The Wrong Kind of Blood (Ed Loy PI)

by Declan Hughes

  Delaney’s brow was soaked in sweat; his nose was running; drool leaked from his shaking lip. He looked at the ground, and in a strained, remote voice that sounded as if it had been beamed in by satellite, said, “He’s dropping the smack off at Seafield ferry terminal, the old one.”

  “You gonna tell me the rest, Dessie?”

  His head still bowed, he nodded.

  I rang Dave Donnelly and told him. Then I walked Dessie Delaney to my car. Childlike excitement rippled across his face at the sight of the old Volvo.

  “A 122S,” he said in wonder. “She’s in great shape, man. Where’d you get it?”

  I told him about my father and Tommy Owens.

  “Say what you like about Tommy Owens, he knows his way around a fuckin’ motor,” Delaney said, an unconscious echo of what Tommy had said about my father. The freemasonry of petrolheads.

  “Dessie the Driver,” I said. “You want to take the wheel?”

  “Serious?”

  “You up to it, with that arm?”

  Delaney bent the arm at the elbow, flexed his hand at the wrist.

  “No bother man.”

  I sat in the passenger seat. Delaney couldn’t shut up, he was so excited.

  “An Amazon, they call it. Nice handling. And easy stick action, they’re built to last. People say they’re boring now, but back then, they were a class act, man. Nineteen-sixties, ’64, ’65? Swingin’ sixties. Very Swedish, very gnick. Your man, Simon Templar. The Saint, he had one. In white it was. No, it wasn’t an Amazon, it was a P1800, an earlier model. Sportier and all. But this is the business, this is the fucking business!”

  “What are you on, Dessie?”

  “Coke. Lotta coke, waiting for all that to go down. I had to be the linkman, ’cause Larry knew me. In case Podge wasn’t on the level. And Larry wanted it all to be in Charnwood, ’cause that’s where he feels safe, no one’d say boo to the cunt there. But don’t worry, I’ve some H to bring me down later.”

  “Up at the shed in the Dawson house—”

  “I’m sorry about that, I did my best for you man, but Podge was out of control—”

  “No, and thank you, but there was nothing you could do. You know Podge raped Tommy Owens later on that night?”

  Delaney turned and looked at me, eyes wide.

  “The road, Dessie, the road!”

  But he had it covered. He was a driver.

  “Ah, that is fucked up, man. I heard things, you know, about Podge. Young fellas, all this. Never tried it on me. I knew he was a mental bastard, but…ah, that’s fucked up, man.”

  “That’s why we’ve got to put him away for a long time, Dessie.”

  “I thought you said he is going away for a long time.”

  “Not as long as he’d do for the murder of Councillor MacLiam. You were there that night, weren’t you? Out on Peter Dawson’s boat?”

  Delaney twisted his head around again, mouth open.

  “How’d you…”

  “I wasn’t sure—until now. But it doesn’t make any sense for you to be missing, does it? You’re MacLiam’s supplier, you’re the one he trusts. He’s into Podge for all sorts, sure. But you’re the one who can coax him. You’re the one who can help him change his mind.”

  “I told Podge the dose was for both of us, I fuckin’ told him.”

  We drove in silence for a while. I imagine Dessie was thinking pretty much what I was thinking: that given his position as the councillor’s connection, given that he was on the boat that night, there was no way he was going to walk away from this. Maybe there was no way he deserved to either.

  There was a service station coming up, and I told Dessie to pull in. I got coffee and chicken and bacon sandwiches, and we parked by park railings in a leafy redbrick square somewhere between Rathmines and Ranelagh, and as we ate and drank, Dessie told me how Joseph Williamson died.

