When we put the coffin on the altar, can you sit in the front pew on the right hand side of the chapel?
“After the service, a curtain will be drawn round the coffin. The mourners then file out. The other mourners will wait, and you will lead. If you wish, you can stand at the outer door, and greet people.”
“If there are any,” mumbled Danny, and waited whilst they unloaded the coffin. The service lasted twenty-three minutes. He timed it. When the service finished and the curtains drew dramatically round the coffin, the music changed, upping tempo somewhat, and Danny rose from his pew, turned round and made his way out of the chapel, followed by the undertakers. He was amazed to see that there were about twenty mourners other than himself, mostly men of about Jimmy’s age. When he got to the doors of the chapel, he stood back, ready to shake hands with the other mourners, who were trickling towards the bright daylight. It transpired that most of the mourners were Jimmy’s police colleagues, including a smattering of civilian staff. Danny felt it would be polite to invite some people back to his hotel for an impromptu wake. He mentioned it to the first person that stopped to speak to him, a burly six footer, with dark curly hair He said that was very civil of Danny, and if he wanted, he would round up Jimmy’s close friends, and they would meet him in the bar.
Danny extricated himself as soon as he politely could, and drove back to the hotel, where he arranged with the duty manager, a buffet menu complete with drinks. The manager suggested they might like to use one of the private rooms for the food, and they could carry on drinking there for as long as they liked. Danny approved, paid a hefty deposit, and chose a standard buffet, which would be ready in forty-five minutes.
When he got back into the bar, he saw a largish group, some of whom he recognised from the service. They were standing at the bar, and he could see that they had already started drinking. The tall man was in the centre of the crowd, an obvious popular organizer. Danny caught his eye, and explained the arrangements. Harry, the tall man called the group to order, and suggested they have one more drink here before departing to the private room. Then Harry forced his way through to the bar, and bought Danny a pint of bitter.
Once they were in the private room, Danny was impressed that the management had supplied a waitress from whom the guests could order drinks. The noise grew, with laughter and banter. Danny knew that this was going to be a long day.
Late in the afternoon, he found himself sitting in a corner with Harry, who was recounting scurrilous tales of the police force.
After a long pause in conversation, when Harry had finished off the dregs of another pint, he said: “Danny, tell me, did Jimmy know this Murphy fellow, who pulled the bullion robbery?”
“We all knew him, in Belfast, when we were kids. Jimmy was my little brother, five years younger than the rest of us, but he liked to hang out with us. Eamonn Murphy was his protector, if there was any bullying, and I didn’t happen to be around.”
“Some fucking protector, shooting Jimmy in the head,” said Harry. “What I can’t understand is why he was on duty. He was an inspector, not a fucking constable. It makes me suspicious, him pulling that job, when he was a mate of the villain. But I won’t say anything, now he’s dead.”
“You think he was aiding and abetting you mean?” said Danny. By now, he was not thinking very clearly.
“I’ve said too much already,” said Harry. “Forget I even spoke.” And then he said, "They've already put a plaque up in the lobby at headquarters, in Jimmy’s honour. It says, ‘Inspector James Nolan 1958 to 2013. Died whilst upholding the law. That’s a nice tribute.”
Danny looked round the room. They were the only two left, and Harry was snoring. Perhaps he had been asleep himself. He poked Harry in the ribs.
“Everybody’s gone,” Danny slurred.
Harry opened his eyes, and looked round the room. “So they have,” he said. “P’raps we should go through to the bar,” he said, “and have one for the road.”
When they got into the bar, it was almost empty, too. Danny went to the counter and asked for two coffees.
When he got back to the table with them, Harry stared. “What’s this?”
“Sober up time, Harry. Have this and I’ll get the barmaid to call you a taxi. I really do appreciate your organisation. I’m sure Jimmy would have approved.”
They sat, side by side, sipping their coffee. Danny said, “What has happened to Murphy. Have you caught him yet?”
Harry stared at the bar. “Not yet. The story is that he’s gone to Ireland. Left last night, that’s what I heard.”
