Cheney smiled. ‘Back at the station – by the ton.’
When Turlough McGuigan and the security guys were almost at the exit, Vincent Naylor turned and faced out onto the shopping centre car park, looking towards where Noel and Kevin were waiting in the black Lexus. He put his hand on top of his head for a moment. Then he stood with both hands in his pockets, one hand gripping the small pistol.
Noel already had the Lexus engine running. Now, the car motored slowly across the fifty feet that separated it from the parked Protectica van.
Vincent turned back and watched Turlough McGuigan lead the two security men out into the sunlight and across the pavement towards the van.
‘You’ll see a black Lexus coming up slowly,’ Vincent had told him. ‘The boot will be unlatched. It stops, you swing the lid up, you tell the guys what to do.’
Now, Vincent watched as the Lexus eased to a stop. There was an awkward moment as the two Protectica guards paused. Their training and instinct told them to knock on the van’s sliding hatch and to sling the money inside when podman Davey Minogue opened up. Instead, their faces grim, they followed Turlough McGuigan’s instructions and dropped the bags of money into the boot of the Lexus. McGuigan slammed the boot shut.
‘Here, you’ll need this.’ Turlough McGuigan held out the mobile to Mick Shine. Behind the Protectica van, the black Lexus was moving slowly away.
‘You know we’re not allowed private mobiles on the job.’
‘Fucking take it. It’s been disabled, you can’t call anyone. Show Davey the picture of his house. You get back in the van, you tell Davey not to fuck about and you move on to the next collection.’
‘The next—’
‘Next stop, Harding Avenue, Ulster Bank – I’ll meet you there.’
Mick Shine looked at Paudie McFadden, then back at Turlough McGuigan. ‘This—’
‘They’re not finished yet.’
McFadden said, ‘Jesus, these—’
Turlough McGuigan’s voice quivered. ‘We don’t have time for this. Right now Davey’s worrying why there’s no package coming through the hole. You wait too long, he gets worried and trips the flare – how are you going to live with what happens to your family?’
A minute later, Turlough McGuigan was sliding into the red Megane, the thug leader at the wheel. At the exit from the car park a woman in a ten-year-old Fiesta cut in front of them and the thug leader called her a cunt. When he got going he made good time and before long he was tucked in behind the Protectica van, ten minutes away from the next collection. Turlough McGuigan looked across and the thug leader was smiling.
‘Won’t be long now, Turlough – chin up.’
27
Inside the Protectica van, Mick Shine was driving and Paudie McFadden was riding shotgun. Davey Minogue, the podman, was perched on the jump seat at an angle to the lockers that lined the back of the van. He was small for a security man, but fit and bulky, with a bald head and a neat goatee beard. His head was thrust forward between his co-workers and his voice was an urgent hiss. ‘Remember your training—’
Mick Shine said, ‘Sit the fuck down, Davey.’
‘All the hallmarks – it’s a scam, it’s a bluff.’
‘Look at the pictures,’ Paudie McFadden said.
Davey snorted derisively. ‘They found out where we live, they took pictures of our houses – that’s all.’
‘Turlough’s wife. You think that’s a bluff?’
‘Who do you think gave them our addresses? The fucker’s in on it – that picture’s a set-up.’
‘We don’t know that,’ Mick Shine said.
‘They have to have someone on the inside. He’s here with them, for Jesus sake, giving us orders – what more do you want?’ Davey Minogue leaned forward, his face next to Paudie McFadden.
‘Sit down, Davey.’
‘Pull the flare.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Pull the flare!’
‘Sit fucking down, and shut fucking up!’
Davey Minogue stared at the flare on the dashboard. It was a small unmarked rectangle of black plastic, with a slight ridge along the near side. Press on that ridge and release it and the cover springs open, to reveal a red button inset in the dashboard. Press the button and alarms go off back at the Protectica depot and at Garda HQ, and within seconds the closest Emergency Response Unit receives the alarm, along with the latest GPS information on the van. Within minutes they’re slipping the safety catches off their Uzis.
‘Lads—’
‘Davey, you’re wrong – sit down.’
