Frankie walked the mile and a half to Uncle Cormac’s house and when his uncle opened the door – ‘So, it’s yourself’ – Frankie smacked him in the face and stepped back to avoid the blood spouting from his nose. He kicked his uncle in the balls, then kicked him a bit when he fell down and curled up. Finally, with several of the neighbours watching, Frankie unzipped his fly and pissed on his Uncle Cormac.
Frankie never went back home, never went near any of them again. The day he knocked the bollocks out of Uncle Cormac, Frankie turned up at Jo-Jo Mackendrick’s place, red-eyed and in need. Jo-Jo put him up for the night and got him a flat next day, paid the rent for a couple of months until Frankie found his feet. Frankie never even bothered collecting his stuff from home. Nothing there worth a fuck.
Later, his dad wrote to him twice, neat handwriting in blue biro on Basildon Bond, and Frankie tore up the letters, unread. His dad came round to see him and Frankie spat on the doorstep and closed the door in his face.
Half a dozen times, over the years, he’d been to see Uncle Cormac. More to frighten him than anything else. Couple of times, he just walked in, spent the night in a spare room, didn’t open his mouth except to drink Uncle Cormac’s beer and eat his food, and Uncle Cormac didn’t say boo. Other times, he gave the silly bastard a slapping. When Frankie’s dad died, Uncle Cormac came to tell Frankie about the funeral arrangements and Frankie told him to fuck off. Frankie didn’t attend the funeral, but he got a little memorial card in the post, with a picture of his dad and a verse about how he’d never be forgotten. Poor dumb bastard collapsed down at the Smithfield Market, a sack of potatoes on his shoulders. Frankie was surprised to find out from the memorial card that his dad was only forty-eight. Poor gobshite, sweating for a lousy living, apologising for his existence, he was better off dead.
Looking back on it all, things had worked out for the best. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a shitty thing to do, for a family to tout on its own kid.
Frankie took the photograph down from the wall. He smashed it against the mantelpiece and shards of glass glittered in the white shag rug in front of the fireplace. He took the photo out of the frame and tore it down the middle. Then he finished his third can of Coke and went into the kitchen to make himself a cheese sandwich and a coffee. Before he left the house, he pissed on the sofa again.
Uncle Cormac’s brand new Pajero was sitting in the driveway; the keys were in a drawer in the hall. Frankie spent ten minutes working on the plates, then he drove across the city and found a place to park in Haddington Road. It was a couple of streets away from the hostage’s house.
Sitting in the car, he listened to the mobile purring in his ear. When the call went through he said, ‘The code word is sunflower.’
Justin Kennedy said, ‘The note said you’d call next week—’
‘You have the money?’
‘Listen, we need to talk.’
‘You have the money, you don’t have it, which is it?’
‘Look—’
‘Do you have the money?’
‘Dammit, I want to know—’
‘Fuck off!’
Justin stopped talking.
‘You said you had the money, time I rang.’
‘I have the first million. I told you the second million would take a little time. It’s all fixed up, the bank is getting it together, it’s nearly ready, another day or two and we—’
‘Then we can talk about that in a day or two. I want the first million now.’
‘Look—’
‘You said you had it. You lied?’
‘No! I have it, it’s here, but you said—’
‘Put it in your car – your car, no one else’s. The Land-Rover. Right now. Right this minute. Tell no one where you’re going, bring no one with you, tell the coppers to fuck off. Got that?’
Justin was still trying to think of something to say when the gang leader screamed into the phone: ‘Have you fucking got that?’
‘Yes, OK!’
‘Take the car, your car, the Land-Rover, turn right, right again, heading straight out towards Dun Laoghaire. Bring your mobile with you.’
‘OK.’
‘It’s important you do this right. You’re being watched all the way, every inch. We’ve got sweepers. You use tracking devices, any shit like that, you bring an extra mobile to talk to the cops, you do anything to fuck me around, that’s it.’
