‘And you’re getting back on an MIT in return,’ Hewitt said. ‘I think that makes us square.’
Lennon struggled to concentrate on the road as he wove through side streets to get back to Donegall Pass. ‘I need to see them, Dan.’
No you don’t,’ Hewitt said. ‘You want to see them. Not the same thing at all. I couldn’t let you have them even if I wanted to. I have to show a live investigation before I can pull the files.’
‘Shit,’ Lennon said. ‘There must be some way.’
‘If you want files on Rankin, I can maybe do something for you, within reason.’
‘How about if you cross-reference Rankin and McKenna? If there’s any match-up, can you give me the files? Crozier too. Rankin told me Crozier’s been taking over McKenna’s turf since he died. That ties it to my case.’
Lennon listened to silence for long seconds until Hewitt sighed and said, ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do. A lot of it’ll be redacted, though. You’ll be looking at more blacked-out lines than anything else.’
‘Okay,’ Lennon said, ‘whatever you can get me.’
‘Give me an hour,’ Hewitt said.
The thin file landed on Lennon’s desk ninety minutes later. He flicked through the photocopied pages, less than twenty of them. True to Hewitt’s word, most of it had been blacked out by thick lines drawn with marker pen. But not all of them were redacted in the original. Some of the pages smelled of solvent, the black lines fresh and slightly damp to the touch.
A Post-it note clung to the inside of the folder. In Dan Hewitt’s neat script it said:
Jack,
There’s not much, but it’s the best I can do for you. Remember, Dandy Andy has done us a lot of good. Like I said, he’s a piece of shit, but a useful piece of shit. Shred these when you’re done.
Dan
Dandy Andy Rankin was indeed a piece of shit. Not only had he been leeching off his own community for years, but he’d also been spoon-feeding information to Special Branch, and more recently their new face, C3 Intelligence Branch. The first three pages were a profile complete with mug shots and a career summary, Dandy Andy’s Greatest Hits. Scanning the pages, Lennon could discern at least half a dozen assassinations that had been thwarted, five arms caches that had been discovered, and hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of Ecstasy, cocaine and cannabis shipments that had been stopped en route to Belfast.
All this came at a price, of course. Rankin had been allowed to operate in relative peace. A single paragraph below the photos outlined his various enterprises. Those suits weren’t cheap.
The following pages were the most interesting. Rankin had been passing bits and pieces of information on Rodney Crozier’s emerging relationship with Belfast’s Lithuanian gangs. The consolidation of the European Union alongside Northern Ireland’s stabilisation had drawn prosperity to this part of the world, but the criminals followed close behind.
The South had seen it first, with Dublin’s underworld growing more vicious by the day. Gangland killings were now almost as frequent in the Republic as paramilitary killings had been in the North during the Troubles. Up here, the paramilitaries still kept control of the rackets; ordinary decent criminals didn’t have a look in, but competition from Eastern Europeans was starting to bite.
The Loyalists had been cooperating with the Lithuanians for some time, now. They put up a front of resisting foreigners in Protestant areas, intimidating the hard-working immigrants who took the jobs no one else would, but behind closed doors they sucked up to the gangsters from Lithuania and elsewhere. Prostitution was one of the biggest earners for them, and the Liths had a good supply of young women from Russia, Romania, Belarus and Ukraine. None of that was news to Lennon, much as it shamed him. He flicked through a series of memos and transcribed messages, reading what hadn’t been obscured. Each mentioned McKenna at least once, but nothing substantial. Nothing he could link back to what Rankin had told him at the hospital.
The final section was a transcription of a meeting between Rankin and one of his handlers. Lennon scanned the few readable scraps that had been left.
DATE: 05/09/2007
LOCATION: Car park, Makro Warehouse, Dunmurry,
Belfast
INTERVIEWING OFFICER: DI James Maxwell, C3
SUBJECT: Andrew Rankin, a.k.a. Dandy Andy Rankin
Interviewing officer notes that Rankin was visibly agitated throughout the conversation, as evidenced by his fidgeting and chain-smoking.
JM: What have you got for me?
