Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Answer me.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said, his voice a watery croak.

  ‘Are you loyal to your friends? Your family? Your neighbours?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.

  ‘Shit-bags like you,’ Lennon said. You steal off your own people, you intimidate them, you keep them quiet with your threats and all this bullyboy shit. You don’t give a fuck about anything but trying to be the big men, lining your pockets, leeching off your own community. And you can call yourselves Loyalists because the arse-wipes who should be keeping you in line haven’t got the brains or the balls to do it. And people wonder why the Republicans ran rings around your lot all these years.’

  ‘Please,’ Darren whined.

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Please don’t shoot me.’

  Pity and contempt and anger fought one another in Lennon’s gut. ‘Give me one good reason.’

  Darren’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for something that could save his life. ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ he said, his face contorting like a child desperate to escape punishment.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Darren said.

  Lennon’s laughter died in his mouth, dry like paper. ‘Cunts like you made sure there was no one left around here to go to the cops, to speak up. No one sees anything, no one hears anything. You know what that means?’

  Darren shook his head as best he could. His trembling grew to a crescendo, his weight pressing harder against Lennon’s grip. His legs would go soon, Lennon could sense it.

  ‘It means I could blow what little brains you have all over that wall, and no fucker would know a thing about it. Nobody to hear it, nobody to see it. And do you think your mates would stick their necks out and go to the cops?’

  Darren sniffed a line of snot back up his nose. ‘No,’ he said. His weight shifted forward, and Lennon pushed him back.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  Darren stumbled backwards until he hit the wall. He stared at Lennon, his chest heaving, his eyes wide.

  ‘Go on, fuck off,’ Lennon said as he tucked the Glock away.

  Darren retreated, shambling at first, then gathering speed. When he was ten feet away, he put his head down and sprinted as fast as his bulk would allow. He didn’t get far before he tripped and landed face first on the pavement. Lennon grimaced as the boy puked. Darren picked himself up and lurched off again.

  Arsehole,’ Lennon whispered to himself as the boy rounded the corner. ‘Fucking stupid arsehole.’

  He couldn’t be sure if he meant himself or Darren.

  36

  The Traveller shut off the taps when the water reached the overflow. Its surface rippled as the last drops hit. He dipped his hand below the surface. Cold. He stood up from the edge of the bathtub and turned out the light. There was just enough room behind the door for him to stand unseen.

  How long could he stand in one place? The longest had been almost four hours, in the corner of an accountant’s office. He didn’t even have to touch the poor fucker; the accountant keeled over, his heart stopped dead in his chest, at the sight of the Traveller rushing at him from out of the shadow. Easy kill, but the waiting had been a bastard.

  Could he wait more than four hours, standing still? He thought so. He rarely got bored. He wasn’t much of a thinker, but still, his mind could amuse itself for a long, long time. He could remember people he’d known, some he’d fucked, some he’d killed. He could think of Sofia and the baby he planned to give her.

  Instead, he thought about Gerry Fegan. The Bull had shown him a photograph. Fegan was thin and wiry, like the Traveller, with a hard, pointed face. He wondered how many Fegan had killed. There were the twelve he’d been put away for, and then that spree a few months ago. How many had that been? Four in the city, then two on the farm near Middletown – a British agent and the politician Paul McGinty. That made eighteen. The Traveller had killed twice as many, and more.

  Was he afraid of Fegan? Probably, but that was no bad thing. Orla O’Kane blustered about her father being scared of no man, except the great Gerry Fegan, but the Traveller knew it was just that: bluster. The man who feared nothing was the man looking to get himself killed. It was what you did with your fear that really counted. The Traveller turned his to anger and hate, things he could use to get the job done. And the job was more important than anything.

  The Traveller closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and waited.

  An hour, maybe a little more, passed before he heard the bleep of the keycard in the slot, followed by the clunk of the lock opening. He listened hard, pictured Patsy Toner entering and closing the door behind him.

