‘And?’ Tidey said.
‘Just a key. A front door, a house, an apartment. Maybe a gym locker, a garden shed or sumpthin’.’
‘Did you get anyone to check it out?’
‘How? Sure, it’s just a key – I can’t check it against every lock in the country.’
It had started with a question Tidey asked of Detective Rose Cheney. ‘Where did he screw his girlfriends?’
‘Hotel room?’
‘Not according to Orla McGettigan’s statement.’
The team had concluded, after interviewing two close male friends of Sweetman’s, that he’d at least three affairs going over the past couple of years. Orla McGettigan was the only woman who’d been identified. She was a director of a marketing firm in the IFSC.
‘She says she met him at a product launch, something her firm was working on.’ Tidey looked down at his notebook. ‘According to her statement, We went to his place.’
Cheney said, ‘We didn’t make a big deal about that one – McGettigan has no husband or partner, so it wasn’t like there might be someone with a reason to go gunning for Sweetman.’
‘His place, is what she said. Not his home, presumably. Where? Did he have an apartment in town?’
‘No – not according to his wife and his accountants.’
‘If he’s got another place, it’s definitely worth a look.’
Cheney took the job of checking again with Sweetman’s wife, secretary and friends, to find out if they knew of any flat he might have occasionally borrowed or rented if he had to stay over in town. Bob Tidey went to see Orla McGettigan.
‘How often do I have to tell you people? – I’m not an expert on Emmet Sweetman. There’s a limit to my knowledge of the man.’
‘This won’t take a minute.’
She was small, mid-thirties, neat-featured and impeccably dressed for the office. When Tidey arrived at her workplace McGettigan insisted that they move to a coffee shop round the corner. ‘No offence, but a visit from you people isn’t something I want to flaunt.’ Her voice was level, calm and she spoke like she spent a lot of her day giving orders.
In the coffee shop they immediately brought her regular latte to the table. Tidey didn’t order anything.
‘I know what happens to people who get involved in this kind of thing. Someone gets charged and it ends up in court. And no matter how peripheral you are to the case, if there’s a sex angle it gets trotted out for the amusement of all and sundry.’
‘That’s true,’ Tidey said. ‘But there’s just one thing I need to clear up, and it might be important.’
She made a show of suppressing her irritation, then she leaned back in her chair and nodded.
‘In your statement,’ Tidey said, ‘you said the evening you met Emmet Sweetman you went back to his place. Where was that?’
‘He drove, I paid little attention.’
‘Northside, Southside?’
‘North.’
‘Any rough idea where?’
‘I know we crossed the river, I’m pretty sure he took the Malahide Road, but—’ She smiled. ‘I’m not terribly familiar with the geography over there.’
‘What kind of place did he take you?’
‘An apartment.’
‘Did you use the same apartment throughout the affair?’
‘What the tabloids, if this ever comes out, will no doubt call a love nest.’
‘If you like.’
‘We went back there once, maybe twice. Mostly we used my place, sometimes we used the Shelbourne Hotel.’
‘Was the apartment – did it seem well used, was he at home there?’
‘It was pretty basic. He had some clothes, some bits and pieces. He seemed comfortable with the place.’
‘Were there—’
‘I think I’ve done my civic duty now, Sergeant. I’m a single woman, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not in any way important to this case, but I know the odds are I’ll get dragged into it – it’s funny how the juicy bits always turn out to be relevant.’ She was on her feet. ‘All my work, and my talents, and my achievements will be brushed aside. And to anyone I know or anyone I come to know, for the rest of my life I’ll be defined as the murdered man’s bit on the side.’
‘You’re right, and it’s not fair. It’s called collateral damage. A crooked banker got taken out by men with guns – which puts him at the centre of a media explosion. And everyone around him gets to take a piece of the blast.’
‘Will you find whoever murdered him?’
‘We’ll continue to do everything possible.’
‘In other words, I’m involved enough in this thing to have my life destroyed, but not enough to be told anything more than what’s in the standard press release?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I hope you get whoever did it.’ For the first time, there was a softness in her tone. ‘Emmet might well have been a crooked banker – but he was a nice man.’
Back at Castlepoint Garda Station, Bob Tidey sought out a folder that held a list of Sweetman’s business interests. There was a maze of property holdings – some buildings Tidey reckoned Sweetman owned, others were a group thing, deals within deals. It took Tidey over an hour on the phone with a friendly business journalist before he could translate the jargon. Sweetman had property interests in three Irish cities, plus London, Manchester, Prague and Berlin. His holdings gave him access to six apartment blocks in Dublin – two of them on the Northside.
Tidey found the exhibits officer and asked about Emmet Sweetman’s effects. ‘Any unidentified keys?’
Which was when Eddery produced the key on the black leather Armani key ring. ‘Just a key. A front door, a house, an apartment. Maybe a gym locker, a garden shed or sumpthin’.’
40
Bob Tidey was late arriving and the pub was already filling up. There was barely an inch left of Trixie Dixon’s pint. Tidey joined him at the bar and gestured to a barman, but Trixie cut across him. ‘I’ll get it – you’re well entitled to a thank-you drink.’
