The Rage

by Gene Kerrigan

They met in a cafe in Rathmines. Dowd was in civvies, on mandatory rest after yesterday’s shooting, and mightily pissed off. He had a copy of the Daily Record, open to Anthony’s article. They were sitting at a table near the door and Anthony was about to ask what the Garda wanted to drink, but Dowd wasn’t interested in the social niceties.

  ‘This shit here – A resident of Kilcaragh Avenue said that one of the robbers appeared to be surrendering when he was shot. That’s bollocks.’

  Anthony said, ‘It’s a quote – there was an old man, his name is in there—’

  ‘Yeah, Heneghan. This says that one of those fuckers tried to surrender but we shot him.’

  ‘It doesn’t say that, it’s just what the old guy said he saw – it’s not like I was saying that’s what happened.’

  ‘That’s what people will read into it. Don’t you people care about what actually happened? Does it always have to have an anti-police angle?’

  ‘Look, no way am I anti-police. That’s—’ Then, he spotted the opening. ‘All I can do is talk to people who were there – and you know what it’s like, trying to get a first-hand account from official sources. So, I had to depend on this old guy, and I know he was sincere, he was just—’

  Dowd’s chin was up. ‘The man who fired those shots is one of the most dedicated policemen on the force. He’s no gun nut, he’s not trigger-happy – he fired those shots because—’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘—he had to. And he went home last night in a state because of how it worked out. And when his leave is up he’ll report right back and be prepared to do exactly the same again. Because he believes in what he does.’

  Two women at the next table were staring at Dowd.

  He lowered his voice. ‘It doesn’t help, when a decent policeman is treated like a fucking Wild West gunslinger.’

  Anthony Prendergast leaned across the table and said, ‘Tell me about it – about what happened, about what it’s like. Tell me about the reality of what you have to do.’

  Dowd sat there for a moment, then he said, ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Completely on your terms.’

  ‘I didn’t get permission to talk to you and if I’d asked I’d have been told to piss off.’ Dowd said he didn’t want to do this in public. He stood up and Anthony followed him out. It took them five minutes to walk to a quiet street lined with old houses. Dowd led the way into a neat semi with a bay window. He went into the kitchen for a minute, spoke to his wife, then took Anthony into the front room.

  In the hour that followed, Dowd several times displayed annoyance and anger, but mostly he was matter-of-fact.

  ‘I’ve never killed anyone, I very much never want to ever kill anyone. I know what bullets do to people and the thought of it makes me sick. I’d prefer if there were no armed police at all, but what do we do when some little fucker shows up waving a weapon?’

  ‘I know that makes—’

  ‘The man who shot those two people, he feels the same. I’m not speaking for every policeman, or even everyone in the unit. But there’s no one setting out to get a notch on their gun – and in particular not the man who had to do what he did.’

  Anthony Prendergast said, ‘Tell me exactly what happened yesterday.’

  Back at his desk, Anthony found that the story wrote itself.

  ‘We had the situation under control. It wasn’t possible to evacuate the whole neighbourhood but we had the street blocked at both ends.

  ‘One of the suspects had put down his gun, the other one was holding on to his. They had to know they hadn’t an earthly. But sometimes people, when they’re trapped, can get crazy.

  ‘The second suspect started shooting. He ran for it – Kevin Broe, his name was. It was a street with occupied houses, at least one civilian standing in the open within yards of the gunman. We had members at both ends of the street, so we had to watch out for crossfire.

  ‘We had no option but to return fire, and one member – just one – fired three aimed shots at the man who was shooting. Two of them hit their target. The gunman ran across in front of his companion and the third bullet hit the other suspect, Noel Naylor, in the throat. It’s regrettable, but it couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ Anthony asked Dowd. ‘It’s off the record, but they’ll know it had to be one of a very few people.’

  ‘Let them prove it. Long as you keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘I swear.’

  Reading the story back, Anthony felt a glow. A story like that, an exclusive with a member of the Emergency Response Unit – there wasn’t a reporter or editor in town who wouldn’t read that and note the byline.

