The Silence

by Linda Tweedie

  For years there had been a bone of contention between the two partners. Frank wanted to cut back, to pay less for the services, and Pete had always refused. They used Reg Galloway, one of the best forgers around, but also one of the most expensive. Reg was old school and the fact that he had never had as much as a pull, stood testament to his work. It was certainly up to standard, enough to fool the Spanish authorities. But that one incident had forced Pete to come to a decision, one he had been mulling over since he’d taken over the Princess, and one that Canon Francis (he could never get used to calling him Frank) was not going to like.

  It was time to call it a day; he’d had enough, he wanted out, and he was finished. They’d had a good run for their money and the rewards had been phenomenal. But now, with the influx of Russian and Eastern Europeans entering the market, the price had come down considerably and rendered the huge risks hardly worth it. So, against Dianne’s wishes, he had invited his business partner over to Spain for what would hopefully be his last visit.

  As usual, the wily old coot was pleading poverty. That might work with anyone else, but Pete was well aware of how much money had been paid to him over the past ten years and it ran into hundreds of thousands. Their game had been so specialised and extremely lucrative that up until recently they could name their price. O’Farrell had to have stashed away enough to singlehandedy support the IRA. And if he hadn’t, it wasn’t Pete’s concern.

  Over the years Pete had built up a reasonable portfolio of legitimate businesses, and with the recently acquired Marbella Princess, (he’d made the previous owner an offer he couldn’t refuse), there was more than enough to support his lifestyle. He didn’t need the hassle or the exposure to danger that his procurement business involved.

  Dianne

  “I’m telling you, Pete, forget it. He’s been here twice this year already and I’m not skivvying after that old pervert again. I told you the last time, it’s him or me, so make up your mind,” Dianne screamed at him across the dining room table.

  “Okay, no contest, sweetheart. Go pack your bags.” Pete wiped the smirk right off her Botoxed face.

  It had always suited him to let folk think Dianne wore the trousers in their relationship. This was definitely not the case, and nobody, especially not her, would tell Pete Mack what to do. This ultimatum had been a long time brewing.

  “You can fuck right off, Mr Big Shot. The only one packing their bags here is you. Do you really think you can get rid of me that easy? Hey, I don’t think so.”

  “Look, Dianne, be reasonable. This is the last time, I promise. He and I have done a fair bit of business together over the years, that’s why he’s had to stay as our guest. But now that I’m closing the operation down, there will be no reason for him to visit. So be a good girl, shut your mouth, and soon he’ll be history, one way or another.”

  “Don’t you tell me to shut up, you wanker. Maybe I should start shouting my mouth off? Letting folks know what you two have really been getting up to, eh? What do you say to that, fuckwit?”

  “Don’t push your luck, you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that so, smart-arse? Do you really think I’ve not sussed out what the two of you have been importing and exporting since the get go? A bit of business? Believe me, I know enough, enough to send you and him on a very long holiday courtesy of Her Majesty.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you stupid mare, I don’t know what you think you know, but supplying a little bit of gear to pay the grocery bills isn’t going to put me away or him for that matter.”

  “A bit of gear, you are fucking joking. Let’s put it this way, you’ve always hated kids and how we managed to ever conceive Bobby is a miracle in itself. But since we came here and you teamed up with that dirty shagging priest you suddenly became the ‘Pied Piper’. Oh I know exactly what you’ve been up to, so you make up your mind. I’ll ask you again, him or me?”

  Pete stormed off the terrace, he had the greatest urge to put his hands round her scrawny throat and squeeze hard. He needed time to think, there was no way she was calling the shots, no way. Calm down, he drilled himself. Calm down and think this through.

  Did he want rid of Dianne? Of course he did but her disappearing just now would raise too many questions. Unfortunately, she was one of the leading lights in Marbella, and as the wife of the biggest club owner, she couldn’t just vanish. The answer was to send her back home to Scotland. Her mother and sister now lived way out in the sticks, a far cry from the city where they’d all grown up. It was unlikely she’d run into anyone from the old days but it was a chance he’d have to take.

  This should quieten her down for now, and give him the opportunity to sort out his other problem. Unlike Dianne, Frank’s disappearance wouldn’t cause a stir here. His random visits were unlikely to provoke any unwanted questions. Over in Glasgow, however, his disappearance would definitely cause quite an uproar, but thankfully there was nothing to connect him to Marbella. This was all hypothetical of course, his proverbial ‘Plan B’. Maybe Frank would just accept that the goose that laid the golden eggs was dead, but he didn’t think so.

  Coincidence

  “Come away in, Paddy, nice to see you.” Father Jack had been expecting his visitor and had had the housekeeper make up a tray for the two men.

  “Okay Mrs Gavin, that’ll be all, thanks. We can do for ourselves.” The priest ushered the reluctant house keeper out of the sitting room.

  “She’ll be desperate to report to himself what your visit is all about,” chuckled the priest.

