Her clothes being left behind meant one of two things: either something unexpected had happened and she had been forced to bolt immediately, or she had left them so that Bunny wouldn’t become suspicious. Neither option appealed. He hated the idea that she might somehow now see him as someone else she had to run from. He kept going over everything he had said again and again, finding fault. If she’d asked, he’d have gone with her. There wasn’t much holding him here, after all, especially not now. If only he had found the right words. He had never been smooth though, that was Gringo’s forte.
Speaking of which, while he had been waiting for Simone to either call or pick up, he had received several calls and texts from Gringo. He’d apparently been informed that Bunny had left the task force and he wasn’t happy about it. He was undoubtedly bathed in remorse for his performance in O’Hagan’s a couple of nights ago, but Bunny wasn’t interested. His ex-partner’s text messages seemed to indicate he was going through the five stages of grief, but Bunny himself had just hit anger and so, on the fifteenth call, he finally answered.
“Would you ever feck off? We’ve said all we have to say to each other.”
“Alright, look, I’m sorry about the—”
“I don’t care. I’m waiting for an important call. Hopefully it’s not too late to fix the damage your big fecking nose caused.”
“What the—”
Bunny hung up and looked down at the phone. Then he nodded. Good, that was that dealt with. Gringo and he were through – he could clean up his own damn messes from now on. Bunny didn’t want any involvement in the slurry pit DS Spain had dived head first into. Whatever he and Cunningham thought they were pulling, it had gotten Dara O’Shea killed and they were in all kinds of trouble. He was going to forget everything he had either figured out or heard from Gringo, but that was as far as it went. He had more important things to worry about.
Gringo tried to ring back. Bunny hung up on him. When the phone rang immediately after, he was on his way to hanging up again when he noticed the number. Simone.
In his rush to answer it, Bunny fumbled it and had to dive onto the carpet to retrieve the phone. “Hello, Simone, is that you? Are y’alright?”
There was a pause and then a male voice spoke. “No, it is not Simone.”
“Who in the shitting hell are you?”
“I am . . .” There was a pause, and when the voice returned, it sounded amused. “Who I am is unimportant, Detective McGarry. What is important is that I have something you want, and you have something I want.”
The accent was foreign – Spanish, maybe?
“Let me speak to Simone.”
“You are in no position to be making demands. Try to remain calm, Detective. There is a way here that everybody can get what they want.”
“I want to speak to Simone now or I’m going to—”
The line went dead. Bunny looked at the phone in horror. As he tried to pull up Simone’s number to ring back, it rang again.
“Hello.”
“Do not test me, Detective, or the next time I hang this phone up, you will never hear from me or Simone again. Do you understand me?”
“Alright, yes, look, I . . .” Bunny started to chew nervously on his thumbnail. “Look, I just need to know she’s alright. I mean, how do I know that she’s not . . . that you’ve not just got her phone?”
An exaggerated sigh. “Very well.”
There followed a few seconds of movement, then Bunny’s heart leapt into his mouth as a piercing female scream reverberated down the line. Simone. Bunny clenched the mobile tightly in his hand, clammy with sweat.
The voice returned. “Please do not make me do that again. I do so abhor violence.”
“When I get my hands on you, you twisted little goat-humper, I’m going to—”
He spoke in a sing-song. “Hanging up, Detective . . .”
“No, alright. Don’t.”
“May I expect full and docile cooperation from here on out?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, as I said, Simone tells me you have something I want. Do you know what it is?”
Bunny’s mind raced, running through everything she had told him two nights ago. If this man just wanted revenge, then he already had Simone. Which could only mean one thing. “The tape.”
There was silence at the other end. It may have only been a matter of seconds, but it stretched out in front of Bunny, filled with the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, the pressure on his chest as he held his breath.
Finally. “Yes, Detective. The tape. You have it?”
“I do.”
“Then it is your lucky day. I will trade it for Simone. She is of limited use to me and, frankly, I am already growing bored of her.”
Bunny’s mind was a cacophony of stomach-twisting images that he tried to ignore. He needed to focus.
“You may be tempted to seek assistance from your associates in law enforcement in this matter. I urge you strongly not to. My colleague is watching your home as we speak. I will save us some time. I assume you will insist on an in-person swap of Simone for the tape?”
“Yes.”
“Sadly, as expected.” The voice sounded cheery. “There is so little trust left in the world, don’t you find?”
Bunny said nothing.
“Once we have finished our conversation,” the voice continued, “you will take the tape and meet my colleague outside, where he will take you to—”
“I need time to get it first.”
The caller sounded as if he were disciplining a rambunctious child. “No. Simone told me the tape was there. If it is not, then we are done.”
“No,” said Bunny, trying to think on his feet, “It’s here, it’s just . . . I need to knock part of a wall out to get it.” He was remembering how a particularly industrious drug dealer in Glasnevin, accused of attempted murder, had hidden a gun in just such a way. If it hadn’t been for the metal detectors – and his wife’s preference for the bloke he had tried to kill – they would never have found it.