  Sitting in the living room of his modest house, with his wife in the kitchen making coffee and sandwiches, it’s easy to recognise that this is no storm trooper, this is no itchy-fingered heavy – this is a decent citizen doing a difficult and dangerous public service.

  All he needed now was an end paragraph that would finish the job in style.

  He glanced again at the opening. Sometimes the old tricks are best – you make the end par echo the opening par, gives the piece a feeling of coming full circle. He thought about it for a moment, then he typed quickly.

  There are people we depend on to protect us from the bad guys. They’re our armour against the vicious hoodlums who desecrate our country. And when these policemen do what we need them to do, and when controversy inevitably arises, it’s our turn to be their armour.

  To protect them.

  Without question.

  A killer finish.

  He typed Ends at the bottom, clicked the mouse a couple of times and the story was on its way to the news editor’s basket.

  Ten minutes later the news editor wandered over to Anthony’s workstation, holding a hard copy of the piece. ‘Love the ending,’ he said. ‘Sheer poetry.’ He sounded sincere, but Anthony could tell he was taking the piss. ‘By the way, you’ll see I tightened up the opening and cut the last line. We never, ever, ever report what anyone does or says without question. When we accept anything without question, that’s not journalism, it’s stenography.’

  He turned away, then turned back. ‘Nice work. Now, go out there again and get me something better.’

  43

  Liam Delaney parked on a parallel street and walked to the rented house on Rathfillan Terrace. He was carrying a briefcase. Vincent Naylor hadn’t been terribly clear about what kind of piece he needed – all he said was bring stuff – so Liam had brought him some choices.

  ‘Take your pick,’ he said, the briefcase open on the floor of the little kitchen, three guns showing on the table – two automatics and a revolver.

  ‘Whichever,’ Vincent said. ‘Which one’s the best?’

  ‘It depends on what you want to do with it. Say you’re walking in somewhere, you want everyone to shit themselves, so no one feels like playing hero – I’d take the Taurus.’ He picked up the revolver, passed it to Vincent. ‘Forty-four calibre – it’s got Clint Eastwood all over it.’

  ‘Heavy, though.’

  ‘The Chiefs Special – that one’s light. Seven rounds, nine mil. Some American cops use them. Reliable. But, if it was me, I’d use the Bernardelli. It’s a combat pistol, nine mil, sixteen rounds. It’ll do just about any job.’

  He passed the gun to Vincent, who hefted it, then held it level with his eye and took aim at an imaginary target. ‘Feels OK.’ He nodded. ‘I don’t need the Eastwood, too showy. The cop gun – no, I’ll need more than seven bullets. I’ll take this one.’

  Liam put the Taurus and the Chiefs Special back in the briefcase. He took out two magazines for the Bernardelli. ‘Enough there, unless you’re planning to invade a country.’

  ‘Thanks – how much did this cost you?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  Vincent nodded his thanks.

  ‘You really need to do this?’ Liam asked.

  Vincent didn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s not my style
, Vincent – otherwise, you know, I’d—’

  Vincent said, ‘It’s me has got to do it.’

  Vincent was filling the kettle when Liam said, ‘You any idea who ratted us out?’

  Vincent spooned Maxwell House into a couple of mugs. He did it slowly, as though part of him was off somewhere else. Liam began to wonder if Vincent had heard the question. Standing at the kitchen counter, looking out into the back garden, Vincent said, ‘I know who’s top of the list.’

  Bob Tidey rang the bell for Apartment 1, ground floor, in the Swords apartment block, and there was someone home. ‘Of course, Garda, no bother.’ He was a small, neat septuagenarian and he was delighted to cooperate with the police. The key didn’t fit his lock.

  Ninety minutes later, on the third floor, Apartment 327, there was no one home, and after Cheney slid the key into the lock there was a click and they were in.

  Cheney said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Tidey immediately pulled the door shut.

  Fifteen minutes later, a uniform arrived from Swords Garda Station. By then, Tidey had borrowed a kitchen chair from the nice old man in Apartment 1 and had installed it outside 327.

  ‘Got something to read?’ Tidey asked. The uniform smiled, took an iPod Nano from his breast pocket and settled down on the kitchen chair.

