Too Close For Comfort

by Niamh O'Connor

  ‘Everyone’s pretending to be something they’re not. They shut the News of the World down over it. The double standards people live by make me sick. Even your Derek’s a hypocrite. He wants everyone, even you, to think he’s this ordinary family man, but what he really is, is a liar. He lied to you about your sister, for instance.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Liz said, sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Unsecured broadband, tapping into voicemail, pinging – it’s not rocket science. Just common sense, really. It’s not hacking at all, it’s just homework. I let Derek know I knew his secret.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Liz drew a breath.

  ‘See, Derek had this incredible opportunity to make money. I knew he’d found out someone in work was doing something they shouldn’t. I told him: “You don’t have money but you can get it. Tell Mervyn’s you want money to keep your trap shut.” Derek was supposed to give it to me. It was my idea, but he got greedy and wanted to keep it all for himself.’

  ‘A hundred thousand euro?’ Liz asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He got it from Mervyn’s?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So did someone from Mervyn’s take Conor’s books?’

  ‘I guess they wanted to show him how easily they could get to his son.’

  He took Jo’s card out of his pocket and examined it. ‘So this is the copper who’s investigating, is it? Jo Birmingham.’

  Liz’s head turned to the door, following the sound of a distant wail that made every instinct in her body bristle because of its unmistakable pitch.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a second?’ he said, heading back into the landing. Liz listened as he climbed back up the ladder, and thudded across the ceiling.

  Liz strained to hear, because it couldn’t be coming from the attic. But there was no doubt about it. Paul had a baby up there.

  35

  2011:Wapping, London

  THEY WERE LIKE the good cop and bad cop when they sat alongside chatting like this, the pair of corporate middle-management heads sitting in front of Scoop posing as Mr Ordinary Joe on the tube. They didn’t even know Paul was behind them, not that it would have mattered. Neither of them had ever acknowledged him when he’d passed them before in the building, over on business from Ireland. But that was the culture in Wapping. If someone was paid more than you, they didn’t need to say hello.

  ‘It’s toxic,’ the bad cop said, ‘doomed.’

  He looked more like a civil servant with his respectable haircut, boring glasses, and fuddy-duddy suit. He’d the eyes of someone who’d rip your throat out, if required.

  His younger companion, on the other hand, was much more upbeat.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he said. ‘We still set the news agenda every week.’

  ‘Yes, but for the wrong reasons,’ the bad cop said. ‘Look at the impact already on sales and advertising. The victims of seven eleven … nine eleven, you can understand it, it’s sick. The corner shops are refusing to stock us, and I don’t even want to think about what lawsuits are coming down the line.’ Paul did not want to hear this. He’d been watching developments from the Dublin office and knew he’d have to fly over to get a real sense of what was going on. In Ireland, a politician could be caught red-handed trying to pick up a rent boy in Phoenix Park and he didn’t have to resign. A former Taoiseach could be branded a liar in a payments-to-politicians scandal, but could keep all the perks of his former office. Not like in the UK, where heads were expected to roll.

  Now he was here, having followed the good and bad cop, and was listening to it first hand, he was getting the kind of headache he hadn’t had since his mother had done a runner. Ten years he’d been working his backside off to get where he was. His life was nicely sorted now, thank you very much. He had his own place, his own car, a clean bird who’d married him, had learned to read and write, and had money in his pocket. He wasn’t going back to being nothing, or having nothing. His days of needing hard drugs to get through were over. The only smell that came close to giving him any kind of high these days was the smell of newsprint.

  ‘Bet you the old man will shut it down,’ bad cop continued. ‘What option does he have? He needs to make a stand before the poison spreads.’

  Good cop was getting agitated. ‘And to think it all comes down to one person driving it,’ he said. ‘It had all but blown over. The investigation … the committee. People weren’t interested.’

  ‘Until Milly,’ bad cop clarified.

  ‘But how can someone as troubled as Sean Hoare hold an organization hostage?’ good cop agreed.

  ‘He’s put all our jobs on the line,’ bad cop said.

  Paul was getting a crick in his neck.

