Collusion

by Stuart Neville

  2

  Detective Inspector Jack Lennon knew it was shit work, but the choice had been made clear: keep an eye on Dandy Andy Rankin and Rodney Crozier as they met in a greasy spoon café on Sandy Row, or spend the rest of the week typing up notes for the Public Prosecution Service. His buttocks still ached from the stint of PPS donkey work they’d dumped on him last year. He didn’t fancy another taste.

  The information had been passed along from C3, or Special Branch as most people knew them. Rankin and Crozier, two of Belfast’s leading Loyalists, were to meet at Sylvia’s to try to settle an argument that had so far put five men in hospital. One had lost an eye, another was breathing through a tube in his throat, but no one had died yet. The plan was to keep it that way.

  Spats between the Loyalists were a constant nuisance. Every few weeks a thug or two would turn up with his head broken over some quarrel or other. But sometimes the spats boiled over and people got killed. No one on the force cared too much if the odd drug dealer got taken out, but it would rile the politicians and the press, not to mention the paperwork it would generate. So it was best to keep tabs on things, try to head off trouble at the pass. That’s what Chief Inspector Uprichard had said when he assigned Lennon the job. Lennon had been at a loose end since he’d lost his place on the Major Investigation Team, so this sort of busywork was the best he could hope for. Observe and report, see who’s talking to whom, judge if the exchanges are friendly or heated, make sure it’s not something that could escalate.

  Lennon watched the café from a van with Water Board markings. He’d parked up in a side street across the way, put a lunch box and a flask on the dashboard, and opened a copy of the Belfast Telegraph. He had spread the pages across the steering wheel fifteen minutes ago and settled in.

  Rankin and Crozier sat by the window. Lennon could see them clear as day, but could only imagine their conversation. There was no money in the pot for bugging the place. The pair were only of mild interest to Special Branch, so did not merit the budget. This was strictly eyeball duty, nothing more. Yep, Lennon thought, shit work. Part of him wondered if they just wanted to get him out of the office.

  The targets huddled together, their proximity suggesting soft voices, even if the expressions on their faces did not. Crozier wore a Glasgow Rangers football top, his tattoos blurring on his thick forearms. Rankin sported a grey suit with a pink shirt, open at the collar to display his heavy gold chain. His teeth looked unnaturally white against his orange tan. Sylvia Burrows, the café’s proprietor since it had opened in the early Seventies, placed two steaming mugs between the men. She did not linger to make chitchat. The men barely acknowledged her.

  Lennon scribbled on the pad in his lap and looked at his watch. Twenty minutes now since he’d pulled up, ten since Crozier had arrived, no more than five since Rankin had joined him. Lennon yawned and stretched. Maybe the PPS paperwork wouldn’t have been so bad.

  Just a few weeks ago he’d been on a Major Investigation Team, second to DCI Jim Thompson. Good work, proper police graft befitting his rank. He’d pissed it away over a bloody speeding penalty he’d tried to get quashed for that piece of shit Roscoe Patterson. The traffic cop, Constable Joseph Moore, had come over all self-righteous when Lennon tackled him.

  It wasn’t the sixty quid, Lennon had explained, money wasn’t the issue. Roscoe had plenty of money. Lennon might have said that last part twice, he couldn’t quite remember. The issue was the three points Roscoe couldn’t afford on his licence. Things got heated when Moore, one of the newer Catholic recruits filling up the ranks since the Patten reforms, questioned why Lennon would stick his neck out for a Hun bastard like Roland ‘Roscoe’ Patterson. Lennon knew he shouldn’t have grabbed Moore’s throat and pushed him against the wall, and he apologised the next day. He didn’t know, however, that Moore had gone to CI Uprichard and claimed Lennon had tried to pass on an offer of a bribe from a known Loyalist paramilitary.

  Thus Lennon found himself in front of Uprichard’s desk being offered the choice of unpaid leave or a full disciplinary hearing. Without his old friend DCI Dan Hewitt’s intervention, the latter would have been the only option. Uprichard reminded Lennon that his record was not unblemished, and a hearing would be unlikely to do him any good, even if the allegation couldn’t be proven.

