Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  Crozier swung a fist, throwing Rankin back, still clutching the knife. Rankin tumbled over the chair, disappeared from view. Crozier put a big hand to his side, pulled it away, examined the bright red on his fingers. He staggered back until he met the wall.

  Lennon opened the glovebox and grabbed the Glock 17 and the wallet with his ID. He threw the door open and stepped out. He shoved the wallet down into his pocket and pressed the Glock against his thigh. He ducked into the traffic, his gaze fixed on the window, adrenalin crackling through him, sending sparks to his fingertips.

  Rankin reappeared, clambered over the chair towards Crozier. The bigger man put his hands up, but too slow. The blade punctured his neck.

  A car horn blared and tyres squealed as Lennon crossed the road. A woman screamed inside the café. Lennon raised the Glock. Crozier slid down the tiled wall, Rankin over him, the knife ready to come down again.

  Lennon hit the door shoulder first, raised the Glock and aimed to where Crozier lay bleeding. No Rankin. The woman screamed again. Lennon wheeled the gun around, saw Rankin seize Sylvia’s hair, bring the blade to her throat. Sylvia gasped, eyes wide behind thick glasses. Rankin held her close.

  Lennon pulled his wallet and flipped it open. He showed Rankin the ID and tucked the wallet away again. He levelled the pistol, left hand supporting the right, shoulders set for the recoil.

  ‘Let her go, Andy,’ Lennon said.

  Rankin back-pedalled, dragging Sylvia with him by her hair. He glanced over his shoulder and guided her behind the counter towards the rear door.

  ‘Don’t, Andy,’ Lennon said as he followed. ‘The alley’s closed off. There’s walls at either end. You can’t go anywhere.’

  Rankin pulled Sylvia tight to him, the blade up under her chin. Lennon saw red on her skin. He couldn’t tell if it was Crozier’s blood or hers.

  ‘Oh Jesus help me,’ Sylvia said.

  ‘You’re all right, Sylvia,’ Lennon said as he reached the counter. He gave her the easiest smile he could manage. ‘Andy’s not going to hurt you. Everyone round here likes you too much. Where’d they go for their fish and chips if anything happened to you, eh? No more pasties, no more sausage suppers. Everyone knows Sylvia does the best feed in town, right? Right?’

  Sylvia didn’t answer as Rankin backed towards the door.

  ‘How’s that going to go down around here if Andy hurts you, eh? He won’t be able to show his face. Come on, Andy, let her go. We can sort it out. Crozier’s still breathing. Don’t make it worse.’

  Lennon searched for some sign of doubt or panic on Rankin’s face, found nothing but dead eyes set in his tanned skin.

  ‘I’ll cut this old bitch open,’ Rankin said, his lips moving against her dyed hair. ‘Don’t think I won’t.’

  ‘No,’ Lennon said, taking a step closer. You’re not that stupid. Everyone knows how smart you are, right? You can’t get away. Even if you could, where would you run to? This isn’t the Dandy Andy we all know.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ Rankin pointed the blade at Lennon. ‘Nobody calls me that to my face.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Lennon said. He raised his hands, the Glock aimed at the ceiling, in apology. ‘I didn’t think. I’m not a thinker like you. You’re the smart one in your crew, that’s how you got where you are today, right?’

  Rankin brought the blade back to Sylvia’s throat. ‘Don’t come any closer.’

  Lennon stopped. ‘You know you can’t go anywhere. You know you can’t hurt Sylvia. You’re too smart to do that. It’s time to think, Andy. What’s the best thing to do? What’s the smart thing to do?’

  ‘Christ,’ Rankin said. The death slipped from his eyes. Fear replaced it, childish panic, reason about to flee.

  ‘Easy, Andy,’ Lennon said. He held his hands out to his sides, the Glock aimed towards the hotplates and fryers at the back of the open kitchen. ‘Take a few breaths, all right? Let’s be calm about this. Let’s be smart.’

  Rankin gulped air, and the sanity returned to his face. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘How do we get out of this?’

  ‘Let Sylvia go for a start,’ Lennon said. ‘Then put the knife down.’

  Streets away, a siren wailed.

