After a while, sitting in his flat, he found himself having an imaginary conversation about the Sweetman case – the reasons for believing that a business partner did it and then committed suicide, and the holes in that theory. He wondered if having imaginary conversations was a sign of mental deterioration. He switched on the television and clicked his way through a jungle of old sitcoms, showbiz gossip and obscure sports, along with documentaries offering all he needed to know about Nazis, ancient Romans or air crashes. He didn’t notice himself nodding off and when he jolted awake he was still sitting in the armchair, his head tilted at an awkward angle. On the television, a man was explaining something about Stonehenge. Tidey’s watch said it was just after two o’clock. He made it to the bedroom and slipped back into sleep.
In the dim light from inside the open boot, Vincent Naylor could see that the reporter’s tied hands were trembling, his lips quivering as though he’d just surfaced from an arctic sea. For a moment, Vincent thought the creep had gone into shock.
‘Please.’
‘Shut up.’
Vincent leaned down and pulled the reporter out, dumped him in a heap on the ground. They were out beyond Tallaght, in a wooded area in the foothills of the Dublin mountains. Below, the lights of the western suburbs glowed. It was almost three in the morning, the air was chilly, the whole world quiet.
Vincent took a knife from his pocket, unfolded the blade and cut the bindings on the reporter’s hands and legs.
‘You gave me everything I needed, right? No reason to worry, then – right?’
The thing at the cop’s house had been sweet. Vincent was prepared for a false start, maybe a darkened house, maybe a long wait until the bastard arrived home. Instead, an SUV in the driveway, lights on upstairs and down. Stoking himself up to ring the doorbell and put the muzzle of the gun in the bastard’s face, Vincent looked up and there the bastard was at the bedroom window and it took Vincent just a second to get the Bernardelli out of his shoulder bag. Blam blam blam – the cop went down like someone took his legs away. And again, Blam blam blam, for good measure. The only maybe in Vincent’s mind was what if that wasn’t him? But who else would be in a bedroom of the guy’s house at that time of evening? Had to be.
Vincent took the reporter by the back of his jacket and dragged him – the guy’s legs scrambling awkwardly on the uneven ground – until they were in front of the car, in the beam from the headlights.
‘Please—’
‘A bone to pick.’
‘Please—’
‘My brother Noel—’ Vincent leaned down so his lips were a couple of inches from the reporter’s ear – ‘all his life, he never got his name in the papers.’ Vincent straightened up. The little creep cowered, carefully avoiding eye contact. ‘First time he got his name in the papers was when he was shot dead by the cops. Shot dead trying to surrender.’
‘Please—’
‘Never got his name in the papers, his whole life. Then, his name was all over the papers and some of it was fair enough, it just said what happened. Even if it didn’t say he’d been surrendering.’
The reporter tilted his chin up towards Vincent. ‘I said that, about surrendering – I put that in – there was an old man, he told me – thousands of people read that, they—’
Vincent punched the reporter in the face. Anthony said, ‘Ah,’ then he said it again, almost a sigh, over and over. There was blood on his mouth, where his lip split when it was crushed against his teeth. Vincent leaned down again. ‘A notorious thug, you called him. A drug dealer, you called him. Thousands of people read that too. Why’d you have to tell lies? Why?’
‘It’s – I talked to the police, they said there were things he was never charged with, and—’
‘And those bastards never lie?’
‘Please—’
‘You expect to get away with that?’
‘Please—’
Vincent reared back and his hand with the Bernardelli came swinging, the gun smashing into the side of the reporter’s head. Which was a mistake. Vincent shook him, slapped his face, tried to bring him round – no use. The smack in the head probably gave him a concussion. Pity, that. When Vincent put the gun to the reporter’s forehead and squeezed the trigger the bastard never saw it coming.
55
Rising up from a deep sleep, Bob Tidey was already reaching for his bleating mobile before he was fully awake.
‘Yeah?’
‘Detective Sergeant Tidey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s a car waiting, out front. Instructions from Detective Chief Superintendent Hogg.’