  “The setup was, Peter Dawson would take your man out on the boat, offer him the money, explain what it was for—his vote in the rezoning of the golf club lands—and also, tell him George’d be willing to have MacLiam’s gambling debts written off in return for that, and for the guarantee of his vote in favor of any future Dawson developments. And your man says no way. I knew he would, he was like…he was a real smackhead, he had a totally unreal sense of who he was. I mean, he was shooting up this free heroin he was getting from people he knew were criminals, you know, ’cause who the fuck else is going to get you it, and he’s running up these debts gambling like some fucking madman who must think he’s going to be dead a week on Thursday the way he’s layin’ it out, and then in the middle of all this, he thinks he’s got his integrity: I am the man who says no to developments, I am the man who doesn’t take bribes, I am the man you can trust. I mean, it’s fucking whatyoucallit, self-delusion, know I mean? I liked the guy, I’d sit up with him…he had a lot to fucking say for himself, about liberation theology and the Irish language and Fianna Fáil and all this, but in the end, it was all just talk, you know? His wife was like his ma, and he was like a really smart kid, but one of those…you know, they’re smackheads waiting to happen, they’re already hiding from things, from people, the truth, the world, everything except ego, and heroin is the worst drug they can take, it just pulls the covers right over their head.

  “Anyway, we’re waitin’ around, we’re the persuasion squad, ’cause if Peter Dawson can’t get MacLiam onside, we’re to go in.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Podge.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  Delaney nodded.

  “So Peter calls Podge, and Podge calls Big Colm Hyland, and Colm takes us out to Peter’s yacht, out in the bay, and we go aboard. And MacLiam doesn’t have a clue, you know, he’s delighted with himself, he’s out on a yacht on a summer’s night, with all his new friends who let him do what he likes.”

  “Where’s Hyland?”

  “Hyland doesn’t get onto the yacht, but he must be still there, ’cause he comes into it later. But I don’t know where he is. Now I’m brickin’ it, man, ’cause I can see Podge thinks MacLiam is a fuckin’ flake, so I’m talkin’ all about Councillor this and Councillor that, and George’s business plans and all this shite, talkin’ like a cunt, know I mean, just so Podge remembers he can’t simply shank this fucker and get away with it. And we’re drinkin’ whatever it is, this fuckin’…wine Peter has on the boat. And it’s a bit of crack for a while, ’cause Peter’s sailin’ the fuckin’ yacht, and we’re gettin’ speed up and it’s a beautiful night an’ all. I’m thinkin’, this is gonna be grand, you know? No worries. Then we can see the Baths, you know, the old outdoor swimming pools there between Seafield and Bayview, and MacLiam starts into it, how they’re not going to bow the knee to the developers, how they’ll restore the baths as a public amenity, how kids—we were all up on deck, it was like he was making a speech to the world, fair play to him, it was very good—how kids will one day swim again in the Seafield Baths, ’cause the sea belongs to us all, not just those who can afford to pay for it. Anyway, he’s delighted with himself, shouting into the air, but I could see Podge turning, you know, the head’s nodding, the feet are tapping, the eyes are buggin’ out, all the danger signs, so before he can do anything, I move into MacLiam, how about a little hit, and he’s Yeah great, you know. So we go downstairs, or belowdeck or whatever the fuck you call it, just the two of us, and I lit the little gas ring he had down there and started to cook up the stuff, we’re both gonna do it together. And I remember, MacLiam has found this blue plastic bag, and he’s looking through it at a load of old photographs, I don’t know what they were, but he was mouthin’ on about them anyway. And then Podge comes down, bouncin’ and clickin’ and all, up to here on speed and coke and whatever, you saw him like that, and of course, MacLiam, instead of being fucking terrified like a normal person, he’s all Podge this and Podge that, excited ’cause he’s gonna score, Oh Podge maybe you’d like to try some of this, Oh Podge can you lay some bets for
me at Leopardstown tomorrow, Podge Podge Podge, almost takin’ the piss he’s so friendly, and Podge looks at me—Upstairs. The eyes are gone. Nothing I can say. And who knows, maybe he’s just gonna rattle the fucker’s cage, slap him around a bit till he sees sense. Wouldn’ve done him any harm.”

  “So you prepared two shots, one for MacLiam and one for yourself.”