‘I just—’
‘Step out of line, we do a fade. We’re gone. And twenty years from now your kids’ll still be having nightmares about whatever happened to Mammy, OK?’
‘Please—’
‘Leave the house with the money. Now. This minute. I’ll call you on your mobile five minutes from now. You’re not on the road, you’re not doing exactly what I say, goodbye Mammy.’
‘You’ve got to tell—’
Justin realised he was talking to a dead phone.
One of the two cops in the house – Justin didn’t know his name – fidgeted in the hall, all flustered and making like he was going to assert himself.
‘Please, just stay out of the way,’ Justin said.
‘Before you do anything, you’ve agreed to alert Chief Superintendent Hogg—’
‘Stay out of it.’
Justin turned away. He went to the kitchen and came back to the hall dragging the two heavy holdalls full of money. He set one down, fumbled in his pocket for the car keys.
‘You have to wait, sir—’
‘Fuck off.’ Justin realised, even in the heat of the moment, that he had bared his teeth. ‘This is my family we’re talking about. You get in my way, you try to follow me – Jesus, I know people – you’re all over the front page of the Evening Herald, the cop who put a mother’s life at risk.’
‘Sir, the sensible thing—’
‘I have minutes to do this. Catch them later, I don’t give a fuck. I’m doing exactly what they told me to do.’
The flustered one started stabbing out a number on his mobile. The other cop, a quiet fat man with a red face, nodded to Justin, grabbed the second holdall and shuffled with it towards the front door.
‘Where are you? Precisely?’
‘There’s a Statoil filling station, it’s just across the road.’ Justin looked around. He was parked, two wheels up on the pavement, where he’d pulled over when his mobile rang less than three minutes after he drove away from the house. ‘There’s a newsagent’s just ahead of me on the left, Wiley’s newsagent’s, and there’s—’
‘I’ll say this once. You ready?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Drive straight ahead until you see a church on your right, big one. Drive in the gates, park. Got that?’
‘I know the church.’
‘Leave your mobile on the ground, under the left rear wheel of the Land-Rover.’
‘Why? What’s the—’
‘That mobile’s dead. You’re going in to collect another one in the church. One mobile at a time, so you don’t make any calls. When you get the new mobile, don’t use it – I call you and you’re engaged, she’s dead.’
‘I won’t. Tell me where to get the mobile.’
‘Go into the church, there’s three confession boxes on your left, go to the first, the one nearest the door. There’s two doors to each confession box, left and right. I’m talking about the door on the left. Inside, on the floor. Got that?’
‘First confession box on the left, door on the left, the mobile’s on the floor.’
‘Wait in the church, I’ll ring you on that mobile, tell you where to go next, There’ll be another mobile waiting, we’ll keep doing that until I know it’s safe for you to make the drop. I’ve got five more mobiles planted, and the schedule’s going to be tight.’
‘OK, I understand.’
‘I mean it – you’re being watched – do anything wrong—’
‘I swear.’
‘You leave a note for the cops, anything like that, bye-bye Mumsy.’
; ‘I’m doing exactly what you say.’
‘My people’re watching you. In the church, in between churches. We smell something wrong, I make a call and we do a fade. Get me? I’ll fucking bury her. Then we do it all over again with someone else, and their people’ll know we’re not bluffing.’
‘I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘You have five minutes to get to the church.’ He switched off.
Justin had passed this church just about every day since they’d moved to Pemberton Road. It was a 1950s building, big and ugly, put up at the height of the Catholic Church’s dominance of Irish life. The car park off to the left of the church was empty when Justin drove in. Getting out, he looked around with as much nonchalance as he could manage, wondering if the gang had someone in a car across the street, or in a window overlooking the church, watching him. He leaned over and put his mobile under the left rear wheel.
There were two women halfway down the church, sitting together, speaking quietly. Up on the altar, a man in a cassock was polishing the tabernacle.