  It took two hours to get a search warrant.

  Outside Vincent Naylor’s hotel-room door, two or three young women were laughing as they passed down the corridor. One of them said, ‘Oh my God,’ over and over until their voices faded in the distance. Vincent was sitting at a dressing table, a sheet of Westbury Hotel stationery in front of him. His handwriting had always been neat, but he took special care writing his list. It had four names.

  He sat there for a long while, staring at the sheet of paper, picturing faces – enjoying the anticipation.

  ‘Socks,’ Bob Tidey said. ‘Dark blue, three pairs. And three pairs of dark blue Ralph Lauren boxer shorts.’ It was the first sign of personal possessions in Emmet Sweetman’s very bare love nest. The apartment was small. Two bedrooms and a living room and a tiny kitchen. It was bare and characterless. No food in the kitchen cabinets or the fridge, no washing-up liquid, no newspapers or magazines in the living room, no clothes thrown casually anywhere. A duvet pulled more or less straight on the bed suggested a minimal attempt at tidying.

  A randomly used apartment known to few others would be an ideal place to stash any business material that required an extra layer of security. Tidey had hoped for a briefcase, a file, some papers – anything that might connect with Sweetman’s murder. It was too much to expect, and he wouldn’t say it to Cheney, but his hope was for something like a threatening letter – the kind of thing that murderers are sometimes thick enough to do.

  Cheney opened a closet and found four suits of varying colours. ‘Nice,’ she said. She checked the labels. ‘Same as his closet at home – all Ralph Lauren. If this guy was as loyal to his wife as he was to Ralph, maybe he wouldn’t be pushing up daisies.’

  ‘You tending towards the wronged husband theory?’ Tidey said.

  ‘Nah – I’m just partial to a bit of gossip.’

  Tidey reached into the back of a drawer – nothing there. He pulled back the lining paper and checked underneath. He did the same with the other three drawers – all of them empty. He felt under the bottom of each drawer to check if there was anything taped there. Nothing.

  ‘At last,’ Rose Cheney said, ‘a sign of life.’ She had a shallow drawer open in the bedside table and she was holding up an opened box of condoms. ‘The passion kit.’ She threw the condoms on the bed, then a sleep mask, a blue bottle of massage oil and some wispy scarves. ‘A bit skimpy, for a passion kit.’

  ‘Enough to get a lad through a midlife crisis.’

  ‘You speak from experience?’

  When Tidey didn’t answer, Cheney said, ‘Oops. Sore point? Sorry.’

  Tidey smiled. ‘No problem. I’m the one brought it up. But, yeah, sore point.’

  Cheney put the passion kit back in the drawer and Tidey tilted the mattress while she checked underneath. Nothing.

  Cheney went into the other bedroom, Tidey went into the bathroom. A bottle of shower gel was half empty, the Head & Shoulders shampoo lying on its side, the cap open. There was a towel on the floor, in a corner, another hanging untidily from a rail. Tidey touched them both. Dry.

  He joined Cheney in the second bedroom. She was opening and closing drawers. ‘Empty, empty, empty.’ The only sign that anyone had used the bedroom recently was a jacket casually thrown on the bed.

  ‘You checked the pockets?’

  ‘I like to keep the most promising for last.’

  She checked a tall, narrow closet. Completely empty. Then she turned to the jacket. ‘Bet there’ll be a thick envelope full of documents in the inside pocket,’ Cheney said.

  Tidey shook his head. ‘A diary in the side pocket.’

  When Cheney lifted the jacket there was a mobile phone lying underneath.

  *

  It took forty-five minutes to get the mobile phone to Crime and Security, and another two hours for them to secure the call records from the mobile carrier and email a preliminary report to Castlepoint Garda Station. Sitting in the incident room, Bob Tidey gave a low whistle. ‘Some more gossip for you.’

  Rose Cheney said, ‘Make my day.’

  The phone was a pay-as-you-go, the report said. It had been activated eight months ago and had never been used to call Sweetman’s home or office. Sweetman appeared to have it solely for his off-the-books social activities. Apart from Orla McGettigan, the phone log showed just four other numbers, all mobiles. Crime and Security had connected the numbers to three named women, two of whom were married. The third woman was an analyst in the loans department of Sweetman’s bank.

