by Anna Smith
He braced himself as the tall, well-dressed figure in khaki trousers and pale blue polo shirt, topped with mirrored Ray-Bans, came striding towards their table. Behind him were no fewer than three bulked up bodyguards whose eyes were all over the port. Durkin was on his feet by the time he reached the table.
‘Pepe!’ He gestured, one of his arms out as though imitating the way the elaborate Mediterraneans greeted each other. ‘Amigo! Que tal?’
Christ! He’s going to hug the fucker, Frankie thought.
‘Buenos!’ Pepe made the slightest bow of his head as he stuck out a hand. ‘Buenos, amigo!’
He glanced down at Frankie, no doubt clocking that he wasn’t on his feet like the fucking little arse-licking Durkin. He only stood up when Durkin turned to him, and led the introduction.
‘Pepe, this is Frankie Martin. He knows more about the Casey mob than they know themselves.’
Frankie reached out and shook Pepe’s hand, as the Colombian casually took off his Ray-Bans and looked straight at him with the darkest, blackest eyes he had ever seen. Frankie locked eyes with him and made sure his handshake was so firm that the handsome bastard would remember it.
‘How are you, Frankie Martin? I hear good things about you.’ Rodriguez paused, pulling out a chair. ‘And thank you for your assistance in pointing out where to find this . . .’ he turned to Durkin, snapping his fingers, ‘wha’ is the name of the coño again in our message to Casey?’
‘O’Driscoll,’ Durkin said, quickly.
‘Johnny O’Driscoll,’ Frankie said, deadpan. Then before he could stop himself, he gave Rodriguez a sullen look. ‘Glad to be of help, Pepe. But I have to say, I think it was a bit over the top to take his eyes.’ He shrugged and looked away. He’d made his point. Whether Rodriguez liked it or not, Frankie was determined to establish who he was here.
The Colombian looked at him and gave a kind of snort and shrug.
‘Oh. You think maybe we were too harsh?’ He drew back his lips back in a sardonic smile.
It sent a shiver through Frankie. This cunt is a fucking nutter, he thought.
‘Yeah. I do, actually.’ He might as well dig a fucking grave for himself here, as that’s where this kind of talk would get him, but he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t in his nature to back down. ‘Not that I have any regrets in pointing him out to you, Pepe. Of course not. Business is business, and fair enough to deal with it. All I’m saying is that, well, where I come from we don’t gouge cunts’ eyes out.’ He spread his hands. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but it’s not how we do things.’
Pepe nodded slowly. And Frankie could see that he was concealing his irritation quite well, but he wouldn’t be used to anyone talking to him like this.
‘Okay. I respect that, Frankie.’ He gave him a long look. ‘But where you come from doesn’t matter any more, does it? Because you are here now. And if you want to stay, then you will have to understand that how we do things is different. More effective, we believe.’
Frankie said nothing. He should quit if he wanted to get through lunch without getting a knife in his chest. The waiter arrived in a timely interruption. Frankie’s appetite had somewhat vanished. But he would eat, and this fucker sitting opposite him giving him the black eye was not going to unnerve him.
‘Good,’ the Colombian said. ‘Let us eat and celebrate. And let us plan our next move.’ He looked at Frankie and this time he did show him his five-grand smile. ‘Welcome, Frankie.’
They ordered a lunch of clams followed by a mixed platter of fish which the three of them shared, washed down with crisp white wine. Frankie could feel the atmosphere starting to warm by the time Pepe ordered the second bottle. Durkin was regaling the Colombian with tales of Dublin and Limerick, and how his father had established himself as the biggest importer of cocaine to Ireland and the UK in history. Since his father’s sudden death from a heart attack last year, Durkin was saying that he was now heading up the family, and he would make it bigger and better. Frankie listened, nodding in all the right places, as Durkin described their gun-running enterprise in cahoots with Billy Hill’s family in London and how it was well known across the UK who was in charge of drugs and trafficking. But he was still ambitious. He wanted more. He began to talk about the Caseys, and how Mickey Casey, the brother of Kerry, had been a loudmouth who had upset too many people. And he told how Boyle’s mob took him out – giving Frankie a nod saying that this was with his help – but that the plans to make Frankie the head of the Casey family were thrown into chaos, once Kerry Casey decided she was now in charge.
