Rosy Dream, sired by an unproven Dreamcatcher out of an equally unimpressive Rosehill Girl, had been bought at Tattersalls in Ireland as a bargain two-year-old by Laura Coleridge-Burton in October 1973. Having proved her talent by winning the Musidora Stakes at York, she’d been put to stud as a broodmare. Not until last December had she finally conceived. The colt’s sire, Pas de Deux, went on to became a Group One winner in France and twice favorite for the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe.
“Who sold her to your wife?”
Felix Coleridge-Burton needed no prompting. “An odd setup, come to think of it. I’d gone to Newmarket with Rex, as Laura was feeling unwell. The filly was for him to develop. Irish lot they were. I’m no snob, Mr. Cottrell, but she was a real bag of nerves. Sweating all over. Not what the punters want at the sales. Everything spooked her. Took weeks to calm down, but we’d seen her potential…”
“You mean tinkers?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He pulled out some stapled sheets headed by the British Bloodstock Agency’s logo. “It’s all down here.”
***
Although the orangery was warm to the point of stuffiness, Sam suddenly felt cold. And not just his skin. This went bone deep, as if he was back in the Moyle River that runs off the Mourne mountains. Where Calum had pushed him in and held him under, fifteen years ago to the day. A pre-Christmas treat…
Not for the first time did he want to run.
“Mr. Cottrell. Are you alright?” asked the older man. “Can I order you a brandy?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” But he wasn’t. Not since reading the vendor’s name on the record of sale. Willing his voice to stay even, he added, “I know you want to keep this crime under wraps for all sorts of reasons, but sir, it really is a matter for the police. I’m impressed with a DS Mike Charlton at the Met. He can liaise with Chelmsford CID…”
Coleridge-Burton hesitated. Sam knew what was going through his mind, but all the while, the clock was ticking. Supposing he’d been followed? Supposing…
“You’re not known for bottling out, Mr. Cottrell. Why I hired you.” The toff peered at him with shrewd blue eyes. “So, what’s going on? Who are these people? Have they connections to any of my staff?”
“It’s not bottling out, sir. It’s called…”
But before Sam could finish, a shaven-headed guy dressed like a butler pushed through the double doors from the pool, almost knocking over a tall, spiky succulent in its ceramic pot. A weird, wrinkled mask covered his face, leaving only those eyes Sam had hoped never to see again. Instead of a butler’s tray, black-gloved hands gripped a police-issue Beretta 92C pointing in his direction.
Where the hell had that come from?
Then immediately, he knew…
***
Sam had kept up his workouts at the gym, and boxing down at the club, knowing that with just two slouches a day around the prison exercise yard, Calum would be unfit.
But here he was. Lean. Toned. Deadly.
In the mirror opposite, he glimpsed the owner-trainer getting to his feet and pulling out his phone. His face had paled. His hand shaking. “I need to call 999.”
“Put that away and sit down, sir,” said Sam, aware of his jumping heart. “This is my shout.”
“No, mine, ye snivellin’ worm,” snarled the mask. “I done twelve fuckin’ years for ye. Four thousand, three hundred and eighty fuckin’ days…”
That same hateful voice last heard on a thunderous night in Killiemore Cottage when their mother announced she was leaving. Not to another man, but a simpler life on her own. She’d given up on her boys. Reached the end of her tether.
Sam had never forgotten her face as she’d spoken, or the tears not wiped away…
“Time I spiked ye good and proper, little brother,” Calum added. “Burst yer fuckin bubble…”
“You were the reason she had to go,” Sam countered. “A trigger-happy twat who never went to school, never brought in a cent to help out.”
His next-of-kin moved closer. The weapon’s hollow eye on his chest. Meanwhile, the middle-aged Coleridge-Burton grabbed a retro soda siphon from the sideboard before hurling it at the intruder.
“Holy fuckin’ Jesus!”
Its steel-banded body had connected with the black-suited groin, bringing him to his knees with a roar of surprise. The Beretta thudded onto the tiles and skidded under a coffee table, out of reach.
“Gotcha.”
Sam was on him, pinning him down as an alarm’s shriek filled the room and a pair of brown corduroy legs rushed past. He smelled fart and fear. Suddenly, just as he was gaining control, a stab of ice penetrated between his shoulder blades, causing air to float from his lungs, leaving him gasping like a fish out water. Calum’s mask had slipped sideways. His dog breath filled Sam’s nose as a woman’s voice eked into the huge room.
Who the hell?
“Your number’s up, Mr. Flanagan,” it said coolly. “Time you settled your debt, remember?”
He’d almost forgotten his old name, but remembered the perfume…
The Mongoose.
Impossible. But there she was. From the corner of his eye, he saw a blade in her hand, as red as her lips. In the other, the Glock he’d bought her for emergencies only.
Like now…
“You said your mother was dead,” he murmured.
“Joke, thicko. More to the point, I found stuff out since Calum’s trial,” she went on. “Stuff I’ve already passed on. Did you expect him to suffer in silence while you grubbed your way upwards? Got rich on my efforts?”
