by Alan Gorevan
“Then what happened?”
“Byrne must have followed Ger.”
The scarred man gave Boyle the ugliest smile he had ever seen. “Maybe he followed you.”
“No. I checked.”
“You work with this guy?”
“Yes. I didn’t sell you out.”
“What’s his name?”
Boyle hesitated. The blond man slapped him across the face.
“Joe Byrne is his name,” Boyle said.
A dirty fucking rat.
Vermin.
The words he had used to describe Joe came back to him. He gritted his teeth. Now Boyle was the rat.
“Mr. Barrett is in trouble because of you.”
“I’ll sort it out. Ger will be fine.”
“How?”
“It’s my word against Byrne’s. The money is untraceable, right?”
“It’s clean.”
“Good. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll make this go away. I’ll get the money back. It’s my money anyway. Ger isn’t out of pocket.”
The scar-faced man sneered.
“Not anymore. Because of this trouble, Mr. Barrett wants the money back.”
“What? I did what he paid me for.”
And Boyle hadn’t been particularly happy about doing it. At the start, he’d just been selling low level information. He didn’t feel guilty about it, because it could cause no damage. And Boyle had really needed the money. He had bills to pay. Big ones. But once Ger Barrett had got his claws into Boyle, he kept asking for more and more information. More sensitive information. Like the stuff about the planned raid on Barrett’s house. That had been invaluable. It had given Barrett time to get rid of any evidence that might cause him trouble.
The scarred man shook his head.
“Mr. Barrett feels that you’ve failed in your duties. You let Joe Byrne become suspicious of you. You must retrieve the money and give it back to Mr. Barrett.”
“I can’t. It’s locked up in evidence.”
“Any problem?”
Boyle sighed. Obviously, it was a problem. But he said, “No. No, I guess not.”
“You’ll make the problem go away? It’s your word against Joe Byrne’s?”
“Yes. I’ll persuade them. There’s no evidence.”
“You must get rid of Joe Byrne.”
Boyle’s eyes widened. “Hold on. Get rid of Joe? I can’t do that.”
“You will get rid of him, or I will get rid of him and you. It’s your choice.”
He put the pistol to Boyle’s head and started to apply pressure to the trigger.
“Okay, stop,” Boyle said. “Fuck. I’ll do it.”
The scarred man looked at Boyle’s crotch and sniggered.
“You might want to put your little worm away.”
Boyle realised his penis was still exposed. He zipped up his fly.
The man tapped his pistol against Boyle’s cheek. Then he replaced the gun in the waistband of his jeans and walked out of the toilets.
As soon as he had gone, Boyle stumbled into a stall and collapsed on the filthy seat.
Could he really do it? Passing on a bit of info was one thing. But murdering a fellow detective in cold blood?
It seemed there was no choice. If Boyle did nothing, he’d end up dead.
He had to kill Joe.
Chapter 61
There were some beautiful old houses in Rathmines, just off the main street. A lot of them were subdivided into apartments. Some were cheap and grotty; others were high-end and expensive. Joe’s place fell somewhere in the middle.
He parked and sat in the car for a moment, thinking again about Christopher.
Obviously, he’d got into a fight with John Kavanagh. Joe imagined it had gone bad and somehow Kavanagh had ended up with a lethal wound. He tried to imagine how things had played out. There had been a struggle of some sort, he guessed. Someone had been carrying a blade. Kavanagh got stabbed.
It was an accident.
Joe was keenly aware of John Kavanagh’s body in the car with him. It pulled his attention to it constantly, like a black hole.
Soon the corpse would start to rot, to decay.
It would reek. Maggots would begin eating it.
Joe breathed out through his nose.
Were John Kavanagh’s parents wondering where he was? Several times over the years, Joe had seen first-hand the anguish that parents suffered when a child went missing. He had no desire to inflict that on anyone.
On the other hand, if he hadn’t hidden the body, Christopher would already be in a cell. There was no way Joe was going to allow that to happen. He was a bad enough father as it was, without sending his son to prison.
He stepped out of the Honda and into the mild night. Once he had retrieved the case containing his gun from the back seat, he crossed the road.
Dunne was already standing outside his building.
She had kept a medium distance as she followed him home. She did a good job. Even though she was close enough to keep an eye on him, her presence hadn’t been obvious.
Now she seemed to have thrown out covert surveillance altogether.
“What are you doing?” Joe said. “Someone might see you.”
She glanced at her watch. It was a tiny thing with a silver dial and a rose gold bracelet. It looked good on her.
“My shift is over.”
“So what? You should keep out of sight.”
“I want to check your home. Make sure there are no threats.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Two heads are better than one, right?”
Joe shrugged. “Okay, come on.”
He jogged up the steps to the door, and let himself in.
“I hope you like steps,” Joe told her, and started up the staircase. When he didn’t have the inclination to go to the gym, he comforted myself with the thought that he was at least getting a little cardio climbing up to his flat.
He unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed it open.
“Do you want to do a search?”
“Sure,” she said.
