The Kindness of Psychopaths

by Alan Gorevan

  He said, “I don’t mean to scare you, okay? But I want to be straight with you.”

  “What’s happening?” Christopher whispered, his mouth dry.

  “We think you’re in danger, but Joe sent me here to protect you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s hard at work.”

  “I just saw him half an hour ago.”

  “I know.” The detective scowled. “There have been developments in the case your father is working on.”

  Christopher swallowed. “You mean the prisoner? Barry Wall?”

  “How much do you know about that?”

  “A little.”

  “Then you know how serious this is. We think they might target you to get to Joe.”

  “Oh my god. Why do you think that?”

  “We’ve received a tip-off. But don’t worry. I’m here to make sure nothing happens to you.”

  “Can I still play in the concert?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Sorry, son. We need to get out of here right this minute.”

  Chapter 75

  Joe sat at his desk in Donnybrook Garda Station. His phone sat in front of him. He was keenly aware of the other officers nearby. Cunningham was staring at her monitor. Boyle was away from his desk somewhere, which was a small mercy. Meanwhile, Dunne had claimed the spare desk in the corner as her own. She had followed him back to the station without a word. She was sitting there now, speaking on the phone to Ken Wall’s secretary.

  Pride is a terrible thing. That thought kept repeating in Joe’s head.

  Lisa might have loaned him the money if he’d kept calm and explained. Not explained exactly why he needed to borrow it, but to explain that he really did need it. If she didn’t have a lot of cash around the house, she could have withdrawn some from the bank or else approached her parents. They must have had a lot of cash in the safes at O’Malley’s offices.

  But Joe hadn’t asked.

  He had nothing. And time was running out.

  Pride is a terrible, terrible thing.

  He pretended to read a document on his computer, but actually he stared into space, and waited as his panic surged.

  In half an hour, if he wasn’t able to produce the money, those photos would be released. The ones showing Joe and a very dead John Kavanagh together.

  Then: an investigation.

  Joe was already under investigation for the whole Ger Barrett/Kevin Boyle thing on Wednesday. He hadn’t been worried about that before. But combined with a suspicion that he was involved in the murder of Christopher’s bully? Plus the whole Aidan Donnelly/Barry Wall thing being basically his fault? A colossal weight was about to crush him.

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Suspension. Arrest. Holding cell. Trial. Prison.

  And, oh, would prison be fun for a detective. Maybe he’d end up under ACO Breda Murray’s care.

  He felt like shooting himself in the head.

  Dunne hung up the phone.

  “I wasn’t able to get anything from the pink-haired punk. Ken obviously told her not to say a word to us.”

  Joe said nothing.

  “You okay?” Dunne kept glancing his way, like he might make a run for the door.

  “Never better.”

  “Let me know when you want to go out again.”

  Joe got the hint. Don’t go anywhere without your security detail.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Dunne gave him a doubtful look, as Joe’s phone buzzed.

  Have you got the money?

  Joe thought for a second. Then tapped out a reply.

  Yes.

  Put it in a bag. Leave it at the south east corner of Anglesey Bridge in 45 mins.

  That bridge ran over the River Dodder. It was just down the road.

  Okay.

  Don’t try anything. We’ll be watching.

  Shooting himself was starting to seem like a better and better idea. But then an idea struck him. He remembered the counterfeit cash Cunningham had used as a decoy in an operation. It had cluttered the DDU office for months. Joe wondered if it was still around. He got to his feet and went to the locker in the corner. No sign of the money.

  “What are you looking for?” Cunningham said.

  “The counterfeit cash you had ages ago. Is it still here?”

  “What?”

  “Those bales of cash you had sitting here for half a year?”

  Cunningham laughed. “No. I finally cleared that stuff out.”

  Joe kept his expression neutral but it was hard. His only idea had just gone down the toilet. Cunningham leaned back in her chair and yawned.

  “Yep, the only bales of cash around here are the ones you confiscated from Barrett.”

  Joe sat down in his chair and sighed. Then he realised what she’d said. Could the money Ger Barrett had planned to give to Boyle still be in the station?

  “That money is still here?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hasn’t it been taken to PEMS?”

  The dirty money should have been logged in as evidence and taken to the Store as soon as it reached David O’Carroll. Joe remembered O’Carroll calling Garda Jessica Nolan, asking her to take the money away. He remembered her reply. That there was a problem at the Store. Nolan had said they had a sewage leak, that they were unable to accept evidence. Joe had assumed that the issue had been resolved, but maybe it hadn’t.

  “No,” Cunningham said. “They’re still fixing up the Store.”

  Joe nodded thoughtfully while Cunningham returned to her work.

  A possible solution – though it was far riskier with real money involved, especially money that was evidence in an investigation.

  Still, a solution was a solution.

  And it was all thanks to Boyle. Because of him, Joe might be able to get at a bag full of money. It wasn’t €100,000, as far as Joe knew. He didn’t know how much money it was. A third of that? Maybe more. But in the short term, it ought to be enough to convince the blackmailer that Joe was complying with their instructions.

  He didn’t plan on letting them keep the money. No one was going to get rewarded for blackmailing him. That was for sure.