“Why Sunny?” Sam could barely whisper. “She’d been my foal. I’d bottle-fed her and…”
“Why not? Eilidh had left nothing for you boys, but everything to her brother Seamus Nolan, who sent Sunny to Tattersalls in Wicklow. We tracked her whereabouts after that. Even as Rosy Dream. Easy to check on websites who’s doing what and where. The one way you’d be taught a lesson.”
“We?”
“That’s right. I visited Calum in the Scrubs and we hit it off straightaway. The rest is history…” She pulled her lover out from underneath him and together they headed toward the orangery’s outer door. Him stumbling. Her, purposeful as ever.
“You didn’t have to kill her. You butchers…” Sam wheezed after them.
“Didn’t we?”
“Is her foal still alive?”
“What d’you think? Ask Mr. Sturt. He kindly raked over the drive for us after we’d gone. Caiou, Declan.”
Declan…
Sam’s brain was furring up in advance of his body. Too much blood warmed his sticky hands while that long-ago storm again hurtled in from the Atlantic, cutting out the lights in Killiemore Cottage. Obliterating faces. He’d deliberately worn gloves. Nicked Calum’s hunting rifle, only meaning to shoot him in the arm for giving their mother guff over growing pot, but got Eilidh Flanagan instead. In the heart.
He was clean, with no record, but not Calum. The Gardai had already cautioned him twice for misuse of a firearm.
Tough.
Then he’d legged it to Belfast without so much as a toothbrush. Got a new name. New ID. Lain low. What would anyone else have done in his situation?
But he’d never forgotten his pretty, affectionate, bright chestnut Sunny…
A wailing siren drew closer, and two armed uniforms followed by Felix Coleridge-Burton burst in. Their shouts for him to keep calm and keep breathing were fading. Everything was, save for his mother’s ghostly scream rising above the wind’s turmoil, suddenly burning his ears.
Year
Indictable Offenses
Non-Indictable Offenses
Total Recorded Offenses
1970
30,756
169,581
229,389
1971
37,781
198,157
235,938
1972
39,237
190,152
229,389
1973
39,000
192,451
243,426
1. The Indictable Offenses figure includes all offenses that became known to An Garda Síochána.
The non-indictable figure counts the number of people against whom proceedings were taken.
(Source: “Crime and Punishment in Ireland”)
No Direction Home
Nick Quantrill
A Joe Geraghty Story
I was surprised to learn the woman at my door was a police detective. I’d taken steps since arriving in Amsterdam to keep a low profile and mind my own business. Anita Halberg was in her mid-fifties, a long overcoat on, a tired look on her face that told me she was overworked. Some things were universal.
“Can we speak inside, Mr. Geraghty?” she said.
“It’s Joe.”
“We’re not on first-name terms yet.”
I didn’t like the qualification she’d added to her reply. I could resist, close the door, and hope she didn’t come back. I could finish the book I was reading, enjoy the rest of my drink. Or I could let her inside, hear whatever she had to say. Experience told me it was pointless resisting. I stood to one side, letting her enter.
“Nice place,” she said, walking in and looking around. “I often wonder if I could downsize enough to live on the water.”
“You shrink your life down,” I told her. It was calm and quiet on the canal. “It’s surprisingly rewarding.” There wasn’t much for Halberg to see. My shelves contained a few books, notepads I doodled in. No personal touches.
She glanced at the mobile handset I’d placed on the small table in the corner. “You don’t have a smartphone?”
“Don’t need one.”
“You don’t have a laptop to access the internet?”
“Same answer.” I didn’t bother with a television, either, just a small radio set to keep me connected to the wider world. It was how I liked things. My preference was to avoid the news, preferring to do my job and return home. Books were the solace and escape I needed.
Halberg shrugged, looked out the window. “These houseboats weren’t always so desirable, you know? They used to be for those who couldn’t afford anywhere else, or maybe squatters. Times change, though. I understand they’re very expensive now.” She stared at me. “How can you afford to live here?”
“It’s not mine. My employer rents it to me. There’s no problem with that, is there?”
“You’re a model citizen, so far as I know,” she said, turning back to face me.
“Pleased to hear it.”
“That said, things were different back in England for you?”
“I don’t live there anymore.” Hull was my home city, but I’d lost touch with the place.
“You moved here a couple of years ago, right?”
“It was too good an opportunity to miss.” She was well-informed.
Halberg had her arms behind her back, a smile on her face. “A change of scenery must be nice.” She picked up the book I was reading, a tattered George Orwell paperback I’d picked up from a flea market. “Good for the soul?”
“Something like that.”
Halberg cocked her head slightly, not hiding the fact she was weighing me up still. “You were a private investigator?”
“A lifetime ago.” I didn’t like the way she’d stepped forward and closed the space between us.
She took a photograph out of her pocket and handed it to me. It showed a young woman, late teens, maybe early twenties. She was enjoying a night out in a bar with a group of friends, clearly drunk, a big smile on her face.
