The manager took out his phone. He used the back of his hand to rub his lips.
‘One last thing, Turlough – we know all the code words. You mention a Mr Crown or a Mr Wilde – you fuck around at all – this whole show is over.’ Vincent made a face, like someone coming to terms with disappointment. ‘Then they find you sitting here with the back of your head all over the inside of your car. Next time we do this, the guy who takes your place knows we’re not kidding.’
The depot manager nodded, his face pale. He tapped a couple of buttons, then raised the phone to his ear.
At Castlepoint Garda Station, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg shook Bob Tidey’s hand and said, ‘No point sitting down – conference is due to start in a couple of minutes.’
Tidey had never worked with Hogg, but knew him by reputation. Ambitious, a ladder-climber, but a solid enough policeman. Hogg said, ‘We’re down the corridor,’ and led the way out of his temporary office. Walking behind Hogg, Tidey noted that the rumours were true. He dyed his hair.
‘Colin rates you highly,’ Hogg said.
‘We worked together, back in the day. He rose to the top, I’m still knocking on doors. I think he feels sorry for me.’
Hogg’s smile was rueful. ‘We could do with another experienced hand on this case, but if there’s one thing we didn’t need it was a whole new line of inquiry.’
Tidey said, ‘How big’s the team?’
‘At its core, handpicked by Colin, seven of the best detectives we have. Well, perhaps six. But that’s OK – every investigation needs someone to make phone calls, coffee and witless remarks. Plus the usual filers and statement takers.’
Hogg gestured towards a door. ‘In here. Listen and learn – you’ll get a thorough briefing later.’
The room wasn’t made for nine people, and it felt cramped. Hogg stood, the rest of the detectives found seats or the edges of desks. Tidey sat on the side of one of the desks, next to a fat, red-faced detective.
The case conference was mostly a run through the Jobs Book, noting assignments completed, none of them apparently fruitful. An analysis of questionnaire results, a background report on the husband of some woman who was apparently romantically involved with the victim. A lot of disconnected facts that didn’t make much sense out of context. Tidey spent some time trying to work out which of the detectives was the Homer Simpson. They all sounded like they knew what they are doing. Hogg kept things moving, prodding detectives where they were too sketchy, cutting across them when they rambled. It was a daily base-touching exercise, ticking off a handful of tasks from what was obviously a long list.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey, Cavendish Avenue. He’s here this morning on the instructions of Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe.’ Hogg made a take-the-floor gesture. ‘Tell them why you’re here, Detective Sergeant.’
Bob Tidey opened his notebook. ‘The best part of eighteen months ago, a young man named Oliver Snead was murdered in Glencara – a hit job, in front of the block of flats where he lived. Oliver lost some drugs he was supposed to deliver – small-time stuff, but enough to piss someone off. He was trying to pay them back, but not fast enough. Two bullets in the chest, one in the head. We recovered the cartridges. And according to the ballistic report on the Emmet Sweetman killing, Technical got a match – same striations, same gun.’ Tidey checked his notebook. ‘The bullet was a .45 ACP, most probably fired from a Browning M1911 – it’s a fairly common weapon.’
The only woman on the team, sitting close to the door, said, ‘Any suspects?’ Bob Tidey had worked with her briefly a couple of years back. He shook his head. ‘I knew the kid – knew his grandfather – I put a lot of time into that case. I eventually got a name – Gerry FitzGerald, a known hood. A tout picked up a whisper, but not enough to bring to court.’
‘You pulled him in?’
‘Name, rank and serial number.’
Hogg said, ‘What matters is this – how come a forty-two-year-old millionaire banker and property speculator, a man at the heart of the property bubble, a man who was murdered in the doorway of his Southside mansion, got shot dead with the same weapon that killed a minor mule on the Northside Dublin drug scene? It opens up a new line of inquiry – in a case that already has more than enough.’
