The Rage

by Gene Kerrigan

  This was one of the points at which it could go wrong. Finding someone, without being able to use the Garda network, was hit-and-miss. Getting that someone alone, where no one could see, made it harder.

  Tidey skipped through the pages on Vincent Naylor, the killing he did for Mickey Kavanagh. He went to the pages of background on Mickey Kavanagh – where he lived, that he lived with a woman with three kids, none of them his. He made notes on Mickey’s social habits and hang-outs. The accompanying photo was a poor reproduction, degraded during faxing. Mickey stared at the camera. Bob Tidey stared back.

  Kavanagh was a hard-nosed bastard with the power of life and death over his minions – to Tidey, Mickey’s sculpted hair and vacant expression gave him the air of a fifth-rate singer from a failed pop band, his mouth half open, ever ready to explain how he never got the breaks.

  After about fifteen minutes Tidey went back down to the taxi and began his search for Mickey Kavanagh.

  Vincent Naylor got out of the taxi a couple of hundred yards from Kilcaragh Avenue. When he turned into the street where the bitch nun lived he paused a moment. The whole length of the street, there was just one van parked, the rest were cars. The police preferred vans for snooping. It meant they could have someone watching out the front and someone else watching out the back. They could have a camera peeking – the kind of stuff that you couldn’t do from a car without making a circus of it. The van was an old blue Transit, with something on the side about home maintenance. Vincent didn’t see it as a cop hideout. Didn’t mean they weren’t keeping watch from a car, so he walked down the street and back, scoping everything. Nothing to worry about – and he identified number 41. There was a light in the front hall, the rest of the kip in darkness. Could be the bitch was in bed already, maybe she was in the kitchen out back.

  Old bitch – no need to let her know why it was happening, just give it to her in the face, on the doorstep.

  He pressed the button and heard the bell ring inside. Then he reached into the bag and held the Bernardelli.

  Twice more he rang the bell before he decided nothing was going to happen, the bitch wasn’t there. OK, maybe in an hour or two. Maybe make a special trip back before leaving Dublin. One way or the other, the bitch is taking it.

  As he turned to leave, Vincent Naylor heard an elderly female voice from behind. ‘Can I help you, young man?’

  At the reception at Jurys Inn, across from Christ Church, Rose Cheney did the talking. Coming through the front doorway, Maura Coady said, ‘Is this really necessary?’

  ‘Not to worry, I’ll handle the formalities.’

  A room for one person, she told the receptionist, two nights, possibly more. She registered Maura Coady as Maura Clark.

  When they got to the room, Maura Coady said, ‘Very clean, very nice.’

  ‘If you give me your keys, Sergeant Tidey and I will go to your house in the morning – we’ll get whatever you need, and bring it here. Is that OK?’

  Maura Coady nodded her thanks. ‘There are people – I know this – people with real reasons to hate me. But this man—’

  ‘Try to get some sleep.’

  ‘—he doesn’t even know me.’

  ‘According to Sergeant Tidey, he’s already killed several people. You may not be in danger, but we’d rather not take a chance.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest – Sergeant Tidey just asked me to make sure you’re safe. He’ll be in touch.’ Cheney handed over a business card. ‘My mobile number’s on the back – any problem, call me. Really – anything, any time.’

  ‘I will – thank you.’

  ‘We live across the road,’ the old woman said. ‘Miss Coady’s not in. I came over because my husband Phil, he saw her leaving a while ago, with a young woman – probably a relative.’

  Vincent Naylor looked behind the old woman, saw a decrepit old man standing at a front door across the road, looking down in the dumps.

  ‘You know where she was going?’

  ‘We knew that other reporter, Anthony – it was on the news tonight, his newspaper says he hasn’t been seen. They believe he may have come to some harm. It’s unbelievable – Phil is terribly upset. Are you from the same newspaper?’

  Vincent nodded. ‘Yeah. I need to talk to Miss Coady about something. Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘Phil just saw her leave, he didn’t speak to her.’

  Vincent said, ‘Thanks,’ then he began to turn away.

