Dublin Dead

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ‘Siobhan,’ he answered. Across the table Liam Ford raised a curious eyebrow at him. Mulcahy turned away. ‘We were just talking about you.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded surprised. ‘I hope it was good.’

  ‘Good enough. What’s up?’

  He strained to hear her as the line broke up then cleared again. It sounded like she was outdoors somewhere.

  ‘I know it’s short notice,’ she said, ‘but is there any chance you’d be free around lunchtime today? I need to see you about something.’

  Christ, that was all he needed. Yet something deep and unacknowledged clawed at him to say yes. Only then did he realise he’d completely forgotten to run down that Missing Persons contact she’d asked him for.

  ‘Look, I haven’t had a chance to get that name for you yet, Siobhan. I’ve been kind of busy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not that. I wanted to pick your brains. It won’t take long. It’s such a beautiful day I thought we could meet in Stephen’s Green by the—’

  What she said next was partly drowned out by a loud whoop of greeting from Ford. Mulcahy turned and saw him standing, hailing a stocky, crop-haired man in jeans and a black leather jacket walking towards their table, a hand raised in greeting. Solomons, he presumed.

  ‘Look, Siobhan, I’ve got a meeting now, but yeah, okay, I’ll see you there. Half past twelve, yeah?’

  He clicked off and stood up as Solomons reached the table, accompanied by a strong whiff of something soapy and astringent, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. Solomons apologised for being late, saying he’d had a heavier night of it with the in-laws than expected – and loudly trotted out all the usual cracks about the Irish and alcohol, drawing one or two critical looks from nearby tables. He didn’t even notice. In his early to mid-thirties, his eyes were red-rimmed and his skin had a sallow, liverish cast to it, probably from the depredations of the night before. His voice had the nasal singsong of the native Liverpudlian. They chatted easily enough while ordering, Mulcahy leaving Ford to explain again that Ronson’s name had come up in connection with a case they were working. Solomons seemed happy enough to oblige and really got into his stride once the food was served.

  ‘One thing you got to remember about Ronson,’ Solomons said, smothering a thick slice of black pudding in bright yellow egg yolk, ‘he’d been around a long time. Canny enough to keep in with the old-style Merseyside villains as well as the gang kids that took over the street trade in the late 1990s. But he stayed in the shadows while he built up his power base. We almost caught him in 1999 for a two-hundred-kilo load we pulled over, but it was his partner who went down for it – leaving the field open for Ronson to become even more powerful. That’s when he started spending more time out in Spain, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the product but still keeping hold of the reins back home.’

  ‘My source said as much,’ Mulcahy said. ‘Everything was low key.’

  ‘Spot on,’ Solomons nodded. ‘None of your bling and Hummers for him. He was too smart for that. He kept it at the wholesale level, as well. He was ordering coke by the tonne from Cali long before we realised how big he was. By the time we did figure it out, he’d made himself pretty much untouchable – everything he did was arm’s length. SOCA reckons there were times his network brought in between fifteen and twenty thousand kilos of powder a year – that’s nearly two-thirds of everything that was coming into the UK then. And he did H, blow, meth and everything else in the sweet shop as well. He was wholesaling all sorts, but mostly he was King Cocaine. No one else had links like his with South America, and he was getting into Mexico, too – we reckon he was the first UK importer to spot the potential there and start building up contacts. No one else came near him in terms of his network.’

  For Mulcahy, that raised one question more than any other: ‘So how come he was caught out?’ he asked. ‘From what I’ve seen online the shooting was a cinch. From the back of a motorbike?’

  ‘Yes, but not your standard two-hander job – just the one bloke, no one on the pillion. So even if Ronson had spotted him coming, he probably wouldn’t have thought he looked dodgy. Ronson was coming out of this gym in Speke that he owned, with a couple of his lads. Shooter drove the bike right up, shotgun came out of nowhere, and boff – both barrels in the chest. Cool as you like. Before you know it, the shooter’s roared off and Ronson’s minders are scraping what’s left of him off the pavement.’

  Solomons sat back in his chair, pushed away his empty plate and poured himself another coffee.

  ‘Like the boss says, it sounds too easy,’ Ford said, holding out his cup for a refill. ‘A guy that powerful – you wouldn’t think he’d leave himself open to it.’

