MURPHY’S HEIST
David Chilcott
Chilcott, David
Murphy's Heist
2014, David Chilcott
First edition
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(License notes) ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Also by David Chilcott: Cruise the Storm (2014)
MURPHY'S HEIST
CHAPTER ONE
Bobby Bell had chosen the China Sichuan restaurant, now moved to Ballymoss Road in Dublin, a lovely light and airy restaurant. Bobby phoned Kevin Hui, and asked if he could have a table for two adjacent to the large plate glass window. If you are going to eat in one of the best restaurants, may as well be seen. It was easily arranged. Bobby was looking forward to hearing what Murphy was going to tell him. The old crook was bound to be brimming with moneymaking ideas.
The restaurant was buzzing as usual when Bobby arrived a few minutes early, and sat at the table with a gin and tonic, checking how many Dubliners he knew by sight. Not as many as he expected. Did that mean there was a new in-place that nobody had told him about?
He saw Murphy being led across to his table now, by a waiter he did know. Bobby was surprised how much Murphy had aged, if he didn’t know he was sixty, he would have put him at seventy-five.
Bobby stood up, put out his hand. “Welcome to Dublin, Eamonn,” he said.
Murphy smiled, his false teeth flashing in the restaurant lights.
Bobby said, “Sit down, sit down. This is the best restaurant in Dublin, you know.”
“As long as they serve a rare sirloin steak, that will be fine,” said Murphy as he lowered himself into the seat.
Bobby flinched. The same old Eamonn, as rough as a badger’s arse. The waiter asked Murphy if he would like a drink.
“A pint of mild, please”
“It must be a fair while since you were in Dublin,” said Bobby, his eyes on the door watching guests entering.
“Aye, all of twenty years, at least.”
“You would be surprised how the city’s changed, even in the last ten years.”
“I could tell riding down in the taxi from the airport,” said Murphy. “I hear you’re the big businessman nowadays.”
“Well the recession has been really bad in the Eurozone. Everybody is suffering. You are living in England? How come?”
“My wife’s English. When the troubles were over, my job sort of finished, you might say. So we went to live in Cheshire, not far from Manchester. But money’s getting tight, which really is the reason I’m here to see you. And my wife’s ill, which is going to get expensive. Alzheimer’s it is.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Bobby, for something to say, turning back to look at Murphy.
The waiter returned with Murphy’s beer, and the menus.
Murphy took a swig of his drink. “I met Jimmy Nolan, about a year ago. Do you remember him? He was at school with us, thin and quite tall. When he left school, it was because his Dad got a job in England. Liverpool, I think. It was when we were about fourteen.”
“Can’t say I remember, Eamon. You’re talking, what, forty, fifty years ago, for God’s sake. But carry on.”
Murphy took another sip of beer. “Well, young Jimmy went off in a different direction, so to speak, joined the Cheshire police force when he was twenty-five. Now he’s an inspector, and coming up for retirement. We had a few nights out in the local pub, and like, he’s telling me that he’s just divorced, how his wife took half his pay, and half his pension, if you can believe him. He’s kissed the blarney stone, I reckon. Anyway, he knows I’m not exactly white as white, should think he’s looked up my record. I’d been mixing with the wrong sort in Manchester, now there’s a city of crime. Used to be Liverpool, maybe still is. So, one night when Jimmy had a few too many, he tells me that there is a bullion company shipping platinum, by air, out of Manchester Airport. Because of the insurance, they have to have police in attendance when the courier van picks up from the warehouse. He reckons the value of each consignment is worth twelve million pounds sterling, maybe more.”
“Platinum, eh? Did he say what you can do with it, apart from make jewellery?” asked Bobby
“Yes, these people are supplying car manufacturers in the USA, it’s used in exhaust systems. Some in every car, apparently. Of course, I could nick a batch, that’s the easy part, well, not too hard. But then you’ve got to move it on.”
“And you think I might be able to do that? I don’t need to tell you, Eamonn, twelve million quid retail won’t fence for much. Maybe four. And I’d need a slice, and I bet your Jimmy would.”
“Well, I thought since you had a Russian connection, I have been following your career. It was well known in the IRA, that any Russian equipment was coming through you.”
“I wouldn’t admit it. But it was a long time ago, what ten years nearly, since decommissioning, when the IRA stopped arming themselves, and destroyed their weapons. Maybe the same people are no longer in charge of the gang I knew.”
“It would be worth finding out. I reckon it’s only them, or maybe the American mobs, who could handle something like this. But if you can’t fence it, I won’t even take it any further. There’s other pickings over the water, just harder work, and I’m an old man now.”
They continued talking whilst they ate, Murphy staying away from what he called foreign stuff. He said he enjoyed his steak, and ate all of it. Afterwards he had an orange.
Bobby ordered a couple of brandies. They were drinking them, still talking when a shadow loomed over the table.
“Murphy, stand up.” It was a big red-faced overweight man maybe six feet tall or so. Murphy got to his feet, and then without any warning the big man slammed his fist into Murphy’s face. Fortunately for Murphy, some of the force was lessened as Murphy fell backwards, tripped over his chair, and ended sprawled on his back on the restaurant floor, blood trickling from his nose.
