The Rage (12 page)

Vincent rested a hand on the depot manager’s arm and spoke softly. ‘You won’t switch off that engine, will you, Turlough? If you do, the first thing happens is an alarm goes off at Protectica headquarters. The second thing happens is you get shot in the face.’

The depot manager stared at Vincent.

‘I know everything there is to know, Turlough – I know about overshoots, burners and blinders, carriers and maces, I know podmen, passwords and procedures – there’s no end to the things I know.’

‘Then you know I can’t get my hands on the money?’

‘I bet you could, Turlough, if you had to. But that’s not the job we’ve got for you this morning. All you’ve got to do is make a phone call.’ He tapped the manager’s breast pocket. ‘Use your own phone.’

‘Who do I call?’

‘You call the depot, you tell them you’ve a message for Mr Fry.’ The depot manager’s lips moved involuntarily. ‘Yeah, Turlough, we know all that stuff. You’re on your way to work and you’re not going to make it. You had to pull over, you’ve got a dose of something and you have to take the day off. You’re heading home. You tell them that.’

The manager took out his phone. He used the back of his hand to rub his lips.

‘One last thing, Turlough – we know all the code words. You mention a Mr Crown or a Mr Wilde – you fuck around at all – this whole show is over.’ Vincent made a face, like someone coming to terms with disappointment. ‘Then they find you sitting here with the back of your head all over the inside of your car. Next time we do this, the guy who takes your place knows we’re not kidding.’

The depot manager nodded, his face pale. He tapped a couple of buttons, then raised the phone to his ear.

At Castlepoint Garda Station, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg shook Bob Tidey’s hand and said, ‘No point sitting down – conference is due to start in a couple of minutes.’

Tidey had never worked with Hogg, but knew him by reputation. Ambitious, a ladder-climber, but a solid enough policeman. Hogg said, ‘We’re down the corridor,’ and led the way out of his temporary office. Walking behind Hogg, Tidey noted that the rumours were true. He dyed his hair.

‘Colin rates you highly,’ Hogg said.

‘We worked together, back in the day. He rose to the top, I’m still knocking on doors. I think he feels sorry for me.’

Hogg’s smile was rueful. ‘We could do with another experienced hand on this case, but if there’s one thing we didn’t need it was a whole new line of inquiry.’

Tidey said, ‘How big’s the team?’

‘At its core, handpicked by Colin, seven of the best detectives we have. Well, perhaps six. But that’s OK – every investigation needs someone to make phone calls, coffee and witless remarks. Plus the usual filers and statement takers.’

Hogg gestured towards a door. ‘In here. Listen and learn – you’ll get a thorough briefing later.’

The room wasn’t made for nine people, and it felt cramped. Hogg stood, the rest of the detectives found seats or the edges of desks. Tidey sat on the side of one of the desks, next to a fat, red-faced detective.

The case conference was mostly a run through the Jobs Book, noting assignments completed, none of them apparently fruitful. An analysis of questionnaire results, a background report on the husband of some woman who was apparently romantically involved with the victim. A lot of disconnected facts that didn’t make much sense out of context. Tidey spent some time trying to work out which of the detectives was the Homer Simpson. They all sounded like they knew what they are doing. Hogg kept things moving, prodding detectives where they were too sketchy, cutting across them when they rambled. It was a daily base-touching exercise, ticking off a handful of tasks from what was obviously a long list.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey, Cavendish Avenue. He’s here this morning on the instructions of Assistant Commissioner O’Keefe.’ Hogg made a take-the-floor gesture. ‘Tell them why you’re here, Detective Sergeant.’

Bob Tidey opened his notebook. ‘The best part of eighteen months ago, a young man named Oliver Snead was murdered in Glencara – a hit job, in front of the block of flats where he lived. Oliver lost some drugs he was supposed to deliver – small-time stuff, but enough to piss someone off. He was trying to pay them back, but not fast enough. Two bullets in the chest, one in the head. We recovered the cartridges. And according to the ballistic report on the Emmet Sweetman killing, Technical got a match – same striations, same gun.’ Tidey checked his notebook. ‘The bullet was a .45 ACP, most probably fired from a Browning M1911 – it’s a fairly common weapon.’