  ‘They’ll be here soon,’ Lennon said. ‘Best if we’re all calm by then, eh? You and me just sitting at a table waiting for them, right? ’Cause if they come storming in with you and me facing off like this, it could get tricky. Right?’

  Rankin looked to the windows at the front of the café. His mouth curled as the panic threatened to take him again. Dead calm overcame it.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘Good man,’ Lennon said. ‘Now, just let go—’

  Rankin shoved Sylvia at Lennon. The top of her head cracked against his chin. They both tumbled backwards. Lennon grabbed the counter with one hand, reclaimed his balance, cradled Sylvia with the other arm. A cool draught washed around them from the open door as Rankin vanished through it.

  Lennon gathered Sylvia to him. ‘You all right?’

  She gawped at him through her crooked glasses, her mouth opening and closing.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, forgetting Rankin for a moment. Even if the prick got out of the alley, he’d be lifted in no time. Sylvia was more important right now. He lowered her to the floor, her back against the rear of the counter. ‘Deep breaths. You’re all right.’

  Lennon went to rise, but she clutched at his shoulders. He crouched beside her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘You’re safe,’ he said.

  He stood, looked at Crozier’s bloodied form propped against the wall. The Loyalist’s shoulders rose and fell as he moaned. He’ll live, Lennon thought. He went for the door and the alley beyond, Glock up and forward.

  Rankin clung to the wall at the northern end of the alley, grunting as he tried to haul himself up.

  ‘You should’ve used the wheelie bin,’ Lennon called.

  Rankin dropped the two or three feet to the ground and turned.

  ‘It’s right here,’ Lennon said, indicating the plastic bin by the door. ‘You could’ve put it up against the wall, climbed on top, and you’d have been away.’

  Rankin pressed his back against the brickwork. His breath came in hard rasps, his eyes bulging. He still held the knife in his right hand.

  ‘Why’d you have to scare poor Sylvia like that?’ Lennon asked. He stopped a few feet from Rankin. ‘You can knife shit-bags like Rodney Crozier all day long for all I care, but putting the frighteners on a nice lady like Sylvia? That’s not on.’

  Rankin raised the knife. Sweat beaded on his forehead. ‘You keep away from me.’

  ‘Or what?’

  The siren drew close, another not far behind it.

  ‘Stay back,’ Rankin said. He grimaced and hissed through his teeth. His face reddened.

  ‘Or what, Andy?’

  ‘Or …’ Rankin dropped the knife and clutched his left arm with his right hand. He went down on one knee. His hands went to his sternum as if trying to hold his heart in place. His jaw muscles bunched and bulged as his face went from red to purple. ‘Fuck me,’ he said between gritted teeth.

  He hit the ground face first.

  ‘Jesus,’ Lennon said.

  3

  The Traveller followed Orla O’Kane along the wide corridor. She had thick ankles. Her blocky heels made dull thuds on the carpet. A property developer by profession, she buried her father’s money in houses, hotels and office blocks. Most likely some of it went into this building, a mansion outside Drogheda, the former home to a British landowner, now converted to a private convalescent home.

  He couldn’t help but be impressed when he drove up the gravel driveway, cutting between lawns and landscaped gardens, the house standing three storeys high up ahead. The River Boyne ran behind it, the tall pylon of the new cable-stayed bridge carrying motorway traffic across the water visible above the treetops perhaps half a mile away.

  The rest of t
he building had been cleared; all the rooms were empty. He’d seen one cleaner and one nurse in the grand entrance hall. A few men loitered around the grounds and in the corridors, but they certainly weren’t medical staff, with their watchful eyes and bulges in their jackets.

  ‘Does he pay a lot of medical insurance, your da?’ the Traveller asked.

  She stopped, clicking her heels together. Christ, she had a big arse on her. Broad across the shoulders, too. Her business suit did its best for her, but she was a big lass, there was no hiding it. Not a bad face, though.

  ‘He values his privacy,’ she said over her shoulder. She had the hard consonants of a woman used to being listened to, not questioned.

  The Traveller smiled at her. If she’d been anyone else’s daughter, he might have had a crack at her. She’d be a good ride, he could tell, the hard-nosed ones always were. But this one was too dangerous.

