The Rage

by Gene Kerrigan

  After the Ballygowan was served, they talked about people they knew in common, avoiding specifics. The man sympathised about Noel and Vincent just nodded. After a while, Vincent indicated a folded copy of the Irish Independent on the table, and the man said, yeah. Vincent said the passport photos were with the money. He asked how long and the man said it wasn’t a big job. ‘It’s just a matter of stripping in the details.’

  ‘Terrific.’

  The man took a set of car keys from a pocket and left them on the table. ‘Blue Renault, third level of the Ilac – the bay number is 332.’ He put a card on the table, with the reg number. Vincent nodded.

  When the man stood up, they shook hands again, then the man left with the folded copy of the Irish Independent under his arm.

  In his room, Vincent sat at a table. His neat list now had scribbling down at the bottom. He tore the paper in two, took a sheet of Four Seasons stationery and wrote the names again.

  No matter how much you frighten a guy, there’s always a chance he can’t keep his mouth shut. Maybe it was the nun – the paper said the nosy bitch had called the police about the getaway car, but Vincent doubted that was all the police had to go on. Shay Harrison had to have blabbed.

  It wasn’t about settling scores before he left the country. Vincent saw it like there was an old-style weighing scales in his head, with Noel on one side, and a lot of stuff on the other. It was about getting the balance right. It was something he’d tried to explain to Michelle, but no one else could understand it. Vincent wouldn’t be all right with Noel until that balance felt right.

  The restaurant in the Four Seasons wasn’t his kind of place. He decided to order room service and get an early night. Big day tomorrow.

  Bob Tidey’s text to his ex-wife said Hi and Holly’s reply said Out and about, so that was that for the evening. He went to an Italian restaurant close to Grafton Street and they brought him something with a cream sauce – he was sure he’d ordered something with a tomato sauce, but not sure enough to bother making an issue of it. He was sipping coffee when he got a call from Rose Cheney’s home number.

  ‘My contact came through – I just got an email.’

  ‘Anything useful?’

  ‘He kept it to the calls made or received by Wintour on the day of the murder and on the two days either side of it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Both times that Wintour got a call from Sweetman, he called another number within minutes. Belongs to someone called Stephen Hill. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Me neither – maybe something will pop up when we run the name.’

  In no hurry to go home to his apartment, Tidey went to a pub, which was a mistake. The taste of the cream sauce lingered and he didn’t enjoy his whiskey. He was in a taxi ten minutes from home when his phone buzzed. The text from Holly said Home. Tidey gave the driver the change of destination.

  50

  ‘First of all,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg said, ‘congratulations to all of you on the work you’ve done on this case – it’s no more than I expected, but it’s been a pleasure to work with such a professional squad.’ The members of the Sweetman murder inquiry team were gathered in the conference room at Castlepoint Garda Station.

  It’s been?

  Bob Tidey glanced across the room at Rose Cheney. She arched an eyebrow. Until now, there was no hint that this was anything other than a routine morning conference.

  ‘The good news is that we’ve come to a conclusion on the case. Last night, at HQ, along with Assistant Commissioner Colin O’Keefe and several senior officers, we reviewed the files and put together some final details – had a look at the entire picture. We met again this morning and some more pieces fell into place.’

  Bob Tidey felt the relief that comes with knowing a case isn’t going to end in an open file. Only a fraction of the country’s gun killings resulted in a trial – too many ended in files that were as thick as they were inconclusive. He also felt puzzled. Usually, a case moves towards a conclusion when there’s a strong lead. It gets the resources necessary to confirm the team is on the right track, the evidence is tested until it’s persuasive – no surprises. He’d never seen a case jump upstairs, to be assessed at brass level, without going through the staging points.

  ‘The breakthrough – it came in a statement by one Marisa Cosgrave,’ Hogg said. ‘She was the girlfriend of the late Justin Kennedy – businessman, lawyer, property speculator, suicide victim. Mr Kennedy, as some of you will be aware, was involved in a number of questionable property schemes with Emmet Sweetman. According to Ms Cosgrave, in recent times this led to some enmity between Sweetman and Kennedy. There were threats – each threatened the other – and we have confirmation from the Revenue that a week before his murder Sweetman made a preliminary statement naming a number of people, including Kennedy, as participants in a tax fraud. He was due to make a further, detailed, statement outlining the specifics of the fraud – his murder prevented that.’

