Undercover

by Gerard Brennan

  "Mattie, did these men have Belfast accents?"

  "No. They were London hard-man types."

  "Okay. Thanks." His mind whirred. "Look, I'm truly sorry for your loss, kid. I promise you, I'm going to get the bastards behind all of this."

  "I know you will."

  There was a soulful weight to the kid's words that lost none of its impact over the crackly phone connection.

  "Can I speak to your ma?"

  "Two secs."

  The sandpaper rustles of Mattie's hand sliding over the receiver and a murmured exchange preceded the changeover.

  "Detective Kelly?"

  "Mrs Gallagher. I'm very sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you." She paused for a few seconds. "How can I help you?"

  "Your security consultant friend gave me the keys to his car so I could meet you all at the hospital. He also told me about his passenger..."

  "Oh, Jesus. McGoldrick's still in the car. You need to take him to the police. The bastard set this all up. Oh, and he'll need medical attention. He's been shot in the legs."

  "Judging by the racket he's making in the back, there's plenty of life left in him yet."

  "Pity."

  "He's not a friend, then?"

  "As far as I can gather, the old bastard played a big part in this whole mess. My husband is dead because of his greed."

  "What do you know about him?"

  "He's in with some gangsters and they needed a favour. He handed me and my family to them as a way to get to Rory Cullen. It looks like they want to use him to take some of the risk out of their gambling."

  "The men who attacked you at the hospital, they weren't from Belfast?"

  "No. Definitely Londoners."

  "And they've been arrested."

  "Yes."

  "I need to find Ambrose O'Neill."

  "I'll let you know if he shows up. Are you going to come to the hospital? I think Mattie would like to see you."

  "Not yet. I want to question McGoldrick first. See what he knows about O'Neill. But can you call me when Donna comes out of surgery?"

  "Of course."

  Cormac ended the call and dropped the phone in a cup holder. He turned up the volume on the radio. Iron Man smashed through the speakers. In the cocoon of sound, Cormac held his head in his hands. It had happened. He'd dragged Donna into his bullshit and she got hurt. At the time, their breakup had almost been a relief. They'd parted ways before he'd ruined her life. But he'd gone back to her, looking for help, and maybe just a little contact. And now this.

  He looked up into the rear-view mirror. Narrowed his bloodshot eyes.

  "So, are you just going to sit here and cry about it?"

  Fuck beating himself up. Cormac put this on O'Neill and anybody else he could connect to this case. Like the guy in the boot of the car. McGoldrick would pay his dues just the same as the rest of them. But they needed to find a nice private place to spend some time together.

  Cormac figured out how to hook his phone up to the Vectra's sound system through Bluetooth and pulled out onto the road again. Headed towards London. He wanted to be closer to Donna even if he couldn't visit her just yet.

  It was time to find out just how much trouble he was in. He killed Ozzy's vocals and called Canavan.

  "Would you not leave me alone this day, Kelly?"

  "Always a pleasure, Canavan. What's the craic?"

  "I guess your ears were burning. Just got out of a wee meeting about you."

  "So I'm in the shit, then?"

  "Officially, you're missing in the line of duty. But it's no great secret that your handler believes you've gone native."

  "And did you put them right?"

  "Fuck no. I told them the truth. You showed up at my gaff, put my case at risk, shoved a gun in my face, forced me to cooperate with you and robbed my hardware supplies."

  "Hey, cheers for having my back."

  "I'm not risking my hole for you after the way you came at me."

  "I'd no choice."

  "Aye, right."

  Cormac let the silence swell. He needed more help from Canavan but since he couldn't stick a gun in his face from across the water, he'd have to play on his guilt. Canavan had been right to play it straight with the uppers. They'd have found out eventually, anyway. There was nobody else Cormac could have gone to for help. But now they knew they could rely on Canavan. And Cormac knew that he could too.

  "I take it this isn't a social call," Canavan said.

  "What did you find out about O'Neill?"

  "He's in London. Linking up with Martin Rooney, no doubt."

  "Has there been anything back from the Met about Rooney and O'Neill's new relationship?"

