The Betrayal

by Linda Tweedie

  “So you want me to let some wee tea-leaf have the run of the pound and take his pick? I don’t think so, Paddy.”

  “It’s Mr Coyle to you.” Paddy walked round from his side of the desk holding a small ball-peen hammer. “That wasn’t a request, Higgins. It was an order. You will allow my man access to the pound and not only that, you will personally make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “But Paddy, sorry, Mr Coyle, it’s never been done before.”

  “Well, you’re just the man to make it happen,” Paddy smacked the hammer against his hand.

  Higgins was rigid with terror. He’d taken Coyle’s brass for years – to such an extent that he considered it part of his salary. It was reasonable payment for the favours Paddy asked in return, but this, this was way out of his league. He had no idea how to pull it off, but the alternative was staring him straight in the face. If it went awry he’d probably never walk again, courtesy of the ball-peen.

  “The car will be available next week. Michael will hand it over, late on Friday. It’s unlikely the forensic guys will work on it straight away. Our man will collect it that night. Don’t think going off on the sick will save you, Higgins. If you mess up on this you’ll be on long term sick. This should cover your expenses.” He threw a bulky envelope onto the table.

  Higgins left the lounge bar of the Ingram Hotel, where he and Paddy had met, a far less jaunty fellow than when he’d entered the building. He had no idea how he’d pull this off and there was no-one he could run it past. He could hardly ask one of his colleagues for advice on how to stage a break-in to the highly secure police car pound. But he had only a few days to accomplish the task or his time was up.

  The car now sported a new VIN number and had allegedly clocked up over twelve thousand miles. It was delivered by Michael to his local police station in London Road, together with all the requisite documentation, and D.I. Higgins was duly notified.

  The brand new 4 x 4 arrived at the scrapyard at just after eight that night and was crushed and rendered unidentifiable by nine. How Higgins had accomplished this was of no interest to the Coyle brothers, nor was the fact that Higgins had gone off sick the following morning.

  The theft had been relatively simple. The police officer had easily acquired a full set of keys to the pound which he gave to the wheelman whilst ensuring he was at no time out of camera range while the theft was taking place so that he was never under suspicion.

  Michael Coyle eventually received compensation from the Greater Glasgow Police Force for the loss of a top of the range Range Rover, stolen from their secure pound and the vehicle was dropped from their enquiries.

  Guilty

  “It’s started again, Bridget. He was at it for hours last night and only stopped when I knocked on the back door.”

  “Okay, I’ll call round later. Are you absolutely sure it’s not the television? Because she does have it pretty loud.”

  “Fuck’s sake, Bridget, do you think I don’t know the difference between Coronation Street and your mother-in-law being abused? Gimme some credit.”

  “Sorry. Look, I’ll see you tonight and yes, I’ll park my car well away.”

  Bridget wasn’t really surprised to hear from Theresa. Things had been far too quiet on the Sean front of late and she had been quite taken aback at her mother-in-law’s appearance at the christening.

  Oh, she was well turned out as usual, but there was something not right. Lizzie, always the life and soul of any party, was great company and often quite outrageous. She was always game for a laugh, but not so on this occasion. It was as if she’d lost her sparkle, even Paddy had remarked on it. God help them all if what she suspected turned out to be true.

  Lizzie was at her wits’ end. Sean was becoming more and more volatile by the day and seemed to take vicious pleasure in tormenting her. She knew Theresa was aware of what had been going on over the past few months, but any time her neighbour referred to what she called ‘her situation’, the old girl vehemently denied anything was wrong and insisted if her friend continued to accuse her family, she would be a friend no longer. Despite this, Lizzie knew that she had to stand up to her son or things could really get out of hand.

  Thankfully, the trips out with Gerry had become a regular occurrence and Gerry seemed to calm Sean down, for which Lizzie was immensely grateful. Unfortunately her saviour had been engaged on other duties most of this week which had left Sean cooped up in number 28. By the end of the week he was obviously stir crazy.

  Gerry was finding it harder and harder to maintain a pretence with Sean, and to prevent himself doing the man a severe injury, he had stayed away for the best part of the week. He was still reeling from their last journey. Things had nearly come to a head as they were driving down Munro Street, where Gerry had once lived. Sean, babbling on as usual, suddenly went quiet.

  “What’s up?” Gerry asked his passenger.

  “I remember this street. I used to collect down here, but for the life of me I can’t remember who from.”

  Gerry repelled the overwhelming urge to smack the fucker in the face and tell him exactly who he’d collected from and what had happened as a result. It was, of course, his wife. The strain of keeping the information to himself was too much and before he blew his cover, he dumped Sean home as quick as he could, foregoing the customary drink at the Saracen’s Head.

  “What the fuck’s up with you?” growled Sean, used to always getting his own way.

  “Nothing, mate, I’m just knackered. I’ve been doing a few extra shifts at the yard and it’s catching up with me.”

  “That’s not my fault. I look forward to having a drink and you said next time I could have a shandy.”

  “Fuck off, Sean. I do the best I can. No other fucker bothers about you, so stop moaning or this’ll be the last trip.”