  ‘Could be the analyst was part of his frauds,’ Cheney said. ‘Hogg wants the numbers – he’ll have people knocking on doors first thing in the morning.’

  Tidey said, ‘I want to deal with that last number myself.’

  Cheney glanced at the report. ‘Cornelius Wintour – sounds like a bookkeeper who still uses ledgers and quills.’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘It would help on the gossip front if he’s young and pretty and Sweetman liked to vary his diet.’

  Tidey smiled. ‘It’s a long time since Connie Wintour was young, and he’s never been pretty. He’s a solicitor, exclusively criminal cases. According to the Crime and Security report, Sweetman made or received calls from Connie several times a week, including two calls he exchanged with Connie on the day he was murdered.’ Tidey stood up, took out his cigarettes.

  Cheney said, ‘When you’re facing criminal charges you spend a lot of time talking to lawyers.’

  ‘Sweetman had a firm of solicitors fronting for him. The kind of clients Connie usually handles – they don’t use banking scams and property deals to steal money, they use balaclavas and guns. Connie could be the link between the murders.’ Tidey put an unlit cigarette between his lips. ‘Now, if I don’t go outside and light this thing I’m going to start kicking lumps out of the wall. Do me a favour?’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t involve your midlife crisis.’

  ‘Get onto the DPP’s office. We had a suspect in the Oliver Snead killing, a junkie named Gerry FitzGerald – Zippo to his friends. He’s dead now. Get them to look up Zippo’s file, see if Connie Wintour ever represented him. If he did, we just might have a connection between the two killings.’

  Tidey made himself a coffee. He took it to the back exit of the Garda station and lit his cigarette. He took out his mobile and rang Holly’s number. When the voicemail invited him to leave a message he clicked off.

  When he finished the cigarette, Tidey lit a second Rothmans. He was halfway through it when Rose Cheney came out the back exit. ‘Two things – the DPP’s office say Connie Wintour never represented this Gerry FitzGerald guy.’ She started moving past Tidey, towards the ca
r park. ‘And, two, Hogg just called. There’s been another killing – possibly related. A couple of minutes’ drive from here.’ Tidey flicked away his cigarette and followed her.

  At the wheel of her Hyundai, Cheney said, ‘He’s already at the scene, with the uniforms – the call was red-flagged to Hogg. He says the victim’s some kind of property developer, his name came up in the Emmet Sweetman inquiry – the two of them had a business connection. And now, someone’s blown his head off.’

  Nosing out onto the street, Cheney cut off a blue van, turned left and leaned on the pedal.

  Part 4

  The Storm

  44

  Vincent Naylor picked up the newspaper from the floor. There was a tiny piece at the bottom of an inside page about the funeral plans for the ‘North Strand shoot-out robbers’. The lazy bastards don’t care what they write – there was no shoot-out, Noel was unarmed when the cops shot him. The piece said Noel Naylor was being cremated at Glasnevin and Kevin Broe was being buried in Balgriffin. It said that police had contacted Naylor’s father, who was home from Scotland to organise the funeral. They were still hoping to make contact with the dead man’s brother.

  Yeah, right.

  Vincent had been sitting by the window for a couple of hours. Nothing to see outside except the back of another building. He’d read the piece half a dozen times. Every now and then he put the newspaper down on the floor, and in a while he picked it up and looked at it again. Before this happened, Noel had never had his name in the papers. Now—

  One paper had some shit about ‘the Naylor Gang’, and how it had ‘terrorised large areas of Northside Dublin’. Another had a photograph of Noel, a bit blurry – must have been taken on someone’s phone. Some cheap fuck, some so-called friend, must have sold it to a nosy reporter. It showed Noel with a big grin on his face, his mouth open, his hair messy, maybe at a party. Vincent had read shit about himself, about how he had just recently been released from jail after being sentenced for ‘a vicious and unprovoked assault on an innocent young man’. And one piece of crap described Noel as ‘a notorious thug and a leading figure in Dublin’s drug-drenched gangland’.