The women were late-middle age. Hardly material for employment by a kidnap gang. Justin looked around, found the first confession box on the left. The nameplate out front said Fr Thomas Daly. Justin looked back towards the altar. The man in the cassock had stopped polishing and was looking down the church, towards Justin. He turned back and resumed his polishing. Justin stood there, looking at him for half a minute, then he opened the door on the left of the confession box and went in. He found the mobile immediately, left the confession box and sat down in a pew. The phone was turned on, the signal bars strong.
The man on the altar finished his polishing, then moved away to one side, glancing down the church as he did.
The two women were still chattering. Justin sat with the phone in his hand, looking down at it, a small black Nokia. The screen said Vodafone, with the date and time underneath. His other hand rubbed his knee, over and over. He looked up and one of the women was staring at him, like she’d caught him doing something obscene. He stared back. She said something and her companion turned and looked across at Justin. The phone rang, a chirping bird noise.
‘You got it.’
‘Where do I go now?’
‘Leave the church exactly five minutes from now.’Justin looked at his watch. Turn right, drive for about ten minutes – you know St Vincent’s Hospital?’
The two old women weren’t trying to hide their expressions of disapproval. Justin looked away from them. ‘Yes.’
‘Drive into the car park there.’
‘You’ll be there?’
‘Take your time. When you get to Vincent’s, wait in the car until I ring you with instructions. There’s a pub across the road from the hospital. There’s another mobile to be picked up there. I’ll give you the details when you get to the hospital.’
The gang leader sounded slightly distracted. In the background, Justin heard a car door close.
‘Can’t we—’
The phone went dead.
Justin looked at the phone, then he put it to his ear again and it was still dead.
He looked at the screen. It said Call ended, then it said Vodafone, with the date and time underneath. He sat there looking at the screen for maybe ten seconds, then he shouted, ‘Jesus!’
He stood up and ran towards the porch, seeing from the corner of his eye the two biddies half risen, startled. When he got outside he saw a Pajero pulling out of the car park. He saw it and at the same time he saw the broken window of his Land-Rover, the open door. He screamed something incoherent and ran towards the Pajero, saw it accelerating, pulling out into the street, speeding away. He stopped, moved back towards his car, hesitated as he realised he hadn’t got the number of the fleeing Pajero, started back towards the gate, then realised it was too late.
He ran to the Land-Rover. His mobile was gone from under the rear wheel. The two holdalls were gone from the back. He began to tap 999 on the Nokia from the church and saw that the numbers weren’t registering on the screen, the keys weren’t functioning. He made a sudden high-pitched noise.
‘Is everything all right?’
The man in the cassock was standing a few feet away, concerned but keeping his distance.
‘A phone,’ Justin said.
The man looked at the mobile in Justin’s trembling hand.
‘I can’t,’ Justin said, ‘it won’t—’
The man said, ‘This way,’ and led Justin back towards the church.
21
You’d have to feel sorry for the poor bitch. Lock an animal up for a few days and it’ll start whining. The hostage – what was it now, about five days? – was beginning to look like some kind of beaten thing.
Dolly Finn stood in the doorway of the hostage’s room for a couple of minutes and she wouldn’t turn round. Just lying there with her back to him. Silly wagon.
‘Come on, missus,’ he said again, ‘don’t be stupid.’
The sandwich and the glass of milk he’d left by the bedside an hour ago hadn’t been touched.
Dolly was alone in the house with the hostage. Frankie was in Dublin, hopefully getting his hands on the first chunk of money. This morning, the other two had driven into Wexford town for supplies.
Dolly went into the bedroom, around the other side of the bed, and looked down at her. She ignored him, continued to stare at the bedroom wall. He reached down to her and she erupted, jerking back towards the edge of the bed, staring up at him. She was staring like she might be able to burn away the woollen mask with her eyes.
‘You have to eat,’ he said.
‘You’re the one,’ she said, in a flat tone. ‘You’re the one who’ll kill me. If your boss says so.’
