The Angel Tapes

by David M. Kiely

  “About Roche?”

  “For instance.”

  “He’s bad news, Blade. Bad fucking news.”

  “Ah, tell me something new. Did he screw you as well?”

  Nolan inspected a thumbnail. It had been chewed.

  “You may as well know—it’ll all come out sooner or later anyway—you may as well know I’ve been putting business his way for years now.”

  “I hope you were charging the cunt plenty.”

  “I was. But Blade, it wasn’t for me! If you don’t believe that, no one will.”

  Nolan reached into his inside pocket and produced a wallet. He riffled through its contents.

  “It’s okay, Charlie.”

  “No, I want you to see this. Listen to me, Blade. Listen now. It’s important.”

  Nolan found what he was looking for and passed it to Macken with a trembling hand. It was a color photograph, taken in a small room with floral-patterned wallpaper. The flash had cast a black shadow behind the subject and the wheelchair he sat in. It was difficult to guess the man’s age: he could have been twenty, he could have been twice that. The hair was gray yet the face held a boyish look.

  “That’s Fintan. My youngest brother.”

  “Handsome devil.”

  “Ah, a real heartbreaker he was—until the illness got him. Muscular dystrophy.”

  Blade continued to gaze at the photograph.

  “Is that something like MS?”

  “It’s similar. Except with MD it’s only the muscles that’re affected. They just waste away, slowly, until the patient is bedridden. It won’t be long now until Fintan reaches that phase.”

  “I’m sorry,” Blade said, returning the photograph.

  “I’m all he has. There’s no one else. And I did it for him, Blade. Jesus Christ, the kid’s been in and out of hospitals half his bloody life, had every specialist in. They cost a fortune. The money had to come from somewhere, y’know.”

  “I understand, Charlie.”

  “No, Blade, you don’t. Why do you think it was so important for me to make promotion, to head the unit? It was the pension! They’ll be retiring me in less than three years’ time.” He closed his eyes. “At least, they would have been, if I hadn’t a been so fucking stupid. I needed every penny of that pension, Blade. For Fintan. God knows what’ll happen to him now.”

  Macken was silent, uncomfortable. He noticed then that Nolan’s shoelaces were missing.

  “You have to understand me, Blade. I’d never anything against you. It was never anything personal. Christ, you helped me out of some scrapes in our time, you really did.”

  Nolan looked pensively at the armored glass of the cell window, remembering.

  “But I had to get there first, and when Duffy put you in charge of the Angel investigation, I saw my whole world caving in. I was desperate.”

  Blade nodded. Then he said: “We’ll work something out, Charlie. I’ll speak to Duffy. I’ll go to the commissioner himself if needs be. Christ, thirty-two years’ service must count for something.”

  An officer poked his head in.

  “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to leave now. Mr. Duffy was very specific about that.”

  “Tell Duffy it’s okay, Dan,” Nolan said.

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Very sure. Give us five more minutes, will you?”

  The cell door was left ajar again.

  “Listen, Charlie,” Blade said, “you know something that I don’t. About Roche. About Gerry’s murder. I can’t guarantee it’ll let you off the hook completely if you tell me, but I’ll do my best on that score, I promise you.”

  Nolan nodded. “I believe you. You’re a good sort, Blade. Get Roche for me, will you? That’s all I ask.”

  “What was his part in the murder? Why didn’t you want us to reopen the case?”

  Macken unwrapped a Hamlet and lit it. Nolan the censorious nonsmoker hardly seemed to notice.

  “He had me over a barrel, Blade,” he said. “The fucker had tape-recorded every transaction we’d made—going back years. I was afraid … But that’s all in the past now. I’ve nothing to lose by telling you. Would you mind blowing the smoke in the other direction?”

  “Sorry. I’m listening.”

  “Roche has any amount of contacts in the underworld. It’s natural in his line of work. If you’re dealing with new alarm systems, new types of safes, then you get them tested by people who know what they’re doing.”

  Blade nodded. Then Nolan gave him a brief account of the facts surrounding the BMM file.

