“So, he’s got this young one wearing – Jesus, how would you even describe the outfit, Dinny?”
Dinny Muldoon, looking like something the cat dragged in, was nonetheless enjoying his partner’s telling of the story. His strong Kerry accent filled the room. “Well let me say this, Detective Cassidy, the young lady in question’s outfit, well, ’twould be considered scant.”
Butch put one finger to the tip of her nose and pointed at Muldoon. “Scant. Scant is indeed a good word for it, Detective Muldoon. Her outfit was positively scant-elous.”
The chuckles of the assembled company were mixed with groans.
“So anyway,” continued Butch, “Moran comes over to the car and he’s waving in the window going, ‘Y’all right there, officers, have you had a good night’ – all this bullshit.”
“What a prick.”
“Too right, and then he bends this girl over on our bonnet and starts dry humping her.”
Butch started enthusiastically acting it out, leaning over one of the desks. “And he’s all, ‘Oh yeah, she’s gonna love it, we’re going to be riding all night.’”
“The man is indeed a poet,” interjects Muldoon.
“Now personally,” continued Butch, “I’d have arrested him there and then for fraud. With the amount of steroids that muppet has probably been on, I’d imagine the best chance of his little ding-a-ling giving anyone a good time is if he dresses it up and does a puppet show.”
A guffaw of laughter rippled around the fourteen officers.
“Anyway, enough is enough. We get out of the car and Dinny pulls lover boy aside.”
Muldoon leaned forward. “I did indeed. I explained to Mr Moran that he was making a nuisance of himself and that Section 5 of the Criminal Justice Public Order Act 1994 makes it an offence for anyone in a public place to engage in offensive conduct between the hours of midnight and 7 am.”
“Jesus, Dinny,” chipped in Bunny, “I love it when you get all quotey. How did the muscle-bound bollocks take that?”
“Funny you should ask, Detective McGarry. Not well, but also not as badly as I’d hoped. I was hoping he was going to smack me one and we could get him on assaulting a police officer. No such luck. Instead he’s all ‘This is harassment! Who am I offending?’ Now, I wanted to say me, not least because I’ve a couple of ten-month-old bambinos at home and let’s just say it’s been a while since both myself and Mrs Muldoon have been in the same room fully conscious and neither of us with baby sick on us.”
“Conjugal visits have been in short supply in the Muldoon household,” confirmed Butch. “I feel so bad for him, I’ve considered letting him come over to my house to watch.”
“So did you arrest him?” asked DS John Quinn, a man not renowned for his lightning wit.
“No,” said Cassidy, “course not. Rigger said about not leaving us open to harassment charges, tempting as it’d be.”
“So what’s the point?” continued Quinn, unaware of the eye-rolls all around him.
“Ah,” said Dinny, “Detective Cassidy, would you like to enlighten DS Quinn as to the point?” He let it hang in the air as he looked at Butch, giving his double-act partner the dénouement.
“So, while Dinny was having his tête-à-tête with Moran, I’m chatting to his lady friend. Telling her, ‘Oh yeah, we’ve been following himself about, he’s under surveillance.’ This she knows, by the way. Seems to be getting a kick out of it. Loving the bad boy image and all that. So I says, ‘Yeah, followed him to the gym, the shops, the STD clinic . . .’”
Laughter.
“‘STD clinic?’ she says. And I go, ‘Oh shit – I shouldn’t have said that, ignore me. It’s probably nothing, he might just know someone who works there – who he’s gone to visit three times in two weeks.’”
There was more laughter, mixed with a smattering of applause.
Butch took a bow. “So, Cinderella suddenly remembers she has to go home immediately, before Prince Charming turns into a pumpkin.”
“Crabs more like!”
“And Moran goes batshit!”
“Ah Jesus, folks,” Dinny said through his foot-wide grin, “the look on his face was fecking priceless.”
