O’Rourke stepped forward to push into Ferguson’s eyeline. “Sir, you can’t. This is exactly what he wants.”
Ferguson turned, his bulk forcing O’Rourke to lean back. “And it is exactly what he gets.”
“But it was them!”
“Of course it was them, Fintan, I’m not a bloody idiot. However, if you had even a shred of evidence linking Carter or one of his men to this gaudy bullshit with knives and teddy bears I’d have heard about it by now, wouldn’t I? Or are you holding out on me?”
O’Rourke pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Then shut up and take your medicine. Either we pull everything off him and his chums or his solicitor gets that tape on the six o’clock news. The video kills us stone dead and you know it, so don’t go throwing your toys out of the pram. You got played.”
“But—”
“Pull the surveillance – now. You’ll have to come up with some other way to get Carter and it’d better be a damn sight smarter than you’ve been so far. This isn’t a shit storm so much as a tsunami.”
Ferguson tossed his cigar butt over the ledge of the balcony and then ignored the plaintive “Oi!” that carried up from the street below.
“Either find some way to move forward – or abandon this entire investigation. Either way, move fast if you want to rescue the career you’re so in love with.”
O’Rourke looked at the concrete floor of the balcony and briefly considered hurling one of the potted plants as far as he could over the railing. “Yes, sir.”
Ferguson tightened the belt on his dressing gown again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get a perfectly harmless lump of flesh gouged out of my back for no other reason than my sainted wife is sick of looking at it. To be honest, I think she’s sick of the sight of all of me, but this bit she can do something about.”
As he moved past, Ferguson stopped and lowered his voice. “If, in six months’ time, Carter and Co are up on a host of charges and bang to rights, then suddenly Detective Muldoon’s situation becomes a lot more manageable, and the media would be considerably more sympathetic to his plight. As of right now, well . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime, put me down for two hundred in Muldoon’s collection.”
O’Rourke nodded.
“That’s assuming I don’t die at the hand of some overenthusiastic butcher boy in the meantime.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The screech of car tyres made Simone jump, and she clutched reflexively at the mace in her coat pocket. Bunny’s car, that awful 1980s Porsche that he loved so much, was pulled up at the kerb, the man himself trying to extricate himself from it. She still couldn’t get over it. In many ways, she had never met a man less concerned with the superficial as Bunny McGarry, and yet he had this ludicrous car which seemed to be in the shop more often than not, and when it wasn’t he was far too large a man to get out of it comfortably without the aid of a tin opener.
He moved quickly around the car, his face a picture of concern. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“What are you apologising for?”
“I was supposed to walk you home and I wasn’t there.”
“It’s cool, don’t worry about it. I’d totally forgotten you were going to.” She hadn’t. She’d waited around for twenty minutes in the biting December chill. He was normally set-your-watch reliable, and – much as she hated to admit it – she looked forward to the nights when he’d be there. They had become the highlight of her week. His no-show had put her in more of a bad mood then she’d let herself acknowledge. Tonight, of all nights. She’d taken it as a sign.
Bunny looked a little hurt. “Oh right, well, that’s good then. Didn’t want you worrying. Do you mind if I hop on board for the last couple of stops?”
Simone looked up the street. They were all of a hundred yards from the front door of the Dublin residence of the Sisters of the Saint. She nodded and they fell easily into step, walking in silence for a couple of seconds.
Simone looked up at Bunny, noticing the tightness in his face. “So what happened? You look stressed.”
“Ah, I screwed up big time, the whole thing is bollocked to buggery. D’you remember Dinny Muldoon?”
“Was he the guy who helped you steal the goat?”
“No.”
“The dude you dangled off O’Connell Bridge?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me, don’t tell me . . .” She stopped walking, biting her knuckle as she racked her brain. She didn’t have that many stories she wanted to tell, but Bunny appeared to have an endless supply. Some of them he’d admittedly repeated, but they were so entertaining she had never minded. Simone clicked her fingers. “The guy you trained with. Y’all put him naked on the train to Belfast as part of his bachelor party?”
Bunny nodded sheepishly. “That’s him.”
Simone punched the air. “Yes! I passed the pop quiz.” Then she noticed his expression. “Ehm, sorry. Is he OK?”
“No,” said Bunny, as they started walking again. “He’s suspended without pay. He beat the shite out of Tommy Carter. Gringo and I reacted too fecking slow. Couldn’t stop him.”
“But why would he do that?”
Bunny ran a hand through his hair and puffed out his cheeks. “He’s got twin babies at home. Him and the missus had been trying forever. Came back to find her in a state. Someone had broken in, cut the throats of a couple of teddies as a threat.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Fecking sick. Dinny lost it, just lost it. Came straight over and lamped Carter. Exactly what Carter was hoping for. Got the whole thing on tape. Carter’s away and clear and Dinny’s going to lose his job. All because we messed up.”
“Sounds like you couldn’t have known.”
Bunny shook his head. “Could’ve, should’ve, would’ve. Been going over it again and again. I’m just coming from Dinny’s house. His wife is saying maybe he should leave the force. He’d been in great form this morning when Gringo and I went to relieve them, having a bit of a crack about buying himself a shed at the weekend. Now . . .”