  The little lawyer breathed hard as he crossed the room, his feet dragging on the cheap carpet. The Traveller heard the rustling of fabric as he removed clothing, probably his jacket, then the thumps of his shoes being kicked off. The mattress groaned. A lighter sparked, air was sucked in and blown out. A few moments later, the Traveller caught the bitter stink of a cigarette. Then sobbing, dry and pitiful, the sound of the wounded and dying. The Traveller knew it well. A deep, wet sniff, and then a cough. The creak of weight lifting from the mattress, the padding of socked feet on carpet.

  The bathroom light clicked on, and the Traveller squinted. From behind the open door, he heard the toilet lid lift, and Toner’s fly opening. He’d let the poor shite finish pissing before he moved, let him get his cock put away.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,’ Toner whispered to himself before he was rewarded with the thunder of water on water. He sighed, the sound of it hollow against the bathroom’s tiles. The Traveller smelled a sour blend of alcohol and tobacco. He listened to the last drops, then the rustling of fabric, the fly closing, and the toilet flush.

  Then a pause, followed by, ‘What the fuck?’

  The Traveller gently, quietly pushed the door back.

  Patsy Toner stared down at the bathtub full of water, his drunken eyes blinking as if it would make sense if he only tried a little harder. He turned his head and he saw the Traveller watching.

  ‘No,’ Patsy Toner said, his voice so small it was almost lost beneath the noise of the cistern filling.

  The Traveller let the anger and hate take control, let it push him forward, took his speed from it. Toner barely had time to raise his hands and grab the breath for a scream that never came. It died in his throat as the Traveller slammed his forehead into the mirror above the bath, leaving a bloody star on the cracked surface. Pieces of reflective glass dropped into the water, turning through the swirls of red.

  Toner’s legs left him, and the Traveller let the lawyer’s weight pull him head first into the water. He gripped the back of Toner’s neck with one hand, his wrist with the other.

  Nothing happened for a while, just spidery threads of crimson spreading out and dissolving among the bubbles.

  Then Toner jerked.

  Then Toner bucked.

  Then Toner screamed beneath the water.

  37

  ‘Bonjou, Gerry,’ Pyè said.

  Fegan put his half-eaten slice of toast back on the plate. Pyè slid into the booth beside him. The Doyles’ driver took a stool at the counter. It was early; only two others ate in the diner. A waitress dozed at a table.

  ‘You a bad man.’ Pyè wagged a finger at Fegan. ‘Real bad man. Ou moun fou, a crazy motherfucker. Doyles, they tell me all evil shit you do. You malad, in head.’ Pyè tapped his temple with his forefinger.

  Fegan wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘So what now?’

  You come with mwen,’ Pyè said. ‘Go see Doyles. They waiting in machin la.’ He jerked his thumb at the car idling outside, its windows darkened.

  Pyè slid out of the booth and put his hand on Fegan’s shoulder. ‘Come, Gerry.’

  Fegan put the napkin on his plate and pushed it away. ‘I’ll kill you all if I have to,’ he said.

  Pyè smiled. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. Come.’


  Fegan followed him out to the car, the driver coming behind. Pyè stopped and put a hand on Fegan’s chest. He slipped his hands around Fegan’s torso, feeling under his arms and behind his back.

  ‘I’m not armed,’ Fegan said. He’d left the gun he’d seized in the alleyway back at the motel.

  ‘Mwen look anyways,’ Pyè said.

  He crouched and ran his hands up and down Fegan’s legs before dipping into his pockets. He found a wallet first, and then the mobile phone.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘My phone,’ Fegan said. ‘I need it.’

  Pyè laughed. ‘You need anyen, Gerry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You need nothing.’ Pyè dropped the phone to the ground. It bounced and rattled. Its screen fractured.

  ‘Don’t,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè raised his foot, ready to bring it down on the phone. Fegan formed his knuckles into a sharp line and stabbed at his Adam’s apple. Pyè fell against the car and crumpled to the ground, coughing, his eyes wide.

