“Look, you can’t pin this murder on me. I’ll be torn apart limb for limb.”
“I don’t see how we have a choice,” said Brophy, taking a step back to avoid getting anymore overspalsh on his shoe. “You’re in possession of the narcotics that were found in the house and likely the cause of this whole mess, and I’m willing to put my house on it being the same junk you were out of your head on the other day.”
“So, Packo,” said McCall, “are you going to tell us where Delaney is, or do we have to pin it all on you?”
“I haven’t seen that mad bastard in weeks. He’s off playing Daddio with some Polish one. No one has seen him, even his own family.”
“That’s not going to work for us,” said Brophy. “You tell us right now where he is, and we’ll give you twenty-four hours to clean yourself up before Drug Squad pat you down.”
“I swear on me mother’s life. I don’t know where Budgie is.”
“I’m beginning to think your poor misfortunate mother is immortal with all the times you’ve sworn on her life with absolute lies. Now tell us where he is, or we’re getting a squad car over here to take you in.”
“Not before I get that swarm of reporters that are plaguing the city about this story first, though,” said McCall.
“What’s it gonna be, Packo?”
“Honestly, man. I have no idea where he is. I never have anything to do with that scumbag. Last time I met him, he gave me a right beating over twenty Euro.”
“Then, where does the Polish girl live?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“Okay, play it your way,” said McCall. She reached into her pantsuit pocket and took out her phone.
Packo squirmed and shook uncontrollably. “Please don’t do this. Those fuckers don’t mess around. They’ll come after me little one. I’m not joking ye.”
“But you have to give us something, Packo,” said Brophy, his patience wearing thin. “I’ll give you one last chance then. If you don’t answer immediately, Sergeant McCall will dial you in. Is that clear?”
Packo nodded profusely.
Brophy held the baggie up before Packo’s eyes. “Where did you get this?”
He hesitated a few beats, and Brophy tightened his grip on his tracksuit top. “Some young-fella in the city centre. I think he’s a student in WIT.”
“Where do you go to meet him?” asked McCall.
“He comes to meet me. Usually around John’s Street or Red Square Shopping Centre.”
“How do you contact him?” asked Brophy.
“Whatsapp. Ye send him a message, and he gets back saying where he’ll be, usually within half an hour.”
Brophy gave McCall a look that said, ‘we’ve got a result.’ He fished around Packo’s tracksuit and pulled his phone out of an inside pocket. “It’s time you got another fix then, isn’t it?”
“Ah, no way, man. Then they’ll know it’s me who squealed. You said you’d let me go if I told you.”
“We’ll get you out of this,” said McCall, “but you have to do it our way. Now set up a meeting with him, and we’ll jump on him when he arrives, and make it look like we were tailing him and not you. But you have to do exactly what we say.”
“Ah, Jesus. This can’t be happening.”
“Message him now,” said Brophy and released Packo and handed him the phone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The city was already teeming with people by the time they received the dealer’s reply and headed towards the centre to meet him. Brophy and McCall had decided not to call in any reinforcements lest it aroused suspicion and scared the man away.
Shoppers and summer holiday school kids jostled for space around Red Square Shopping Centre in the heart of Waterford. Random gangs of teenagers loitered on street corners, many with their tops off, revealing paper-white bodies with slightly tanned forearms and necks. Just like any other Saturday in summer, Brophy told himself. A merry-go-round, set-up in the middle of the square, twirled with joyful screaming children, waving their arms and kicking their legs. The entire city centre was pedestrianised, so they knew there’d be no quick getaway by car should things go haywire and the dealer eluded their capture.
Brophy stood at a coffee counter to the left of the mall entrance and ordered a black coffee from the listless teenage barista. It took a couple of awkward moments before he realised she had no idea what a black coffee was and ordered an Americano instead. McCall was positioned inside, sitting on a bench by the central water feature. She feigned a girls’-talk type of conversation on her phone, something Brophy wasn’t used to seeing from her. Packo was between the two of them, standing in the middle of the ground floor, looking as shifty and out of place as usual.
