Gun Street Girl

by Adrian McKinty

  The BMW back to Coronation Road.

  Late afternoon now. Blue sky and low winter sun burning off all the snow.

  Garden shed.

  Cocaine.

  A neat little line of it on the workbench that I rolled inside a Rizla.

  Back to the house. Two fingers of Glendfiddich to make the Rizla go down. This was called a snow bomb. The rolling paper dissolved in your stomach and the cocaine with it. The euphoria wasn’t as intense as the cocaine crossed the blood/brain barrier, but it lasted much longer.

  Upstairs office.

  Windows open.

  The Velvets on the tape deck. Bowie in reserve.

  Mrs. Campbell in her back garden hanging up the washing. Yellow dress. No bra.

  “Hello, Mrs. C. Did Tricksie get home safe yesterday?”

  “Oh! Mr. Duffy, I didn’t see you up there! I was just putting the washing out. What did you say?”

  “Did Tricksie get home all right yesterday?”

  “Mr. Duffy, what happened to your face?”

  “Is it that noticeable?”

  “Were you in a fight?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Just an accident. Minor car accident. I’m fine. Did Tricksie get home OK?”

  “Oh yes, your friends brought her back just fine.”

  “That’s good. Did the old American guy leave her off?”

  “Yes. What an old charmer, eh, Mr. Duffy? Is he a friend of your father’s or something?”

  “Or something,” I muttered.

  “Well, I’d better get back to this. These clothes won’t hang themselves.”

  “No.”

  A wave. A flash of side boob.

  Notepad. Pencil. Notes. Coke hitting. What to do? What to do? What to do? Cartoon of Connolly with big jug ears. Arrows radiating from Connolly to Michael Kelly to Sylvie McNichol to a crate of stolen missiles to Zurich.

  Arrow radiating to Nigel Vardon.

  Him. Has to be. He’ll know. Or he’ll know someone that knows.

  Who does Nigel fear? Not us, not the police. Who does Nigel fear? The Loyalists. The Americans. Tommy Moony and his boys.

  What does Nigel need? Nigel needs a golden parachute. Nigel needs exit money.

  Does Nigel know anything? Maybe. Maybe not.

  Shed. Emergency escape fund in the biscuit tin. Six bundles of fifty-pound notes. Half of it? Half of it. It was only money. What about the cocaine too? Yeah, that too.

  Inside the house. Dress in character. Black jeans. DM boots. My old Dr. Ernesto Guevara T-shirt. Leather jacket. Scarf.

  Out the front gate.

  Quick check under the Beemer for mercury tilt bombs.

  Radio 1. The Pet Shop Boys. Jesus, I’d rather have silence.

  Down Victoria Road and along the A2 toward Whitehead.

  Turn up the Tongue Loanen.

  The back country.

  Sheep. Cows. Nigel Vardon’s burnt-out ruin of a house.

  The Special Branch goon snoozing in the driver’s seat of a Ford Sierra.

  Drove past him and around the bend in the road. Parked the Beemer down an old cattle trail. Hopped the stone wall. Approached Vardon’s house across the sheep field. From the back, where the snoozing Special Branch goon wouldn’t be able to see me.

  Crunch crunch crunch on the gravel.

  Burned house. Caravan. Rap on the window.

  Vardon lifted the door curtain and looked at me. He was skinny, unshaven with dark exhausted eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  I showed him the money. Three bundles of fifty-pound notes. I showed him the cocaine.

  “What’s that?”

  “Pharma coke. Purest shit you’ve ever seen.”

  “What are you going to do, plant that on me?”

  “This stuff? Are you joking? This is the business, brother. This is for using, not for planting. I should know. I’ve got a line of it dissolving in my stomach as we speak.”

  He opened the door, looked me in the eyes, saw that they were coke happy.

  “Why don’t you come in, Officer.”

  I went in.

  Couple of cats. An old WW2 revolver sitting on a fold-out writing desk.

  “License for that?”

  “Was me granda’s. You gonna bust me for it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Show me this coke.”

