“Jimmy didn’t say?” Caslin queried.
“Only that it was part of a murder case. Nelson a suspect?”
Caslin wasn’t entirely comfortable sharing information with a total stranger but he was out on a limb in this scenario and he needed help, “I don’t know how he fits in to this but the victim had a strong interest in him.”
Hanlon bobbed his head and moved off, “I’ve booked you into a half-decent hotel, in the centre of Dublin. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Not at all,” Caslin said. “I appreciate it.” Leaving the confines of the airport, Caslin took in the outskirts of the city as they headed in. He’d never visited before, despite how quick and easy it was to get here and he felt disappointed for not having made the effort. Retail parks and industrial centres flew by on either side of them and the similarity to the UK struck him. The number of familiar business names leapt out in contrast to the altogether different signage, denoting road nomenclature and destinations.
“Tell me,” Hanlon asked casually, “why arrange this trip through Jimmy and not more…conventional channels?”
Caslin smiled, surprised the question had taken nearly ten minutes to be asked, “I wouldn’t get clearance for it.”
“Is this an old-fashioned hunch, you’ve got going on?”
“Not so much, no,” Caslin replied. “I could probably leave the threads where they are, if I chose to.”
“But you’re going to pull on them?”
Caslin smiled again, “I’ve never liked leaving loose ends.”
“You know,” Hanlon began, taking on a more serious tone, “they say not to pull on loose threads because everything tends to unravel, leaving one heck of a mess.”
“True enough. Maybe I need it to,” Caslin countered. They drove in silence for a few miles, the city starting to build up around them.
“Nelson has an interesting background. Do you know of it?” Hanlon asked.
Caslin shrugged, “Some of it. Probably only the headlines.”
“He was part of the Belfast Brigade of the IRA, back in the day. Quite a senior figure, I believe. Not to mention a convicted fraudster. A man with many dirty fingers, in many dirty pies.”
“So, I’m told,” Caslin replied, glancing across. “What about now?”
“On the face of it, a very successful businessman.”
“And behind the façade?”
“Now that’s another matter,” Hanlon said, taking an exit from the main road, signposted for the centre. “Are you going to make waves on this visit?”
“You worried?” Caslin asked, trying to gauge whether he would be helped by Sullivan’s contact, or potentially hindered. Pulling the car into a small car park, located next to an imposing four-storey, period building, Hanlon stopped the car. Turning the engine off, he took a deep breath, both hands locked on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead, before responding to the question.
“If I was a betting man, which I am by the way, I’d wager your impact will be minimal. You’re here off the books, implying you’ve got little or nothing to go on. You’ll stoke the fire a bit, see whether you can draw a flame. If not, you’ll be away home by this time tomorrow.”
“And if I do, Seamus, what then?” Caslin countered.
His host fixed him with a stare, “Then I’ll be most interested in fanning it with you. I’ll pick you up in the morning, eight o’clock, sharp.”
The hotel room was pleasant. Left to his own devices, Caslin was certain he’d have checked into something a little less grand. Not that the accommodation was ostentatious, a tastefully decorated, contemporary room layout that spoke of comfort rather than grandeur. Opening the wardrobe, he located the room safe. Kneeling down, he set the six-digit pass-code and placed his case file and laptop inside. Sitting down at the foot of his bed he suddenly felt drained, physically and emotionally. Hanlon was spot on. He was here on a fishing expedition. There was nothing to implicate Paraic Nelson in the deaths of either Fairchild or Coughlan, merely hearsay, nearly two decades old, that spoke of his character and associations. And yet, Emily Coughlan had been drawn here, in perhaps a very similar way to himself, and now she was dead. The only name with any prior form for such violence, circling her investigation, was Nelson.
Unusually for Caslin, he was up before the sunrise. Having been unable to sleep, he had avoided the hotel bar the night before, and instead, turned his energy into an early morning run. Leaving the cobbled streets of Temple Bar behind, he ran the length of the North Quay Wall, following the path of the River Liffey until it opened out towards the harbour. Turning east, he skirted Tolka Quay and Dublin Bay before heading back to the hotel.