The police officer’s ideal murder case isn’t one that involves clues and alibis, obscure poisons and convoluted motives. The ideal murder is one in which the victim is known to have pissed someone off and when the police arrive that someone is standing over the body with a bloody axe in his hand. With a bit of luck, several people witnessed what happened and someone has already uploaded a thirty-second video of the killing onto YouTube. Anything much more complicated was a pain in the arse.
The fat, red-faced detective next to Tidey said, ‘Maybe someone sold someone else a gun? Simple as that.’
‘Possible,’ Hogg said. ‘It’s an orderly world, though. We have our lowlife gangsters – scams and hold-ups, smuggling, drugs, sex trade and protection rackets, all the mucky stuff. And we have our highlife gangsters – who do their thieving through layers of companies, hidden bank accounts, bribes, forgeries and offshore cut-outs. How does the gun get from one side of the city to another? From one category of crime to another? From one social class to another? A money grudge involving a ghetto kid, and a millionaire fraudster?’
One of the detectives said, ‘I’m still betting on some IRA types. They shoot drug dealers – and there’d be almost as much kudos these days in shooting bankers.’
Hogg said, ‘The Branch’s touts haven’t heard a word. Could be some new faction, of course.’
The fat detective said, ‘How does this kid – this Snead killing – how does it change things operationally, sir?’
‘Bob Tidey will concentrate on possible connections between the two murders. The rest of you will continue working through the existing lines of inquiry. Anything that might relate to the mucky side of the business, you let Bob know. If some business-school gangsters have begun calling in gunmen instead of lawyers – no one knows where that kind of thing leads.’
22
Vincent Naylor smiled and said, ‘That was very good.’ He took the phone out of Turlough McGuigan’s limp hand. ‘You nearly had me convinced you’re having a sick day.’
Vincent waved at the Megane. Moments later, Noel got out of the car and climbed into the rear of the Suzuki. He too wore round sunglasses and a moustache. A floppy white hat hid his hair.
Noel spoke to Vincent, but smiled at the depot manager. ‘He being sensible?’
‘Turlough’s a good boy.’
Noel said, ‘Take off your shirt, Turlough.’
‘What?’
‘Put this on.’ Noel dropped a dark purple sweatshirt into the depot manager’s lap. ‘And hurry.’
‘What the fuck?’
Vincent said, ‘You know why, Turlough, you know why.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘We know everything, Turlough,’ Vincent said. ‘Passwords, codes, schedules, names, addresses, how everything’s done – after this I could set up my own security business, the kind of stuff we know.’
His trembling fingers made the buttons difficult, but the depot manager took off his white shirt and gave it to Vincent. He pulled on the purple sweatshirt.
‘Good man,’ Vincent said.
Vincent handed the shirt to Noel, who clapped Turlough on the back and said, ‘Time to go, man.’
Vincent said, ‘We get out, now, Turlough, you and me. And we take the Megane.’ A minute later, Vincent and the depot manager were sitting in the front of the Megane, as Noel pulled away in the Suzuki, Turlough’s white shirt on the passenger seat beside him.
Over most of the previous decade, every cash-in-transit robbery was followed by security companies promising tougher procedures, and embarrassed Ministers for Justice threatening drastic regulation. The companies got a makeover. Tighter protocols, more sophisticated technology, consultants brought in to game-play the bu
siness until they’d accounted for just about every possible scenario.
‘Going to be tougher than ever,’ Vincent told Noel, ‘specially after that Bank of Ireland guy.’ Just as the recession hit, and the banks slid towards insolvency, a Bank of Ireland employee’s family was taken and he ended up walking out of the vaults with seven million, which was the ransom for their return. ‘Anyone with a key to the money – there’s going to be so much technology all over him and his family. Anything that big, it’s too chancy.’
Noel looked disappointed. ‘It’s worth a try, that kind of money.’
‘I’m not saying we can’t do it. Long as we don’t get too greedy – long as we do it fast enough, keep it small enough, we can take a bundle and we’ll be home safe before they know it’s gone.’
