I parked in the driveway. I was a prospective buyer, surely, to any of the other residents. I went into the back garden to check the wall that separated the only-a-bit-ghost estate from the fully-ghost estate. It was about eight or nine feet high, built with plain concrete cavity blocks, so there was no way to climb without something else as an interim step up.
I looked next door. Good old wheelie bins – one for general waste, another for recycling. I surveyed the back garden – clothes on the line: women’s, men’s and kids’; a playhouse for a boy, judging by the camouflage decoration; a doll’s head, with maybe the body taken hostage in the playhouse; but no dog, no car parked out front, no sign of anyone at home.
I climbed over the wall and checked out the wheelie bins. The general waste bin was quite full, but the recycling one was nearly empty. I dragged it to the wall and was able to lift it up and lower it gently to the ground on the other side to avoid startling any of the other neighbours who, despite having no view, might get spooked and investigate a noise.
I pushed the bin to the back wall and was able to climb on, though I had to hula my waist a bit to keep steady before grabbing the top of the wall.
A quick peek: O’Brien’s car a couple of hundred yards to my left, parked in front of a dilapidated shell of a semi-d. I climbed over and landed on my feet, making sure to keep the camera I was carrying safe. I cased the surroundings: no way back up over the wall. If O’Brien had left then, like if maybe he had only driven in to take a discreet piss, I would have been screwed.
The grass by the wall was high, like Savannah grass, only even wispier as it was dying off in the late Autumn. I had some cover when I crouched, so I carefully made my way to a nearby house for cover. It, too, was a shell. Walls, ceilings, a roof; but no doors, windows or drywalling. Just another skeleton left behind by a certain tiger.
I walked from the back of the house to the front room. Through a glassless window I could clearly see O’Brien’s car. I couldn’t see O’Brien. I would have to get closer if I could. I walked to the doorless front door frame, peeked out and … a car. A car raising dust as it approached – a jeep of some kind.
I stopped and returned to the front room. The car arrived – a Mitsubishi I believed – and parked behind O’Brien’s. There were two men in the car. They looked around and I ducked. I peeked back up to double-check my cover. I was fine, for now. I had my camera at the ready, powered up, no lens cover, no chance of missing the shot – I hoped.
The driver stayed in the car and the passenger got out. I would have guessed he was about fifteen stone, which hung about right on his six-foot-plus frame. He was wearing blue jeans and a brown leather jacket. There was an air of confidence about the way he walked, something in the way he held his shoulders back and danced his head about.
I took a few snaps, zoomed in as much as the camera would allow – five-times optical zoom sounded impressive until you needed to capture the wrinkles on someone’s face from a hundred yards. All I got was a side profile through the car door window and the back of his head – a full head of springy brown hair – as he walked to the house where I presumed O’Brien was waiting. I got a glimpse of O’Brien. He was waiting for the stranger in the front room, pacing about and fidgeting his hands.
This was as close as I was going to get. I kept my eye on the window through the camera’s viewfinder, darting over to the door occasionally. I saw a shoulder. It was the stranger’s. I caught a glimpse of something: a bag. Clear plastic, something shiny inside. O’Brien handed it to the stranger and I could not quite see what the stranger was doing with the bag, but he was definitely doing something with it.
I wasn’t sure if I got a shot of the bag and the exchange in time. Another glimpse: a handshake and O’Brien’s face from behind the stranger; he was smiling, but it looked forced. The stranger put the bag into his jacket pocket and went out of view. A couple of seconds later and he walked out the door. He got into the car and they left without delay, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
Inside, O’Brien came fully into view. He was walking around in a tight circle, kind of bouncing as he did, like he really did need to take a leak. He took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and lit it. He stopped circling, looked out the window, seemingly right at me for a moment, and took a long, deep drag. He closed his eyes and exhaled a long stream of smoke. I caught every bit of it on camera.
When he finished his cigarette, he flicked it out the window, red ash sparking in the air for a second. He left my sight for a moment before reappearing at the door. He paused briefly, inhaled so that I could see his chest rise, and moved towards his car.
I had a choice to make. I could tear back to my car, hope to catch up with him. Or I could believe that I had enough from whatever exchange had taken place. I remembered what I had promised myself: this was for myself, on my terms. I could run for the car and risk knackering a knee, or I could, at my leisure, walk back to the car and make the assumption that O’Brien was heading back to Churchfield. I took the easier option.
As I walked back to my car, I realized my pulse had been racing. I took some time to practice my breathing exercises. This is pleasant, most pleasant. An affirmation that I then believed.
Back at the car, I browsed through the thirty-seven photographs I had taken. A lot of blurred, out-of-focus stuff, but even from the two-inch screen I could see there was a gem or two among them. I’d need to get them onto a computer screen to be sure.
I drove back to Cork, drove up to Churchfield. O’Brien’s car was there. He didn’t move for the rest of the afternoon. At about seven o’clock he left, went home, and so did I. Sometimes things work out OK when you take the easy road.