Sweat was pouring from him as he walked into his room. His face felt hot to the touch and a brief look in the mirror told him more about his state of fitness than any personal trainer could manage in an hour. Stripping off, he stepped into a cool shower, holding his head under the water and trying to regulate his breathing. His legs wobbled, the strain on his calves and thighs were evident. Disappointed in himself, he showered and got dressed. Having put some effort into regaining some of his lost fitness, over the past year, he was somewhat alarmed to be heading in what could only be described as a backwards direction.
Descending to the lobby, he went in search of refreshment. Not feeling the desire for a “Full Irish” breakfast, he served himself with cereal and fruit, allowing a black coffee to be his morning vice. Barely had he finished when Seamus Hanlon appeared in the doorway, making a beeline for him. A glance at the clock showed he was early.
“Good morning,” he said, a grin splitting his chiselled features. “You about ready?”
“Of course,” Caslin stated, rising. They were in the car and heading for Nelson’s office, minutes later.
“What kind of response are you expecting, from Nelson, I mean?” Hanlon asked, as he negotiated the traffic. It seemed to Caslin that, with a population of around two-million, everyone in the entire country travelled through Dublin’s rush-hour. His chauffeur appeared to read Caslin’s mind. “Some people travel for the better part of two hours, just to work here.”
“What is it about Dublin?”
Hanlon laughed, “It’s where everything happens. What about Nelson?”
Caslin shrugged, accompanying it with a slight shake of the head, “I’ll throw him a bone and see how he reacts.”
“If so, this could be a quick meeting.”
“Why?” Caslin asked.
“He’s a cool bastard, Nelson,” Hanlon replied. “Doesn’t rattle easily.”
“You know him?” Caslin asked but didn’t get an articulated reply, more of a grunt.
“A bit.”
“Are you aware of anyone taking an interest in his activities, in the past few months?”
Hanlon shook his head, “Nothing has come my way to say so.”
The remainder of the journey was largely spent in silence. They arrived at an office building, on the western edge of the city. Hanlon parked the car and they made their way inside. There was a large information board, at the entrance, denoting which company was based where in the building, alongside which set of elevators best served them.
“We’re on four,” Hanlon stated, indicating towards the eastern side. Caslin fell into step with the Irishman.
Leaving the elevator, they entered reception on the fourth floor. The lady behind the desk greeted them with a broad smile, professional happiness, expertly presented.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Forsythe’s. How can I help you?” she asked.
Hanlon smiled his own greeting, “We would like to speak with Mr Nelson, please.”
The receptionist glanced down, presumably at her diary of appointments, before responding, “I’m very sorry. Mr Nelson is in a meeting and…well, it’s scheduled for most of this morning. I could look at making an app-”
“No. That won’t be necessary,” Hanlon interrupted her, brandishing his identification. “I think his
meeting is about due a coffee break.”
They lingered in the lobby of Forsythe Holdings & Investments for what seemed like an age but was more likely to have been less than fifteen minutes, before they were ushered through into the offices beyond. Guided through a semi-open plan set-up, Caslin counted roughly two-dozen cubicles before they took a right into a narrow corridor, that led to a small collection of offices at the far end of the fourth floor. Coming to the furthest one, they were passed over to another lady, waiting patiently behind a small desk. Caslin presumed this was Nelson’s PA. Their guide departed and they were shown through.
The office was large, with a seating area to the left, denoted by a set of leather sofas, arranged in a crescent. On the other side was an imposing desk, easily seven feet wide with a man seated behind it, his back to them. He was looking out through the wall of floor-to-ceiling glazing, taking in the view towards the water, in the distance.