Joe had been joking, but, honest to God, she had her 9mm out, and she entered the room the way the instructors teach you in Templemore. She remembered all that Garda Training College stuff better than Joe.
“Clear,” she said, emerging from the bathroom.
“That’s a relief.”
Joe closed the door and took off his jacket. He put his gun case down on the coffee table.
“You want a coffee?” he said.
“You’re going to have coffee at this time?”
He shrugged. “Not going to sleep anyway.”
He had a lot on his mind. He wanted to think about finding a way to evade his surveillance escort. Also, he wanted to see if he could find anything more on Graham Lee, Lisa’s new boyfriend. Joe hated the bastard more every time he saw him. There was dirt somewhere and Joe wanted to find it.
“Okay,” Dunne said. “I’m game. But just give me half a cup. I can’t stay.”
She followed him into the kitchen and draped her jacket over the back of a stool that was pressed in against the side counter. It was a cramped space, but it suited Joe, given the amount of cooking he did.
He made a French press full of coffee and they drank it in the sitting room. Dunne looked sleek and at ease on Joe’s couch. Joe used a folding stool. He could have sat on the couch too, but then he and Dunne would have been pretty close.
Her gaze moved slowly around the room.
“You like living alone?” she asked.
“Most of the time.”
“Me too. You ever get lonely?”
Joe pointed to the bookshelf. “If I do, I can read. Every one of those books is like an old friend.”
Dunne squinted, trying to make out the titles. “Are they all history?”
“Almost. I’m interested in explorers. Conquistadores, the scramble for Africa, that kind of thing.”
“Accounts
of ambition, power and exploitation.” Dunne nodded to herself. “Books are good. Sometimes people need real company, though.”
“What I need is a miracle,” Joe said, and laughed bitterly. “Or maybe a good luck charm.”
He meant it too. He had absolutely no idea how he could get out of his current situation.
“I should go,” Dunne said.
She got up, and made for the door, pausing in front of Joe’s bookshelf.
“Here you go,” she said, taking off her watch. “Your good luck charm.” She placed it carefully on the top shelf of the book case.
“You’re leaving your watch here? Don’t you want it?”
“Of course, I do. You can return it later.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She squeezed Joe’s arm and smiled. “Good night, Joe. I’ll make my own way out.”
When he had closed the door, he picked up Dunne’s watch. It was still warm from being next to her skin. It was Cartier and each hour was marked by a diamond. If it was the genuine article, Dunne’s watch could have paid Joe’s rent for a year or two. He wondered how she could afford it on a Garda’s salary. Or had someone given it to her?
He replaced the watch on the shelf and went over to the window. Anne-Marie Cunningham’s car was outside. A shadow lurked under the tree next to the car. Joe saw the glowing red dot of a cigarette. Then a man’s face came into view.
Boyle.
Joe had thought Boyle was off duty now. He closed the curtains. Then he went to his gun case and checked that his Sig was loaded.
Chapter 62
Orange streetlights lined the road by the old canal.
Inside Ken’s van, everything seemed to be in motion. Wall’s heart was thumping in his chest. His knees were shaking. The motorcycles in the back were rattling. Only Ken was still, as he stared at the road ahead.
They were moving westwards, following the information received from their contact. Wall scanned the footpath beside the road. A barefoot man came into view. Runners in his hands, a backpack slung over his shoulder. Tattooed arms exposed to the air. Wall felt a rush of excitement.
“There!” Wall shouted. “There he is.”
“Barry, wait.”
Wall was already halfway out the door of the moving van. He tumbled to the ground, then scrambled to his feet, and sprinted to the tow-path next to the canal.
Aidan Donnelly turned as Wall reached him.
There were a few people around. Potential witnesses. Not many, but a few.
Wall didn’t care.
He knocked Donnelly down with a sledgehammer punch to the jaw. Behind him, brakes screeched. Wall crouched down over the fallen figure, brought his face close to Donnelly’s.
“I’ve got you now, Aidan.”
Ken caught up with his brother.
“Let’s get him in the van,” he hissed. “Quick.”
They bundled Donnelly into the back of the van, next to the motorbikes. Wall jumped in after him.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Wall said.
He slammed the door.
The van began moving.
*
Ethel Kavanagh was ironing a pair of John’s school trousers when her husband arrived home. She liked to do ironing in batches. A week’s supply of shirts, trousers, and jumpers, all sorted for the week ahead. It was reassuring to be prepared like that. Sometimes she ironed more than that if she was at a loose end or feeling stressed. It was a great way to take her mind off things.
She was doing a little extra tonight.
John made fun of her for ironing his boxer shorts, but Mrs. Kavanagh had been taught that by her mother, and she couldn’t leave them crumpled, the way they came out of the dryer. All laundry should be ironed. That was how she liked it, everything from tablecloths to bedsheets.
Her husband shot her a scornful look when he saw the Pierce Brosnan movie she was watching on the TV. She lowered the volume.
“Did you only get out now?”
“Paperwork,” Michael replied with a nod. “You know how much paper superintendents have to push around. It never ends.”
“John hasn’t come home.”