The only woman on the team, sitting close to the door, said, ‘Any suspects?’ Bob Tidey had worked with her briefly a couple of years back. He shook his head. ‘I knew the kid – knew his grandfather – I put a lot of time into that case. I eventually got a name – Gerry FitzGerald, a known hood. A tout picked up a whisper, but not enough to bring to court.’

‘You pulled him in?’

‘Name, rank and serial number.’

Hogg said, ‘What matters is this – how come a forty-two-year-old millionaire banker and property speculator, a man at the heart of the property bubble, a man who was murdered in the doorway of his Southside mansion, got shot dead with the same weapon that killed a minor mule on the Northside Dublin drug scene? It opens up a new line of inquiry – in a case that already has more than enough.’

The police officer’s ideal murder case isn’t one that involves clues and alibis, obscure poisons and convoluted motives. The ideal murder is one in which the victim is known to have pissed someone off and when the police arrive that someone is standing over the body with a bloody axe in his hand. With a bit of luck, several people witnessed what happened and someone has already uploaded a thirty-second video of the killing onto YouTube. Anything much more complicated was a pain in the arse.

The fat, red-faced detective next to Tidey said, ‘Maybe someone sold someone else a gun? Simple as that.’

‘Possible,’ Hogg said. ‘It’s an orderly world, though. We have our lowlife gangsters – scams and hold-ups, smuggling, drugs, sex trade and protection rackets, all the mucky stuff. And we have our highlife gangsters – who do their thieving through layers of companies, hidden bank accounts, bribes, forgeries and offshore cut-outs. How does the gun get from one side of the city to another? From one category of crime to another? From one social class to another? A money grudge involving a ghetto kid, and a millionaire fraudster?’

One of the detectives said, ‘I’m still betting on some IRA types. They shoot drug dealers – and there’d be almost as much kudos these days in shooting bankers.’

Hogg said, ‘The Branch’s touts haven’t heard a word. Could be some new faction, of course.’

The fat detective said, ‘How does this kid – this Snead killing – how does it change things operationally, sir?’

‘Bob Tidey will concentrate on possible connections between the two murders. The rest of you will continue working through the existing lines of inquiry. Anything that might relate to the mucky side of the business, you let Bob know. If some business-school gangsters have begun calling in gunmen instead of lawyers – no one knows where that kind of thing leads.’

Vincent Naylor smiled and said, ‘That was very good.’ He took the phone out of Turlough McGuigan’s limp hand. ‘You nearly had me convinced you’re having a sick day.’

Vincent waved at the Megane. Moments later, Noel got out of the car and climbed into the rear of the Suzuki. He too wore round sunglasses and a moustache. A floppy white hat hid his hair.

Noel spoke to Vincent, but smiled at the depot manager. ‘He being sensible?’

‘Turlough’s a good boy.’

Noel said, ‘Take off your shirt, Turlough.’

‘What?’

‘Put this on.’ Noel dropped a dark purple sweatshirt into the depot manager’s lap. ‘And hurry.’

‘What the fuck?’

Vincent said, ‘You know why, Turlough, you know why.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘We know everything, Turlough,’ Vincent said. ‘Passwords, codes, schedules, names, addresses, how everything’s done – after this I could set up my own security business, the kind of stuff we know.’

His trembling fingers made the buttons difficult, but the depot manager took off his white shirt and gave it to Vincent. He pulled on the purple sweatshirt.

‘Good man,’ Vincent said.

Vincent handed the shirt to Noel, who clapped Turlough on the back and said, ‘Time to go, man.’

Vincent said, ‘We get out, now, Turlough, you and me. And we take the Megane.’ A minute later, Vincent and the depot manager were sitting in the front of the Megane, as Noel pulled away in the Suzuki, Turlough’s white shirt on the passenger seat beside him.