AR: Rodney bloody Crozier. I want him put away.
JM: Jesus, Andy, not this again.
AR: It’s this business with the Liths. He’s getting too big for his boots. He’ll be shitting all over me if it goes on much longer.
JM: We’ve talked about this before.
AR: And I’m going to keep talking about it till you fuckers get your thumbs out of your arses and do something about it. Ever since Michael McKenna got his stupid brains blown out, Rodney fucking Crozier’s been palling up to them, getting his—
McKenna’s name scratched at Lennon. Everyone on the force knew Lennon’s connection to McKenna, even if it was history. A third of a page was blacked out. Lennon skipped ahead.
—people talk, like. Crozier couldn’t have moved into that part of town if McKenna was still around.
JM: And?
AR: And if you lot don’t do something about it, I will. Fuck me, I never thought I’d see the day. One of our own running with the Liths, putting money in the other side’s pockets. I knew Rodney Crozier’s father. He’d turn in his grave if he saw who his son was doing business with.
JM: Listen, our hands are tied. We can’t mount an operation of that scale just on your say-so.
AR: Jesus, who runs the cops these days, eh? Who’s telling you to turn a blind eye to all this carry-on? That business with McKenna getting bumped off, then all the shit that—
More lines scrawled over with black marker. The feud. The killings in Belfast. The bloodbath on an old farm near the border. The inquiry established that dissidents had ambushed the politician Paul McGinty there, and the investigation was concluded when three of them blew themselves up with their own bomb a few months later. A specialist forensics team had matched the remains of the guns in their car to the scene of the shootout.
When Lennon heard the news of McKenna’s death his first thought had been of Marie and Ellen. He’d considered phoning her, even went as far as punching the number into his mobile, but then he realised he didn’t have a clue what to say. He could ask to speak to his daughter, but he knew Marie would say no. And anyway, what do you say to a child who doesn’t know you?
It wasn’t for lack of trying on his part. For more than two years after Ellen was born he’d tried to initiate some kind of contact. He’d left her mother while she carried their child. He couldn’t forgive himself for that sin, so had no expectation of anyone else offering absolution, but Ellen was still his child. Marie refused every attempt, every approach. It was nothing more than punishment for his crime, and he knew he deserved it, but Ellen didn’t. He considered going through the courts, forcing Marie to give him access, but he’d seen how the system drove more families apart than it pulled together. Parents used their children as weapons against each other. He wanted no part of that. Eventually he decided it would be better to let the child grow up oblivious to him than make her the centre of a battle that wasn’t of her making.
Lennon’s own father had abandoned his family, leaving only vague memories of a man who would roar with laughter one minute and strike out in anger the next. He’d gone to America, Lennon’s mother had said, and when he had enough money he would send for his wife and children. Years later, she still had that spark of hope in her eyes every time the postman shoved paper through their door. The letter never came.
For Lennon, family did not mean warmth and comfort. It meant pain and regret. His family had cut him off for joining the cops; Marie’s family had done
the same to her for taking up with him. Blood bonds were so easily severed, surely his child would be happier never having been tied to him in the first place.
But he never forgot.
Up until she moved away he had parked once or twice a week on Eglantine Avenue and watched Marie and Ellen come and go. Ellen looked like her mother, at least from a distance. He imagined getting out of his car, approaching them, hunkering down to see Ellen eye to eye, holding her small hand in his.
But what good could come of that? It would only confuse the child, and Marie would whisk her away from him. She kept that hardness in her well hidden. He’d touched it more than once when they’d been together. It felt like the bones beneath her skin, but colder and sharper. She knew keeping his daughter from him was the only way to punish him for what he’d done. Even if he did go to court and demand access, put Ellen through that circus, what kind of father could he make? No better than his own, certainly.
He shook the thought away and started reading again.
—all over the fucking place. Everybody knows there was more to all that. But it was forgotten about bloody quick.
JM: Jesus, you boys must gossip like a bunch of auld dolls at the bingo. None of that’s anything to do with you.
