Collusion

by Stuart Neville

Fegan clasped his hands together. ‘I just want to be left alone.’

  ‘We all want a quiet life,’ Packie said.

  Frankie nodded. ‘What we want and what we get are two different things.’

  You owe us, Gerry,’ Packie said. ‘And not just for keeping quiet about who and where you are.’

  ‘Jimmy’s surgery won’t be cheap,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Thousands, it’ll cost,’ Packie said.

  ‘There’s no getting round it, Gerry,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Everybody pays,’ Packie said.

  ‘Sooner or later,’ Frankie said.

  Fegan eyed the bottle of red wine the brothers shared. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  14

  Lennon watched Marie McKenna’s flat for an hour, his mind working over the documents Hewitt had let him see. The windows were still boarded up, no outward sign that anything had changed since May. He often scolded himself as he sat there, parked wherever the best vantage point lay. This was stalker behaviour, plain and simple, and he hated himself for it.

  Worst of all, the one night he could have done any good, he hadn’t been there. Just a day before Marie disappeared, Lennon sat in this very parking space and watched a tall thin man call at her door. When she welcomed the stranger in, Lennon had sped off, almost clipping another car. The next day he found out the man was Gerry Fegan, a known killer. Fegan had been arrested for brawling with another thug outside the flat.

  Lennon asked CI Uprichard what was going on. Uprichard made a call while Lennon waited, nodded his head and grunted agreement. When Uprichard hung up, he paused, smiled and said, ‘Best just leave it.’

  But Lennon didn’t leave it, at least not for a while. He asked around, begged favours, and leaned on lowlifes. All he could get was that she’d moved away in a hurry, taking the little girl with her.

  His little girl.

  He had put it to the back of his mind, convinced himself his daughter was lost to him, but still once every week or two he would take a detour by Eglantine Avenue. Like this evening.

  The window above Marie’s flat lit up. A young man with a rollup cigarette between his lips appeared for just a moment as he lowered the shabby blinds. An idea presented itself. Lennon pushed it away. The idea resisted. He gave in, knowing it was a mistake.

  Lennon climbed out of his Audi, locked it, and walked towards the flat. There were three doorbell buttons. The bottom one, the button for Marie’s flat, had no name tag. The middle one said ‘Hutchence’. Lennon held his thumb on it for five seconds, then took a step back.

  The middle blind on the bay window shot up, followed by the sash pane. The young man leaned out. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Police,’ Lennon said. ‘I need a word.’

  The young man banged his head on the window frame as he ducked back inside. Lennon heard the frantic muttering of at least three voices from above. He guessed it wasn’t tobacco the young man was smoking.

  The young man’s head appeared again. ‘Can I see some identification please?’ he asked, his voice breaking like a twelve-year-old’s.

  ‘If you like,’ Lennon said. He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket, opened it, and held it up. ‘I doubt if you’ll be able to read it from up there, though.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ the young man said, the last word at least an octave higher than the rest.

  Lennon scanned the tiny garden as he waited. Marie used to keep it pretty neat. Now litter and dead leaves gathered in the corners, and a summer’s worth of weeds had grown up through the cracks in the concrete.

  A light appeared in the glass above the front door. Lennon put on his best scary cop face, ready to put the wind up the youngster. The door opened. He held his identification up at the kid’s eye level. There was no sound but the flushing of a toilet somewhere upstairs.

  Eventually the kid smirked and said, ‘John Lennon? Was Ringo busy?’

  Lennon gave the boy his hardest stare. ‘Detective Inspector John Lennon. My friends call me Jack. You can call me Inspector Lennon. Understood?’

  The kid’s smirk dropped. ‘Understood.’

  ‘Is your name Hutchence?’

  Yes.’

  ‘First name?’

  ‘David.’

  ‘What are you, a student?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At Queen’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You having a party, David?’

  ‘No!’ The young man held his hands up. ‘It’s just me and my flatmates. We weren’t making any noise. We’ve no music going or anything.’

  Lennon leaned forward and sniffed the air between him and the kid. ‘You been smoking anything?’

  ‘Just fags.’ The young man forced his shaking hands together as the toilet flushed again.

  Lennon stepped into the hall. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Just a couple of weeks,’ the kid said as shuffled backwards. ‘Term only starts on Monday.’

  Lennon walked past the young man and peered up the stairwell. Another kid’s head ducked out of sight on the landing above. A flatmate, presumably. ‘Who lives on the top floor?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘No one yet. The landlord said there’s more students moving in next week.’

  Lennon pointed to the door in the hallway beyond. It had been six years since he’d left the ground floor flat, and that life, behind. ‘What about in there?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s empty too,’ the kid said. ‘The landlord said someone rents it, but they’re away travelling or something.’

  Lennon tried the door handle. It was locked, of course. ‘Is there ever anyone around?’

  ‘No, there’s… oh, wait!’ The young man’s face lit up like he’d won a prize. ‘Someone picked up the post last week. There was a pile sitting there.’ He indicated the shelf above the radiator. ‘We went out one night, and when we came back, it was gone. Do you want the landlord’s number?’

  No,’ Lennon said. He’d tackled the landlord not long after the flat had been boarded up and come away with nothing. He handed the kid a card. ‘If anyone ever comes around, goes in there, takes anything away, anything at all, you give me a call, all right? And I’ll pretend I didn’t smell anything funny coming from upstairs.’

  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 stin
ging 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.’