Chapter Six
Garvan’s Bookies. 7 p.m.
The elegant businessman picked some lint off his mohair suit and sent it tumbling to the floor as he spoke.
“The police will pay you a visit soon, and you need to be ready.”
Rory McCrae spat back at his preening visitor, who’d decided to harass him for the second time that day, and just as he’d been settling down to watch the football too.
“The same goes fer ye! That bastard Craig’s clever, so it’ll nat be long before he tracks ye down as well.”
The man smiled and shook his head. “Perhaps, perhaps not. After all, I do not advertise my allegiances by tattooing them on my arms.”
The UKUF boss knew when he was being insulted and tugged down his T-shirt’s sleeves self-consciously.
“Aye well, yer not from here. Ye wudn’t understand our ways.”
It brought a sniff that implied that the man didn’t want to, and believed that no right-minded visitor to the country would.
“No matter. I have come back to tell you that we will complete our task at Mahon tomorrow, so instruct your man. Then we can get on with business. The first batch of product will be ready for delivery on Wednesday night.”
The paramilitary’s eyes widened. “But another killin’ another one now will just make the cops luk harder. We shud leave it till next week.”
His visitor arched an eyebrow. “I thought that you were all for doing it immediately?”
“Aye well, that was before I thunk it thru. Wi’ the cops down at Mahon on Smyth they might spot sumthin’.”
The man shook his head. “No. I have made the decision. Another death will give the police more to occupy them.” He rose to his feet before there could be any further objection. “Now, deal with it and proceed with organising your men for Wednesday. I need them ready for work.”
He had swept out of the small room before McCrae had even managed to clamber to his feet.
****
Craig’s Office. Tuesday. 8 a.m.
Liam was rubbing his hands together in a way that Craig thought was unusually enthusiastic for anyone at such an early hour of the day, not to mention his never-awake-until-after-second-breakfast deputy. Or perhaps Liam just seemed excessively cheerful because of his own unhappiness at the contents of the email he’d just received from George Royston. Still, he couldn’t complain; he had asked for information about Pete McElroy and now he’d got it. What he was going to do with it would take him a while to decide.
What he didn’t know about the bright-eyed D.C.I. in front of him was that Liam was genuinely excited. He had spent the night before exploring the darkest recesses of his imagination and professional experience, and had managed to produce a list of anything unpleasant that could possibly befall either of his children before they reached pension age, and he planned that tonight would be spent outlining prevention plans and contingencies to deal with every single one. He was even contemplating patenting the list of pitfalls and preventions to flog to concerned parents everywhere; after all, people had made their fortunes from a lot less.
Ideas so far included: signing his children up for martial arts classes, with the aim of both being black belts before they left school; organising sprint, obstacle course and gymnastics training for them so they could evade any assailants they did encounter like miniature Jason Bournes; finding some way of making them allergic to alcohol, nicotine, drugs and tattoo ink, and many more. Not to mention the list of proposed restrictions to their liberty that he was considering to keep them safe; micro-chipping and chastity belts to mention just two.
What Liam hadn’t taken account of was that he was married to a very sensible woman, who, while of course she wanted to protect her children from harm wasn’t about to make them prisoners as she did. The Cullen house was going to be the site of a showdown in a few years time but as the happy husband wasn’t aware of that fact yet, he rubbed his hands together cheerfully in the early morning and asked his boss, “When do we hit the road to Mahon?” as per their briefing the afternoon before.
But while Liam had spent the previous evening playing ‘worst case scenario’, Craig had been sitting alone in his Stranmillis apartment, ostensibly there to assess what needed doing to it decoratively before it could be advertised for sale, but in reality trying to order his thoughts on their case. It had led him to a new order of play.
“Not until this afternoon. I want to pay Tommy a visit first, to see what he knows. Then while you go to see McCrae, I’ve a meeting with one of my better thirds.”
Liam leaned back against the office wall, smiling at the change of direction; there was nothing that he enjoyed better than harassing paramilitaries. Like other people with chocolate, it was one of his little indulgences in life.
“Let me guess. Old Blue Shirt’s day-tripping to the big smoke.”
Craig joined him in his smile and nodded. “He’s coming here at twelve. The C.C. heard about Mahon so he’s tasked us jointly on the drug smuggling side.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “That’s neat, considering we’re already digging on drugs.”
Craig nodded. “I’m starting to think that was Flanagan’s plan all along. Not so much to give us extra work but to see what we could bring to bigger ops as and when relevant.” He had another thought. “You’re welcome to join the meeting. That way we could visit McCrae together beforehand.”
Liam propelled himself off the wall. “OK. I’d be interested to listen in.” He glanced pointedly at the clock. “We’d better get going if we’re heading for Templepatrick. The traffic on that motorway’s wild, and we’ve to get back to town to see McCrae before twelve.”
Craig was out the door before his deputy had finished his sentence, and he called out to Davy as they headed for the lift.