  “Watch this.” As he threw the door wide, the miserable-faced old woman almost fell headlong into the room. “Was there something else, Mrs Gavin?”

  “No Father, I was just . . .”

  The ringing of the telephone saved the housekeeper from further embarrassment.

  “I’ll just get that, will I, Father?”

  “Yes, you do that and I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.” The priest retreated into the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The two men sat down opposite each other still grinning at the nerve of the woman.

  “Will I be mother?” smiled Father Jack, handing the delicate china cup and saucer to the big burly man.

  By God, they do well by themselves, thought Paddy. “So, Father, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve a bit of a dilemma and I have to say I’m not sure what I should do, or where to start.”

  “I’ve always found the beginning is the best place,” laughed Paddy. He was quite chuffed that the priest, for whatever reason, trusted him enough to ask for his help.

  “The trouble is, I wasn’t here at the beginning. But we’ll give it a go anyway. I’m damned sure you know that this church has been the stomping ground for practically every IRA fugitive at one time or another, since the ‘Troubles’ began, and all courtesy of Canon Francis O’Farrell.”

  Paddy gave a derisory snort at the mention of his name. “Aye, it’s the worst kept secret and has been for years,” said Paddy.

  “It has, son, yes it has, and as we’re nearly all sympathisers, rightly or wrongly, we have tended to turn a blind eye,” the priest went on. “Aye, and would probably have continued to do so.”

  “What’s changed then? Have the authorities got wind of your would-be students? ”

  “Och, I’m damned sure they’ve always known, but it suited them to ignore the situation. No, it’s closer to hand and far more serious, and as I said, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, it would help if we both knew what the problem is.”

  “That’s all very well, but once this is out there’s no going back, Paddy, and I’m not sure who’ll survive the fallout, but I can’t just ignore it. The drugs were different.”

  “Drugs, what drugs?” Paddy was all ears.

  “The drugs being dealt from within this parish by our illustrious guests.”

  “What? Are you trying to telling me that drugs are being dealt fr
om here? This church, bang in the middle of my turf, across the street from my mother and I don’t know about it?”

  “Paddy, it’s being going on since God knows when.”

  The big man was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the small sitting room, muttering under his breath.

  “Right. I want to know the lot, every last ounce of information.”

  “Well, that’s what you should be telling me, my boy, because according to my sources they claim to be working for the Coyles.”

  “I don’t fucking believe this. You’re telling me that these fuckers are dealing right under my nose?”

  “Look, Paddy, you can sort the dealing later, that’s not the reason I need help.”

  “Fuck, there’s more?” spluttered Paddy. “Don’t tell me, the nuns are turning tricks in the confessionals?”

  “Paddy, remember who you’re speaking to. I knew this was a bad idea,” said Father Jack rising to indicate the meeting was finished.

  “Oh no, you don’t get away that easy. I want to know the real reason for this little chat. What exactly has been going on? You may as well tell me, ‘cause there’ll be fucking ructions over this lot anyway.”

  “Maybe we should leave it for now? You’ve no idea how terrible the repercussions could be. I’m not even sure we can handle it ourselves.”

  “Father, I’m not leaving till you come clean and if it’s that sensitive, you won’t want my boys blundering through the chapel looking for Martin McGuiness and his cronies, because that’s what’s about to happen.”

  “Seriously, I don’t know how to start, or even if I’m right. What if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, what then? I’ll have opened a massive can of worms for no reason.”

  “Look, sit down and tell me,” an exasperated Paddy plonked the man in an armchair and sat down opposite.

  “Now, begin. What happened first?”

  “A phone call,” answered the priest.

  “Okay, you got a call or made a call?” This was going to be a long interview if he had to drag every sentence out of the old fella.

  “I got a call, but it wasn’t meant for me.”

  “Who was it meant for?”

  The fact that there were only officially three residents meant there was a limited choice of recipients.

  “Well, the caller was foreign and I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.”

  “And?”

  “I hung up. I thought it was a wrong number.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Frank, Canon O’Farrell . . .”

  “I know who Frank is. For the love of God, man, get on with it.”

  “Well, Frank came dashing in, in a hell of a stew, wanting to know who had phoned and what had been said. I told him it was a foreigner and was likely a wrong number, but he was so agitated. I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “And?”

  “Well, at the time I thought it odd, but nothing more than that. He was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Every time the phone rang he bolted for it. To be honest, I found it extremely entertaining and I made a point of getting in his way, or picking it up before he could get to it. This went on for most of the day. As I said, I thought it was odd, but nothing sinister and I certainly never expected what I discovered.”

  “A couple of days later I walked into the study to find him on the phone. He was extremely irate with the caller and was insisting that under no circumstances was the person to call him at this number again, it was too dangerous. As soon as he realised he wasn’t alone, he hung up and drivelled some rubbish about wrong numbers. Why would anyone threaten a wrong number? He was definitely threatening somebody and I assumed it was something to do with his house guests.”

  “He never gave any explanation?”

