Angels in the Moonlight_A prequel to The Dublin Trilogy

by Caimh McDonnell

  They’d had little time to talk about what had gone wrong on the job, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d also been wondering how to play this new development. If he used it right, he could end up with allies – albeit unwilling ones – amongst the very people who were trying to catch him.

  But first he had to get through the next few days. He, and the other two, could expect 24-hour surveillance and a distinct change in approach. No carol singers were going to get them out from under this time. Still, it was just a matter of patience and will. They had waited them out before; they could do so again.

  He glanced up the stairs to see Eimear looking sheepishly down at him.

  “Y’all right, sis?”

  “I need to go to college, Tommy, but there’s guards outside.”

  He smiled his warmest smile. “Don’t mind them, they’re only interested in me. I’m heading out and then the coast will be clear. OK?”

  She nodded and stepped back into her room.

  Tommy gave himself one last scan in the mirror, turned and opened the front door.

  There was a barrage of flashbulbs from about half a dozen cameras surrounding him. From behind the cameras came a clamour of voices: “Tommy, were you involved in the death of Garda O’Shea?” “Are you a gangster, Tommy?” “What do you think your father would say about your behaviour, Tommy?”

  Tommy pushed through the throng. Four Garda cars were parked on the street, two on either side of the road. He was met at the top of his drive by Detective Pamela Cassidy, flanked by two uniformed Gardaí.

  “Ah, Tommy, good morning, sir.”

  Tommy pointed behind him. “These people are trespassing on my property.”

  “Well,” she said, looking all coy, “that’s really a civil matter – unless you think they mean you harm?”

  Tommy said nothing.

  “I mean, you could ring the station, but we’re really busy at the minute. There’s a big manhunt on for a cop killer, maybe you’ve heard?”

  One of the journalists interjected. “Where’s John O’Donnell, Tommy?”

  “That’s a good question,” said Cassidy, smiling sweetly. “Where is your friend John O’Donnell?”

  Tommy didn’t like how she said the word friend. He raised his voice. “As I’ve repeatedly told the Garda over the last two days of ceaseless harassment, I have no idea where John O’Donnell is. The last I heard, he was going rock climbing.”

  “I see. Do you think the bullet wound might make that tricky for him, Tommy?”

  Tommy pushed forward down the path. He was going to keep to his normal routine – he didn’t care how many police or vultures from the gutter press followed him. Two more guards began walking in front of him, as the rest of his unwanted entourage followed behind.

  Across the road, he saw Bunny McGarry and DI Fintan O’Rourke leaning against the bonnet of one of the cars. He gave them a nod, and both nodded back.

  “Anyway,” continued Detective Cassidy, maintaining her cheerful tone, as though she was his PA informing him of the day’s appointments, “I’m afraid a spot inspection has found that the rear wheels on your car are below specification, so that’s a fine, and if you attempt to drive it in its current state, you will face a further fine of up to two thousand pounds and six months in jail. Oh, the Revenue have also asked me to inform you that all of your businesses – the cab companies, the launderette, the pub, the printers – are being audited. So books for the last five years will be required.”

  Tommy kept walking, maintaining a steady pace. This unusual parade was attracting more looks than normal, which was to be expected. When he tried to exchange smiles with some of the neighbours, though, to show everyone that all was well, that this was nothing he couldn’t handle, he was greeted by averted eyes or scowls.

  “By the way, Tommy, we don’t want you to feel picked on, so everyone on the street is getting audited too. It’s a new scheme the Revenue has. Also, a couple of your neighbours have been done for not having an up-to-date TV licence or car tax. Mr Jameson has been arrested for benefit fraud. Mrs Jameson has been arrested for assaulting the officer who was arresting Mr Jameson for benefit fraud . . .”

  They had reached the corner of the street now.

  “Oh, and by the way, if you’re heading to the Leaping Trout pub for breakfast, it was closed down this morning for a rather long list of health code violations.”

