‘Well, with Benny Caproni being murdered, we’ve got to assume that Pink knows we’re onto him. We have George Green and his family in a hotel at Aldergrove, and we’ll shift them to Glasgow in the morning.’
‘You think he’ll try and get to them?’
‘It won’t be masked gunmen in the lift, but it’ll be something. Pink will be panicking, that’s for sure - not about the murder as such, but the fact that it’s a boy. Everyone’s suspected he’s been fruity for years but he’s gotten away with it because he delivers on his promises and spreads the wealth around, but if they think he’s done this they’ll hammer him. So he’s going to do his level best to make sure there’s no physical evidence left and no witnesses.’
‘Are there other witnesses?’
‘I doubt it. If he was messing with wee lads it’ll be just him, somewhere private. He’s not going to go parading him around the Rangers Supporters Club.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘He owns half a dozen properties - he could have taken the victim to any one of them. He’ll have had the steam cleaners in, but he’ll have missed something. A single hair. A fingerprint. Spittle. We’ll get something. It’s all we need. We go into all six at the same time, hit him hard and heavy. I have our people standing by. It’s just a matter of the warrants.’
Marsh looked expectantly at the Chief Constable. Martin unclasped his hands and opened a file on his desk. He glanced at the top sheet. ‘You’ve been after Pink Harrison for a long time.’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nothing personal between you, no history?’
‘No, sir. Nothing personal. He’s been a UDA commander, a drug baron, a protection racketeer and now a politician willing to take a bribe. He has literally gotten away with murder for twenty years. And he hasn’t served a day behind bars. He needs to be history. Especially if he’s done this.’
Martin sucked on his lower lip for a several moments. ‘The problem I have with this, Jim,’ he began, then paused to close the file back over, ‘is the trouble it will cause.’
‘Trouble?’
‘A few nights ago we had half of West Belfast on fire because of that chap Redmond O’Boyle. I don’t want the East to go that way as well. You know as well as I do that if we arrest Pink Harrison, he will call every manjack of them onto the streets; shops will be burned, buses will be hijacked, our people will be injured, ordinary punters will be hurt, millions of pounds’ worth of damage will be caused, the economy will be unbalanced and the Tourist Board will have a stroke.’
Marsh gritted his teeth. ‘And your point is?’
‘Jim - my point is, we have to be sure.’
‘We can’t be sure until we search for forensic evidence.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Jim, but if we go in there and find nothing, and half the city gets torn up, it’s not going to look good for anyone.’
‘We’re talking about a murder, Chief Constable.’
Martin suddenly slapped his hand down hard on the table. ‘I know what we’re talking about, god damn-it! And I know all about Pink Harrison! And the truth of the matter is, Jim, that I may just be a blow-in from the Big Smoke, hardly know my way around, but I know you lot have had twenty f***ing years to put Pink Harrison away and you haven’t managed it yet.’
‘Well then, this is our opportunity.’
Martin closed his eyes and rubbed at his brow. Just for a few moments. When he opened them again Marsh was staring straight at him.
Jimmy Marsh spoke calmly and clearly. ‘Pink Harrison took this kid off the streets, he drugged him up, he killed him, he cut him up and he put him in the river. We cannot take anything else into consideration.’
‘With due respect, Jim, that’s easy for you to say. Pink Harrison is in local government now, and that brings with it a whole different set of problems; maybe you don’t have to worry about them, but I do. We go after Pink Harrison, we could have the whole Unionist Party on our backs.’
‘Not if it’s a boy.’
‘You promise me that?’
Martin drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘You’re absolutely certain he’s our man?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’re prepared to let East Belfast go crazy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A lot of people to get hurt, maybe killed?’
‘It’s unfortunate, but yes, sir.’
‘There’s no compromise in you at all, Jim, is there?’
‘Not for this.’
‘What do you do to relax?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What do you do when you’re not working?’
