Little Criminals (40 page)

John Grace and Nicky Bonner spent the morning in the incident room at Carbury Street station. Hogg’s team kept them in touch with events, and Grace was alerted that he might be needed at Santry garda station, where Martin Paxton was proving uncooperative. So far, Paxton was blanking everyone, but there was no harm seeing if he’d respond more helpfully to a familiar face. Awaiting confirmation that he was to go to Santry station, Grace was in the Turner’s Cross canteen when his mobile rang.

‘We have a lead.’

Chief Superintendent Hogg was trying to maintain an even tone, but there was an edge to his voice. ‘Nothing more than informed speculation, but the best we have. Brendan Sweetman is dealing. He claims Frankie Crowe said the money was stashed somewhere, a couple of hours away, there and back. Frankie’s strictly Dublin, but Sweetman says there’s a farmhouse in Meath, near Harte’s Cross, owned by a farmer by the name of Leo Titley. He says the farmer has previous with Frankie.’

John Grace gestured urgently to Nicky Bonner, who was up at the counter getting them both a coffee refill.

Hogg wanted Grace down at Harte’s Cross. ‘ERU are on their way. Could be nothing, could be Frankie’s bolt-hole. If there’s a stand-off, I want someone on the scene who knows him. If need be, soft-soap him. If he isn’t buying, let the ERU lads take care of him.’

Nicky was standing by the table, a
tell-me
expression on his face. John stood and began walking towards the exit, still talking to Hogg. He gestured to Nicky to follow. They took Nicky’s car.

Grace and Bonner linked up with the ERU at the station in Harte’s Cross and they’d been watching the house for all of ten minutes, as the ERU discussed how to approach the place, when a clapped-out Toyota pickup came round a bend in the track that led to the house. Almost on top of the police before he saw them, the driver stopped and started backing away, then thought better of it.

Grace and Bonner had been supplied with bright yellow garda identification jackets. They watched the armed squad pull the farmer from the pickup and push him to the ground, his hands cuffed behind him. Tall, stringy chap, ponytail. His name was Leo Titley, according to the local sergeant who led the way to the farm. The sergeant said Leo had returned to the area a few years back to farm the few acres his father left, and he wasn’t making a very good fist of it.

‘Quiet enough, mind you. Never known him to cause any trouble.’

The farmer looked shocked now as the policemen threw questions at him. Watching from some distance away, Grace and Bonner couldn’t hear what was being said. When the tactical commander brought Leo up the lane to the two detectives he said, ‘Mr Titley here says he’s got nothing to say.’

John Grace looked the farmer in the eye. ‘You’re being a fool. I don’t know how you got involved with Frankie, but this thing is way over your head.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

The farmer grunted as Nicky Bonner kicked him behind one knee and the leg went from under him and he stumbled and pitched forward. Bonner pushed him and he went over on to his back.

The ERU tactical commander shook his head and turned away. John Grace said, ‘Nicky—’

Bonner knelt down and slapped the farmer across the face.

Bonner said, ‘Try again. Where’s Frankie Crowe?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Bonner hit him again. ‘We’re talking about people with guns. The gloves are off, boyo. We have to go into that house, and we’re not going in blind.’

Leo said, ‘I’ve nothing to do with any Frankie. I don’t—’

Bonner got a handful of ponytail and jerked. Leo screamed. Bonner leaned close to the farmer’s ear. ‘It’s best if you know the score, so I’ll set you straight. We’ve got to go in there.’ His voice was soft. ‘Anyone of us gets as much as a scratch – I swear on my mother’s grave – you’ll end up dead on your own doorstep and we’ll put it down to Frankie.’

Bonner tapped Leo on the nose, hard. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ The farmer stared at Bonner.

There was a small rock lying in the grass near the farmer’s head. Bonner picked it up and smashed it into the farmer’s mouth. The man screeched and blood welled up from his lips.

Grace turned away. There was a harsh sound behind him, as the farmer sucked in air and it came out in a sob. When Grace looked round he saw the farmer drawing another ragged breath. There was blood on his teeth and a stringy length of red drool on his chin.