5
Rope Ladders and Wrapping Paper
The next morning, after what I must admit was an excellent night’s sleep for once, I walked to the local Cash Converters to buy a laptop. Any old thing would have done, though the sales assistant – a pock-marked teenager with a bad haircut and a name tag that read oliver – tried to convince me that a tablet would also be a wise purchase.
I’d always thought that tablets were for headaches and commandments, but it seemed that a new computer had been invented for the saddos in society for whom a newspaper wasn’t enough. The assistant did, however, convince me to buy a printer and some paper. Carrying around a laptop just to show someone a picture wasn’t practical, so Acne Boy’s advice was most welcome.
Much to the sales guy’s annoyance, I went for the absolute cheapest second-hand laptop, case and colour printer I could see. I got him to explain how I could download the photographs from the digital camera and print them out. I forked out two-eighty in cash and walked home with the gear under my arms.
At home I looked through the photographs. Only about four of the photos were of any use. I had a photo where the exchange of the bag was fairly clear, though what exactly was in the bag was debatable. My guess was meth, but it could have been cocaine or even bread soda. I didn’t have O’Brien’s face in the exchange, but I had an arm. When matched to the arm in the photo I had of a seemingly relieved O’Brien, only the most cynical would have denied it was the same person.
The stranger was an important dynamic in all of this. If he could be identified, it would answer the question about O’Brien’s dealings in Limerick. The best photo I had of him was when he left the house and I could finally see his face, but there was some blurring.
Apparently the camera didn’t have image stabilisation, which, as Oliver in Cash Converters explained, is a prerequisite when taking photos on the move; but how was a technophobic relic like myself, who didn’t even own a computer, supposed to know.
The photo of the blurred stranger might have been enough, though. There were no distinguishing features on his face: no scars, tattoos, or moles. But given context – Limerick, drug-related dealings – a knowledgeable Guard might know. And Barry Cotter was pretty knowledgeable about these things.
The encounter with
Barry a few days ago had been an uncomfortable one. He’d not taken kindly to me talking to Jordan. Showing him the photo would be a risk.
Was he still my friend? We’d had each other’s backs enough in the past – admittedly him having mine more often than not – that I thought our friendship would survive anything. When a kid graffiti artist had lodged an official complaint about me slapping him around the back of the head, Barry backed me up. By the book was one thing, but the book didn’t extend to those in blue.
I arranged a meet with Barry in De Agostini’s cafe on Sheare Street at twelve – not too far from the Bridewell, but not exactly round the corner either, so probably no other Guards would be there.
I walked to Sheare Street, about a fifteen-minute walk from my house. I walked when I could. I might have been fat, but lazy I was not.
De Agostini’s had a cheery look about it. It was one of those continental-style cafes that a previous justice minister wanted to see being licenced more for alcoholic beverages; the idea was that a French-inspired wine-drinking culture would lead to a more relaxed approach to booze, cut down on binge drinking in pubs. The vintners lobby shot the idea to pieces.
De Agostini’s was an exception; it had a drinks licence. I asked the waiter to seat me at a table for two away from everyone else and asked him not to seat anyone nearby. It was a bit of an ask, but he was agreeable when I promised a large tip. I wouldn’t say the waiter was dirty, but it reminded me that everyone has a price.
I ordered a Peroni while I waited. Though not a craft beer, I like the sharpness of a cold Peroni. It makes it a more than tolerable mass market beer.
Barry arrived. I didn’t like his expression. I’d seen my mother wear it a few times and she could squeeze your heart with a flinch of her mouth or the wrinkle of a nose.
“Hi Barry,” I said.
He just nodded, didn’t speak.
“I want you to see –”
He cut me off.
“I don’t want to see whatever it is you have if it puts me in a compromised position. Is that clear?”
It was. And it had been my intention to leave Jordan well out of it. That meant no photo with even so much as the arm of O’Brien in it. I just had a single picture of a blurred Limerick man.
“Don’t worry, Barry. I have one photograph. If you don’t know who’s in it, I can just leave. Otherwise … well, otherwise maybe we can talk.”
Barry nodded again, looked over his shoulder to see who was around.
I took out the printed photograph. The printing process hadn’t done it any favours. Streaks ran across the page like the photo had been constructed from bits of other photographs, worse even than a photofit. I handed it to Barry.
“Fuck sake, Mick. I was expecting a photo and you give me this?”
“I’m not exactly Lord Litchfield. I’ll grant you that.”
Barry came close to laughing. “More like Lord Sutch.”
He studied the photograph. He didn’t seem to recognize him.
“I took that in Limerick,” I said. “Does that make a difference?”
Barry continued examining the page. A corner of his mouth elevated. “You know, I might know who this is,” he said. He didn’t look up from the page.
“Who, Barry?”
He brought a thumb and forefinger up to his chin, squeezed his stubble between them.
“There’s a new player in Limerick. He doesn’t run with the usual families there. I think he moved into Limerick from Ennis. He’s organized, if you know what I mean, in the sense that he runs a tight ship, doesn’t tolerate any messing around like the families.”
“A name, Barry.”
“If it’s this guy, he goes by Moose. His real name is Stephen Morrisroe.”
“What’s his poison?”
