The Kindness of Psychopaths

by Alan Gorevan

  Up front, the other officer sniggered.

  “I know you love it when I take corners with gusto.”

  “Gusto. Right.”

  The prison gate would be closing behind them.

  Now they were taking another corner, the left turn onto Berkley Road, a pretty little thoroughfare, still skirting the perimeter of the hospital.

  The interior of the ambulance was thick with early summer heat.

  Without meaning to, Wall conjured up an image of Valentina. He often pictured his wife the way she looked on the day she went missing. Her big brown eyes and playful smile. She’d been wearing light grey shorts that day, a black top, her father’s mahogany cross, and the necklace he’d bought her the previous Christmas. The one with a bright yellow sunflower.

  Obviously, the authorities would never find out what happened to her. They simply didn’t care. The whole sham justice system was a joke, from the judges and barristers to the solicitors, detectives and prison officers.

  Well, they could all die.

  “We’re nearly there,” Lauren said.

  Two minutes.

  Wall wasn’t going back to jail. Why should he? His wife had been taken, and the sham justice system had done nothing about it. They’d forced him to take things into his own hands. And then, when he did try to get Aidan Donnelly to talk, they threw him in prison. Where was the justice in that?

  “Are you okay?” Lauren said.

  Wall realised that he was breathing as loud as a bull.

  “Yeah. Just sore.”

  “You poor creature.”

  The ambulance lurched forward again, then pitched hard to the left, into the hospital grounds, and accelerated to the Emergency Department.

  “Any opportunity to mess around,” Lauren muttered.

  She called up to the front, “Quit it, you jerk. He’s in a lot of pain.”

  Timmy Martin said, “My heart bleeds for him.”

  The ambulance came to a shuddering halt. Timmy turned in his seat to look back at them, through the small opening behind his seat. He held his fist up to his mouth and cleared his throat, as if preparing to speak into a microphone.

  Lauren said, “Could you please not give the landing speech?”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Timmy said, before assuming his best pilot’s voice. “Welcome to Dublin, Ireland. Local time is four oh one pm. Thank you for flying with Martin Air and we look forward to welcoming you on your next journey. Please remember to take your belongings with you when you disembark. And don’t be shy about sucking my dick on the way out, if you like. It’s not going to suck itself.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes.

  Wall figured the last part was directed at her rather than him.

  “Let’s go,” Lauren said.

  “Alrighty then.”

  Timmy jumped out, slamming his door behind him.

  If this was going to work, two men should be approaching Timmy Martin at this precise moment.

  Wall waited. Lauren waited.

  Finally, she said, “What’s keeping that idiot?”

  A dull thump came from outside. Then another.

  Lauren frowned.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Chapter 24

  Once Joe got back to the station, he headed straight to David O’Carroll’s office, taking the stairs two at a time. The door was closed. He knocked and went in without waiting.

  O’Carroll stood behind his desk. As always, it was bare, and Joe detected the faint scent of furniture polish. Detective Sergeant Kevin Boyle sat in front of the desk, looking like a kettle on the brink of boiling.

  Joe put the evidence bag behind his back so that Boyle couldn’t see the backpack inside it.

  “Go and have a cup of coffee, yeah?” O’Carroll said to Boyle, coming around his desk as Boyle stood up. O’Carroll guided him toward the door with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Wait a minute,” Joe said, stepping in the way. “He should be in a cell. He should be suspended, for a start. You have no idea what he’s been up to.”

  “Joe, I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

  “You’re sending him to Starbucks?”

  O’Carroll’s eyes narrowed.

  “I said I’ll talk to you in a minute.” He turned his attention back to Boyle. “Go on, Kevin. Take your time.”

  Boyle gave Joe a dirty look as he walked past, but he said nothing. It was all Joe could do not to reach out and smack him one. He manged to hold it together until Boyle had shut the door.