When Turlough McGuigan called in sick, the information would have been passed on to Protectica base, where the signal from the GPS chip in his Suzuki would show that his car had stopped on his way to work, the stop coinciding with the phone call. After the call, the GPS screen would show the car heading back to McGuigan’s home, and the signal from the GPS chip implanted in McGuigan’s shirt collar would confirm to HQ that the depot manager was in his car.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Vincent Naylor leaned towards McGuigan and spoke quietly. ‘No hysterics, now – OK? And no playing the hero.’
Vincent took a mobile phone from a pocket of his shorts and tapped the keys half a dozen times, then he found what he wanted and held the screen up so McGuigan could see.
It took a moment, then the depot manager was breathing fast and hard and it looked like he was about to be sick.
As the case conference broke up, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg crooked a finger at the woman detective. ‘Rose, a job for you.’
She shuffled her files and gave him a Gee, thanks I was hoping I could cram some more work into my day smile. As she approached, Hogg turned to Bob Tidey – ‘Detective Garda Rose Cheney, Macken Road.’
‘We’ve met,’ Cheney said.
‘The Boyce arrest,’ Tidey said.
Hogg said, ‘All the better, then. Bob needs a backgrounder, and I want you to help him look at possible links between the murders.’
‘No problem, sir.’ She looked at Tidey and inclined her head towards the door.
Walking down the corridor, Tidey said, ‘Sorry to be a bother – I imagine you’ve enough on your plate.’
‘Not to worry.’
‘Maybe we better find a quiet corner, so you can fill me in.’
‘Better still – why don’t I dump these files and meet you out front, take you to have a look at the murder scene? It’s mostly cleaned up now, but you’ll get the picture.’
‘I had a look at the outside of the house – not a lot of help. A look inside can’t hurt.’
‘I’ll drive.’
‘Take this, Turlough. Hold onto it.’ Vincent held out the mobile. The depot manager took the phone like it was an infected thing.
‘Any time you want, Turlough, you tap open the photo album and you look at the picture.’
The photo in the mobile was something Turlough McGuigan never wanted to see again. It showed his wife. She was wearing the same top she’d had on when Turlough had left for work less than an hour earlier. White, with red piping around the neckline and the ends of the short sleeves. There was a man standing beside Deirdre, a man in a Superman T-shirt, wearing a baseball hat and round shades. The man had an arm around Deirdre’s shoulders, his hand coming down, casually cupping her right breast. Deirdre looked out from the picture, her face pale, terror flaring in her eyes.
‘I’ve got no access to money,’ Turlough McGuigan said. ‘If I try to pick up money, there’s no way—’
‘We don’t expect you to bring us any money.’
McGuigan stared at Vincent. ‘What’s it for, then? Why you doing this to me – to her?’
‘One thing you should know – my people went into the house five minutes after you left. She hadn’t time to take the kids to school – they’re there, too.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘That’s what I’d say, in your position, Turlough – you’re entitled. But, just so you know – any pissing about on your part, it’s over. My people don’t hear from me – they have their orders.’
‘I’ve told you – I’ve no access—’
‘You and me, we’re going to go have a coffee.’
Vincent Naylor started the engine and eased the car out of the pub car park. He glanced at his watch.
On schedule.
23
Through the half-closed venetian blinds at the living-room window of Turlough McGuigan’s home, Liam Delaney watched the street outside. Nothing stirring.
Kevin Broe was standing at the sliding doors that led into the dining room, in his Superman T-shirt. Delaney and Broe were both wearing baseball hats and shades.
Deirdre McGuigan was sitting on the sofa. PlayStation sounds and the laughter of her two small boys drifted down from their bedroom above.
‘Shouldn’t be long,’ Liam said.
The woman looked up, her expression a mixture of fear and disgust.
‘What are you doing with my husband?’
‘He’s OK.’
‘Get him to ring me, so I know he’s OK.’
‘He’s OK.’
‘I need to—’
Liam Delaney held up his hands to stop her. ‘Look – the way this is, what’s best is if you just keep quiet, do as we say. That way it’s all over quickly, things get back to normal.’
‘Things will never be normal.’