AR: Nothing to do with me? I’m losing a fucking fortune cause Michael McKenna went and got himself—
Half a page missing this time. Lennon scanned down.
—irl. And she’s not been seen since.
He stopped there, his mouth dry. He traced the blacked-out lines with his finger, looking for any sign of the letters they concealed. That last word, was it girl? He tried to find some moisture in his mouth to wet his lips, but his tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth.
Lennon pushed the papers aside and checked his watch. Almost lunchtime. He lifted the phone and dialled the C3 office. He asked for Hewitt.
‘You fancy some lunch?’ he asked when Hewitt answered.
‘With you?’
‘Yes,’ Lennon said. ‘With me.’
‘I gave you the files, Jack. That’s more than I should’ve done.’
‘Come on, for old times’ sake.’
‘Christ,’ Hewitt said. ‘What are you after?’
‘Just a couple of questions. And a bacon sandwich.’
Hewitt sighed. ‘All right, canteen in ten minutes.’
Hewitt picked over a salad while Lennon chewed cold bacon. The folder lay on the table between them. A squad of boys from the Tactical Support Group sat on the other side of the canteen, shouting and guffawing over their chips and beans. There must have been a raid planned for the afternoon, some house with reinforced doors and heated rooms for the cannabis plants, or a corner shop with smuggled cigarettes stashed in the back.
‘You weren’t joking about the redactions,’ Lennon said. ‘Most of it was blacked out.’
Hewitt took a sip of mineral water. ‘What did you expect? You’re lucky you saw any of it.’
Lennon spooned sugar into his tea. ‘I know. There’s only the one bit I’m curious about.’
‘Don’t even bother asking,’ Hewitt said.
‘Just this one bit.’ Lennon took a swig of lukewarm tea. ‘About that business with Michael McKenna, the feud, McGinty getting ambushed near Middletown.’
‘What about it? Everything was made public after the inquiry. McGinty’s faction fought amongst themselves, and the dissidents got involved. It was a bloody mess, but it’s all over with.’
Lennon struggled with the bacon. Hewitt waited patiently. Eventually, Lennon swallowed and asked, ‘Then why’s it all blacked out? Why the secrecy if it’s all in the public domain anyway?’
Hewitt put down his fork and wiped his lips with a napkin, even though his mouth was clean. ‘Look, Jack, I let you see those notes as a favour. I’d be in trouble if anyone knew I’d let you get anywhere near them. Don’t push your luck.’
You heard about Kevin Malloy? What happened to him night before last?’ Lennon asked. ‘He was one of Bull O’Kane’s crew. Bull O’Kane owns the farm where McGinty got killed.’
‘That Malloy thing was a robbery gone wrong,’ Hewitt said. ‘Besides, it’s nothing to do with us. It was on the other side of the border. The Guards can take care of that one. You’re fishing. What for?’
Lennon took a chance. ‘What do the notes say about Marie McKenna?’
Hewitt paled.
‘In the Rankin interview,’ Lennon continued, not giving Hewitt a chance to sidestep. ‘Right at the end, he mentions her.’
‘No he doesn’t,’ Hewitt said with a weak laugh. He picked up his fork and stabbed at soggy lettuce leaves.
‘He does,’ Lennon said. ‘Right at the end.’
Hewitt dropped the fork and reached for the folder. He pulled out loose pages and flipped through them. He found the Rankin interview and traced the lines with his fingertip. After a few seconds of page turning, Hewitt said, ‘It doesn’t mention Marie McKenna anywhere.’
‘Nope,’ Lennon said. ‘Made you look, though, didn’t I?’
Hewitt stared hard across the table at him, his cheeks flushed, before stuffing the pages back in the folder. ‘I’ll hang on to these,’ he said, ‘make sure they’re properly disposed of.’
Was Marie involved in any of that?’ Lennon asked.
Hewitt stood. ‘I’m not having this discussion with you, Jack.’
‘I drive by her street sometimes,’ Lennon said. ‘Not in a dodgy way, you understand, just if I’m passing. Her windows have been boarded up for a while now. I asked around, at her work, places like that. They said she’d moved away, they didn’t know where. She went in a hurry.’