  The only problem was that the bag of money was probably locked up in Jessica Nolan’s office. Joe would have to change that. He walked over to the door. Dunne looked up.

  “Toilet,” Joe said. “I doubt I’ll meet Barry Wall there.”

  “I’ll let you go alone then.”

  But he didn’t go to the toilet. He went upstairs and found an empty room. From there, he phoned Jessica Nolan’s desk. He made his voice as annoying as possible and said, “Hey, sugar buns.”

  “Jesus, Kevin. Is that you? What do you want?”

  “Thought you might have come to your senses, Jessica. You feel like a drink later?”

  Boyle’s mannerisms came far too easily.

  Nolan said, “Like hell I do.”

  “You sure? Because I could sweeten the deal and spring for a pizza?”

  “Fuck off, Kevin.”

  “Fine,” Joe said, trying not to laugh. “Then I’m glad your car is being burgled.”

  “What?”

  “The alarm is going off. I hope your car gets stolen.”

  He ended the call, and grinned. He thought he had done a pretty good impersonation of Boyle. Now to see if she took the bait. He started down the stairs, just as Jessica Nolan came storming up the corridor. She nodded briskly before continuing towards the car park. Joe headed to her office.

  There was a big fireproof safe with six drawers. It was meant for storing papers, but it was the only place Nolan could have locked up the backpack. The safe was secured by a simple lock. Why not? It wasn’t meant to be used for storing evidence.

  When Joe’s father had been a detective, storing evidence around the station had been the norm, but standards had grown more stringent in the intervening years.

  Joe slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and started lookin
g for the key in the drawers of the desk. He worked through the top one quickly, then the second. Finally, he got to the third. There was nothing.

  When a uniform walked past the open doorway, Joe thought his heart would jump out of his chest. But the guy went straight on down the corridor without looking in.

  Joe felt around in case the key was taped to the underside of one of the drawers but it wasn’t. Where the hell was it? Nolan would be back as soon as she realised her car was fine, which had to be a matter of seconds. Joe was taking too long.

  He walked out into the corridor – and froze as Jessica Nolan appeared at the end of the corridor. She looked pissed. He quickly stepped away from her doorway, and pretended to be walking down the corridor.

  “You seen Kevin?” she asked. “Sir,” she added quickly.

  “He’s floating around somewhere. Upstairs, maybe?”

  Joe figured this might buy him an extra half a minute to find the key.

  Nolan shook her head. “Is there any chance you could mind my office for a moment sir? While the Store is out of action, I’m not technically supposed to leave the evidence unattended.”

  Finally, some good luck. “No problem,” Joe said.

  He watched Nolan as she started up the stairs. As soon as she was gone, Joe ducked back into her room. He looked around – and saw a biscuit tin. As far as he knew, Nolan didn’t eat biscuits. She was a fitness addict. She’d rather put heroin in her body than sugar.

  He grabbed the tin and opened it up. Not only did he find one key, but the tin was full of keys. Maybe two dozen of them.

  He brought the tin over to the safe and tore through it, trying every key until one finally unlocked it.

  Nolan was guarding many plastic evidence bags, including the backpack full of money. There was a log inside too, for recording any interactions with the evidence. Joe scrawled Kevin Boyle’s name in the log, next to the Exhibit Number corresponding to the bag of cash.

  Then he replaced the key, grabbed the backpack, and headed for his Honda.

  Chapter 76

  Christopher stared at the detective.

  “There’s no time for my concert?” he said.

  The man frowned. “I’m afraid not. It would be safer to move you to a secure location without delay.”

  “Please. My Mum is out there.”

  A phone rang. The detective reached into his pocket and took his out. He held up a finger to Christopher and stepped out of the room.

  Christopher stared at the closed door as if the answers to his questions were written on it.

  Who was coming after him? Was it this guy Wall by himself or did he have a gang? What would they do? Where was Joe? Where was his mother? Could he talk to her?

  He’d been okay for a minute after hearing that a criminal might target him, but now he was starting to feel overloaded with stress.

  This man was a murderer. Even worse than John Kavanagh.

  He swallowed and ran a hand over his violin. It was nearly time for the concert to begin.

  The detective burst through the door.

  “They’re coming,” he said. “We’ve got to move you. Now.”

  He grabbed Christopher’s shoulder and bundled him out the door, and past the secretary’s unattended desk.

  “Can I tell my Mum?”

  “Later,” the detective said. “For now, just run.”

  Christopher ran like he’d never run before, his hard, leather shoes crunching on the stones in the driveway, as he hurried after the detective, past the principal’s sports car and out onto the road.

  “Here,” the detective said, pointing Christopher to a white van.

  Chapter 77

  Joe ran up the steps to his apartment, the backpack full of cash slung over his shoulder.

  The lucky break he’d got finding the cash and been countered by an equal stroke of bad luck. Dunne had seen him getting into his car, and she had followed him.