  “That’s right. And I’m up on deck with Peter, and he’s asking me what Podge’s gonna do, and I’m saying he’s just gonna try and get MacLiam to change his mind about the vote. And Peter says, Maybe we should ring George, I don’t trust Podge, let’s ring George. And then Podge comes up on deck and says, Ring George about what? And Peter says, Where’s MacLiam? And Podge says, He’s down below, sleeping it off. And there’s something about Podge’s voice—he’s fucking thrilled with himself is what it is, he loves the moment after there’s been any kind of action—and Peter hands over to me and makes to go below. Podge is blocking him, you know, You’re the only sailor here, we don’t want to be left in the hands of Delaney, we’ll be in Holyhead before we know it, making a joke of it, and Peter loses the head, he’s screaming about his boat and his plan and how he wasn’t going to be bossed around by some Neanderthal, and I thought Podge’d do him then and there, but no, he steps aside, and Peter goes below.”

  A group of drunken kids came lurching along the street. One of them fell against the car, then clawed himself up by my window. When he saw me he got a momentary fright, then recovered and made a grimace through the window at me. I nodded at him, and he pulled back, made a loud shrieking sound, flapped his hands beneath his arms like a monkey and sprang off after his friends.

  Dessie Delaney was starting to look rough. The coke was wearing off, and he didn’t have any more. If he wasn’t going to get somewhere he could shoot up, he wanted to snort some of the heroin he had with him. But I wouldn’t let him, at least not until he had finished his story. I lit two cigarettes and gave him one, and pushed him to keep going.

  “We were out past Bayview by now, and it’s dark, and you could see all the big houses lit up around Castlehill. I remember thinking, That’d be nice. Up there, looking out at all this. Having a drink, and some, some ice cream, wearin’ one of those, you know, those white bathrobes like you get in a hotel. Looking down on it all. Very nice. I can remember thinkin’ that. And then I heard Peter cry out, ‘Oh my God,’ or ‘Jesus Christ,’ or something. Then he comes up, and he’s crying. Actual tears. He’s dead, he’s dead, he says. He can’t be, says Podge. He’s no pulse, he’s not breathing, says Peter.

  “And Peter gets his mobile out, right, and Podge says, Who are you ringing, and Peter says, 999. Smack! One to the head and Peter is out. Podge calls George on Peter’s mobile, then thinks better of using it; he tosses it in the sea and calls Colm Hyland on his own. When Colm appears, they talk for a few minutes. Then Podge is on his mobile again. And it’s decided, myself and Podge will get in Colm’s boat and take Peter in and George will have us met at the old ferry-house. And this is because Hyland is the only one who can take Peter’s boat into the Royal Seafield and not arouse suspicion, and also the only one capable of taking it in at all, of sailing the fuckin’ thing.

  “So we get Peter into Hyland’s boat, and Podge and me sit in, and we start the outboard and off we go.”

  “Didn’t you say anything?”

  “To who? To Podge? What would I’ve said? Because the first rule is, when something goes off, don’t say a fuckin’ word. ’Cause what are you gonna say? What did you do that for? I don’t like you now? Let’s call the cops? Give me a fuckin’ break man, I said yes Podge no Podge three bags full Podge otherwise I would’ve joined the cunt and still could, the stories about that fuckin’ ferry-house I’m not coddin’ you man.”

  “And Hyland was left on Peter’s boat.”

  “And he dumped MacLiam overboard. I mean, I assume he did, I didn’t see it.”

  “And you get to the ferry-house.”

  “Yeah, and George is there himself, and a few of the lads, and George is like a fuckin’ madman, he takes Podge into a corner, and it’s not that he’s shoutin’ at him, you can’t hear anything, just the hand going, the finger in Podge’s face, you know?”

  “Does Podge care what George says?”

  “What do you think? I mean, he would’ve done you that night up in the shed. And now, settin’ up his own heroin route all over the southeast—that’s gonna look good to all George’s new business friends, isn’t it?”

  “So what is Podge up to?”

  “He’s just doin’ what he wants. He doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t want to be a businessman, he wants to be a criminal. He likes it, end of story. And of course, he likes hurtin’ cunts too, because he’s a fuckin’ mental bastard.”

  I lit two more cigarettes. The smoke sluiced out into the mist and the slow dawn light; silver wisps curled around horse chestnut leaves heavy with moisture.

  “All right, so George is giving Podge a bollocking, what then?”