  Tommy stopped, started walking, then stopped again. The cameras clack, clack, clacked around him.

  “Do you not have anywhere else to go for breakfast, Tommy?” “Where’s John O’Donnell having breakfast, Tommy?” “What does a cop killer have for breakfast, Tommy?”

  Tommy reversed course, pushing his way back through the throng, past smirking journalists and Gardaí.

  “Lost your appetite, Tommy?” asked Cassidy.

  As he pushed through the crowd he could see Eimear at the far end of the road, hurrying for the bus stop with a couple of Gardaí and a handful of journalists in pursuit.

  Tommy glared in the direction of O’Rourke, who shrugged. “You can’t break the rules and set the rules, Tommy,” he called out. “That’s not how the game works.”

  Tommy turned around and extended his arms to the sides. “You’re all supposed to be journalists, why not report some real news? Look at this – harassment by the state. Where are my human rights?”

  “Didn’t Dara O’Shea have rights, Tommy? What about his kids?” called out one of the reporters.

  Tommy started pointing at all the Gardaí in turn. “And look at all this? How can the Gardaí justify all this expense, I wonder? Just to carry out a vendetta against an innocent man.”

  He looked over at DI O’Rourke, but it was McGarry who answered.

  “Civis Romanus sum, Tommy. You just didn’t realise until now who the Romans really are.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Jason Armstrong pressed the button to find his car in the underground car park. An electronic beep reminded him that his Audi was parked at the far end, behind the line of SUVs. The squash club was always busy at this time of the morning – people grabbing an early game or just using it as the location for a breakfast meeting. The membership to the Regency Club was inexplicably expensive to the outsider, given that the dimensions of a squash court were the same everywhere, but it was the other facilities that set it apart. It was popular amongst the diplomatic corps, none of whom were, of course, paying for their own memberships.

  Jason was in a particularly good mood as he had just beaten Phillipe Albert from the French Embassy for the first time in two years. When it wasn’t going his way, Albert had started yammering on about not feeling well, speculating that he was coming down with a virus. Typical French.

  Dublin was an anomaly in terms of its importance to the US. It had, to be honest, almost no economic significance, and even less of a military one, yet it was still a big deal politically. It was the dotty old grandma of American politics. Every presidential candidate had to win its approval before they could even consider asking the electorate for its hand in marriage. As foreign postings went, Jason thought, the fact that everyone spoke English was a bonus, although not one that made up for the weather.

  He tossed his squash gear into the trunk and then hopped into the driver’s seat. Before he could put the keys into the ignition, the passenger door opened and a man slid into the seat beside him. He was wearing a fedora hat and sunglasses that a dreary Dublin day in December most definitely did not require. His skin was dark. If Jason had been forced to guess, he’d have said Cuban descent.

  “What the—?”

  “Mr Armstrong, there is no need to be alarmed.”

  The use of his name caused Jason to pause. “Who are you?”

  “You are Mr Jason Armstrong, graduate of Yale Law School. Currently you are serving as assistant security attaché at the US embassy here in Dublin. You have a wife, Samantha, and two beautiful children, Jacob and Jemima.”
<
br />   “I know who I am, what I want to know is who you are and what the hell you are doing in my car?”

  “Excellent questions. I would ask you to keep your voice down while I explain. We do not want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “Oh don’t we? How about you get the hell out of—”

  Jason’s words were cut off by an elbow being jammed down hard into his testicles, forcing him to double over as exquisite pain surged through his body. His head bounced off the steering wheel, causing the horn to issue a plaintive parp.

  A hand guided him back to a seated position. “Up you get, that’s it. Breathe. Breathe. Good boy.”

  Through tear-drenched vision, Jason looked at the man again, who was calmly smiling at him as if nothing had happened.

  “Now, you keep quietly breathing there while I answer your questions. Firstly, who I am is unimportant, but if you would like a name then let us go with Mr Lopez. As for what I am? I am a man who fixes problems. A plumber, of sorts.” He stopped and smiled to himself, as if the thought amused him. “I am here because I require your assistance.”