“We’re not going to Mahon until this afternoon now, Davy. Hopefully that’ll give you a bit more time to gather things.”
The response was the analyst waving a hand above his head as he hunched over his computer, analysing the contents of the SIM. His junior was hunching as well, but in his case over their copy calendar. Ash had been on the phone that morning already to Mahon, attempting to extract information from the governor’s PA about any events at the prison over the previous year significant enough to warrant a note in their files, never mind a sticker on Derek Smyth’s chart.
After three calls he’d got two events that he thought might be worth checking further and one of them had just borne fruit, as his sudden leap off his seat testified to.
“DRONES!”
Annette was gathering together papers for her nine o’clock meeting in gang crime when she heard the cry and she couldn’t resist quipping, “Worker bees” back. It drew the expected shake of Ash’s head.
“No, not those sort of drones. Mechanical ones.”
Craig had completely forgotten to mention the drugs drop at the prison during the briefing the afternoon before, but Ash had discovered it himself.
Any further discourse was prevented by Davy beckoning his junior into Craig’s office so that they could discuss UAVs’ geeky intricacies in peace. Too shy to take the liberty himself, he waved Ash to sit in Craig’s chair and took the one opposite.
“OK, spill.”
Ash demonstrated instead, pulling up Smyth’s calendar on the screen of his smart-pad. “OK, so, I finally managed to get something useful out of Royston’s PA, and to keep it short, there was an attempted drone drop at the prison on the first of May.”
He pointed to the date on the calendar, and Davy could tell by a cross marking it that there’d been glue from a removed sticker found there on the actual paper chart.
“Was it s...successful?”
“No. Well, yes, the drone managed to fly over the prison courtyard and drop the drugs but they were spotted by a guard and he got to the package first. Before the prisoners waiting for it could.”
Davy thought quickly. “We need the names of the prisoners and guard.”
; The words made Ash frown, mainly because he was more interested in the mechanics of the drop and wanted to discuss them, but also because he now realised that he’d missed a trick. Davy read his mind.
“You didn’t ask the PA for them.”
It was a mistake that he would have made too when he’d first started on the squad and had thought purely like a scientist, more interested in the how than the why. But now he was some sort of hybrid being, a cop-scientist, who no longer just thought in computer language and bytes, but of where every piece of information they generated fitted in their murder case.
“Well, I... OK, no, I didn’t, but I can call her back. But the thing is, she said that it hadn’t been the first attempt at a drone drop. There’d been a couple before that had got through in twenty-seventeen, but they’d only discovered that’s how a lot of phones and stuff had been getting in after they were found later and the prisoners talked.”
Davy thought for a moment, trying to predict what questions Craig would ask about this, and then further, to what more he might need to know. Finally, he nodded to his junior.
“OK, go back and get those names and more details on the earlier drops and let me know if there’s anything useful. I’ll call the governor and ask what they’re doing to prevent it, and how else things get smuggled into the prison. The chief will need to know all that.”
He glanced at the clock. “But right now I need to call Des for the blood group on that blade.”
He opened the office door and motioned his junior outside, asking as Ash walked past him, “I meant to ask you yesterday - what’s with the earring?”
The pirate gave his heavy gold ring a flick. “Good, isn’t it? It’s part of my new look. I’m Hindu so I’m going for the Hindu warrior style from the third century BCE. They wore gold earrings.”
Davy nodded. “Cool.” He stroked his beard. He’d sported a neat hipster look for a while now but it was getting old. “I might have a change myself for Christmas.”
The warrior strolled back to his desk, smiling. “Better check with the missus first. She might like you hairy.”
As a taunt to make the senior analyst feel like he was hen-pecked it was never going to work; Davy was a man who as long as he had a peaceful life felt no need to strut his testosterone. And anyway, Maggie had been on at him for ages to cut his hair short and go clean-shaven, going as far as to leave copies of GQ around open at styles that she liked.
The analysts retook their seats, ignoring a curious gaze from Mary, who although she would never admit it thought Ash’s new look was kind of edgy, although her earring envy was severe. She really begrudged the fact that the rules cops had to abide by on piercings, tattoos and facial hair didn’t apply to civilian workers too.
She was jolted out of her resentment by a nudge from Annette. “Come on. We’re going down to gang crime and I don’t want to be late.”
As they descended the stairs Annette set the scene.
“OK, we need to find out what we can on gangs inside and outside prison, especially the ones that are players at the moment.”
“On the drugs side you mean.”
The D.I. shook her head. “Not just those. That customs officer spoke about people smugglers making their passengers body-pack, so trafficking gangs could be relevant as well. And we know paramilitaries are in the frame. We especially need to know if Derek Smyth’s name is known to D.C.I. Hamill as being a member of any specific Loyalist group. We might think he was in UKUF but we need to be sure. Then we’ll ask about prison gangs in general and the ones inside Mahon in particular.”
“OK. What time are our other meetings, at Counterterrorism and the DoL?”