It took several moments of silence to make sense of this. At first, Tidey thought he might have slept in and missed an appointment.
‘A car? What for?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent wants to see you, directly.’
‘What about? I’m on leave.’
‘Those are my instructions.’
Tidey muttered, ‘Bollocks.’ He looked at his watch – quarter past ten. ‘Give me a minute.’ He ended the call.
He was ready in twenty.
Vincent Naylor sat down to a late breakfast at the Four Seasons Hotel. Usually, a coffee and a slice of toast was enough, but today he felt like treating himself. He glanced inside the large envelope he’d collected at the car park at the Ilac. All in order.
These were people it was a pleasure to deal with. They could supply anything, and take your dirty money and launder it for a sizeable commission. The envelope held a driving licence, a real passport with a fake name, a debit card to match, linked to an account with three grand. There were details of the options for his trip via Belfast to Glasgow, and it was up to him to make his own way to London. He had a choice of when to leave – one phone call, twenty-four hours’ notice, and they’d slot the final pieces into place. These people knew how to charge, but they did a first-rate job.
The scales inside Vincent’s head were more balanced, and that made him feel like he was paying Noel the respect he deserved. He could leave the country right now and he’d feel he’d done the right thing – but he hadn’t cleared the entire list. He’d done the Protectica guy, Lorraine and Albert, the reporter and the cop. Almost finished.
The waiter came to take his order. Vincent said he’d have the full Irish, with extra sausages.
Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg was sitting behind his large oak desk. He didn’t rise to greet Bob Tidey. ‘Right to the point, Detective Sergeant. After consultation with Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe, I am to inform you that you’re suspended from duty, on full pay, as and from this moment, pending a disciplinary inquiry.’
The words were delivered flatly, as though Hogg was reading aloud from a set of instructions. ‘You will be informed within forty-eight hours of the particulars of the conduct that led to this suspension. I suggest you notify the Association of Garda Sergeants and Inspectors, with a view to acquiring representation.’
Tidey waited. Hogg remained silent.
‘That’s it? I’ve done something unspecified, to someone unknown – and—’
‘You know damn well – you received specific instructions regarding a major murder case, and you ignored them and ploughed your own furrow.’
‘It never occurred to me you and Connie were close.’
‘Don’t be stupid. This isn’t about Connie Wintour, it’s about you. Decisions were made, but you decided you’re above all that chain-of-command shit. Well, we don’t have lone crusaders in this force.’ Hogg’s voice was now more brisk. ‘Wintour complained about being harassed, as he was entitled to do. And when it trickled down to Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe – when he learned that you’d ignored orders – he had no option.’
‘Trickled down to an AC. How high up the political ladder do Connie’s protectors go?’
‘Off the record, Bob, leaving rank aside – you’re way out of line. Senior officers reached a conclusion based on the evidence. You’re entitle
d to your opinion, but we can’t have freelance investigators second-guessing official findings.’
‘Off the record, leaving rank aside – do you believe the Sweetman murder was just a falling-out between two businessmen?’
‘I do.’
‘You don’t think it’s a convenient story – a little drama to distract the skulls?’
‘I believe the evidence supports our conclusion.’
‘You’re ready to stand over that, Chief Superintendent?’
Hogg had drained his face of empathy. When you’re giving someone a kicking, there’s no point wearing fluffy slippers. ‘Remember, you got a reprimand from a judge, in open court, over the quality of your evidence in a criminal trial. If you’ve any notion of making a song and dance about this, that reprimand can be picked up and run as a perjury allegation.’ He waited a moment, and when Tidey didn’t respond he said, ‘Now, fuck off, Bob.’
Twice Bob Tidey called Colin O’Keefe’s number, and twice there was no answer. He adjusted his mobile so his number wouldn’t appear on the receiving phone. He called again and the Assistant Commissioner answered.
‘Colin, you know this murder–suicide shit is dodgy. Hogg is so set on closing the case that he’s threatening me with trumped-up perjury charges if I follow an open lead.’
