Little Criminals (31 page)

Once the media blackout ended, I should have pushed Hogg on going public with the ID of Frankie and Sweetman
.

A whizz-kid told Hogg why he’d concluded that the kidnappers’ code word ‘sunflower’ didn’t have any significance. He kept running the fingers of one hand back through his hair as he explained how he wasted half an afternoon running the word through garda databases, looking for nicknames, companies or shops in Dublin that had any reference to flowers in their names, and running a check on the ownership of all florists within a mile of the Kennedy home.

When the reports were finished, Grace took Hogg aside. ‘Sir, I really think it’s more important than ever to let Frankie know that we’re—’

‘I know, and it’s happening. Frankie may already be getting word that the ERU are kicking in doors, but apart from that we’ll be using the media.’

Hogg shook his head, as though Grace had brought up ancient history. He continued. ‘Once Technical are through with the house in Rosslare they’ll pass on anything that might be of use – a notebook, bits and pieces found on bedside lockers, stuff like that, even newspapers lying around. Same with anything we find in the raids on their homes. I want you in here first thing – it’ll only take an hour or two – go over everything, every page, every scrap of paper – a name, an address, a phone number, anything that rings a bell.’

At the top of the room, Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe drew everyone’s attention by rapping his knuckles on the table. ‘Just to bring you all up to speed. As a result of recent events, Chief Superintendent Hogg and I have concluded there’s a danger the gang might cut and run. Bury the victim somewhere, settle for the money they’ve got. It’s important, therefore, that they realise we’ve identified some of them.’

He nodded to Hogg, who told them he’d personally been on to TV and radio stations and the names would be going out at the top of every news bulletin that evening and into the night. ‘Snaps of Crowe and Sweetman are on their way to the newspapers, they’ll be on every front page in the morning.’

Grace found a chair and sat down, glancing at his watch. Bit late in the day, he thought. In more ways than one.

Keep your head, Frankie, stay cool. Let the woman be. Take the money and run
.

Grace woke Nicky Bonner when he rang him at home.

‘I’m heading off home now, but I’ve to be back at Carbury Street first thing in the morning. Hogg wants me to sniff through some stuff Frankie left behind. Can’t promise anything, but – if you’re still raring to go – maybe that hour of the morning you can poke your nose in.’

‘Terrific.’

‘All you have to do is be at my place first thing, give me a lift to Carbury Street.’

‘Lazy sod.’

All Angela could see was a vertical line of light, no thicker than a hair. All else was darkness. She could hear in the distance, perhaps from a couple of rooms away, the muffled sound of a fierce argument. Twice since she was brought here she’d been out of this tiny closet under the stairs, to use the toilet. The night had passed and an hour or two of the morning. She had no idea where she was – what house, what neighbourhood, even what county.

The journey from Wexford had taken hours, travelling on twisting roads that had her sliding around inside the boot of the car. They’d stopped twice and she was allowed to stand in the woods, the mask over her eyes. The day had been hot, the car boot had left her sweaty, tired and sore. The air was cool in the woods, but it did little to penetrate the layers of grubbiness in which she felt encased. Standing in the woods, unable to see, brought back the terror of that first time, on the way down to Wexford, but it was a muted terror. It was as though the envelope of exhaustion that surrounded her was so thick that not even fear could get through. During one of the breaks, one of the gunmen opened a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and put it into her hand. While eating, she was allowed to push the mask up as far as her nose. She ate until there was nothing left, her index finger probing the bottom of the bag for crumbs. She licked the salt from her fingers.

Last night, when they’d arrived at this house, she’d been taken to the closet under the stairs and shut in. She’d heard a chair being pushed against the outside of the small door, jammed under the knob. Nothing but darkness and the vertical hairline of light.
Jesus, what’s her name, the Rockefeller girl, no – Hearst, Patty Hearst
. One evening a couple of months back, Angela and Justin had watched a movie on television, the woman was kidnapped, kept in a little space like this. Movie wasn’t up to much, so they’d switched off halfway through and gone to bed.
Me and Patty. Living under the stairs
. Then, remembering something from bedtime reading with Luke –
Me and Patty and Harry fucking Potter
. She made a small giggling noise.