Over most of the previous decade, every cash-in-transit robbery was followed by security companies promising tougher procedures, and embarrassed Ministers for Justice threatening drastic regulation. The companies got a makeover. Tighter protocols, more sophisticated technology, consultants brought in to game-play the business until they’d accounted for just about every possible scenario.

‘Going to be tougher than ever,’ Vincent told Noel, ‘specially after that Bank of Ireland guy.’ Just as the recession hit, and the banks slid towards insolvency, a Bank of Ireland employee’s family was taken and he ended up walking out of the vaults with seven million, which was the ransom for their return. ‘Anyone with a key to the money – there’s going to be so much technology all over him and his family. Anything that big, it’s too chancy.’

Noel looked disappointed. ‘It’s worth a try, that kind of money.’

‘I’m not saying we can’t do it. Long as we don’t get too greedy – long as we do it fast enough, keep it small enough, we can take a bundle and we’ll be home safe before they know it’s gone.’

When Turlough McGuigan called in sick, the information would have been passed on to Protectica base, where the signal from the GPS chip in his Suzuki would show that his car had stopped on his way to work, the stop coinciding with the phone call. After the call, the GPS screen would show the car heading back to McGuigan’s home, and the signal from the GPS chip implanted in McGuigan’s shirt collar would confirm to HQ that the depot manager was in his car.

‘What do you want me to do?’

Vincent Naylor leaned towards McGuigan and spoke quietly. ‘No hysterics, now – OK? And no playing the hero.’

Vincent took a mobile phone from a pocket of his shorts and tapped the keys half a dozen times, then he found what he wanted and held the screen up so McGuigan could see.

It took a moment, then the depot manager was breathing fast and hard and it looked like he was about to be sick.

As the case conference broke up, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg crooked a finger at the woman detective. ‘Rose, a job for you.’

She shuffled her files and gave him a
Gee, thanks I was hoping I could cram some more work into my day
smile. As she approached, Hogg turned to Bob Tidey – ‘Detective Garda Rose Cheney, Macken Road.’

‘We’ve met,’ Cheney said.

‘The Boyce arrest,’ Tidey said.

Hogg said, ‘All the better, then. Bob needs a backgrounder, and I want you to help him look at possible links between the murders.’

‘No problem, sir.’ She looked at Tidey and inclined her head towards the door.

Walking down the corridor, Tidey said, ‘Sorry to be a bother – I imagine you’ve enough on your plate.’

‘Not to worry.’

‘Maybe we better find a quiet corner, so you can fill me in.’

‘Better still – why don’t I dump these files and meet you out front, take you to have a look at the murder scene? It’s mostly cleaned up now, but you’ll get the picture.’

‘I had a look at the outside of the house – not a lot of help. A look inside can’t hurt.’

‘I’ll drive.’

‘Take this, Turlough. Hold onto it.’ Vincent held out the mobile. The depot manager took the phone like it was an infected thing.

‘Any time you want, Turlough, you tap open the photo album and you look at the picture.’

The photo in the mobile was something Turlough McGuigan never wanted to see again. It showed his wife. She was wearing the same top she’d had on when Turlough had left for work less than an hour earlier. White, with red piping around the neckline and the ends of the short sleeves. There was a man standing beside Deirdre, a man in a Superman T-shirt, wearing a baseball hat and round shades. The man had an arm around Deirdre’s shoulders, his hand coming down, casually cupping her right breast. Deirdre looked out from the picture, her face pale, terror flaring in her eyes.

‘I’ve got no access to money,’ Turlough McGuigan said. ‘If I try to pick up money, there’s no way—’

‘We don’t expect you to bring us any money.’

McGuigan stared at Vincent. ‘What’s it for, then? Why you doing this to me – to her?’

‘One thing you should know – my people went into the house five minutes after you left. She hadn’t time to take the kids to school – they’re there, too.’

‘
Fuck you
.’

‘That’s what I’d say, in your position, Turlough – you’re entitled. But, just so you know – any pissing about on your part, it’s over. My people don’t hear from me – they have their orders.’