  O’Carroll walked back around his desk and slumped in his chair. Joe placed the backpack on the desk.

  “Dirty money,” he said.

  O’Carroll looked at it for a moment, then picked up his desk phone.

  “Jessica, come to my office, please.”

  When he hung up, Joe said, “What’s Boyle’s story?”

  “He said he stopped and searched a vehicle, as he recognised that it belonged to Ger Barrett, a person of interest in multiple investigations. He noticed a suspicious bag in Barrett’s vehicle. He was conducting a search of the bag when some lunatic appeared waving a gun, causing Barrett to flee the scene.”

  Joe shook his head. Boyle’s gall was hard to credit.

  “You want to hear what really happened?”

  O’Carroll sighed. “Go on, then. Give me an executive summary.”

  Joe told him in a few sentences. The phone rang as he finished. O’Carroll picked up the receiver and listened. His scowl deepened.

  “Send him up.”

  “What?” Joe asked.

  Slamming the phone down, O’Carroll combed his hair with his fingers. “Ger Barrett’s solicitor is here, complaining that his client has been harassed.”

  “That was fast.”

  O’Carroll nodded. “Very bloody fast.”

  A knock came on the door.

  “Yes?”

  Jessica Nolan, a young Garda, stepped into the room. Nolan was a fitness fanatic who always seemed to be trying some extreme new diet, and pairing it with an intensive new training regime in the gym. Joe could see why O’Carroll liked her – the two of them loved rules. She gave Joe’s T-shirt and jeans a surprised look, then turned her attention to the inspector. O’Carroll handed her the backpack.

  “Evidence,” he said.

  It would be logged in in the usual way. Given a barcode, lodged on the Property and Exhibits Management System, and filed at the Property and Exhibit Management Store.

  “Sir,” she said. “Unfortunately, the store is closed to evidence.”

  “Pardon?” O’Carroll said.

  Nolan cleared her throat. “There’s been a sewage leak at the store. They’ve asked that no more evidence be sent until they’ve… um… cleaned up the situation.”

  O’Carroll sighed. “Then take this and lock it up in your office. Guard it with your life.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re responsible for minding all evidence until the store reopens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  “I’ve warned you about Boyle before,” Joe said at once.

  “You’ve made repeated, unsubstantiated allegations.”

  “Has anyone done anything about them?”

  O’Carroll jumped up from his seat like there was a pin in his backside. His complexion deepened to a tomato-red, making it hard to see where his skin ended, and his gingery hairline began.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m trying to understand why nothing has happened.”

  O’Carroll grabbed the back of his swivel chair and slammed it against his desk. His computer monitor wobbled precariously.

  “You’ve made your complaint. Now leave it.”

  “Has Superintendent Kavanagh been told?”

  O’Carroll glared, clearly irritated by Joe’s mention of his boss. “No, and you’re not going to tell him.”

  “Why?”

  A
nother knock came on the door. O’Carroll fixed his tie and ran his fingers through his hair again.

  “Don’t worry about that. What I want from you is a detailed statement about this morning’s events. Record everything – every piece of gum you chewed, every bad pop song you hummed.”

  “What about Boyle?”

  “He’ll be doing the same. For the moment, you’re both under investigation.”

  There was no point saying anything more. Joe walked out of the office and found Barrett’s solicitor standing right outside the door. Probably eavesdropping. Joe brushed past him, making his way downstairs. There was no sign of Boyle in the District Detective Unit. Joe slumped at his desk.

  Anne-Marie Cunningham glanced at him, and adjusted her hearing aid. The explosion at Wall’s house had left Joe more or less unscathed, but Cunningham had lost seventy percent of the hearing in her left ear.

  “Kevin’s very upset,” she said.

  She talked louder now. Even with the aid. Joe gave her his cheesiest smile.

  “He’ll be more upset soon. I’m only getting started.”