The routine was when Packo saw the dealer coming in the back door, he’d head for the nearest toilet, then his fix would follow him in and make the deal. Brophy hoped Packo wouldn’t get kicked out by security before their mark had a chance to arrive.
His coffee was set before him and minutes passed without any movement from inside. His phone rang, and he checked the screen to see who it was. DI Bennett. Brophy would have pressed the red button to hang up only he was anxious in case there was any news about the boy.
“Where are you, Brophy? You’re wanted at the station?”
“Wanted by who?”
“By Superintendent Russell and the NBCI boys.”
“What do they want?”
“They want you to stop asking dumb questions and get over here.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be there for a while. We’re in pursuit of a dealer who might be flogging the same meth that was found yesterday.”
“Jesus. Who is he?”
“We don’t know yet, but he might be able to lead us to Delaney.”
“Why haven’t you called in for back-up?”
“No time.”
“Give me your location now, Sergeant. I’m sending the DS and a few squad cars. We can’t look to be acting like mavericks on this-”
The last words faded into obscurity as Brophy noticed Packo squint towards the back entrance then head towards the toilets as planned.
“Look, I have to go.”
He hung up and took a sip of his scalding coffee and waited. The young man who came into view looked little more than a child. Short and skinny with a boyish face, he confidently strolled towards the toilets, with McCall just a few paces back. As soon as the young dealer turned the corner leading to the restrooms, Brophy shot through the automatic doors. Within seconds, he was in the hallway and peeked around the corner to make sure he hadn’t yet copped that he was being apprehended. McCall stood at the entrance to the men’s toilet and waved him on. Almost ten seconds had gone by now, and according to what Packo had told them, the deal would be done in a jiffy, and they’d be on their way.
Brophy reached the door and burst in without hesitation, shouting, “Police. We’ve got you surrounded. Don’t you dare fucking move an inch.”
At a urinal in mid-stream, an elderly gentleman’s mouth dropped open. McCall was quickly in behind Brophy, and for a second, he thought he’d been duped by Packo, and there was an alternative exit. Then the old man gestured with a sideways motion of his head towards one of the cubicles.
In one brutish movement, Brophy bolted for the door and ran right through it, crashing into both men and sending the three of them bouncing around the cubicle. The dealer’s hand reached for the hanging string toilet flusher, and Brophy swiftly grabbed his arm rather than the string. It felt like holding onto the wrist of an eight-year-old, and the boy let out an agonising yelp of pain.
“Ah, Jesus. You’re breaking my arm. Let me go.”
“Let the string go,” shouted Brophy.
The dealer complied, then Brophy reached down and fished two baggies out of the bowl. As he was doing so, Packo pushed with all his might and ran out of the cubicle. Brophy heard McCall letting out a scream of anguish as Packo escaped altogether, and Brophy knew the plan had
worked. It all seemed natural enough for the dealer not to suspect Packo was in on the sting operation.
McCall half leaned in the cubicle door. “Sorry, Boss. The little toe-rag got away. I got a good look at his face though. We’ll get a few squad cars to hunt him down. He’ll be hauled in by the end of the day.”
“That’s no problem, Detective. We’ve got the main man right here. The big dealer we’ve been tailing for months. Now we can finally put him away for a long time.”
At the sound of that, the young man began sobbing uncontrollably. “Ah, please no. I’m just a college student. I’m only eighteen. I can’t go to prison.”
Brophy shook off some of the toilet water from his arm and held up the two baggies. “Eighteen, you say. That’s an adult, and these are class A drugs. Your life has just gone right down that toilet, young man. What’s your name?”
He could barely squeeze the words out through the tears. “Daithí O’Byrne.”
“Do you realise how serious this is, Daithí?” said McCall. “A young good looking fella like yourself wouldn’t do well in Mountjoy.”
“I can’t go to Mountjoy. I just finished first year in college. My parents will kill me.”