There was a pause on the other end. He could sense the calculation taking place. “Very well, you have ten minutes.”
“Twenty. I’ve not got anything bigger than a hammer and I doubt you’ll let me go and get a lend of a sledgehammer.”
“Fifteen. Work fast. As soon as this conversation is done, you will toss your phone onto your front lawn.”
“I can’t.”
“Goodbye.”
“No, wait, I mean I’ve not got a front lawn. I’ll smash it on the paving stones if you like.”
Another sigh. “Very well. And, before you check, your home phone line has already been disconnected. The first hint of suspicious activity and we are gone, do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Anything out of the ordinary.”
“Alright, I get it, just . . . don’t hurt her.” Bunny could hear how defeated and desperate he sounded. He wished he was putting it on.
“Drop the phone. Your fifteen minutes has already started. Do not test me.”
The line disconnected.
Bunny walked to the front door, opened it and smashed his phone on the paving stones outside.
Connor Gilsenan, a slightly odd young fella of six or seven, was standing a few doors down outside his granny’s house, whacking her wheelie bins with a stick.
“What did ye do that for, mister?”
“Reception was shite.”
“Ah yeah, fair enough.”
Bunny went back into the house and slammed the door behind him. He had been careful not to look directly, but he had caught a glimpse of the man sitting in the silver Audi about fifty feet up on the other side of the road.
He had fifteen minutes. He also did not have the tape the man was looking for.
Chapter Forty-Four
DI Fintan O’Rourke stood in a pew three from the back and fiddled nervously with his tie. He didn’t like funerals as a rule and he had been to too many. Yes
terday, he had been at Dara O’Shea’s. The family had requested not to have the full-on state affair that was on offer, so the only coppers there had been him and Cunningham, not in their dress uniforms. Jessica Cunningham had been quiet, even by her high standards of frosty silences.
For today’s funeral, he had also foregone the dress uniform, but that was more a matter of personal safety than personal taste. This was Jimmy Moran’s funeral. To say it presented a logistical difficulty was an understatement. The entirety of the Clanavale Estate seemed to be packed into St Joseph’s Church. The first two rows were crowded with family, Jimmy Moran’s grieving mother at the fulcrum, leaning on what looked like a daughter for support. Behind the Morans were Franko Doyle and his family, and beside him were the Carters. Eimear looked as uncomfortable as always, no doubt made worse by the presence of their father, Donal Carter. Jimmy’s casket was a closed affair – very understandable, given the direct gunshot wound to the head – but Dara O’Shea’s hadn’t been. O’Shea had looked better dead, O’Rourke thought, than Donal Carter looked alive. His skin was a sickly yellow colour that only existed in nature as a warning to others. But he had insisted on being there, apparently, and Donal Carter had never been a man easy to dissuade from anything.
The body language before the service had been fascinating, the older Clanavale residents coming up to pay their respects to Donal, the younger showing their deference to Tommy, their boy king.
The church was oppressively hot and overcrowded. Regardless, the elderly priest was clearly determined to milk his rare full house for all it was worth. Tomorrow his morning mass would be lucky to hit double figures, and that was allowing for the inclusion of dogs.
As the congregation stood, O’Rourke noticed that Carter senior couldn’t make it to his feet this time.
Beside O’Rourke, Detective Pamela “Butch” Cassidy fidgeted nervously. He couldn’t blame her. Beneath the heavy pall of grief at a young man’s death, the church was simmering with a low-level yet palpable resentment of their presence. In truth, O’Rourke didn’t want to be there any more than they wanted him, but he had no choice. Tommy Carter and Franko Doyle were still the primary persons of interest in the death of a guard and the theft of sixteen million in uncut diamonds. Someone had to keep eyes on them at all times. O’Rourke was there because he wouldn’t send one of his people into a hostile environment that he wouldn’t go into himself. He had chosen Cassidy to accompany him partly because he had judged the local grunts as being marginally less likely to hit a woman, and partly because she was a former All Ireland judo silver medallist, which meant they were a lot less likely to enjoy the experience if they tried.
Outside, there was a heavy Garda presence but they had been instructed to stay out of the way as much as possible. It was a tricky balancing act though, as this was now a lot more than simple surveillance. Someone had taken Moran out, and they still didn’t know who. If this was the opening shot of a gangland war, then funerals were traditionally a popular location for the follow-up. Then there was the fact that Moran had been the best friend of John O’Donnell, currently Ireland’s most wanted man, who was considered armed and embarrassingly dangerous.
O’Rourke wasn’t a religious man, but he mouthed along to the prayer and then glanced behind him before he sat down. This wasn’t the first funeral he had attended where his presence was not welcome. Without a word, he moved the half-finished, sticky-to-the-touch bottle of children’s fruit juice that had mysteriously appeared where his backside was about to be. He actually heard a groan of disappointment as he did so.