“That’s for blowing my building up in Belfast” said the man, rubbing his fist, and turning to make his way back to his table.
The restaurant fell silent, a hundred pair of eyes on Bobby’s table. Bobby went over to Murphy, said “Here, I’ll lift you up, take this handkerchief.” He pulled it from his top pocket. By now two waiters were rushing over. By the time they arrived, Murphy was on his feet, swaying slightly, and supported by Bobby. Kevin came over. “I’m sorry about this, I have a side room over here.” He led the way, waiters and Bobby in attendance with Murphy now being supported on all sides, walking away from the crowded main floor, Kevin opened a door, ushered them in, switched on the lights. It was a small private dining room for ten guests, one large table, with chairs round it. Two upholstered chairs, one in each corner. Kevin guided Murphy to one of these, sat him down, told one of the waiters to fetch a glass of water, and the other one to get back to his duties.
Murphy was looking better now, and smiled “Bobby, now you see why I don’t live in Belfast.”
Kevin said “Gentlemen I apologise for this attack which has taken place on my premises. Please stay here until you are ready to go home. I will settle the bill myself.”
CHAPTER TWO
John McBride stood in the centre of the room. There were paintings on all the gallery walls, and on a couple of floor standing screens as well.
He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, no tie. Concession to show he was an artist, not a banke
r.
The gallery was quiet, and smelled slightly of lemon air freshener. An old couple shuffled slowly along, looking at the paintings, one by one. A smart middle-aged woman sat at a desk in the corner behind a neat pile of catalogues, an open ledger, credit card reader and a laptop. She was occupied with the computer. Playing solitaire, McBride knew: he’d looked. The swing door from the street banged back. A stocky man bustled in, shaved head, square face, wide shoulders. He looked about him, as if he’d entered the wrong room, glanced at McBride, then at the paintings. On the far wall opposite the door were four watercolours McBride had completed only last week. They belonged to the Gallery owner. Not for sale: NFS it said in the catalogue. It was pointless showing them, in McBride’s opinion. The space could have been used for something that would sell, and earn him money.
The thickset man seemed to notice the local paintings, strode over and studied them for a few moments. He said to the woman at the desk, “I want that painting, can I take it with me?” He pointed.
“That’s not for sale, I’m sorry sir”
McBride drifted over. “It’s already been sold. It was commissioned. If you like the view, I could produce a similar painting as a commission for you.”
“It’s that one I want. I’ll pay you more than the other guy.” To make his point he reached into his back pocket, his hand coming out with a thick wad of twenties.
“I’m sorry sir, we can’t do that,” the woman said.
The man looked at her, his mouth a tight line, then he spun on his heel and was gone, the door clattering back and forward behind him.
The woman looked at McBride, her eyebrows raised and a smirk on her face. He returned to the middle of the room, looked at his watch. Three hours before the gallery closed. He could leave now, he wasn’t committed to stay, but Ian Smith, might look in last
thing, see if he’d made any more commission. His breath would smell slightly of whisky and he would breathe the fumes over McBride. Painting was the fun part, this was the shit.
The afternoon drifted on, a few spectators coming, circling and leaving. One guy bought a painting, the woman worked the credit card machine, stuck a red dot on the picture.
The next visitor was a tall girl in flat shoes, jeans and a white top hanging over the jeans.
She smiled at McBride. “You really are an artist, name in big letters outside the gallery. Boy, this is impressive. And you wearing a suit, and now me dressed casually.” She said she had watched him paint a couple of times in the town. He remembered then she was dressed in a formal business suit, briefcase in her hand.
“My suit is to impress the gallery owner, not the punters, who expect me to wear a smock.”
She smiled and drifted off to view the paintings. He admired her bottom.
Ian Smith arrived, chatted to McBride for a few minutes, suggesting which type of paintings he thought sold easiest; he took all McBride’s painting output some to sell through his own galleries, the majority to resell to other galleries throughout the UK and further afield. The set-up suited McBride.
Another hour passed and no-one had been in for at least thirty minutes. He looked at his watch yet again, headed for the exit, saying “Goodnight” over his shoulder to the desk- woman.
Outside the late afternoon sun was casting pale shadows, and he could smell newly mown grass. Lucky, he thought, with the weather in the week he’d been here. No time lost and six paintings completed, the four in the gallery, and two larger paintings of Ian Smith’s country pile already hung in his main living room. Spaces were waiting to hang the others after the show. And the bonus of a week in a five star country hotel paid for by Smith. He collected his key from reception, walked into the bar off the lobby. The girl was sitting at a table, drink in front of her, evening newspaper in her hand.
“Hello again.”
She looked up and smiled. “I knew you were staying here. Saw you across the room at breakfast.”
He walked over to the bar, bought a beer, came back. “May I join you?”
She inclined her head. He sat down at the opposite side of the table. In the act of sitting his eye was caught by a movement in the lobby. His shaven-headman crossed purposefully towards the stairs, looking neither left nor right.