“He was probably in there all night,” said Butch, “cursing his massive deltoid muscles that mean his hands can’t reach down and grab his little winky.”
Cassidy started acting this out to the room’s amusement, mimicking Moran’s muscle-bound gait that made it look like he was carrying an invisible roll of carpet under each arm.
A cough came from behind her.
The room fell silent.
DS Jessica Cunningham stood in the doorway, looking unamused even by her lofty standards.
“I’m glad to see we’re all having a good time. Is there something worthy of celebration I’m unaware of?”
Butch, red-faced and silenced, sat down in her seat as the room shifted nervously.
“We get made to look like clowns by Carter and here we all are, laughing it up.” Cunningham stared coldly around the room for a second before moving across to her seat at the front. DI O’Rourke and DS O’Shea came in the door behind her, unaware of the dressing-down that had just been issued.
O’Rourke leaned back against the desk at the front while O’Shea started passing out photocopies.
“OK, folks, thanks for coming in. Look – yesterday was a farce and we all know it. Mr Carter is certainly ‘inventive’, the little shit, but we knew that.” He stopped to look around the room at his team. “I know morale is an issue. I’m not blind to that. We’ve been on this for five weeks now, but honestly, while it might not look like it, it is working. Yesterday, they had to go to great lengths to get out from under us, and when they did, they’d no alibi for the time they were missing. Any time they pulled a job previously, one of the big problems we had was that the Clanavale Estate would alibi them up to the nth degree. They’ve not got that when we’re on them. We’re making it harder for them to work.”
This, thought Bunny, was true – up to a point. Whatever they’d been up to yesterday – and every bank, armoured car and Garda on patrol had been made aware of an increased threat of armed robbery – it hadn’t been a light-of-day thing. Maybe they were up to something, maybe they just wanted to make the Gardaí look foolish. Either way, they had succeeded.
“We’ve just handed out some new guidelines,” said O’Rourke, holding up one of the photocopied sheets of paper. “I’m asking for more resources. We’re going to try and keep a car just outside the estate, so if they pull a stunt like this again, we can pick up the tail. In the meantime, every one of your cars has a video camera in the glove compartment now. If they’re going to film us, we’re going to film them. We don’t want edited footage getting out to make us look bad that we can’t counter. Carter is smart but pressure will force him into a mistake. It might not feel like it, but we’ve got them right where we want them.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“We’ve got them right where we want them,” said Jimmy Moran.
Tommy Carter placed a finger to his lips and nodded pointedly at John O’Donnell, who was methodically making his way around the front room with the scanning device they’d brought back from Florida the last time they’d been over. A present from O’Donnell’s contacts in Miami that was proving useful.
Franko, sitting in the armchair, looked at Moran stretched out on the sofa, his feet on the cushions. The man had no respect for anything, and seeing as Tommy kept his house as pristine as both his father and his mother had before him, that was doubly disrespectful. Moran didn’t have the sense he was born with.
“For feck’s sake, Tommy,” continued Moran, “Johno checked the whole place two days ago. Can we get on with it?”
O’Donnell stopped what he was doing and looked down pointedly at him.
Moran may have been a more imposing physical presence, but he still wilted under O’Donnell’s gaze. “I’m just saying,” he said, shifting his legs around. Huffily, h
e took his Zippo lighter out of his pocket and started flicking it on and off, dancing his fingers through the flame.
Tommy stood leaning against the piano that nobody had played in twenty years, not since Tommy’s ma had passed. He gave Moran a look that was hard to read. Tommy was always hard to read.
O’Donnell finished running the device up and down the last remaining wall before nodding an affirmative at Carter and going to stand by the fireplace. Tommy turned and switched on the jammer box that sat on top of the piano. Belt and braces. “Right, I’m calling this meeting to order. Let’s keep this brief and to the point. Franko, how did the meeting go with our friends from the north?”
“Like clockwork, Tommy. I thought that prick Roberts was going to shit himself when he realised we’d taken out his boys.”