  Chapter 25

  Wall could have strangled Lauren Fairview as she stared at the door of the ambulance. She had her back to him and her neck was exposed. He could have slipped his wrists over her head and choked her with the cuffs. There would have been some kind of justice in that.

  But Lauren reminded him of Valentina. Those warm brown eyes.

  He would have preferred to strangle that little shit, Timmy Martin. The world would be better off without him. That was for damn sure.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Muffled noises outside.

  The door opened suddenly. Two men appeared. Wall could see the hospital behind them. Thankfully the ambulance was not parked in front of the doorway, so no one inside would know what was happening.

  The two men were kitted out in baby-blue surgical scrubs, complete with face masks.

  Wall recognised Buzz’s nasty little eyes, the only part of his face that wasn’t hidden by the mask. Lauren would recognise his face, if she saw it. He’d only been released from prison three weeks earlier.

  “Where’s Timmy?” Lauren asked.

  “He had to go to the toilet,” Buzz said.

  Lauren winced. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You want to get out? It feels like an oven in there.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Lauren turned to Wall.

  “Are you alright getting out on your own?”

  “Yeah. You go ahead,” he said.

  Five seconds to freedom.

  Lauren shuffled to the back of the ambulance as Buzz pulled an axe from behind his back. Lauren’s gaze was lowered, watching her feet as she stepped down onto the ground.

  “No!” Wall shouted.

  But Buzz was already swinging the blade. It arced down and lodged itself in Lauren Fairview’s chest. With blood bubbling from her mouth, she dropped to the ground. Buzz tore off his surgical mask.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “I always wanted to fuck that bitch up.” His eyes were wide with glee, as he stared at the fallen prison officer.

  No longer pretending to be unwell, Wall moved swiftly to the back of the ambulance.

  “Get these cuffs off me,” he shouted. “And don’t touch her again.”

  “Take it easy, pal. I need to get my blade.”

  Lauren’s eyes were closed. She didn’t react when Buzz tried to pull the axe out of her chest.

  Handsome, another recent release, appeared beside Buzz. He held up his index finger, from which dangled Timmy Martin’s keys.

  “Shall we?” the Englishman asked.

  “Hurry,” Wall said.

  Once the cuffs were off, he jumped to the ground, trying not to look at the gory mess that was Lauren Fairview’s chest. Buzz was still trying to retrieve his axe. Nearby, Timmy Martin lay motionless on the ground. Wall stepped over him, pausing only to kick him once, hard, in the mouth. In case he was still alive.

  Wall looked around, but no one was watching.

  Time to move on.

  A white Range Rover with no licence plate was parked at the end of the row of ambulances.

  Paramedics, doctors, nurses, visitors and security staff constantly came and went through the entrance a few metres away. Wall had been lucky not to be seen so far, but there was no telling when someone would appear.

  “Come on,” Wall called. “I’ll drive.”

  Handsome was watching with fascination as Buzz struggled with his axe.

  “We can take her with us, if she’s still alive,” Handsome said.

  “Leave her,” Wall shouted, feeling nothing but disgust. He got behind the wheel of the SUV. Handsome shrugged and sat in the front passenger seat.

  Buzz was last to reach the vehicle, and he had to settle for the back. He ran a hand over the bloody blade of the axe, brought the blood to his lips and licked it.

  “Pity,” Handsome said. “We could have had fun with her.”

  Buzz grinned. “I did have fun with her.”

  Wall started the engine and pointed the car towards the exit ramp.

  They’d been exposed for less than a minute and, as far as he could tell, no one had seen them.

  Chapter 26

  Joe’s workspace was the opposite of David O’Carroll’s. While O’Carroll’s desk was bare, Joe couldn’t even see his desk under all the clutter. Everywhere around him, there were files and notes, witness statements and warrants.

  On the floor, he had a stack of boxes which he was preparing to send to the Director of Public Prosecutions. It was so tall that, if he added one more box, the tower was going to block the light switch on the wall.