‘Jameson and ice, so. Is this as good as the bribes get?’
‘Afraid so, Mr Tidey. And Christy sends his thanks, too.’
‘It was a fair result. As long as he doesn’t come out of prison and turn into John Dillinger.’
Trixie’s smile was weak. Bob Tidey figured there was a reason he’d been asked for a meeting, apart from the thank-you. It didn’t take Trixie long to get to the point. When the drinks arrived he said, ‘I don’t want to impose, Mr Tidey, but, there’s something – can I talk to you in confidence?’
Tidey said, ‘You know I won’t mess you around.’
‘It’s Christy.’
‘You surprise me. What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing, it’s just—’
Trixie took an envelope from inside his jacket. He turned so his body blocked the envelope from the rest of the pub and passed it to Tidey.
‘Jesus, Trixie, the bribes are certainly improving. Where the hell did this come from?’
‘It’s for Christy.’
Tidey ran a thumb through the fifties. ‘How much?’
‘Five grand. Fella came to see me at the GAA hall – all he said was, “That’s for Christy”, and he gave me the envelope and pissed off.’
‘One of Roly Blount’s people?’
‘I didn’t recognise him, but it had to be.’
‘I see your problem.’
Keeping his mouth shut, taking the rap for the gun, Christy had shown he could be trusted. The gift wasn’t just a thank-you, it was a welcome aboard.
Trixie said, ‘The last thing he needs when he comes out is to be at the beck and call of those fuckers. Kids get into a situation like that, they can end up killing someone or getting killed.’
‘Go see Roly, be polite. You’re grateful but worried, you’d rather Christy kept to himself. It’s Frank Tucker who pulls Roly’s strings and Tucker’s a businessman, he doesn’t need to press-gang anyone. Christ knows, there’s
enough young gobshites queuing to sign up.’
Trixie said, ‘They’d see that as Christy giving him the brush-off. You can’t tell how those bastards will react – if they think you’re turning bolshie they can take it as an insult, or a threat.’ Trixie took a sip of his pint. ‘I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
Tidey shook his head. ‘I’d have a word with Frank Tucker, if you like. But, to be honest, I think that would make things worse. Might start them wondering if Christy’s got friends he shouldn’t have.’
Trixie said, ‘Jesus, it used to be you could go stroking and make a bad living at it, and if you got a decent job and you liked it you got out of the game. Now, it’s like the fucking army. You fall in with these people, you have to bow and scrape and salute the little cunts. And if you step over some line – maybe a line you don’t even know is there – you get a bullet in the head.’
Tidey rattled the ice in his Jameson. ‘All I can say is, let it lie for the moment. Christy won’t be out until the end of next year – anything might happen in the meantime. When it’s near his release, if things are still the same, maybe the smart thing to do is get him out of the country for a while.’
There was a hoarseness in Trixie’s voice that had nothing to do with his damaged lungs. ‘He was just doing a favour. Roly Blount needed to stash a gun, for someone in the neighbourhood to pick up. Do me a favour, he says. And Christy thought these guys are cool, like something from The Sopranos. And now – some choice – be a toady for those fuckers, or leave your own country, just to be on the safe side.’
They finished their drinks in silence. Outside, Tidey’s voice was gentle. ‘It may not come to that, Trixie. The way things go with these types, by the time Christy gets out Roly could be dead – problem solved. If not, keep in touch – we’ll see what we can do.’
‘Thanks.’ Trixie patted his jacket pocket. ‘At least, if he has to do a flit, the five grand will come in handy.’
41
Liam Delaney spent the morning chasing himself around the inside of his head, trying to decide what was for the best. He was crap at that – that’s what Vincent was good at, thinking things through.
Pick up the money at the paint factory?
Assume the whole job has gone sour, cut and run?
Wait to hear from Vincent?
The original plan was to meet up with Noel Naylor this afternoon and move the money. They needed somewhere to count it, split it – somewhere the coming and going wouldn’t attract attention. Noel had rented a house at Rathfillan Terrace, in Santry. Since any one or more of them might have been picked up after the job, all four had keys to the Santry house.
Trouble was, go for the money as planned and maybe Noel or Kevin had written down the address of the house in Santry, maybe the cops found it when they searched their homes. Or maybe someone saw something, made a call and the shades had already found the money and they were waiting with guns drawn. They might not be the brightest, strutting around like they’re CSI Dublin, but even deadheads can catch a lucky break.
Shortly after three o’clock Liam parked on Tonlegee Road. He walked around to Mulville Avenue and scoped the front of the paint factory. Nothing stirring. He made his way back to Tonlegee. As he got into his car he admitted to himself that the cops mightn’t all be as dim as he liked to think. He started the engine and half a minute later he was turning down the lane that led to the old paint factory.
He parked and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
When he got inside he found the Protectica money bags untouched beneath the tarp. It took him four journeys to get them into the boot of the car.
When he turned the key in the ignition it occurred to him that the noise might be the cue for a sudden burst of police activity, but nothing happened.
There was a garage in the rented house on Rathfillan Terrace and he drove inside and closed the door before he began unloading the bags. After about a minute he said, ‘Fuck it,’ dropped the bags where they were and spent the next five minutes checking rooms. When he realised he was down on one knee, looking under a bed, he told himself not to be a total spanner and went back to unloading the bags.