  I opened the bag and let him try it. He dabbed a little coke on to his finger and ran it around his gums. His eyes widened.

  I gave him the bag of cocaine and the roll of money. “Yours to keep.”

  “In exchange for what?” he snarled.

  “Set us up a couple of lines,” I said.

  He expertly cut two lines of cocaine on his Formica table. I rolled up a fiver and sniffed a line. The shit all right. This stuff could take you into fucking orbit.

  I gave him the fiver and he sniffed his line.

  “Jesus Christ!” he said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I mean, Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Another?”

  “You have one, Nigel, I’m OK.”

  He snorted another long rail of that beautiful German pharma cocaine. He grinned at me.

  I leaned back in the little plastic chair and took one of the cats off my lap.

  “As I see it, Nigel, it’s all about the Americans,” I said.

  “What about the Americans?”

  “Connolly.”

  “What about him?”

  “For reasons I haven’t figured out yet Connolly has been trying to get his hands on sophisticated missile systems that can be sold to rogue nations such as South Africa or Iran or Libya. Connolly needs to get the missile systems on the black market because the US Congress has an arms embargo against those nations.”

  “Interesting idea.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Now I know what you’re thinking, Nigel. What good are a couple of missiles to countries like South Africa or Iran that are fighting big-time wars? But here’s the clever part: they only need half a dozen missile launchers. You know why? Because their scientists and technicians will be able to reverse-engineer the missiles and make more.”

  “That is a good idea,” Nigel agreed.

  “But where can Mr. Connolly get these missiles from, eh? He can’t steal them from an American factory. FBI will be all over him. So he puts the word out, tentatively, quietly. There’s a deal worth millions, maybe tens of millions, if someone can get him advanced missile systems.”

  “I like this story, very entertaining,” Nigel said. “Another line?”

  “Yeah, why not. Set it up, Nige.”

  “Into the tale pops Michael Kelly. Burgeoning player on the international arms market. A few small scores here and there. But Mr. Connolly would represent a huge score. Like I say, millions . . . tens of millions. Mr. Connolly would represent freedom. Away from his da, away from grubby little bookie shops, away from Ireland, up into the big time. And here’s the good part. One of Michael’s old school friends, Nigel Vardon, works at Short Brothers, where they make, guess what, advanced missile systems.”

  Vardon sniffed another line of coke and passed me the rolled-up fiver. I sniffed another line too. Vardon laughed. I laughed.

  “Finish your story,” Vardon said.

  “Michael needs you, Nigel. But you know that nothing can move in and out of the factory without the say-so of Tommy Moony. Fortunately for all of you Tommy Moony is not the born-again Christian he claims to be. Tommy Moony is a player. Tommy Moony is UFF up to the eyeballs. Tommy Moony is an old-school iceman who has personally killed more walking bipeds than we’ve had hot dinners. Tommy Moony is one scary motherfucker.”

  “Go on.”

  “So Michael meets Mr. Connolly in England or Ireland or fucking Switzerland or wherever. Michael tells him about you. Mr. Connolly is interested. Very fucking interested. You talk to the terrifying Tommy Moony. Moony is also very interested. The dollar amount is just too big to fucking ignore
. That’s why I’m thinking tens of millions here. It’s the US government, for crying out loud. They can afford it.”

  Nigel said nothing.

  “The missiles get stolen. But something goes wrong. Before the missiles get to where they are supposed to go there’s an internal audit at Shorts. Just a random security check out of the blue and Short Brothers discover to their horror that half a dozen Javelin missile systems have gone missing. They call in the Special Branch and launch an internal inquiry. You’re immediately let go because you were the manager in charge of plant security. They’d love to fire Tommy Moony, too, because everybody knows that he’s the one that arranged it. Tommy’s the one who opened the gates and shipped the missiles out and is hiding them somewhere in deepest Ulster. But they can’t fire Tommy because they’re afraid of him. They’re afraid of him because he’s UFF and a fucking iceman, but also because he could call a strike and bring the whole plant to a halt and send Short Brothers on to Mrs. Thatcher’s chopping block.”