Upon hearing their arrival, he turned the chair, allowing Caslin his first view of the man he’d heard so much about. Nelson’s appearance wasn’t quite the presentation of an ogre that one might expect, bearing in mind the abject terror his reputation seemed to instil in most. He was in his mid-to-late fifties, once most likely of slim build but now spreading, with the advent of age. Piercing green eyes, in stark contrast to his darker complexion appeared to sparkle as he stood. A welcoming grin split his face, revealing tobacco-stained teeth.
“Inspector Hanlon,” he said warmly, too warmly for Caslin’s liking. “What can I do for you, this fine day.
“Paraic,” Hanlon replied in greeting. “I have someone here, who would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?” He indicated to Caslin, who stepped forward.
“Mr Nelson,” Caslin began, taking out his warrant card. “I’m Inspector Caslin, of North Yorkshire Police.”
Nelson appeared genuinely thrown, “Yorkshire? What brings you to this Fair Isle?”
“Your name has come up in an inquiry and I need to ascertain how that’s happened.” Further conversation was halted by the outer door opening and Nelson’s personal assistant reappearing with a tray, bearing cups and a large cafetiere.
“Please, take a seat,” Nelson offered. Both men did so. As the coffee was poured, Nelson didn’t stand on ceremony. “How am I referenced in your case, Inspector?”
“It’s a murder inquiry.”
Nelson’s assistant stopped pouring the coffee but only for a second. She finished up, Nelson helping himself to the nearest. “That’s utterly ludicrous,” he exclaimed. “How on earth did I get drawn into that.”
“Oh, come on, Paraic,” Hanlon said softly. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Nelson smiled, “All a very, very long time ago and none of it proven, as you well know.”
“Does the name Coughlan mean anything to you?” Caslin asked, firmly intent on spotting any reaction, however slight. There wasn’t one.
“No, should it? Who is he?”
“She,” Caslin corrected.
“Alright. Who is she?” Nelson asked.
“Emily Coughlan. A journalist, in her twenties.”
“And she’s dead, is she?” Nelson sought to clarify, taking a sip of his coffee and turning his attention to the plate of biscuits that accompanied the drinks. Caslin nodded. “No. Never heard of her. How is she linked to me?”
“I thought that you could tell me that,” Caslin countered.
Nelson shook his head, “Sorry, can’t help you.”
“But you would, if you could. Right?” Hanlon asked. To Caslin it appeared to be asked with borderline sarcasm but not being familiar with Hanlon, he couldn’t quite tell. The Garda detective was proving hard to read.
“Of course,” Nelson replied, grinning. “Now, it’s very sad that young…what was her name…Emily…has passed away but what does this have to do with me?”
Caslin tasted his coffee. It was far better than the one he’d had over breakfast. “She was investigating you and, or, your business affairs.”
“Was she now?” Nelson said, unfazed. “What was she hoping to find?”
Caslin ignored the question, “What is your business, Mr Nelson?”
“Import, export, predominantly,” Nelson stated. “Ireland is perfectly placed to take advantage of Atlantic shipping. Much the same as your west coast, in England. We ship a great deal of product between here, the UK and over to the continent. Dublin is a gateway of sorts.”
“Which areas of the continent?” Caslin asked, making conversation.
“Ostensibly Rotterdam, Ostend, among others. What was her interest in my operations? I’d be interested to know. Is this yet another inexperienced journalist trying to find a story. Digging up the past, seeking a new angle. Seriously, everything on me has been done and dusted, years ago. Ask your man, here,” he said, indicating Hanlon. “If there was anything to the rumours, I’d have been locked up, by now.”
“Again,” Hanlon said flatly.
“Excuse me?” Nelson asked.
“You’d be locked up again,” Hanlon said, locking eyes with their host, taking a bite from a biscuit.
“That was a different life, Mr Hanlon. You’re going back to my youth. The Seventies were a long time ago. I’m above board, now.”
“So, it would appear,” Hanlon replied, chewing through a mouth-full of sugared-oats.