  “Fuck you.” Jason hadn’t meant to say that; the words had been involuntarily expelled from between his gritted teeth.

  “I am going to pretend I didn’t hear that. All I am asking for is a little courtesy towards a fellow American patriot. In particular, with regard to the matter of a certain Simone Delamere, who turned up when you did a search on a face and name last week.”

  “That was nothing. It was a case of mistaken identity.”

  “I see. Who asked you to do the search?”

  “I’m not telling you that, you—”

  This time, Mr Lopez grabbed Jason’s fingers and held them in such a way that rods of pain shot up his left arm.

  “Aghhh.”

  “You are making this unnecessarily difficult, Mr Armstrong. Now I have to do the vulgar thing.” He pulled a brown envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it onto the dashboard. “That is a series of pictures that were taken of you when you were down in Key Largo two years ago on a ‘golfing trip’. But you’re not golfing in those pictures, are you? No, you are having sex with someone who is not your wife. In fact, the someone in question is not even a woman, although he is wearing some of your wife’s clothing, as are you. I’ll admit, that’s a new one to me, but I am not a man who judges, Mr Armstrong, I am just a man who fixes problems. You, for example, have the problem of these pictures existing. I will fix that for you, and all I ask in exchange is that you tell me everything about the person who expressed an interest in that woman. As long as you tell me everything you know, and ha – believe me, I can tell if you don’t – then your problem will go away. In fact, I will open this door, leave your car and disappear from your life entirely, providing that the next words out of your mouth are the ones I want to hear. Do you understand?”

  Jason Armstrong nodded.

  “Excellent. I am so happy to hear that we can help each other get rid of these trifling problems. I do so hate problems. You may begin speaking – now.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jimmy Moran looked out the window of his taxi as the city whooshed by in the rain. He’d asked the driver to deliberately go the long way around, just so they could go up the north side of the Quays. When they’d passed the point where they’d hit the security van a couple of months before, he’d popped his head out and waved at the three Garda cars following him. They’d stuck to him like glue for the last few days and he wanted to wind them up. They had managed to get the gym he went to closed down for some sort of “building code violation” bullshit. They could do what they liked – it’d take more than that to break him and Tommy Carter. Franko Doyle, on the other hand – well, Jimmy had been telling Carter for a long time that Franko was the weak link. If it had been Jimmy in the van that night instead of bloody Franko, O’Donnell would never have taken a hit. No doubt about it. The last Tommy had heard, he was recovering all right and, more importantly, the cops and all their searches hadn’t got close to finding him. They had nothing.

  That was not to say the last week hadn’t been without its stresses. His ma’s boyfriend, Rick, had been nailed for cheating on his benefits and she’d been done for stealing Sky TV with that dodgy dish Jimmy had got her for Christmas. The pigs were making a nuisance of themselves. It had also been over a week since Jimmy had last got his end away. He had a rule: never have sex in the three days before a job. He wanted to be sharp, on edge. And in the five days since, due to his permanent entourage, it’d not really been possible. He’d tried to convince Carol to come over but the cops outside had put her right off. She was on parole and didn’t want any hassle. He’d phoned around, but nothing. That was why the text from Wendy had been so appreciated. She was only a six to look at but she was a wild one in the bedroom. A proper nine with the lights out. She’d even come up with a way he could get away from his chaperones. Jimmy was buzzing. He threw a rapid punch combo at the back of the passenger’s seat in front of him.

  “Hey!” said the taxi driver. “What are ye at?”

  “Nothing, old fella. Relax.”

  The driver had already had a full-on freak-out when he’d arrived to pick Jimmy up and been greeted by his police escort. He’d tried to refuse to take Jimmy anywhere, but Jimmy had been having none of that and got in before the dude could drive off. Jimmy knew his rights. Couldn’t chuck him without a reason.

