Collusion jli-2

by Stuart Neville

  She did not move as he entered. He drew nearer and saw the red pocks on her cheek. A brighter bloom of red above her right breast. She inhaled and coughed as she stared up at him, her eyes full of fear and hate.

  Beyond her, in the living room, the mobile phone rang again. Its screen doused the room in a dull blue glow. It inched across the coffee table as it vibrated.

  ‘Let me get that for you,’ the Traveller said.

  72

  Lennon kept the phone pressed to his ear as the Audi’s engine roared. He squeezed it tight with his shoulder as he changed gear, then brought his hand back to catch the phone just as it fell. The answering service again. He changed up, the car hitting sixty as he neared the junction of York Street and the Westlink. Lennon leaned on the horn as the lights turned red, barely slowing as the few late-night drivers braked hard to avoid his path. The Audi’s traction control indicators blinked on the dashboard, the car struggling for grip as it made the turn onto the M2. The wheels hit the kerb on the far side hard, and Lennon heard a screech as the rear quarter grazed a lamp post before the car bounced back onto the road.

  He redialled for the third time, whispering, ‘Come on, come on, come on …’

  No dial tone this time. Instead, it went straight to the answering service. Who was she talking to? Was she calling him back?

  ‘Marie, if you get this, call me right now. Right now, you hear me?’

  Lennon hung up. His eyes flitted between the phone and the road ahead as he looked up his station’s number. The dial tone clicked and switched three times as the call was bounced around. The drama in the custody suite had left the phone unmanned. He would be routed to the nearest station. When he got an answer, he said, ‘Put me through to Carrickfergus.’

  73

  Fegan paced the small guesthouse bedroom listening to the dial tone. His fear fed on itself, remade itself again and again, stronger with each reincarnation. He had tried to sleep, but a vision of fire, the smell of burning flesh and hair, and a child’s screams had shaken him awake minutes ago. Sweat soaked the clothes he lay in. He had gone straight for the phone.

  The dial tone ceased, replaced by steady breathing.

  ‘Marie?’ Fegan said, fear sharpening his voice.

  ‘She can’t come to the phone right now.’

  A man’s voice. The kind of voice Fegan knew too well. His head swam. He sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s right here,’ the voice said. ‘Her and the wee girl.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Fegan said.

  A pause. ‘Would that be the famous Gerry Fegan?’

  ‘Don’t touch them.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about you,’ the voice said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you in the flesh. Something tells me we’d get on like a house on fire.’

  Fegan doubled over as his stomach cramped. ‘I’ll kill you if you touch them,’ he said.

  ‘Too late for that. I’ve got to be honest with you, Gerry. Marie’s not looking her best.’

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said. ‘I’ll make it bad.’

  ‘It’s that cop you should go after. The kid’s father. You know what the useless shite did?’

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Lennon said.

  ‘He left the child and her mother in a whorehouse in Carrickfergus. Just upped and left them here all on their own. Jesus, you wouldn’t do that to a dog.’

  ‘I’ll—’

  ‘Yeah, you’ll kill me, I heard you. Time’s wasting, Gerry. Gotta go.’

  The phone died.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Fegan said to the lifeless plastic.

  He stood and went to the window. His room took up half the first floor of a converted terraced house. The street below ached with quiet, the lights making shadows pool around the parked cars and garden walls. The occasional rumble of traffic came from Botanic Avenue, less than a hundred yards away. It had been an hour, maybe more, since the last train had passed along the track that ran behind the guesthouse. Fegan had always cherished quiet, but now it lay heavy on him, like a cold, damp blanket.

  The man with the mocking voice had said Carrickfergus. Where in Carrickfergus?

  A screech split the silence. It echoed along the street, touching Fegan’s heart like an icy finger. He held his breath tight in his chest. It came again, a high animal cry, the sound of suffering. Fegan looked up and down the rows of houses, searching for the source.