This took him off-guard. Marsh gave a vague kind of shrug. ‘This and that.’
‘And you can go out and do this and that, without looking over your shoulder?’
‘No, sir, most of this and that’s indoors.’
Martin nodded. ‘I don’t like this place. I’m never relaxed. I like fishing - can’t do that here. But I do like my job, and I intend to keep it, and I intend to get results. I have to look at the bigger picture, Jim. What if keeping Pink Harrison on the streets helps maintain the Ceasefire and saves dozens of lives? Maybe we don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater - do you know what I mean?’
Marsh’s head nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Problem is, sir, this baby’s already dead, drowned in the bath by Pink Harrison. I’m just not prepared to let Laughing Boy get away with it because you’re worried about some windows getting smashed. The simple truth, Chief Constable, is that windows are always getting smashed around here. Then they get repaired. And double-glazed. We have more double-glazing than any country on earth. When buses get burned we get newer, better buses. It’s like evolution, sir - you die or you come back better, stronger. Except for Michael Caldwell - he can’t come back, his poor heartbroken mother can’t just pop out for a new one. He’s gone for good, and somebody should pay for that. That’s why I’m going out of this door to arrest Pink Harrison. Are you going to stop me?’
97
Crossed Lines
Margaret wanted to make sure that there was absolutely no misunderstanding. Last time Billy had visited, Walter had appeared at the door and virtually caught them in bed, and that had almost destroyed their fledgling relationship. This time, although she’d only left Walter an hour before, on the other side of town, and he was off to do some urgent business, she wasn’t prepared to take any chances. Walter was a romantic old Hector - what if he just decided to drop everything and come round and see her, and he saw Billy coming out of her house again? That really would be the final nail in the coffin. So as soon as she heard Billy drive off she snatched up the phone and called Walter’s mobile, just to tell him that Billy had come round looking for sympathy sex but she’d chased him away. Besides, she wanted to hear his voice again.
Meanwhile, in the penthouse apartment at Towerview, Walter was snoring his head off. It had been another fraught few hours for Linda Wray. First he was coming, then he wasn’t, then he was coming, then there was no sign of him. Then he really was coming. Linda lay beside him, her head propped up on one hand, watching his chest move up and down. She had never yet met a man who could sleep on his back and not snore, and Walter was no exception. If it had been the middle of the night, she might have dug him in the ribs to get him to turn over. If they had been an item for months, rather than days, she might have held his nose until he coughed and spluttered and turned. But they had only really known each other for a few hours, and it was still only late afternoon and there was plenty of time for her to sleep later, so she was quite happy to lie there and watch him, and could have continued to do so for the rest of the day, except for Walter’s mobile phone ringing.
Walter, of course, slept on, even though the ringtone was loud and it was sitting right next to him on the bedside table. There wasn’t even the slightest reaction. Linda’s own phone wen
t to voicemail after six unanswered rings, but Walter’s rang on, and on. Eventually she reached across him and picked it up. She should have just switched it off, but didn’t. They were a couple now, weren’t they? That meant no secrets.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh. Who’s that?’
‘Linda. Who’s that?’
‘Margaret. Linda - the estate agent?’
‘Margaret - you fell in the river.’
‘What’re you doing with Walter’s phone?’
‘I thought you two were finished?’
‘No, we’re not, and why do you have Walter’s phone?’
‘What? Sorry, hold on a second, a bit noisy.’ Linda glanced down at Walter’s vibrating nostrils, then crawled out of bed and padded out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘What was that?’ Margaret asked.
‘What was what?’
‘Like a motor boat or tumble-dryer or a giant snoring.’
‘Oh, vacuum cleaner. We have the cleaners in.’
‘That’s wild, you should get it serviced.’
‘I just did,’ said Linda. She pulled out a stool from the breakfast bar and sat down. The leather seat was cold against her bare bum. ‘So,’ she said, ‘sorry about that. You were looking for Walter. He was here a wee while ago, and he left his phone.’