  He wondered if they could feel the holes boring into the back of their heads.

  ‘Who knows what’s around the corner. The storm clouds hanging over us could well blow over if circumstances take an unforeseen turn.’

  The bad cop gave his first smile. ‘If things were to change … in the blink of an eye … we could maybe go back to normal.’

  ‘Exactly …’ said good cop. ‘And not be on the brink of losing our livelihoods.’

  Paul had heard enough. He plugged the earphone of his iPod into his ear and selected his favourite download: Eminem, ‘Stan’.

  It didn’t matter how many times he’d listened to it over the years, it was still as true as the first day he’d started. You only got one shot, and you never let it go.

  36

  ‘WHOSE BABY IS it, Paul?’ Liz asked. ‘You can’t keep a little one in an attic like that. A baby won’t survive. Is Jenny up there too, taking care of it?’

  ‘I had to hide her up there with everything going on around here. And I already told you that Jenny left me, Liz. It’s hard enough to make a marriage work when times are good. And can you stop talking about the baby? Or I’m going to have to tape up your mouth again. Someone’s coming to collect the baby. No harm will come to the baby. It’s just another of my new easy-money business ventures. I was planning to get it for Jenny to persuade her to come back, but then I decided she needed a home to come to in the first place, so I turned the plan into a money-making one. If that clamper guy hadn’t had the brainwave to use my house to keep you here, you’d be none the wiser.’

  ‘I can take care of it while we wait, Paul. You can’t take your eyes off a baby; anything could happen. They can get too warm, too cold, they can choke on vomit. Bring the baby down, please.’

  ‘Forget about the baby, Liz, I mean it. Besides, kids adapt. You should have seen the shit hole I grew up in.’

  ‘I’ll pay you every penny of the hundred thousand euro Derek extorted from Mervyn’s Meats. Just get the baby down. You said you didn’t want to harm it. All you’ve done, so far as I can see, is blackmail Derek.’ She paused. ‘You’re probably the one blackmailing the others, too, right?’

  He licked a finger and air-chalked it up.

  ‘There’s a lot worse crimes than that going on in Nuns Cross, Paul,’ Liz went on. ‘Amanda’s dead. My son’s out there somewhere. I’ve been kidnapped. If that baby goes back to its mother unharmed, what you’ve done is nothing in comparison. Don’t ruin your life by letting something happen to it.’

  Paul didn’t answer. He didn’t get a chance. A figure had appeared in the doorway and, before Liz could react, something glinting in the way only metal can had been drawn up and brought down on Paul’s head. He collapsed on the spot.

  Derek, paler than she’d ever seen him, paced over to her, a gun in his hand.

  37

  IN THE DETECTIVE unit, Jo took the earphones from Aishling and sat down at her computer, clicking on the first conversation between Niall and his source, which the others had already listened to.

  A distorted voice said, ‘YOU. A. HACK?’

  Jo’s eyes moved to the clock. It was half nine. Dan would be like an Antichrist. But there was no way she could leave now, not with Alfie still in the inter
view room with Tim Casey. She held the earphones tight to her head, keeping her back to Aishling, with Sue and Joan hovering nearby, waiting for a word.

  Jo closed her eyes to concentrate. She knew they all wanted her to give them the nod that it was fine to go, but the truth was she needed them. She listened to the familiar sound of a keyboard clattering on the tape, followed by a slurp, and someone gulping. She pictured Toland slugging from a mug of coffee.

  ‘I don’t do crank calls.’ That same northern brogue.

  ‘I. NEED. TO. TAKE. PRE.CAU.TIONS.’

  ‘I always protect my sources.’ Toland again.

  ‘UN.TIL. A. COP. OFF.ERS. YOU. A. BIG. SCOOP. AS. A. TRADE. OFF?’

  Jo raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve been watching too many Lou Grant repeats,’ the reporter said. ‘What’s your information, mate? I’m busy here.’

  ‘DO. YOU. PAY?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘FOR. A. SPLASH?’

  Toland hesitated. ‘It depends. I’d need to know what’s involved before I could put a value on it.’