  He followed her along a first floor hall in the east wing. She walked to the second-last door on the left. A grunt from inside the room greeted her knock. She opened the door and waved the Traveller through.

  Bull O’Kane sat in the corner, tall sash windows on either side of him. A neat lawn edged by copses led to a high wall perhaps forty yards beyond the glass. The river flowed on the other side.

  The daughter cleared her throat. ‘I’ll be outside if you need me, Da.’

  O’Kane smiled. ‘All right, love.’

  A draught cooled the Traveller’s back as the door swished closed.

  ‘She’s a good girl,’ O’Kane said. ‘Smart as a whip. Can’t keep a man, though. Always goes for gobshites.’

  The Traveller walked to one of the windows. ‘Quite a view,’ he said. A heron waded in the shallows across the rain-swollen river. ‘Good fishing here, I bet. Salmon, trout. I should’ve brought my rod.’

  ‘You don’t look like a knacker,’ O’Kane said.

  The Traveller turned to face him. ‘And you don’t look like you could afford a room in this place, let alone the whole lot of it.’

  O’Kane sat with his feet up on a stool, a blanket covering his lap down to his ankles. He had a faecal smell about him. The Traveller had heard the old man took a shot to the knee and another to his belly, damaging his bowel. O’Kane wore a bag now, and would do for the rest of his days. He was thinner than the Traveller had imagined, frailer than a photograph he’d seen. Age was catching up with him, spurred on by his injuries, but his eyes still burned hard.

  ‘Someone told me your real name’s Oliver Turley,’ O’Kane said. ‘Is that right?’

  The Traveller sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Might be. Might not. I’ve been called lots of things. Smith, Murphy, Tomalty, Meehan, Gorman, Maher, I could go on.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘There’s some people say I’m not even really a Pavee.’

  A dead mask covered O’Kane’s face. ‘Don’t get smart with me, son. I’m a serious man. Don’t forget that. I’ll only warn you the once.’

  The Traveller leaned back and nodded. ‘Fair enough. But I’m a serious man too, and I don’t like answering questions. You’ll know as much about me as I want you to know.’

  O’Kane studied him for a moment. ‘Fair enough. I don’t care if you’re a gypsy, a traveller, a knacker, a tinker, or whatever the fuck you lot call yourselves these days. All I care about is the job I need doing. Are you the boy for it?’

  ‘I’d have thought a man like you has plenty of boys to do his dirty work for him.’

  O’Kane shook his head. ‘Not this job. I can’t have anyone connected to me involved. And it needs done right. Quiet, like. No fuss, no bother.’

  ‘All right,’ the Traveller said. ‘So, what is it?’

  O’Kane’s face darkened. ‘Only a handful of people know what I’m going to tell you. You do this job right, it’ll be just you and me knows the whole story. You’ll be paid well to keep quiet once it’s done. Big money. But if I ever hear a whisper of it down the line …’ O’Kane smiled. ‘Well, I won’t be looking for a refund. Understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ the Traveller said.

  O’Kane pointed to a file on the bedside locker. The Traveller reached for it. He removed loose sheets of paper, photocopies, computer printouts. Some pages had photographs, others blocks of text.

  ‘I don’t read,’ the Traveller said.

  O’Kane eyed him. ‘Don’t or can’t?’

  The Traveller spread the pages on the bed beside him. ‘A couple of people thought that made me stupid,’ he said. ‘They don’t think much of anything nowadays.’

  O’Kane clicked his tongue against his lower lip three times. He started talking. He talked about the madman Gerry Fegan, how he’d been driven by figments of his drink-addled imagination to kill Michael McKenna, Vincie Caffola, a crooked cop, and O’Kane’s cousin, Father Eammon Coulter. He talked about the politician Paul McGinty’s botched attempts to contain it, how they’d made things worse, costing more lives, including McGinty’s own. It had ended in a bloodbath at an old farm near Middletown, O’Kane’s son dead, shot by a traitorous ex-soldier called Davy Campbell, and the old man injured.

  Fegan got away clean, taking Marie McKenna and her child with him. They had vanished into thin air, it seemed. Aside from O’Kane, two survivors from the scene remained: McGinty’s driver, and Kevin Malloy, one of O’Kane’s boys. Malloy was hit in the gut and the chest. The driver Quigley had taken O’Kane and Malloy to a hospital in Dundalk, saving both their lives.