Pepe listened intently, taking everything in, and shooting glances at Frankie, who’d said nothing so far. Then the Colombian turned to him.
‘So, Frankie. Tell me more about this Kerry lady. You grew up, I believe, with this family. You are close to her – or were.’ He paused, swirled some wine in his mouth and swallowed it. ‘Tell me. Did you fuck her? She is very beautiful.’
Frankie was a little stunned by the question, and felt he would have had more respect from this bastard if he was able to say he had fucked Kerry Casey sideways for years. But that wouldn’t be true. So he smiled and tried to look nonchalant.
‘Sadly, amigo, no,’ he said, feeling confident. Then he held the phone up to his face as though taking a selfie and added, ‘Which is surprising, that she was able to resist a charming bastard like me.’ He grinned. ‘But maybe one day.’
Pepe laughed. ‘Yes. One day perhaps.’ He winked. ‘But only after me.’
Frankie and Durkin both laughed, but Frankie could feel a little stinging rage inside his gut, as he vowed: over my dead body, you spick cunt.
They had been in the restaurant almost two hours, and as they sat drinking brandy, Pepe lit a cigar. He leaned back in his chair as the late afternoon wintry pall fell over the harbour. He rubbed his face with his manicured hand and Frankie clocked the chunky diamond ring that must be worth at least twenty grand.
‘So, amigos, here is what I think we should do.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘You don’t know this, but we have also sent another message to Kerry Casey.’ He turned to Durkin. ‘I didn’t want to tell you about it until it was done. It wasn’t up for negotiation. But it is something that I think will strike at the Casey heart.’
Frankie and Durkin exchanged glances but their faces showed nothing.
‘We have taken a little boy – the grandson of the Casey lawyer.’
Frankie’s stomach dropped and he tried desperately not to show his shock as Pepe continued.
‘So now, we have a big bargaining chip in our hands.’
Frankie cleared his throat, suddenly sobering up.
‘You’ve kidnapped Marty Kane’s grandson? Wee Finbar? He’s only three years old.’ Frankie didn’t care if this sounded full of indignation. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d never even seen the boy, as Marty kept his family completely separate from business, but Frankie knew this would have sliced Marty in two. And also Kerry.
Pepe gave a slight shrug but looked directly at Frankie as though to let him know he shouldn’t question it.
‘Yes. We have the boy. Finbar. He’s okay. Don’t worry.’ He looked at both of them as Durkin remained impassive. ‘We are not going to harm him. We just took him because we could, and because kidnap is a powerful tool. I think we will find that Kerry Casey will be much more, how you say, amenable, with us now because we have this boy.’
Nobody spoke and they sat for a long moment in silence, Frankie trying to imagine the darkness that would have fallen over everyone in the Casey family. He was beginning to think he was out of his depth throwing his lot in with this mob.
Eventually, the Colombian spoke again. ‘Obviously the police will be looking everywhere for the boy. But he will come to no harm, as long as Kerry Casey realises she has nowhere to go in this. So, what I think is that we go to her with our proposal.’ He spoke slowly, precisely, glancing from one to the other. ‘We tell her we want not just a stake in the hotel
and the property business . . .’ he paused for effect, ‘but we tell her that now we are taking it all. Everything. Simple as that.’
Again there was silence. Frankie was stunned. Then Pepe looked at him.
‘And Frankie,’ he said, ‘I think the proposal should be put to Kerry by you.’ There was a smugness about him. ‘After all, you know them well enough to be able to work out how you tell them and what you do to make this happen.’
Frankie suddenly felt suffocated, but he managed to take a drink of water from the table, and was glad the glass wasn’t shaking in his hand when he picked it up. He knew Pepe would be watching for that. He looked at Durkin, who was wearing what could only be described as a look of sheer admiration for the ingenuity of this malicious fucker. But Frankie was indeed trapped. This was it now. He either ran like fuck as far away as he could, or he was in.
He took a breath and let it out slowly.
‘I can do that,’ he said, sounding resolute.