Davey Minogue moved back to the jump seat and belted himself in. Both his co-workers were tense, frightened, and that was to be expected. Davey knew they lacked his composure. They were shocked, in danger of panicking. Give them time and they’d see what he saw – this was a classic inside job. Trouble was, by the time they wised up this whole thing might be over.
Maybe he should have just reached over their shoulders – press, flick, one touch to the red button.
He had an image of Mick Shine jerking the steering wheel, the van swerving – God only knew how that might end.
More ways than one to skin a cat.
The back of the van had rows of numbered lockers, floor to ceiling. A single key opened any locker. If more than one locker at a time was opened an alarm would be triggered back at the depot.
Davey Minogue slid a hand down to his belt and felt the thin steel chain clipped there. His fingers followed the chain to the breast pocket of his uniform, where the key rested.
Maura Coady left the Spar and walked slowly back up Kilcaragh Avenue towards her house. She was carrying a plastic bag with a litre of milk, a small sliced pan and the Irish Independent. She averted her gaze from the white van as she passed it, and when she got to her house she looked at everything except the green car parked outside. Once inside, she made tea and toast and promised herself she would stay away from the front window until at least lunchtime.
When she finished her toast she sat for a moment, then she took her cup of tea into the front room and stood behind the net curtain, watching the green car.
28
Davey Minogue wiped a drop of sweat from under his left eye.
Wait too long and it might be over before the cops could get here. There was no telling how many pickups the gang intended to take. The next stop for the Protectica van was on Harding Avenue, on the outskirts of Raheny, and that was no more than five minutes away. Soon as they took the money from the Ulster Bank the gang might pack it in and vanish.
Davey Minogue felt himself waver. Maybe the sensible thing was to watch everything, take it all in, so he could give the cops a complete picture. Blowing the whistle was tempting, but it was dangerous, too. Was it necessary?
When this was over, the cops would pull apart Turlough McGuigan’s life. They’d examine his bank account and the bank accounts of everyone he was close to. They’d look up his chimney, poke through his wardrobe and shake out his stamp collection. They’d examine the records of his mobile and his home phone, search his garden shed and his attic, they’d look under his bed – hell, they’d look under anything roomier than his foreskin. If there was anything to find – and Davey Minogue knew there would be – they’d find it.
So – leave it to the cops to pick things up afterwards?
But that wasn’t what you did if you had initiative. If you paid attention to your training, you didn’t wait for someone else to do the job, you did it yourself. Besides, when this was over, any Protectica employee who sat idly by would be an object of suspicion. Davey Minogue knew there was a way to set himself apart.
His thumb eased the small silvery locker key from his pocket. He enclosed it in his fist, down by his side.
‘Davey.’
Hands on the steering wheel, Mick Shine was staring straight ahead at the traffic. There was no internal rear-view mirror, so Shine couldn’t have seen anything. Again, he said, ‘Davey.’
�
��What?’
‘I know you, Davey.’
Silence.
Then, again, ‘I know you.’
Davey Minogue said, ‘What does that mean?’
‘This is not a game, Davey.’
‘Fuck off – what’re you getting at?’
Paudie McFadden glanced around at Davey, then turned back to face the road ahead.
‘I’ll do you,’ Mick Shine said. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on the road.
Davey Minogue said nothing. He stared at the back of Mick Shine’s bullet head.
‘And I don’t mean that I’ll leave you with bad bruises, that’s not what I mean.’ Shine’s voice was calm, clear. ‘And I don’t mean if you pull a stroke and something goes wrong and someone belonging to me gets hurt. Maybe that’s what you think I mean, but that’s not what I mean. If you go Rambo on me, you take a chance with my people, my family – no matter how small a chance you think it is – I’ll kill you stone fucking dead. Even if it all works out and they give you a medal, I’ll put you in the fucking ground, OK?’
They were approaching the right turn for Harding Avenue, and Mick Shine changed lanes.
‘Do you hear what I’m saying, Davey?’
There was a traffic light before the turn, and it changed now to red. The van coasted to a stop, third vehicle from the lights. Mick Shine turned in his seat and stared back.
‘Do you hear what I’m saying, Davey?’