“ I just hope I don’t meet him down a dark lane.” Danny could hardly tell a policeman that he was going to kill Murphy, where-ever he was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
John (Bobby) Bell, was sitting in front of the television in his Dublin home. He had just seen the story unfolding at the Belfast ferry terminal. The man jumping off the ferry, there was video footage, maybe recorded on a mobile phone from the ferry deck. The video zoomed in to the man in the water, now grasping a lifebelt. He recognised Lefty the bomber, knew he had been with Murphy on the platinum heist over the water. He watched the professional footage of the police on the wharf, a major turnout there, he thought, must think the treasure was arriving.
He watched film of the search of the truck, the junk off the back, antique tat, the magazines, blowing about the wharf, some landing in the water, and smiled. Then the police driving the truck away, putting the driver in the back of a police car, taking him, according to the commentary, to Musgrave Police Station, where Lefty had been taken earlier after his rescue from the water.
Bobby Bell picked up one of a series of mobiles he owned. They were all pay-as-you- go, meaning that nobody would be intercepting calls. His landline was used only by himself, if he was arranging golf matches. He looked in his laptop index for a Belfast number, and dialled.
“Eddie, its Bobby Bell. Did you see the fun and games at the ferry terminal? The police have taken a couple of guys to Musgrave. I would doubt they could charge them if they keep their mouths shut. But they’ll probably ask for a lawyer from the DSCC. Can you arrange to be the one that goes? If you can there’s a couple of grand in it for you. I need to know something, and you might get them to tell you. They were involved in the bullion robbery in Cheshire yesterday. They must know what Murphy did with the van, because they were seen with him before they boarded the ferry in Liverpool. If you promise them you’ll get them out without a charge, they may tell you where he’s hidden it. They absolutely must know, because they picked him up. One of the guys is Lefty the bomber. I don’t know his friend.”
“Make it three grand and you’ve got a deal. I have to sweeten the guy who was picked to go. He loses a fee.”
“You could give him your fee, but yes, okay. I want you to phone me as soon as you’re done. Pay-as-you-go mobile. Got a pen?” He proceeded to give him the number, terminated the call.
He sat back in his chair, pondering. If he got someone over to pick up the van, it would save him a couple of million, surely. Murphy left with nothing to trade. Bobby Bell was the biggest crook in Ireland, but never got his fingers dirty, personally. Only dealt in straight crime, that’s what he thought to himself. No drugs, no prostitution, in fact no sex crime.
The police knew he was a criminal, but they couldn’t prove it. So they just watched from afar. One day, they hoped, he would stumble.
Eddie was shown into the cubicle where Lefty and Ned had been interrogated. A police constable opened the door from the inside. Eddie gave him a business card. The constable, said, I’ll just wait outside, give me a shout when you’re done.”
Eddie pulled up a chair sat down at the table with the two men. “You’ve not been charged, yet?” They both shook their heads. “Have you told them anything incriminating?”
Lefty spoke. “We’ve done nothing wrong, really. Well, I fell off the ferry, with the shock of seeing all them cops.” Eddie smiled knowingly. “But
all we was doing was a favour for Eamonn Murphy, bringing his truck over, and we was coming over anyway.”
“Have they questioned you about the robbery yesterday, in Cheshire, which, allegedly involved Mr Murphy.”
“They asked about that, told them we didn’t know what they meant, didn’t know what Murphy was doing.”
“Okay,” said Eddie. “Now, if you can tell me what Murphy did with his white van, where he left it, when you picked him up, allegedly?”
“Why do you want to know? Maybe we didn’t pick him up. Or if we did, maybe he was thumbing a lift.”
“Come on, Lefty, you were driving Murphy’s own vehicle, for God’s sake. Come on, tell me, and we can have you out of here in time for a pint across the road before dinnertime, and no charges laid, and you both smelling as sweet as roses.”
“Okay,” said Lefty reluctantly. “He asked us to meet him at a lockup he has. He gave us directions.”
“Well, what where the directions he gave you?”