Every now and then, someone walked past the closet, perhaps on their way to the kitchen. Whenever anyone went upstairs or came down, the sound of their footsteps hammered on the stairs just above her head. Such diversions were few, and as the hours passed Angela sank deeper into a dull timeless haze.

The closet was too small to stand up in. The cramped darkness made her all the more aware of her body. She could smell the dirt and sweat that encrusted her. She had taken the trainers off to find her bare feet chafed. This morning she got the first twinge that told her that her period was on the way.

Her night had been restless, consciousness coming and going, with her mind never entirely certain of the border between sleep and reality. The floor was tiled, hard and cold, she had only her bent arm for a pillow. Out of her tiredness, like a shape emerging through fog, a new fear began to make itself known. The panic in Wexford had disrupted the gang’s plans. The pressure to cut and run must be greater than ever. No one said anything to her, but as she was taken in her mask to the toilet, she could tell by their voices that they were nervous and uncertain. When she was brought to and from the toilet, the hands that pulled her out from the closet and later pushed her back in were rough and impatient.

Now, elsewhere in the house, some kind of argument was going on. The voices rose and fell and then there was an extended silence, as though a wave of anger had left everyone speechless. Angela sat with her back against the wall, her legs bent, her arms hugging her knees to her chest. She didn’t have the tears to cry.

After a while, there was another session of raised voices, as though the gang had allowed the silent anger to accumulate to the point where it had to erupt. Angela had been staring at the line of light at the edge of the door. Idly, tentatively, she raised one hand until her fingertips were touching the door. The pressure she applied was so slight that she didn’t feel the door move, but she saw the line of light thicken. One second a hairline, the next the hairline widening, the door moving away from her fingertips. Then the door was a full inch ajar, no chair to stop it opening.

In the living room, there were newspapers all over the place. The
Irish Independent
headline said,
HAVE YOU SEEN THESE MEN?
There were photographs of Frankie and Brendan. There was no photograph of Martin Paxton, but he was named. The
Irish Times
headline said,
POLICE NAME KIDNAP SUSPECTS.
The
Star
ran the pictures with the headline,
THE BASTARDS WHO TOOK ANGELA.

Milky’s panic when the gang turned up at his home the previous night had turned to rage and then a resolve to get Frankie and his wankers the fuck out of here.

‘No,’ he told Frankie when he answered the bell and saw who was on his doorstep.

‘The lads are on their way.’

‘No, absolutely not – fuck off, Frankie.’

‘Let’s talk about this inside,’ Frankie said, and once he got in there was no getting him out.

‘Where to?’ he kept asking. ‘Where do you want us to go?’ The rest of the gang arrived almost an hour later.

In this part of Killester, the houses were mostly bungalows, with high hedges in between. Milky’s was a two-storey mock Tudor. Most of the streets were short and narrow, this one was wider and ran for a couple of hundred yards. There weren’t more than half a dozen people on the whole street that Milky would recognise if he met them. It was one of those places where there was no higher praise than that you kept yourself to yourself. Milky’s girlfriend, a twenty-five-year-old blonde model, threw a wobbler and Milky sent her to stay with his brother in Howth. There was hardly a waking moment since then that he didn’t have a lighted cigarette in his hand. Frankie was amused to notice that Milky wore a check jacket even inside his house.

Milky’s urgent task was to find a suitable rental somewhere to which he could shift Frankie and the rest of them. He’d begun making phone calls from first thing this morning, getting nowhere. It was the need for putting buffers between himself and the rental house that made everything more difficult. He needed someone to arrange for someone else to hire someone else to rent a suitable place from someone who didn’t ask questions. A holiday resort would be difficult, now that the Rosslare balls-up was in the papers and everyone with a holiday home to rent was on alert. Best chance was another commercial site, something like the butcher’s shop he’d used for the first couple of days.