  ‘Kennedy killed Sweetman, then killed himself?’ Rose Cheney couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.

  ‘Obviously it’s not possible to link an individual shotgun to a specific shooting – lead pellets can’t be matched to a weapon. But it was the same type of ammunition that killed Sweetman and that Kennedy used to kill himself – RC twenty-gauge, thirty-two-gram semi-magnum. We’ve consulted Kennedy’s diary and that of Ms Cosgrave and there’s nothing to account for his movements on the night of the murder.’

  ‘Nothing to say he was in the vicinity of Sweetman’s house, then?’ Tidey said.

  ‘Nothing to place Kennedy anywhere in particular on the evening of the murder – it’s the other evidence that suggests he was at Sweetman’s house.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Ms Cosgrave’s statement includes the detail that Mr Kennedy made a specific threat – in her presence – in a phone call to Sweetman. This, she quotes him as saying, was Sweetman’s last warning. That was two days before Sweetman was shotgunned.’

  One of the team, a sergeant called Bowman, spoke from the end of the table. ‘There were two killers – if Kennedy had a shotgun, who used the handgun?’

  Bob Tidey said, ‘Specifically, a handgun used to murder Oliver Snead? We’re not saying Kennedy linked up with some gangland tosser to kill Sweetman?’

  Hogg said, ‘We have no idea who the second shooter was – someone Kennedy roped in as backup – obviously we’ll continue inquiries into that aspect of the case. I’m inclined to conclude that the gun was floating on the market. The point was made at one of our conferences – someone sold a gun to someone who sold it to someone else. Guns have an unfortunate habit of migrating between criminal elements.’

  Tidey made eye contact with Hogg. ‘Some gangland thug killed Oliver Snead, the gun sort of floated around, then someone in a business suit bought it and used it on Emmet Sweetman?’

  ‘We don’t yet know the precise provenance of the weapon, but when you put it all together, the bigger picture is convincing. Prior association between Sweetman and Kennedy, motive, opportunity, threats, shotgun, same type of ammunition, no alibi. Kennedy kills himself out of remorse, or fear that he’s about to be found out. You have doubts, Bob?’

  ‘I’ve never seen a case go upstairs before the evidence has been assessed by the inquiry team.’

  ‘As you know, this case has been a matter of concern at all levels – so it was natural that the conclusion of the case would be overseen at a higher echelon.’

  Bowman said, ‘The conclusion? This second killer – that’s still open?’

  Hogg nodded. ‘Of course – that aspect will be pursued vigorously. Obviously, now that we’ve identified Kennedy, and we know what the murder’s about, the inquiry will be scaled back somewhat. But every effort will be made to identify and arrest the second shooter.’

  ‘Scaled back to – what?’

  ‘Garda Eddery was exhibits officer from the beg
inning, and therefore has a comprehensive grasp of the case – he’ll stay on with me. And since Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe will continue to play a hands-on role in the inquiry, he will be supplying two of his own people to help out. We’ll have a full complement of uniformed support.’

  Rose Cheney said, ‘The rest of us bugger off?’

  ‘Thanks to all, for your conscientious efforts – I’ve arranged for three days’ leave before you return to your units. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment at HQ within the hour. I’d like you all to note that my door is always open, should any of you feel you have anything to add to specific aspects of the case. And again, thank you and congratulations.’

  Bob Tidey leaned back in his chair, the front legs raised a few inches. ‘What happened to following the evidence?’

  Hogg kept his voice level. ‘As of now, you’re on leave, Bob – lots of time for idle chatter. I have work to do.’

  Tidey’s gaze followed the Detective Chief Superintendent as he gathered his papers and moved towards the door, Eddery in his wake. Hogg never looked back.

  ‘So, another one bites the dust?’ Rose Cheney was standing to Tidey’s left.

  ‘You buying this?’