‘Do you understand me?’ Bonner asked.

The farmer groaned, then he nodded.

‘You have anything to tell me?’ Bonner said.

The farmer shook his head. He grunted, his voice distorted. ‘I swear. Frankie hasn’t been here in two days. There’s no one in there.’

There was no one in the farmhouse. The ERU smashed in the door and swept through the place. They opened closets, looked under beds and one of them stuck his head up into the attic and gave it a wipe of a flashlight. They went through the outbuildings.

‘There’s definitely nobody here,’ the tactical commander told John Grace. ‘Technical are on the way,’ he said. ‘Waste of time.’

Grace said he’d have a look around the house until Technical arrived.

The ERU mounted up, with Leo Titley handcuffed in the back seat of one of their cars, and Grace watched until they were out of sight. Behind him, Bonner emerged from the house, taking off the garda ID jacket. ‘Could be this one’s running away from us,’ he said.

‘Could be,’ Grace said, still looking off into the distance. He felt like they’d come to the end of something. This was going to be one of those things that never got properly tied up.

Bonner said, ‘Most likely, Frankie’s left the country by now.’

‘It’s possible.’ The victim was safe, that’s what mattered. Catching Frankie – they did or they didn’t. Either way, there’s always a Frankie to chase.

Bonner said, ‘Hope we didn’t promise Sweetman too much for the tip-off.’

They went back into the house. Bonner opened a window. The stale air held the scent of too many greasy meals half eaten and left lying overnight. Grace decided to have a look around in case there was something less obvious than a fugitive in a closet, or a foot sticking out from under a bed. Technical would do a proper search, taking photographs and fingerprints, the kind of stuff that might be needed if there was ever a trial. Meanwhile, it was possible that Crowe had left some small pointer to another hiding place. A note, a phone number, an address, a ticket, a receipt, a map. Within ten minutes, poking through the contents of a drawer in one of the bedrooms, Grace decided this was pointless. This was the hovel of a bachelor farmer. Frankie’s stay was short, he left no trace. It’s over, until Frankie turns up somewhere, sometime.

‘Boss,’ Nicky’s voice from the living room.

As quickly as the conviction had come that this was all over, it went. Nicky had found something.

The first thing Grace noticed when he went into the murky living room was the stillness of Bonner’s posture in the decrepit armchair. The second thing was Frankie Crowe, standing just inside the doorway, casually holding a gun, pointing it into the space between the two policemen.

There was a long silence.

Crowe’s eyes were puffy. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes.

Trying for a conversational tone, Grace said, ‘This doesn’t have to go the distance, Frankie. We can have a quiet finish, everything civilised.’

‘If I agree to sit in a cell for the next thirty years.’

He gestured to Bonner. ‘You got a gun?’ Nicky took off his jacket, turned round. Grace did the same. Neither man was armed.

Grace said, ‘Frankie, the way things are, we can—’

‘You can shut the fuck up.’

Crowe handcuffed the policemen together, back to back, then made them lie down. Grace, kneeling awkwardly, grunted as he felt a muscle twist in his leg. Rougher than he needed to be, and enjoying it, Frankie searched Bonner and took the policeman’s car keys. He found Grace’s mobile in a trouser pocket, threw it to the floor and stamped on it until it cracked open.

‘Where’s your mobile?’ Frankie asked Bonner.

‘Fuck off,’ Bonner said.

‘Probably in his jacket,’ Grace said. ‘Take it easy, Frankie, no need for aggravation.’

Crowe found Bonner’s mobile and smashed it.

Grace was thinking about Technical – they’d be here in an hour, give or take.

How far will Frankie get in an hour? What direction?

‘Traffic’s pretty heavy this time of day, Frankie. You hit Dublin, you’re crawling. Your picture’s all over the place. The ports, the airports, ferries; not a hope.’