  Solomons leant over with the pot and poured. ‘Some parts of Liverpool, Ronson would’ve thought were safe. Speke was home turf, even if he didn’t spend much time there, and he was with a couple of his heavies. I doubt he’d have thought anyone would have the balls to try it there.’

  ‘Sounds like a set-up,’ Ford said.

  ‘Yeah, well, obviously we looked into that possibility ourselves, but we’re fairly confident it wasn’t. Both of the minders took some shot when they tried to dive for the shooter, so it’s not like they stood back and let it happen. And the word on the street was against it—’ Solomons broke off and held his hands up. ‘Never say never, like, but there would definitely have been something on the jungle drums if it was a local job, especially if it was any kind of gang hit.’

  ‘So what’s the thinking your end, then?’ Mulcahy said.

  Solomons turned to Mulcahy. ‘Liam must’ve told you about the line SOCA likes – the Colombian angle?’

  Mulcahy scanned Solomons’s face for any hint of amusement, but there was none. The man was being serious. ‘Liam mentioned it, yes. I must admit it sounded a bit far-fetched to me, but then I don’t know the detail. This source of mine suggested it was all over some guy. What was he called, Hayford or something?’

  ‘Steve Hayford?’ Elbows on the table, Solomons gave Mulcahy a long, level look over steepled fingers before replying. ‘That’s one hell of an impressive source you have, Inspector. Did he tell you any more?’

  Mulcahy rolled his shoulders, not wanting to say too much. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘They’re just names to us, Paul,’ Ford broke in, sensing some tension. ‘We have no clue who’s who or what’s true. That’s why we came to you – so we could get an idea of how it fits together without having to go through all the official rigmarole. Who was this Hayford guy, anyway?’

  Solomons looked back to Ford, relaxing again. ‘He was Ronson’s top lieutenant. Chief disciple, too. Modelled himself on the boss, kept the profile low but wasn’t slow to stick his neck out when needed. He was, like, manager to Ronson’s chairman, took care of the day-to-day stuff, sorted out the bash-up and distribution.’

  ‘There’s no chance Ronson thought Hayford was getting too big and had him done?’ Ford asked.

  ‘No, nothing like that. Those two were tighter than Madonna’s arsecheeks. We’re pretty sure they had some kind of king-maker deal between them – Ronson wanted out of the game, but risk-free. So he was training Hayford up to take over the gig in return for a quiet retirement abroad and protection, plus a percentage of the ongoing profits, of course. Another few months we reckon it would’ve happened. Ronson had stopped doing everything bar the deal-making. He was spending more and more time in Spain, only popping back for the occasional meet. You with me?’

  Mulcahy nodded. It squared with what McTiernan had told him. ‘So what did happen to Hayford?’

  ‘All we really know is that Hayford got tapped in a bar fight over in Rotterdam back in April. Drilled, fifteen rounds, three or four different weapons.’

  ‘That’s some bar fight,’ Ford said.

  ‘Right,’ Solomons agreed grimly. ‘Anyway, it was a complete clam-up job: nobody saw nothing, nobody heard nothing, the usual thing. B
ut the fact is, they were in Rotterdam, and the bar was owned and run by Colombians. The Dutch threw a decent team at it, but all they managed to scrape together was that Hayford had been getting bevvied all afternoon with a gang of Colombians – we assume to wet the head on a successful deal – when all of a sudden everything kicked off. The pearl-handled pistols came out and bambam – that was the end of Steve Hayford. He probably insulted somebody’s mother by accident or something. You know what they’re like.’

  Solomons paused to take a sip of coffee, but Ford wasn’t content to wait even that long to get to the end of it.‘So, what – Ronson decided to get his own back and it all went wrong?’

  ‘That’s what we hear, or something like that, but not exactly.’ Solomons wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand like he’d been glugging Guinness. ‘You know these guys – loyalty and friendship matter, but life’s still cheap. Money’s the only thing they care about at the end of the day. The problem for Ronson was to do with what Hayford and the Colombians were celebrating over. Because, as we hear it, Hayford had just taken delivery of a huge load of coke from them, come in through Rotterdam Container Port. We’re talking massive: a tonne at least – street value £70 million, minimum. That’s what, 100 million in euros? Like I said, Ronson was one of maybe three guys in the whole of the UK who commanded that kind of credit with the Colombians. But this time he refused to cough up the cash, supposedly.’

