Little Criminals (25 page)

It was a four-bedroom bungalow, white-walled inside and out, bay-windowed, with a long path out to the gate. A couple of hundred yards from the beach, in a secluded area, with trees, brambles and high bushes in every direction. It had the cheap, transient feel of a house no one cared about, an investment built for renting to the holiday trade. A rash of holiday homes like this one had spread along the coast, built by people who needed something to soak up the spare cash generated by the boom. While the Dublin hideout meant everyone staying inside, depending on Milky for supplies, the sheltered setting of the Rosslare house, and the fact that the area was crawling with strangers who came and went after a few days, meant the lads would have more freedom to come and go. Milky had even provided swimming togs, draughts, chess and a stack of bootleg DVDs.

The hostage took the notepad and biro Frankie held out to her. She sat down on the bed and waited. Her face was flushed, but she looked less upset, almost calm. She looked like she’d reached a deal with herself.

‘I talked to your hubby yesterday. I wanted to know if he had the money yet. Know what he said? He said,
Fuck off
, that’s what he said.
I can’t raise that kind of money
. That’s what he said.’

Frankie was pleased to see the unease creep back into the hostage’s face.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was telling the truth. Could be the kind of money we’re talking about is out of his league. You think?’

He bent down, leaned over closer and Angela turned her head away. He spoke softly into her ear. ‘Couldn’t be he’s haggling, could it? I mean, it couldn’t be he’s trying to knock the price down, maybe get you on the cheap? That the kind of man he is, your oul fella?’

She sat there, waiting.

‘It was me, I’d have the money by now, get you back. Maybe hubby’s doing his best but he just can’t get it together. What do you think?’

She said, ‘What do you want me to write?’

‘Don’t worry, love, I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end.’

‘What do you want me to write?’

‘A note to hubby. Your own words. Whatever you like. Within reason. Tell him you want to go home.’

For a long time, she didn’t do anything. Then she leaned over and began writing. The notepad resting on the bedside locker, she wrote slowly, the pen clutched awkwardly, close to the point, like it was an unfamiliar tool. She used her left hand as a kind of screen, to shield the page from his gaze, as though that mattered. When she was finished, she tore the page from the pad, folded it twice and gave it to him.

‘Could I have some toast and a cup of tea?’

‘Later,’ he said, and read the note. ‘Good girl.’ He stood up and walked to the door. ‘You get some rest, now.’

Out in the corridor, Frankie stood for a minute, his ear close to the door. After a minute, he heard her crying, as he’d thought he might.

The banker was shaking his head. ‘I’m not saying there’s a problem. We’re still on board, we can do this, but at the end of the day we’re talking about shareholders’ money and prudence demands clarity about precisely what it is we’re committing the bank to – that’s all I’m saying.’

Daragh O’Suilleabhain nodded. When he spoke, his voice was even and temperate and if you didn’t know him you mightn’t notice that he was straining to keep his temper.

‘Understood. Fair enough, and I’m not discounting the bank’s responsibilities, but when we get right down to it, all the bank is required to do is provide a convenient facility in emergency circumstances. Flynn O’Meara Tully is underwriting the deal and we’re good for the money.’

Justin Kennedy had asked that this time the meeting take place at his home. The shock of having the kidnap become public had ebbed, but it left behind an increased reluctance to move too far from the phone. Daragh immediately agreed to come to Justin’s house, and also drove the banker. Now, in the family room at the back of the house, with the games table at one end, the two long, deep sofas at the other, and the television screen hanging on the wall in between, the banker had a question. What was the extent of Flynn O’Meara Tully’s commitment? Was it open-ended?

From the window, across the yard and framed by the huge kitchen window on the other side, two gardai were visible, having coffee at the kitchen table. The police had cleaned out the broken crystal and set up a base in the kitchen. They sent a regular supply of sandwiches to Justin, a couple of which he had eaten.