Pepe nodded his approval, like the local fucking bishop who was enjoying a performance from his favourite primary school’s annual nativity play. Holy fucking fuck, Frankie said to himself as Pepe raised a glass and clinked from him to Durkin.
Chapter Four
Kerry was almost drifting off to sleep by the time the plane was ready to take off. She felt more exhausted than she’d been in a long time. The last six weeks had been more than hectic, and she’d barely taken time to grieve over the loss of her mother. Every time a thought or image of her mother came to her, there was an immediate flashback to the bloodbath of Mickey’s funeral, when she had held her bloodied, lifeless body in her arms. She wondered if she’d ever be able to think of her mother the way she had been, the way she was all those years ago, from the early, impoverished days, to the woman she’d become, strong, determined and smart. Kerry had been promising herself that one of these nights she’d take time to dig out some old photographs and just sit there and have a good weep over them as she remembered. But all that was before the bombshells began to fall all over the place. She’d been prepared for a battle to follow her dream, but nowhere in her wildest imagination did she think that she would ever see what she saw in that box sent by the Colombians. And now, she was about to witness the agony of Marty Kane and his family as they waited for news of their lost little boy. She pushed the thought away for the moment as she recalled the conversation with Sharon before she left.
They’d been having breakfast in the kitchen of the villa, but Kerry was more or less pushing the food around the plate. The nausea was becoming frightening now, and Kerry was worried that she might be sinking into a depression with all the stress. She had to be made of stronger stuff than this, she’d chided herself as she’d thrown up just before Sharon came in. As they sat at the table, Sharon was eating a bowl of yoghurt and fruit, while Kerry nibbled at a piece of toast and sipped green tea. She was conscious that Sharon was watching her.
‘You want to look after yourself, Kerry,’ Sharon said, eyeing her. ‘You’ve been like death warmed up for days now. And, by the way, I heard you being sick as I came in the front door.’
Kerry said nothing, just sighed.
‘How long has that been going on for, girl?’
Kerry knew what she was getting at, and she tried her best not to look away. But Sharon kept on.
‘Tell you what, love,’ she said. ‘You want to check that this throwing up lark isn’t about to take feet. Know what I mean?’
Kerry looked at her, unable to escape her worst fears. She said nothing.
‘Look, I’m not wanting to pry or anything, love,’ Sharon said. ‘But could you be pregnant? I know you and the big copper fella . . . Well, I could see that a mile away.’
Kerry managed a smile, but immediately blinked away the image of Vinny’s handsome face. Eventually she answered. ‘Well. Yes. That’s what I’m scared of, Sharon, if I’m honest. I’m privately panicking that I’m pregnant. Imagine throwing that into the mix right now.’
Sharon let out a sigh.
‘Well, these things have a habit of happening when you least expect it. So my advice to you is, if there’s a chance you could be pregnant then get a bloody kit and do a test. As soon as you go back to Glasgow. Then you’ll know, and you’ll be in a position to think straight. Because right now, you’re looking tired and emotional. The lads won’t see that because, well, they’re lads. But I’ve been there, so I can see it.’
‘I know,’ Kerry said, sheepish. ‘I’ll get a test when I get home.’ She sighed. ‘Dreading it though.’
‘You’ll be fine. You’re a tough cookie, despite what you might think. You’ll do whatever is right for you.’
*
Eddie, the Casey chauffeur, was standing outside the black Merc waiting for Kerry as she came through the automatic doors at Glasgow airport arrivals. Just seeing him and being back on home soil in the midst of all the misery she was feeling sent a wave of emotion through her, and she more or less threw her arms around him, feeling the choking ache in her throat. When he released her, he scanned her face.
‘You okay, sweetheart?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It was only when she got into the car and sat in the front seat that she turned to him.
‘What about Marty, Eddie? How is he? Have you seen him?’
‘No,’ he replied, easing the car onto the motorway. ‘It’s been all over the TV news though, and press were camped outside his son’s house and Marty’s office. But I don’t think he’s left Elizabeth’s side since it happened.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s an awful business, Kerry. I mean, what kind of bastard kidnaps a kid of three? The wee guy will be distraught. Doesn’t even bear thinking about.’