“Ten and eleven, but I’ll be taking those on my own. I need you back in the office checking out Derek Smyth’s last court-case for that carotid injury.”
She braced herself for Mary’s usual whine of objection but was surprised when there was nothing except a nod. Knowing that she shouldn’t prod the sleeping beast by asking why, the D.I. did so anyway, and was surprised once more when the answer came, “It’s cold.”
“Cold? That’s why you don’t mind staying here?”
The constable nodded. Well, it was that and the fact she quite fancied staring at Ash for a while;his new pirate look was doing something for her, but she wasn’t about to say that to her boss.
“I don’t like the cold. Lots of people don’t, it’s not that strange.”
“Well, you’re living in the wrong country then.”
As she pushed open the door to the fifth floor offices and looked for a sign saying ‘Gang Crime’ Mary disagreed.
“Not really. Ireland’s average winter temperatures is five degrees. Scotland, Scandinavia and even the east coast of the USA are far lower than that. Then there’s Alaska, the Arctic ...”
Annette had stopped listening. She’d found her sign and was following it, arriving a minute and a corridor later in front of two doors set side by side, one marked ‘Gang Squad-Room’ and the other emblazoned with a jokey plate that read ‘Gang Boss’ and displayed a Godfather-like figure below. She decided to join in the joke and rapped on it rhythmically, in what she thought was the style of a secret knock.
“Come in.”
It was an instruction that Annette would have followed immediately had not her junior already disappeared through the other door. After a few seconds’ pursuit and the extrication of Mary from a room full of not unattractive men, their own erstwhile inspector, Kyle Spence, amongst them, both women found themselves in D.C.I. Geoff Hamill’s office, being waved towards two chairs while he finished up a call.
It didn’t take long until Hamill signed off with a cheery, “I’ll catch you later, Rick”, a common farewell in Ireland but one that managed to confuse people just the same. Did it for instance mean I’ll literally catch/see you later, as in an hour’s time or later that day, or was it something that was simply said to extricate oneself from a meeting or call? It could mean the difference between someone staring longingly at a clock waiting for their visitor, and someone who couldn’t be bothered if they never met again, an important distinction in work but absolutely vital if romance was involved.
But Annette wasn’t in the business of pondering such things because her own life was full, thankfully, so instead of worrying about the invisible Rick she waited for the miniscule D.C.I. in front of her to speak, not knowing just how relieved Hamill was to see her in front of him instead of Liam and Craig, a dread that he had held since Alice had called down to organise the meeting an hour before.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the two men but...well...there was the thorny issue of their heights. At a combined twelve and two-thirds feet between them, the murder detectives made Hamill feel even smaller than he already was, and Liam didn’t even have the decency not to joke about it.
All of these thoughts manifested themselves in a fulsome grin at Annette and her junior that made them both smile back.
“Thank you for seeing us, D.C.I. Hamill.”
“Geoff, please, Annette.”
It brought another smile and a gesture to the young woman at her side. “This is Detective Constable Li. Mary. I don’t believe that you’ve met before?”
Mary was surprised when Hamill reached across the desk to shake her hand. It was a gesture that she associated with grown-ups and she was still waiting to feel like one, but she tried on the old-fashioned greeting for size anyway.
Preliminaries over the D.C.I. sat back in his seat. “Right now. Tell me what I can do for you.”
It prompted Annette to withdraw a small notebook from her bag and set it on the desk.
“We’ve had a murder inside a prison.”
Hamill sighed. “All too frequent unfortunately.”
“Mmm... except that this one didn’t involve any violence and we’re following up a line on drugs and gangs, so I’ve a list of questions to ask you.”
“Crack on.”
She opened her notebook near the back.
Hamill puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms, signalling deep consideration. He remained like that for almost a minute before he unfolded himself and moved forward in his seat.
“Well, there are a few purely criminal gangs around, like The Rock, that’s Xavier Rey’s gang up in West Belfast, but they haven’t been as active since his son Matias was killed. Most of the really big gangs now have paramilitary backgrounds. Off the top of my head we have the dissident Republican groups, mostly in the west, up near Derry and down in Tyrone, plus the same again in west Belfast. They’re all linked with a bunch down south. Then there are the usual Loyalist groupings: UKUF, UKJ, pretty much anything beginning with a U...”
He furrowed his brow as if he was searching the recesses of his mind for acronyms and it made Mary picture a tiny floodlight shining into its corners; that if minds were angular of course, and possessed such things.
Whatever the D.C.I. was doing it did the trick and with a nod and a brightening expression he added, “And there are the European factions dotted about, of course.”
As he relaxed back in his chair again he asked, “Any of that of use?”
Annette nodded and made a couple of notes before answering, “Generally. But I’d like to ask you some specifics.”
She was instructed to, “Crack on”, which she did.
“The Loyalist groups...does the name Derek Smyth ring a bell?”
Crossing The Line Page 17