  ‘Because of Hayford?’ Mulcahy was astonished.

  ‘A bit, maybe, but mostly because he claimed the coke was never delivered.’

  ‘I thought you said Hayford had taken delivery.’

  ‘I did, and, as we hear it, that’s what the Colombians said, too, but Ronson reckoned that didn’t count. It never got to him, so no way was he stumping up for it. Said he had no idea where it was, or any proof that it had ever been handed over. Threw it back at his suppliers in Cali, said it was their fault for blitzing his man.’

  ‘So what happened to the cocaine?’ Ford asked. Mulcahy glanced across at him, wondering if he was thinking the same thing as himself.

  Solomons put his hands up. ‘No one knows. Rotting away in some lock-up in Rotterdam would be my guess, location known only to Steve Hayford, deceased.’

  He chuckled as both Mulcahy and Ford cursed in astonishment.

  ‘Meanwhile these Cali boys are majorly out of pocket and can’t afford to take it lying down. Sends out the wrong message, doesn’t it? Especially with the Mexicans muscling in on all their markets right now. Nothing else for it but despatch a man to take out Ronson and teach everyone the lesson – don’t think you can pull a fast one on us.’

  ‘So it’s true,’ Ford gasped. ‘They actually sent someone over to whack Ronson? Jesus, I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  ‘That’s the theory, anyway. Proving it is a different matter.’ Solomons sat back in his chair and folded his arms.

  ‘There must be some evidence to back it up?’ Mulcahy prompted. No way would an investigation go down that route without being pushed.

  ‘We’re getting it from the ground up,’ Solomons said, ‘from a number of different sources. But it makes a weird kind of sense. The shooter was definitely alone and a pro. He left no trace of himself anywhere.’

  ‘Sounds like he did you a big favour,’ Ford said.

  ‘No, not as far as we’re concerned,’ Solomons said, a pained expression on his face. ‘Hayford’s death was bad enough, but Ronson’s leaves us with three years’ work down the drain on our books. Not a single shittin’ arrest to show for it. Meanwhile we’ve barely been able to keep a lid on things back home. Ronson was a stabilising influence on Mersey side. He had such a tight grip nobody dared upset the applecart. Something like this, the whole house of cards comes down and all the other dickheads pile in looking to take a slice. It’s complete chaos on the streets: rumours flying, a major turf war kicking off with all the johnny-come-latelys trying to grab what they can and fill the vacuum. It’s murder. And I mean murder. Four dead already, and there’ll be more.’

  ‘I’m still not seeing how Bingo fits into this,’ Mulcahy said, turning to Ford. ‘Why would the Colombians go after him as well?’

  ‘Is this your Begley guy?’ Solomons broke in. ‘I checked him out like Liam asked. We had nothing on him locally, not even a known-associate file. So there won’t have been a Liverpool connection. I had a look at a couple of other databases, too, and he popped up on the UKBA side – that’s our Customs guys – who had him down as a possible drugs trader, but only in Irish–Spanish terms. So nothing there. You’re sure it’s not just a coincidence?’

  ‘We’re not sure of anything at the moment,’ Mulcahy said. ‘It’s only this one source pointing us in that direction.’

  ‘Well, remember back in Liverpool everyone who knew Ronson is jumpy as fuck right now. Could it be somebody adding things up wrong, maybe?’

  ‘It looks like it, doesn’t it?’ Mulcahy said. ‘Except Begley was supposedly living in fear of his life.’

  ‘Yeah, but that could have been for any reason,’ Solomons said. ‘You know these guys. They’re never happy unless they’re ripping somebody off. But, like I told Liam, I was only handling the local liaison side of things for Merseyside. The SOCA guys are who you should be talking to. Commander Gavin Corbett’s the lead on the inquiry. You should give him a shout. He’d be bloody keen to hear about this source of yours – sounds like a live one.’

  ‘I’ll have a think about that, sure,’ Mulcahy said, pushing his seat back. ‘I’m not sure how much further this gets us, but thanks for filling us in, anyway.’