‘I know,’ Kerry said softly. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it – the kid, Marty and his family. Christ, Eddie! I don’t even know what I’m going to say to him. But I need to see him today.’
‘Probably best if you can get him to your own house then, I’d say, rather than go to his home. The press might be there and you don’t want to attract any attention. Plus, if his wife has any inkling that this is anything to do with us, then she won’t want to see you.’
Kerry nodded, gazing out of the window, saying nothing. Elizabeth Kane was a lovely, warm woman, still with her Irish brogue even though she’d been away from Dublin since she met Marty almost fifty years ago. She was a clever woman, but chose to be the homemaker, the mother, the centre of the family. Marty was the high-profile criminal lawyer who would pop up on TV news now and again, on the steps of the courts, standing next to yet another hoodlum who was walking free because Marty had convinced a jury his client was innocent – even though most times they weren’t. Yet between them they’d managed to make their marriage last, and all of that despite the fact that Elizabeth must have known the crucial role he played in the shady Casey empire. She never asked, probably because she didn’t want to know. But this was different.
As Eddie left the motorway and drove up through the city to the north side, Kerry looked out at the tenements in Maryhill in the steady drizzle, and remembered the early days going to school playing in the street, times when they had nothing. Whatever had been going on back then in her own father’s murky world, she was miles away from it, and happy. It felt like a more innocent time, though it probably wasn’t, given that her father was a crook. Part of her wished she could go back there and start again. How different she would make things, but it was a pointless thought and she snapped out of it as Eddie pushed the remote of the big steel gates and they drove into the courtyard of her shuttered, protected, tall sandstone villa that somehow looked forlorn in the rain. A couple of security men in waxed jackets were on the door and in the grounds and in the secure gatehouse. One of them opened the front door for her and she went in to the smell of the wooden polished floors and the aroma of Elsa’s cooking in the kitchen. She went straight upstairs to phone Marty. She had to make the call before she took the pregnancy test she’d just purchased in
the Boots at the airport. In the study she punched in his number and he answered immediately.
‘Marty. I’m back.’ She didn’t want to ask how things were.
‘Hello, Kerry.’
She heard him take a breath and let it out slowly, and she pictured his face.
‘Can you talk, Marty?’
‘Hold on. Let me go through to the kitchen.’ She heard footsteps and a door open and close softly.
‘Yes, I can talk. Have you heard anything?’
Kerry felt choked.
‘No, Marty, sorry. Not a thing. But we will. I’m sure. Before the day’s out. Has there been nothing more from whoever phoned you when it happened? The voice?’
‘Nothing.’ He sounded almost distant.
‘Can you come over? I don’t want to come to the house.’
He waited a moment before he answered. ‘Yes. You don’t want to come here. It’s like . . . Oh, Kerry. It’s awful. My son Joe and his wife, and little Johnny, Finbar’s big brother. He’s only five. Doesn’t really know what’s going on. Place has been buzzing with police, Serious Crime Squad, the lot. I feel as if I’m watching it in someone else’s life. Best if you don’t come here.’ He paused. ‘In fact, it’ll do me good to get out for a while.’
‘Good. Just come when you can.’
‘I’ll be there within an hour. I’ve got things to talk to Elizabeth and Joe about here first. The police are talking about a press conference. But I’m not keen on that.’
‘Okay. We’ll talk when I see you.’
*
An hour later, Kerry saw the big steel gates open and Marty’s black Merc come through. She watched as he got out of the car, and was struck by how he looked as though he’d aged overnight. Even his movements were slower, his shoulders slumped as he came towards the door. She made her way to the study where she’d asked Elsa to make them some coffee. She stood waiting for him, and heard the bodyguard’s soft voice greeting him with a ‘Mr Kane’, then the sound of his footsteps. He knocked and came into the room, closing the door behind him. Kerry stood for a moment, not quite knowing what to say. Normally it was Marty who was in charge, who would come to greet her, who had taken her in his arms the day her mother was killed and held her while she’d wept. But now he looked uprooted, lost, an old man whose heart had been torn out.
