The Kindness of Psychopaths

by Alan Gorevan

“Joe, you bastard.”

  Just then, Joe’s phone rang. He returned to his desk and sat down. His swivel chair allowed him to turn his back on Cunningham and Boyle. That was about as much privacy as he could get.

  “Byrne,” he said.

  Joe was smiling. Pleased with himself. Ready for whatever was on the other end of the line. But he wasn’t ready for this.

  Chapter 27

  Even with the driver’s window open, and fresh air blowing on Barry Wall’s face, the Range Rover stank of marijuana. How many joints could Buzz have smoked? The car had only been collected that morning.

  Wall heard the click and hiss of a lighter. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and saw a fresh joint between Buzz’s lips.

  In the front passenger seat, Handsome, the thin young man from Liverpool, kept shifting his position and looking around. Before going to prison, he’d been a taxi driver. He used to work the night shift, picking up young girls when they were too drunk to put up a fight. Sometimes they were so drunk that they hadn’t even been able to tell him where they lived. Didn’t matter. Handsome always found a place to stop for some fun. Wall had heard all the stories.

  Wall turned his attention to the road ahead. He was careful to keep to the speed limit. No point getting pulled over.

  “There you go,” Buzz said. “I bet you’re a happy fellow now, aren’t you, Bricky Boy?”

  A cold rage spread across Wall’s chest, but he said nothing.

  He eased the Range Rover into the car park of a large auto-repair shop. Cars were parked all around, gleaming in the sun, but nobody was within sight. He parked next to a sparkling red Mazda and checked the time on the watch Handsome had brought him. In Mountjoy, there had been no clocks. Prisoners weren’t allowed to wear watches.

  Part of Wall was surprised that the plan had worked, that he was free. He’d had his doubts about Handsome and Buzz. That was why he’d kept the plan simple and trusted Handsome to be the responsible one, like he had been back in Mountjoy’s kitchen.

  Handsome opened his door and got out. He looked around, making sure no one was watching. The young man wasn’t actually good-looking, but he took care of his appearance. Wall watched him slip into the unlocked Mazda.

  So far, so good.

  In the back-seat of the Range Rover, Buzz began to strip.

  Buzz’s friend owned the shop, and he was lending them the Mazda. The friend would keep the Range Rover out of sight until the Gardaí no longer cared about it.

  Friends were useful.

  It had taken a month of incarceration before Wall realised he’d need help to escape, and that other prisoners were his best chance. That was when he became interested in a job in the kitchen. You didn’t have to work when you were locked up, but it passed the time, and there were perks. For Wall, it was all about getting to know prisoners who’d be released soon, and who wanted to make some money.

  Wall squeezed his massive frame between the two front seats and clambered into the back of the car next to Buzz. He stripped off and passed his shirt and jeans to Buzz. Buzz handed Wall his clothes in return. Wall ignored the stench of sweat that Buzz’s deodorant failed to beat. Each of them began to get dressed again.

  Buzz had worked in the kitchen too, until he was caught one breakfast time, snorting a jar of nutmeg in the hope of getting high.

  “I don’t like this,” Buzz said. “I’ve only finished doing my whack. I’m not going back to the Joy.”

  Wall said, “You won’t. I guarantee it.”

  “How can you guarantee that?”

  “Trust me. You won’t go back to jail. And think of the money.”

  Wall reached under the seat and found the hair clippers. It only took a minute to shave off his beard and give himself a skinhead on top, just like Buzz’s. The two men were the same height. Buzz wasn’t as muscular as Wall, but he was close enough, to the casual observer.

  Buzz had acquired a fake beard. When he finished dressing, he put the beard on. It was thick and brown, like Wall’s. Not a perfect likeness, but good enough.

  “I look stupid,” Buzz said.

  “So what?”

  A distraction – that was what Wall needed.

  Buzz would go into a petrol station and make a nuisance of himself. Someone would call 999. When the Gardaí heard the description of Buzz, they’d think he was Wall. Then Buzz could lead the police on a merry chase, while Wall got away.