“A funny thing happened at the gallery today.” She looked at him. “A man came in, and tried to buy a painting that wasn’t for sale. He was quite antagonistic towards the woman at the desk, pulling wads of cash out of his pocket. As if he didn’t know how to behave in a gallery. Then he stormed out again.”
“Maybe he’s one of the nouveau riche. In that case, he might not know how to behave in an art gallery.”
“And just now he walked into the lobby”.
“Spending his cash in a five star joint, that’s the way to go.”
“Very odd. I offered to do a commission for him of the same scene. Wasn’t interested.”
He sipped his beer, reflecting. “You know all about me. What are you doing here? Dressed up as power woman with a briefcase most of the time.”
“Sounds a sexist remark,” she said, and smiled at him. “I work for a fashion chain. We’re opening a new branch ten miles down the road. Out of town shopping centre… I’m Director of Human Resources, once known as personnel department manager. I interview staff, supervise training, that sort of thing. I’ve been up here a fortnight already. Staying about another week, then it’s up and running. My name is Helen Jackson.” She held out her right hand. He shook it.
“Have you tried the Italian restaurant in the high street yet?”
“No, I’ve been eating in the hotel. Is it good?”
“Don’t know either, but we could find out if you like.”
“Give me time to get ready.”
“Say about 8 o’clock. I’ll see if we can book.”
“I’ll be down here at about five to eight then,” she said as she rose from her chair.
McBride finished his beer and followed, making his way to the concierge desk, and booked a table at the Trattoria Antonio.
He walked to his room on the first floor, was just about to slot the key card in the door when he hesitated. The door had been jemmied and stood ajar. He couldn’t hear movement inside. He gently pushed the door fully open, standing to one side for cover, but the room seemed empty. Some drawers had been tipped out on the floor. Cautiously he checked the bathroom. Nothing. Looking round. He noticed his camera had gone from the bedside table. Worse still, his laptop wasn’t on the desk.
He picked up the phone, got reception. “120. My room has been broken into. Put me through to security.”
The line went dead for a moment, then: “Security is on his way to your room now, sir.”
There was a tap on the open door. The guy wore an ill-fitting suit, a potbelly hanging over his trousers. Could be a retired policeman. He knew hotels liked an ex member of the force. Reliable, and usually honest.
“Have you checked whether anything’s missing?”
“What you would expect. Computer and camera. Nothing else worth stealing. Do you have CCTV on this floor. Or in the lobby?”
“Yes sir. Come with me and we’ll have a look. When do you think it happened?” They were already walking down the corridor, going down to the lobby; then through a door behind the concierge desk. A bank of monitors was racked against the wall opposite them.
McBride said: “Look at the tapes for about twenty, thirty minutes ago. I was in the bar; a stocky guy crossed the lobby and went up the stairs. You can see where he went from there.”
The security man fiddled with the controls, got pictures running on a spare monitor. Turned knobs, pressed buttons. “This is the lobby, is that the man you mean?” The light from the lobby spots bounced off the man’s bald head.
“Yes.”
“So he’s going up the main stairs there, as you said… now I switch cameras and we will…”
The stocky man turned left and headed for McBride’s room, now shielding his face, must have b
een suddenly aware of the camera. Too late, already seen you! He stood close to the door, and in just seconds he was into room 120. Twenty, thirty seconds later he was coming out, his hand held in front of his face again. You could see the laptop bag in his other hand. Camera was probably in his pocket.
The security man switched off the spare monitor. “I think we’ve got him sir. I’ll just speak to the police. Maybe he’s a local villain, though he’s not been in here before..”
“Don’t be too sure. But at least get me a crime number for the computer and the camera. My insurers will need it. Oh, and can you get me sorted with a new room? And have housekeeping shift my things over.”
McBride walked back to the bar. Ordered another beer, sat at the same table as before, now deep in thought. At 7.30 he went over to reception, got the key for the new room, went up, briefly showered, and changed into chinos, new shirt. He was back in the bar at 7.45. His beer was still on the table.
At 7.55 precisely, Helen swept into the bar, looking smart wearing a trouser suit. McBride grinned.
“I guess an open tab at the shops comes with the job.”
“You bet. Don’t tell me you’ve be doing a man thing, swilling beer all this time”
“You wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been, mostly meeting members of hotel staff.
I’ll tell you over dinner, cos I’ve a favour to ask.”
“And that’s before you’ve even bought me dinner.”
CHAPTER THREE
The Trattoria was small, and nearly empty. McBride guessed the Italian proprietor had set up in England because there was less competition than in his own country.
When they were seated and sipping drinks, she said, “Come on, tell me what favour you want.”
He explained what had happened.
“It ties in with the attempt to buy my painting this afternoon. Maybe I’ve painted something in that view that baldhead doesn’t want others to see. And just in case, he steals my camera and laptop. I might have an image, he thinks.”
“In that case, he’ll have to steal the painting as well. Not quite so easy, surely. Aren’t galleries well secured with alarms and things?”
“That’s true, he must be waiting – no-one can see the painting until tomorrow.” He put his hand in his pocket, took out a small plastic box. “Luckily I changed the camera SIM card this morning I always take photos of the scenes I paint, just to be safe, and in all the years I’ve never needed to refer to them – till now.”
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