The Midnight Choir (26 page)

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Authors: Gene Kerrigan

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural

BOOK: The Midnight Choir
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After a long time, they pulled the bag off his head. Matty sat him up and put one hand around Brendan’s throat. Brendan sobbed. He looked down at his legs and felt something heave inside his chest.
The younger one leaned forward and used an index finger to flick at Brendan’s nose.
‘Muppet,’ he said.
Matty was speaking into Brendan’s ear. ‘The DVD factory – right? I want the name of the copper you talked to. Lie to me, and it starts all over again and I won’t ask you another question for a whole hour.’
Brendan remembered one of Lar Mackendrick’s mates telling him about DVDs –
Jesus, that was just in one ear and out the other –
and he wanted to say that he’d never whispered a word to the police about that or anything else. He wanted to say that he hardly remembered anything the fella had said about a DVD factory, but he knew that was the wrong answer.
‘Look, I swear I didn’t—’ Brendan said, trying to think as the waves of pain rolled up from his burning shins. ‘All I—’
‘Time’s up,’ Matty said.
And the bag went on Brendan’s head again and he was down on his back and someone was holding his feet and he screamed even before the bar came down on his shins. When the second blow came it felt like his tormentors had smashed through to a deeper, more sensitive layer.
After a while, incapable of thought, his mind abandoned to agony, a flash of memory connected and held and Brendan screamed that he’d told her, he’d told the bitch.
‘The bitch! The fucking bitch! It must—’
But the blows continued and he passed out again. Then they took the bag off and threw water on his face once more and when his head cleared Matty took him by the throat and said, ‘Tell me.’
*
It was about five minutes from the end of the Mass when Harry Synnott’s phone vibrated silently in his pocket. He took it out and the screen showed
Withheld
. A man kneeling in the pew across the aisle was staring at him like he’d farted in church. Synnott thumbed a button to accept the call, then held the phone down by his side as he rose and walked quickly towards the back of the church.
‘Mr Synnott, you’re my last chance.’
Standing in the church porch, Synnott closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and when he opened them his voice was flat and hard. ‘I’m not a bank, Dixie, and you’ve got no collateral.’
‘Things are – Brendan is in trouble, apart from – two hundred, I’ll get the rest somewhere, but you can afford—’
‘You’re dreaming, Dixie. What we have is a business relationship and you haven’t been doing the business.’
‘There’s things I know, there’s things you’d—’
As Dixie yapped away, a possibility occurred to Synnott. He stepped out of the church porch and moved a few feet to the left of the front door. When she paused, although there was no one within yards, Synnott kept his voice low.
‘Joshua Boyce?’
‘What?’
‘You remember him? He grew up in Cairnloch, he was still there around the time you and Owen—’
‘I haven’t seen Joshua in years. He was never, he was older than me, I’d nothing to do with him, I barely knew him.’
‘Think about it, Dixie. Something someone said, maybe something about who’s fencing for Joshua these days. Maybe he’s got a lock-up somewhere, keeps his stuff there, maybe anything.’
There was silence for a while and then Synnott said, ‘No?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Synnott, I just haven’t seen him in years.’
‘No play, no pay.’
‘Mr Synnott, I need—’
Synnott ended the call.
Long shot. Dixie and Joshua Boyce, they move in different circles.
The early leavers were already trickling out of Mass. Synnott decided not to go back inside. It was nearing midday and Haddington Road, a long straight street lined with trees, looked pretty in the sunshine. The ministerial Mercedes parked at the kerb outside the church railings fitted in with the feel of the street. Tall, handsome houses, expensive offices, and it was warm enough for some of the Sunday-morning strollers to sport their favourite rugby shirts.
Synnott approached the Mercedes and nodded to the detective behind the wheel, whose return nod indicated recognition. Synnott leaned down. ‘He got any other appointments this morning?’
The detective – Synnott remembered his name, Brannigan – shook his head. ‘Lunch at home with the family, then a speech this evening.’
‘Speechifying on a Sunday? Busy man.’
‘In his business, you can never shake too many hands.’
‘How many Masses has he been to this morning?’
Brannigan smiled. ‘Two, in the constituency, plus this one. The constituency Masses are so’s he can meet the grass roots. Was a time he’d go right through the race card, but you don’t get the crowds any more.’
‘What’s he doing here? It’s not his constituency.’
The detective said, ‘This is the kind of gig where he might run into the nobility.’
Synnott watched the Minister for Justice standing outside the church door when Mass ended, shaking hands with a succession of fellow worshippers. Mass attendance mightn’t be what it was, since the child abuse scandals, but Synnott reckoned it was on the up. In recent years, as the economy surged, Synnott had noticed a significant revival of Mass-going among the more affluent. He wondered if it was some form of thanksgiving, or maybe an offering to the gods who could stave off a return to the relative penury of old.
He noticed one couple being greeted by the minister, the man with a puffy red face and a well-cultivated moustache, the woman at least two decades younger. The man’s face was familiar. Then Brannigan said the name and Synnott remembered – something to do with horses. People in that business had the kind of money that gets a politician’s close attention. The minister held the horsy man’s elbow as they spoke, their heads close together.
Brannigan started the Mercedes’s engine. When the minister strode across the pavement, his smile wide, his cheeks shiny, he clapped Synnott on the shoulder and said, ‘Off we go.’
Brannigan was right. A dour bastard.
The minister adjusted his backside into the Merc’s leather and smiled across at Detective Inspector Synnott. Good man, exemplary record of service, but hardly the type to fit comfortably into the upper echelons of the force. No social skills.