Simone gently placed a hand on his arm. “You can’t save everybody, but I do love that you try.”
They walked the final few steps to her gate in silence.
“Right, so. Well, the good news is I’d imagine Gringo and I will be back working days now, so I’ll be in more often to see you sing. That’s assuming I don’t get transferred to Donegal as a punishment for messing up.”
“Right.”
“OK so. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
Bunny extended his arms for their nightly hug goodbye, but Simone placed her hand on his chest to stop him. She looked up into his eyes and then, before she could overthink it, grabbed his tie and pulled him down, drawing his lips to hers. She kissed him hard and then pulled away slightly. Bunny stood and looked down at her with a confused expression.
She started to straighten his tie.
“Shit the bed. What brought this on?”
She didn’t look up, just continued straighten his already straight tie. “OK, well, for both our sakes, I’m going to pretend you said something considerably more romantic there.”
“Right. Sorry. Yeah.”
“And in answer to your question, ye big lug, I appreciate you being the perfect gentleman and all.”
“Right.”
“But outside of doing something involving tassels, I’m not sure how many more obvious signals I could send.”
“I’m a clueless gobshite.”
“OK, you should probably just let me do all the talking.”
Silence.
“So here’s the thing. A priest the sisters know over in Galway is retiring and he’s having a party. So, they have all gone there for the night. Tonight . . .”
She ran her hands up and down his tie. “And I was wondering if you’d like to come in for coffee – and before you say anything else, understand that I know you don’t drink coffee
. So, what do you think?”
She pinched his tie nervously between her fingers. He said nothing.
He continued to say nothing.
Then she remembered she had told him to say nothing.
She looked up into his big, nervously grinning face. He nodded slowly and emphatically.
“OK then.”
She grasped his hand in hers and turned, walking quickly down the drive. At the door, she stopped and started trying to locate the key in her bag. She could feel him standing close behind her, his body pressing lightly against hers.
She found the key.
Nervous, she missed the lock the first two times. He grabbed her hand and guided it in. She giggled.
She turned and pushed the door open with her ass while simultaneously reaching her arms up towards . . .
“There you are.”
Simone screamed.
Bunny screamed.
A lamp at the end of the hallway turned on, casting light on Sister Bernadette, looking smaller than usual in the oversized armchair. “We’re all fierce jumpy this evening.”
“Sorry, Sister but what are you doing here? I mean, is everything OK?”
“The blasted car broke down, didn’t it? I’m waiting for the AA man to have it fixed and dropped back.”
Bunny spoke up. “Eh, Sister, they’d not do that at this time of the night.”
She fixed him with a stare. “They do when I ask. Speaking of unexpected deliveries, what are you doing here, Detective McGarry?”
“I, uh, invited him in for a second,’ said Simone. “Because you see . . . Noel has had to go away for a couple of days.”
“Has he?”
“Yes, and . . . he asked me to flat-sit for him.”
“He has cats,” chipped in Bunny.
“Yes, cats. And, well, with you three being away, I thought it’d be better than being here on my own.”
“We have a cat.”
“Of course we do,” nodded Simone, “but Brody is a very independent cat.” Which was true – he showed up about once a week, peed on something and left. “Whereas Noel’s cat . . .”
“Tiddles,” said Bunny.
“Tiddles,” repeated Simone, giving Bunny a look to indicate further help would not be required, “gets very lonely when Noel’s gone. Starts howling.”
“I see.”
“So I was just grabbing a bag, and Bunny had kindly offered to give me a lift over.”
“To the cat,” said Bunny.
“To Noel’s flat,” continued Simone, “where I will be, y’know, taking care of the cat.”
“Yes,” said Sister Bernadette, “that all stacks up. Well done.”
She stood and started walking towards the kitchen, mumbling to herself as she went. “Cat-sitting, is that what they’re calling it these days? I don’t know.”
Simone turned to Bunny and pulled a face.
“Oh Christ,” he said.
“Yeah, that was bad.”
“Awful,” agreed Bunny. “I mean, I was fine, but you’re a terrible liar.”
“Really? Now strikes you as a good time to crack wise?”
Bunny shook his head vigorously. “No, it definitely doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“D’ye think Noel will mind you sleeping on his sofa?”
She punched him with a little more force than she intended, but no less than he deserved.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ben Williams looked at his watch as the wheels of flight AI424 from Antwerp touched down: 8:37 pm – bang on time. He held up the walkie-talkie in his right hand. “Wheels down, on schedule. Be ready.” He had another radio strapped to his belt that he could use to talk to ground control via an earpiece.