That small victory was forgotten as Tommy Carter stood and made his way towards the altar. Cassidy and O’Rourke shared a glance.
With no notes, Tommy Carter took up position behind the lectern. He removed his orange-tinted glasses and slowly looked around the room, making eye contact with as many people as possible. Then he looked down at the mahogany coffin in repose before him.
“Jimmy Moran was no angel – I’m not going to stand here and tell you otherwise. He was a man with his strengths and weaknesses, just like the rest of us. None of us are perfect, are we?”
Heads shook and nodded, depending on whether you were answering the question or agreeing with the statement.
“Jimmy was full of love – for his mum, Gina, for his sisters, Carol and Sarah, and for his brother, Derek. He also loved his community. He would have done anything for a neighbour in need. You could knock on his door and he’d be out there, helping you start your car, fix a window – you name it. Since we were young fellas, me and him have always cleaned out Mrs Byrne’s gutters every year” – an old lady in the fourth row nodded, teary-eyed, into a tissue – “although that was for purely selfish reasons. We were both demons for those fabulous fairy cakes we all know she makes.” A smattering of half-laughs. “That’s what this estate has always been about, looking after each other. Jimmy’s da, Patrick – God rest him – he stood with my da back in the day, in order to keep this estate safe. Nobody else looked out for us, so we looked out for each other. We still do. When the dealers were kneecapping poor Terry Flint back in 1990, where were the Gardaí? When Gerry Fallon and the other drug-dealing scum tried to burn me and my sister alive in our own home, where was the police?”
O’Rourke felt it pass through the congregation. Felt eyes burning into them from all sides.
“And when Jimmy Moran, a man who loved his community, and lest we forget, served his country in the army with distinction . . .”
Yeah, thought O’Rourke, right up until the dishonourable discharge.
“When he was brutally executed, where were the Gardaí? The Gardaí who, despite him not being under arrest or charged with anything, were following him everywhere. You’ve all seen them, following us about.”
Nods.
“They’ve been harassing this whole estate. When your car gets done or your purse gets snatched, where are they? I’ll tell ye, nowhere to be seen. But now? They’ve invaded, haven’t they? That’s because to them, we’re not people – no, we’re just criminal scum. We’re only here to be fitted up and looked down on, isn’t that right?”
With each question, the murmurs of agreement grew louder and louder. O’Rourke’s eyes remained fixed on Carter.
“So where were all these Gardaí, who you’ve all seen following us around, when poor Jimmy Moran got shot? I’ll tell you – they were right there. They say they can’t figure out who shot Jimmy. Course they can! It was them.”
Curses and glares were now coming at them from every direction. O’Rourke felt Cassidy shifting nervously beside him. He spoke, barely moving his lips. “Hold your ground.”
“Remember this,” continued Carter, “when people ask you what happened, remember this. The Gardaí were the ones who invaded our homes. The Gardaí were the ones who harassed us in the street, and the Gardaí” – he paused for effect – “were the ones who fired the first shot in this war when they executed Jimmy Moran.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Bunny was having a difficult moment in the bathroom when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch – it hadn’t even been ten minutes. He angrily heaved up his trousers and was still fastening the belt as he opened the door.
“It’s not been—” He stopped. Gringo stood before him, looking like a kid who had just been called to the principal’s office. “I’ve nothing further to say to you.”
Gringo held his arms out in a supplicatory gesture. “Look, I’m sorry.”
Bunny’s eyes unconsciously flicked to the silver Audi still parked up the street, and to the watching eyes . . .
Mr Frock picked up his mobile and dialled the number. He held the phone to his ear as he continued to watch the action taking place down the street.
After two rings – “What?”
“Your friend has just had a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. A geezer.”
“A what?”
“A man.”
“What are they doing?” asked Lopez.
Frock watched as the big fella pushed the other guy.
“Arguing I think and . . . woah.”
“What?”
“The big fella just sucker punched the other guy. They’re properly going at it now.”
“This appears to be a nation of savages.”
They were rolling around on the ground now.
“Your guy is winning.”
“Oh good,” said Lopez, dripping sarcasm, “I am pleased.”
They grappled some more before the big fella, McGarry, regained his feet first. Frock had been in more than enough fights, both in and out of the service, to know what that meant. The one who’s down normally stays down. A couple of good kicks and it’d be good night, Irene. Instead, the big ape picked up a nearby bin and hurled it down at the other man.
A little kid who’d rushed over to watch proceedings raised his arms and hollered, like the manager in one of those ridiculous American wrestling things. McGarry said something to him that sent him scurrying, then turned around and re-entered the house, slamming the door behind him.
Frock made a decision there and then. Normally he didn’t like letting anyone else drive, but this time he would make an exception. That way he could keep McGarry’s hands busy on the wheel so the big dumb ape couldn’t try anything.
McGarry’s visitor slowly staggered to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. His shirt was half ripped off him and he looked dazed.
Angels in the Moonlight_A prequel to The Dublin Trilogy Page 24