  Then he saw it. The animal came creeping between two cars, long snout to the ground. Its large pointed ears twitched, and it raised its head. It opened its jaws wide and screeched again, the sound tearing through the street and over the rooftops.

  The fox sauntered out onto the road, following some scent that had caught its interest. It froze, tensed, lifted its lean body flexing beneath the fur. It stared hard at the window and quivered.

  Fegan put a hand against the glass. The fox raised its snout to the black sky and screeched once more. It bared its teeth. Fegan couldn’t hear through the glass, but he was sure the fox snarled and growled before it blossomed in flame. Fegan blinked and heard the engine of a car. Its headlights burned and reflected on the fox’s pelt as it approached. The fox looked to the light, then back at Fegan, before it dashed into the shadows.

  The car passed, the driver oblivious to the watching animals.

  Somewhere in the distance, across the city, sirens rose. In the dark hollows beneath the window, the fox answered.

  Carrickfergus. A whorehouse, he said.

  Fegan pictured the office behind the reception desk downstairs. He’d seen keys on hooks through the open door. One of them had been a car key. Fegan left his room, quiet as air.

  74

  The woman and that creepy kid huddled silent in the back seat as the Traveller drove. He had gone north then west from Carrickfergus, rather than cutting through Belfast, then south from Templepatrick. He would avoid the motorway until he was across the border, and stay out of the bigger towns like Banbridge or Newry. A lost hour was a price worth paying to escape notice.

  He wondered if the woman would make it that far. Now and again he heard her chest rattle before she coughed. He had given her wounds a quick look before they left. She had a couple of pellets embedded in her cheekbone, and more in her right shoulder. But it was the cluster above her breast she had to worry about. The Traveller reckoned some had punctured her ribcage, and maybe even her lung. He had patched her up with a towel as best he could, but she was probably bleeding inside. A hospital could fix it, he was sure. But they weren’t going to a hospital. Maybe she’d make it to Drogheda, maybe she wouldn’t. His only worries were how the kid would react if her mother died as they held each other, and how the Bull would react when he brought the two of them to his doorstep.

  Maybe he should have done them in the apartment. Probably should. But there was something about the kid, the way she looked at him, like she knew all his secrets. Even the things he kept hidden from himself. Whatever it was, it stopped him from snapping the child’s neck. He’d let the Bull deal with them.

  The woman and child had served their purpose. They’d got Gerry Fegan to show himself. Let the Bull decide the next move. Maybe he’d let the cops have Fegan. He’d be easier dealt with if he was locked up. But where was the fun in that? Either way, the Bull could do what he wanted so long as he paid up.

  The car was approaching the roundabout at Moira when the woman asked ‘Where are you taking us?’ Her voice was small but strong. Maybe she wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and saw her reading a road sign.

  ‘To see a man,’ he said.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘You’ll see when we get there,’ he said. He steered onto the long straight section of the roundabout. ‘Now be quiet, love, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘Is it O’Kane?’

  ‘I said be quiet.’

  ‘The last man who brought us to him is dead now.’


  As he exited the roundabout, the Traveller switched his attention between the village of Moira ahead and Marie McKenna’s reflection in the mirror. ‘That right?’

  ‘Gerry Fegan killed him.’

  The Traveller’s tongue slicked his upper lip. ‘Did he, now?’

  ‘He’ll kill you too.’

  He watched the mirror as the little girl covered her ears and buried her face in her mother’s bosom. Marie winced at the pain but did not push the child away.

  ‘You think so?’ the Traveller asked.

  ‘I know so.’

  The Traveller smiled at the mirror. He would have winked if he could’ve managed it. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’

  The lights of the main street slipped past for a minute or two and then faded behind them.

  Marie laughed, then coughed, then laughed again.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

  She produced a tissue and coughed into it. Her face went blank. ‘What’s so funny? Earlier today I told someone I didn’t want to wind up a fucking damsel in distress again.’

