Undercover (17 page)

"Don't worry about it. We're here now."

Cormac drove past a couple of terraced blocks and turned left. Mattie shifted on his seat to get a better look at the faded Republican mural on the corner of a house on their right. Cormac stifled a sigh and eased the Leon up a slight incline. He mounted the curb outside a semi-detached house on their right and yanked up the handbrake.

"I won't be long," Cormac said.

"Can't I go in with you?"

"No. I've a feeling this guy's going to be prickly enough. Don't worry. You'll be safe here. Just don't open the door to any smartarse kids, all right? Friend of mine lost his car once when a wee hood told him he'd a flat tyre. He got out of his car to check it and the kid jumped in.
Vroom
. Eat my dust, and all that shite."

Mattie snorted. "That's a pretty good one, though."

"Yeah, they're dead innovative, aren't they?" He patted Mattie's shoulder awkwardly. "I won't be long. Just sit tight."

Cormac found a chamois leather cloth in the door compartment, got out of the car and went to the boot. He yanked it open and cracked Big Frank a good one on the jaw. It didn't knock him out but the square-headed thug was dazed enough to allow Cormac to stuff the chamois into his mouth. He slammed the lid closed and thumbed the key fob. The car flashed hazard lights and the locks slid into place with a clunk. Cormac took a deep breath before he dragged his feet up the short garden path to the front door of the semi.

The doorbell's chime started out strong then became a distorted stutter on the second push. Cormac took a step backwards and waited. He cleared his throat so his initial greeting wouldn't squeak.
This is a mistake
, he thought.

Declan Canavan's bulldog features filled the little square of glass set high in the PVC door. He screwed up his face as if a swarm of wasps had flown up his trouser leg. Deadbolts and Chubb locks disengaged. The door opened and Canavan beckoned Cormac in with a curling finger.

"Hurry up, you fucking imbecile," Canavan said. "Before someone sees you."

Cormac stepped out of the cool night air into the stuffy confines of Canavan's lamp-lit hallway.

"Close the door behind you, Kelly."

Cormac's eyes traced the bulky mix of muscle and fat that jostled together under the back of Canavan's T-shirt with each heavy step. He followed the squat brute into his kitchen at the back of his house. A laptop whirred on the table top. Canavan sat in front of it and closed the lid. He directed Cormac to the seat opposite. Cormac stood behind the chair and laid his hands on the backrest. He didn't intend to stay long.

"How goes the cause, Canavan?"

"Don't be cute, son. What do you want?"

"A favour."

"You haven't returned my last one. And if the reports I'm hearing are right, that particular act of generosity might bite me in the hole yet."

Cormac leant forward, pressed down on the back of the chair. "You've heard something, then?"

Canavan shook his head. Heavy jowls shifted into a canine grin. "What are you like, Kelly? If you ever come into money, that's the time to share the wealth. Keep all this trouble to yourself."

"I need your help."

"And I need peace to do my own job."

Cormac looked over Canavan's head. A picture of the island of Ireland in a cheap frame hung on the wall behind him. A banner in green font circled the map. It said "In Defence of the Nation". Below it the number "32" stood out in black. It was a reference to the thirty-two counties of Ireland. North and South united. Dissident Republican shite.

"Have you or any of your
boys
heard from Ambrose O'Neill in the last few hours?"

"I've heard nothing. If the boys have, it hasn't got back to me yet."

"Can you find out?"

"No."

Cormac blinked. "Why not?"

"There are more important things at stake here. If you've fucked up your assignment, I'm very sorry about that, but it's not my problem. You've gotten as much help as you're going to get from me. I got you into the gang, for fuck's sake, and God knows what I have to deal with now that O'Neill has obviously gone against me to toss you to the side. I'm washing my hands of you."

"Stop acting like getting me into the crew was a personal favour. You were ordered to help me out."

Canavan drummed his fingers on the lid of his laptop. "Right, well, I'll await further orders from on high. Fair enough? Until then, get the fuck out of my house."

"I think there's a leak at HQ."

"We're done here, Kelly."