“Meth, mostly. Guns too. But he’s choosy about who he sells his guns to. Deals with guys around Dublin. No one likely to turn his guns back on him.”
“He’s serious, so.”
Barry finally looked up from the photo. He had this quizzing face on him that I knew. It was the same face he made when interrogating witnesses.
“As serious as cancer, Mick.”
I believed there was nothing more serious than that, so his point was driven home. Driven home in a hearse.
“Would you mind telling me why you have a photo of him?” Barry asked.
Before I could answer – and it would have taken a while for me to get my words in order – he answered the question himself.
“You know what, Mick? I don’t want to know. If you want to dig a hole in the ground for yourself, by all means do so. But don’t expect me to throw down a rope ladder when you can’t get back out of it.”
The waiter returned, asked if either of us wanted to order anything. I waved him away.
“I fell in that hole a few years ago, Barry. Guess what? It’s raining and I’m already waist deep in water.” I took a sip of Peroni. “What I need is a boat.”
I don’t think what I said made much sense to myself, let alone Barry. He shook his head.
“Speaking of holes in the ground … there’s a hole that’s going to have a new occupant in a cemetery somewhere sometime soon.”
For a second I thought he meant me. But he must have meant someone new had been killed.
“Who is it, Barry?”
“A guy by the name of Alan Brick. A small time hood from Bishopstown.”
I knew him. A little fart of a guy that people nicknamed Pebbles. About six years prior I had busted him for possession of ecstasy. He’d gotten off on a bullshit technicality. I’d heard he gained in confidence from the incident, thought that he was untouchable.
“Jesus. What happened to him?”
Barry seemed lost in thought, didn’t answer me.
“Barry?”
He was looking down at the oak table, as if studying an imperfection in the wood. “He … em … he was strangled.”
I had considered telling Barry about my connection to Brick. Now I’d leave him to figure that out for himself. Strangulation and I had history.
“That’s terrible, Barry. Hell of a way for someone to … I dunno, take revenge, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
I could see the waiter watching us, looking for the right moment to intervene with a menu.
“You want a drink, Barry?”
He shook his head. He took one last look at the Moose photo and handed it back to me.
“You need to give up this amateur PI stuff and try to resurrect your life.” His face became strained. “For God’s sake, Mick, you’re almost forty. You’re supposed to be in your prime.”
“I’m just doing this one thing,” I said. “Then I’ll sort myself out.”
Barry sighed. “It’s always just one thing. Then another. And another. Draw a line in the sand, Mick. Walk away from whatever it is and drive into the fucking sunset.”
But I couldn’t. You didn’t turn your back on The Gentleman. And I didn’t want to. For all his faults, Jordan had given my life purpose.
“Look, Mick, I’m supposed to be on duty. If I get spotted in here, I could easily get a reprimand for drinking tea on the job – even though I’m not.”
I thanked Barry for his time, for giving me his best guess at an ID. I tipped the waiter a tenner and left.
I went to the English Market on the way home. It was a detour I often made to get good quality artisan food: fresh fish, bread, organic vegetables and meats.
When I got home a man was standing at the door wearing a furry suit jacket. It was Halloran.
“A word, Bosco.”
“Mohair.”
“What?”
“You asked for a word. I’ve given you one: mohair.”
“I didn’t come here for your cheek, Bosco.”
“Then what part of my body did you come for?”
“Enough with your guff. I have some more questions for you. Let’s go inside.”
I opened the door.
“
I’ve nothing to say to you, Halloran.”
I tried to close the door, but Halloran put his shoulder to it before I could close it all the way. He stuck his face into the gap.
“Where were you on the morning of the tenth? The morning before the robbery.”
I didn’t bother taking the time to consider my whereabouts. I just responded, “I’m not answering any of your questions, Halloran.”
I shoved the door and it latched. Halloran thumped on the door.
“Bosco! Open up. I’m not done with you.”
I ignored him.
“Bosco!”
A minute later, I heard a car drive away. I went into the kitchen.
I put an Arbutus baguette on the counter and cut it in half. I couldn’t abide by the factory-produced instant bread you can find in any supermarket; it lacks the artistry of the Arbutus bread and its inner bubbles. The Arbutus keeps its form through the entire biting and chewing process and has a distinctive yeasty flavour – a talisman of the traditional baking process.
I had also bought some Gubbeen smoked cheese and Italian cured ham from the On The Pig’s Back stall. I further sliced the half baguette so that I could fold it over. I had some soft butter on the counter, so I spread that on both sides and lined one side with thickly sliced Gubbeen and the other with the cured ham. This was the real ham and cheese sandwich.
I made a cup of Barry’s Classic Blend and sat at the table. I took care to finish a sup of tea completely so that I would have a dry mouth to savour the sandwich. I took a bite. Irish, French and Italian in a single mouthful. It was magic.
I got my thoughts in order. What was Halloran on about with his “morning of the tenth” business? Was it something to do with planning the robbery? Seeing as I had nothing to do with it, I decided to think no more about it.
The Murk Beneath: A Cork Crime Novel (Mickey Bosco Series Book 1) Page 8