  Nigel shook his head. “I’m not completely convinced by this tale, you know.”

  “Hold on, mate, I haven’t finished it yet. So Michael and Moony fall out. Doesn’t matter why. Maybe it’s about the split, maybe it’s about the delivery, maybe Special Branch has got Michael spooked. Maybe Michael doesn’t trust Connolly. Maybe Michael has a big mouth. Doesn’t matter why. Michael’s getting to be a problem. Moony decides to take action. Decisive action. He drives down to Whitehead, kills Michael’s parents, drags Michael out of the house. Gets Michael to tell him who he’s been talking to, and when they’re satisfied with Michael Kelly’s answers they chuck him off a cliff.”

  “I still think Michael killed himself,” Nigel said.

  “No you don’t. You know what happened. And you know what happened to Sylvie McNichol when Moony didn’t trust her one hundred per cent to keep her mouth shut about Michael Kelly’s various dealings over the previous few weeks. Little Sylvie didn’t tell us a bloody thing, but that wasn’t good enough for Moony, was it? Sylvie had to die. And when Deirdre Ferris thought she saw Moony or one of his boys outside her house, Deirdre had to die too.”

  Vardon was pale now, quiet.

  “And just in case you got any ideas, one of Moony’s boys burned your fucking house down. Just to show you that you could be got even with the Special Branch watching you like a fucking hawk. What do you think of my story now, Nigel?”

  “I think it’s bollocks, Duffy. You haven’t told me why. What’s in it for Mr. Connolly? What’s in it for the Americans?”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. Looked him in the eyes. “I don’t know why, Nigel, but you do, don’t you? You do and that information alone makes you vulnerable. What are you playing at here in this caravan, Nigel? Hiding here, waiting for the deal to be done. And maybe when Moony gets his payday he’ll swing by the caravan and remember to give you your cut. Is that what you’re thinking? This ruthless killer who murdered Michael Kelly and Michael Kelly’s mum and da. And little Sylvie. And sent a team all the way to Scotland to kill Deirdre Ferris. You think he’s going to let you live and give you your money?”

  “I . . . I’ve got nothing to do with Moony,” he said. He was very pale and very sweaty now and that wasn’t just the coke working its white magic.

  “It’s the Americans who are calling the shots around here, isn’t it? I’ve tangled with them myself. They almost did for me and I’m an RUC detective. An RUC detective with no evidence and a lot of wild guesses. Whereas you . . . you actually know the whole story. And once the deal is done, once the missiles are gone, they’ll make sure all the loose ends are tidied up. And in case my figurative language has confused you, Nigel, by loose ends I mean you. You won’t be getting any dough, Nigel. You won’t be getting any love. But you’ll probably be getting a bullet in the fucking head.”

  Nigel closed his eyes, breathed in and out, went to get a glass of water, drank it.

  “Talk. Tell me, Nigel,” I said.

  He sat down again.

  “What do you want, Duffy?” he asked.

  “I want the killers. I’m a homicide detective. I don’t give a fuck about the missiles. I want the men who threw Michael Kelly off a cliff. I want the men who murdered little Sylvie.”

  He shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know anything about that,” he said in a monotone.

  I grabbed his dressing gown by the lapels and pulled him close to my face.

  “Can you deliver them to me, Nigel? Can you? If you can you can save your skin.”

  He shook his shaggy head. “I don’t know who killed those people and I don’t know anything about any missing missiles.”

  “We can go the official route: full confession, witness protection program, new identity for you anywhere you like,” I said.

  I took the roll of banknotes and held it in front of his nose.

  “Or we could go the unofficial route. There’s ten grand here. That pharma coke could be worth another ten. You just give me the proof I need and it’s yours. Disappear. Vanish off the face of the earth until Moony’s in jail or dead . . .”

  Vardon shook his head.

  “I want you to go now,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. I stood up. I had him on the hook and that was enough for now.

