‘A wide trawl.’
‘Not so wide, when you get into it. The Dublin money crowd is fairly inbred. Those that didn’t go to the same schools go to the same dinner parties. Or they’re members of each other’s clubs, they sit on each other’s executive boards. Their boats are moored at the same marinas, their racehorses are trained at the same stables.’
‘Not since the bubble burst.’
‘You might think so, but these people knew what was coming, long before the rest of us. A lot of the important stuff was shifted into their wives’ names.’
‘If Sweetman did that, his wife might have had a motive to—’
‘Nah – it’s true love. All the financial carry-on, all the affairs, none of it mattered. She was a true believer.’
Tidey sat behind the desk, pointed to the files. ‘Where to start.’
‘You could get lucky – the first folder you open, you spot a connection between Sweetman and the Snead kid.’
‘Yeah, I find that happens all the time.’ Tidey rolled up his sleeves.
As Cheney left the room, Tidey reached for the Sweetman file and took out the first folder, marked Sweetman: business associates. He shuffled through the folders until he found Sweetman: personal life. Along with a covering note, there were three statements – a lengthy one from Sweetman’s wife, and the other two from Sweetman’s girlfriends. When he’d read the statements Tidey made his way to the rear exit of the station, went outside and lit a cigarette. He took out his mobile and scrolled down through the contacts list until he found the former colleague he was looking for, a sergeant now working at Clontarf Garda Station.
‘Harry – Bob Tidey. You remember a gouger named Gerry FitzGerald? – I had him in for a chat, and I know he was one of your regulars.’
‘Our old friend Zippo – last I heard he did a short bit for possession. Should be well out by now. Hold on a minute.’
Tidey and Synnott had once been partners on a murder investigation that ran into the sand. Harry later made inspector, then took a hit back down to sergeant after a spot of bother. When Harry came back to the phone he said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t be talking to Zippo any time soon. Mr FitzGerald was found in his flat, two months ago. A needle in his arm. One last big blast of the hard stuff, and his heart couldn’t take it.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Dead at thirty-two.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
Tidey took a couple of minutes to work the cigarette down a bit, then he ground it under a heel and headed back to the files.
When Vincent Naylor pulled up across the road from the Perrystown branch of Bank of Ireland, the Protectica crew had already gone inside.
‘Time to say goodbye,’ Vincent said.
‘Here?’
‘Last pickup.’
‘What about my family?’ Turlough McGuigan said.
‘You stay with the van – keep those people calm – move on to do your next pickup – it’s gonna take maybe fifteen minutes. We’ll be long gone, and after that you do what you like.’
McGuigan seemed almost reluctant to leave the Megane. ‘Nice knowing you – now fuck off,’ Vincent said.
As McGuigan got out of the car, Vincent was already thumbing a text message to Noel, in the Lexus parked just ahead of the Protectica van.
Last pickup.
Noel’s replying text – Right – arrived just as the two security men emerged from the bank. Turlough McGuigan was waiting for them. He said a few words and it took less than ten seconds to dump the money in the boot of the Lexus. Turlough was getting into the Protectica van when the smaller of the two security men began to move towards Vincent. The bigger guy grabbed at the smaller guy’s arm but the smaller guy shook loose and strode out onto the road.
Vincent Naylor took his pistol from the pocket of his shorts and held it between his bare knees.
Standing in the middle of the road, the Protectica guy pushed his helmet up from his face and stared at Vincent Naylor. Just stood there, hands on his hips, like he was burning Vincent’s image onto his soul.
Vincent pressed a button and the Megane window slid down. ‘Piss off,’ he said.
The guy leaned forward. ‘I’ll remember you, shithead. When you’re doing time in the basement of the Joy, I’ll come visit.’ He poked a finger towards Vincent. ‘I’ve got a couple of mates work in the Joy. Maybe I’ll see if I can arrange a little reception party for you.’
‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Vincent said. Ahead, the Lexus was already steaming off, Noel and Liam on their way, the boot full of Protectica bags.
‘Davey!’
Across the road, the other security man was standing at the edge of the pavement, his helmet off, his face red.
‘I warned you, Davey!’
Vincent raised his hand and pointed the gun at the mouthy security man. The idiot flinched, took a step back, then paused. He stuck his chin out, like the whole thing was about showing he wasn’t scared.
Vincent ignored the fool as he took the Megane away from the kerb, picking up speed as he left the Protectica van behind.
Because of the change of plan, it meant at least a fifteen-minute drive to a change of cars. That was a long way, given that the security guys would almost certainly set up an immediate alarm.
Vincent was already putting a call through to Liam Delaney.
‘Yeah?’
‘All over – and there’s no time to spare, the alarm is already going up.’
‘Shit.’
‘Out of there, right now.’
‘Done.’
He made a call to Noel, in the Lexus.
‘There’s no time cushion – the alarm’s already gone off. The Lexus’s hot.’
‘Gotcha.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Almost there – we’re making good time.’
‘Remember – no chances. If it’s you or the money, fuck the money.’