Cormac felt the weight of the Glock against his ribs. His hand twitched but he restrained it from reaching into his pea coat. Instead, he snagged his wallet out of his back pocket and drew a receipt from one of the slots. He took a pen from Canavan's table and scribbled down the number of the phone he'd taken off Sporty Shane.

"It's in your interests as much as it is mine if there's something rotten going on. Look into it and let me know what you find out."

"You're giving me orders now? I've got ten years on you, pup."

Cormac wanted to spit into Canavan's big jowly face. But he swallowed back a sour mouthful of saliva and asked for his next favour.

"I need ammo. Maybe a better gun." He took the Glock from his pocket and set it down on the tabletop. "I've no idea how reliable this one will be. The crew's hardware was a little on the shitty side."

"Aye, guns are a wee bit rarer round these parts since decommissioning." Canavan reached for the Glock and examined it in the low wattage light. "Bit of a fixer-upper all right." He pointed the gun at Cormac. "But I'm sure it still works."

Cormac stared into the muzzle. He was unfazed by Canavan's antics. The guy had always been a bit of a prick.

"Can you help me or not?"

Canavan set the gun down.

"You're a pain in the hole, Kelly. But I'll help you one last time. After this, we're quits, right? Don't even ask me for a stick of chewing gum."

"Just get me a decent shooter, mate."

###

L
ydia coughed then said, "Who are you?" Her throat was raw and her speech husky.

"Stephen Black."

"Yes, you told me your name, but who are you? Are you a policeman?"

"Oh, dear lady, no. A common police officer? God forbid. I'm a security consultant, currently in Mr McGoldrick's employ."

Lydia eyed the pistol still aimed at Rory's head. Its barrel elongated. Lydia's movie-gleaned knowledge of guns recognised it as a silencer.

"Do security consultants usually carry guns?"

"The expensive ones do." He closed over the front door. "Now, what are we to do with Mr Cullen?"

Rory's hands were latticed on top of his head. He looked over his shoulder, through the triangle created by his crooked arm. "Stop pointing that gun at me for a start."

"Can we trust you to behave yourself?"

"Yes."

"Good." Stephen Black tucked the gun into a shoulder holster and zipped his tracksuit top over it. "It'd be a shame to shoot such a valuable man."

Lydia got to her feet, slow and steady. She used the wall for support until she could trust her balance. Rory would have killed her. The thought of it didn't seem to connect with reality. A man she'd spent so much time with. He'd sat in her office, travelled with her, had dinner with her family for Christ's sake. And all that time he had the potential to strangle her to death. Lydia tried to push the thought away. She didn't know what else to do with it.

For his part, Rory merely looked confused. He was stood upright, one hand hung awkwardly by his side, the other twitched at the hem of his un-tucked shirt. The anger had washed away from his face and he was wide-eyed. It wasn't fear of being shot by Stephen Black, as far as she could tell, but a kind of childish wonder. She could almost hear the "what if" questions going off in his mind.

"I... I'm sorry, Lydia."

Lydia rubbed her neck and shook her head. She wasn't ready to talk to him yet.

"Right!" Stephen Black's voice was bright and breezy. "Shall we get you two to Mr McGoldrick's office, then? He's very keen to talk to you."

"What about?" Lydia asked.

"I suppose you'd be best to ask him. At this moment in time, I'm merely your driver." He jangled a set of car keys. There was a Vauxhall keyring attached. "I'm parked out front. Cullen, you'll be in the passenger seat. I think Mrs Gallagher needs a little time to herself. Rest her throat and such."

Rory didn't move.

"Chop-chop, Mr Cullen. And don't forget to lock up. There are some dodgy characters in this world. Even in a street as upmarket as this one."

––––––––

O
kay, some of us
do
think we're above the law. But it's not often we push it too far. I mean, short of shooting an intern with a pellet gun, most of what we get away with isn't that serious. We're just a bunch of lads messing around. There's no harm in that, for the most part.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

M
attie pumped up the stereo and nodded to the beat. He'd retrieved the Faithless CD from under the seat. The music was too loud, the high-end snare piercing Cormac's eardrums while the bass thrummed deep in his chest. He looked sideways at Mattie, intended to ask him to turn the noise down to a bearable level but the words stuck in his throat. The kid looked almost happy. Cormac was reluctant to snatch that little bit of escape from him. Surely he could bear the relentless drum and bass for a few tracks.