Head to head, Mick Shine was four or five inches taller than Davey Minogue, and maybe a stone heavier. But Davey looked after himself. As a smaller guy in a tough business, he’d had to work at it, and he knew his heavy shoulders and strong hands could take a bigger man in a fair fight.
But he could see in Mick Shine’s eyes something that no amount of training and preparation could match. Fear, held in check by cold anger. In a fight, it was the ingredient that outweighed everything else. If Davey Minogue used the key to alert headquarters he had no doubt that Mick Shine wouldn’t wait to see how things turned out.
‘I’m just sitting here,’ Davey Minogue said.
Mick Shine nodded. The lights had changed and someone behind the van was thumping a car horn. Mick Shine sat and stared at Davey Minogue until he was ready, then he turned back to the wheel, eased the van forward and around the corner, towards the branch of the Ulster Bank on Harding Avenue.
Davey Minogue leaned forward, towards his colleagues in the front of the van. ‘Mick – I’m not, that’s not me, there’s no way I’d put anyone’s family at risk, you know that.’
Mick Shine said, ‘It’s done now, Davey – we’re doing what we have to do.’
‘All I’m saying – I know this is a scam, I know we’re being—’
Up ahead, Mick Shine could see the black Lexus, parked this side of the bank.
‘It’s done now, Davey.’
‘I think you’re wrong, Mick, but I’ll go along—’
The van slowed as it passed the Lexus, and Shine pulled up level with the bank. He switched off the engine and turned round. ‘One thing – no offence, Davey, on this stop, and as long as this thing lasts, Paudie’s the podman. And you’re mace. You come with me – no way you’re staying in this van on your own. OK?’
Davey Minogue said, ‘That makes sense. I swear, Mick, all I—’
‘Let’s go, then.’
29
The Ulster Bank branch on Harding Avenue was in the middle of a short strip of eight business premises. To the left of the bank, a Londis, a pub, a florist’s and a bookie shop. To the right, a Chinese and a video shop and – gone out of business – a boutique that specialised in handmade wedding hats. Noel Naylor was at the wheel of the Lexus, Kevin Broe beside him.
Vincent Naylor’s Megane was parked beside the Londis. As he thumbed his mobile, he watched Turlough McGuigan standing twenty-five yards away, outside the Ulster Bank. When Liam answered Vincent said, ‘Just checking in.’
‘No problems here, everything’s ace.’
‘OK, then, call you later.’
‘How much longer?’
‘Depends on traffic, and that’s been OK.’
‘No rush.’
‘Talk to you.’
The two Protectica guys were coming out of the bank, Turlough McGuigan had the boot open, the money was going in.
The boot slammed shut and Turlough McGuigan was turning away when Davey Minogue said, ‘Hey, gobshite – a word.’
McGuigan turned. ‘What?’
‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this.’
Mick Shine said, ‘Fuck this, Davey.’
‘Don’t worry, Mick, I said I’ll go along, but I want this piece of shit to know he isn’t fooling anyone.’
‘Jesus, Davey – they’ve got people at our houses—’
‘They’ve got pictures of our houses, that’s all they’ve got.’
‘They’ve got my wife,’ Turlough McGuigan said.
‘Bullshit.’
McGuigan turned to Mick Shine. ‘Jesus, man, you don’t—’
‘I don’t know what I believe, but that doesn’t matter. I’m taking no chances with my family, or with anyone else’s.’
The driver of the Lexus was getting out from behind the wheel. He made a gesture at Turlough McGuigan.
‘Just sorting something—’ McGuigan turned to Mick Shine. ‘Mick, please—’
Shine made eye contact. ‘I don’t know how long I can hold this together. Is this the last pickup they’re taking, or are there more?’
‘They didn’t say.’
Even behind the Perspex shield, the disgust was clear on Davey Minogue’s face. ‘It’s unprofessional, it’s humiliating—’
Mick Shine said, ‘We can’t stand here – let’s go.’
As they turned towards the Protectica van, the driver of the Lexus got back behind the wheel.
When Turlough McGuigan returned to the Megane, Vincent Naylor was holding his pistol in his lap.
‘What the fuck was that about?’