“From where we were, these are the directions.” He pulled a grimy piece of paper from one of his shoes. “Don’t know why I kept this.” He passed it to Eddie, who looked at it. A lined page from a notebook, the kind they called shorthand books, in the time before computers.
It said, 3rd left, 2nd right, Whitehouse Road. Farmhouse track on left.
“Not so useful if you don’t know where the instructions start from,” commented Eddie.
“I could show you if you’ve a map of Cheshire,” said Lefty.
“Was it from where you were working?”
Lefty paused, looked at the ceiling. “You don’t catch me like that,” he said.
Christ, these bloody crooks never trusted anyone. “Did he leave the van at the lockup?” asked Eddie.
“Inside it. Covered in a dustsheet, plates changed.”
Eddie stood up, went over to the door, called the constable over. “I’m ready to talk to your detective now.”
The detective sergeant was sent for, Eddie introduced himself.
“As far as I can see, you’ve nothing to hold my clients here. I assume that you are not charging them, right? All they have done is drive a truck over on the ferry, a truck that I understand belongs to a Mr. Murphy, and they were driving it with his express permission, to deliver it to an antique dealer in Belfast here. There were no illegal substances, or stolen property found when you carried out a thorough search at the ferry terminal. Admittedly one of my clients fell off the ferry before it docked, which was careless.”
“It’s what they were doing when they were over the water. That is what I want to know.”
“You can’t hold them unless you have some evidence, and that’s what you are very short of. In that case if you’ll return any of my clients’ belongings, we’ll be going.”
“Aye,” the sergeant turned to Lefty and Ned, “but I’ll get you yet.”
“That is threatening talk, sergeant,” said Eddie, leading the way through the door.
Across the road, in the pub, he bought them each a pint, and bade them good day. He kept the piece of paper off the notebook, to remind him to report back to Bobby Bell. When Eddie got home, he took the note out of his pocket, scanned it on to his computer, attached it to an email, and sent it to Bobby. Then he got on the phone, put in the number of Bobby’s mobile.
“Eddie here, Bobby. Look at your emails will you? Yes, now while I wait.”
“You mean the one with the scrap of paper, as an attachment? So what’s it mean?
“The direction to the hidden treasure. From the position where our boys got the action going yesterday, you understand? With a road atlas of Cheshire should be no problem.”
“Think I might send the boys themselves back. I’m just mulling it over. Thanks a lot. You know where to collect the envelope with your thank you.”
Bobby spent some time running scenarios through his mind. It would serve Murphy right for cocking the job up, if he got the bullion anyway, right from under his nose. Save another two million, nearly, that Murphy was relying on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The rap on the door woke Murphy. Without waiting for a reply, Jimmy Brown was in his bedroom. Murphy had been dozing on top of the bedspread.
“The old lady is getting a huff on, wondering if you’ll be going soon.” The old lady was Jimmy’s wife, or partner maybe. She was slovenly, as ugly as sin, to Murphy’s mind, and a nag into the bargain. Why Jimmy hadn’t cleared off years ago, Murphy didn’t know, unless the reason was because the house, such as it was, belonged to her.
“Yes, Jimmy, I’ll be off this morning, as soon as the streets are aired.” It was only seven a.m., and Murphy had not had a very good night. Everything had gone wrong yesterday.
“Jimmy, lend me a pair of scissors, okay?”
When Jimmy had brought the scissors, Murphy ruthlessly cut all his hair as short as he could, looking in the mirror in the bedroom. Next, he moved to the bathroom. Jimmy’s electric shaver was on the window sill. He used the trimming attachment on the razor, to remove the remaining hair. He left the stubble on his face, returned to the bedroom, pinching a couple of handkerchiefs out of Jimmy’s chest of drawers, which stood on the little landing. Tearing one handkerchief in two, and wetting the halves, which meant a trip back to the bathroom, he stuffed them into his cheeks. This had the effect of plumping up his face, getting rid of the gaunt look. It was uncomfortable, but he could manage. Talking might be a bit difficult. Perhaps people would think he’d had a stroke. On the telly last night, which he’d watched with Jimmy, they had an old photo of him, taken twenty years ago, a prison photograph. The announcer had said that he now was hollow cheeked, and had long straggly hair.
