Little Criminals (12 page)

‘I reckon the longer the better.’

‘You might be right. You might be wrong. Fifty-fifty.’

Waiting for a jury to come back had no upside. The joys of coffee in the local pubs soon faded. Then it was down to mooching around the court corridors, accumulating dead time. Even if they quickly made up their minds, a jury usually liked to take at least a couple of hours, so no one would think they weren’t taking their duties seriously. Waiting for a jury that might come back five minutes from now or five hours was a recipe for heartburn, unless you found a way to blank it all out.

‘Out of gas.’

‘Sorry?’ said Nicky Bonner.

‘The tank is empty in America,’ said John Grace. ‘Three, two, three. Out of gas.’ He inked in the crossword.

The court clerk appeared at the door of the courtroom and gave a thumbs up.

Grace and Bonner stood, Dolores put her tit back in her blouse, her boyfriend rubbed his palms together, and they all started moving towards the courtroom.

Grace watched Mr Big Shot shuffle towards his fate. A bulky little man with a pout. Since the pub fight, the poor clown had come close to a nervous breakdown, and doubts had been raised about whether he was fit to stand trial. Grace felt sorry for the stupid fucker. Putting him in jail wouldn’t do anybody any good. Sure, he was a danger to society. So are most people who get tanked up, and you can’t lock them all up. But that’s the job. If someone gets thumped and they die, the law ordains that you arrest the thumper and bring him before His Lordship. The charge should be stupidity and bad luck, but they don’t have laws against things like that, so the nearest that fits is manslaughter.

‘He’s not looking such a smart-ass now, is he?’ said Nicky Bonner.

John Grace grunted.

On a bench at the end of the corridor, a thin woman sat with an elderly couple. The victim’s wife and her parents. No one else from his family had attended the trial. They rose slowly, as though dreading entering the courtroom, their faces as strained as the defendant’s.

Angela Kennedy glanced at the small TV at the end of the kitchen counter. The nine o’clock news was on, something about a government minister denying something categorically. Angela was racking plates in the dishwasher. Out in the dining room, Justin and the kids were on their second portions of birthday cake. Angela had decided to skip it. She had cooked Justin’s favourite meal, a lasagne, and had herself eaten only a small portion, filling out her plate with salad.

It was the first evening in weeks that all four of them had sat down together for dinner, and it took Justin’s birthday to accomplish that.

Without the kids, Justin would insist on ignoring his birthdays, seeing them as unwelcome reminders of a finite and dwindling supply of time. For Luke and Saskia, aged eight and nine, any anniversary was a cue for a fuss, and they treasured being allowed to stay up a little later than usual. The kids were still slightly bemused at the dullness of adult birthday parties. No decorations worth speaking of, no games, just a token cake and hardly any goodies.

‘Adults can have
anything
they want,’ Saskia said. ‘Daddy could have a party in a disco, or on a yacht, adults can do anything they like. But their birthday parties are always so
boring
!’

As Angela left the kitchen, carrying two cups of coffee, there was something on the TV about a verdict in a manslaughter trial. The kitchen door swung closed behind her as the screen showed a fat little man with a sweaty face being led out in handcuffs, climbing cautiously into a van.

An hour later, the kids were in bed – it was a Wednesday, a school night, they’d been up later than usual, and there were no stories, no reading, they were both ready to drop. In the living room, there were candles alight on the mantelpiece, Angela was pouring the last of the wine, and Justin was wearing Luke’s present – a Dublin GAA football team shirt – and sliding Saskia’s present into the CD player. As the first track of the Elvis Presley greatest-hits album swaggered out of the Bose speakers, Justin sprawled on the sofa and looked up at Angela. He admired the burgundy dress, the colour and the flattering cut, what it did for her, and for him. He held up his arms and she went to him and they kissed, at first with affection and then with passion.

He made his eyebrows do a Groucho Marx dance, and whispered, ‘You wait till I get you upstairs.’

She smiled. ‘Ready when you are. I’ll deal with the rest of the mess in the morning.’