  “So Roche hired the heavies, did he?”

  “There wasn’t supposed to be any rough stuff, Blade. Roche was as shocked as I was. Those two fuckers were either new to the job or they were a pair of homicidal maniacs. Jesus, poor Gerry!”

  “I’ll find them, Charlie; don’t you worry. I’ll beat it out of Roche if I have to.”

  “You do that, Blade. And while you’re at it, give him one for me.”

  * * *

  One of Roche’s salesmen was demonstrating to a customer a Truth Phone, a device that monitored stress in your caller’s voice, when Macken pushed through the door of Centurion Security.

  “Is Roche in?”

  A mask of professional, icy detachment descended like a visor over the salesman’s features. “Mister Roche is not available.”

  Blade pointed upward. “Is he in or isn’t he?”

  The man caught the menace behind Macken’s words and gesture. It unnerved him.

  “I-I’m sorry, but Mr. Roche left instructions that he’s not to be disturbed.”

  Blade smiled. “Thanks for answering my question.” He headed for a door marked PRIVATE to one side of the store.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  “Watch me.”

  “I’ll call the Guards!”

  “I am the fucking Guards.” The door swung shut behind him.

  Weak daylight filtering through the landing window gave a feel of faded glory to the upper floor of Jim Roche’s apartment. Specks of dust on the black carpet reinforced the impression of neglect. Macken made straight for the bedroom and flung open the door.

  Roche had been reading, sitting up in his four-poster bed. His jaw fell.

  “Hello, Cock,” Blade said pleasantly. “How are the balls? Jockstrap not too tight, is it?”

  “Keep away from me, Macken!”

  Blade sat down on the bed. Through the comforter he grasped one of Roche’s feet, but gently. Roche gasped.

  “There there, Cock. Nothing to be afraid of. You know I wouldn’t kick a man when he’s down.” His voice hardened. “That is, not unless you give me reason to. You follow me?”

  “Wh-what do you want?”

  “Names, Cock. Who killed Gerry Merrigan?”

  Bombshell. Roche’s jaw became slack again.

  “I know you know, Cock. Nolan told me all about it.”

  “Nolan…?”

  “He’s down in the cells. And he’s willing to swear on his mother’s walker that you were behind it.”

  Blade casually turned back the comforter, exposing the soles of Roche’s feet, swollen and discolored. Roche flinched and tried to move farther up the bed. Blade caught him by an ankle.

  “You think your feet are sore now, Cock,” he hissed. “By Jesus, you don’t know what real pain is. Ever heard the expression ‘opening old wounds’? Believe me, you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

  “Please, Blade…”

  “The names.”

  “I can’t. They’ll kill me. They’ll find me, no matter where I am, and they’ll kill me. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “No they won’t, Cock, I promise you that. You see, when I’m through with them they won’t be in any state to kill anyone. Now: the names.”

  “The Price brothers. Paddy and Dominic Price.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “I don’t know. They move around a lot.”

  “You’r
e not being very cooperative, Cock. We could play a bit of footsie again, you and me.…”

  “Christ, Blade, that’s all I know. I swear it. All I had that time was a phone number. It was probably disconnected ages ago. They may not even be in the country.”

  “All right.” He let go of Roche’s ankle.

  If there had been any fight left in Jim Roche, then not a trace remained now. He heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

  “You’re going to arrest me now, aren’t you? Well, fucking do it and get it over with.”

  Blade smiled. “No, Cock, I’ve no intention of arresting you. No, you’re the man who likes to do deals. Ever since I’ve known you, you never stopped going on about the deal-to-end-all-deals. Well, Cock, I’ve got good news for you: You’re finally going to do it. And when you’ve done it, I don’t want to hear about any other rotten deals you make, ’cause if I do, I’ll see that you’re banged up in the Joy for the rest of your life. You follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  Blade took a folded paper from his pocket and smoothed it on the comforter. It was police stationery, regular Harcourt Square issue. The typed text comprised a single, short paragraph. It began with the words: I, James P. Roche.