  ‘If you really need to see her, every Sunday morning – she never misses a Sunday – eleven o’clock Mass, the Latin Mass, in the Pro-Cathedral. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘I do,’ Vincent Naylor said. ‘Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Every Sunday.’

  There was a chance that Mickey Kavanagh was at home. There was a chance the woman he lived with, and her kids, were elsewhere. That would be ideal, to get him alone, at home. Tidey rang the bell of the terraced house in Ballyfermot.

  Nothing.

  Checking his notebook, Tidey set out for a pub where Mickey Kavanagh was known to drink. When there was no sign of Mickey there he tried a second pub. In the third pub, Mickey Kavanagh was sitting at a window table with four other men, all drinking pints.

  Tidey ordered a pint and took it to a corner. He pulled a stool closer and sat down, his drink resting on a narrow ledge. He opened a tabloid, looking towards the page but not at it, his peripheral vision alert to movements at the window table. Every now and then he sipped the pint or turned a page. Almost an hour passed before Mickey Kavanagh stood up and drained his pint. Tidey slid down from his stool, hoping Kavanagh left the pub alone. Instead, on his way to the Gents, Kavanagh ordered more drink. He and his mates obviously intended staying until closing.

  In the toilet, Bob Tidey said, ‘Gobshite.’

  Kavanagh, standing at the urinal, looked over his shoulder. He hurriedly zipped up and turned. ‘Do I know you?’ He was late thirties, his boy-band hair and pointy-collared shirt giving him a vaguely seventies vibe.

  ‘Gobshite.’

  Kavanagh took a step closer. He tried to do it casually, but he couldn’t manage it. His face tightened as he psyched himself for the attack.

  It wouldn’t be a punch or a kick – in too close for that. Just the right set-up, though, to smash his forehead into Tidey’s face. The slight backward movement that preceded the lunging head was all the warning Tidey needed. Had the blow hit his nose, possibly breaking it, he’d be blinded by pain, at the mercy of Kavanagh’s brawny hands and stomping boots. Instead, he took the blow to the side of the head, jerking back to limit the impact – but it still hurt like fuck.

  Tidey had a grip on Kavanagh’s shirt front and he allowed himself to fall backwards, pulling Kavanagh off balance, swinging him round, his hands taking Kavanagh’s wrist, then twisting his arm behind him, pushing him until Kavanagh’s face hit the wall above the urinal. Tidey kicked Kavanagh’s feet from under him and watched him slide down, face first into his own piss. It took a few seconds to cuff him and leave him sitting slumped against the wall under the condom machine. Tidey took his notebook out, and jammed it under the door leading back to the bar. When 999 put him through to Command and Control his breathing was heavy. ‘Detective Sergeant Robert Tidey, Cavendish Avenue – I’ve been assaulted.’ He gave the address, told them he had his assailant in the Gents toilet in the lounge, and asked them to hurry.

  Kavanagh, his face smeared with blood and piss, seemed more indignant than worried. ‘What the fuck?’ he said.

  ‘Gobshite,’ Tidey said.

  Eventually, one of Kavanagh’s mates arrived at the toilet door, pushing at it and calling his name. Tidey kept a shoulder to the door, his foot holding the notebook in place so it acted as a doorstop. He put a finger to his lips and stared at Kavanagh. The gobshite sat there like a lamb.

  Kavanagh’s mate went silent, then went walkies in a hurry. There was the sound of a deep country accent. Tidey had his
ID ready when he opened the door.

  ‘You OK?’ One of the uniforms gestured towards the blood on Tidey’s face.

  ‘I’m fine. Be careful with this asshole – I came in here for a piss and he jumped me.’

  ‘Hey—’ Kavanagh said.

  One of the uniforms leaned over and backhanded his face. ‘Be quiet.’

  Tidey said, ‘Must fancy himself as a big shot. After I cuffed him he told me he’s going to have me killed.’

  Trixie Dixon was crouched in a foxhole, about to throw a hand grenade at a bunch of Nazi bastards, when the doorbell rang. He paused the PlayStation. In the hallway he said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tidey.’