  That was the plan.

  At least, it was what Wall had shared with these two. The real plan had a different ending.

  Buzz didn’t like the idea of leading the Gardaí on a chase. No one wanted to end up behind bars again. Five thousand euro was a great persuader, though. Especially to Buzz, who’d once killed a man for twenty.

  Now wearing Buzz’s black T-shirt, faded grey jeans and white runners, Wall got out of the Range Rover. He slipped on Buzz’s sunglasses and sat in behind the wheel of the Mazda. He ran a hand over his shaved head and beardless face. The car’s interior had an apple air-freshener smell that was almost as bad as the marijuana in the previous vehicle.

  Buzz got in the back, and they pulled out of the car park. The road led north-west, to a petrol station Wall knew, which lay ten minutes away.

  Its forecourt was quiet when they arrived. A young woman was pumping up the air in her bicycle tires. As they arrived, she finished and cycled away. The only other vehicle at the pumps was a white Ford Transit van.

  Wall pulled in on the other side of the pump.

  “Alright,” Buzz said, flexing his shoulder muscles. “I’m ready. How’s my beard looking?”

  Handsome looked back and nodded. “Gorgeous, mate.”

  “Shut up,” Buzz said and punched him hard on the arm.

  “I’ll be watching,” Wall said.

  Buzz nodded. “Yeah, whatever.”

  Wall turned and looked at him. “Do you remember what you’re to do later?”

  “What?”

  “The route you’re going to take?” Wall said.

  “Of course. I’m not stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  Buzz scowled. “Come on, pal.”

  Wall reached behind him. The angle was awkward, but his fingers were quick and strong and he had long arms. Once he found Buzz’s throat, he squeezed it until Buzz’s windpipe was about to collapse.

  “Tell me.”

  “Okay, okay,” Buzz gasped. His hands clawed into the back of Wall’s seat. Wall eased the pressure a little. Buzz said, “I drive north.”

  “North where?”

  “To Drogheda.”

  “Where don’t you go?”

  “Near Aidan Donnelly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll be going there.”

  “Right.”

  As soon as Wall released his grip, Buzz broke out in a fit of coughing and rubbed his throat. His eyes flashed murder, but he could do nothing until he’d been paid.

  “What the fuck?” Buzz said.

  “Just helping you get into the right frame of mind.”

  “I’m getting in the frame of mind where I’m going to kick your bollocks up into your tonsils.”

  “Go on,” Wall said. “Piss off inside.”

  Buzz got out of the car and began walking towards the shop. He was geared up for a fight, exactly as Wall wanted.

  Another man came out of the shop as Buzz approached it. Dressed in black jeans and a tight burgundy T-shirt. A baseball cap covered his eyes. Buzz deliberately bumped shoulders with him, but the man seemed untroubled.

  The man glanced at the Mazda they were sitting in and tilted his head ever so slightly. Then he got into the van on the other side of the pumps.

  “Is that him?” Handsome said. “Your ride?”

  He’d always been the smarter one.

  Wall said, “Yes.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Of course. He’s my brother.”

  It was weird to see Ken in a T-shirt and jeans, instead of one of his u
sual Hugo Boss shirts.

  A shout came from inside the shop. Through the glass, twenty metres away, Wall saw Buzz knocking wine bottles off shelves and shouting at the alarmed shop assistant. Wall and Handsome exchanged a look. Then Handsome’s gaze passed beyond Wall.

  Wall turned and followed his gaze.

  A patrol car was coming down the road.

  Chapter 28

  The Mater Hospital loomed in Joe’s windscreen, huge and grey. His stomach had been churning during the whole way from Donnybrook, as he thought of Barry Wall escaping custody. He had mixed feelings about Wall. On the one hand, he was a dangerous man who had nearly killed Aidan Donnelly – not to mention Joe himself, and Anne-Marie Cunningham. On the other hand, Wall wouldn’t have needed to take the law into his own hands if Joe had handled the investigation into his wife’s disappearance better.