  Any normal person would have apologised and been grateful for Gerry’s attention and done their best to get back in his good books, but not Sean. As usual, he behaved like the spoiled ten-year-old brat he was pretending to be.

  Stomping into the house, Sean announced his return and obvious bad mood. He demanded his mother fix him some grub as he banged and crashed his way through the house, smashing a number of Lizzie’s precious possessions: a statue of Our Lady she’d bought on her first pilgrimage to Lourdes, a vial of holy water from Jerusalem, given to her when Marie was ill, worthless, but precious to her.

  She placed a plate of eggs and chips before him and poured a mug of tea which he scoffed, all the while insulting and berating her. Lizzie turned the volume on the television up to drown him out, but this simply enraged him more.

  On the other side of the wall Theresa’s husband, Peter, was demanding that she go and tell those inconsiderate bastards that there was a sick man next door who needed peace and quiet. Just at that moment Bridget arrived. And would you believe it − sod’s law − the noise stopped.

  “It’s fucking ridiculous what we have to put up with,” moaned Peter.

  “Shut up, you moaning, miserable old git. I’m more concerned with why it’s gone quiet. I hope to God he hasn’t hurt her.”

  The words were hardly out of her mouth when the shouting and swearing started with a vengeance.

  “Dear God, I can’t believe she has to put up with this nonsense.” Bridget was appalled.

  “That’s nothing,” verified Peter.

  “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” said Bridget as she went next door.

  “Will I come with you?” offered Theresa.

  “No thanks, I’ll deal with this.”

  Using her spare key, Bridget let herself into number 28 in time to witness her mother-in-law cowering behind a chair and her brother-in-law threatening all manner of atrocities. The room, usually spick and span, was a wreck: smashed crockery, ornaments and food debris everywhere.

  “What in the name of God is going on here?” shouted Bridget as she went to help Lizzie.

  “He’s had a bad day, love. He doesn’t mean me any harm,
” the old woman hobbled to her chair.

  “Doesn’t mean you harm? Well, fuck me, God help you when he does.”

  “Let me look at your eye,” she motioned to Lizzie. “This needs seeing to, it’s deep. Wait till Paddy finds out about this carry-on. You’re a dead man, Sean Coyle, and you deserve everything that comes to you.”

  “No, no, Bridget. He can’t help it, it’s all down to his injuries. Sean was never like this before the attack. Please don’t involve Paddy, or Michael. I can handle him.”

  “I have to tell him, Lizzie, for Sean’s sake as well as yours. This can’t go on.”

  “If you split my family up I’ll never speak to you again, Bridget, and that’s a promise. I bet it was that nosey bugger next door that got you involved?”

  “Theresa had nothing to do with this, you’re damned lucky to have a neighbour and friend like her. No matter what you say, I’m telling Paddy.”

  Sean meanwhile was crouched behind the sofa, acting his heart out and playing the ten-year-old up to the hilt.

  “Shut it, Sean. It’s not washing with me, not one iota. My Erin was right when she said she thought you were taking the mick.”

  “Please. Please, Bridget, let me deal with it. I promise you, if he dares to lift a finger to me again I’ll tell you and Paddy can sort it out. But he’s my boy and it’s not his fault.”

  Now it was Sean’s turn to beg for leniency. “Please, Bridget, I didn’t mean it. It’s the voices that make me angry.”

  “Voices, what voices? Well, buster, listen to this one. If you as much as raise yours to her, I’ll have Paddy and Michael here so fast, you won’t have time to hear the answer. Understood?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled and went upstairs to his room.

  “Right, lady, this is what’s going to happen. That big arsehole is moving back to his own place and we’ll hire someone to look after him. You know, Lizzie, he’s a lot better than he makes out. But if you don’t agree I’m straight back home to get the boys.”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” said a relieved Lizzie.

  The Rain in Spain

  “If she wasn’t a Coyle I’d do my best to persuade you to settle down with her.”

  “You only want to get your hands on the kid. Let’s face it, you’ve no more interest in her than I have,” replied Bobby.

  “Do you really not feel anything for the wee lad? Does he not mean anything to you?” Diane puzzled.

  “No, not really. I wouldn’t wish any harm to come to him, but then, I wouldn’t want anything to happen to any kid.”

  “Christ, you’re not your father’s son there then,” came the quick retort from Diane.

  “No, not in that way, but I have no compunction about using him to get my own back on the Coyles. Paddy Coyle will rue the day he harmed our family.” Bobby still could not bring himself to say that his father was dead.

  “Don’t underestimate them, son. They are a force to be reckoned with and if you harm Erin or his grandson he’ll hunt you down like a dog, make no mistake. My advice, although I know there’s no chance you’ll take it, is to forget vendettas or revenge. In a way your father had it coming. It was inevitable that one day he’d get his comeuppance. Unfortunately he crossed the wrong family.

  “You’ve got a great life, Bobby. You’re young, you’ve got the pick of the totty, the club, friends and money. Why put all that at risk for a man not fit to clean your boots?”