  I wrote out my home phone number and my phone number at Carrick RUC and left them on the table. “Call me any time. Day or night. Just don’t do it from the phone box in Ballycarry. Special Branch has tapped that one. Understand me, Nigel?”

  He nodded sullenly. “I understand,” he said.

  I put the coke and money in my jacket pocket. I walked back across the muddy field to the BMW. I drove home as another snowstorm moved in from the north.

  My whole body ached now just as the doctors in Coleraine predicted it would do. I stripped off in the bathroom and found that I was covered with yellow and purple bruises. I lay in the bath and drank neat vodka with aspirin and codeine.

  Darkness fell on Ireland and I went downstairs and locked the doors.

  I lit the paraffin heater and climbed into bed. I checked that my Glock nine-millimeter was under the pillow. I tested the action and checked the clip. All was well. If they came for me again tonight they’d pay a heavier price this time. I thought about Sara and I thought about Kate, and finally I thought about Niamh. “Tá an tachrán ina shuan codlata,” a voice from the past said. The child is fast asleep. And some time after that he was.

  26: THE CONFIDENTIAL TELEPHONE

  Doorbell at eight in the morning. I looked through the peephole. Crabbie and Lawson.

  I opened up.

  “What’s the craic, lads?”

  “We got a report that you were in the hospital, Sean,” Crabbie said, concerned.

  “I’m fine. And they mostly avoided my pretty face.”

  “What happened? Someone lifted you?” Crabbie asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Paramilitaries?”

  “Hard to tell because they were wearing balaclavas. But here’s the interesting part . . . they had American accents.”

  “Wait a second, what happened to you?” Lawson said.

  “Someone gave him a hiding,” Crabbie said.

  Lawson was shocked. “How can this happen to a policeman?”

  “It happens, and worse. Where do you think you’re living, son?”

  “Did you report it?” Lawson asked.

  “I did. Not that that will ever do any good.”

  McCrabban’s knuckles were white with fury. “If I ever catch them that’s done that to you,” he began.

  “Forget it. Why don’t you come in and have some coffee.”

  After the lads left I took another personal day. I stayed home because I couldn’t face the office, but also because I was waiting for Vardon to call.

  Waited there. Watched Murder She Wrote and Countdown. Solved the murder before Jessica, solved the numbers before Carol.

/>   Vardon didn’t call.

  That was OK. Give him another day to stew.

  I went to the wine shop in Carrick and bought a bottle of the expensive stuff that Sara liked.

  Quick shower. Shave. Clean shirt. Sports coat. Tie.

  Under the BMW.

  Inside the BMW.

  Sara’s house.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The door didn’t open.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  “I told you I was busy, Sean.”

  Her voice . . . annoyed.

  “I bought you some wine.”

  “Leave it on the doorstep, will you?”

  “Can’t I even come in?”

  “No. I’m working.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working! For fuck sake, Sean. I’m trying to do some work.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Of course I’m alone. I just don’t want to be disturbed. All right?”

  “I’ll leave the wine on the doorstep, then.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I walked back to the Beemer and turned on my police radio. I ran the license plates of all the cars on the street.

  The one on the other side of the street belonged to a certain Martin McConville, who was the deputy editor of the Belfast Telegraph. The man with the good handshake. The one that looked like the Yorkshire Ripper.

  I moved the BMW to a more discreet location under a chestnut tree at the end of the road. Martin finally came out at nine. He almost tripped over the bottle of wine. He handed it back through the doorway. He leaned in for a kiss good-bye. It was lingering. Heartfelt.

  “And that’s the end of Sean Duffy and Sara Prentice,” I said to myself. “Shame. I really thought we were on to something.”

  I didn’t blame her. I was just as bad. Worse.

  Back to Coronation Road.

  Up the path, phone ringing.

  “Yes?”

  “Where were you? I tried you at your office. I tried you at your home number.”

  Vardon.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I slipped over the fields to the James Orr pub in Ballycarry.”

  “Special Branch see you go?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s in the pub?”

  “Couple of old farmers.”