  The little girl took a hand away from her ear and placed it over her mother’s mouth. You said a bad word,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know, darling,’ Marie said against the child’s fingers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The girl, placated, covered her ears and buried her face again.

  ‘Tell me about Gerry Fegan,’ the Traveller said as they approached another village, smaller this time. Magheralin, he thought it was called, but he couldn’t be sure seeing as he couldn’t read the sign.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Marie said, ‘despite what he’s done.’

  ‘A good man,’ the Traveller repeated, turning the words in his mouth, testing their weight. ‘And I’m not?’

  Marie coughed, groaned at the pain. When she caught her breath, she asked, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘From what I hear, he’s an animal. A killer.’ He watched her face as the lights of the village caused shadows to flow across it. ‘Just like me. What makes him a good man? What makes me a bad man?’

  The light disappeared from her face, leaving only the glint of her eyes in a silhouette. ‘You have me and my child as hostages, and you have to ask that question?’

  More village lights ahead, and beyond them, the town of Lurgan with its knotted streets and traffic lights and cops. He took a left down a narrow country road to avoid them. The world darkened.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting Mr Gerry Fegan,’ the Traveller said. He grinned at the mirror, even though he could no longer see the woman or the girl in the blackness. ‘Might not happen now. Pity if it doesn’t. It’d be fun, seeing what he’s made of. From what I hear, it wouldn’t be easy. He’d put up a good fight.’

  He waited for a response. None came save for the rattle of Marie’s chest.

  ‘I’d enjoy that,’ he said. ‘He might be a mad bastard, but so am I. I never met a man I couldn’t take, and I like a challenge, you know?’

  The Traveller searched the mirror, found nothing. He couldn’t even hear the woman’s laboured breathing now.

  ‘You can be sure of one thing, though. Your friend Gerry is going to suffer for his sins. Whether it’s me or the cops do it, it’ll be bad for him. He’ll be hurting when he goes. He’s pissed off too many people to get off easy. Only question is, how ba—’

  Fiery pain tore at his scalp as small hands jerked his head back. A high scream pierced his left ear as the hands twisted and pulled. He reached back with his left hand, but the strapping wouldn’t let his fingers find anything but strands of hair as the girl shouted and thrashed. The car bounced as it hit the verge, the steering wheel bucking in his good hand. The woman cried out, and the girl was thrown to the side, but she kept her grip and now the Traveller was screaming as his scalp ripped. His right hand left the wheel and darted behind him, desperate to swat the shrieking child away, and then the seat belt grabbed his chest, his head whipped forward and back again, and everything was black and still and silent, apart from an insistent chiming as a cold breeze blew in from somewhere far behind him.

  75

  Lennon waited alone in the kitchen. A constable from Carrickfergus lingered uselessly in the corridor outside the flat while a sergeant took statements from the residents on the floors below. Everyone who could be spared was at the scene of DCI Gordon’s murder. The best the Carrickfergus station could do was send their one patrol car, which had been on traffic duty looking for drunk drivers, to the apartment block. Lennon got there before them and came straight up to find the door blown in and the place empty.

  Worry and fear quarrelled within him like feral cats. He couldn’t keep his mind in one place long enough to plan a course of action. He phoned the station again, looking for CI Uprichard. When the duty officer finally answered the call, he told Lennon yet again: Uprichard was too busy, just wait there, secure the scene until a team from D District could be assembled.

  ‘I can’t just wait here,’ Lennon said. ‘He has my daughter. The same man you had in custody three hours ago.’

  ‘I understand that,’ the duty officer said, ‘but an officer has been murdered here. Everybody who can be contacted is being brought in. Besides, you know Carrickfergus is D District; we can only send men if it’s an emergency. Otherwise you’ll have to wait for a team from Lisburn.’

  ‘Emergency?’ Lennon said. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? This is my daughter. The same man who killed Gordon has her.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have her there,’ the duty officer said.

  Lennon had no answer for that, no words to express his frustration.