‘Oh. Right. I didn’t think he was buying the apartment.’
‘No, he isn’t. He just had to collect some paperwork. From the office.’
‘Okay, right, fair enough. Is he long gone?’
‘No, not really.’
‘You two seem to get on like a house on fire.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. He’s a nice fella. You two are back together then?’
‘Yes, we are. And he is a nice fella. Yes he is. They broke the mould when they made Walter.’
Then Margaret, despite feeling great pangs of jealousy, even over something so innocent as a good business relationship, found herself relating to Linda Wray the details of her first date with Walter, him turning up drunk, and her hair getting ruined and her heel broken, and him fixing it and being lovely and romantic, and then spoiling it all by using an assumed name.
‘Gosh,’ Linda said, ‘that was a bit of an adventure. But you got back together.’
So Margaret told her about the carrot cake and the coma, and how Walter had mounted a vigil by her hospital bed.
‘That is so romantic.’
‘Yes, it was, and then I went and spoiled it all by sleeping with my ex-husband by accident, and Walter found out and dumped me.’
‘By accident?’
‘Well, it’s a long story. Or a short story. You know the way sometimes with men, it’s just easier to sleep with them? You know, to resolve something?’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Linda.
‘Well, it happened with Billy, my husband, and Walter caught us out, and that was the end of that, for the second time.’
‘But you got back together.’
‘Yes - well, that was your fault.’
‘My fault?’
‘At the apartment. Your fault, but also fate, and serendipity, isn’t that what they call it? Anyway, here we are. I feel like it’s my lucky apartment! You know something? I’m just sitting here thinking, if Walter doesn’t want it, and it’s still available, it would be a real stretch, but I might want to think about putting an offer in.’
‘It is a lovely apartment,’ said Linda.
‘I’d need another look, of course. My mind was kind of elsewhere when that door opened and there he was.’
‘Of course it was. Why don’t you come and I’ll give you a tour?’
The bedroom door opened behind Linda, and Walter came wandering out, buck naked, his eyes half-open. He waved over vaguely, turned to the left, hesitated, then turned to the right and made his way slowly towards the bathroom.
‘That would be great,’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t suppose you’re free right now, are you? Just once I get a bee in my bonnet, there’s no stopping me.’
Linda glanced down the hall towards the bathroom. The door was open, and the angle was just right for her to see Walter standing peeing into the toilet. Linda sighed. ‘I can’t just at the moment,’ she said, ‘but I can certainly arrange a viewing tomorrow.’
Walter was just emerging from the bathroom when Linda snapped, ‘Wash your hands, and put the toilet seat down. This is a showhouse, not a dosshouse.’
Walter blinked somewhat groggily at her, then turned wordlessly and performed the requested tasks. When he emerged, Linda had returned to the bedroom, and was sitting propped up against the pillows, her legs bent and the quilt pulled up above her chest. He climbed in beside her. Slightly more awake now, he put his hand on the quilt around about where her right knee was and caressed it. ‘I’m glad to see you can squeeze in business calls in between bouts of furious lovemaking.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Linda, moving his hand.
‘You don’t think so, what?’
‘I don’t think so, full stop.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Linda - what’s the matter?’
‘You’re the matter, Walter.’
‘What have I done now?’
Linda shook her head. She was torn. She really liked Walter, and the fact of the matter was that he was with her, here and now, and not Margaret. They had made love. Or had sex. There was a difference, she knew, but it was open to interpretation. She had been making love. Perhaps Walter had been having sex. Did it matter? Did it matter that he had lied to her about Margaret? Had he lied to her? Or was he not telling her the same thing? He had dismissed Margaret as a looney who jumped into rivers. He hadn’t actually said they were no longer an item. She wondered if she liked Walter enough to jump into a river for him. And if she didn’t, why should she get upset that he was seeing someone else? Why not just enjoy it? Go with the flow. He clearly liked being in bed with her, otherwise why would he keep coming back? What was it that was supposed to make a perfect wife - being a whore in the bedroom and a chef in the kitchen? She was certainly halfway there.