Mattie laid his forearm across his eyes. Now the kid was crying. Cormac averted his gaze. Mattie turned down the music and tapped Cormac's upper arm.

"Can you pull over for a second?"

Cormac mounted the kerb just before the exit from the Ballymurphy estate. Mattie opened the passenger door and puked. He coughed and spat a mix of mucus, saliva and bile onto the footpath. Cormac reached out to rub the kid's back then withdrew his hand. He felt awkward and useless. Leagues out of his depth.

Then Mattie straightened up in his seat. He flexed his damaged left hand slightly and hissed. Like he was trying to blame his broken fingers for the vomit and tears. Without a word, Cormac started the car. Maxi Jazz's smoke-ravaged vocals assaulted them until Mattie reached out and reduced the volume to a background rumble. Cormac pulled out onto the Whiterock Road.

"I'm sorry," Mattie said.

"You've nothing to be sorry about."

"Yeah, right."

Cormac shifted gears. Wracked his brains for wise or comforting sounds. He had nothing.

"It's the pain," Mattie said.

"Are Donna's pills not doing anything for you?"

"I'm not talking about my hand."

"Oh. Right."

"It's like I need to punch something but I can't." Mattie fidgeted like a speed freak as he tried to explain. "Something's eating me up inside. I don't know how to stop it. There'll be nothing left of me if I don't stop it but I don't know how."

Cormac's grip tightened on the wheel. Mattie had no idea what was happening to his mother and his gut-shot father had been dumped in a hospital in a city he didn't know. The stress was getting to the poor kid.

"We've done it, though. We just have to get you back to your ma, Mattie. You'll be back in London in no time and this'll all be a shitty memory."

"My dad could die, couldn't he?"

Cormac shook his head. "He's a strong guy, mate. And the wound's definitely not fatal. The worst can happen to him at this stage is a nasty infection and that's the truth. He'll pull through."

"Cormac?" The name didn't roll naturally from Mattie's English tongue.

"Mattie."

"My dad wasn't much use, was he?"

Cormac hesitated. Weighed his options and decided to be as straight as he could with the kid. "You're being a little hard on him. There wasn't much he could have done."

"He could have gotten us out of there. Why didn't he put up more of a fight? He always tells me I need to be tough. But when it came to it, he couldn't stand up to those bastards."

"Just try not to think about it for now," Cormac said.

"Wow, great idea. Why didn't I think of that?" Mattie opened and slammed shut the glove box. "Easy-fucking-peasy, right?"

Cormac bit back a reprimand about respecting other people's cars. He probably owed him a free pass. Accident or not, he
had
shot the kid's father.

In happier times, Donna used to tease Cormac about his apparent inability to feel the softer emotions. And like most teases, even from those who care the most, there was more than a grain of truth in it. Cormac sometimes worried that his capacity for empathy was subpar to that of his modern, sensitive contemporaries. That he was some sort of anachronism born into the wrong decade. He didn't cry at funerals – not even his father's. Babies held little fascination for him. And he'd never fully opened up to a companion. Donna had gotten closer to him than anybody else, but there'd always been a blank wall between them. Something that made it impossible for them to truly connect. And although he was incapable of it, he sensed that Mattie needed an emotional connection with somebody. Somebody he wasn't embarrassed to cry in front of. Somebody he didn't feel the need to act tough for. Somebody other than Cormac.

He owned up. "I really don't know how to make you feel better, Mattie."

"I don't want to feel better." Mattie snuffled. "Just leave me alone."

Cormac noticed a small cluster of shops on the road. One of them was still open, the vulgar glow from its fluorescent sign intruding on the darkening atmosphere. An off licence. He double parked on the road and waved a visibly disgruntled taxi driver past him.

"Mattie, forget I'm a cop for a minute."

"Okay..."

"Have you started drinking yet?"

"I'm thirteen."

"Never?"

Mattie shook his head.

"Right, I reckon this is a good time to start."

Cormac unfastened his seatbelt and reached for the door handle.

"Wait," Mattie said. "I'll be okay. I'm sorry."