  ‘To do any good, you need a proper MIT and forensics to go over the apartment,’ the duty officer continued. ‘Forensics are tied up here for the time being, and Lisburn will get an MIT over there as soon as they can. I’m sorry, sir, that’s the best I can do at the moment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s bedlam here.’

  Lennon hung up. He paced a single circle around the small kitchen and stopped at the sink. He ran the tap, splashed water on his face, dried himself on his sleeve. He walked out through the living room and into the hall. His Glock lay on the floor. It hadn’t done Marie any good. He stooped and picked it up.

  The constable shuffled his feet and coughed in the doorway. Wallace, his name was, and he watched Lennon with nervous deference. He didn’t look like he’d been long on the job, most likely a probationer paired up with the older sergeant to learn the ropes.

  ‘Should you lift that, Inspector?’ His face dropped as Lennon gave him a hard look. ‘I mean, it’s evidence at the scene, isn’t it?’

  Lennon patted his shoulder as he stepped past him to the corridor. ‘You’ll go far, Constable Wallace,’ he said.

  The lift doors slid open and Sergeant Dodds stepped out. He reviewed his notebook as he walked.

  ‘Anything?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Nothing useful,’ Dodds said. ‘Only three other flats occupied. All of them heard the gunfire, and two of them called 999. Everyone locked their doors and kept their heads down till they heard our siren. Nobody saw anything.’

  Lennon had expected nothing more. ‘All right,’ he said. He walked towards the lift. ‘An MIT from Lisburn will be here when they have the people gathered, and forensics when they can get away. Wallace, you stay here. Dodds, you wait downstairs at the entrance. Don’t let anyone use the stairwell if you can help it.’

  Dodds followed Lennon into the lift. ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘To see a man.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Just a man,’ Lennon said. He prayed Roscoe Patterson was on drinking form tonight.

  76

  The Traveller put his shoulder to the door and pushed. It budged only an inch or two before the hedgerow pushed back. ‘Fucking bastard arsehole,’ he said. He slid the other way and struggled over the armrest, going head first. The gear stick caught him in the balls and he groaned. In a second or t
wo, that sick, heavy ache would join the throb in his chest where the seat belt had crushed the air out of him. And his neck hurt too. That pain seemed to begin in his shoulders, creep up to the back of his skull, then trace a line up and over to his forehead.

  He opened the passenger door and climbed out. He grabbed Marie’s mobile phone and hit a button. The screen had cracked, but it still worked, casting a weak light. He used it as a makeshift torch so he could inspect the damage to the car. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The hedgerow had cushioned its impact with the embankment, and the old Volkswagen was built tough. He shone the light down at the tyres. The earth wasn’t too wet; he should be able to reverse the car out of the tangle of green.

  The light died as the phone went back into standby. The Traveller turned in a circle at the edge of the little country road. An orange glow hovered over Lurgan to the west. To the north he could make out the soft rumble of night-time traffic on the motorway, lorries hurrying to make the early ferries to Britain, or holidaymakers heading to one of the airports.

  He listened hard for noises closer to the road, for the sound of feet creeping through the hedges and fields. Was that a wheeze and a rattle from across the way? The sound was so small, perhaps he only imagined it. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and listened harder. A cold, damp breeze washed across his face.

  There, a child’s soft cry, then a hoarse whisper.

  The Traveller opened his eyes. He looked in the direction of the sounds. A light, maybe a window, glowed dim in the distance. A farmhouse, about half a mile away. He thumbed the phone again. He turned, crouched down, and used it to find Hewitt’s Glock in the passenger footwell.

  As he straightened, the pistol cold in his hand, a weariness came over him. He leaned on the car’s roof and breathed deep. New pains signalled from all over his body. He wished he’d never entered the bar in Finglas. He wished he’d never taken the note from Davy Haughey, the one with Orla O’Kane’s phone number on it. He wished he’d never accepted her invitation to that fucking convalescent home near Drogheda, the one where Bull O’Kane wallowed in his own hate and shit-smelling stink.