  Lennon chose leave. He sat at home for three days before boredom got the better of him. On the fourth day he boarded a flight to Barcelona. The hotel was a pit. George Orwell was supposed to have stayed there during the Spanish Civil War. From the looks of it, he’d picked the wallpaper. But the room had a balcony overlooking Las Ramblas, and the weather allowed him to sit out in the evenings with a can of San Miguel, watching the tourists and the locals avoid each other’s eyes on the street below. When midnight came, he toured the tapas bars, looking for American or English women he could charm with his accent. Most nights, he succeeded.

  He returned from Barcelona only to feel like a spare wheel, no real use to anybody, so every crappy meaningless job came his way. Including this one.

  Rankin and Crozier’s hands became more animated. Fingers stabbed at the tabletop as points were made. The mugs shook. Lennon blinked and focused, shifted in the driver’s seat, leaned forward.

  Crozier held up his hands, palms out, maybe trying to placate the other man. Rankin didn’t look like he was having any of it. His forefinger wagged in Crozier’s face. Crozier sat back, his shoulders slumping in exasperation.

  Lennon glanced down to his pad and noted the change in tone. When he looked up, Crozier was on his feet, turning to leave.

  Good, Lennon thought. If it was over, he could get the fuck out of there and type up the notes. That done, he could wait around for some more shit work.

  Rankin tugged at Crozier’s sleeve. Crozier slapped his hand away. Rankin stood, his chair tipping over.

  ‘Jesus,’ Lennon said to the empty van. ‘This is getting a bit tasty.’

  Rankin pulled a knife from his pocket and buried the blade between Crozier’s ribs.

  Lennon blinked, tried to make sense of what he’d just seen. ‘Fuck,’ he said.

  Rankin withdrew the blade. Crozier didn’t go down. He stared at the other man, his mouth slack. Rankin drove the blade home again.

  ‘Christ,’ Lennon said. He reached for the radio, hit the emergency button. It would send a signal out to every receiver on the network, saying an officer needed assistance, pinpointing his position.

  Crozier swung a fist, throwing Rankin back, still clutching the knife. Rankin tumbled over the chair, disappeared from view. Crozier put a big hand to his side, pulled it away, examined the bright red on his fingers. He staggered back until he met the wall.

  Lennon opened the glovebox and grabbed the Glock 17 and the wallet with his ID. He threw the door open and stepped out. He shoved the wallet down into his pocket and pressed the Glock against his thigh. He ducked into the traffic, his gaze fixed on the window, adrenalin crackling through him, sending sparks to his fingertips.

  Rankin reappeared, clambered over the chair towards Crozier. The bigger man put his hands up, but too slow. The blade punctured his neck.

  A car horn blared and tyres squealed as Lennon crossed the road. A woman screamed inside the café. Lennon raised the Glock. Crozier slid down the tiled wall, Rankin over him, the knife ready to come down again.

  Lennon hit the door shoulder first, raised the Glock and aimed to where Crozier lay bleeding. No Rankin. The woman screamed again. Lennon wheeled the gun around, saw Rankin seize Sylvia’s hair, bring the blade to her throat. Sylvia gasped, eyes wide behind thick glasses. Rankin held her close.

  Lennon pulled his wallet and flipped it open. He showed Rankin the ID and tucked the wallet away again. He levelled the pistol, left hand supporting the right, shoulders set for the recoil.

  ‘Let her go, Andy,’ Lennon said.

  Rankin back-pedalled, dragging Sylvia with him by her hair. He glanced over his shoulder and guided her behind the counter toward
s the rear door.

  ‘Don’t, Andy,’ Lennon said as he followed. ‘The alley’s closed off. There’s walls at either end. You can’t go anywhere.’

  Rankin pulled Sylvia tight to him, the blade up under her chin. Lennon saw red on her skin. He couldn’t tell if it was Crozier’s blood or hers.

  ‘Oh Jesus help me,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘You’re all right, Sylvia,’ Lennon said as he reached the counter. He gave her the easiest smile he could manage. ‘Andy’s not going to hurt you. Everyone round here likes you too much. Where’d they go for their fish and chips if anything happened to you, eh? No more pasties, no more sausage suppers. Everyone knows Sylvia does the best feed in town, right? Right?’

  Sylvia didn’t answer as Rankin backed towards the door.