  A hand on Jo’s shoulder. She glided the mouse over the pause button on the screen, and slid the headphones back on to her neck, wearily.

  ‘Sorry, Jo,’ Joan said. ‘It’s just … do you mind if I go, too?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ Jo said. She put the headphones back on.

  ‘THERE’S. A. BOD.Y. IN THE MOUNT.AINS.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Toland answered.

  ‘ONE. OF. THE. MISS.ING. WOM.EN.FROM. THE. NINE.TIES.’

  Toland stopped typing. It sounded like his lips were now pressed right up against the receiver. ‘What?’

  Jo guided the mouse to a new window and Googled the word ‘voice distorter’ as she continued to listen. She clicked on to the top hit, which gave details of a spy shop that also sold bug detectors, surveillance microphones, and night-vision and pinhole cameras. The tape reeled on.

  ‘A. WOM.AN. BUR.IED. AT. THE. SALL.Y. GAP. YOU. GOT. A. THOM’S. THERE? SUS.PECT. LIVED. IN. NUNS CROSS.’

  ‘How does he know so much about the street directory?’ Jo asked, lifting one earphone off her ear, turning around and looking for Foxy. He’d mentioned that he needed to head off. But the electoral register was generally only used by people in the commercial sector, for sending out personalized junk mail, she knew.

  ‘Maybe he’s a cop,’ Foxy answered, appearing in front of her and buttoning up his coat.

  Jo put the earphone back in place, listening as paperwork got shuffled about, something banged down, pages flicked, and then Toland spoke again, ‘This better not be a hoax.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath and Jo suspected Toland had just spotted Derek Carpenter’s name listed in Nuns Cross.

  ‘HOW. MUCH?’ the source asked him.

  Toland didn’t hesitate. ‘We don’t pay for stories.’

  ‘TWO. FOOT. BE.HIND. A. HEAD.STONE. IN. MEM.OR.Y. OF JIMM.Y. COLE. A DRI.VER. WHO. WENT. OV.ER. EDGE.’

  The line went dead. Jo pulled the headphones off.

  ‘What do you think?’ Foxy asked.

  ‘We need to put Toland under surveillance to see if he drops money off somewhere. He told me he hadn’t paid up yet. But he’s agreed to it in principle on the tape.’

  ‘There’s no way we’ll get a budget for monitoring him twenty-four seven without Alfie’s backing,’ Foxy said. ‘And he’s not going to want us watching his man in the press.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Jo said, thinking aloud, ‘Toland’s source used a lot of jargon – “hack”, “scoop”, “splash”.’

  ‘And he knew Toland would have a Thom’s on his desk, as most journalists do, and he asked for money,’ Sue chipped in.

  ‘Right,’ Jo said. ‘I think we’re talking about a journalist.’

  ‘Toland himself?’ Sexton asked, taking an interest. ‘How would he have had a two-way conversation with himself?’

  ‘It would explain why he took such precautions with his voice,’ Foxy said.

  ‘Or he has an accomplice,’ Joan suggested.

  Jo turned as someone tapped her sharply on the back. It was Alfie. She couldn’t be sure if he’d overheard.

  ‘You can forget about Tim Casey being in the frame,’ he said. ‘I’ve grilled him. He met some mates in the pub after Amanda stormed out. I’ve confirmed it with them. I heard you interviewed Niall Toland. Maybe he did it.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Alfie,’ Jo said, mocking him back. ‘It wasn’t personal.’

  ‘I’m glad you take that view, because tomorrow I intend to interview Dan.’

  Jo swallowed. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Don’t make me spell it out. Dan has a history of dodgy snouts.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ Jo said. She knew Alfie was referring to some bother Dan had had over failing to keep a file on his agents, but she wanted him to spell it out. The relationship between a garda handler and an agent had to follow a strict protocol because of previous abuses. Anyone giving information to the gardaí was assigned a handler who protected and paid them, not unlike a journalist and their source. As criminals were the only ones with information worth reporting, it had led to no end of trouble, because many were allowed to perpetrate bigger crimes than the ones they were ratting up, and the state was not only turning a blind eye, but paying them for the privilege. Dan had always been anal about protecting his sources.

