and Ellen.’

  ‘Where are they?’ Gordon asked. ‘Where are you, for that matter?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I won’t until we know who he is, and who sent him.’

  ‘I understand,’ Gordon said. ‘We have him now and they’re safe, but I understand. I’ll see if I can get someone else to search the hotel room, but I’d rather it was you.’

  ‘I thought I was on leave,’ Lennon said. ‘By your orders, no less.’

  Well, things have changed. I’m not hopeful a search will turn anything up, mind you. A man as careful as this wouldn’t leave anything around for a cleaning lady to find.’

  ‘What about his car?’ Lennon asked.

  We found a Mercedes estate in the hospital car park and towed it to Ladas Drive. It’s still being pulled apart, but all we’ve got so far is empty water bottles, stained tissues and assorted litter. It’s got Meath plates, but the Garda Síochána tell us they belong to a Merc that was written off five years ago.’

  ‘No weapons?’

  ‘Just the Desert Eagle he had on him and a spare clip,’ Gordon said.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s the lot.’

  Lennon thought about it. ‘He might have a stash somewhere in Belfast. A place or a friend he can store things with.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ll give him another go, try that line on him. I’ll let you know if it turns anything up.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Lennon said before Gordon could hang up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dan Hewitt.’

  ‘What about him?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Has he been involved, done any questioning?’

  Gordon went quiet.

  ‘Has Dan Hewitt been involved?’

  ‘He sat in on my interviews,’ Gordon said. ‘And he went to the suspect’s cell to double-check one of the names he gave. The suspect became aggressive, and DCI Hewitt had to use CS spray to subdue him. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ Lennon said.

  ‘DCI Hewitt is your superior officer,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s not for you to trust him or otherwise. He’s also Special Branch, which places him somewhere between me and God Almighty in the pecking order as far as you’re concerned. We’ll have no more talk of that, understood?’

  ‘Just be careful around him,’ Lennon said.

  ‘No more, I said.’

  Lennon listened to Gordon’s breathing. Somehow he got the feeling Gordon agreed with him, but couldn’t say it out loud. ‘All right,’ Lennon said. ‘Forget I mentioned anything.’

  ‘I already have,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  Lennon slipped the phone into his pocket and walked into the living area. Marie lay dozing on the leathe
r couch, a blanket pulled to her chin. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and it showed on her face. In fact, the dark under her eyes said she and good sleep had been estranged for some months.

  He lowered himself into the armchair as quietly as he could, wincing as the leather creaked. Ellen looked up from her play and smiled. She had drawn more figures and carefully torn around their outlines. Now she arranged them in different positions depending on their roles in the drama she was acting out on the floor.

  ‘Is that your mummy?’ Lennon asked, pointing to one of the figures.

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ Ellen said.

  ‘And is that you?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘You didn’t make one of me?’

  Ellen shook her head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Ellen said.

  ‘But you made one of Gerry Fegan.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Do you like Gerry?’

  Ellen smiled. ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Do you like me?’

  Ellen frowned. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You might do,’ Lennon said. ‘If you give me a chance.’

  Ellen wiped her nose on her sleeve, sniffed, and said nothing.

  ‘I used to be good at drawing,’ Lennon said. ‘When I was a wee boy. I never kept it up, but I was pretty good. I won prizes.’

  ‘What did you win?’

  ‘A cup one time, and a badge another time,’ he said. ‘One time I won a book token.’

  Ellen tidied her torn-out figures into a pile that signalled she was done with them. She took the notepad and pencil and handed them to Lennon. ‘Draw me a picture,’ she said.

  Lennon took the pad and pencil. ‘What of?’

  Ellen knotted her fingers together as she thought about it. ‘Me,’ she said.

  Lennon selected the black pencil from her small collection. Remembering the lessons from art class a quarter-century before, he drew an inverted egg, then segmented it to place the eyes and mouth.

  Ellen stood at his side, leaning on the armrest. She giggled. ‘That’s not me.’