I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  It was only when the man in the dog collar slithered down onto the floor, coughing and spluttering and groaning, that Redmond understood that this might not be a dangerous assassin, but Father Benedict.

  Redmond immediately dashed across and put him into the recovery position. When his breath returned he gently eased him up and steered him across to a seat at the kitchen table. He poured him a glass of water from the tap and patted his back as he drank it down. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘My God,’ Father Benedict finally managed to say, still catching his breath between gulps and wincing as the water went down, ‘you have returned brutalised. Did they do to you what they did to your poor brother?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. You just took me by surprise. Please, let me get you something stronger.’

  He made up a couple of whiskies for them. Father Benedict drank his down quickly, then studied Redmond intently across the table. ‘My,’ he said, ‘have you lost some weight.’

  ‘I hardly ate,’ said Redmond.

  ‘You hardly did. Look at you. Although -I quite like it. I didn’t like to say, but you could have done with losing a few pounds. Anyway, you’re home safe now. I’m very sorry about your brother, it was a terrible thing.’ Redmond nodded sadly. ‘But I have to say, Damian, a bad egg does not a good omelette make.’

  Redmond nodded slightly less sadly.

  ‘A black sheep who wanders from the flock will not come to market.’

  Redmond took a sip of his whiskey.

  ‘The bird that falls from—’

  ‘How’s your whiskey?’ Redmond asked.

  ‘I’ll take another wee nip. Damian, I was being thoughtless. I was just so worried. It was a terrible tragedy - a miscarriage of justice.’

  Redmond gave a little shrug. ‘I was thinking about a statue.’

  ‘I was thinking about something else.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well - did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘You know - did you bring me … ?’ And he raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Bring you what?’

  ‘Oh, you’re such a tease, Damian. Did you bring me something back or not?’

  ‘Ah. Right. Ahm - no, sorry.’’

  ‘No wee prezzy for Benny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Oh.’ Benedict drummed his fingers on the table. He was not pleased. ‘I brought you one back from Rome.’

  ‘Did you? I mean - you did, yes. And it was great. I just … couldn’t. That is, I did get one, only it was too big. They wouldn’t let me on the plane with it.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A bird. A Colombian stuffed bird.’

  ‘Aw. Well, that was sweet. Every house of God should have a Colombian stuffed bird.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Redmond.

  Saturday night, apparently, was DVD night. Father Benedict had brought with him the re-make of The Dukes of Hazard. The priests sat in the front lounge, sipping whiskey. It was a truly dreadful movie, but it was a relief for Redmond to concentrate on something different, as he’d spent the previous hour recounting his - i.e. his brother’s - experiences in Bogotá and he was worried about getting some obvious detail of the priesthood wrong. So Redmond kept his eyes glued to the screen, although he was only too aware that his companion wasn’t watching it at all, but rather, was watching him.

  Of course he suspects, Redmond concluded. Who wouldn’t? I got away with it in Colombia and Belfast, but here, with another priest, he must notice the difference; he must be aware I’m floundering.

  When the movie finally ended, Redmond made a great show of yawning and saying, ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m bushed.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Benedict. ‘Why don’t you go on up, and I’ll switch off down here.’

  Redmond hesitated. ‘Sure I’ll wait and let you out.’

  Benedict snorted. ‘You’re funny,’ he said. He came right up to him, put his hands on Redmond’s shoulders, then kissed him hard on the lips. He moved quickly to Redmond’s cheek, then nuzzled his ear and whispered huskily, ‘I’ve missed you, baby.’

  117

  Moving Day

  Within fifteen minutes of arriving in work Walter had made a series of phone calls, first of all to Bertha, then to a surveyor, a bank and a mortgage provider. Finally he phoned Margaret and asked her if she thought it was a good idea.

  ‘To buy a property in the morning, re-sell it in the afternoon, and make a huge profit? Why wouldn’t I think it was a good idea?’

  ‘Well, the fruit-shop man could put his price up, and the bakery guy could drop his offer.’

  ‘Yes, of course they could, but as long as you’re satisfied the fruit shop is a good investment anyway, then I don’t see the problem. If the bakery guy doesn’t offer enough, then don’t sell it to him. There’s nothing says you have to do it all in one day.’

  ‘I know that, but I want to. There’s something exciting about it; it’s the way all those big entrepreneurs start out. They see an opportunity no one else sees, and really go for it.’

  ‘Then go for it.’

  They made kissy for a while, then Walter set about his next round of phone calls. Mark, making slow work of finally tidying his desk before his move down the corridor into Office 12, looked a little put out.

  ‘Time was,’ he said, ‘you would have asked me for that kind of advice.’

  ‘What’s your advice then, Mark?’

  ‘Don’t risk it, you’ll never pull it off, what’s the point, life’s too short.’

  ‘I rest my case,’ said Walter, and pushed some more numbers.

  He had never ever felt this upbeat before. He just knew it was going to work. He was on course to make at least £50,000 profit in one day. It wouldn’t really be one day, it might be six weeks before it all worked out, but still - to all intents and purposes it was one day. Property was a bit like his lovelife - you waited ages for the right one to come along, then two arrived at once.