Justin held up his left wrist, watching the light from the candles reflect in the gold watch. His mixed feelings about Angela’s gift made him feel a little guilty. For a few weeks he’d had it in mind to buy himself a Patek Philippe, as a little personal celebration now that the Kwarehawk deal was completed and two other projects were tick-tocking towards a lucrative finale. That really wasn’t on now, since Angela had given him the Rolex. What the hell, no big deal.

‘Thanks again, love,’ he said, and smiled warmly at Angela. ‘It’s splendid,’ he said, and the doorbell rang.

The idea was, go in just before bedtime, when they’re tired and sleepy, before they turn on the alarm.

‘Lights out is ten thirty, give or take. We go in about ten,’ Frankie said.

‘What if they’ve got visitors, or they go out for the evening?’ Brendan Sweetman asked.

‘Something like that, babysitter shit, there’s no way of knowing. It happens, we deal with it.’

There were no such obstacles. Frankie Crowe and Martin Paxton, both wearing suits, went to the front door. There were two bright overhead lights in the porch, and a CCTV camera poking down from the front of the house. Dolly Finn and Brendan Sweetman waited in the car.

There was a risk here. Masks were out of the question at this stage. The people inside might check the CCTV picture before opening the door. They would certainly be cautious about answering unexpected callers at this hour, and even if the CCTV was for show there were narrow glass panels running down each side of the front door. Frankie was wearing glasses with heavy frames, Martin had a false moustache. The disguises were flimsy but they’d have to do. If it came to it, a decent defence lawyer could rip apart an identification made from a night-time glimpse on a doorstep.

From the other side of the door, a man’s voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Gardai, sir. Detective Sergeant Courtney.’ They’d agreed that Martin should speak. Frankie’s accent was too Northside. ‘Sorry about the time of night, sir, but a serious matter has arisen in connection with an associate of yours. We’re hoping you can help clear it up.’

‘Christ sake.’

When the target opened the door, Crowe and Paxton flashed the ID cards Martin had printed off from his laptop. ‘Shouldn’t take long, sir.’

The target, in a blue Dublin GAA football shirt, jeans and bare feet, didn’t try to conceal his irritation. ‘Couldn’t this have waited until morning?’

‘Not really, sir, if we could just—’ Paxton made a hand gesture, suggesting they be invited in, and the target stood back and said, ‘Let’s make this as quick as we can.’

Once inside the door, Frankie – his face turned away – took off the glasses and pulled on a balaclava. Then he showed the target his pistol.

‘Say nothing, do nothing, don’t panic, just stand there for a minute.’

The target’s face was frozen. He took a step backwards, crossing his arms, just as quickly uncrossing them, then standing with his arms down by his sides.

‘Say nothing, do nothing,’ Frankie repeated. ‘It’ll all be all right, believe me.’

Martin Paxton, his own balaclava now in place, stood in the doorway, pointed a small flashlight towards the street and clicked it on and off. Within half a minute Dolly Finn and Brendan Sweetman, wearing dark overalls and already pulling masks down over their faces, were closing the door behind them. Dolly had a holdall containing two more empty holdalls, Brendan’s shotgun and a change of clothing for Frankie and Martin. The holdalls were necessary because a house like this, apart from the target, would be worth trawling for portable valuables.

All four of the raiders were wearing gloves. Crowe, Paxton and Finn had pistols, Sweetman took the sawn-off shotgun out of the holdall. The target reacted appropriately. His stance was unnaturally stiff, his fingers plucking at his jeans.

‘Where’s your wife?’

The target looked confused. ‘Why?’

‘Where is she?’

‘Look—’

Crowe pointed at the shotgun. ‘You think if that thing made a big noise, she might come out here to see what it was? You think so? I can arrange that. Now, where’s your fucking wife?’

‘Inside, she’s inside, over there, the room on the right.’

‘The kids?’

‘They’re in bed.’ The target was breathing deeply, like he was trying to get the hang of a stress-relief technique he’d picked up from a magazine. Crowe turned to Paxton and nodded. Paxton and Sweetman moved quickly across the spacious hall. The hall was two-storey, full of dark wood, and dominated by a wide, central staircase. Paxton whistled softly. ‘Gone with the fucking wind, what?’