‘Another hour – no more than that, maybe even—’
‘When you work for a security company, and something like this happens – even when you’re totally innocent, things are never the same. Even if he keeps his job, things won’t – the police will – the company—’
‘That won’t—’
‘Jesus, he’s worked so hard, he’s—’ She lowered her head, waited a moment, and when she looked up again at Liam Delaney she was straining to keep her voice at a level pitch. ‘What happens next?’
‘Your husband’s seen the photo by now—’
‘Doing this, to a family – that picture – you’re disgusting, all of you.’
‘Count yourself lucky.’ Over by the window, Kevin Broe was smiling. ‘I know of jobs where people needed serious convincing – bank staff, security guys.’ He bent forward towards Deirdre McGuigan, his smile fixed in place. ‘Quickest way to do that is pick someone, a wife or a girlfriend, and give her a hammering. After that, no one gets lippy.’ He seemed almost disappointed. ‘Nothing like that here.’ He made a cup of his right hand, as though weighing something. ‘You got your tit felt up, no big deal, and – who’s to say—’ He kissed the palm of his hand – ‘maybe you enjoyed it?’
‘Go fuck yourself.’
Kevin was still smiling. He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘Just a little bit, no?’
Liam Delaney said, ‘Here he is.’
‘Turlough?’ The woman stood, turned towards the window.
Kevin Broe said, ‘Sit the fuck down.’ Deirdre McGuigan sat down.
Turlough McGuigan’s Suzuki was parked outside. Noel Naylor was getting out.
By the time Noel got to the front door, Liam Delaney had it open. Noel handed over the depot manager’s white shirt, nodded and turned to leave.
‘Everything going OK?’ Liam said.
Noel half turned and held up a thumb, then continued down the front path.
Kevin Broe moved towards the door, paused and turned to Deirdre McGuigan. ‘Got to go, baby. Love ya and leave ya.’ He blew her a kiss. Passing Liam Delaney he smiled and said, ‘You get all the fun jobs.’ He followed Noel Naylor down the street and around the corner to a black Lexus.
In the living room, Delaney was talking to Deirdre McGuigan.
‘You need to listen to me, OK?’
‘I need t
o hear from my husband.’
‘Your husband’s called in sick. He’s OK, he’s cooperating with us. This is your husband’s shirt. That way, his company will believe he’s home – the tracker device, you know? Same reason my friends have left his Suzuki parked outside.’
‘Where is he?’ Her voice sounded a couple of rungs below hysterical. Delaney leaned forward and tried to make his voice a lot calmer than he felt.
‘Pay attention. This is important for you and your husband. They’ll ring, the company – soon as they know he’s home, they’ll want to talk to him. It’ll be a routine check. You tell them Turlough’s gone to bed, soon as he came in the door. You got that? He’s gone to bed, he’s out of it.’
She nodded. Her hands were on her thighs, rubbing invisible creases out of her skirt.
‘Soon as he’s feeling better, he’ll give them a ring, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘You can do that?’
The phone rang.
Delaney said, ‘They don’t hang around. You OK for this?’
Deirdre McGuigan didn’t reply. When she picked up the phone the only sign of her distress was her pale face. ‘Hello, yes?’
After a moment she said, ‘He just got here, yes – listen, can I get him to give you a ring in a while?’ Her voice was concerned, but self-assured. ‘He’s in bits – came in a minute ago, pale and sweaty, went right to bed.’ Her head was back, her eyes closing as she concentrated on her task. ‘Mind you, this morning, I knew he was a bit off colour, but he said he’d shake it off.’
Liam Delaney, sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace, realised he’d been holding his breath. For the first time since he came to the house, he allowed himself a moment of relaxation.
This is going to work.
24
Detective Garda Rose Cheney said, ‘He died just short of ten o’clock in the evening. Shotgun blast in the chest – lifted him off his feet, threw him there. Just where you’re standing.’
Although the white marble floor had been cleaned since the murder, instinct or squeamishness made Bob Tidey take a step back.
The Rage Page 9