In the family room, Daragh and the banker shared one of the sofas. Justin Kennedy was standing behind the other sofa, hands in the pockets of his pale blue tracksuit, his head tilted back, his stare fixed on the ceiling, as though by sheer effort of concentration he could shut out anything he didn’t want to hear.

On the wide plasma screen on the wall behind him, a Sky newsreader was chortling at something the weatherman had said. The sound was off. Justin knew it was unlikely the media would hear anything before he did, but he wanted the TV news on all the time, and he listened to the hourly radio bulletins, just in case.

‘What if there’s a further increase in the ransom demand?’ the banker asked. He was a neat, shiny-faced man. ‘Do we go to three million? Four? How certain can we be that—’ and he paused, revising his sentence ‘—that these people can deliver?’

‘What you’re asking,’ Justin said, leaning forward, his hands grasping the back of the sofa, ‘is, first question, how much—’

‘Justin,’ Daragh said, ‘perhaps it’s best—’

‘—how much is Angela worth. Is there a point at which we say, no, she’s not worth
that
much. And, second question, the second thing you’re asking,
can they deliver
– when you say that what you mean is how do we know she isn’t lying in a ditch somewhere with her throat cut. That’s what you’re asking, isn’t it?’

The banker was trying not to show embarrassment. Daragh threw him a lifeline. ‘I’m sure the bank is merely looking at this thing from all angles – as it’s duty-bound to do. But at the end of the day, we’re all working towards the same goal – getting Angela back safely.’

His mobile rang.

Daragh checked the phone’s screen to identify the caller and immediately stood up. As he took the call he moved quickly away, towards the bay window looking out over the long, wide back garden.

‘Thanks for getting back to me so promptly.’

He listened, the fingers of his free hand running back and forth through his hair.

A minute passed before Daragh spoke again, and when he did there was emotion in his voice. ‘Listen, thank you. Thank you, my friend. This is a good thing you’re doing. No—’

Listening again, he turned to Justin and smiled.

‘I certainly will. And I know Justin appreciates – well, you’re right, some things don’t need to be said. Just so you know.’ He said thank you another couple of times, and when he came back to the table he said to the banker, with a deferential smile and in the friendliest of tones, ‘I wonder if Justin and I might have a moment?’

As soon as the banker left the room, Daragh O’Suilleabhain stood close to Justin Kennedy and spoke in a low voice. ‘There are two options and I think we ought to take the second of them.’ He was holding his mobile like it contained something precious. ‘That phone call changes things. If it hadn’t come through, what I was going to suggest is that we use the Liechtenstein account.’

Justin said, ‘It would take for ever to get the cash—’

‘With the Liechtenstein account in play, the bank would do a back-to-back, no doubt about it, and take a slice off the top. One thing you can rely on with those bastards – once the profit’s guaranteed, there’s no quibbles. They’ll push the money at you, and if the deal involves a little creative accounting, what the fuck.’

The Liechtenstein account was a tax-evasion scheme set up within Flynn O’Meara Tully in the early 1990s. The account was initially held at a Liechtenstein bank, with an array of cut-outs and buffers that made it as investigation-proof as these things get. Over a number of years, the firm’s off-the-books earnings were channelled into the account, through a small private bank in Dublin, quietly building into a solid hoard of cash to be shared among a handful of the most senior executives. The money wasn’t usually accessible and was traditionally retained for pay-out, through a separate offshore account in Jersey, when a senior lawyer left or retired.

‘It’s not ideal, but I’ve already had a word with a couple of the lads, and there’ll be no problem accessing the account.’

The Liechtenstein account was active until the turn of the century, when a High Court inspector inquiring into other matters saw a mention of it in a file and raised a query. Both the Liechtenstein and Jersey accounts were immediately closed and the assets transferred to the Virgin Islands, though the account was still known by its original name. New arrangements were made to facilitate pay-offs when necessary, but there was a moratorium on payments into the account until a safer scheme could be arranged.