  Jimmy looked at the meter. Just ticking over seventeen quid. He opened his wallet and slid out a twenty note. They hit a red on the pedestrian lights coming off the Ha’penny Bridge – perfect. As the vehicle came to a halt, the door automatically unlocked. He watched the lights closely, still on red. A few boisterous lads on a night out and a couple, hand in hand, crossed the road, heading over the bridge towards Temple Bar. The green man changed to amber. He put his hand on the door handle. Red man. Jimmy shoved the door open while simultaneously tossing the cash into the front seat. “Thanks, ye miserable old prick.”

  He was gone. Running. Down Liffey Street, past the statue of the old ones sitting on a bench having a chat. Behind him, he could hear car doors opening and raised voices. As he turned the corner into the North Lotts, he glanced back to see three uniforms charging after him, but they were only just turning onto Liffey Street. He ran the twenty yards to the black metal gates of the Bachelors Walk Apartments. He looked up and down. There it was, the key, just where Wendy had said it’d be, dangling from a piece of thread at the top of the gate. He ripped it down and quickly stepped across to the pedestrian entrance.

  In. Open. Shut.

  He stood on the other side, just out of reach as the three uniforms slammed against it.

  Jimmy Moran laughed heartily. “Look at the state of ye!”

  “Open this gate.”

  “Or what? Sorry, boys, I’m off for a night’s riding and you are not invited.”

  He thrust his hips a couple of times and then bowed. As he turned and walked into the internal courtyard, he could hear one of the cops yammering into his radio. “Subject is in the Bachelors Walk apartments. . .”

  He moved quickly. It wouldn’t be long before they buzzed a number on the intercom and somebody didn’t think the “This is the Gardaí, open up” line was bullshit.

  He rushed across to the door she had told him about and found it propped open with a rock. He kicked it away and closed the door behind him. She was on the fourth floor but he didn’t bother with the lift. He was buzzing. He’d fucked the police and he was about to fuck her.

  At the top of the stairs he turned right. Like she’d said, the door was open. That’d been her last text. Remember, 416 – the door will be open. I’ll be in the bedroom waiting!

  He slammed through the door, rubbing his hands together, and was down the hall in two strides. He pushed open the bedroom door.

  There she was, on the bed, tied up. Gagged. Blindfolded. Wendy you kinky b…

  That she was still fully clothed barely had time t
o register before he heard the click behind him. He knew the sound instantly.

  “Don’t move,” said a Northern voice.

  At the far side of the room, the wardrobe door opened and a man in a balaclava stepped out, a gun in his hand too.

  On the bed, reacting to the noise around her, Wendy gave a plaintive mumble through her gag. The man in the balaclava looked down at her, without his gun veering an inch from Jimmy.

  “Relax there, love, it’ll be over soon.” The man stepped forward and addressed Jimmy directly. “Take three steps back into the sitting room. Try anything and you’re a dead man.”

  Jimmy did as instructed. He could hear the man behind him moving back too, staying far enough away to prevent Jimmy trying anything. Two guns to zero; his odds weren’t great.

  As he stepped into the front room, the second man spoke again. “Against the wall.”

  “Who the—”

  “Against the wall. Now.”

  Jimmy moved back. The wardrobe man nodded at his compatriot, who took his balaclava off.

  “Remember me, do you Jimmy?”

  It took him a moment, but he did. The last time he had seen him, Jimmy had been tying him to a tree in the Phoenix Park, giving him a few slaps because he didn’t like his attitude.

  The wardrobe man took his balaclava off now too. Him, Jimmy recognised straight away. Paul Roberts, the IRA boy. The last time Jimmy had seen him had been through the sights of a sniper rifle.

  “It was my nephew’s birthday last week, so I decided to get him you.”

  Jimmy looked around as casually as he could. Scanning for anything he could use. “You know Tommy Carter will have you both for this, don’t ye?”