He spent over an hour getting the money sorted. He used a Stanley knife and a high-leverage cable cutter to get into the Protectica bags. Then he pocketed some money – not enough that he couldn’t explain if he was pulled in – and sorted the rest into large beige envelopes. He put the envelopes into six plastic Tesco bags. Noel had prepared a hiding place under some stripped-back insulation in the attic. There wasn’t enough room there, so Liam brought the leftover money to the bathroom and stuffed it behind a bath panel.
From the upstairs front window everything outside seemed normal. Two men who’d been working on a car engine across the road when he’d arrived were still at it. One of them was scratching his head now, and staring into the engine like it was an impossible crossword. Next door, a woman was using a hooked garden weeder to scrape dirt from between paving stones. It looked normal enough, the whole street. He peeled off the latex gloves and used the side of one hand to lever the front door shut behind him. On the way to his car he listened to the scraping of the woman’s weeder, half expecting it to suddenly stop. As he slid behind the wheel he kept an eye on the two amateur mechanics across the road.
Liam Delaney was halfway down Oscar Traynor Road before he admitted to himself that he was free and clear. Whooping, he thumped the steering wheel. What had happened to Noel and Kevin was shit, but those are the breaks. He was suddenly convinced that the bummer had bottomed out and the only way was up.
When he got home there was a small padded envelope lying in the hallway below the letter box. It was addressed to Liam in block capitals. When he tore it open he found a mobile phone inside. He stared at it for a moment, then checked the inside of the envelope. Nothing.
He switched on the phone and when it asked for a PIN he tried four zeros, the likely factory default, and it worked. He tapped into the call list – nothing. No texts in the inbox, no sent messages. He tried the address book and there was just one number. He highlighted the number and tapped Call.
When the call went through, Vincent Naylor said, ‘It’s me.’
42
Bob Tidey said, ‘Sorry about that – bit of a waste of time.’
Rose Cheney said, ‘Had to be done.’
Tidey dangled Emmet Sweetman’s key from its leather Armani key ring. He was beginning to think that maybe Garda Homer Simpson was right – it was just a key. ‘Maybe it is the key to a gym locker, a spare one, an old one, whatever.’
Tidey and Cheney had spent the afternoon at an apartment block five minutes off the Malahide Road, trying the key in apartment doors. It was slow, boring work. They pressed buttons on the front-door intercom until they found someone in, explained who they were and that they needed to find a particular flat. After that, it meant going from apartment to apartment – ringing bells and asking permission to try the key in the lock. If there was no one home they tried it anyway. Over and over, hope waning as lock after lock rejected the key.
There was a second apartment block, close to the Swords Road. ‘You want to do this again tomorrow?’ Tidey asked.
‘The first apartment tomorrow – first apartment, ground floor,’ Cheney said, ‘I know we’re gonna get lucky.’
Tidey grinned. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ve found it usually works like that.’
Anthony Prendergast was hunched at his workstation, deadline coming up fast and a final paragraph to write. You need to finish on a punchy last par, something that’ll stay with the skulls when they put down the newspaper. He did a Control/Home and the cursor shot up to the top of the story.
When you go up against a city’s deadliest bad men you need more than a quick mind and a sense of justice. You need armour covering your vital organs. You need a state-of-the-art automatic weapon in your hands.
John is not this man’s name, but it’s the name we’ll use to protect him. It’s t
he least we can do, given that every working day he puts his life on the line to protect us.
Tight, clear, immediate. A killer opening.
The thing a lot of hacks don’t understand is that sometimes all you have to do is ask. The way Anthony saw it, journalists are so used to being told to piss off by people with real inside information, they assume the worst and get lazy and don’t even try.
‘A ten-par follow-up on the North Strand shootings,’ his news editor had told him. ‘Something on the ERU lads.’
Dead easy. No way those hard nuts would talk, but he could tap his Garda contacts for anecdotes, get a formal briefing on the unit, string together a few of the ERU’s Greatest Hits, with a short par on the Abbeylara controversy. Because he wasn’t lazy, first thing this morning Anthony made a formal request for an interview with the Garda who fired the fatal shots. Then he worked the phones for an hour and was preparing to go down two floors and check the ERU file in the newspaper’s library when he got a call.
‘The answer to your request is no – the member of the Emergency Response Unit involved in the shooting is on leave and we don’t allow individuals to talk to the media.’
‘Thanks, I—’
‘My name is Sergeant David Dowd. I was in charge of that detail and I’ll talk to you – unofficially and off the record – if you can meet me in twenty minutes.’
At the Daily Record, the suits had taken their regular penny-pinching to new levels. A round of wage cuts was followed by a memo advising staff that usage of soap, towels, stationery and toilet paper was at unsustainably high levels. For years now, all taxi expenses had to be pre-approved by one of a small circle of executives. Anthony Prendergast decided that going through the hoops would leave him no time to make it to Rathmines to meet Sergeant Dowd. He decided to break a sacred rule of journalism and pay for his own taxi ride.
The Rage Page 15