‘It’s cool.’
31
Hard left and they turned off Tonlegee Road, the black Lexus moving at a decent clip, missing the sides of the narrow lane by a few inches. Noel Naylor was some driver, Kevin Broe had to give him that. He was as boring as a Black & Decker, but Noel could handle a wheel. The Lexus hardly slowed until they took the curving turn at the end and he brought the car to a sudden stop in a wide cul-de-sac. Walls on three sides, and the back of a two-storey building on the right. The building, a disused paint factory, fronted onto Mulville Avenue. Noel flipped the wheel and reversed so the boot was close to the back door of the building.
Here, in the dead-end lane off Tonlegee, was where Kevin Broe had planned to kill Noel Naylor. That was before he had a rethink.
It was Noel who’d found the old paint factory, a handy place to store the money until the dust settled. It was away from traffic, it hadn’t been vandalised and it wasn’t overlooked. Noel and Kevin had broken in and replaced the lock on the back door, so they could come and go at will.
As soon as Kevin Broe had heard that part of the plan he saw this as a golden moment – just Kevin and Noel alone with a rake of money. Kevin’s original idea was to take Noel as soon as they arrived, tap him with a bullet from Broe’s .38 Colt. After he thought it through, he decided it wasn’t a good move. Do Noel now and he’d have to move the money immediately, find somewhere else to store it, travelling in the hot Lexus. And the rest of his life, watching his back for Vincent Naylor coming after him. Why not wait a day, come back alone and shift the money in a hired van? Take it straight up to Larne and across to Stranraer on the ferry – and the world was waiting.
The best thing about doing it that way was not having to cool Noel Naylor.
Kevin Broe had known the Naylor brothers all his life. He lived four houses away on the same road in Finglas, and he always reckoned Vincent was overrated. Liam Delaney lived on the same estate. They’d never been more than casual friends, brought together by acquaintanceship, opportunity and a shared attitude to other people’s money
.
One thing Kevin envied was Vincent’s reputation, puffed up though it was. Everyone knew Vincent blew away a guy’s kneecap when the guy mouthed off once too often. What everyone didn’t know, though Kevin Broe did, was that Vincent once scratched a guy, just walked up and did it, left the guy leaking blood from the hole in his head. It was something Kevin couldn’t claim, and he often wondered what it would feel like. He knew that some day, given his line of work, it might happen, and he knew if the day came he’d have the balls for it. But, Noel Naylor – that would be a rough way to start.
Maybe because Vincent’s mother left for London when Vincent was a kid, and his father spent most of his life in a bottle, and Noel had to play Daddy – maybe that was why Vincent treated his big brother like he was a neighbourhood saint. Waste Noel and you could scarper to Timbuktu and you’d still hear Vincent grunting away behind you, looking for payback.
Much better to play it smart. Come back tomorrow, maybe a day later – shift and run. There was a chance he’d be stopped by the cops, or the van would be searched at Larne, but the odds were in his favour. And the reward – a big chunk of change, the kind of money worth taking risks for. The idea of splitting that kind of money with the Naylors and a lightweight fucker like Liam Delaney, that was just plain stupid.
‘That’s that,’ Noel Naylor said. The Protectica bags made a neat pile in a corner on the ground floor of the paint factory. Noel and Kevin each took an end of a scruffy tarp and pulled it across and up onto the bags. Noel tugged at the tarp until it looked like it was casually thrown there, fitting in with the rest of the dead factory’s dirt and debris. No point locking the money away somewhere – the only people who might come across it would be kids looking for something to burn or break. They find something locked they’re definitely going to smash it open. No reason to look under a tarp thrown carelessly in a corner.
Noel locked the back door of the paint factory and they got back into the Lexus.
Vincent Naylor drove to a quiet back lane behind a string of shops in Whitehall – nothing there but a couple of monster wheelie bins. He opened the boot and changed out of his T-shirt and shorts and into jeans and a plaid shirt. He tossed petrol from one Coke bottle onto the car seats and emptied the second Coke bottle into the boot. He had a dozen matches held together by a thick elastic band. When the inside of the car was in flames he struck another bunch of matches and when he tossed them towards the inside of the boot he was already walking away from the Megane. Vincent was a couple of streets away when the flames reached the petrol tank, but he heard the whump.
He was a minute or so away from where the second getaway car was parked.
He glanced at his watch and lengthened his stride.
32
When he turned and saw the cops behind him, Noel Naylor knew it was all over. Two of them, coming out of the back of a white van, bulked up with armour and black helmets. The van swung round, away from the kerb, to block the street. He turned back – already the street ahead was blocked by another white van, two more cops crouched behind cars. Each of the fuckers was holding a rifle or an Uzi or some shit like that. Noel tried to hold back the feeling of dread washing through him – it was all over but there were still different ways this could play out. At best, he’d spend a long time in a smelly cell, but there was a lot worse could happen.
He crouched, took the gun from his pocket and dropped it, kicked it away down the gutter. Not a big help – but he was still wearing the latex gloves and he’d left no prints on the gun. Just might count for something, depending on the mouthpiece he got.