  ‘I said don’t.’

  Pyè blinked and gasped as he tried to get his feet under him. A thick-fingered hand grabbed Fegan’s shoulder, tried to turn him around. Fegan grabbed the wrist with his left hand, turned inside the big man’s reach, felt the nose crunch against his elbow, a warm spatter on his face as the blood came. Two more blows and the driver went down, cracked the back of his head on the ground.

  Fegan turned back to Pyè. The Haitian gasped as his trachea swelled from the blow, his feet scrambling for purchase.

  ‘Stay down,’ Fegan said.

  Pyè reached behind his back, grasping for something. He got one foot under him, began to rise. Fegan’s foot connected with his jaw, and Pyè sprawled in the gutter between the car and the pavement, a pistol clattering at his side.

  Fegan picked up his phone, turned it in his hands, looked at the cracked screen, put it in his pocket along with his wallet. He reached for the gun, a semi-automatic. He aimed at the darkened rear window. ‘Open it,’ he said.

  Nothing.

  Fegan stepped closer and tapped the glass with the pistol’s muzzle. ‘Open it,’ he said.

  The vague forms of two men sat still inside.

  Fegan struck the glass with the butt of the gun. It held. Two more blows and it shattered, fragments peppering the two men inside.

  Frankie and Packie Doyle stared back at Fegan, their hands raised.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Fegan said. ‘If you come after me again, I’ll kill you both. Do you understand?’

  The Doyles sat frozen.

  Fegan pressed the muzzle against Packie Doyle’s cheek. ‘Do you understand?’

  Packie nodded. Frankie said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Get Pyè to a hospital,’ Fegan said. ‘He might die. Do you understand?’

  Frankie nodded. Packie said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Fegan said. He tucked the pistol into his pocket alongside the phone as he walked away.

  38

  ‘Get out of here,’ DCI Gordon said.

  ‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I want to examine the scene.’

  ‘Scene?’ Gordon said, blocking the doorway. ‘There’s no scene. It was an accident. He was drunk, he slipped and cracked his head open.’

  Hotel guests hovered in the corridor, watching the comings and goings of paramedics and police.

  ‘Someone tried to kill him two days ago,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Gordon said. ‘A woman was assaulted in his building. It had nothing to do with him. A coincidence.’

  ‘Someone came to get him. He told me,’ Lennon said. ‘He saw them.’

  ‘He told you?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here,’ Lennon said. ‘Downstairs, in the beer garden. He called my mobile, said he needed to talk to me. He was scared shitless.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Gordon said. ‘He was drunk, slipped, that’s all there is to it.’

  Lennon stared at Gordon, tried to read the lines of his face. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘Easy, son.’

  ‘You know there’s more to it,’ Lennon said. ‘We know there was a threat against him, that he was scared of someone. You can’t pretend—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Gordon said.

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’ Gordon grabbed Lennon’s sleeve and pulled him along the corridor until they reached a quiet corner by the fire exit. He put a hand on Lennon’s chest and pressed him against the wall.

  ‘Now, listen to me, son, your career depends on it.’ Gordon looked along the corridor for eavesdroppers, then back to Lennon. ‘Mr Toner was of interest to Special Branch. When someone is of interest to Special Branch, they call the shots. Their officers have already inspected the scene and declared it an accident. And you know what that means?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That means it was an accident. No matter what you think, no matter what I think, it was an accident. End of story.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, I can’t—’

  ‘Leave it alone, son,’ Gordon said, prodding Lennon’s chest with his finger. ‘What in the name of God were you doing talking to Toner in the first place? First you were harassing that landlord on Wellesley Avenue, then—’

  ‘I wasn’t harassing anyone, I just—’

  Gordon pushed him, hard. ‘Shut your bloody mouth. You’re on thin ice here as it is. Don’t make it any worse. Keep quiet about talking to Toner. Don’t mention it to anyone. If Dan Hewitt or anyone else in Special Branch gets wind of it, you’ll be out on your arse. You don’t mess about with those boys, you don’t get in their way, and you don’t step on their toes. Do you hear me?’