  Towards lunchtime Bertha phoned to say she’d taken her glowering nephew to see the fruit shop, and he’d surprised her by agreeing that it was a good investment. He hadn’t surprised her in the slightest by then saying that she should invest in it by herself, and cut Walter out of the deal. Walter’s heart hammered at that, but Bertha quickly said she’d told him to ‘go f**k himself’.

  By early afternoon the finances were in place, and Walter phoned Geordie with his offer for the shop. Geordie accepted on the spot, and Walter punched the air. Then he phoned Paul at the bakery and said he had a property for him, but didn’t specify where. Paul tried to drag it out of him, but Walter stood firm, advising him just to get his finances in order so that he could sign straight away if he liked the look of it, because there were other buyers gagging for it. He found himself slipping into the patter so easily.

  ‘I’m going to write it into the contract that you have to send me a box of gravy rings every week for a year,’ said Walter.

  ‘I thought you were on a diet,’ said Paul.

  ‘That’s two boxes every week for a year. Anything else to say?’ They both laughed. Walter loved it. He was getting cocky. But with reason. Paul hadn’t seen the property, but if it was as well-placed as Walter promised, he said he could go as far as £310,000. ‘Well, that’s certainly an interesting opening offer,’ said Walter.

  Margaret, who seemed to be getting quite caught up in the excitement of it herself, phoned again to see how things were going and he excitedly informed her that everything was falling nicely into place, and that seeing as how he was going to be making such a profit, he’d like to buy her something.

  ‘Me? Like what? A car or something?’

  His voice dropped immediately. ‘Well, if you really ...’

  ‘Walter! I was only joking! For godsake!’


  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘You don’t need to buy me anything. And don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’

  ‘I know, but I’d still like to. Is there a wee something I can get you?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. A big box of chocolates. Or a nice dinner. Or both.’

  ‘That would be nice. Or …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No, seriously, it’s okay. Chocolates would be lovely.’

  ‘No, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Well, my friend Maeve, she’s had this fantastic kind of a make-over. It’s taken years off her, she looks brilliant. And I thought, you know, with me going into the fashion business, I could do with looking a bit more - with it. Instead of them just messing it around a bit, something radical. You know what I mean?’

  ‘You look fine to me.’

  ‘Fine is a word men use when they think you look distinctly average.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It is, ask any woman. If you tell her she looks fine, it’s like saying “you look like a pig in a wig”.’

  ‘Well, I think you look great.’

  ‘Thank you, Walter, but I really do need a bit of an image change. She went to this place in Holywood, but it cost her a fortune.’

  ‘What, like twenty, thirty quid?’

  ‘Walter!’

  ‘I know. I’m only joking. Fifty, then.’

  ‘They wouldn’t fluff it up for fifty.’

  Walter took a deep breath. ‘The point is, it doesn’t matter. No matter what it costs, I want to treat you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m sure. And even if this deal doesn’t work out, I still want to treat you.’

  ‘Oh Walter, that’s really sweet.’

  When he came off the phone, Mark was sitting on the edge of his desk, looking forlornly across. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it all seems to be working out for you.’

  ‘So far so good.’

  Mark lifted his box of personal effects and paperwork. ‘I’ll be off then.’ He nodded around their little office. ‘We’ve had some good times here,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Well, we’ve had some times.’

  ‘Cheer up, Mark. It’s not like you’re moving to a different country. You’re only going down the corridor.’

  Mark looked down the corridor towards Office 12. Walter didn’t really understand. Office 12 was exactly like another country. It operated according to its own standards and rules; it was a law unto itself. This office had been his home from home, his security blanket, his comfort zone, for so long. Office 12 represented a huge step up into the shadowy world of espionage, misinformation and intrigue. It was hugely exciting and completely terrifying at the same time. The thought of working closely with Steven rather unsettled him. Walter was a laugh. Steven was slightly creepy and very mysterious. He couldn’t imagine laughing about girls and diets with Steven the way he had with Walter. But Walter was moving on as well. Probably in a few months he’d be gone too, the way his property thing was shaping up.

  Come on, Mark, for godsake gee yourself up! Back straight, chest out, here’s to a brave new world!

  ‘See you around, mate,’ he said, then winked at Walter and strode purposefully down the corridor towards Office 12.

  ‘Mark!’

  Mark stopped. Walter was standing in the doorway.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Missing you already.’ Walter laughed, then turned back to his desk.

  118

  Bull by the Horns

  It didn’t matter whether you were a cop or a reporter, there was nothing to beat old-fashioned footwork. Marsh knew that as well as anyone, and the proof of it was there before him. The Bull, Pink Harrison’s right-hand man, was just coming out of Billy Gilmore’s house, the door behind him hanging off its hinges. It was a combination of luck and good timing that he was there to see it, with perhaps a smidgen of instinct thrown in. Marsh had spent twenty-four hours going through the paperwork on the Michael Caldwell case. Gary had promised to come round again, but then got called into work on a different case. Marsh wasn’t put out. He didn’t mind working by himself. He went to bed in the early hours, but only managed ninety minutes of sleep. He woke with a cricked neck and a sore head, and deciding to lay off the whiskey for a while. Gary phoned first thing with a story he’d heard about Pink’s party in Stormont, that all his credit cards were refused. Word on the street was that his accountant had done a runner with Pink’s money.