  "Nothing substantial. Just that they appear to have gotten friendlier; regular meetings with Rooney's underlings and whatnot. He's not been seen in the presence of the big man, though. If they've met in person, they've done it carefully."

  "So if O'Neill falls, he falls alone."

  "That's how the big boys play."

  Time to change the rules.

  "Anything else of interest?"

  "Oh, yeah. It seems as if Pete Scullion, one of your friends from the kidnapping caper, took a header off a block of flats in London."

  Cormac almost told him that Mick Scullion had told him about his brother's death, right before Cormac had shot him in the head. But he decided against it. He didn't have the full story behind Pete's not-so-tragic end. Better to find out what Canavan knew about it. He played dumb.

  "Pete's dead? Fuck. Hell of a time to say goodbye to this cruel world."

  "Humpty was pushed, mate."

  "Figured as much. You got an address for the scene of crime?"

  Cormac memorised the address and gruffly thanked Canavan. He reached out to the Vectra's sat nav and fiddled with the touchscreen. The Peckham address came up in the search history. Looked like the so-called security consultant had been to visit the murder scene. Cormac didn't like that this little guy was operating as if the law didn't apply to him. Then it occurred to him that his own recent actions weren't exactly sanctioned.

  "But I'm not doing it for profit," he told the rear-view mirror.

  There seemed to be little conviction in the reflection of his eyes.

  Maybe you should report to the nearest cop shop. Hand over McGoldrick and get in touch with your unit. Give them all your intel and let them take over. Throw yourself at the mercy of an internal investigation. Face the music. Do the right thing.

  He gave the idea some thought.

  Grunted.

  "Aye, right. Fuck that shite."

  Cormac set the sat nav to guide him to the block of flats in Peckham and stomped the accelerator.

  Chapter 26

  I don't like to think about what I'll end up doing when football's done with me. Acting could be fun, I suppose. You don't even need that much talent. Just a bad boy reputation would do.

  Rory Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography

  The detectives had bought her a coffee. Hospital canteen flavour; cheap and weak. Sugar and UHT milk couldn't tart it up. She'd have preferred the can of Coke they'd bought for Mattie. And she'd much rather they'd given Mattie a glass of milk instead of a hefty shot of sugar and caffeine, but she didn't protest when her son cracked it open. There was little chance either of them was going to sleep any time soon, anyway.

  The fatter detective, DI Robinson, sipped from a bottle of mineral water. He sighed, set it on the table and scowled at it. His thin moustache rippled when he curled his lip.

  "Trying to drink two litres of water a day. My personal trainer recommended it. Is there anything more boring than water?"

  DS Scott, the slightly younger and slightly smaller detective shrugged and slurped on a tin of Red Bull. His hair and beard were red and wild like Luke Kelly's, one of John's favourite musicians. Lydia wondered if she could ever listen to the Irish folk singer again now that he'd be forever associated with her late husband.

  DI Robinson scanned
down his notepad to see where they'd left off. He tapped his pencil on the tabletop and looked at Lydia.

  "So, where is this Detective Kelly?"

  "I don't know."

  "But he definitely hasn't been shot or anything?"

  "I told you, I spoke to him on the phone before I came to see you."

  "Yes, and told him about..." DI Robinson read from his notes. "Donna Grant. The doctor. And you believe he'll come to see her?"

  "He said he'd be here as soon as he could."

  "Good, good. I'd like to get his side of the story too."

  Lydia omitted the fact that McGoldrick was with him. She'd a feeling that Detective Kelly was going to bend a rule or two to get some answers from the old Scot. Especially since his ex-girlfriend had been caught in the crossfire. It was why Lydia had been eager to let Detective Kelly know about McGoldrick's involvement. John had ranted about the police "back home" on more than one occasion. The thought of McGoldrick experiencing some good old fashioned Northern Irish police brutality gave her something to fantasise about throughout DI Robinson's half-hearted interview.

  "I think that's all I need to know for the time being, Mrs Gallagher. Of course, I may need to call upon you again, if that's all right. But I won't torture you. You've been through enough."