Brophy gave McCall a quick smirk. “Mr O’Byrne. Please believe me when I say you only have one single chance to get out of this mess. If you hesitate for a second, we’ll call in the uniformed officers to take you away. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said wide-eyed and trembling.
“Who’s supplying you?”
“He’s a Waterford lad. Michael Delaney.”
Bingo.
“Where can I find him?”
“Tramore. He’s in a flat near the amusement park.”
“Address?”
“B-2-5 Plunkett Court on Gellwey’s Hill.”
Brophy looked at McCall, and she gave him a nod. She knew the place.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Despite the bumper to bumper traffic all along the fifteen-kilometre journey to the beach town, Tramore, and having decided to take McCall’s car, they reached Gellwey’s Hill in little over twenty minutes. They parked outside a colourful pub with a toucan painted on the gable end, near the bottom of the hill. The newly constructed and presumably very expensive three-storey block of flats was clearly visible on the top of the hill.
They walked up, planning their move on Delaney. It was decided they’d both approach the front door as opposed to one of them waiting downstairs in the event he made a run for it — mostly because of Delaney’s size and reputation for being liberal with the distribution of punches and headbutts. Brophy looked down to his left at the sprawling Tramore Beach, at two kilometres, one of the longest in the country. It was already packed with day-trippers and holidaymakers from every corner of Ireland.
They arrived at the sand-coloured building. Balconies dotted the entire sea-facing side of the flats, so they’d have to head around back to find the front door. O’Byrne had told them the flat was on the second floor, and Brophy had a good look at the second-floor balconies, thinking the jump would be risky but certainly doable should Delaney decide to make a run for it. There was no way to know which flat was his from this side, so they made their way around the back of the building as fast as they could. A separate stairway led up to each of the second and third-floor flats, and they quickly scanned the numbers on the doors to figure out which one was B-2-5.
McCall nudged Brophy, who was looking at the opposite end to which she was signalling. Briskly, they made their way to a stairway at the far end of the flats. Brophy observed there was no way Delaney was getting past them at the front door, and the two windows at this side would be too small for the tall and well-built dealer to fit out and make a quick escape.
On reaching the top of the stairs, they paused for a couple of seconds to listen for any sounds of movement. There were none. McCall rang the doorbell, one of those loud gongs with a long pause between the initial sound and the closing chime. A thought popped into Brophy’s head. What if Delaney was still in possession of the gun he might have used in the double murder? Brophy quickly regretted not signing out a gun from the station the previous day, as he had considered doing on several occasions. Within their rights to carry one at all times, the detectives of Waterford rarely did.
After ten seconds, McCall rang the bell once more. Almost as soon as she’d pressed the brass button, a thick Eastern European accent impatiently called out, “Who is there?”
A look of imminent indecision passed between Brophy and McCall.
In his best Dublin accent, Brophy said, “It’s Clarence Veale. I’m here to see Budgie. Open up now.”
A crescendo of whispers rose from somewhere in the depths of the flat. It was followed by mutedly-restrained shouting by the girl on the other side of the door. Brophy gave three solid knocks.
“All right, Vealo, I’m coming,” came the aggressive tone of Delaney’s thick Waterford accent. I’m just puttin’ on me pants.”
They heard him draw nearer, and Brophy braced himself for a physical altercation. The dull clang of two chains being taken off the latches gave further pause to the situation. Then a deadbolt thunked open. The door opened slowly, and there was Delaney, his head down, doing up the last of his buttons with one hand.
“How’s it going, Budgie? We’ve missed you in the city,” said Brophy.
Delaney’s eyes sprang to alertness as he looked from Brophy to McCall and back again. In a sudden and rash movement, he tried to slam the door shut, unaware that Brophy had wedged his foot forward as soon as it opened. Delaney tried with all his might, but it was useless.
“Fuck you, Peelers. I didn’t do a god-damn thing,” he shouted, and no sooner had he finished than he turned and made a run for the back of the house. Brophy barged in, followed by McCall.