  Lennon breathed deep to quash his anger.

  Gordon said, ‘Do you hear me?’

  Lennon closed his eyes, clenched his fists. He opened his eyes again and stared hard at Gordon. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Good.’ Gordon stepped back and straightened his tie. ‘Now listen, you need to head back to Ladas Drive. There’s real work to do, no more of this pissing about.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘I need you to prep an interview for me.’

  ‘An interview? Who?’

  ‘The other kid,’ Gordon said. ‘I got the call just before you arrived.’

  ‘What other kid?’

  ‘He handed himself in this morning,’ Gordon said, smiling. ‘The other kid who was at Declan Quigley’s house the night he was killed. The one we’ve been looking for. I need you to pull together all the notes, all the photographs, everything we’ve got on the Quigley killing. I want pictures of his mate with his neck broken, that knife in his hand. I’ll be done here in an hour, and I want it all waiting for me when I interview him. I want to wave those photos under his nose, scare the living daylights out of him. I want a confession before the end of the day. So, what are you waiting for? Get going.’

  Lennon put pages and photos together into piles on Gordon’s desk, the pictures on one side, the notes on the other. The photograph of Brendan Houlihan lay on top, the boy staring back at him with dead eyes. His hand lay at his side, tucked beneath his thigh, a blade just visible between his fingers and the fabric of his tracksuit bottoms. The dirt on his other side, where it shouldn’t have been.

  ‘Too easy,’ Lennon said.

  He stood there, his eyes closed, running it over in his head. No, it was a stupid idea, he’d be in deep shit. He lifted the desk phone anyway, dialled the duty officer.

  ‘Is the kid in the interview room yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the duty officer said. ‘The solicitor just arrived to look after him. They’re ready to go as soon as DCI Gordon gets back.’

  ‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘DCI Gordon just called me.’

  ‘Did he? I didn’t put him—’

  ‘On my mobile. He
’s been held up. I’ve to go ahead with the interview.’

  The duty officer remained silent for a few seconds, then said, ‘And?’

  ‘And that’s all.’ Lennon fought the quiver in his voice. ‘I’m doing the interview.’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ the duty officer said, and the line clicked dead in Lennon’s ear.

  * * *

  Colm Devine, eighteen, pale and terrified. He fiddled with the discarded cellophane wrapping from the cassette tape he’d just inspected in an effort to hide the trembling. He failed. Edwin Speers, the duty solicitor, sat beside him. He looked bored.

  Lennon peeled the cellophane from the second cassette case, took the tape from the box, and inserted it in the recorder. He hit record, and the twin decks whirred.

  Devine stared at the tabletop as Lennon went through the formalities of rights and warnings required for an interview under caution. The solicitor picked dirt from beneath his fingernails.

  Lennon took a pen, ready to make notes. ‘You know why you’re here, Colm.’

  Devine croaked, tried again. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘Then you know how serious this is.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Devine said.

  ‘You were a friend of Brendan Houlihan, who was found dead at the scene of a murder of another man, Declan Quigley, three nights ago.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Devine said.

  ‘Were you with Brendan Houlihan on the night he died?’

  Devine hesitated. Speers put a hand on his skinny forearm. ‘No comment,’ Devine said.

  Lennon glanced at the solicitor.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Brendan Houlihan?’

  ‘No comment,’ Devine said.

  ‘Were you with a group of youths who were involved in a fight at the intersection of the Lower Ormeau Road and Donegall Pass on the night Brendan Houlihan died?’

  ‘No comment,’ Devine said.

  Lennon put the pen down. ‘Colm, did Mr Speers here tell you to say “no comment” to everything?’

  Devine swallowed. No comment.’

  Lennon stared hard at Speers. ‘I’m guessing he did. Do you know why he did that?’

  Speers coughed and fidgeted.