A Traitor in the Family

by Nicholas Searle

‘I don’t fucking know. I just told you.’

  They faced each other and in the half-light cast by the street lamp she could see his intense gaze. She returned it with an affected tenderness. It was as if he was actively seeking a reason to accuse her, to strike her, to kill her.

  Perhaps that was it. Somehow George Donnelly had learned of Mikey being there and they’d somehow managed to get hold of his phone and replace it. The phone was all they’d have needed, after all: his clean phone, specially acquired just for this attack, to be thrown away straight afterwards. But how? He must have had it with him. His memory of events was beginning to fade, or at least the certainty about his recall, which had previously been unshakeable.

  No. It hadn’t been the phone. It was Mikey. He still had to be the main candidate. Perhaps not. Perhaps the Englishman. But he hadn’t known enough.

  He couldn’t get beyond it. Casting from his mind again the dark inkling that it might not have been Mikey who’d betrayed them, he rang the number and asked for Dessie, giving his cover name, Raymond.

  ‘Yes?’ was the terse response. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘All right. I’m doing all right.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I need to speak to someone.’

  ‘Someone. Anyone? This isn’t the fecking Samaritans.’

  He did not recognize the voice. ‘Not anyone. I need to speak to …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Not your man. I don’t expect to see him. But his mate.’

  ‘His mate?’

  ‘The boy who works with him.’

  ‘You’re speaking in fecking riddles, man.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘Do you want me to give the name here, over the phone?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Francis wished he knew who this boy was, wished he was in the same room as him so he could tear his vocal cords out of his throat.

  There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Call back tomorrow.’

  He terminated the conversation.

  Eventually, he got his meeting. Eventually. After several calls in which intermediaries tried to fob him off, he heard Kenny’s weary voice.

  In the end Kenny said, ‘I’ll come down and see youse.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Francis replied, ‘I’ll come to you.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Kenny. ‘No way.’

  ‘Halfway then. We can find somewhere in the big city. Get your boys to set it up and get someone local here to let me know.’

  ‘No,’ said Kenny firmly, with a touch of irritation. ‘You stay put. I can’t say when exactly. I won’t call in advance. It’ll be some evening.’

  ‘If you don’t show up in a week or so should I give you a call?’

  ‘Have a bit of faith in me, Raymond,’ said Kenny. ‘I will be there. I don’t know when. I’ve a lot on. Don’t you be going on phoning again. I’ve told you, I will be there. There’s no fecking emergency, is there? Where’s the fecking fire?’

  It took ten days or thereabouts. Kenny appeared at the front door while they were eating their evening meal. A large car stood at the pavement and two henchmen grimly guarded it against the attentions of the local children. Kenny wore a suit. Francis sent Bridget off to do the ironing in the kitchen.

  ‘This low-key, Kenny?’ said Francis.

  ‘Needs must, Francis. You wanted the meeting. I’ve things to do in Dublin. Found time for you. If my clothes don’t suit I’ll get back to my hotel.’

  ‘It just kind of breaks my cover.’

  ‘Your problem, Francis. You wanted the meeting. What’s this about?’

  Francis explained while Kenny sat with an expression of exaggerated patience. He’d got to thinking. It couldn’t have been Jonjo or Antony, could it? Jonjo was sound and Antony didn’t know enough about what was going on. He was just along for the ride. And they’d both been pulled at Birmingham airport. Jonjo had been the bomb maker so he’d copped for a big sentence. The Englishman, Karl? Now that was a real possibility. Francis had never liked him, but he had to be careful to keep his personal likes and dislikes out of this. Karl had been flaky from the off. Completely unprofessional. Mind you, so were those two jokers Gerry and Kevin. And they knew more about the whole thing than Karl. Had to. But then again, they didn’t know about the Birmingham flat beforehand, did they? Peter. He was the dark horse. Before the trip Francis would have trusted him completely, but he’d been even more jittery and argumentative than normal. No. Couldn’t have been him. Then again, they’d all ended up with long sentences. Everything wended its way back to Mikey. Who had been the only one of the original ASU to get away scot-free.

  Kenny looked at him. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, Francis,’ he said. ‘But you’ve got to drop this. Stop torturing yourself. It’s in the past. Gone. There may never have been a tout in the first place. The Brits may just have got lucky.’

  ‘Lucky? How?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘People keep saying that. Why do you want to put me off? You know you don’t believe that any more than I do.’

  ‘We did a careful investigation afterwards. Joe was involved personally. He oversaw it. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. We hauled Mikey in. He’s clean as a whistle. We’ve been over this. It’s time to let it go.’

  Francis paused.

  ‘And Liam?’ he said.

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘You’ve got Liam giving the army little titbits and you lay on the full works to crucify him. Now you’ve got some fucker who gives all of us up and you sweep it under the carpet.’

  Kenny sighed. ‘That was then and this is now, Francis. Different time, different place. Liam was caught with his fingers in the till. Joe had no choice.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No. I stayed in the car. Waited for Joe. He was mighty cut up at having to do it. Took his responsibility. That’s the measure of the man. The boys saw Liam meet his handler. Portstewart. They were behind him. Martin Dempsey thought he was suss, so Joe agreed to have him followed.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Were you on the job?’

