by Declan Burke
“Gonzo’s dead.”
It came easier every time I said it and I guess I could’ve said it easier because her face just folded. She shook her head, horrified. I nodded, grim.
“Last night. On the way home.”
“What… what happened? Jesus, Harry!”
“Ssshhhh. Ben’s in the living room.” I got up, closed the kitchen door, went back to the table. “We went to a club. Gonz wanted a few late ones.”
“You were drunk?”
“No more than usual, couple of pints, seven or eight. Gonz was popping E all night, though. We left and went on for a kebab.”
“There was a fight?”
“There was no fight.” I knew Dee was going to blame me, I just wanted to be blamed for the right reasons. “We were ready to leave when Dutchie found Gonzo in the toilets, having some kind of fit. We found some dodgy E in his pockets – Flatliners, the Dibble called them – before they whisked him off to the hospital.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“Dutchie went. I was taken to the station.”
“The station?”
“The cop shop. They wanted to book me for possession with intent. I was still in the cop shop when Dutchie rang. They were pumping Gonzo out when he went into arrest.” I grinned her one I didn’t feel. “Me in the cop shop and him in arrest. Funny, isn’t it?”
She laughed, a nervous giggle pitched one octave below hysteria. Her wet eyes sparkled. I gave her the second barrel.
“Then the Dibble let me go and someone shot me.”
“What?”
Her eyes bugged out like a frog on a promise.
“I was on the bridge. He hit me in the side, knocked me into the river. When I got back out I rang you. The rest you know now.”
“You’re having me on. Gonzo’s outside, isn’t he? Having a laugh. You’re a sick fucker, Harry.”
First anger, then denial – she was ploughing through the classic symptoms at a rate of knots. I pulled the fleece over my head, unbuttoned the Puffa, hauled my sweater and shirt off. The blood on the edge of the bandage was dry and crusty but there was still a dark pool of thin raspberry jelly at its centre.
She stared at me for a long time, forehead furrowed, searching my face for the tic or tremor that might suggest I was playing a bizarre joke. I shrugged.
“I’m sorry, Dee. That’s the way it happened.”
Her shoulders shook, then the sobs ballooned their way to the surface and she bawled like a stubborn calf. I went around the table, put my arm around her shoulders but she shrank away, folding her arms, cradling herself. Then the shock hit, a runaway train. She put her arms on the table and cried into them until the nervous energy finally evaporated. She sat up, her face the colour of raw liver, snuffling and tugging at her sleeve for a non-existent paper tissue. I gave her a sheet of kitchen towel and she buried her face in it. Finally, nose blocked and voice muffled, she asked: “Why?”
“That’s what I don’t know.”
“Well… who?”
“That’s what I don’t know as well.”
“Do you know anything?”
“I know we have to keep a cool head and dry trousers until we figure out what’s going on.” I handed her a dry sheet of kitchen towel. “No sense in us bitching at one another. We have to think of Ben.”
She took a deep breath, let it out slow, dabbed at her eyes.
“Okay, okay. Christ.” She thought for a second. “What do the Guards say?”
“They’re following a couple of leads.” I softened my tone. “Hey, Dee?”
I reached out, took her hand. It was shaking. She didn’t pull back, but she didn’t respond when I squeezed it either.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “All we have to do is sit tight. We don’t go out, we don’t answer the phone. We don’t even open the curtains.”
“Jesus, Harry.” She sounded helpless, the kind of lost they don’t have maps for. “Gonzo’s dead.”
“We can deal with that later, Dee. Nothing we can do about it now.”
Her lip curled.
“You’re a cold bastard, Harry,” she said. “A cold and crippled bastard. You know that?”
“I do now. Can you hear Ben?”
Her eyes widened.
“Ben! Jesus!”
She went to look for Ben. I scouted out the cupboards for something edible. I settled for some soup, a sandwich and a glass of Maalox, turning the mobile on when I’d finished. It was almost three-thirty.