‘The guys—’
‘Standing in the street, in civilian clothes, yapping with two security men – you think you can do that and no one gets nosy? You think if a cop car comes by they won’t get curious?’
The Lexus was already on the way to the next pickup. The Protectica van was moving out.
‘I had no choice. There’s a problem, one of the guys thinks – maybe they all do – that I’m involved. They look at the pictures, all they see is a picture of their house.’
‘Would this help?’ Vincent took his mobile from a pocket in his shorts. ‘Say I call my mate at your house – say I tell him to punch your wife in the face a couple of times.’
McGuigan pointed a finger. ‘You—’
‘A minute later, he sends me another picture.’ Vincent held up the phone, looked at an imaginary photo. ‘And it’s a picture of the blood dribbling down your wife’s chin, from her broken nose. Do you think that might help convince your people?’
McGuigan said, ‘All I’m saying is if we keep going, one bank to the next, something’s going to snap. My guys—’
Vincent hit him, a backhand blow on the face, with the hand holding the mobile. McGuigan made a yelping sound.
Vincent said, ‘Probably you haven’t been in too many fights, the kinda guy you are. That’s what a little slap feels like. Your wife gets a punch in the face, two or three maybe—’
‘All I’m saying is this isn’t going to work. These guys – the longer it goes on—’
‘Two more banks—’
‘Jesus, no, this won’t—’
‘Two more banks. Perrystown, then Coolock—’
Vincent slid the gun into a pocket of his shorts and started the engine. He jerked the wheel and the car moved out, cutting off a Hyundai. Already the Protectica van was out of sight. He put his foot down.
Turlough McGuigan was having trouble keeping the quiver out of his voice. ‘Look – I want this to work �
�� I want your people gone from my house, but—’
‘How much you reckon we’ve got, the two banks so far?’
McGuigan shook his head. ‘The pickup varies, every time. It could – I don’t know – I’d say forty grand, forty-five, from each, minimum.’
‘Not enough.’
‘On top of that – the Ulster Bank – it’s got the takings from the bookie shop, the pub, that’s another thirty grand – that’s at least a hundred and twenty so far. We do the pickup at Perrystown – a couple of supermarkets there, and I think there’s three pubs – Perrystown’s probably at least another eighty, ninety.’
‘And Coolock?’
‘I swear, I know these guys, I know they’re arguing among themselves – the chances, right now, someone could be pulling the flare and there’ll be police all over the place.’ He was leaning forward, both hands on the dashboard, his head turned towards Vincent, his eyes pleading. ‘It makes sense.’
Vincent eased off on the speed. He could see the Protectica van, a couple of hundred yards ahead.
‘All that, the stuff you said, you add it up, what’re we looking at?
‘After Perrystown, minimum – maybe two hundred thousand.’
Vincent was silent for the best part of a minute. The depot manager was right. It made sense. A shame, really, to miss out on the last pickup – but you had to balance things out. It was always going to be dicey, deciding how many pickups they should go after. This way, he was playing it safe, and there was a price for that. Two hundred grand – a fifth each for Liam and Kevin, three-fifths for Vincent and Noel to share. A good morning’s work.
Vincent said, ‘After Perrystown, we call it a day.’
30
Detective Garda Rose Cheney pointed to a corner desk. ‘You can use that for the moment – we’ll sort you out later. Down the corridor, second room on the left – you’ll find stationery. That’s also where we make coffee. I take mine black.’
The incident room for the Sweetman murder was crammed into what had been the Castlepoint Garda Station’s Detectives’ Room. The station’s detectives were sharing workspace with their uniformed colleagues. When Bob Tidey returned to the incident room with two coffees, Cheney was locking a filing cabinet. She pointed at a thick folder she’d left on his desk. ‘Statements and questionnaires.’ She dropped a key on top of the folder. ‘That’s for the bottom drawer in that desk – keep them there until you hand them back to me. You’ll find sub-folders – Sweetman’s business partners, people he conned, people he was ratting out to the Revenue. Relatives, friends, employees. Notes from interviews with them and their spouses and their lovers and their secretaries and their gardeners.’
The Rage Page 11