  ‘No worries.’ The Liverpudlian grinned. ‘Anything to escape the dragon-in-law for a couple of hours.’

  13

  ‘I told you I didn’t want you here for the rest of this week.’ Paddy Griffin glared at Siobhan. She examined the stern face, the cracked, mottled and thread-veined skin on the cheeks, the flabbiness of the jowls from decades mining at the coalface of news in bars, restaurants and after-hours drinking holes, and knew the look instantly for what it was: one of his fake, don’t-you-know-the-meaning-of-the-word-deadline glares, which he dished out daily to reporters and sub-editors who were dragging their heels. She knew then that things would probably be all right. If it had been the sizzler, the one that made you feel you were having boiling tar poured all down your head, neck and chest, the one he reserved for real fuck-ups, her response might have been different.

  ‘I didn’t say I was staying, did I?’ She ventured a half-smile at him and saw a twitch of response on his lips, a hairline crack in his resistance. ‘So be quiet for a minute, please, Paddy, and hear me out. I need to talk to you about something.’

  Griffin puffed his cheeks out, pretended to curse under his breath, but he stayed sitting in his chair – another sure sign he was open to compromise. He even went so far as to swivel her chair round and point for her to sit in it.

  ‘Go on, then, what is it? But be quick – I’ve got an eleveno’clock meeting with Harry and the lawyers about that NAMA lead we did a couple of weeks ago. Bloody developers have issued proceedings.’

  She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t unusual for the Herald’s editor, Harry Heffernan, to be meeting the paper’s lawyers, or for people to threaten to sue for libel. But to actually set the legal wheels in motion was unusual, and costly, too. The story Griffin was talking about was one of Cillian O’Gorman’s. She had thought some of the quotes smelt a bit whiffy from the off. She’d even said so on the day and been disregarded. Had the weasel O’Gorman cocked up? Was he about to get them hammered for a fortune? She resisted the urge to indulge her curiosity, knowing that if she went down that road, Griffin might get defensive about his own role in the story and pull the shutters down on her completely. She was so caught up in the thought she didn’t notice him shifting in his chair impatiently.

  ‘Siobhan, what do you want? Like I said, the clock’s ticking.’

  ‘I need a contact in Aer Lingus,
someone high up who can access names on a passenger manifest.’

  Griffin raised a grey and bushy eyebrow, an eye fixing on her like a hawk spotting a flicker of prey far below. ‘I thought you had good people at Aer Lingus. You did that piece a couple of years ago, the one about the union ballot rigging, didn’t you, with what’s-her-name? Damn good story that.’

  ‘Eileen Daly, yeah. I tried earlier. She doesn’t have the right clearances. I don’t think her career’s exactly flourished since that story. I need somebody higher up, with access to the security side of things.’

  ‘I told you to take a rest,’ Griffin growled.

  ‘Yeah, and we both knew that was never going to happen. So do you know anyone or not?’

  Griffin rubbed his chin, intrigued. He knew Siobhan wouldn’t risk humiliating herself by coming in and begging a favour unless she was on to something. He knew her well enough for that.

  ‘I might do, but it’s not someone I’d approach lightly. I’d have to know what it’s in aid of first.’

  Siobhan beamed at him, knowing she had won the first round – getting her foot in the door. Some shameless flattery wouldn’t go amiss now. ‘Okay, so you were right. I did get something at Horgan’s funeral in Cork. So, please, don’t come over all “I told you so”, but I met this woman, or at least she approached me … ’

  They left by the main entrance, stepping out onto Wellington Quay, where a stream of heavy traffic thundered by between them and the granite quay walls. Solomons was walking back towards the Ha’penny Bridge, so they did their goodbyes and backslaps outside the hotel, and headed off themselves in the opposite direction. Across the river, beyond Grattan Bridge, the sun was melting the green copper dome of the Four Courts into the pale blue of the sky.

  ‘Were you thinking what I was thinking in there?’ Mulcahy asked Ford, checking over his shoulder that Solomons wasn’t coming after them for any reason.

  ‘What?’ Ford said. ‘That there’s some mad Colombian cunt going round blowing chunks out of kingpins and the Brits can’t pretend to be even a little bit happy about it? Too feckin’ right I was.’