Dolly looked down at her. She said, ‘I can tell by the way you look at me. It’ll be you.’
He wanted to say, Not necessarily. They hadn’t come to a conclusion about who would do that, if it had to be done, which it probably wouldn’t. But her accusation was so starkly made that he felt a surge of resentment. She had no good reason to say that. She was judging him. Like he was darker than the others, more sinful.
To hell with it. Poor cow. Only to be expected.
Dolly picked up the milk and the plate with the sandwich and left the room, locking it behind him.
He left the milk on the hall table and threw the sandwich in the bin outside the front door. He turned to go back inside, then stopped.
Looking out past the front gate, he could see a man – middle-aged, red striped sweatshirt, dark shorts and not a lot of hair – crossing the hump-backed bridge about fifty yards away. He was looking back towards Dolly as he walked.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Dolly leaned forward, pulled the balaclava off his head and when he looked again the man was out of sight.
Dolly ran back into the house, dropped the plate on the hall table, knocking over the glass of milk. He pulled on his bomber jacket, took his knife from an inside pocket, and then he hurried out of the house and ran towards the road.
When Dolly Finn got back to the house, Martin Paxton and Brendan Sweetman had returned from Wexford town and were unloading groceries in the kitchen.
‘You left her alone?’
‘Ten minutes, couldn’t be helped.’
Dolly told them about the walker, the balaclava, about running out after him. ‘I can’t figure it. He was on the road, couldn’t have walked far. By the time I got out there – no sign of him. I ran maybe a hundred yards up the road, no sign.’
Brendan said, ‘Maybe he went into a house somewhere round here? Maybe he saw you coming, hid in the bushes.’
Dolly shook his head. ‘I checked, both sides of the road.’ He took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair.
Martin said, ‘Anyway, Jesus, Dolly, what were you going to do with him if you found him?’
Dolly shrugged.
Martin said, ‘Where would you hide the body? What would’ve happened when he didn’t come home, and his missus c
alls the cops and they start knocking on doors?’
Brendan said, ‘Maybe, looking at you from that distance, he didn’t notice anything wrong, y’know, thought the balaclava was a hat?’
Dolly shook his head. ‘It’s all over the radio, the papers. Then he sees someone in a balaclava.’
Martin said, ‘Not everyone pays attention to the news.’
Dolly was stroking his face, thumb and index finger running down the deep grooves alongside each side of his mouth. He shook his head.
Martin said, ‘We better decide what to do.’
Frankie Crowe kept to a steady fifty, bypassing Ashford. He was in no hurry. He’d dumped the Pajero within minutes of taking the holdalls full of money and picked up a Volvo that Milky had arranged to have stashed within walking distance. Beyond Arklow, he bought a cheese sandwich and a Coke at a garage shop. He drove on until he found a picnic area with a view. He sat in the car, eating, listening to music on the radio. After a few minutes another car pulled into the halt. Frankie screwed the cap shut on his Coke and put the bottle down on the passenger seat. He let his hand rest near the pistol tucked down alongside his seat. A woman and two kids got out of the car and sat at one of the picnic tables. The kids were boys, quarrelling noisily. The woman said something sharp but they kept on snarling. It was more pushing and pulling than fighting, but it was loud and unending. Frankie started the car and drove away.
After they’d tried twice to ring Frankie on his mobile, and failed to connect, Brendan Sweetman said he thought they should get out of Rosslare.
‘Safe side,’ he said.
Martin Paxton said, ‘We could be running for nothing. This character might have seen something from a distance. Or not. What’s the chances he’ll think twice about it, let alone go to the trouble of ringing the cops?’
Dolly Finn said, ‘It’s taking a chance, staying here.’
‘Whatever we do, this whole thing, we’re taking a chance. Where we going to go? Check into a hotel, bring the hostage in with the rest of the luggage?’
Brendan said, ‘Milky’s place. He’d find somewhere, put us up until he does.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Let’s not panic.’
Little Criminals Page 21