Little Criminals (23 page)

‘Good.’

‘I’m afraid there’s a complication.’ As he told Hogg about the increased ransom demand he was looking across the table at Justin Kennedy, who had tears in his eyes, mouth open, face flushed.
Shit, that’s all we need. Victim’s husband has a nervous breakdown
.

Frankie made the call from the south pier at Dun Laoghaire. You could never tell what kind of shit they were using to pin down mobile calls, so he needed somewhere that wouldn’t point any fingers. Somewhere on the Southside. Somewhere it was easy to ditch a phone. He’d intended to make the call exactly forty-eight hours after the kidnap began. Then it occurred to him that standing on a pier in the hour before midnight wasn’t a good idea. But he liked the pier idea so he decided it made more sense to leave the call until next day. And it was when he woke up that morning that the thought of doubling the ransom popped into his head.

Fuck it. One rich man’s as good as another. OK, he doesn’t have his own bank, but he’s a flash lawyer, house like that–fuck him. Same price we set out to get for the banker. He can raise one million, won’t be too big a stretch to raise two
.

That meant it couldn’t be wrapped up as quickly. No guarantee the guy’d be able to raise the second million as fast as the first, so this might drag things out. Fuck it. That kind of money’s worth a little overtime.

Call done, he powered down the mobile and walked over to the edge of the pier. There were lunchtime strollers here and there. Frankie paused while a doddery old pair shuffled past, the woman holding the man’s trembling elbow. Get to that stage, what’s the point? The mobile was one of Milky’s specials, no connection to Frankie, but the technology they had these days, they could work out who called who from what phone, at what time, from where. Even a pay-as-you-go, they could identify the area the call came from. Too many smart people ended up being stitched into a prison cell by some fucking telephone technician. Use it and ditch it. By the time the phone hit the water, Frankie had turned and was walking back down the pier, past the doddery pair.

At the counter in McTell’s Bar, just off Dun Laoghaire’s main street, Frankie ordered a coffee and a chicken sandwich. The lunchtime trade was building, the barmen brusque. Frankie had almost finished his sandwich when he noticed in the mirror behind the bar a reflection of the television screen high up on the wall behind him. It was showing a photo of the hostage, a big smile on her face.

Frankie turned round in time to see the photo replaced by a female newsreader, her lips moving silently. Then a shot of the outside of the hostage’s house. Frankie turned back to the bar and stood up. There was a barman turning away from the cash register. The sound,’ Frankie said, loudly. The barman looked at him, verging on irritation. Frankie said, ‘The TV, quick.
Please.’
The barman looked around, found the remote control on a shelf and when Frankie turned back to the screen the newsreader was saying, ‘—garda spokesman had no further comment. A friend of the family told
RTE News
they remain hopeful that Mrs Kennedy will be returned safely to her family, and asked that the family’s privacy be respected at this difficult time’.

Frankie left the pub and found a taxi. Bound to happen. Thing like this, can’t keep it under wraps. It made it a problem, though, to use the old butcher shop for the extra time they needed to get the second million.

When he got back to the safe house, Martin Paxton, Brendan Sweetman and Dolly Finn were standing around in the kitchen.

‘Did you hear?’ Brendan said.

‘We’re out of here,’ Frankie told them. Four hours later, they were arriving at Rosslare Strand, a hundred miles away in Wexford.

*

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
.

Even before the small fat one slammed shut the lid of the car boot, Angela knew she was about to die.

They came to the room, two sets of footsteps hurrying on the stairs, the small fat one and the gang leader, and they didn’t say anything when they came in, they just put the mask over her head, backwards again, and they weren’t gentle when they tied her hands.

‘What—’ she said when the gang leader produced the mask.

‘Listen—’ she said, and they said nothing, neither of them, and when the mask went over her head she made pleading sounds, then a hand grasped her face, iron fingers squeezing her jaw, digging into the muscle. She stopped talking. She knew it was the small fat one, pulling her arm, guiding her down the stairs, the open air, abrupt movements, rough hands, pushing her head down. She could hear him grunt, a mixture of irritation and satisfaction, just before the lid of the boot came crashing down.

A different car, she got a smell of turf briquettes from the boot.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners,
Now and at the hour of our death –

Something wrong. Something happened. Or didn’t.

They didn’t get the ransom.

Justin. Something happened. He did something, didn’t do something, said something
.

He wouldn’t put her at risk, not deliberately. He wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Something he said, they got hold of the wrong idea – maybe something they said, he didn’t pick it up right –

Kill me. Oh, Jesus
.

Dump me. A lane somewhere? A skip, bottom of some lane
.

For a second she could see the skip and it was raining. She could hear the rain hitting the things, stuff, whatever, in the skip.

No. Not in the city. Find it – me – too quickly
.

The smell
.

They’re taking me somewhere out of the way, bury me, maybe in the woods somewhere
.

A cold physical surge of terror forced her head to jerk down and sideways, her eyes clenched shut. She let the wave of dread pass, a prickly feeling at the top of her scalp. She very deliberately tried to force her breathing into a regular, slow pattern.

Maybe they’re just moving me from one place to another. Keep me somewhere else, until they get the money
.

Why would they do that?

Could have killed me there, in that place, put the – my – body in the boot, dump it – me – somewhere outside the city
.

The mountains, maybe
.