  “George has the lads put Peter Dawson in a white Immunicate van, so he can bring him up to his folks’ house.”

  “Why his folks’ house? Why not his own house?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “And was that it?”

  “No, Hyland came in then. He brought Peter’s yacht to the ferry-house. And MacLiam is gone. And he has a chat with George, how he’ll see it’s all cleaned up, and that’s it.”

  “Anything else you can remember, Dessie?”

  Dessie sucked smoke into his lungs as if it could satisfy his craving.

  “The blue plastic bag full of photos I saw belowdeck, Hyland had them now, gave them to George Halligan. George took off with Peter Dawson. That’s it. And then Hyland and me spend the night cleaning off Peter’s boat with cleaning fluid and bleach an’ all. Perfect end to a perfect day.”

  “So Podge murdered MacLiam.”

  “He killed him anyway.”

  “He knew it was a double dose of heroin, he sent you out and he made sure MacLiam took it. That’s intention. And you say you could see in his eyes he was going to do it.”

  “So why didn’t I stop it?”

  “How could you, without losing your own life? If you give evidence, Podge could do life.”

  “I thought you said your mates in the Guards were gonna pick him up tonight. I’m not saying I will or I won’t, but there’s no way I’m saying a word if he’s on the streets.”

  I realized there’d been no word from Dave Donnelly. I checked my mobile. I had set it to mute in Charnwood and had missed four calls, all from Dave. They had picked Podge up in possession of twenty kilos of heroin, with a street value of 2.2 million euro.

  I told Dessie Delaney what had happened. I also told him that, if he didn’t tell Seafield Guards everything he had just told me, I was going to make it clear to Podge that Delaney had been the one to betray him. Just because Podge was in jail didn’t mean he couldn’t order a hit. On the other hand, if the Guards were looking after him, a bit of protection for the key witness in a high-profile murder would be in order. And for his family too.

  Delaney was anxious, and scared, and upset. But that wasn’t my problem. I’d wanted to help him. I felt bad for his kids, I felt sentimental about them. But there was nothing I could do. He had got himself into this fix, and there was only one way out. I didn’t know if he was going to serve jail time. I thought he deserved to, if not for MacLiam’s death, for the fact that he assisted Podge in buying a stash of heroin that, if it had gone onto the streets, would have caused a lot more deaths, left a lot of kids without their parents. Maybe he’d get out of it, and clean up, and get a taxi plate, and bring up his kids right, and they’d all go on holidays one day to that Greek island he had the postcard of in his wallet. Maybe in all of this, someone should have a happy ending, even if no one deserved it.

  Twenty-six

  “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

  “You been listening to the
radio, George?”

  “Edward Loy, glad to know there’s no hard feelings. I had a sense you wouldn’t bear a grudge when it comes to business. Well, my offer still stands—”

  “Have you been listening to the radio?”

  “Yes, I’ve been listening to the radio. House prices rise again, Exchequer receives tax take boost, banks announce record profits. Nothing about Seafield Council’s timely decision to rezone Castlehill Golf Club for high-density development yet. First report will probably come when the usual shower of socialist layabouts and university muppets mount a picket—”

  “Item one on the seven a.m. bulletin. 2.2 million worth of heroin picked up in Seafield. Man held. They didn’t say who it was, or where exactly he was picked up.”

  I could hear George’s fibrous, tar-rich breath crackling down the line.

  “Go on,” he croaked.

  “He was arrested outside the disused ferry terminal. On his way in. He was driving a blue BMW.”

  “I’ll kill the cunt!”

  “You might have to. Because the cops have a witness to Councillor Seosamh MacLiam’s murder. He’s going to give evidence against Podge, and in the course of things, your name will inevitably come up in relation to what they were trying to persuade the councillor to do out there.”

  “Who is it? Not Hyland. Fuckin’ Delaney—”

  “They have Podge cold on the smack, George. And they’re going to offer Delaney a deal that keeps his family safe. So if I were you, I’d be thinking limitation, not elimination.”

  “You’re very smart all of a sudden, aren’t you, son?”

  George Halligan, a year younger than me, short of breath, sounded suddenly like an old man.