The phone rang before I had a chance to dial Dutchie’s number, letting me know I had a message waiting. There were two. The first was from Dutchie, telling me Conway was dead. I thought about Conway for about three seconds, his cold, black piggy eyes. Then the second message arrived. It was from Katie.
“Harry –”
A northern voice, deadpan, cut in.
“The Odeon, ten bells. Play it straight and everyone walks away.”
I heard a gentle click, the sound of a giant jigsaw piece slotting neatly into place. I looked at the picture and wanted to cry, then wasted half-an-hour trying to think of people I could trust, coming up with a one-name list, but then I have high standards. I made the call and filled in the details, devised a plan. I turned the mobile off, not feeling entirely confident.
Denise came back in, red-eyed. I rolled a smoke, braced myself. Told her I was heading back to town.
“You’re what?” She was angry, bewildered and scared. I could empathise. “You said we were going to sit tight. Don’t even open the curtains, you said.”
“I said you were going to sit tight,” I lied. “I have to go back to town.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” She was distraught, working herself into a frenzy. I couldn’t blame her. I was pretty strung out at the prospect myself. “Someone tried to kill you last night and the reason you’re going back doesn’t matter? What are you, suicidal?”
“I need to get us sorted. To get us somewhere safer than this.”
It was a bargain-basement answer and Denise wasn’t buying.
“What can you do back there that you can’t do from here?” She thought for a second, and her face took on a stricken expression. “And why do we need somewhere safer? What’s wrong with here?”
And suddenly I was tired again, my nervous system steeling itself for the onslaught of adrenaline.
“You wouldn’t understand, Dee.”
“I wouldn’t understand?”
There was menace in her voice, the implication impossible to ignore, but Katie had something I needed, something Denise couldn’t give me, and you only start that kind of conversation with a woman once. You don’t get to finish it, either.
“What number were you ringing this morning?” I asked.
“What?”
“The mobile number, Dee. What number did you ring?”
She told me, sullen.
“It’s oh-eight-four,” I said. “Not oh-eight-three.”
“You told me oh-eight-three.”
“Yeah well, now I’m telling you it’s oh-eight-four.”
I pulled on the Puffa and the fleece. Stood there, hands in pockets, sweating in the warm kitchen. The smell of soup made me want to puke. My fingers touched something cold. I put the key of the bicycle lock on the kitchen table.
“Ben’s bike is locked to a skip behind the shopping centre. Give it a while, send a taxi down to collect it.”
“Fuck Ben’s bike!”
I made for the door.
“If you go,” she warned, “I won’t be here when you get back.”
“If I get back.”
I stopped at the door. She was leaning against the table, arms folded, defiant, struggling to hold back the tears. That made two of us, except I had nothing to lean on.
21
The snow was coming down hard. Visibility was almost zero, the wipers barely able to cope, and the road was g
lassy under two or three inches of soft snow. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour without running the very real risk of saving the pros a bullet or two. I pushed the needle up to forty and prayed that Dutchie hadn’t skimped on the radials.
I made town just after eight. The storm was blowing itself out, the streets deserted, all sound muffled under the coloured lights. Everyone was at home, wrapping presents and knocking back the mulled wine, or in the pub, hoping they wouldn’t be chucked out early and already too pissed to know what time it was.
I pulled into the car park, crossed the river by the footbridge, slipped in the side door of The Cellars. The place was heaving, the punters three deep at the bar, a bloke with a fiddle giving it large just inside the front door. Dutchie was red-faced behind the ramp, taking three and four orders at a time. I shouted his name. He ignored me twice, but when he finally looked around his jaw dropped. He forced his way through the punters knotted around the hatch, leaving Marie to deal with the mob. He dragged me down to the poolroom, locked the door, gave me both barrels.
“You thick bastard! Are you looking to get killed? Get us all killed with you?”
“Easy, Dutch. I’m being cute, remember?”