  "Anything I can do, Detective, don't hesitate to ask. I want all the men responsible for... for this brought to justice."

  "That's very clear-minded of you. Thank you for your time."

  DS Scott spoke for the first time. "What's Rory Cullen like?"

  DI Robinson bunched his fists. His subordinate was in for a bit of an earful on the ride back to the station, no doubt.

  "I'm sure Mrs Gallagher has more important things on her mind."

  Lydia shrugged. "It's okay. I get asked that often. I don't need to think too hard for the answer. He's just like you'd expect. Typical footballer."

  "Bit of a prick, then?" DS Scott asked. "Full of himself?"

  "Like I said, he's a typical footballer. They all have their flaws. Some more so than others. But yeah, Rory has his moments."

  DS Scott sat back in his chair, oblivious to his senior's disapproval, "Knew he was a prick."

  "You should know," DI Robinson said. "Right, we're off. Mrs Gallagher, we've organised some police surveillance at your home. Don't be alarmed to find a bit of activity when you get back. It's just a precaution and should only last until we track down..." he consulted his notes again, "Ambrose O'Neill."

  When they were out of earshot Mattie tugged on Lydia's sleeve. She looked at him; saw the obvious signs of a sugar rush in his widened eyes and fidgety limbs.

  "Are you sure those two were cops?" he asked.

  "Why would you doubt them?"

  "They're nothing like Cormac. All old and out of shape. He'd kick their flabby asses."

  "Some people take their jobs more seriously than others, I guess."

  "If those two were more serious, Dad might still be alive."

  Mattie slammed his can of Coke down on the table. Light brown suds foamed up and spilled out over the rim. Tears ran down his face and dripped off his clenched jaw. Lydia could tell by the set of his mouth that he was holding back a sob. She cupped the back of his head and drew him into her body. With his face pressed against the flesh below her collarbone, Mattie let some of his anger and grief loose; the sobs and moans muffled. Lydia held on to hers. She couldn't afford the energy.

  Rory and Stephen Black entered the canteen. They spotted her immediately but had the good sense to hang back while Lydia comforted her son. She gave them a small wave and pointed to a table in the far corner of the room. Rory returned the wave and Stephen Black nodded once. Lydia knew they all understood that there was more work to be done. She had no faith in the policemen assigned to her. This could only be played out by the likes of Detective Kelly and Stephen Black; those who took their jobs seriously.

  ###

  Cormac parked the Vectra on the street leading up to the Peckham flats where Pete Scullion had been killed. A pair of police cars sat in the car park and one uniformed officer stood by an area cordoned off with blue and white police tape. Cormac looked up to see another cop on a balcony outside a top-floor flat. The door behind him was criss-crossed by the same police line.

  Two marked cop cars should equal four uniformed cops. The other two were most likely going door to door in a fruitless search for witnesses. Cormac figured he was parked far enough away that the uniform on the ground wouldn't hear McGoldrick should he start banging on the inside of the boot lid again. He didn't know if the old guy had given up, passed out or died, but Cormac was in no rush to check on him. They'd need to be parked somewhere very quiet before he opened that can of worms.

  Cormac got out of the Vectra and crossed the road. He wished he'd retrieved his PSNI ID from the safe before taking this trip but there hadn't been time. But with any luck, he'd be able to bluff his way through.

  The uniform at the police tape looked young and scared. That would work to Cormac's advantage. A trio of black kids in hoodies stood outside one of the ground floor flats. Their chatter stopped dead when they clocked Cormac. They didn't want to miss anything. The uniform noticed him a few seconds later. He held up his hand.

  "Do you live in this building, sir?"

  "I'm Detective Kelly of the PSNI. I've been working undercover on a case that involves the man who died here. Pete Scullion was part of a kidnap gang I infiltrated."

  "Can I see your ID?"

  "Like I said, I've been working undercover. It's not a good idea to carry ID on the job."

  The uniform's mouth twitched and Cormac could see that he wasn't convinced.

  "Do you want to call my handler? I can give you his number."