‘This is inappropriate.’
‘Colin, this stinks.’
‘We were colleagues, we were friends. We’ll be colleagues again, and I hope we’ll be friends again – but right now you’re one of the many problems I have to deal with. I wish it was different – but that’s the way it is. Now, I’m ringing off.’
The phone went dead.
Almost noon.
The car that had brought Bob Tidey to Garda headquarters in the Phoenix Park was nowhere to be seen. He walked a while and picked up a taxi on the North Circular Road. He was sitting in the back, oblivious to his surroundings, when the driver turned and said, ‘We’re going where?’
Tidey didn’t want to go home, to be alone. He didn’t want to go anywhere, to be with anyone else. ‘O’Connell Bridge.’
At the end of the journey, standing on the bridge, he knew of no reason to go this way rather than that. It was as if all points of reference had been removed. He crossed the bridge and walked up past College Green and found a Starbucks.
This could be sorted out. The suspension didn’t have to lead to anything drastic. He was a good detective, valuable to the force, and he wouldn’t be shafted as long as he got back into line. It was the sensible thing to do. The notion of forcing the issue, watching his career flame out for the sake of the Sweetman case was too foolish to consider. Outside the force, for the rest of his life, he’d be as adrift as he felt when he got out of the taxi – all points of reference gone.
When his mobile rang he didn’t recognise the number that showed.
‘Yeah?’
‘Martin Pollard.’
‘Polly, how’s it going?’
‘There’s something you should know.’
‘Yeah? What about?’
‘Not on the phone.’
Tidey said, ‘You’re in luck – suddenly, I find myself with a lot of time on my hands.’
56
Michelle Flood said, ‘I miss you,’ and Vincent Naylor said, ‘I miss you too.’ He was lying on the bed in his room at the Four Seasons. ‘Won’t be long, now.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Her voice was faint. He held the phone closer to his ear. ‘Every hour you stay in Dublin, I’m thinking is this the hour they take you?’
‘There’s a delay, I can’t leave yet. The passport’s taking longer than I thought.’
‘How much longer?’
‘You know how these things work. People say they’ll have something done – then there’s a delay.’
She told him about the apartment, the area. As she spoke, Vincent reached down towards the bottom of the bed and tucked the top of the passport back into the envelope – he knew it was silly, but he didn’t want it staring at him while he spoke to Michelle.
‘It doesn’t have to be permanent,’ she said, ‘we can move on, it depends – but it’s a lovely neighbourhood and I think you’ll like it.’ He said he was sure he would.
Bob Tidey was sipping his coffee, in Gaffney’s pub in Fairview, when Detective Inspector Martin Pollard arrived. Pollard ordered a vodka and tonic. Balding since his twenties, his hair had now receded over the horizon of his polished head. As ever, he didn’t waste time on chit-chat. ‘This is all on the quiet, we never talked, right?’
Tidey nodded.
‘Someone tried to kill an ERU sergeant, at his home. Several shots through the window of his bedroom – he got away with a few cuts from flying glass.’
‘Someone’s asking for trouble.’
‘Technical fast-tracked the forensics. The same gun has been used to kill a hood named Albert Bannerman – and his girlfriend. And a man named Shay Harrison, who worked for Protectica.’
‘Someone’s gone berserk.’
‘We’re trying to keep a lid on the fact that the incidents are connected. We think it was a hood called Vincent Naylor. He’s the brother of one of the men shot dead on Kilcaragh Avenue – he hasn’t been seen since the Protectica job.’
Tidey shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘He used to work for Mickey Kavanagh, did at least one killing for him. He just finished a stretch in the Joy for assault. A couple of years back I spent several weeks trying to tie him into a kneecapping. I know he did it, but the victim was too scared to make a statement.’
‘Some fruitcake – three dead and he’s shooting at an ERU sergeant?’