  ‘No. I was away at the time, looking after Danny. Pat was on the detail. He told me about it after Joe did Liam. It was in the car park by the strand. The wind was blowing off the sea. Liam was standing there at some railings. Then this car pulls in. Ford Granada, and a big Vauxhall after. As soon as the door opened, Pat knew it.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘According to Pat, the passenger door opens. He’s at the back of the car park. Starting to feel uncomfortable. There’s two exits and he’s close to the second one, but the opposition are probably tooled up. Pat stays because if he moves they’ll be on to him and fuck knows what’ll happen. The passenger door opens and this leg appears. The fecker doesn’t get out straight away. He’s talking to the guy in the driver’s seat or something. All Pat can see is this trouser leg. Jeans. But ironed, sharp as you like. You can see the edge of the crease from the car, knife blade. Brown brogues. It’s enough for Pat already. No Irishman would iron creases in his jeans. But there’s more. These two other fellas get out of the other car and start parading round the car park. Macho men, moustaches. Then your man finally gets out of the first car, goes up to Liam and they both go back to the Granada together. Everybody drives off then, Granada in the lead. Couldn’t have been clearer.’

  Francis stood and walked to the front window, pulling back the curtain so that he could see outside. The black car was still there, with the two guards glaring about them.

  ‘Francis, leave it. There’s no way we’re going to find out what happened with you in England.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose it is. We’ve to live for the future.’

  ‘And Joe. Is he living for the future?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s done all right out
of this. He did his deals.’

  ‘Don’t be talking like that. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re threatening me.’

  ‘Fuck no, Francis. How far back do we go? All I’m saying is, these nasty rumours, once they get going. You were one of Joe’s boys. He’d do anything for you.’

  ‘I don’t know, Kenny. We both know what it’s like to be one of Joe’s boys.’

  ‘Don’t go there, Francis. I am warning you now. Do not go there. It’ll get you nowhere.’

  ‘You just forget it?’

  ‘Of course. Of course I do. What choice have we got? There’s maybe too much to forget, but we’ve no choice.’

  2005

  * * *

  19

  Richard Mercer had long before been assigned to matters other than Irish terrorism. There were different existential threats now. But in March two telephone calls in quick succession prompted him to take four days’ leave, to tidy his affairs at the office and to think hard. He was required, not by official function – certainly not, he’d never have got this sanctioned internally – but by personal obligation, to return briefly to the worlds of Francis and Bridget O’Neill. The second of the calls indicated they were in danger.

  He spent several hours poring over maps until he felt he had it all off pat. He went to the storage facility where he kept much of his old gear, and dug out some old jeans and a disgustingly shabby jacket.

  He packed the clothes and some scuffed but serviceable shoes into an old suitcase. Always make sure you’re wearing good shoes: you never know when you may have to make a run for it.

  He went to the foreign exchange desk at the bank and withdrew an inordinate amount of euros, as much as he could afford from his savings account.

  ‘Big holiday?’ asked the cashier, he thought innocently, just to make conversation.

  ‘You could say that,’ Richard said, and smiled.

  The next morning he flew to Dublin.

  Terry Cochrane had had a fixed expression of alarm on his face even when Richard first met him in the 1980s. Then he worked for a second-hand-car dealer on the Seven Kings High Road; later he obtained his own pitch further along the same road and this was where they had had most to do with each other. Hookey motors were a regular requirement in Richard’s trade.

  Terry had never planned to return to Dublin. But he got divorced and his mother fell ill. For her to move to London was out of the question. So he sold up, bought a similar business in Tallaght and found a comparable flat in Howth.

  Terry met Richard at the arrivals gate at Dublin airport. They took a cab to a nearby hotel and ordered a coffee in the lobby, the waiter looking askance at Richard.

  ‘Fallen on hard times, have we?’ Terry asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He raised his eyebrows and grinned. ‘The clothes. The stubble.’

  ‘No. Just necessary for what I have to do.’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘No, you don’t. The car?’

  ‘In the car park, out the back. Just as you said. Legal and in good mechanical order. I checked her out again myself last night when I heard from you. Shocking bodywork, though. That’s why I can’t shift her.’

  ‘Has it got enough heft?’

  ‘Heft, is it now? Sure she’ll motor well enough if you need her to – 2.5 litres, straight six and the engine’s sweet as a nut. Plenty on the tyres. If you need to do your getaway stuff she should see you all right.’ He grinned again.

  ‘I’m hoping not to have to.’

  ‘If there’s any trouble I’ll deny all knowledge. Say she must have been nicked off the lot. She’s been parked out back there for a month or more. No one would notice her gone.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  He handed over the keys and left. Richard finished the rest of his coffee and went to the car park. It was easy to find the old BMW. Its red paint had dulled to a faded matt finish. Once this had been the pride and joy of some affluent Dublin businessman. Now it was almost fit for scrap. He turned the ignition and it started immediately, the engine rumbling and the car settling into a rattling shake. It would do.