“Any other questions?” Nelson asked, curtly. Hanlon looked to Caslin, who indicated that he didn’t. “Then please do excuse yourselves, gentlemen. Some of us have real work to do.” Both men stood up. Caslin put his coffee down, offering his hand. Nelson took it. Hanlon merely headed for the door without a backward glance. He opened it but paused as Caslin spoke.
“Come to think of it,” he said, turning back to Nelson who had returned behind his desk, “how about Sylvia Marshall? You know her, don’t you?”
Nelson stopped, fixing Caslin with a stare, “What about her?”
“Tell me about her.”
“She died. A long time ago. What’s she got to do with any of this?” Caslin could’ve been forgiven for thinking Nelson was markedly more interested than he had been previously but retained his reticence in showing it.
“Coughlan was looking into her, also.”
Nelson didn’t flinch, his expression unaltered but the stare remained, centred on Caslin. A moment passed between the two men, Hanlon observing from the doorway. “Let me know how that works out, for you,” Nelson said softly, sitting down.
“I will,” Caslin replied, turning on his heel and walking out. Hanlon followed Caslin past him with his eyes and, having glanced back towards Nelson, also departed, allowing the door to swing closed.
They were in the elevator before any conversation was forthcoming from either man.
“Jimmy mentioned Coughlan but not Marshall. Who is she, to you?” Hanlon asked. Caslin glanced across at him, noting his own reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. He felt enlivened by the meeting.
“You first, Seamus,” Caslin said. “Tell me the story between you and Nelson. And don’t insult me with any cack about barely knowing him. Jimmy Sullivan knew about Nelson and he put me onto you. My guess is, you know more about Nelson than he does.” A ping sounded, indicating they’d reached the ground floor and the doors opened.
“That’s a sharp spot, from you, Nathaniel,” Hanlon said but chose to keep his counsel until they were clear of the building and back to the car. Evidently mulling over his choice of words, he sat back in the driver’s seat and looked at Caslin. “I’m guessing you and Jimmy go back a way?” Caslin nodded. It was true, to a point. “I’ve been looking at Paraic Nelson for a long time, on and off. He’s connected. Nothing I’ve worked on has stuck.”
“Paramilitaries?” Caslin asked.
“I don’t hear as much from within their ranks as I used to but it’s more than that. I’ve got close to him on several occasions and he’s always managed to be one step ahead, as if he knows exactly what we have
going on.”
“Does your office leak?”
Hanlon frowned, “No more than any other police force. I can assure you of that. He doesn’t get to hear everything, of this, I am certain.”
“How do you know?”
Hanlon looked across at him, “I have someone. They’re on the inside.”
“Well integrated?”
“For the past eight months,” Hanlon stated. “If Nelson knew, he wouldn’t be there.”
“Any decent intel?”
Hanlon smiled, “First, you can tell me about Marshall.”
Caslin had to fold his hand, there and then, “I was bluffing. Marshall was a name Coughlan checked into a hotel under. Her real name didn’t garner much of a reaction, so I thought I’d chance it.” Hanlon stared at him. The intensity of the gaze was unnerving.
“Well, it appeared to work. You suckered him.”
“Really? I thought he remained calm.”
“You’re right, he did. However, that’s the first time I’ve seen him lost for a response. You hooked him. A stunning effort, seeing as you’ve no idea who she is,” Hanlon said with a chuckle.
“Your source, can we utilise him?”
“He’ll need to know what you’re looking for. Otherwise it’s a needle in a haystack.”
“What about Sylvia Marshall?”
Hanlon shook his head, “Very unlikely.”
“Why?”
“She’s been dead longer than that company has been in existence.”
Chapter 16
“Who was she, Sylvia Marshall?” Caslin asked, intrigued.
“Linked to the Provos, in a big way,” Hanlon explained. “Officially, a part of Sinn Féin but definitely had ties to the boots on the ground. Following the Good Friday Agreement, she left, apparently putting the troubles behind her.”
The Dogs in the Street Page 13