Pollard poured a small amount of mixer into his vodka and lowered half of the drink. ‘He tried to kill the leader of the ERU team, he’s killed a Protectica employee, who may have been the inside man. Which is why I wanted to let you know. That friend of yours, the woman who tipped us off about the car—’
‘Maura Coady.’
‘We don’t know how many people he’s mad at, but her name was in the papers – the hero nun who gave police the tip-off.’
‘Ah, Jesus. She’s in her seventies – she said a prayer over one of the guys when he was dying.’
‘If Vincent Naylor’s read the papers—’ Pollard shrugged.
‘She’s going to get protection, right?’
Pollard looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s where it gets complicated. We’ve got a list of people we’ve been told have priority. Assuming this Shay Harrison was the inside man, there may be other Protectica people in danger. Other ERU members – any Garda who might have pissed off Vincent Naylor in the past.’
‘Maura Coady – without her, there wouldn’t have been an ERU operation.’
‘It’s not that anyone’s excluding her, it’s just that they had to draw the line somewhere and she happened to be on the other side of it.’
‘Budgets, right?’
‘I’ve had a chat with my Super, and he’s approved an unmarked car, parked close to her house, for a day or two. The reason I contacted you – maybe you can do something more.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m told you’re an old buddy of Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe – maybe you can put a word in, get her shifted up the list? I’m told O’Keefe is a reasonable man.’ Martin Pollard finished what was left of his vodka.
Tidey stood and hesitated a moment, then he said, ‘I better head.’
Pollard said, ‘Yes, keep in touch.’ As Tidey left, Pollard took his glass to the bar.
Walking towards the city centre, Bob Tidey called a friend at Garda headquarters and found out where Colin O’Keefe was scheduled to be this evening. Given Tidey’s suspension, approaching O’Keefe would be tricky, but manageable. The Sweetman case made things awkward, but that could be finessed. Bow the knee, throw in a bit of the old mea culpa. Keep the focus on getting protection for Maura Coady.
Tidey rang Harry Synnott at Clontarf station and asked for another fa
vour. Then he hailed a taxi. When he got home to his flat in Glasnevin a lengthy fax from Synnott had arrived. Tidey made a coffee and sat at the kitchen table, reading excerpts from Vincent Naylor’s file. There was a lot of background stuff on Naylor and on the people he’d worked with and for. There were two pages on the killing he did for Mickey Kavanagh, and three pages of background on Mickey and his operations.
Tidey sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on a mugshot of Vincent Naylor. In pictures taken by their captors, criminals sometimes look subdued, sometimes angry or defiant. Naylor faced the camera with the air of a footballer who’s just learned he’s been voted Man of the Match.
57
The President, her voice laden with emotion, said that the republic – in this, its hour of need – was calling on its daughters and sons, at home and abroad, to rally to its cause. ‘And we make this call, knowing that our people’s love for their country is matched only by their spirit, by their creativity, by their ingenuity and by their energy.’
The President spoke from a platform in the courtyard of Dublin Castle. Behind her, seated in three tiers, representatives of the state and of civic society had come to demonstrate their support for the project being launched this evening. Among them were the Garda Commissioner and two of his Assistant Commissioners, including Colin O’Keefe.
‘Almost four score and ten years ago, within the precincts of this very Castle, in a solemn two-hour ceremony, the soon-to-be-martyred Michael Collins accepted the transfer of government from Viscount FitzAlan, the British Lord Lieutenant. Shortly afterwards, the flag of another country was solemnly lowered, and with equal solemnity the flag of the reborn nation was raised aloft. Many times in the decades since then, this country has known tough times. Yet the challenges we face today are as great as the gravest test endured by our forebears.’
The President’s audience of several hundred was standing on cobblestones in the centre of the courtyard, hemmed in by barriers. Bob Tidey was standing at the back of the crowd. He noted the beefed-up security that had become standard at official events, to discourage public expressions of anger against executive incompetence and corruption. There were, however, no politicians on the platform, apart from the presidential figurehead. Nothing would kill off potential support as quickly as the presence of a nervously grinning government minister.
The Rage Page 21