  He stayed the night in a cheap hotel in Bray. His clothes and demeanour would not stand out. Its long, narrow corridors were ill-lit by bare, low-wattage bulbs and the room had a single bed and a washbasin but no more. The window rattled in the wind coming off the Irish Sea and he slept fully clothed under pink polyester sheets; rather he lay awake, kept alert by the clanking of the pipes that ran the length of the window wall and the street light shining through the gossamer-thin purple curtains. In the morning he paid with cash.

  After a greasy breakfast he set off, skirting Dublin and heading west. He was travelling against the flow of traffic and made good time. He drove into the centre of town and then up the hill to the estate, to check whether it matched his study of the place online the day before. It did. It was a monstrous labyrinth of decrepit council housing, once white-faced but now grey and dismal. It rained on and off, and in this dead hour of the morning, between people going to work and lunchtime, the only sign of life was the tethered horses, shaggy and dappled black and muddy white, eating grass contentedly.

  He allowed himself two passes by the house itself, a luxury he could probably just afford. Who knew who on the estate was sitting at windows, watching for strangers? Drug dealers on the lookout for the Guards, sharp-eyed old men or bored housewives? He drove back to the centre of town and then, without stopping, further west to wait for his time. He travelled as far as Portlaiose, where in the best gruff Dublin accent he could muster he tersely bought a meat pie and a can of Coke.

  Finally it was time to move.

  He drove through the town and up the hill. The days were lengthening now, but he still needed the headlights at five thirty. It would be around teatime for them. The rain had gone and a breeze sped long clouds through the grey, darkening sky. As he drove past the houses, into their thousands, he was reminded of the estates he’d lived on in his childhood in the frozen North-East. The horses continued to chomp away unperturbed. Small, dirty children played barefoot on the kerb, studious as they prodded the drain covers with their sticks. Older kids, nervous and aggressive as they watched the car pass, sat on a wall and smoked.

  The car coasted to a halt. He looked around briefly but did not allow himself long. Three lanky youths watched him with interest as he got out and locked the door. He knocked hesitantly, in part to play the role of a harmless and unkempt man on a piffling errand, but mainly because he felt hesitant. He could, just about, scarper to the car, clear off and not do this, he calculated. But then the door opened and it had to play out.

  Francis O’Neill’s eyes widened and Richard thought he took a step backwards into the house.

  Richard raised his eyebrows, not wanting to talk within earshot of the boys. Francis nodded dumbly and Richard stepped through the front door into the smell of bacon. His stomach rumbled audibly. Francis led the way down the narrow corridor and barked, ‘In the kitchen.’ At first Richard imagined he was being addressed, but behind Francis’s bulk he saw a slight figure move away quickly.

  They were alone in the small main room, which had two armchairs and a television at one end and a table and two chairs at the other. There was an indeterminate smell of cat’s piss, or cigarettes, or both. Francis had filled out, to put it in the politest of ways. He could rightly be described as obese. The skinny, hard-edged youngster from the first mugshots had become someone quite different. It seemed he had lost his leanness of mind and spirit in the same process. Richard found himself staring at a middle-aged man who looked down at the floor, not with the haunted zeal of the revolutionary but with the cowed expression of the worn down. Richard thought for a moment that Francis was close to tears but realized that his eyes were just bloodshot and red around the rims. His complexion was sallow and puffy. Drinking too much and no longer fit enough to shrug off the effects of alcohol, that must be it.

/>   Francis cleared the plates on the table to one side in an untidy pile before gesturing to Richard to sit down. He still had not spoken. Looking at each other they sat simultaneously.

  ‘Well, then,’ Richard began.

  ‘What’s brought you here?’ Better, thought Richard. He could hear the challenge in that voice barely softened by his time down south.

  Richard gave it a moment or two. ‘I know. There’s no business to do …’

  ‘Too fecking right. Never was. Never will be. I’ve nothing to offer you. You’ve nothing to offer me. Unless you’re going to give me a million euros out of the goodness of your heart.’

  ‘Not a million euros, no.’

  He continued to stare at Richard, somehow emboldened. After a while he said, ‘So? What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘I needed to see you, Francis, to tell you something.’

  ‘To tell me something?’

  ‘Yes. Something important. To warn you.’

  ‘To warn me? Are you threatening me again?’

  ‘No. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘So why couldn’t you just pick up the phone?’

  ‘I could have, I suppose. I didn’t think it was right.’

  ‘Didn’t think it was right.’

  ‘It might have been dangerous too.’

  ‘Dangerous. Like coming here in full view of the neighbours isn’t dangerous?’

  ‘I see your point. But I’ve taken precautions.’

  ‘You see my fecking point? You’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s not much time so I’ll come straight to it.’

  ‘Yeah. You do that.’

  ‘Mikey Sullivan.’

  ‘Mikey. What about him?’

  ‘He’s after you.’

  ‘He’s been after me for years. That’s why I moved down here. I could deal with him anyways, but I can do without the aggro. Mikey’s not a problem.’

  ‘I think he may be. The reason I’ve come is because I’ve been told he knows where you are. Precisely. This address. And he plans to do something about it.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’