“This is cute? You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
“I’m not fucking with anyone, Dutch. Everyone’s fucking with me.”
“The East Belfast boys want to fuck you, you bend over for the soap and wash their dicks with it when they’re finished. Alright?”
“East Belfast?”
“Your party favour buddies. The ones Conway was trying to screw.”
“They issue a press release or something?”
He stared.
“Jesus, Harry, this is serious. I don’t think you realise what you’re into here.”
“Hey, Dutch? It was me they tried to blow off the bridge last night. Alright?”
“Alright, alright.” He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, chewed his gum. “These boys are hardcore, though.”
“It was them? For certs?”
He nodded.
“I heard different, Dutch. So just cut to the chase. Tell me who.”
“Who what?”
“Who bought you who.”
He stopped chewing.
“What?”
“Come on, Dutch. You sold me out. You know it, I know it, Herbie knows it. Or he will, when he’s able to hear again. I found him this morning, fucked over like you wouldn’t believe. They mashed his face in, Dutch.”
“Who mashed his face in?”
“Santa’s little helpers. Who do you think mashed his fucking face in?”
“Jesus, Harry –”
“Whoever put the hammer on me mashed his face in. Whoever tried to blow me off the bridge. Whoever bought you. That’s who mashed his face in.”
“Fuck you.”
“Join the queue, Dutch. And you’re last, because you’ve already blown your load.”
His face was a mask, hard set. I sympathised. He was mad at me for accusing him of selling me out, mad at himself for doing it, and mad at the world because he’d had no choice.
“It’s simple, Dutch. The pros thought Herbie had compromising pictures of Tony Sheridan, and Herbie got hammered because they thought he was holding out. What I couldn’t figure out was how they found out Herbie developed the pictures, and how they knew where to find him.” I shrugged. “The answer to the first question is that I pretty much told them who developed the pictures. It was a stupid thing to do, but that’s the kind of thing I do best and I’ll deal with that later. But it shouldn’t have mattered anyway, because even if they knew Herbie developed the shots they shouldn’t have known who he was or where to find him. That’s where you came in, Dutch. You put them on to Herbie. You had to. Nobody else could have.”
He denied it with his eyes, pleading.
“You called me on the mobile, Dutch. I gave you the wrong number, like I gave it wrong to Dee and Katie, but you still called me. Who gave you the number?”
His face crumpled and his hands started to shake.
“Harry –”
I looked away.
“All I need to know is who, the who will do it. Don’t tell me why, because I’m pretty sure it’ll be a good enough reason and good enough is never good enough. Just tell me who.”
He took a deep breath that wobbled on the way down.
“He called himself Carroll.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Small guy, thin, well-dressed. Looked like a –”
“Galway. He’s a detective, Branch. Was Brady with him?”
“Who’s Brady?”
“His sidekick. Big bloke, look on his face like he wants to kick a hole in the side of his head.”
“Never seen him.”
I nodded.
“When?”
“Couple of days back. Said he’d –”
“I don’t need to know, Dutch. I presume he threatened the kids, Michelle, whatever. Anyway, it’s done. It’s history, write it up whatever way you want. You did what you had to do. All I need to know now is if you’re onside.”
“Harry –”
“I need to trust someone, Dutch, and I don’t have time to make new friends. All things considered, you’re still the best option I have.”
The dig hurt but he took it square on the chin.
“Anything. Just say the word.”
I told him about my visit to Conway, leaving out nothing, not even the lipstick on the secretary’s teeth.
“You tapped him for two grand? Thinking he’d just had Gonz killed?” He whistled. “You’ve got balls, Harry. You think with them maybe, but you’ve got balls.”
“I didn’t tap him for anything. All I was looking for was some kind of reaction, something that linked Conway to the pros. I didn’t get any. Conway’s good but he’s not that good. Conway had nothing to do with last night. That was Sheridan’s call.”