  “You’re going to sign this, Cock, and I’m going to witness it. Perfectly legal. In it you state that you’re cohabiting with Joan—and supporting her financially.”

  Roche read the words, and Macken was intrigued to see that his lips moved at the same time.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all, Cock.”

  “And there won’t be any comeback?”

  “No. Not for me—and by Jesus not for you either.”

  Roche signed. It was not his best or most assured signature.

  Thirty-three

  Elaine de Rossa, on returning from a long lunch, found an unusual E-mail waiting for her. It was from a company in Buenos Aires.

  She frowned. Only when she’d scrolled down to the sender’s name did she see it had come from her father.

  Dear Elaine,

  Don’t give anybody this address, right? I don’t want people bothering me here. I’ve little enough time to myself as it is and Carlos is being a right pain with his bloody haggling about the stallion. I wouldn’t bother you either love except that there’s something I think may be of interest to you. Give me a ring will you?

  Dad

  Elaine looked at her watch. It was a little after two in the afternoon—early morning in Argentina.

  She was answered by a woman who spoke almost flawless English, a servant. Presently her father came on the line. He sounded tired but in good humor.

  “Elaine! You got my note, did you?”

  “Yes, Daddy. How are you? What’s the weather like in Buenos Aires?”

  “I’m grand and it’s raining, but never mind about that. Listen, I didn’t want to say too much in the E-mail; I’d be afraid someone else might read it.”

  “All very mysterious.…”

  “You could say that, Elaine. But I think I have a story here that you could use. Who knows, it might earn you a few more bob a week. Are you listening?”

  “Fire away.”

  “The thing is, I thought about getting in touch with the gardaí about it, but then I decided I’d put it your way first.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You see, Carlos is a first cousin of the chief of police here and he told me that they’d picked up three Irishmen the other day. They have them down in the cells—God knows what they’re doing to the poor bastards; I don’t want to know. They’re a rough lot; even Carlos will admit that. But do you know what the three lads were charged with, Elaine?”

  “Umm, a robbery?”

  “No, better still. They were trying to pass off fake jewelry. They tried to con a collector here with masses of the stuff. He was completely taken in, too—though you’d have thought that someone like him would have been able to spot the difference. Apparently not. It was very well done. Glass or paste, or whatever they make these things from. I saw it myself. Brilliant job.”

  “Excuse me, Daddy, but I don’t see what all of this—”

  “Will you wait now a second? God, you’re as bad as your mother. What I’m saying is that Carlos took me to see the stuff, and I got the surprise of my life. You weren’t there when your mother threw that big dinner party last year, so you wouldn’t have seen Patsy Delahunt’s emerald necklace. Your mother never stopped admiring it all evening, and she wasn’t the only one. Well, it’s here, Elaine—in Buenos Aires.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. Except it isn’t the real one, just like the rest of the haul. All fake. So the question is: What happened to the real jewelry? Now get this: here’s the good part. I overheard Don Delahunt a week or two ago telling his cronies in the Paddock Club that he’d had the wife’s precious baubles insured to the tune of two-and-a-half million and he’d make damn sure the insurance company shelled out.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Isn’t it though? I never liked that man, Elaine. Too much unaccounted-for income. Not that I begrudge him that; I’m no saint myself. I just never liked his manner, that’s all. He’s an uncouth bastard.”

  Elaine sighed. “You don’t have to tell me, Daddy. I know.”

  “I think it’s worth looking into, don’t you? But you better do it quick; they’ll be getting in touch with Dublin soon, if they haven’t done it already.”

  “I’ll get onto it right away. Thanks for the tip, Daddy.”

  “Don’t mensh.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Uh, next week, I think. It depends. Be sure to give Cusack a boot in the arse for me.”

  “I will. Bye, Daddy.”

  Thoughtful, Elaine went to the big table at the back of the office. She delved into the untidy, scissored pile of back numbers of the Sunday Courier and found a copy of the issue of two weeks before.