  A patrol car was parked outside the Emergency Department, next to a line of ambulances. A couple of uniforms stood near the hospital entrance. The patrol car’s lights were flashing, but they were barely visible in the sunshine.

  Joe parked across the lot from them, so he wouldn’t be in the way of the medics. It was only when he removed his hands from the wheel that he realised how tightly he’d been gripping it.

  He blinked quickly, then got out of the car. Bringing his laptop case with him, he walked over. Two young officers from Mountjoy Garda Station were cordoning off the scene, a man and a woman. The woman was thin as a beanpole and had the bright eyes of a five-year-old. Her colleague suffered from the worst adult acne Joe had ever seen. The two of them made Joe feel old.

  Once Joe had showed them his ID, Beanpole filled him in. She got to the part about the prison officer, Lauren Fairview, being attacked by one of the accomplices.

  “Did you say an axe?” Joe said, just to make sure he’d heard her right.

  Beanpole nodded. “She’s in surgery now. Massive trauma. A lot of blood loss. As you can see.”

  She pointed to a pool of red liquid on the ground.

  Joe couldn’t believe it. Most prison escapes were short-lived, and they didn’t involve anyone getting hurt. This thing just kept getting worse.

  It was only four in the afternoon, and it was still Joe’s day off.

  “Where’s the witness?”

  Acne Man replied. “Inside, getting in the doctors’ way.”

  “Okay.” Joe glanced around, spotted a camera on the wall. “CCTV?”

  “There is,” he said. He turned behind him and shouted, “Hey, Petyr? You still there?”

  A stocky, middle-aged man with thinning hair emerged from the hospital entrance. He was wearing a fluorescent yellow vest with SECURITY emblazoned across it. His watery eyes looked lively and not entirely unkind.

  “Detective Sergeant Joe Byrne.”

  “Petyr Kowalski. I’m in security here. I came out and found the lady officer there.” He pointed to the puddle of blood.

  “What about the other officer?”

  Kowalski pointed a few metres away. “He was there. When I found him, he was disoriented.”

  “You’ve got CCTV footage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get the licence plate of the getaway car?”

  “No. The car didn’t have one. Nevertheless, the vehicle is a white Range Rover with blacked-out windows.”

  One of thousands driving around the city. This didn’t sound promising.

  “I’d like to see the footage.”

  “Of course.”

  A Garda Technical Bureau van pulled in next to them. Scene-of-crime-officers in spacesuits got out. Joe waved and stepped back out of their way. An examination of the scene might provide some clues regarding the identity of the accomplices, which might help him figure out how to find Wall.

  That was the best Joe could hope for.

  He left the SOCOs and uniforms and followed Kowalski into the hospital, to a small room lit by a bank of flatscreen monitors. Pushing aside a can of Coke, Kowalski played Joe the footage.

  The whole thing lasted one minute and thirty-seven seconds.

  Joe didn’t much like what he saw. The way Wall sprang out of the van, he didn’t look like the man Joe had put in jail. He looked a thousand times more dangerous. The beard was new and it made him look like some kind of zealot.

  What had those months in prison done to him? And who were the accomplices? Clearly, the guy who buried an axe in Lauren Fairview was also extremely dangerous.

  Joe downloaded the CCTV footage onto his laptop, thanked Kowalski and then went to find Timmy Martin, the second prison officer.

  Martin was pacing in the corridor outside an operating theatre, a young man with three-day stubble and long greasy hair. His eyes were set close together. Blood was caked down the side of his neck. The fluorescent light over his head was flickering, and in its jarring illumination, Timmy Martin looked more like a prisoner than a prison officer.

  Joe introduced himself, then gestured towards the operating room. “How’s Ms. Fairview doing?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The doctors haven’t told me.”

  “But she’s alive?”

  “She was, last I heard. She’s a mess though.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “They’re probably still trying to put her spleen back in her abdomen.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said again. He didn’t much like the guy’s tone, but he had to cut him some slack. Joe took out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me how it happened?”