“Sheridan?”
“Our esteemed TD. I put the spook up Big Frank and Sheridan came crawling out of the woodwork.”
“So maybe Sheridan is using the East Belfast boys.”
Dutchie didn’t want to let the East Belfast boys go.
“No one uses the East Belfast boys, Dutch. Those lads aren’t taking orders from anyone, least of all some Free State fucker.”
“Might do, if the money was good enough.”
“Maybe. Not that it matters either way. Thing that’s bugging me is, where does Conway come into it if Sheridan already has his hook-up?”
“Maybe he was threatening to rat Sheridan out to the big boys, start a war.” He shrugged. “You got the message? About Conway?”
“Yeah. How’d he go?”
“Not sure. Everyone’s keeping their heads down, saying fuck all. It’s getting out that it’s a drug thing. Everyone’s hiding bongs, flushing stashes.”
“Last time I saw Conway was about eleven. He was with Tony Sheridan.”
“You’re saying Sheridan had Conway offed?”
“Who knows? A desperate man does desperate things. Because whatever’s going on, it’s going on fast. Maybe Conway fucked up once too often.”
He didn’t buy it.
“Jesus, Harry. It’s a bit much.”
“Tell it to Big Frank. The way I see it, it makes perfect sense. Gonzo first, then me, then Conway.”
“How’s that?”
“Gonz did time for Conway a couple of years back. That’s why he was back in town, putting the squeeze on. Conway came to me, trying to work out if I was hooked up with Gonzo. Next thing Sheridan knows, I’m running around with pictures that prove he’s connected to Conway. What does he do? Step one, take Gonzo out of the picture by feeding him Flatliners. Two, me, because I have the shots. Three, Conway gets his for being the prick that could’ve brought the house of cards down.”
“So where’s Helen Conway come into it all?”
“Fuck knows. Maybe she is screwing Tony Sheridan. Or ma
ybe she’s running the whole show, I doubt if Helen Conway ever took a back seat to anyone in her life. Right now I’m more worried about Katie.”
He frowned.
“The journo?”
“Have to go, Dutch. Do me a favour?”
“What about Katie?”
“Check the street outside. See if the Dibble are still out there, watching the office.”
I was pretty sure Brady wouldn’t be there. I was pretty sure Galway wouldn’t be there either, but I didn’t want to take any more chances than I had to. I told him about the call from Katie.
“If the Dibble are out in the street watching the office, they can’t be with the pros. Basic physics, that.”
“Christ, Harry, tell me you’re taking the piss. Who the fuck is Katie, some bimbo fucking journalist?”
“Right now, Dutch, she’s a hostage. If it wasn’t for me she’d still be a bimbo fucking journalist.”
“You’re walking into an ambush, just like that? Lamb to the fucking slaughter for some bird you hardly know?”
“It’s not much of an ambush. They told me where they’d be.”
He grabbed me by the shoulders, shook me hard. I let him. I needed loosening up after the long drive.
“It’s a set-up, Harry! Fuck’s sake, man!”
“We went through it this morning. Sheridan had a decision to make and he wants to let me know what it is. Then everyone walks away, like the man said.”
“The reason they tried to take you out last night is the reason they’ll do it tonight. They think you’re in with Gonz, which makes you poison.”
“Give me some credit, Dutch. It’s not heat of the moment anymore. These boys are sharp. They think I want to see them taken down and all things being equal I would. The way things are, though, I couldn’t give a flying fuck about them. All I give a shit about is Ben.”
“Ben?”
“I keep my trap shut about Sheridan and Helen Conway. Never saw a fucking thing, I was tucked up safe and warm in bed with Dee for the last week. Dee will back me up, no one can say different. The photos get buried. That way, nothing happens Ben and I’m happy as a pig in the proverbial.”
“You’re betting on Ben?”
“I’m not betting on anyone, least of all Ben. I’m just letting them know what my priorities are.”