  No space was left unused in the station. It was old, not built for today’s policing. But they had to manage with what they were given.

  Joe turned to Cunningham. He said, “Boyle is going down.”

  “He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Either you’re wrong or you’re lying,” Joe said. “Everything’s going to come out. All his dirty little secrets. And yours too, if you’re involved.”

  Cunningham blanched. Joe didn’t think she was dirty, but it annoyed him that she always took Boyle’s side. Maybe the two of them had a romantic history. Joe didn’t know, but it was something he’d wondered about.

  He could tell that she wanted to give a witty reply, maybe tell Joe to go screw himself, but, casual as they kept things in Donnybrook, he was still her superior officer.

  She said, “You always think you’re right.”

  “I usually am.”

  Cunningham gave an eye-roll as she turned away.

  Joe set to work writing up his statement detailing the morning’s events. He’d just finished when Boyle came in the door. He held a take-out coffee from the shop down the road.

  Joe took out his wallet and removed a crisp ten-euro note.

  He said, “Without the bribe, you must be a little light. You want to borrow a tenner?”

  Boyle gave a shake of the head and pursed his lips.

  “That cash was nothing to do with me,” he said, sitting down at his desk, and leaning back as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He took the lid off his coffee and took a sip, the cappuccino leaving a foam moustache on his upper lip. “You acted like a nutter though. Amazing you didn’t kill a civilian. I suppose it would make a change from beating them up.”

  Joe’s phone buzzed with a text message from Lisa.

  If you haven’t bought Christopher a birthday card yet, I have a spare one you can use.

  Joe wrote back, No need. He made a mental note to buy a birthday card on the way to her house.

  Joe wondered what Lisa would say if Joe asked her out. Since getting back in touch, he’d only ever seen her around her son. Their son. Whatever. The whole idea of being a father hadn’t fully sunken in yet, but he was glad that they were starting to get along.

  Maybe Lisa and Joe could meet up some time, just the two of them.
That was why he’d bought tickets for a gig at the end of the week. A rock band they both used to listen to. Joe decided he’d suss her out this evening, see if she might be interested. He tapped his pocket, making sure the printouts of the tickets were still there. He wanted to have something physical to hand her. A digital ticket wouldn’t be the same.

  Boyle said to Cunningham, “I just saw on Facebook: a lad I know got a rat as a pet. Can you believe that?”

  “What for?”

  “He says it’s good company. Affectionate.”

  Cunningham’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Affectionate? Are we talking about vermin?”

  Boyle nodded. “Vermin. That’s exactly right. My mate says this fucking piece of vermin is intelligent.”

  “Intelligent? A dirty rat?”

  “A filthy fucking rat.”

  Joe was still thinking about Lisa, and it took him a moment to realise that they were talking about him.

  Boyle took a sip of cappuccino. “Why buy a rat, anyway? There’s plenty of them around here. You could have one for free.”

  Cunningham grinned.

  Joe tried to ignore them, but the room was small. He felt his skin prickle.

  Boyle said, “Someone should do something about these rats.”

  “You mean, get an exterminator?” Cunningham asked.

  “Right.” Suddenly Boyle leaned forward, pressing his stomach against his desk. “You know what I’d like to do?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Forget the exterminator. I’d like to take care of them myself.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  Boyle made a machine gun out of his hands, and moved it from side to side as if spraying Joe’s side of the room with bullets. “Rat-a-tat-tat!”

  Cunningham grinned. “Wipe them out.”

  “That’s what happens to rats.”

  Enough was enough.

  Joe got to his feet and walked over to Boyle’s desk. He slapped Boyle’s cup off the desk with the back of his hand, splashing scorching hot coffee over Boyle, who let out a shout and jumped to his feet.

  Joe said, “You threaten me again, and I’ll knock your block off.” He turned to Cunningham. “You too,” he said.

  Boyle shook coffee off his hands and looked down at his ruined shirt.