“Did he say anything we didn’t expect?”
Franko shook his head. “Nah. Usual demands of something for nothing. Thinking they’re the big bad wolf. I’ve not heard anything back since, but I’ll keep an ear out.”
“OK. Good. From a security standpoint?”
Carter looked at O’Donnell, but it was Moran who answered. “Like a dream. Shower of amateurs didn’t know what hit them. I swear . . .”
Moran stopped talking when he noticed the look on Tommy’s face.
“John?”
“Yeah,” said O’Donnell, “mostly fine.”
“Mostly?”
O’Donnell glanced in Moran’s direction. “Jimmy got into it with one of their boys, slapped him around a bit.”
Moran leaned forward. “He was acting the maggot, Tommy.”
Carter looked at O’Donnell again. “How much?”
O’Donnell shrugged. “Nothing big, but the guy will have gone to A&E.”
“Big deal,” said Moran.
Carter sighed. “Not a big deal, Jimmy, course not – but the fella’s going to hospital. He’s going to have visible damage, I assume. Questions will get asked. Even the Gardaí are smart enough to notice somebody with a smashed-up face. We don’t want to advertise.”
“It sends a message.”
Carter didn’t move as he spoke. Franko had always noticed that about him. He was unnervingly good at staying absolutely still. “The only messages we send are the ones I say we send. Is that absolutely clear?”
Franko watched Moran shift nervously under the younger man’s calm gaze, before mumbling, “Yes, Tommy,” and then going back to flicking his lighter.
Franko might have known Tommy Carter better than anyone outside of his immediate family, but even he had to be looking closely to see the flash of irritation that slipped across his otherwise unreadable face.
“Good. Now, how did it go with your friend after?”
Moran perked up. “Really well. Shipment is coming in Monday, 20:37 – just like we expected.”
Franko ran his hand through his hair and puffed out his cheeks. “We can’t move on that, Tommy, not with the heat on us.”
Moran shrugged. “We can run circles around those clowns, what’s the big deal? You going soft, Franko?”
“Blow it out your arse, Jimmy.” Moran liked to lord his and O’Donnell’s hard-man military stuff over Franko every chance he got and he was getting royally sick of it. Moran confused smart with scared way too much.
Moran made to respond but Tommy put his hand out to cut him off. “We don’t have time for one of your pissing contests. Franko, how did your little trip go?”
Franko pulled two sheets of paper from under his jumper. “He got us a list of names but it cost double. Rozzers, even dirty ones, don’t like giving up other rozzers.” It had taken Franko half an hour to calm him down and get the names. Nothing worse than a bent copper with a sudden attack of conscience.
Tommy took the pages. “Good work. You took it out of petty cash?”
“Yeah, but . . .” Franko rubbed his hands together. “That pot is running low, after the expenses and the low return from the last job.”
Tommy nodded. “Not a problem, we’re good to—”
They were interrupted by a soft knock on the living room door. Tommy put a finger to his lips before raising his voice. “Yeah?”
Tommy’s sister, Eimear, popped her head in, glancing nervously around the room. “Sorry, Tommy.”
“That’s alright, Eimear,’ said Tommy, in a soft tone he reserved for his sister and nobody else, “it’s only the lads.”
They all nodded and smiled greetings at her. She flashed a brief smile, not looking in Franko’s direction at all.
“Is everything OK?”
Eimear spoke somewhere north of a whisper but not by much. “I’m going to the cinema with Janet, is that alright?”
“Course. You’ve got money?”
She nodded.
“Grand. Ring me if you need a lift home.”
She nodded again and quickly departed. They waited a few seconds and heard the front door open and close.
“She’s awful quiet when we’re around,” said Moran. “I think she’s got a crush on Johno!”
Moran’s guffaw died in his throat as the cold eyes of both O’Donnell and Tommy bore down into him.
“Sorry, only messing. No disrespect.”