  “Explanation, Frank? Absolutely not. He’s above explaining himself, even God gets short shrift from our canon. “To be perfectly honest, whatever it was, I didn’t want involved, let them all get on with it. It was two or three weeks after, in fact our man had just left for Spain, when I took another call from the mysterious wrong number. I almost missed picking it up and the answer machine had kicked in and actually recorded the conversation.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It took a bit of time to understand what the call was all about and the guy on the other end obviously thought I was Frank.”

  “Have you still got the recording?”

  “Yes, I changed the cassette right away, just as a little insurance premium.”

  “So what was so terrifying about this phone call?” queried Paddy.

  “At first, nothing in particular. I thought it was something to do with an adoption which had somehow gone wrong. I was quite intrigued,” said the priest.

  “Aye, he always made a big thing about his involvement with the kids. I think he was expecting an OBE or something,” smiled Paddy. “As if. Personally, I wouldn’t trust the bugger as far as I could throw him.”

  “You’re not the only one who feels like that about him, trust me. Anyway, I listened to the recording a few times, but still didn’t understand what it was about. I knew there was something fishy going on.”

  “I decided to do a little detective work. It was perfect timing, with his lordship off on one of his jaunts, Mrs Gavin away in Ireland and no house guests. For the first time in heaven knows how long, I was actually in the house on my own, with just the daily woman for company and she’d left for the day.”

  “No room in a chapel house should be locked, there’s nothing to hide, but the influx of house guests from across the water, many with somewhat shady backgrounds was excuse enough for Frank to keep his rooms locked and he had the damned keys with him.”

  “I’m no burglar, but, come hell or high water, I was determined to get in and have a look around. I thought there had to be a spare key somewhere in this mausoleum. Well, someone up there was looking after me. I remembered seeing keys in a box in the safe and lo and behold, didn’t I strike lucky?”

  “Don’t tell me you found his stack of porn under the bed?”

  “If only.”

  The Hunt

  The men had been closeted for over two hours. Father Jack was completely exhausted at the end of the session, but by God, his opinion of the big man opposite him had changed dramatically. To be truthful, he had always regarded Paddy as nothing more than a big lump − an uneducated thug with a bit of veneer, having got to where he was by dint of his wife’s money and her connections. The priest had never really given him credit for having the nous to stay at the top once he’d reached there.

  This man was no lout, no brainless heavy. He was an astute businessman who could sum up a situation immediately, but who could also take a man out just as quickly. He was very dangerous and Father Jack knew he’d rather be on his side than against him. He would be thankful till the end of his days that Paddy Coyle regarded him as a friend and not an enemy.

  “So what did you find, D.I. Taggart? Had there ‘been a murder’?” Paddy goaded his companion.

  “Several, as it happens,” replied Father Jack.

  “Go on, man, you’re having a laugh, aren’t you?”

  “Believe me, I wish I was.”

  Father Jack, having gained access to his superior’s accommodation, had no real idea what he was looking for, but his gut feeling was that there must be a reason for the canon taking such measures to keep intruders out. What was he hiding? This was probably the only chance he would have to find out.

  In comparison to the rest of the house, these rooms were extremely well furnished. An expensive and comfortable Chesterfield, a couple of rugs which looked handwoven, and the television was a far cry from the old black and white thing he was forced to endure, but it was what was sitting in the corner that took his breath away: a sophisticated, high-tech, up to the minute computer.

  Father Jack would have staked this week’s collection that Canon Francis O’Farrell knew nothing about the world of computers, and if this was the case, what the hel
l was going on? Heaven above, Jack himself had no idea how to even turn it on. Well, that answered in part why the locked doors, but hey, there was more to this, of that he was absolutely sure.

  “I turned the place upside down, Paddy, but there wasn’t as much as a scrap of paper anywhere, not even the Catholic Times.”

  “What would he want with a computer?” Paddy himself had only just become familiar with the technology and he found it absurd that an elderly priest should be so up-to-date.

  “Not ‘just’ a computer, Paddy. You should see this, it wouldn’t look out of place in NASA.”

  “A bit over the top for writing his sermons, don’t you think?”

  “I do, but it gets even stranger.”

  There had to be more than a fancy suite and an up-to-date personal computer, but what? The rooms were almost clinical, with very few personal items, considering they had been occupied by the same man for twenty-odd years.

  Exasperated and confused, Father Jack made one last sweep. He pulled out drawers, checked the bottoms of all the furniture and just as he was about to give up, bingo! He came across a key taped to the underside of the computer station.

  “A key?” ventured Paddy. “What? A door key, a car key?”

  “Neither,” said the priest. “A fairly ordinary key like you would have for a money box, but it had what I thought was a serial number etched on to the barrel − AI 23 something − I can’t remember offhand.”

  “I think I know what type of key you found.”

  “Well, it took me a while to work it out. But then, I don’t live in a world of criminality or subterfuge.”

  “When did all this happen, by the way?” Paddy was intrigued by the priest’s tale.