  Martin shrugged.

  “We arrived. A doctor met me. At least, I thought he was a doctor. Someone else hit me on the head.”

  “Did you recognise the men?”

  “No, I didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “Why didn’t you request a Garda escort?”

  It was standard procedure when transporting a dangerous prisoner for the prison officers to be accompanied by an armed detective. But they had received no request for one.

  “Lauren thought we didn’t need an escort.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We weren’t expecting any trouble. Barry isn’t part of a gang. He doesn’t have criminal contacts. Or at least, he didn’t before he came to Mountjoy. Who’s going to break him out?”

  Joe had been asking himself the same question.

  “Plus,” Martin said, “the prison medic said Barry had pancreatitis. Apparently, it’s usually pretty incapacitating.”

  The skin on Joe’s cheeks prickled. Pancreatitis. Joe knew first-hand how incapacitating the condition was. Joe had suffered from a bout of it a year and a half earlier, after he’d nearly drunk himself to death. You don’t do anything when you’re crippled with that kind of pain, certainly not break out of jail.

  Clearly Wall had been faking it.

  The stale, hot air here reminded Joe of his own time in hospital. He didn’t think that Wall’s choice of pancreatitis was a coincidence. Somehow, Wall had discovered what Joe had gone through.

  He’s mocking me.

  Joe said, “Was Wall close to anyone inside?”

  “Who’d be close to a prick like him?” Martin said.

  “Where was he was housed in the prison?”

  “C Wing.”

  “I’d like to get the contact details for his A.C.O.”

  Joe figured the Assistant Chief Officer, the senior prison officer in C Wing, would be able to tell him who Wall had spent time with. He could think of no other place Wall would have found accomplices. Joe wrote down the name and number Timmy Martin provided.

  “Okay,” Joe said. “Let’s get back to the incident. They knocked you down. Then what?”

  “I was kind of dazed by the blow. Dizzy, you know? I think I blacked out. When I came to, I saw Lauren. She was covered in blood. Her face was… she didn’t look right.”

  Martin rubbed his eyes roughly. Joe took this as a sign that he didn’t want to talk more right now. He put his notebook back in his pocket.

  “H
ave you let the doctors check you out?”

  “I’m okay,” Martin said.

  Joe was looking to the matted blood on the side of his head.

  “Seriously, have yourself checked. Thank you for your help.”

  He was about to leave when Timmy Martin looked up.

  “Lately, Barry was quiet. At the start, it was different. For the first month he was crazy angry.”

  “And then?”

  “It was like he chilled out. He came to terms with being where he was.” Timmy Martin paused, stared at Joe. His eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so. Did Wall talk about what he wanted to do when he got out?”

  “Sure. He said he was going to get the guy. The one who abducted his wife.”

  “Aidan Donnelly?”

  “Right. Barry was going to make him talk. Tell him what happened. You know they never found Barry’s wife?”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “I do know you,” Timmy Martin said. His eyes lit up. “I mean, you said your name, but I didn’t make the connection before. You’re the one who caught Barry, aren’t you?”

  Joe said nothing.

  Timmy Martin nodded. “Barry talked about you, those first few weeks.”

  Joe felt his pulse quicken.

  “What did he say?”

  “That he was going to kill you and everyone you love. So you’ll know how it feels.”

  “I hear guys say shit like that every day of the week.”

  “Me too.” Martin smiled. “But most of them don’t mean it.”

  Chapter 29

  Like most properties on Clyde Road, the Highfield Academy was a red-brick Victorian structure. It would have made for a large house, and that’s what it had been many years earlier, but in its current incarnation it was an elite private school. Only eighty students were enrolled, but Highfield’s sizeable fees made up for its small student body.

  For the last class of the day, Christopher O’Malley and seven other students were scattered around the Hibiscus Suite, which was what they called the front room on the ground floor.

  Christopher liked the ground floor the best, because of the high ceilings, and the ornate chandeliers hanging in every room, each one of them unique.