  Trixie recognised the voice and opened the door. ‘Jesus, what happened to you?’

  The policeman’s temple was bloody, purple and swollen. Tidey came in and shut the door behind him. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

  60

  Bob Tidey was up, dressed and ready when two detectives from Turner’s Lane came early to take his statement on the arrest of Mickey Kavanagh.

  ‘You’re suspended, right?’

  ‘Failure of communication – me and a superintendent. You know how that goes.’

  ‘You weren’t on duty last night?’

  ‘I went for a drink – in fact, I went to a couple of pubs. Quiet night. In need of my own company. Last thing anyone—’

  ‘Let’s do this formally.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tidey remained standing, one of the detectives sat at the kitchen table and took notes, the other just stood there looking surly.

  ‘You followed this man into the toilet?’

  ‘I’d no idea anyone was in there – didn’t notice the man, never saw him before.’

  ‘And he just attacked you?’

  ‘He said something. He was washing his hands, he looked up when I came in, must have clocked me for a Garda, called me a dirty name – then he went for me, gave me this.’ Tidey indicated the damage to his face. ‘Headbutt.’

  ‘He says you followed him in there.’

  ‘I told you how it happened.’

  ‘He says you threatened him.’

  ‘I’d no idea who he was.’

  The detective standing opposite Tidey said, ‘You didn’t know it was Mickey Kavanagh?’

  ‘I’d heard the name, but I wouldn’t know him from Adam. He’s never come up in any case I’ve been involved with.’

  ‘You didn’t threaten him?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I dealt with him, rang it in – you know the rest.’

  The detective taking notes said, ‘He says he never threatened to kill you.’

  Tidey sighed. ‘What else would he say? Look – why would I attack a dangerous criminal, someone I’ve never had reason to investigate? Why would I lie about what he did, what he threatened to do?’

  ‘I’ve got to put these things to you, you know the drill.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  The detective read his notes back, then spent ten minutes putting Tidey’s replies into narrative form. He read the statement aloud.

  ‘“I entered the toilet and a man I now know to be Michael Kavanagh was about to leave. I did not know his identity at the time. He said something that indicated he had identified me as a policeman. I did not at any stage assault Mr Kavanagh or threaten to do so. I did not speak to him. He finished washing his hands and without warning he headbutted me in the face. I subdued my assailant and called for support. While waiting for my colleagues to arrive I did not engage Mr Kavanagh in conversation. At one point he said, ‘You have no idea the trouble you are in, you bastard. I’m going to have you wasted.’ I did not reply to this. Shortly afterwards, several uniformed members arrived and took Mr Kavanagh away.”’

  ‘Anything else?’ Tidey said.

  ‘That covers it.’

  ‘Should I keep looking over my shoulder? Is he being bailed?’

  ‘On charges of assaulting a Garda and making a death threat?’

  Tidey nodded. ‘Good.’

  *

  You mow it, and when you’ve had a few days to admire your handiwork, the grass comes up again. Liam Delaney liked the consistency of nature. But this time of year you had to keep at it or the garden could quickly become a bit of a wilderness. He regretted that the front garden was paved over – done before he bought the place. Right across the city, hundreds of thousands of gardens covered over with brick or cobblelock. And when the heavy rains came there was nowhere for the water to drain away. Then they complain about flooding. Play around with nature, Liam figured, there’s a price.

  His phone, in the pocket of the denim jacket thrown on a garden chair, made a noise.

  The text message said Meeting. He and Vincent had agreed to cut out voice calls – safer that way – and keep texts to a minimum. They had the safe house for face-to-face stuff, when something needed sorting. Liam checked his watch, spent another five minutes with the mower, then set off for Rathfillan Terrace, to see what Vincent Naylor wanted.

  ‘My name is William Dixon, they call me Trixie. Christy Dixon is my son.’

  Roly Blount said, ‘I don’t know any Christy Dixon.’

  ‘I need a favour, Mr Blount, and I can do a favour for you.’

  Blount didn’t answer, just stood there, waiting for Trixie to continue. They were standing in the car park of the Venetian House, a pub out past Cullybawn, in Dublin’s western suburbs.