Tommy fixed his gaze on Moran for a second longer and then moved to O’Donnell. “And your end?”
O’Donnell nodded. “All good. On schedule. Which means we need next week to happen or come up with something else fast.”
“Don’t worry,” said Carter, tapping the sheets of paper in his hand, “there’ll be a weakness and I’ll find it. Just everyone stick to the plan and don’t do anything stupid.”
They all nodded.
“Now,” said Carter, “who wants to see the video of the Garda Síochána’s finest being beaten by a bunch of carol-singing twelve-year-olds?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Simone looked around Charlie’s bar for the third time. All the chairs were up on the tables, the toilet lights were off, the ashtrays were emptied. Noel was currently restocking the bar, having insisted he needed absolutely no assistance doing so.
“OK then,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the clanking of bottles.
Noel’s head reappeared over the bar and he shot her a smile. “Safe home.”
“Right. Yeah. Good.” She was nodding although she wasn’t sure why. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Noel looked up from the stock ledger where he was taking notes. “Yes, as already mentioned three times, you will.” He said it with a smile.
It was her first night back working since the incident with Nathan Ryan. Noel had come around to the house the day after Bunny had. Or rather, Bernadette had finally allowed him to. He had been trying from the get-go, once he’d realised Simone’s excuse of being ill was far from the whole truth. She had sat him down and calmly explained what had happened. He had been all apologies, despite none of it being his fault – at least as far as anyone but him was concerned. His jumble of tics and spasms throughout were so severe, it was hard to figure out where his opinion of Nathan Ryan stopped and the random swearing started. It’d taken both Bernadette and Simone to talk him down from going to the police. He had then inferred that he knew some people who could take care of Mr Ryan. Sister Bernadette had taken him out of the room and given him what Simone could only assume had been a very stern talking to. When he returned, he pointedly avoided the subject of vengeance.
She had been expecting him to insist on driving her home or putting her into a taxi, though she would have turned either offer down flat. She was determined to get back to life as normal. She was expecting him to at least insist on walking her to the top of the alley. As it happened, it seemed there was going to be no struggle on that front either. Simone was glad, and a little hurt.
“OK then,” she said, before realising she had already said that. She turned to go, her handbag hanging from her shoulder, clutched tightly under her arm. It had been a gift from Bernadette, as had the can of homemade mace that sat
inside it. Simone had made the mistake of expressing scepticism about the potency of such a thing. She had then been horrified when Bernadette had brought Freddy the milkman in and demonstrated it on him. It had taken over an hour for the man to regain both sight and composure. He’d sat at the kitchen table weeping burning tears and gasping as Bernadette had assured him he was doing the Lord’s work.
Simone looked down. She had her sneakers on. She had her keys in her pocket. She had her bag. She had her mace. She opened the bag, looked at it, and then put the mace into the pocket of her coat instead. She closed her bag. She double-checked the keys and then looked at the door. A deep breath. First time is the hardest. Just get it done and move on with your life.
She opened the door.
Bunny McGarry was sitting on the stairs outside, looking at his watch. As she emerged, a large smile spread across his face. “How’s it going?”
Simone stopped and looked at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just passing and that.”
“Yeah, I call bullshit.” She looked back into the bar to see Noel’s silvery hair disappearing fractionally too slowly under the bar. “Look, I appreciate it and all, but I don’t need an escort.”
“Have I ever told you how much I enjoy a fried breakfast?”
Simone raised her eyebrows. “No, hard as it is to believe, that has never come up in conversation.”
“Well, I do. The full Irish, mind. Black pudding. White pudding. Eggs. Sausages. Beans. Mushrooms. None of that fried tomato nonsense but – and this is a recent break with tradition – I will go the occasional hash brown; your nation’s finest export, present company excepted.”
“Thank you kindly, sir, but – does this have a point?”
“It does indeed. Ye see, I had my yearly Garda physical last week and this fella sits me down and tells me – wait for it – I’m fat.”
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