  Diane knew she was flogging a dead horse. Bobby might not be like his father in many ways, but in others he was a true McClelland, and she knew in her heart her son would not rest until he had made someone pay. It was up to her, therefore, to keep the lines of communication open. She was not losing touch with her grandson and was determined to have Erin and the boy over for a holiday as soon as possible. But to succeed she would require Bobby’s assistance. He would be the bait, but would he play ball? Even though it went against the grain she would enlist the canon’s help. That should be no problem; he hated the Coyles almost as much as she did.

  The interior of the church was cool and still as ex-Canon O’Farrell finished his devotions. Despite his nefarious deeds and guiltless conscience, he still considered himself to be a good Catholic who attended early morning mass religiously.

  “To what do I owe the honour?” the old man mockingly bowed to Diane.

  “Cut the bullshit, I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Always the charmer, eh, Diane? So how can I help you? I take it this isn’t a social call?”

  “I need help with Bobby. I need him to play the doting father for the next few weeks until we can get the Coyle girl over here. Once she’s here we can see what can be done.”

  “That’s not going to be easy, my dear. Bobby is his own man and will do exactly what he wants without interference from us. We have to get him in her good books, make her think he can’t live without her and that he is missing the boy immensely.”

  “Loathe as I am, I have to agree with you. She needs to think it’s Bobby she’s coming for, but trust me, she’s one smart cookie. She’ll not be easy to fool.”

  “He seems to think she’ll come running if he snaps his fingers.”

  “I’m not so sure. She’s certainly besotted with him, any fool can see that. But she’s pretty clued up and that baby will come before anything and anyone.”

  “You need to get him to start calling her again. That seems to have petered out,” the ex-priest observed.

  “I’ve tried, but he’s not interested and he certainly doesn’t want her over here interfering with his social life. We need a plan.”

  “We do, but in the meantime you call her, befriend her and make excuses as to why Bobby is off the radar. One way to get her over here is to persuade her he’s serious about another girl. I’m sure that would stir things up.”

  On the drive back through Porta Banus, Diane mulled over the conversation with her husband’s ex-partner. She might well hate the sight of him, but he was right, the way to get Erin over to Spain was to make her think she was going to lose Bobby. A few subtle hints would stir things up.

  She smiled to herself as she caught sight of her wayward son with a crowd of friends on the deck of their magnificent yacht, preparing to set sail. Why would Bobby give all this up? He was young, free and single and if they could somehow get custody of the boy . . . Well, that would more than pay Mr Paddy Coyle back.

  The Beginning of the End

  The sound of a plane overhead just served to annoy Paddy even more. “That’s probably her off on her jollies,” he muttered to himself.

  Erin had left that morning to visit the McClellands, the Macks, or whatever they called themselves in Spain. Fucking Spain. Despite all his arguments and cajoling, she was not to be persuaded to leave his beloved grandson at home.

  Well, he was done with her. Let her get on with it, see how hard life could be without Daddy at her beck and call. And her bloody mother could do the same. The pair of them were always ganging up on him. Oh, they thought he hadn’t sussed them out, how fucking stupid did they think he was? Well it was over; they were both were in for a shock, wife and daughter.

  Paddy ranted and raved to himself all the way into town on his way to his mother’s, recalling incidents that had happened years ago – situations well settled that should have been long forgotten, but obviously had not been. He was in one of his rare tempers and woe betide anyone crossing him today.

  There was something fishy going on. He could feel an undercurrent. His wife and Michael spent more time sorting out Sean than the bloody doctors did and now they had co-opted Big Gerry as a permanent fucking babysitter. It was fucking laughable. Sean was a thirty-odd-year-old man who, it seemed, thought he was ten, and who couldn’t blow his nose unattended. And yet, out of the blue, these daft bastards had decided he was capable of looking after himself and ready to stay on his own. What a proper fiasco that had turned out to be. The bloody idiot had set the house on fire. Paddy knew that the insidious bas
tard had done it on purpose. He just knew it.

  It was his poor ma he felt sorry for. It was obviously too much for her, looking after that half-wit. She looked absolutely hellish and here she was, two days after the ‘big move’, with him back on her doorstep. Paddy knew that Bridget was angling to bring him back to theirs, but no way. He found it nigh on impossible to be in the same room as Sean. And to have the treacherous bastard in his home? No chance, he’d be up for manslaughter within a week.

  As he gave his mother a hug, Lizzie let out a low groan of pain.

  “Dear God, Ma, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know, son, it’s nothing. I tripped going out into the yard the other day.”

  “Must have been a mighty trip, you look like you’ve done ten rounds with Mike Tyson and that’s some cut above your eye.” Paddy could see the nervous looks pass between Bridget, Theresa and Michael, as well as Sean’s shifty demeanour.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Paddy. “What have you two been up to, and what are you looking so guilty about?” he pointed to Sean. “So, c’mon, tell me what’s been going on.” There was silence from all five. Sean slunk back off to his room.

  “It’s that daft bugger, isn’t it? What’s he been up to? Has he been nicking stuff again?”

  “He’s not done anything, son. It’s me, it’s old age and I’m not too steady on my feet.”

  “Rubbish, you’re steadier on your feet than any of us. I don’t believe a word of it and if we have to stay here until this time tomorrow, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”