  Mr Tidey had told him where to find Roly Blount, what to say. Before he got to meet Blount he was taken inside the pub – a flunkey used something that looked like a table tennis bat to check him for weapons or wires. In an alcove on the other side of the pub, eight or ten men including Blount were sitting together, having breakfast, some flicking through the tabloids.

  Then Blount took Trixie outside.

  Blount’s expensive grey suit didn’t quite go with a face that seemed to have been chiselled out of weathered concrete. As Frank Tucker’s right-hand man, Roly’s reputation was as fierce as that of his boss.

  ‘I know you can’t say anything, Mr Blount, you have to be careful. Let me tell you the favour I want, then I’ll tell you what I can do for you.’

  Blount took some chewing gum from a pocket, popped it in his mouth. ‘You have a couple of minutes.’

  ‘I know Christy did the odd bit of work for you – that’s what has him in jail.’

  ‘Told you, I don’t know any Christy.’

  ‘What I want, when he gets out – I know how easy it is, I used to be in the game when I was his age – but I want you to promise me you won’t use him, not for anything.’

  Blount smiled. ‘Look, I don’t know any Christy, but if I did, and if he wanted to work for me – I mean, there’s a lot of people on the dole who’d jump at the chance of any kind of work.’

  ‘I was talking, last night, to a policeman.’

  ‘Were you now.’

  ‘He was involved in putting Christy in jail.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Tidey – he’s a sergeant.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was having a jar, he came in – he’d already had a few. Said he was celebrating. He was delighted with himself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The long and the short of it – there’s a little prick named Vincent Naylor, he’s been causing trouble for the cops. His solicitor’s been negotiating with Tidey. They have a deal.’

  ‘Who’s the solicitor?

  ‘No idea – all Tidey said was they’re all patting themselves on the back. This fella Naylor wants to spill his guts.’

  ‘Means nothing to me.’

  ‘You have a fella works for you and Mr Tucker – his name is Mickey Kavanagh—’

  ‘I don’t know any Mickey Kavanagh.’

  ‘This cop, he says he’s reeling in Vincent Naylor. And, he says, that means he’s got the arm on Mickey Kavanagh. He’s already got him in a cell.�
�

  Blount was silent for a moment, as though weighing things up. ‘We know about that. Mickey got into a fight last night – no big deal, he’ll walk.’

  ‘What Tidey says – it came out in bits and pieces – a while back this Vincent Naylor did a job for Mickey Kavanagh, killed someone. Now he’s in big trouble – they want him to roll over on Mickey, and he’s up for it. Tidey says what they’re hoping, they might even get Mickey to roll over and give them Mr Tucker.’

  Roly Blount raised his right hand and held Trixie’s left cheek, gently. His thumb was half an inch below Trixie’s left eye. He moved closer, his face inches away. His touch was so tender he might have been cupping a delicate flower.

  ‘You fuck with me—’ Roly said.

  ‘I thought you’d want to know—’

  ‘—you won’t see me coming.’

  ‘I swear, Mr Blount.’

  ‘What’s the favour?’

  ‘I want you to leave him be. My son Christy – I don’t want him involved.’

  Roly Blount looked at him for a moment, his hand still on Trixie’s cheek, his mouth working on the chewing gum. ‘Your boy did us a favour, kept his mouth shut. He gets work from me, all I’m doing is paying him back, that’s all.’

  ‘I know that, Mr Blount, and I’m grateful. But now – I’ve done you a favour, and you can do me a favour. Don’t do Christy any more favours.’

  Blount let go of Trixie’s cheek. He nodded. ‘If that’s what you want – that’s OK by me. As long as you’re telling me the truth – this Mickey Kavanagh business.’

  ‘It’s what the copper told me.’

  ‘You talk to no one else about this, right?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘You never came here, right?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Now, piss off.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Blount.’

  61

  Liam Delaney let himself into the house at Rathfillan Terrace and called out, ‘Vincent?’

  ‘In here.’

  Vincent was sitting in an armchair facing the living-room door.