  ‘How’s that going to go down around here if Andy hurts you, eh? He won’t be able to show his face. Come on, Andy, let her go. We can sort it out. Crozier’s still breathing. Don’t make it worse.’

  Lennon searched for some sign of doubt or panic on Rankin’s face, found nothing but dead eyes set in his tanned skin.

  ‘I’ll cut this old bitch open,’ Rankin said, his lips moving against her dyed hair. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  ‘No,’ Lennon said, taking a step closer. You’re not that stupid. Everyone knows how smart you are, right? You can’t get away. Even if you could, where would you run to? This isn’t the Dandy Andy we all know.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Rankin pointed the blade at Lennon. ‘Nobody calls me that to my face.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lennon said. He raised his hands, the Glock aimed at the ceiling, in apology. ‘I didn’t think. I’m not a thinker like you. You’re the smart one in your crew, that’s how you got where you are today, right?’

  Rankin brought the blade back to Sylvia’s throat. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

  Lennon stopped. ‘You know you can’t go anywhere. You know you can’t hurt Sylvia. You’re too smart to do that. It’s time to think, Andy. What’s the best thing to do? What’s the smart thing to do?’

  ‘Christ,’ Rankin said. The death slipped from his eyes. Fear replaced it, childish panic, reason about to flee.

  ‘Easy, Andy,’ Lennon said. He held his hands out to his sides, the Glock aimed towards the hotplates and fryers at the back of the open kitchen. ‘Take a few breaths, all right? Let’s be calm about this. Let’s be smart.’

  Rankin gulped air, and the sanity returned to his face. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘How do we get out of this?’

  ‘Let Sylvia go for a start,’ Lennon said. ‘Then put the knife down.’

  Streets away, a siren wailed.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ Lennon said. ‘Best if we’re all calm by then, eh? You and me just sitting at a table waiting for them, right? ’Cause if they come storming in with you and me facing off like this, it could get tricky. Right?’

  Rankin looked to the windows at the front of the café. His mouth curled as the panic threatened to take him again. Dead calm overcame it.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ Lennon said. ‘Now, just let go—’

  Rankin shoved Sylvia at Lennon. The top of her head cracked against his chin. They both tumbled backwards. Lennon grabbed the counter with one hand, reclaimed his balance, cradled Sylvia with the other arm. A cool draught washed around them from the open door as Rankin vanished through it.

  Lennon gathered Sylvia to him. ‘You all right?’

  She gawped at him through her crooked glasses, her mouth opening and closing.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, forgetting Rankin for a moment. Even if the prick got out of the alley, he’d be lifted in no time. Sylvia was more important right now. He lowered her to the floor, her back against the rear of the counter. ‘Deep breaths. You’re all right.’

  Lennon went to rise, but she clutched at his shoulders. He crouched beside her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘You’re safe,’ he said.

  He stood, looked at Crozier’s bloodied form propped against the wall. The Loyalist’s shoulders rose and fell as he moaned. He’ll live, Lennon thought. He went for the door and the alley beyond, Glock up and forward.

  Rankin clung to the wall at the northern end of the alley, grunting as he tried to haul himself up.

  ‘You should’ve used the wheelie bin,’ Lennon called.

  Rankin dropped the two or three feet to the ground and turned.

  ‘It’s right here,’ Lennon said, indicating the plastic bin by the door. ‘You could’ve put it up against the wall, climbed on top, and you’d have been away.’

  Rankin pressed his back against the brickwork. His breath came in hard rasps, his eyes bulging. He still held the knife in his right hand.

  ‘Why’d you have to scare poor Sylvia like that?’ Lennon asked. He stopped a few feet from Rankin. ‘You can knife shit-bags like Rodney Crozier all day long for all I care, but putting the frighteners on a nice lady like Sylvia? That’s not on.’

  Rankin raised the knife. Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘You keep away from me.’

  ‘Or what?’

  The siren drew close, another not far behind it.

  ‘Stay back,’ Rankin said. He grimaced and hissed through his teeth. His face reddened.

  ‘Or what, Andy?’

  ‘Or …’ Rankin dropped the knife and clutched his left arm with his right hand. He went down on one knee. His hands went to his sternum as if trying to hold his heart in place. His jaw muscles bunched and bulged as his face went from red to purple. ‘Fuck me,’ he said between gritted teeth.