He pulled off the gloves, dropped them and rose, hands above his head. Give them no excuse. To his right Kevin was shouting obscenities, crouched, head weaving this way and that, as though there might be a way out if he could just find it.
‘Put your hands up,’ Noel yelled, ‘don’t give them an excuse, let them see your hands over your head.’
They’d left the Lexus on the other side of the rail line, in East Wall, in flames. They’d come round through the arch and down the lane, then turned into Kilcaragh Avenue and walked right past one of the white vans. That was the one behind them, at the end of the street – walked right past it and didn’t notice a thing. Soon as he opened the driver’s door of the VW Bora he could tell they were fucked – the shades with the guns popping out of the van up ahead.
All over.
Something went wrong, someone grassed, but right now what mattered was staying alive.
‘Don’t shoot! We’re not armed!’ His arms stretched to full length above his head. Noel turned to Kevin Broe, his voice low now. ‘Put that fucking thing away, get your hands up, you’ll get us both killed.’
Noel wondered if somewhere not too far away Vincent was in the same fix. Whoever set them up, if they knew where one getaway car was parked they had to know where the other one was.
Jesus, stay cool, brother.
Oh shit—
Kevin Broe had his head lowered, not in submission, but it was like he was psyching himself up for something, his chest heaving from his deep breaths.
‘Kevin, don’t be stupid!’
On the far side of the street, a couple of houses down, an old guy was standing, having lowered a black wheelie bin down off his doorstep – frozen by the scene in front of him. Kevin came up straight and stepped out from behind the car, moving fast now, his intentions clear – if he got in through the old guy’s open front door, through the house and the backyard and into the next street—
Noel began to shout something and he was interrupted by the crack-crack-crack of Kevin’s gun, held out at shoulder height, pointing in the general direction of the cops at the far end of the street, firing as he ran.
The police had a limited field of fire. A careless bullet might clip a colleague at the other end of the street. So they fired just three shots at the running figure. The first hit Kevin Broe in the chest, the second in the face, the third caught Noel Naylor in the throat and he went down making gurgling noises.
Phil Heneghan was still standing behind his wheelie bin, his face pale, eyes big. He finally realised the approaching policemen were shouting at him, telling him to get the fuck away. He backed into his hallway. Across the road, that old lady – Maura the nun, he always thought of her, though she’d told his wife Jacinta her name was Maura Coady and Jacinta always called her Miss Coady. Maura the nun was a couple of feet from her open front door, her face frozen, and she stepping tentatively off the pavement and out onto the road.
Maura Coady bent down beside the body of the man in the middle of the road. There was no doubt he was dead. There was a patch of blood on his chest and one side of his face was missing.
She was aware of urgent shouting.
She straightened up. The other shot man was a few yards away, his chest falling and rising, his legs moving.
‘Missus – get away from there!’
She hurried over to the second man. His throat was bloody, the dark red all down his chest. He looked up at her, his mouth making noises. She knelt.
From somewhere behind her, ‘Missus!’
One arm cradling the wounded man’s head, her lips were close to his ear. ‘Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for all my sins—’
He groaned, his eyes moved erratically, fear leaping out of them.
‘You’ll be all right, you—’
A hand grabbed Maura’s arm and hauled her upright, pulling her away, the grip strong and hurting her. The wounded man’s eyes were blinking, his lips open.
‘Go back in your house, missus.’ The man was wearing heavy armour, the word Garda printed on his chest. He pushed her, she resisted. ‘That man, he needs an Act of Contrition—’
‘Go back in your house, we’ll look after him.’
At her front door he let go of her arm and she stood staring at him. ‘Please,’ she said. She raised a hand in appeal, a smear of blood across the backs of her fingers.
Behind the policeman she could s
ee others wearing armour, pointing guns at the bodies of the two men. One of them was reaching down and picking up a handgun from beside the man who was dead. Another was talking urgently into a microphone strapped under his chin.
‘Are you OK, Miss Coady?’
Phil Heneghan was standing beside her, his old, lined face chalk white. ‘You should go inside, Miss Coady.’
She held a hand to her face, felt her flesh cold. ‘I called the police, about the car – they came.’ Her mouth was dry, her voice hoarse. ‘And—’ She gestured weakly towards the man lying on the ground a few yards away. ‘Oh God, it’s my fault, I called the police, it’s my fault—’
There was the sound of a mobile, playing a few bars of jaunty music. Nobody moved for a few moments, then the policeman stopped speaking into the microphone, leaned down and found the mobile in a pocket of the jeans of the man with the throat wound. He tapped a button, held the phone to his ear and said, ‘Yeah?’
33
Dumping his second getaway car, Vincent Naylor had a ten-minute walk to the MacClenaghan building on the edge of the Edwardstown estate. Job done. Stride long, arms swinging, the tension of the last few hours had been replaced by an exhilaration he could feel right out to the tips of his fingers.
The Rage Page 12