Hewitt moved around the table to Lennon’s side. ‘Jack, if you want any more information from our files, you can make an official request.’
‘She moved away with my daughter,’ Lennon said. ‘You know my family disowned me when I joined up. Personnel have my next of kin down as a cousin I only talk to once a year, for Christ’s sake. Ellen’s the only mark I made on the world. The only family I’ve got, and she doesn’t know who I am. I just want to know where she is.’
‘All right.’ Hewitt placed a hand on Lennon’s shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you this as an old friend. I shouldn’t discuss it at all, but I’ll make an exception for you.’ He leaned in close to Lennon’s ear. ‘These papers say absolutely nothing about Marie McKenna or her child. Fair enough?’
Lennon turned his head so their eyes were inches apart. ‘Fair enough.’
Hewitt patted his shoulder and walked away, the file tucked under his arm.
‘But, Dan?’ Lennon called after him.
Hewitt stopped, sighed, and turned around.
‘If you’re lying to me,’ Lennon said.
‘You’ll what?’
Lennon thought about it for a few seconds before telling the truth. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
13
Gerry Fegan stood still and closed his eyes when the long Cadillac slowed alongside him. He’d been as careful as he could, getting off the F Train at Delancey Street station instead of East Broadway, and taking the most circuitous route he could find to his building on the corner of Hester and Ludlow Street. He would have fled when he had the chance, only he needed money and his fake passport. He had no choice but to go back to his shabby little room on the Lower East Side.
The brakes whined. ‘Doyles want to see you, Gerry Fegan,’ a heavily accented voice called.
Fegan opened his eyes and turned to Pyè Préval. He was the only black man the Doyle brothers would have about them. The small and wiry Haitian leaned out of the rear passenger side window. Fegan had met him a few times on the sites he’d worked on. In his strange mix of Haitian Creole and English, Pyè often told Fegan he wanted to visit Ireland. He asked Fegan about the weather and the landscape, the drink, and the ‘fi’ – the girls. Fegan liked him in a way, but knew a bad man when he met one. Pyè would be handy with a knife, Fegan was sure of it.
Pyè got out of t
he car and held the door open. ‘Zanmi mwen,’ he said, his smile as bright as the day. He pointed inside the limo. ‘My friend, get in machin nan.’
‘Jimmy Stone’s going to need surgery on that knee,’ Frankie Doyle said. He speared a meatball with his fork and squashed overcooked pasta into it with his knife.
The tourists on Mulberry Street paid no attention to Fegan or the Doyles as they talked at a table outside the restaurant. The brothers didn’t offer Fegan any food.
‘Tell him I’m sorry about that,’ Fegan said.
Packie Doyle snorted and mopped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Christ, I don’t think sorry’s going to do it, Gerry.’
Fegan didn’t protest at the name. ‘Will he be all right?’ he asked.
‘Eventually,’ Frankie said. ‘He’ll be on crutches for a month or two, and he’ll have a limp for a good long while. Some of the boys thought we should do you over for that, Gerry. Do both your knees, see how you like it.’
Fegan said nothing. An image flickered briefly in his mind: breaking a young man’s left knee behind McKenna’s bar on the Springfield Road. It had been more than two decades ago, and remembrance could do no good. He pushed the memory away.
Packie mopped up sauce with a fistful of bread. ‘We don’t want a fight with you, Gerry,’ he said.
‘No fight,’ Frankie said. ‘Jesus, if we wanted that, we wouldn’t be sitting here now. We could just as easy turn you in to the cops, or immigration even, as hand you over to this guy who’s looking for you.’
‘We could’ve done that,’ Packie said through a mouthful of bread, ‘but we didn’t.’
‘Look at things our way for a minute,’ Frankie said. ‘Good men are hard to find.’
‘You can’t get the help these days,’ Packie said.
‘So along comes a good man,’ Frankie said, ‘and we want to put some work his way.’
‘But he throws it back in our face,’ Packie said.
‘And we’re just trying to do him a good turn,’ Frankie said. ‘You see where we’re coming from, Gerry?’
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