No. If they get stopped, caught, now, and I’m alive, they get charged with kidnap
.

If there’s a body in the car, murder
.

Murder
.

Me
.

Body in the boot
.

Keep me alive until we get there
.

Then
.

The fear was an axe, chopping through her disconnected thoughts, slicing them into small pieces that tumbled one over the other, scurrying away from her mind’s panicky grasp.

The smell
.

Me. This body. Decay. Nothing
.

The car stopped and started, city driving, then they were on a straight run, beyond the city, motorway, a constant speed, and her mind tried to steady itself and she was startled to find she’d dozed off. Then she wasn’t sure if she’d been asleep or had fainted or had been awake all along.

After a long time, the car stopped, the lid of the boot opened. She was pulled out, unsteady on her aching legs, the ground rough. The mask was damp from the sweat on her face.

She could hear birds whistling, chirping. Air. Woods? The mountains?

Footsteps.

The gang leader’s voice. ‘Breather. Stretch your legs.’

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph
.

Please, God. Not here. Not now
.

Time, please, a little time
.

Saskia, Luke
.

Justin
.

Elizabeth, Elizabeth
.

Of all things, she had a flash of a sunny afternoon in Galway, maybe fifteen years back, out in Salthill, Angela and her sister Elizabeth, flirting with two boys. Something about an ice-cream cone falling, the splat as it hit the pavement, the hysterical laughter.

Waste
.

A word swelled through her mind, momentarily crushing every other thought.

Remains
.

‘Gardai said the remains were found—’

Jesus, Mary and Joseph
.

Again, she fought to force her breathing into a slow, regular rhythm.

If they bury me here, never found. Weeks, months. No one will ever be sure. No body. No grave
.

‘Why isn’t Mum back yet?’

‘There’s a delay,’ Justin will say
.

Weeks, months. The kids will know. They’ll know before anyone says anything
.

The sound of liquid. Something being poured?

Someone pissing on the ground.

Will I feel it, the gun against the back of my head? The bullet? Will I feel it? Will I hear anything?

I won’t know when. They won’t say anything. Could be doing it right now
.

Her head jerked, as though she could feel something touch the back of her neck. She took a step forward but her legs hadn’t the strength to run. She bent forward, cringed.

Not to know. One second you’re alive, the next, gone
.

No, tell me
.

‘Tell me.’ She almost didn’t recognise the dry croak of her voice.

Nothing. Perhaps they didn’t hear her. Maybe they did.

They don’t give a fuck

She could hear them talking quietly. Just two of them. Some distance away.

The small fat one will do it
.

Bastard
.

‘Bastard!’

They stopped talking. Seconds passed, then she heard the small fat one say, ‘Fucking ride.’

All her limbs were trembling. Somewhere down in her gut there was a feeling of shifting fluid. Every intake of breath was sucking at the wool of the mask.

After a minute, the gang leader’s voice. ‘You ready?’

Her mouth was too dry to speak. Footsteps approaching.

‘Time to go. Only another hour or so, we’ll be there. You want to piss? You want a drink? Pepsi?’

‘What’s happening? Tell me. I want to know before it happens. Not just – tell me—’

She screamed when the rough hands took her, pushing, dragging, her legs scraping along the rim of the boot, her body landing heavily, the lid slamming shut again. She sobbed as much in relief as distress. The engine started, the car moved. The wool of the mask stuck to her mouth and her nostrils as she took big gulps of air.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners.
Now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen
.

*

They were an hour out of Dublin, heading south on the road to Wexford, before Martin Paxton got more than single-word replies out of Dolly Finn.

‘Suit yourself,’ Finn said when Martin said he wanted to stop soon to get something to eat. Martin was driving, and he was looking forward to the break as much as the food.

‘Jack White’s?’ Martin said. ‘That OK with you?’

Dolly Finn nodded. He’d been listening to his music since they left Dublin. Soon as they got into the car, Dolly inserted the earphones and pressed play on his iPod.

Once, Martin asked if Dolly would like to stop, get a Coke or a sandwich. Twice Dolly shook his head and kept on listening to the music.

When the heat got a bit much Martin rolled down the window and said, ‘That OK with you?’

‘Yeah.’

After a couple more attempts, Martin gave up. When Frankie and Brendan left with the hostage, Martin knew the journey south with Dolly Finn wouldn’t be a social highlight, but the fucker made no effort at all.

Up ahead, just off to the left of the N
II
, Martin could see the two-storey building that was Jack’s White’s Pub. He wondered if Dolly would leave the earphones in over lunch.

Some people just have to yap.

You don’t play Johnny Hodges in the background, something to fill the gaps in the conversation. If you listen, you listen. Even if Dolly Finn wasn’t immersed in the music, he couldn’t imagine what he might talk to Martin Paxton about. Nothing wrong with Paxton, seemed a decent sort. But Dolly Finn didn’t have friends or colleagues or even associates in this business, he had contacts. He had a friend he saw three or four times a year, a man he went to school with. He sometimes went for a drink with customers who wanted to talk about the music. There was a collector in Nottingham who sourced a lot of the old Blue Note stuff for him. He’d put Dolly up in a spare room when he was in the area for a collectors’ convention a few years back, and Dolly thought of him as a friend. Other than that, Dolly Finn kept himself to himself.