  ‘I’m heading home – my eldest’s birthday is the day after tomorrow. Then, I’m back to Macken Road, to pick up where I left off. And you’re back to Cavendish Avenue. As far as the brass are concerned, ours not to reason why.’

  Tidey shook his head. ‘I always thought reasoning why was part of the job description.’

  51

  It took a few minutes before it dawned on Albert Bannerman that something was wrong. Vincent had used his mobile from outside the house, said he was leaving town. ‘I need your help – I can’t stay here.’ When Albert opened the front door Vincent said, ‘Thanks, man, you’re a star – I won’t stay long.’

  Albert had a towel around his neck. He was wearing dark red pyjamas. He gestured towards Vincent’s suit. ‘The Mormon gear, it works – come in.’

  Vincent had a black leather bag dangling from his shoulder. Standing in the hallway, he said, ‘You know about Noel?’ There was an ache in his voice. Poor fucker. Noel Naylor was something else, but Vincent was all right, he knew how things worked. And the hurt was in his eyes, in the line of his mouth, in the way his shoulders sagged.

  ‘It passes, mate.’ Holding Vincent’s hand, shaking it, the other hand patting his shoulder. ‘I know it won’t help now, but time – it’s true, it makes the pain bearable, believe me.’

  Vincent nodding, a distance in his eyes.

  ‘Can’t stay here, Albert – apart from the cops, this city won’t be the same, not now.’

  In the living room, Lorraine stood up from an armchair. She was wearing a dressing gown with an elaborate floral pattern. Her unease was clear when she saw Vincent. Her lips parted, like she was about to say something, then she thought better of it. Vincent said, ‘He was a good man, Noel was,’ and Lorraine said, ‘He was great company – we had a lot of fun together,’ and Vincent nodded.

  Vincent Naylor in a suit – Vincent being polite to Lorraine, Vincent coming for favours when the cops were out beating the bushes for him, Vincent saying there was nothing in Dublin for him now that Noel was gone, Vincent running his hand back over his almost bald head. Something in Albert Bannerman’s gut was screaming this isn’t right and when Vincent reached into the shoulder bag, pulling out a big fucking piece and pointing it at Albert – it was almost a relief. Over by the window, Lorraine released a short, high-pitched scream.

  Albert’s mouth twisted in anger and contempt. ‘You piece of shit – you come into my house, I offer you my sympathy. And you bring a fucking gun?’

  ‘Face down on the floor.’

  ‘Vincent—’

  ‘Face down.’

  Lorraine screamed ‘Albert!’ and Vincent pointed the gun at her and she twisted her face away from the weapon, cowered, screamed again.

  ‘Tell her to shut the fuck up.’

  Another scream from Lorraine.

  Albert shouted, ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Vincent gestured with the gun. As Albert knelt, the towel fell from around his neck. He lay face down on the floor.

  ‘Hands behind you,’ Vincent said.

  ‘This is – Jesus, Vincent, this doesn’t make sense.’

  Vincent leaned down, stuck the muzzle of the Bernardelli into the back of Albert’s neck and said, ‘Hands behind you, now.’

  Albert did as he was told and Vincent took a plastic tie from a pocket, looped it around Albert’s hands and pulled it tight. He straightened up, told Lorraine to hold her hands out in front, and when she did he bound them with another plastic tie. Lorraine closed her eyes and began a scream. Vincent hit her across the face with the gun and she ended up lying across a vast purple armchair, half conscious, whimpering.

  ‘Fuck you,’ Albert said. ‘Leave her out of this.’

  ‘She’s what this is about,’ Vincent said.

  When Vincent returned from checking the rest of the house, Albert was on his feet in the kitchen, hands tied behind him. His back was to the door leading out to the garden, his hands awkwardly trying to turn the knob.

  ‘Come in here, Albert. Lie down.’

  Albert came back slowly, muscles tensed in his thick neck. He knelt, then leaned forward, easing himself face down. ‘You know I didn’t have a choice,’ he said. ‘A fella comes for me with a knife, what the fuck would you do?’

  ‘This isn’t about that, Albert. This isn’t about you.’