“Kayleigh Mainprize is from Hull like you, but also like you, she lives here now. She’s nineteen years old and she’s missing. The police in touch with her father in England are concerned, too.”
“I’m sure they are.” I tried to hand the photograph back, but she didn’t take it.
“Kayleigh works in a bar in the De Wallen area.”
I didn’t take the bait, or jump to any conclusions. I knew it as the red-light district. I set the photograph down on top of the nearest bookcase. “I can’t help you.”
“Humberside Police said you’d be only too pleased to assist.”
“I don’t work for them.”
“Detective Sergeant Coleman said you’d be happy to help us save our resources, maybe even find Kayleigh so it puts her father’s mind at rest.”
“That’s very good of him, but I’ve already got a busy job.”
Halberg made a show of looking again at my book and half-finished beer. “Looks like you’ve got plenty of spare time on your hands.”
I moved toward the door, opened it for her. I was done at the mention of Coleman. Another reminder I didn’t need of a previous life.
Halberg didn’t move. She took out another photograph and put it on the table. “He said you should look at this.”
I picked it up, looking at a shot of myself taken by a CCTV camera. This was where the conversation had always been heading. I knew exactly where and when it had been taken. It showed me outside a block of flats, close to the entrance. It related to a case I’d worked before leaving Hull. The job had been for a client desperate for answers and I’d broken into the building, crossing the line to get them for her. It had been impulsive and, it now seemed, damaging. Coleman had known about it all this time, sitting on the evidence until the right time.
Halberg pointed to it. “Maybe if you cooperate, it will be overlooked.”
“I’m no longer a private investigator.”
She smiled and took out a business card, placing it on the table before heading for the door. “It’s in your blood, Mr. Geraghty.”
***
I pedaled around Jordaan before approaching Centrum and the Canal Ring, the traffic growing steadily heavier. It wasn’t a long journey, and I’d become accustomed to not using a car. Night had fallen, the trams slowing down, people sitting outside canal-side bars enjoying an evening meal, the sound of a hundred conversations as I pedaled by. Amsterdam was flat enough to remind me of home, another city that the water took as much from as it offered.
The streets grew busier as I approached De Wallen. Chaining my bike up, I remembered it was the kind of area that heightens your senses. The volume increased, neon signs assaulted your eyes. The city changed, the possibility of danger increasing without you even realizing it was happening. Human sharks circled outside clubs and bars, all wanting to empty your wallet. I watched as a small group of drunken men lurched toward one, the shark swallowing them up. I’d walked around the area once before, enough to satisfy my curiosity.
Head down, I moved deeper into the streets, the repetitive thump of house music leaking out of the buildings. The bar I was looking for was off the main drag. Standing outside, I stared at the dark windows, unable to see in. It was tempting to simply turn away, forget I’d come here, and let Coleman do his worst. It didn’t have to be my problem. But Halberg’s visit had unsettled me. The point of moving here had been to stay under the radar, live a quiet life, and figure out what came next. I’d left Hull thinking I could outrun any problems I had. She was proof that I couldn’t.
I headed inside, knowing I had no real choice in the matter. The interior was dark, lights low. It forced me to stop for a moment to allow my eyes to adjust. A number of high stools had been plac
ed in front of the bar, a few empty tables lined the room. A plasma screen showed the evening’s football, the volume muted, no one paying it any attention.
A worker a similar age to Kayleigh took my order. I watched her take a bottle of beer out of the fridge and crack it open, figuring she maybe knew her. A man stood in the shadows at the far end of the bar, eyeballing me. He was in his thirties, dark-skinned, a couple of days’ stubble on his face. Experience had taught me to quickly weigh people up, and I didn’t like what I saw. The man was trouble. I pulled up a stool, still deciding how to play things. Push too hard, too soon, and you risk being shut down. Don’t push hard enough, and you learn nothing. The trick is to quickly assess where the comfortable middle ground is, establish some trust.
“Cheers,” I said, lifting the bottle to my mouth, offering a toast. “Not too busy tonight, then?”
“Makes things easier,” she said, a local accent. “Do you want to listen to the football?” she asked, pointing toward the screen with the remote.
I shook my head, saying it was fine. “It’s not really my game.”
“You’re visiting tonight with friends?”
“I live here now.”
She smiled. “It’s a nice city if you have money.”
“Like anywhere,” I suggested.
“You’re English?”
I nodded. “I’m from Hull.” There was a slight flicker at that, a pause as she composed herself.
“I’ve visited,” she said. “It’s nice.”
“Not everyone will agree with you on that.”
“Good and bad everywhere you go.”
“The place or the people?”
“The people.”
“Can’t disagree with that.”
She leaned in closer to me. “Which one are you?”
“I try to be one of the good guys.”
“But you left?”
“Maybe I’ll go back one day.”
She straightened back up. “I’m hoping to go travelling soon with my girlfriend.”
The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories Page 21