  The story had merited a mention on the front page, together with a full account on page four. The home of Don Delahunt, former government minister and friend to the famous, had been burgled. The intruders had gotten past some of the most sophisticated antitheft devices in the country and made away with Mrs. Patsy Delahunt’s collection of jewelry. Sure enough, the items—a badly registered color photograph showed the gems in their platinum and gold settings—had been insured for more than £2.5 million.

  Elaine had wondered at the time why Delahunt had drawn so much attention to the robbery—and to the value of the stolen jewels. He was known as a man who was ever reluctant to disclose any details of his personal fortune. Yet Elaine’s colleague, the reporter who’d filed the story, had told her that Delahunt had informed the radio and all the papers within an hour of discovering the break-in.

  She believed Don Delahunt might not be so forthcoming with regard to the follow-up story she planned.

  Elaine made two phone calls. One to the Delahunt mansion in County Kildare, the other to Blade Macken. As usual, he could not be reached at Harcourt Square. Elaine left a message for him to call her. Urgently.

  She’d missed yesterday’s paper. She was determined that the following Sunday’s edition would carry the story that would be the watershed in her career. Blade Macken had, she was certain, the goods that she needed. And now Elaine had something worthwhile to trade.

  Thanks, Daddy.

  Thirty-four

  Gareth Smyth and the others were good, Blade had to concede. He scanned the top stories of the houses opposite Angel’s lair through a pair of high-powered binoculars but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Yet Blade knew that at least twenty telescopic sights were trained on that house and that the men whose fingers were on the triggers could light a match at two hundred yards.

  Blade heard the sudden approach of a helicopter. He tensed.

  “Fuck. Who ordered that? It wasn’t us.”

  “Nor us,” Redfern said.

  But the chopper was headed in another direction and Blade saw i
t was a commercial aircraft. He relaxed. He returned the binoculars to the car and looked over the street.

  There was a big, circular green in the middle, where a number of very young trees grew; two paths formed a cruciform shape on the green. The only sign of life was an old man walking a mongrel dog.

  They were at the intersection of Bangor Road South and Clonmacnoise Road, and the unmarked cars they’d come in were backed up for a hundred yards, out of sight of Angel’s home. The public-housing estate was like so many that ringed the center of Dublin: mean and primitive, not the kind of place you’d choose to raise your children in. Most of the cars in the tiny driveways looked barely roadworthy. Yet the houses were well-kept; many had little front gardens planted with flowerbeds, rosebushes, and shrubs.

  Macken’s radio squawked.

  “We’re in place round the back, sir. No sign of any movement in the house. The radio’s still on though.”

  “Okay. Stay there. I’m going in now.”

  “I’m coming with you, sir,” Sweetman said.

  “No, you most certainly are not, Detective Sergeant. You wait here and maintain radio contact.” He addressed the others. “The same applies to the rest of you. The last thing we want is to panic her into doing something rash.”

  “But sir, do you not think she might be more cooperative with a woman along?” Sweetman persisted.

  Macken thought about this. He didn’t wish to expose Sweetman to unnecessary danger, yet knew she was probably right. Her presence had helped before, in other confrontations. But with Carol Merrigan?

  “All right,” he said at last, grudgingly. “But let me do the talking. Don’t open your mouth unless she speaks directly to you.”

  They set off down the curving street. Blade was acutely aware of the weapon he carried in the waistband of his pants: a .22 semiautomatic. He thought of the last time he’d been issued a gun, more than two months before. He hadn’t used it then and had been glad of that fact. Blade didn’t like guns, had seen more than most men what guns did to people—to their victims and to their bearers.

  The Crumlin police were right: the house definitely looked abandoned. There was a graffito sprayed in white paint on the low wall out front. It read BURN WICH BURN!!! The weeds in the little garden reached waist high; dumped cola and cider cans sparkled metallically among the fronds. The path was strewn with dog shit and the trash of many years. There was even a discarded diaper. Was there, Blade wondered idly, something symbolic about that?