‘I’m sorry for leaving the toilet seat up,’ said Walter.
‘It’s not about that.’
‘And not washing my hands.’
‘It’s not about that either.’
‘Well, what then?’
Linda shook her head. She sighed. ‘Walter?’
‘Uhuh?’ He looked like a little puppy who’d just had his nose pressed into his own pee to teach him a lesson.
‘I’m going to bake you a big cake.’
Walter blinked at her. ‘I’m on a diet,’ he said.
‘Screw the diet,’ said Linda.
98
Love To Love You, Baby
Mr Kawolski could hardly take his eyes off the new improved version of Maeve O’Boyle as she patrolled Primark looking for shoplifters. He followed her progress on the bank of monitors in his office, often manually directing the camera angles to improve his view. He had always fancied her, but since she’d turned up with her ebullient hair all shorn off and what was left dyed a delicious blonde, he had really, really fancied her. He was a short, rotund, mostly bald man, and was not naive enough to believe that he could ever be more than her boss. He silently cursed his age and his genes. He had read in a woman’s magazine once that women preferred men who could make them laugh, so he had done his best with Maeve but had rarely ever raised more than a sympathetic smile. He was doomed never to lie with her. Doomed never to suck popcorn out of her ears (which he did occasionally with his own wife, it having to do with their first sexual experience in the back of the Curzon cinema on the Ormeau Road). He wondered if any man was ever satisfied with his own wife.
In watching Maeve so closely, Mr Kawolski gradually became aware that she was being followed by a tall man, with a shock of black hair and a zipped-up leather jacket. As she m
oved down one aisle and passed out of shot, he entered. At first Mr Kawolski thought nothing of it - that he just happened to be moving in the same anti-clockwise direction around the store. But Mr Kawolski’s staff were trained in directional stealth (fifteen minutes had been devoted to it during a day-long course in Lisburn) and knew not to give shoplifters the luxury of knowing where and when a security patrol would pass. So when Maeve abruptly changed direction and began a leisurely zig-zag between counters, and moments later the black-haired man followed the same course, Mr Kawolski knew for sure she was being followed.
It could be that he was merely doing what Mr Kawolski himself sometimes did with pretty female customers - on those rare occasions when he actually patrolled the store himself. That is, follow them slavishly, admiring the cut of their figure and the set of their hair and the turn of their nose, and occasionally, the glimpse of their ankles or flash of their brassiere when they went into the changing rooms. Belfast, Mr Kawolski thought, was not over-endowed with good-looking women, so you had to take your opportunities when they came.
Or, if this man wasn’t following Maeve because she was beautiful, perhaps he was following her because he was a reporter, and he’d recognised her or heard about her transformation from big-haired harpie to femme fatale. He wanted to slap her into a tabloid make-over exclusive or persecute her for observing an incredibly short period of mourning.
Or, indeed, he could be something altogether more frightening. Maeve was deemed by a large proportion of her neighbours to have sullied her martyred husband’s legacy by having him cremated with undue haste. Her house had been burned out and she had been forced to flee. What if they had now tracked her down to Primark and this man had been sent to - my God! - shoot her. Assassinate her here, amongst the ‘3 T-shirts for a fiver’!
Three distinct possibilities, and each of them flushed adrenaline through Mr Kawolski’s veins. Pervert, press or paramilitary - it didn’t matter. If he saved her from her stalker - and, more importantly, she was aware of it - then he would be a hero in her eyes. He wouldn’t have to woo her with crappy jokes then. She would be eternally grateful. Might be early days yet for the popcorn, but dinner wouldn’t be an impossibility, and then once the wine was in, you just never knew what might happen.
I Predict a Riot Page 40