  The young officer relaxed a little. "No, don't worry about it. I've enough on my plate here." He nodded towards the three kids. "What is it you're after, Detective Kelly?"

  "I'd like a few minutes up in the flat. See if there's anything in there that'll help me track down the rest of the gang."

  The uniform pushed the button on the radio clipped high up on the left side of his vest. "There's a Detective Kelly from the PSNI down here. He wants to go up to have a look at the flat, Malcolm."

  The radio crackled. "PSNI...? Right. Send him up, then."

  Cormac took the stairs up to the top floor two at a time. He wanted to get in and out fast, before any awkward questions started. The longer he hung about, the greater the risk that they'd find out that he was having an unauthorised poke about.

  Malcolm had just stamped out a cigarette judging by the smell of tobacco smoke that hovered around him. He held his hand out for Cormac to shake. Cormac was a little taken aback by his enthusiasm – most cops were ridiculously territorial – but he returned the uniform's firm grip.

  "Detective Kelly, all the way from Ireland, eh? My granny was from Belfast."

  "You could play for the national football team, then."

  Malcolm smirked. "Very good. Here, maybe you could settle an argument between me and young Ronnie down there." He pointed at the uniform in the car park.

  "I'm in a bit of a rush."

  "Yeah, yeah. Won't keep you a moment."

  Cormac turned up his palms. "Go on, then."

  "This Pete Scullion. Was he one of those Real IRA boys?"

  "No. Ex-Provo turned gangster."

  "Good, good. That's what I thought. We've enough to worry about with the Muslim fundamentalists without some mental Micks slinging bombs about." He held up a placatory hand. "I only say Mick because I'm part Irish myself. No offence, you understand."

  "Aye, none taken. Now if you don't mind...?" Cormac pointed to the flat's open door.

  "Be my guest, mate."

  Cormac ducked under the police line. The flat was a decent enough size. He'd seen much smaller in Belfast. The décor wasn't up to much, though. It was every bit the lair of a single man who hadn't done all his growing up. Big TV, games console, framed posters of movie sc
enes and players from the Chelsea squad. Cormac looked at a stack of junk mail piled on a small table by the door. The credit card and loan offers were addressed to Brendan Rooney. Nothing too surprising there. At best, Cormac could conclude that they'd gotten sloppy in their haste, allowing the Belfast boys to come here despite Brendan's obvious connections to the big cheese, Martin Rooney.

  The kitchen area showed a few small signs of a struggle; a broken plate on the linoleum, the kitchen drawer open, its contents jumbled like a hand had swept through it frantically for a weapon.

  Back in the living area, Cormac noticed a laptop charger plugged into the wall but no laptop nearby. He looked into the bathroom. Nothing in there but the threat of E. coli and hepatitis. He closed the door quickly.

  There were two bedrooms, one used as sleeping quarters, the other a storage/dump room. He checked out the spare room first. Found little of interest. Judging by the thick layer of dust, the junk in there hadn't been disturbed in some time.

  In the bedroom, Cormac found a poster of Rory Cullen in his old Chelsea gear. Somebody had added a crudely drawn penis to his face and a speech bubble pointed to his mouth with the witty statement, "I'm a knob face traitor", scrawled within. The handwriting was child-like. There was nothing in the dresser drawers other than clothes, and the wardrobe was just as fruitless.

  Cormac went to the bedside cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. Amid a tangle of headphones, gold chains and knick-knacks rested a plastic wallet with the Chelsea logo printed on it. Cormac flipped it open and found a current Stamford Bridge season ticket. He checked in behind it and found a different coloured ticket. It was an executive box ticket for a match the weekend after next. Chelsea vs. Manchester City. The first game Rory Cullen would play against his former squad.

  A foot soldier like Brendan Rooney was lucky to afford a season ticket, but to land a spot in an executive box for a match as hyped as this one? He'd either come into a bit of money and blown it on this or been gifted the ticket by somebody in a high place. Somebody like Martin Rooney. Perhaps as an award for pulling together a caper that'd give them more control over the outcome of the game. It seemed like Lydia Gallagher's theory wasn't all that far-fetched.