“Did you call him?”
“He didn’t answer.”
Michael scowled. “I’ll give him a slap he won’t forget when he gets home.”
“Don’t.”
“You’re too soft on him.”
“You’re too hard.”
Ethel stopped. Talking always ended in argument these days. She watched her husband disappear into his study.
She looked around. The room was full of piles of freshly ironed laundry.
There must have been something else to iron. She went upstairs to look.
*
There was pain in the van. A lot of pain.
As soon as they got moving, Barry Wall threw Aidan face down on the floor, knelt on his lower back and twisted his right arm behind him so hard, Aidan was sure it would pop out of its socket. He squealed like a pig.
Wall was crazy with anger. He banged Aidan’s head against the floor until Aidan felt himself slipping into darkness, punctuated by white flashes behind his eyelids.
Sometime later, he woke up.
There was noise, lights.
Grabbing. Lifting.
Spinning around. Rough hands dragging him.
Aidan opened his eyes. They were in an open space. Aidan caught a glimpse of pine trees in the darkness. He sucked in the night air like a swimmer coming up for breath.
“You’re going to tell us everything,” Wall said.
Then Aidan was dragged into a building and thrown on a concrete floor. Even as he drifted into unconsciousness again, he felt the clink of metal and realised that he was being chained up.
Chapter 63
Joe woke on the couch. He’d stayed up all night, and had only nodded off thirty minutes earlier.
Friday. Another warm morning.
Joe pulled open the curtains and looked down onto the street. Anne-Marie Cunningham’s car was still parked across the road. Joe had kept an eye on her and Boyle during the night. He’d left his lights on and kept his gun next to him. Boyle being on his security detail was outrageous. Joe intended to complain to O’Carroll as soon as he got to the station.
He made his way to the kitchen, dog-tired. No one loved coffee more than Joe, but it couldn’t compensate for a good night’s sleep. All the same, he made a pot. Drank all of it. Fried some bacon and eggs, and made them vanish too.
When he was done, he called Graham Lee’s wife, Philippa. He’d managed to get her name after making a couple of calls. With a few seconds’ online sleuthing, he’d managed to find out where she worked and get a phone number. Lisa said that Philippa had walked out on Graham. Joe wondered what she had to say about him.
He phoned her but got no answer. Was she alright, or had something happened to her? He decided he’d try to contact her again later.
He threw on his leather jacket, made his way downstairs, past the bikes in the hall, and walked outside to Cunningham’s car.
Her forehead rested on the steering wheel. She was snoring louder than a coal train. He rapped on the window.
“Wakey wakey.”
She jumped, then saw Joe and rolled down the glass.
“I was just resting my eyes for a second.”
“Yeah. Glad to know you care so much about my safety.”
“Seriously,” she said. “I just put in some eye drops.”
“Whatever. Why the hell was Boyle here last night? I don’t want him outside my home.”
Cunningham cleared her throat. “He just came to say hi and see how I was doing. He said he had nothing better to do. I’m sorry. I know he wasn’t supposed to be watching you. You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see,” Joe said. He turned to walk away.
“Where are you going?” Cunningham called.
“I guess you’ll see, if you manage to keep up.�
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His pace slowed as he reached his own car. Joe could hardly believe the previous day’s events had been real. But they were. And John Kavanagh’s body still lay in the car, wrapped in plastic.
If he’d known Cunningham was napping, he could have sneaked to the car. But Boyle might be lurking somewhere nearby too, and getting away from the surveillance was only part of the solution.
What the hell was he meant to do with the body? He’d spent the previous night wracking his brains, but had come up with nothing solid.
Forensic science has come so far that it was hard to get away with anything anymore. From invisible fibres to DNA sequences to omnipresent CCTV. Joe was usually thankful for such advances, but not today.
Not when Christopher’s life hung by a thread.
And Joe’s too.
He took a breath and got behind the wheel. He was headed for Donnybrook, but he took a longer route than normal, as he felt like passing Lisa’s house. He wondered if it was too early to try again with Christopher. Maybe, and maybe it would be better to talk to him when Lisa wasn’t around.
Down the road from Lisa’s house, Joe saw a group of men standing outside a house. The ringleader was a man in his sixties, dressed in a faded T-shirt, with a sagging belly pressed tight against the material. The two younger men were big brutes. Maybe his sons. Or employees. They looked like thugs for hire. The older man banged on the door.
He shouted, “Open up, you bollocks!”
Joe stopped the Honda and got out.
Behind him, Cunningham’s car stopped.
“What’s going on?” Joe said.
The old man turned around.
“None of your business.”
Joe pulled out his ID as he walked up the driveway. “You’re making a racket.”
“Is that a crime now?”
“Maybe,” Joe said. “You want to break the door down?”
“I’m the owner,” the older man said. “So no. I’d prefer not to break down the door.”
“You rented the place out?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you have a key?”
The man held up a keyring with about two dozen keys jangling on it.
“I do indeed. I planned to let myself in, but the bollocks of a tenant has changed the locks. Open the door, Graham.”