By then, the political climate had become even more business-friendly and made tax evasion less worthwhile. Justin, who hadn’t bothered taking his share when he left Flynn O’Meara Tully – seeing it as part of his pension plan – had no knowledge of the current pay-out arrangements.

‘It’s there, it’s available,’ Daragh said. ‘It’s a fall-back, but it requires careful handling. If we take the second option, Liechtenstein won’t be needed.’ Daragh’s smile was two parts deviousness and three parts triumph. ‘A confession – but I don’t think you’ll mind. I broke confidence. Last night, I rang Kevin Little. That was him calling.’

‘Jesus, Daragh—’

‘Talking to Kevin, it’s like talking to a priest in confession. It’ll go no further.’

‘We’ve never met, I don’t know him.’

Daragh shrugged. Everyone knew Kevin Little.

‘Why would he—’

‘Kevin keeps an eye on the scene. Over the past few years, you’ve made a bit of a name for yourself. You’re beyond up-and-coming, Justin. And Kevin – he’s a global player, sure enough, but his heart remains at home. He pays attention to what’s going on – Kevin sees himself as a kind of guardian angel. Thing like this, someone like yourself involved, he’ll do whatever he can. I knew that, that’s why I contacted him.’

‘Jesus, I’m not sure—’

‘One word from Kevin, any of half a dozen banks will turn over the second million, no questions, no conditions, fast as they can put it together. Ten times that, if we need it.’

‘It’s that easy?’

‘I ring him back, he makes a phone call, it’s done.’ Daragh gestured towards the doorway through which the bank executive had exited. ‘I’d like to call that fucker back in and tell him where the bank can shove its money – in the politest possible terms. But they have the first million ready to roll. It’d be stupid to piss them off now.’

‘So, we take their—’

‘We take their million, and get Kevin to fast-track a two-million transfer right away. Pay off this shower immediately and have the second million within a couple of days.’

Having Kevin Little involved, Jesus, it was like the heavy gang throwing their weight behind you. Tax exile, entrepreneur, a man whose steady advance to the outer reaches of fabulous wealth inspired a whole generation of Irish business-school graduates. There were kinks in Little’s past. Deals that came halfway into the light, then faded from public scrutiny just as things were getting interesting. These days, Little was beyond all that. His wealth appeared so boundless that his skirmishes with legality took on the glow of youthful frolics. Libel lawyers ostentatiously patrolled the acres of media coverage devoted to Little, so it was seldom that anything embarrassing was published.

Now, when Little wasn’t jetting in and out of the country to close a deal or squash a rival, or to deny a rumour that he was about to close a deal or squash a rival, he was modestly accepting applause for his latest philanthropic project.

‘Is there a price for Kevin’s help? I mean, I’m grateful, but what does he get out of this?’

‘Nothing. Kevin gets nothing. Your goodwill, mine – something he might never need.’ Daragh leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘Way things are, Kevin bought a house in West Cork two years back. The furniture alone cost more than I spent on buying my place in Dalkey. He’s never lived in it, never even been there, far as I know.’

Daragh held up one finger. ‘It’s an asset.’ He held up a second. ‘He’s got a flat in New York that he uses about once a month.’ A third finger. ‘Another in Paris, he uses maybe once, twice a year. A place in Barcelona I know for a fact he’s never seen.’ Both hands palms up. ‘Kevin likes to have assets, tucked away here and there. And your goodwill, and mine, this firm’s goodwill, that’s an asset. End of the day, we pay him back, and he’s got something money alone can’t buy – the goodwill of a couple of players in one of his playgrounds.’

‘How can I thank him—’

‘I’ll ring him back now, he’ll make a call, whichever bank he chooses, end of business tomorrow, maybe early Tuesday, they’ll have it wrapped and ready. When this is all over, settled down, Angela’s back home and Kevin’s in the country – some evening, I’ll arrange a dinner.’

‘Thank him for me, when you ring. You, too, Daragh. You’ve been—’

Kennedy realised he was holding O’Suilleabhain’s hand in both of his own. ‘Thank you,’ he said again.