  ‘Vincent, this is crazy.’

  Vincent stood a couple of feet from Albert’s upturned face, inclined his head, leaned down and said, ‘You think I can walk away from here, from this city – you think I can piss off to wherever? Make a new life – you think I can do that knowing this bitch is walking around Dublin on her hind legs?’

  Lorraine whimpered.

  ‘Ah, Vincent, Jesus, man, she’s a ride, that’s all, these things happen, people lose out – Noel, he lost out – it happens, it’s happened to me, to you, to everyone. It’s just the way things are.’

  Vincent went down on one knee, his face closer to Albert, his voice low. ‘You think I’m going to wake up every day, go about my business, do all the normal stuff, and put my head on a pillow at night – and every single moment I know that cow is strolling around? Noel in ashes, and that cow waltzing around like he never existed? You think I could live with that?’

  Albert said nothing. His neck twisted at an angle, he looked up at Vincent, his breathing heavy.

  ‘What you gonna do?’

  Vincent straightened up. ‘No option.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You think – no matter where I end up – you think I can leave you looking for me?’

  ‘Vincent, I swear—’

  ‘Albert—’ Lorraine’s voice was a high-pitched moan.

  ‘Shut up.’

  Vincent shook his head. Albert tucked his legs under him and levered himself into a half-sitting position. ‘We can work this out, Vincent – there’s no need.’

  ‘Albert—’

  ‘There’s no need, Vincent, I swear to you – look, there’s things we can – you and me – wherever you’re heading off to, I can help you—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Albert.’ Vincent stood up straight. He looked Albert in the eye. ‘If you were in my place, you know it’s what makes sense.’

  Albert stretched his neck, thrust his big, bald head towards Vincent and said, ‘I’ll do her.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, Albert, Jesus—’ Lorraine struggled to her feet, moving awkwardly, her hands tied in front of her. She was a couple of yards from the living-room door when Vincent hit her on the side of the head with the Bernardelli. She made no noise, stunned, just collapsed face down onto the floor.

  ‘It’ll work,’ Albert said. ‘I’ll do her. There’s a gun taped to the back of the bookcase in the front room.’

  Standing over Lorraine, V
incent turned, looked at Albert.

  ‘Get it for me,’ Albert said. ‘Leave one bullet, that’s all. You’ve got me covered. Think about it, Vincent – I do it, it’s on me. We do this together it means I’ve got no beef with you. You leave, I clean up – she’s gone. I’ll have a story – everyone knows she’s a tramp – she went away somewhere, there’s nothing for either of us to worry about.’

  Vincent leaned down and put the gun to the back of Lorraine’s head and squeezed the trigger. Her head bounced on the floor and a spray of blood flew away and landed on the blue carpet.

  ‘Fuck you!’ Albert swivelled his legs and tried to push himself up from the floor. He made it to his knees just as Vincent shot him in the head.

  52

  From the window of his apartment, Bob Tidey’s view was of a short stretch of Glasnevin Road. There was only so much to be got from watching cars shoot past, and the progress of the occasional pedestrian had little to offer. In the background, the radio was babbling. Morning Ireland was finishing an interview with a minister for something or other. The minister kept saying there was no alternative. The interviewer moved on to an economist who worked for a bank, who began by saying he agreed with the politician, it was the only game in town. Tidey reached out and stabbed a button on the front of the radio, jumping to Country Mix FM, where Christy Moore was singing ‘John O’Dreams’.

  Instead of adding his mug, plate, cutlery and glass to the dishwasher, Tidey took them to the sink and washed them by hand. It gave him something to do while he tried to put a shape to the coming day. The plan was to stroll down to the Botanic Gardens and spend an hour among the flowers, then kill another hour with a brisk walk. In the afternoon, he planned to visit a man who lived in Finglas, a shopkeeper with a sideline in fencing stolen goods. With three days’ leave, he had an opportunity to touch base with informants, a tedious but useful exercise. The shopkeeper occasionally passed on scraps of information he picked up in the course of his work. He wasn’t after payment – it was just an insurance policy, for the day when he might need someone to put in a good word.