They met the target’s wife coming out through a doorway. Her hands shot up to her mouth and her eyes widened.

She was wearing a wine-coloured dress, low-cut and clingy. Martin Paxton was impressed.

The target moved over to stand beside his wife, speaking as he went. He was making a big effort to sound like he’d just discovered the solution to an unexpected problem. ‘Listen, I think you have the wrong house. There’s no one here you want, you’ve mixed us up with someone else.’

Gobshite thought they were here to do him.

‘Now,’ Frankie said, keeping his voice low and calm, ‘just so you both know. This is about money. Nothing personal, so don’t get scared. No one here has any reason to do anything drastic.’

‘In there,’ Paxton said, gesturing towards the room from which the wife had emerged. The target and his wife touched hands briefly as they moved into the living room. They stood close, looking from one masked face to another, from one gun to another, shaken, pale and disbelieving. Down by his side, the target kept making a fluttering movement with the fingers of his right hand, like he was rinsing it in an invisible finger bowl.

‘The kids asleep?’ said Crowe.

The woman, her voice thin and low, said, ‘They were dozing off when I checked a while ago.’

‘Keep things quiet, then, and they’ll never know we were in the house.’

The woman jerked around as she heard a whispered
Whuh!
sound behind her. Dolly Finn was standing by the mantelpiece, blowing out the lighted candles.

‘What do you want?’ The target was agitated, getting his nerve back. ‘And what gives you the goddam right to come into my home, waving guns around?’

Crowe said, ‘Where’s the CCTV, the tape machine?’

‘Fuck this!’ the target said.

The woman said, ‘It’s in the garage. Out through the kitchen.’

‘The alarm’s not turned on, right?’

‘What the tuck is this about?!’ The target’s voice was high-pitched, barely in control. Crowe said to Dolly Finn, ‘Show him.’ Finn reached into a pocket and took something out. He held it up and there was a click and the blade of a knife appeared from the small black handle. He held it casually.

Crowe said, ‘There doesn’t even have to be a bang, no noise at all, OK? Any trouble—’ He made a gesture, his thumb drawn across his throat.

The woman said, ‘Look—’

The target said, ‘OK, OK, I’m all right.’

‘Just so you know,’ Frankie said. He leaned forward. ‘You cooperate, you don’t see our faces, there’s no reason to hurt you.’

The target, white-faced, nodded. His eyes found his wife, who was shaking her head slowly.

Frankie spoke to Dolly Finn. ‘The CCTV tape. Then find a bedroom that overlooks the front, keep an eye.’ He turned to Brendan Sweetman and pointed to the cordless phone on the sofa. ‘Leave that one, kill the rest. And do it quietly, don’t wake the kids.’ Both gunmen left the living room.

Crowe said to Martin Paxton, ‘Let’s get this thing moving. Make sure there’s no surprises.’ To the target he said, ‘Show this man the house, upstairs and downstairs. And speak when he asks you a question. Otherwise, shut it. You,’ he spoke to the woman, ‘sit down and say nothing.’ The woman sat down in the armchair to the right of the fireplace.

Martin Paxton took the target by an elbow and moved him towards the door. ‘This won’t take long.’

The target turned to his wife. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Are you OK?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll be all right. Do as they say, we can get through this.’

‘Sensible woman,’ Crowe said. When the other two had gone, he said, ‘Your mobiles?’ She told him hers was in her handbag, on a table in the hall. Justin’s was charging, on the counter in the kitchen. He found them, pocketed them, and sat down in the matching armchair facing the woman, his gun resting on his knee.

Mostly it was a rich blue carpet. Thick, bouncy stuff. Any thicker, Martin Paxton thought, we’d need skis to get around. The same carpet, right through the house. Except for the hall – all dark wood, including the floor – and the tiles in the kitchen and the bathrooms. This fucking place had more bathrooms than most houses had rooms. One downstairs, one at the top of the stairs, four more attached to four of the six bedrooms.