He thought Jimmy was secretly impressed that Murphy was a famous criminal. He needed something else from Jimmy, and then he would leave.
Downstairs, he found Jimmy in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cornflakes. “Hey, Jimmy, would you have an old pair of sunglasses I could have? As a disguise, you know.”
“It’s a terrible day out. If you wear sunglasses, everybody will know you’re disguised.” “I’m going to take the lenses out, and people will think they’re ordinary specs.”
Grumbling, Jimmy left his cornflakes, and started to rummage in kitchen drawers. With a cry of triumph, he pulled out a pair of old black-framed sunglasses.
“They look just the thing,” said Murphy. While Jimmy went back to his cornflakes, Murphy, using the prongs of a fork, managed to dislodge both lenses, and put the frame on his nose.
“What about that, then? Makes me look distinguished, eh?”
“Makes you look like Groucho Marx, is what.”
“Well better than Eamonn Murphy. I’m going now, Jimmy. Thanks for giving me a bed for the night.”
Murphy walked down the terrace to the main road, remembered there was a pound shop not very far up the road. He’d walked past it last night. Once inside the shop, he picked out a baseball cap, an overnight bag, a tartan long-sleeved shirt, a pair of blue denims, and a car coat. On the way to the pay desk, he picked up some disposable razors, shaving cream and a toothbrush.
As the young woman rang the items through the till, he packed the goods into his holdall, all except the cap, which he put on his head, peak pulled right down.
Once outside the shop, he glanced both ways, deciding where he would go. He decided to carry on the way he had been going, and eventually, the shops became more rundown, with many empty properties, like bad teeth in an old man’s mouth. There was a small used car lot, fronted by rows of flags strung between light poles, and large red lettered placards on the cars. He could see from the road that they were all old bangers. Still, he had to get around.
As he expected, the cheapest cars were the largest, because of the petrol consumption, but they were more likely to have been well serviced from new. Business cars, rep-mobiles.
He walked on to the lot, made for the Mondeos, three of them in a row. £900 each, the notice in the car w
indows said. He picked the one with slightly more tread on the tyres. While he was looking, a man in a greasy trilby walked out of the shed in the corner of the lot, came up to him. “You’ll make a fine choice, with any of these three. They’re reliable cars, even with a big mileage. Been looked after, you see.” He paused and sucked his teeth. “I’ll go and get the keys, if you wait here.” So Murphy waited, watching the traffic on the road. The car lot man was quickly back, with sets of keys, labelled with registration numbers, in his hand. “Which one you want to look at?”
Murphy pointed at the nearest car, painted mid-grey, completely unremarkable. “What’s the mileage?”
The guy unlocked the door pointed at the fascia. 79,560 miles, Murphy saw.
He got into the driver seat, fired up the engine, revved it up, looking through the rear- view mirror as he did so. Grey smoke obscured the view.
“It’s burning more oil than petrol, probably.”
Although Murphy knew that once the engine was warmed up, it wouldn’t look so bad. “When is it MOT’d until?” he said. There were a couple of months on the tax disc, he’d seen before he climbed in.
“We can have a look at the papers back in the office.” Murphy thought he should have said shed..
He walked to the shed alongside the man, a guy older than him, with a bad cough. He had a cigarette burning in his hand. He held the door open for Murphy to go first, then went round his desk and sat down. He waved Murphy to the visitor chair, an old bentwood dining chair. The desk was full of papers, layered with dust. There was a huge ashtray overflowing with stubs. The man coughed again, rummaged in the desk drawer, took out a sheaf of papers, sorted through them until he came to the Ford Mondeo, glancing at the keys, to make sure he had the right ones. “You’re paying cash,” he said quickly.
“That’s right, but not £900, it’s too much. I thought £350.”
“Fuck me, I paid more than that.”
“Then you paid too much. But I’m taking pity on you, and I’ll give you £400.”
Murphy reached in his pocket, pulled out some notes, to make the point. He saw the man look greedily at the cash. He must have had a bad week.
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