A blonde girl stood in the hallway, cradling a sleeping baby, a look of fear turning to shock as Delaney brushed off her running past, nearly knocking her and the baby to the terracotta tiled floor. McCall reacted quickly and stopped her fall. Brophy rushed in the living room door after Delaney and instantly saw he was in the process of swinging his long muscular legs over the railing of the balcony.
“Stop,” shouted Brophy. “We just want to talk to you.”
Rage and guilt were painted all over Delaney’s face, and he motioned like he was about to say something. Instead, he looked down and jumped. A heavy thud, accompanied by a hoarse scream of pain, came back in the patio door towards Brophy as he made his way to the balcony.
He looked over the railing, and Delaney was scaling the wall leading onto Gellwey’s Hill. Brophy knew he hadn’t a second to lose if he was to catch up with him. He put one hand on the wooden crosspiece and leapt over without a thought for the impact that awaited. The ground came at him like a hammer blow, and he feared he’d sprained an ankle, a sharp pain searing up his leg. He took a couple of steps and recognised the feeling from his sporting days. It wasn’t sprained but would surely swell up and give him a couple of days’ discomfort.
He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and shot for the wall. Delaney was already well and truly over and probably halfway down the hill by now. Brophy sprang over the wall in one laboured movement and saw Delaney was almost down by the pub. He looked back to see where Brophy was and sprinted across the road and out of sight on the far side of a Chinese restaurant.
Known for his speed and agility, unbecoming of his height and bulk, during his playing days, Brophy sprinted down the hill and reached the Chinese restaurant in seconds. The back of the restaurant opened out onto a vast car park that was practically full of cars. He walked hurriedly towards the first line of parked cars, unable to see his mark, fearing he’d lost him. Either way, he knew where he was headed from there. The Tramore Amusement Park — a seasonal local attraction that was a hub of activity on a piping hot day like that. Past the amusement park, on the far side of the road in front of it, was the sprawling Tramore beach.
At least twenty
rows of cars separated him from the first of the rides, and he began to lose hope. Just then he spotted Delaney popping his head up from a crouching position in front of a blue Mitsubishi SUV. Delaney caught sight of Brophy and swivelled, making his way for the park. Brophy upped the pace and broke into a laboured run, needing to zigzag between groups of people and parked cars. He was making up some ground while Delaney looked back on several occasions, appearing more agitated the closer Brophy got. His passage was impeded by two teenage boys. Delaney didn’t hold back in sending one of them flying over the bonnet of a car, drawing shouts of protestation from a couple of middle-aged women nearby. He reached the metal railing and hopped over into Tramore Amusement Park.
Brophy reached the railing a few seconds later and followed suit. Delaney was weaving through the crowds, knocking over more people as he went. He ran around the bumper car course and stopped to see Brophy at the far end, still on his tail. He changed direction and flew towards the Mystery Hotel, disappearing through the entrance.
Drenched with sweat and his ankle in agony, Brophy was at the entrance within a few seconds. He stopped at the door and looked around to see if there were any other entrances Delaney could slip out of when he went in. There didn’t seem to be. He stepped through the maroon velvet curtain and was momentarily blinded by the contrasting darkness of the interior. Old-style out-of-tune piano music started to play, and an American woman’s southern drawl beckoned him further into the attraction. His heart pummelled the inside of his chest when a costumed monkey came flying at him, crashing two hand cymbals together and cackling like a rabid hyena. It flew overhead in a flash of light, and Brophy took the opportunity to scope his surroundings, but there was no sign of Delaney. The monkey disappeared in a fading echo, and the American woman urged Brophy to enter the saloon bar up the flight of steps to his right.
A sharp pain shot from the palm of his left hand, and he realised his fists were clenched so tight, he was burrowing his nails into the soft skin. He cautiously eased himself up the steps, his eyes now adjusting to the darkness. The walls on all sides were adorned with black curtains that flapped in the meagre draught blowing through the place. He reached for the top of the steps where there was only one way to go. He stepped in through the wooden slatted saloon doors and was greeted by an animatronic barman, wearing a candy-striped waistcoat and round-rimmed glasses.
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