Ben was a security coordinator. His company moved hundreds of millions of pounds of stock a year and most of it he just monitored from the office, but this was special. The Antwerp flight came in once every six months and for the last seven years he hadn’t missed one. It was too important. He’d tried to explain that to his wife, Mairead, but she had refused to see his side of things. Her birthday was her birthday and, while his was a movable feast, like when Karen from work had her hen weekend, it apparently did not work the other way around. That argument had happened last week, and in the five days since, life in the Williams’ residence had been like living in Cold War Berlin. He reckoned his only way out of this doghouse, which he still didn’t believe he deserved to be in, might involve going big and getting Mairead a diamond. The irony of this wasn’t lost on him as he watched flight AI424 come to a stop at the end of the runway and begin its turn exactly on schedule. Its hold contained sixteen million pounds’ worth of uncut diamonds. Twice a year, the raw materials for every jeweller in Ireland came through Dublin Airport and it was his job to see that it all ran smoothly.
It was a foolproof system. One van took the stones off the plane and into hangar 3, which had been prearranged to be completely clear. It was under armed guard, with nine members of the Garda Emergency Response Unit in attendance. There the diamonds were divided up and ferried by three armoured vans, each with two armed police escort cars, to their distribution centres around the country. That, of course, was the dangerous part of the operation, especially in light of recent events. This was why there were currently twelve vans in hangar 3. Nobody but him would know which were carrying actual diamonds and which just had empty cases in them. He’d like to see them get lucky on those odds. The bosses hadn’t been happy about the extra expense, but nobody wanted to be accused of not doing enough should something go wrong.
When it came to meeting the plane, it would just be Ben and Peter Lovejoy, a long-serving driver, with Derek and Yvonne in the back of the van, two similarly long-serving security guards. For insurance reasons, nobody outside the company’s employ could touch any of the boxes. The plane would be stopped in Holding Area Bravo, as that was the point in the airport where there was nothing but clear open ground for 700 metres in every direction. If a vehicle broke through the airport’s outer fencing anywhere, the Garda ERU team currently stationed in hangar 3 could move to intercept long before they reached the plane. Once the perimeter had been confirmed as clear, Ben informed ground control, who in turn informed the pilot, who then opened the hold doors. In under two minutes, the van with the diamonds would be back in hangar 3 and under heavily armed guard. It happened so quickly, the passengers on board would not even notice. Clean. Seamless. Foolproof.
There was a beep in his earpiece as the female voice of ground control came through. “Flight AI424 in standby, you may approach.”
Ben hit the button on the mic on his lapel. “Roger, control.” Then he picked up the walkie-talkie for his team and the Gardaí. “We are go.”
Peter Lovejoy started up the engine and pulled out. The head of the ERU team gave him a nod as they passed out of the hangar. Heaven help any member of airport staff who decided to go for a quick smoke behind hangar 3. They would end up staring down the barrel of a submachine gun before they’d opened the packet.
The van made its way across the tarmac and pulled up at the rear of the Fokker 100 idling in Holding Area Bravo. Ben got out and looked around. Nothing but grass and empty runway in all directions. The nearest buildings were half a mile away. Unless the Invisible Man had gone into the diamond robbery business, they were untouchable. His walkie-talkie crackled in his hand.
“Perimeter confirmed,” said the head of the ERU team in his ear, who would have been informed in turn by the Garda spotters.
“Roger that,” Ben said into his walkie-talkie, before hitting his lapel mic to the tower. “Control, we are go.”
“Roger that.”
Thirty seconds later, bang on schedule, the rear cargo doors on the plane began to open.
The first Ben knew that something was wrong was when he felt the muzzle of a gun pressing behind his ear.
“Move and you are dead.” It didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like a statement of fact. As he staye
d absolutely still, a latex-gloved hand ripped the earpiece from his ear and grabbed the walkie-talkie from his hand. While his captor remained behind him, another man in black assault gear – identical to that which the ERU guys were wearing – moved past him. He pointed a handgun through the passenger-side door at Peter Lovejoy.
“Stay perfectly still,” said the voice behind Ben.
A thick vest was placed on him, knocking his glasses off his face as it was dragged roughly over his head. Without them, he was as blind as a damn bat. Dark, blurred shapes moved around him. The vest was heavy – too heavy. He knew what that meant. He tried to think clearly. The van was blocking his view of the ERU team, which meant they also could not see him. By now, someone would be getting suspicious – but how long until they moved? Ben hoped the two staff in the back of the van would stay where they were, the last thing this situation needed was a “have-a-go” hero. Gunfire would be nothing but bad news for many reasons, not least of which was that they were standing beneath a large plane, which would presumably still have quite a lot of fuel in it. Above all of these thoughts, one kept recurring again and again: these people could simply not be here. They had literally appeared out of thin air.
A piece of card appeared in front of Ben Williams’s face and the voice spoke again. “Read.”
“I . . . I can’t see without my glasses.”
There was the sound of movement and then his glasses were thrust roughly onto his head.
“Read,” repeated the voice.
The voice was still behind him, presumably holding the gun. The second man was still covering Peter Lovejoy in the van. A third man in a balaclava and tactical assault gear was standing in front of him, holding the card in one hand and Ben’s walkie-talkie in the other.
The gun nudged him on the back of the head again. Ben focused on the card.
“My name is Ben Williams.” They knew his name – how did they know his name? “The jacket I am wearing contains six pounds of C-4. There is another twelve pounds of C-4 strapped to the armoured car. Both are on a dead man’s trigger.”
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