‘Thanks for taking the time – it’s just a matter of touching base before we take this Europol thing any further.’
‘No bother, sir.’
‘Brannigan will take you wherever you wish, once he’s dropped me home.’
The minister noted Synnott’s ready-made smile. No hint of genuine appreciation at being singled out. The Europol job was the ideal slot for a capable high-profile copper with compatibility problems. Promotion, but to a position that required more concentration and application than political shrewdness.
‘There was a time, Harry, when a job like this Europol thing would go to whatever police officer was next in line for a favour. As long as he had the proper connections and he’d played the game the right way.’ The minister had a file open on his lap. He stopped skimming through the file and continued to speak as he assessed a buff-coloured document.
‘Not any more. These days it’s quality that counts. That’s the hallmark of the new Ireland. These days, when we step onto the world stage we set an example.’ He closed the file and looked across at Synnott.
‘Whatever the task, the new Ireland puts its best people forward. Look at Bono. Shaking the conscience of the globe. That gives us a kind of credibility you can’t buy. Geldof, too. He has a mouth on him, that man, but his heart’s in the right place.’ The minister turned towards Synnott and leaned forward. ‘Name a field, we’re shining in it. Ryanair, Jesus – they started from nothing, they end up practically running the European airline industry. Our horse breeders – we’ve got Arabs coming cap in hand to get our stallions to knock up their flea-bitten nags. There was a time, if we came third in the Eurovision Song Contest we were creaming ourselves for months. These past few years, Booker Prizes, Nobel Prizes, Olympic golds, the rugby team kicking the arse off the lot of them, the native games stronger than ever. The soccer lads – well, we’ll rise again.’
The minister could see that Synnott was beginning to understand the compliment he was being paid in being considered for the position.
‘That’s the level of excellence you’ll be aiming for, Harry, if you take this job. You’re representing your country. I said to Colin O’Keefe, I said – I want someone with the street smarts and the intellect, someone who can represent a country that doesn’t settle for second-best. And he gave me you. Are you up for it, Harry?’
Harry Synnott tried not to look at the tiny piece of spittle that had landed on the left lapel of the minister’s jacket during his speech. He hoped his own expression appeared sincere enough to cloak the resentment he felt at being expected to perform for a politician. Either he was a good enough policeman for the job or he wasn’t.
‘I think I’ve shown, minister, that—’
‘Have you ever met any of these bang-bang merchants yourself, personally?’
Synnott tried not to look puzzled.
‘The gangsters. The hard lads. The General, he’s long dead, of course. The Viper, the Coach, John Gilligan, Tommy Farr, the Mackendrick brothers – those toughies. What are they like? What are their ambitions?’
Same as yours, minister, same as your horsy friend’s. They want position and wealth with the least amount of sweat possible. They do whatever it takes.
Synnott wondered for a moment if he should answer honestly. Then he decided that the truth didn’t matter, just the performance.
Shuffle your feet for the minister.
‘Very determined people, very dangerous.’
Synnott said something about the geographical spread of the gangs, the ruthlessness of the young guns and the resilience of the older outfits.
If they had the connections to get in on a stock option or to front a sure-thing property deal, that’s what they’d do. Instead, they know how to import coke, organise bank raids, bully a string of prostitutes and wallop the shit out of anyone who looks crooked at them. They’re the brightest and most enterprising people in their community.
For a passing moment Synnott was tempted to drop the word ‘entrepreneurs’ into his patter, just to see how the minister would take it.
‘They’re strong, but we’re making inroads. It makes a difference when a police force knows that it has a minister who’s genuinely interested in the problem.’
Synnott hoped he wasn’t blushing. The minister was nodding, seeming to accept the compliment as no more than a statement of fact.
‘Weaknesses?’
Same as yours, minister, same as your horsy friend’s.
‘They reach a stage where they feel free to stamp on anyone who gets in their way, even their own henchmen, and that leaves a lot of damaged people who sometimes talk to us about them.’
The minister nodded. ‘This gangster that shot the security guard—’
Synnott had to make a quick adjustment. Joshua Boyce had nothing to do with the gangs – it was a different kind of crime, but there was no point trying to explain that. The minister saw crime as one big problem, instead of the accumulation of diverse wickednesses that Synnott dealt with.
Synnott said, ‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry.’
‘I’ve heard you’ve got him in your sights. What kind of man are we talking about?’
Synnott said, ‘Well, it’s early days—’
Jesus.
Talking to a civilian, even the Minister for Justice, about operational matters –
fuck that.
The minister’s mouth made a pursing movement after every sentence. ‘A public-spirited young man, cut down by a gangster. This is one we’re all watching, Harry. And from what I hear, you’ve got the bastard teed up and ready, that right?’
‘I’m hopeful. We have a lead or two, we’re working hard.’
The minister crossed his arms. He was staring ahead when he spoke.
‘These days, Harry, we get things done. On the streets at home, or on the world stage. I’m counting on you.’
The Merc turned onto a short street, both pavements shaded by lines of trees. The houses were mostly three-storeyed, with basement flats and steep steps up to the front doors. Fifty feet along the street, the car pulled in to the kerb.
The minister said, ‘On the world stage, we’re punching above our weight.’ Synnott watched another tiny piece of spittle arc away from the minister’s mouth, towards him, falling away below his eye-line. He forced himself not to look down to see where it landed. ‘This country used to specialise in moral victories, Harry. We’d take a beating, slink away, tail between our legs, and then we’d brighten up and we’d say it was a moral victory for such a wee nation just to be allowed on the pitch.’

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