  ‘This needs to go away,’ O’Kane said. ‘The Brits, Dublin, the boys in Belfast; they all want it cleaned up.’

  ‘They said it was a feud,’ the Traveller said. ‘On the news. They said those three dissidents ambushed McGinty at the farm.’

  ‘The Brits put that together,’ O’Kane said. ‘They got McSorley and his boys at the border. They planted the guns in the car, made it look like they’d blown themselves up with their own bomb. Lovely job, it was.’

  The Traveller nodded. He couldn’t deny he was impressed. ‘But that’s not all, is it?’ he asked. ‘There’s too many people in the know.’

  ‘Quigley and Malloy,’ O’Kane said. ‘I want them gone, and so do the Brits. And there’s a lawyer, Patsy Toner. Get rid of him, too. The Brits will turn a blind eye. They’ll make sure the investigation turns nothing up. They’ve as much to lose as anyone.’

  The Traveller folded his arms across his chest. ‘But any arsehole could do those three. That’s not why you need me.’

  ‘I want Fegan,’ O’Kane said. ‘I want him brought to me alive.’ He pointed a thick finger to emphasise the point. ‘Alive. He’s no good to me if he’s not breathing, you understand? Nobody knows where he went. You’ll have to draw him out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Marie McKenna and her child. The cops have them hidden, but there’s been a bit of luck.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that, then?’

  ‘Marie McKenna’s father had a stroke last week. He’s lucky to be alive, or maybe unlucky, depending how you look at it. He’s in a bad way. I’m told there’s a good chance he’ll have another one before he recovers, and it’ll probably do for him.’

  ‘So you reckon she’ll come out of hiding to go and see him,’ the Traveller said. ‘Her and the kid’ll show themselves.’

  O’Kane tilted his head. ‘I’m told you’ve no problems doing women and children. Is that right?’

  The Traveller shrugged. ‘Depends on the money,’ he said.

  4

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ Orla said to her father after one of the men had escorted the Traveller out. ‘Them gypsies are all the same. They’d thieve the breath from you if you let them.’

  ‘Trust’s got nothing to do with it,’ the Bull said.

  The visitor gone, he shrank back into the chair, grew somehow smaller.

  It still tore at her. He’d seemed a giant when she was a child, whether his hard hands were gathering her to him or slapping her around the ears. While other men seemed to diminish in size
as she grew up, her father remained as big. It wasn’t just the height and breadth of him, though they were impressive. His size came from within; he was a giant of the soul, the boss of everything. But now he was smaller, like someone had sucked the giant out of him and left only the skin and bones behind.

  That someone was Gerry Fegan, and even to think his name forced hate to swell in her breast. But she was a practical woman, always had been. While her brothers pissed away their youth living off their father’s name, she had strived to make herself worthy of it.

  ‘Do you want back into bed?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, love,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’

  Orla went to him, slipped her arms under his. He linked his hands behind her neck, and they grunted together as she hoisted him up.

  ‘Easy, now,’ she said as he lowered his damaged leg, the blanket spilling away. He hissed as his foot settled on the floor.

  Only a few months before, the very idea of lifting him would have been absurd, even as broad and strong as she was. But with the giant hollowed out of him, she could manage it, barely.

  Orla back-pedalled, letting him take tiny baby steps as he followed her momentum. She felt the edge of the bed against her thighs and turned him. He sagged onto the mattress, and the bed groaned. She scooped up his legs and swung them up and over the blankets. He gasped and cursed.

  ‘There, now,’ she said. ‘Lie back.’

  He did as he was told and settled into the mound of pillows. Sweat glistened on his blotched forehead. She fetched a cup of water and held it to his lips, then dabbed at the dribbles on his chin with a tissue. The softness of the flesh made tears climb up from her throat. She swallowed them.

  ‘I don’t like him,’ she said.

  ‘He’s the best,’ her father said. ‘Doesn’t matter if you like him or not. I’m paying him to do a job, not to be your friend.’

  ‘You don’t need him for Toner and the rest of them.’ She dropped the cup and the tissue into the wastepaper bin. ‘Any fucker could do them.’