Eventually, there was a possible, verging on a probable.

‘Tallaght,’ the contact said.

‘Fine.’

‘It’s an old—’

‘Whatever,’ Milky said. Some people couldn’t help chattering on the phone.

‘I’ll know tonight,’ the contact said.

‘This afternoon,’ Milky said.
Get the place confirmed by this afternoon, shift them out by tonight
.

‘It’ll be tonight. Late.’

‘Fuck it. Do your best.’

Everyone was on edge. Several times that morning, casual comments were taken to be more than they were and arguments erupted. Milky said, ‘Line in the sand, Frankie. First thing in the morning – and I mean first thing – you’re all out of here. If I have a rental, well and good. If not, fuck it, you’re out. This is out of order, coming to my home.’

‘We’ll need two cars.’

Milky looked at the ceiling for a moment, then he said, ‘OK.’

Frankie said, ‘It’s over.’

He was sitting at the head of the rectangular pine table in the kitchen. Around the table, Martin Paxton, Milky, Brendan Sweetman and Dolly Finn paid different degrees of attention. Milky looked like he was hanging on Frankie’s every word. Dolly Finn’s left elbow was on the table, his head bent, resting on his hand, his fingers stroking his forehead as though to soothe something wild inside. Martin Paxton was listening to Frankie, but watching Dolly.

Frankie said, ‘We’ve got the million – that’s all we’re going to get. Tough and fast, we said, and it’s already been nearly a week. Take the money and run.’

Not me
.

Milky stared at Frankie.

Soon’s they go, I wipe every inch of this place. I’m clear
.

He’d had some money from Frankie up front, the rest he’d take when and if. The important thing was to get free and clear of this fuck-up.

Martin Paxton said, ‘What about her?’

‘Take her with you,’ Milky said.

‘Far as I know, she hasn’t seen anything, right?’ Brendan Sweetman said.

Frankie said, ‘What I think is, things stay as they are, it’s best we just find somewhere that isn’t used, an old shop, garage, something like that, leave her there. When we’re well away, we let them know where to find her.’ He looked around the table, saw a couple of nods. No one said otherwise.

Frankie said, ‘I’ll go get the money in the morning – where it is, it’s a couple of hours down and back. When you know about Milky’s new rental, you call me, I meet you there maybe at noon tomorrow, split the money, that’s it. We leave the hostage somewhere, take the money and run.’

Brendan Sweetman was staring at Frankie like he was trying to read his mind.

Take the money and run. The fuck that mean? Who takes the money? Who runs where? Couple of hours down and back, means outside Dublin – where? – and once Frankie’s on the road…

‘I think one of us should go with you. No offence, Frankie, we have to be sensible. I mean, none of us even knows where you’re keeping the money.’

Frankie didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then he said, ‘No offence?’ He looked at the other three. ‘Anyone else think I’m doing a runner?’

‘That’s not what I said, Frankie.’

‘Anyone else?’

Dolly said, ‘Fuck this.’ He got up and left the room. They heard him hurrying up the stairs and then a door slammed.

Brendan’s face remained blank.

Shit
.

If anyone was going to back him on this it was Dolly.

Martin and Frankie are joined at the hip. Milky doesn’t care, long as we’re out of here
.

Brendan said, ‘Frankie, you know we all trust you. I was just saying. That’s all.’

‘Saying?’

‘I mean, if something happened to you—’

Martin Paxton was looking across the room, past Frankie. Through the open doorway he could see down the hall, past the closet where the hostage was kept. The door of the closet was half open, the hostage was casually, slowly, walking towards the front door. Frankie was telling Brendan that it was important that everyone keep their cool and this whole thing could still work out OK. Martin looked at Frankie. Then he looked at the hostage.