  ‘There was a file in Dan’s cabinet that indicated he’d registered Derek Carpenter as a tout. Maybe there’s a reason Dan let him off the hook,’ Alfie said.

  Sexton had answered a ringing phone, and he covered the mouthpiece and turned to Jo. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but Liz Carpenter’s neighbour is downstairs.’

  Jo nodded and looked at Foxy. ‘Go home to Sal.’

  She turned to the others. ‘You lot can go. I’m sorry this case has taken over your lives too.’

  38

  FRIEDA McLOUGHLIN WAS led into interview room two by her solicitor – a thin woman in her forties with a reputation for representing guilty parties – and a man Jo presumed to be Frieda’s husband, based on the hand-holding. Their fingers weren’t knit like lovers’, they were cupped like friends’. Frieda displayed none of the bolshie confidence Jo had witnessed in Liz’s house just a few hours earlier. Her face was drawn, and the vertical worry lines between her eyebrows seemed especially prominent.

  Based on the swagger, Jo was chalking Frieda’s husband down as someone full of self-regard. He put a hand out to Jo, announcing, ‘Charles McLoughlin,’ with a practised handshake that squeezed slightly too hard. His hair was dyed too dark for his face, suggesting he was a vain man, too.

  ‘I know you only asked to speak to my wife, but it’s my house as well,’ McLoughlin said. ‘We wanted to get this matter sorted out tonight once and for all. My wife is stressed out of her brain by it.’

  ‘Find another couple of chairs, will you?’ Jo prompted Sexton, as he handed her a stack of printouts. He’d been the one to offer to stay behind. Jo glanced down at Amanda Wells’s recent emails, which had been printed out, thanks to being synchronized with her iPhone. Jo still hadn’t had a chance to read them. She licked a finger as she thumbed through the printouts, leaving Charles to quiz his brief quietly. Jo folded a corner down on one of particular interest.

  As Sexton exited again, Jo went through the rigmarole of reassuring the solicitor that the interview was ‘routine’ and ‘preliminary’ – the usual bullshit to keep her at heel. She did not offer her client a cuppa. Tea was for victims, and the vulnerable, and despite Frieda’s wet-rag appearance, Jo was convinced she was neither. But given developments, her interest in this woman had shifted considerably. What Jo needed to know now was where Liz Carpenter and her husband and son were.

  Sexton carried two chairs in under his arms, negotiating the door with his foot. They screeched as he shunted them into position around the small square table in the centre of the room. The solicitor took the one to Jo’s right,
Frieda sat opposite, and her husband was on Jo’s left. Sexton sat by the door.

  ‘My client is greatly upset by the—’

  ‘Your client has a tongue,’ Jo interrupted.

  Frieda looked up sharply. And there was a glimpse of the woman Jo remembered.

  ‘We don’t have time for the usual niceties,’ Jo told the brief. ‘I’m tired and hungry and I’d like to get home. This is not a formal interview, as you know. This is informal, and it’s voluntary. I have chosen not to caution your client, and your presence is completely unnecessary. I’m doing you a big favour by allowing it to take place so late, as it is. If there’s any legal issue, it’s your prerogative to intervene. But I can tell you now, unless your client has something to hide, something pertinent to my investigation, you’re wasting your time here. I won’t have you waste mine, though.’

  The brief knew better than to argue.

  Jo looked straight at Frieda. ‘We found the deeds of your house in Amanda Wells’s car,’ she said. ‘I take it, therefore, that Amanda was your solicitor. Have you any idea why these documents would have been in her car on the night she was murdered?’

  Frieda threw a look of astonishment at Charles, who’d leaned forward to grip the edge of the table. He took a deep breath. ‘Amanda represented a lot of the residents in Nuns Cross, because hers was the nearest practice to the estate. As a matter of fact, she was right there when the builder opened the show house, giving free advice to prospective buyers and offering a cut-rate commission to handle the sale. Subsequently, we weren’t happy with the way the sale was dealt with, and we’d threatened legal action.’