  He hit the ground face first.

  ‘Jesus,’ Lennon said.

  3

  The Traveller followed Orla O’Kane along the wide corridor. She had thick ankles. Her blocky heels made dull thuds on the carpet. A property developer by profession, she buried her father’s money in houses, hotels and office blocks. Most likely some of it went into this building, a mansion outside Drogheda, the former home to a British landowner, now converted to a private convalescent home.

  He couldn’t help but be impressed when he drove up the gravel driveway, cutting between lawns and landscaped gardens, the house standing three storeys high up ahead. The River Boyne ran behind it, the tall pylon of the new cable-stayed bridge carrying motorway traffic across the water visible above the treetops perhaps half a mile away.

  The rest of the building had been cleared; all the rooms were empty. He’d seen one cleaner and one nurse in the grand entrance hall. A few men loitered around the grounds and in the corridors, but they certainly weren’t medical staff, with their watchful eyes and bulges in their jackets.

  ‘Does he pay a lot of medical insurance, your da?’ the Traveller asked.

  She stopped, clicking her heels together. Christ, she had a big arse on her. Broad across the shoulders, too. Her business suit did its best for her, but she was a big lass, there was no hiding it. Not a bad face, though.

  ‘He values his privacy,’ she said over her shoulder. She had the hard consonants of a woman used to being listened to, not questioned.

  The Traveller smiled at her. If she’d been anyone else’s daughter, he might have had a crack at her. She’d be a good ride, he could tell, the hard-nosed ones always were. But this one was too dangerous.

  He followed her along a first floor hall in the east wing. She walked to the second-last door on the left. A grunt from inside the room greeted her knock. She opened the door and waved the Traveller through.

  Bull O’Kane sat in the corner, tall sash windows on either side of him. A neat lawn edged by copses led to a high wall perhaps forty yards beyond the glass. The river flowed on the other side.

  The daughter cleared her throat. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me, Da.’

  O’Kane smiled. ‘All right, love.’

  A draught cooled the Traveller’s back as the door swished closed.

  ‘She’s a good girl,’ O’Kane sa
id. ‘Smart as a whip. Can’t keep a man, though. Always goes for gobshites.’

  The Traveller walked to one of the windows. ‘Quite a view,’ he said. A heron waded in the shallows across the rain-swollen river. ‘Good fishing here, I bet. Salmon, trout. I should’ve brought my rod.’

  ‘You don’t look like a knacker,’ O’Kane said.

  The Traveller turned to face him. ‘And you don’t look like you could afford a room in this place, let alone the whole lot of it.’

  O’Kane sat with his feet up on a stool, a blanket covering his lap down to his ankles. He had a faecal smell about him. The Traveller had heard the old man took a shot to the knee and another to his belly, damaging his bowel. O’Kane wore a bag now, and would do for the rest of his days. He was thinner than the Traveller had imagined, frailer than a photograph he’d seen. Age was catching up with him, spurred on by his injuries, but his eyes still burned hard.

  ‘Someone told me your real name’s Oliver Turley,’ O’Kane said. ‘Is that right?’

  The Traveller sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Might be. Might not. I’ve been called lots of things. Smith, Murphy, Tomalty, Meehan, Gorman, Maher, I could go on.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘There’s some people say I’m not even really a Pavee.’

  A dead mask covered O’Kane’s face. ‘Don’t get smart with me, son. I’m a serious man. Don’t forget that. I’ll only warn you the once.’

  The Traveller leaned back and nodded. ‘Fair enough. But I’m a serious man too, and I don’t like answering questions. You’ll know as much about me as I want you to know.’

  O’Kane studied him for a moment. ‘Fair enough. I don’t care if you’re a gypsy, a traveller, a knacker, a tinker, or whatever the fuck you lot call yourselves these days. All I care about is the job I need doing. Are you the boy for it?’

  ‘I’d have thought a man like you has plenty of boys to do his dirty work for him.’

  O’Kane shook his head. ‘Not this job. I can’t have anyone connected to me involved. And it needs done right. Quiet, like. No fuss, no bother.’

  ‘All right,’ the Traveller said. ‘So, what is it?’