Frankie ignored him. He used a length of wood with a hook at the top to pull down a spring-loaded rectangular panel in the centre of the ceiling. He unfolded the wooden Stira ladder attached to the panel and climbed up into the attic. A moment later he pushed a heavy holdall through the opening and let it fall to the floor. The second holdall hit the side of the table on the way down and knocked a half-empty teacup on to the floor. The cold tea soaked into the shabby carpet.

Frankie climbed down and left the ladder in place.

He got the two policemen to their feet, unlocked the handcuffs and cuffed them again, this time face to face, one of Grace’s arms through the rungs of the wooden ladder.

Frankie grunted as he lifted the first of the holdalls.

Looking at the solid wood of the ladder, John Grace reckoned it would take a lot of shifting. Both of them working together, he and Nicky could maybe loosen a rung.

‘Raping a woman like that, Frankie,’ Nicky said, ‘a woman with connections. Won’t be a station in the country doesn’t get a supplementary budget. All the overtime, won’t be one of us doesn’t have a summer home in Spain.’

Crowe seemed distracted, and when he spoke it was as though he was talking to himself. ‘Send me a postcard.’

Bonner said, ‘Up in Dublin, Frankie, your lads are queuing up to sing your praises. Martin Paxton, Brendan Sweetman –
it was all Frankie’s idea, Frankie got the money, Frankie raped the woman —
how do you think we got on to this place?’

Crowe turned towards Nicky and he looked as though he was about to say something, but he remained silent.

Grace said, ‘Nicky—’

Bonner said, ‘They’ll go down, but they’ll go down easy, that’s the idea. And when you’re living in some squat in Amsterdam, waiting for the heavy gang to come through the door with their guns blazing, they’ll get early parole.’

Frankie Crowe stared at Bonner.

‘What you reckon, Frankie, maybe the lads could take turns seeing if your missus needs a hand while you’re away?’

‘Nicky, cut it out,’ Grace said.

Crowe continued to stare at Bonner.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ Bonner said.

Crowe leaned over and spat in Bonner’s face. As the spittle slid down his cheek, the policeman wore a broad smile of contempt, as though he’d won a small victory.

When the money was tucked away in the boot of Nicky Bonner’s car, Frankie Crowe made himself comfortable behind the wheel. He reached down and slid the seat forward a couple of inches and adjusted the rear-view mirror. He started the engine and thought about the safest back-road route to Belfast. Dun Laoghaire, Cork and Rosslare would be tighter than a duck’s arse. Belfast gave him as good a chance as he could expect.

In the glove compartment he found an opened packet of Scots Clan. He took a toffee and listened to the engine ticking over. A solid car. Better than the piece of shit he’d had to use for the past couple of days. He sat there chewing until the sweet was all but gone. He took another Scots Clan, then he got out of the car.

Crowe was chewing when he came back into the house. He walked up to the two policemen and Grace didn’t see the gun in his hand until he pointed it at Bonner and shot him in the face. A small dark hole appeared in Bonner’s right cheek, an inch below the eye. It didn’t bleed. He was breathing harshly. His eyes open, he stood there, stunned, staring at Crowe.

Crowe said, ‘Cat got your tongue, smart-ass?’

Grace, barely audible, said, ‘Jesus, Frankie—’

Crowe ignored him. He pursed his lips at Bonner and made a kissing sound. Still chewing, he took his time pocketing the gun, then he turned and walked out of the house.

Bonner’s legs gave out from under him and he twisted as he fell. Grace’s arms were jerked forward and the metal bit into his hands as Bonner’s weight dragged at the handcuffs. Grace’s face smashed against the side of the ladder. Bonner hung there, his arms above his head, his hands held aloft by the handcuffs, his face a few inches away from John Grace’s wide eyes.

Bonner’s eyes were still open, his face was calm and he wasn’t breathing any more.

Grace was barely aware that he was making small, incoherent noises. He could hear a car moving off outside.

From the window of her room on the third floor of the Blackrock Clinic, Angela Kennedy looked down on a car park. She’d been staring at a fluorescent-green Volkswagen, trying to imagine who might have chosen such a silly colour. A giddy young nurse, maybe, full of the joys. Angela decided that if she sat by the window long enough she’d see the owner returning to the car.