  There had been no answer on Gilmore’s home phone, and his mobile was dead, so Marsh went to see him. Now, with Bull pacing up and down in front of the house, talking into his own mobile, Marsh knew that Billy wasn’t at home. The door off its hinges meant he was in big trouble, but Bull still hanging around at least meant that Marsh wasn’t at a murder scene. Billy was still alive. And if he was alive he still knew all about Pink’s bank accounts.

  Marsh was about 100 yards away, sitting in his car with the sun visor down, far enough away not to be noticed, but close enough to see Bull smile suddenly and hurry towards his own car, then set off at speed, a hunter following a scent. Marsh followed, down into the city centre then behind the Europa Hotel and into an NCP car park. It was busy, so Bull had to go almost to the top level, and with the turnings being tight, Marsh was forced to stay well back. By the time he got parked himself, Bull had already made it to the lift and was gone.

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow approached the hotel reception desk, flashed the warrant card he had somehow neglected to hand in, and asked for Billy Gilmore’s room, but was told there was no one booked under that name. He thanked the girl and was just turning away when she called him back and told him about the Mr de Vere whose account was being paid for by a Billy Gilmore. She said she thought they were probably one and the same person, and that guys did that all the time when they were having an affair. She told him he was in the Clinton Suite, and did he want her to call the room? Marsh said no. He stepped towards the lift, wishing he’d brought his gun. Bull probably wasn’t mug enough to use one in here, but he’d surely be carrying one. Marsh’s gun was at home. He hadn’t worn it in a while. A sign of the times.

  Top floor - and there they were already. Bull was marching Billy down the corridor, one hand behind his back, either prodding him with a weapon or half-breaking his arm. Billy looked terrified. Neither of them recognised Marsh until he was right up close - Billy first. ‘Please God!’ he cried, and then the penny dropped with Bull. But he didn’t panic. He just smiled, held onto Billy, and pushed the button for the lift.

  Marsh said, ‘How’re you doing, Bull?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Bull. ‘How’re you doing? Hear you lost your job.’

  ‘Yeah, and I hear your boss lost his money.’

  ‘Yeah, so what?’

  ‘So what are you doing with Billy-boy here?’

  ‘We’re just going for a walk, aren’t we, Billy?’

  Billy shook his head vehemently. ‘No, please, you have to - Jesus!’ Bull had twisted his arm up hard.

  ‘Let him go, Bull,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Now why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you nicely.’

  ‘And you’ll do what, exactly, if I don’t?’

  ‘Nothing, Bull. I’m just appealing to your good nature. And better me than …’ Marsh nodded at the lift.

  Bull’s brow furrowed. The lift pinged and the door opened. He looked at the empty space. ‘Why, who’s down there?’

  ‘Well, who would be down there, Bull, if word was out that Pink was stony broke?’

  ‘Pink’s not broke.’

  ‘So what do you want Billy for?’

  ‘Because he was caught with his fingers in the pie.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ said Billy.

  ‘So who’s down there?’ Bull asked again.

  ‘About fifty cops who want to talk to Billy. They won’t think twic
e about doing you for kidnapping. And for carrying a gun.’

  ‘I’m not carrying a gun,’ said Bull.

  Marsh thumped him hard and sudden, right under the chin. Bull’s jaw clamped shut on his tongue and he shot backwards, his head cracking into the wall. His legs immediately gave way and he slumped down, his eyes rolling back in his skull. Billy looked down at Bull in shock, then at Marsh. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,’ he said.

  ‘You should get out more,’ Marsh told him.

  Marsh walked Billy across the lobby, the accountant struggling with his Gucci bags and looking all around him, wondering when all those cops were going to spring out and whisk him into protective custody. But Marsh kept him moving straight and steady out of the front doors, then guided him towards the NCP car park.

  ‘It was a bluff,’ Billy finally realised.

  ‘That’s right, Billy.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ said Billy.

  ‘Probably did. So you owe me.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Do you want me to, like, write you a cheque?’

  ‘Would that be with Pink Harrison’s money?’

  ‘It’s my money now.’

  ‘I don’t want a cheque, Billy, I want to go through Pink’s finances with you again.’

  The NCP lift was ready and waiting. They stepped in and Marsh hit the button.

  ‘But I’ve done that with you already.’

  ‘Well, I want you to do it again.’

  ‘I don’t have the accounts - they’re at my house.’

  ‘Then that’s where we’ll go.’

  ‘What if they’re waiting there for me as well?’

  ‘That’s a chance we’ll just have to take.’

  Marsh negotiated the bends out of the car park in silence. Only when they had swept back out onto Great Victoria Street did Billy make him promise to give him a lift to the airport when they were finished.

  Marsh stopped at a traffic-light, then looked across at his passenger. ‘Exactly how much did you take from Pink?’