  He’d driven like a maniac all the way from Donnybrook, but he hadn’t been able to lose her. He needed Dunne off his back so he could get to the drop-off with the blackmailer. So he had gone home. He had an idea that might work, but he needed to get something from his apartment.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, in case Dunne decided to come in after him, Joe reached his apartment and let himself in. He immediately started tearing through the drawers in his sitting room. Nothing. He moved to the bedroom. He couldn’t find what he was looking for there either. He took the whole drawer out and emptied it out onto his bed.

  Then he found it. An old phone he’d stopped using because it had been running slowly. Aside from the slowness, the phone had been fine. He hoped it still was. He held his breath as he tried turning it on. The phone buzzed and warned that only 3% of the battery charge remained.

  Joe found the charger and walked over to the kitchen table, where he plugged it in. Then he brought over his laptop and booted it up. He tried turning the phone on again. Once it was up and running, Joe activated the phone’s GPS and logged onto Google on his laptop. He checked that he was able to track the phone’s location.

  It worked. A little blue dot appeared on the laptop screen, showing Joe’s current location in Rathmines. The map automatically zoomed in on the area.

  Joe checked the time. He was already running late and he had to let the phone charge a little or this would all be worthless.

  He texted the blackmailer.

  I’m on my way but I’ll be five mins late.

  A reply came back straight away.

  Don’t be 5 seconds late you cheeky bollocks.

  The blackmailer wanted to play hardball. Or were they just saying that? If the money was coming, would they really blow the whole thing just because Joe was a little late? Probably not.

  Joe tried to remain calm while he waited for the phone battery to creep up to 10%. That was still poor. Once a phone was below 30%, he didn’t trust it much. But he couldn’t wait all day. 10% would have to do. He’d just have to hope the phone would stay on long enough to do its job.

  He shut off the laptop, unplugged the phone and stuffed it in the middle of a bundle of cash in the middle of the backpack. Then he moved to the window and peered out. Dunne’s Lexus was on the street below, parked right behind his Honda. As expected, driving wasn’t going to be an option.

  He’d have to cycle. He hurried out the door, pausing only when Dunne’s Cartier watch caught his eye. It was still sitting on his bookshelf, where she had left it. For some reason, the sight of it unnerved him.

  He went racing back down the stairs. In the hallway, he grabbed his bike and wheeled it towards the back of the building, out the door and to the end of the garden, where a gate led out onto the lane behind.

  He got in the saddle and started peddling like hell, headed for Morehampton Road, with the backpack full of dirty money strapped to his back.

  He felt his phone buzz, and pulled over to the side of the road.

  The blackmailer: Where are you?

  Nearly there, Joe replied.

  I’m going to release the photos. You and John…

  I’ll be there in 2 mins.

  I should release them anyway, to teach you a lesson.

  Joe texted back, Do what you want but I have the cash.

  Don’t try to be clever. It doesn’t suit you.

  Joe slipped the phone back into his pocket and got peddling even faster. He had the bike in the hardest gear and was urging it forwards with every ounce of strength he had. Finally, Anglesey Bridge came into view. At the south east corner, Joe stepped off the bike and peered over the side. A heron, still as a mountain, stood in the water of the Dodder, six or seven metres below. The branches of a tree, growing out of the river bank, reached up over the top of the bridge.

  A text message arrived.

  Leave the money on a branch.

  Okay.

  We’re watching you. Three sniper rifles are pointed at your head. As soon as you drop the cash, leave the area.


  Joe doubted that there were three sniper rifles pointed at his head. But what did he know? If this was Barry Wall, then anything was possible. He looked around but there were no pedestrians nearby, just cars passing, the drivers paying him no attention whatsoever.

  He eased the backpack over the side of the bridge, and let it snag on the branch of the tree.

  Leave, read the next text message.

  Joe was very close to Donnybrook Garda Station and the irony was not lost on him. He would have loved to have some backup there to watch the blackmailer collect the bag. But he couldn’t trust anyone to help him. They’d want to know what kind of mess Joe was in. And once his colleagues started asking that, he’d really be done for.

  So he had to go it alone. And he had to leave the bag.

  He mounted his bike, kicked off from the kerb and cycled back the way he had come, not racing the way he had on the way here, but not loitering either. He stopped a short distance away and looked back.

  Buzz. Another text.

  This is your FINAL warning. Leave the area or we WILL release the photos. Everyone will know what you did.

  They were still watching him.

  Joe turned around and headed back towards Donnybrook. He hadn’t really expected that he’d be able to watch the blackmailer collect the bag. That would have been wishful thinking. He’d have to rely on his old phone. It was probably down to 8% already.

  Joe cycled on, halfway back to Rathmines. There was no chance the blackmailer was still watching him. He pulled over.

  He used his current phone to track his old one, concealed in the backpack full of cash.

  When the map came up, Joe saw that the backpack was already moving. Fast. It must have been collected by someone in a car.

  He turned and headed back to where he’d made the drop-off, but the blue dot marking the bag’s location was moving away too quickly. He couldn’t keep up. There were cars all around, and it was impossible to guess which one the money was in.

  Joe needed a car. He tried to stop a passing taxi. No good. It sailed right past.

  He’d lost the cash and he’d lost the blackmailer. He thought he could make this right, but only if he acted very quickly.