The Rage (11 page)

‘Look, it’s best if I drop down there and see for myself.’

Before he rang the bell of her house he’d scribbled down the reg number of the green car and made a phone call.

‘Maura, you’re looking great.’ Which she was, for seventy-whatever. Her white hair still cut short, a healthy sheen to her thin face. When she smiled, the slightly protruding front teeth gave her the air of a mischievous old maiden aunt. Her blue cardigan seemed a size too large for her narrow shoulders, but there was a lot of vigour in her slim frame. She had the look of someone who’d led a life that made workouts and diets redundant.

‘Can I get you something, Mr Tidey?’

His phone rang and he made an
I’m fine
gesture with one hand.

The dark green car out front was a VW Bora. Command and Control told him the reg plate belonged to a Toyota.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Not to worry,’ he told Maura. ‘I’ll just get a couple of lads to have a look at it.’

It was getting dark by the time the motor specialists arrived. They opened the driver’s door and poked about inside, then popped the boot. Tidey stayed at the window of the unlit living room of Maura’s house. No need for a crowd out there.

Even with his back to Maura Coady, Tidey could sense her fear. He turned and she was standing near the living room door, her features barely visible in the weak light reflected from a street lamp, her arms crossed as though holding herself together. ‘It’s OK, believe me, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘This is awful.’ Her voice was barely strong enough to cross the few feet between them. ‘Awful.’

‘Nothing special,’ the motor guys reported. ‘Plates changed, full tank, no sign of an accelerant. But it’s not out there for no reason.’

Tidey called his Chief Superintendent at Cavendish Avenue, who was at home, breathing heavily as though he’d been shifting furniture. The Chief Super put in a request to the Special Detective Unit. It was an hour before a member of the Emergency Response Unit visited the house. Maura Coady paled when she saw the butt of the automatic pistol, holstered high on the man’s right hip and peeking out from under his padded sleeveless jacket.

The man – a Sergeant Dowd – organised surveillance teams. A hundred yards to the right of Maura’s house, just this side of the Spar shop, a white Ford Ducato van pulled up to the kerb. There was another white Ducato, already parked to the left of Maura’s house, at the other end of the street.

Dowd told Bob Tidey there was no doubt the VW Bora was a secondary, and thanked Maura for her public spirit.

When Dowd left, Maura asked Bob Tidey, ‘How long will the vans stay there? What if no one comes for the car?’

‘It’s not often we get a chance like this – a getaway car at the ready.’

‘Getaway – from what?’

‘No idea. But if there’s a robbery – say a bank, a post office, whatever, maybe a planned killing – the primary getaway car might have forensic traces to connect the criminals to the crime, so they drive it a shortish distance and they burn it. They have a secondary car nearby, not connected to the crime, to take them the rest of the way clear. Even if it’s a stolen motor, which this one probably is, all you can be done for is stealing a car.’

‘So, there’s definitely going to be a crime?’

‘All the signs of it.’

Her crossed arms tightened. ‘This is frightening.’

Bob Tidey said, ‘Those people in the vans, they’re the best. Whoever’s behind this, it looks like a professional job – they’ll know enough not to be foolish.’

‘Should I move out until this is over?’

‘Not necessary.’

Tidey had raised the same question with Sergeant Dowd. Evacuating the entire street, perhaps for days, the ERU officer concluded, just wasn’t an option. ‘Not perfect, but what in this life is?’

Maura seemed OK as Tidey prepared to leave. ‘Nothing’s likely to happen tonight,’ Tidey said. At the door, he said, ‘I’ll drop back when I can – this is a good thing you’ve done.’

‘You think they might be preparing to kill someone?’

‘It’s a real possibility.’

‘It’s for the best, then – if it saves a life.’

‘It’s for the best,’ Tidey said.

Noel Naylor told the balls joke. The one he’d been cracking for years, whenever he and Vincent played snooker. The one about how you make a snooker table laugh. It happened the same way every time. With Noel bent over the table, his left hand making a perfect bridge, his right hand drawing back the cue – he’d pause, his head still, his eyes looking sideways at Vincent.

‘Did I ever tell you how to make a snooker table laugh?’

And Vincent always laughed. For a while they’d chorus the punchline together – ‘You tickle its balls.’ Then it got that there was no need for the punchline. Just the deadpan question, delivered as though for the first time, was enough to set Vincent off.

They’d had a quick bite in the diner downstairs, then up to the second floor of the leisure complex for a game. Having sunk a red, Noel missed the blue and straightened up. ‘Got a new one – how can you tell when you’ve walked into a lesbian bar?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Even the snooker table doesn’t have any balls.’

Vincent laughed, then he said, ‘I prefer the old reliable – but keep trying.’

Noel was in the mood, now. ‘You hear about the time the FBI and Scotland Yard and the Irish cops had a competition?’

‘No, and I don’t want to.’

‘What they had to do – they release a rabbit in a forest and the first one to track it down and arrest it is the winner. The Brits spend weeks watching every rabbit hole in the forest until a Brazilian electrician comes along and they shoot him dead.’

Vincent was eyeing a red at the far end of the table. ‘You’re just trying to put me off.’

Noel grinned. ‘The FBI – they call in air support and bomb the fuck out of the forest, even the frogs are toast.’

Vincent took his time chalking his cue, then he stood and waited, knowing there was no stopping Noel.

‘And who wins the competition?’ Noel said. ‘After half an hour the Irish cops come out of the forest with a fox in handcuffs. Blood running down his face, bruises all over. And he’s shouting, “All right, all right, I’m a rabbit, I’m a rabbit!”’

Vincent laughed, but he still preferred the old snooker balls joke.

Twenty minutes later they were opening the boot of Noel’s car, outside Vincent’s squat at the MacClenaghan building. Vincent looked at the large green jerrycan and said, ‘You planning to set the city on fire?’

‘I wasn’t sure how many cars we’re using. Three, four?’

‘Doesn’t matter. We just need to torch two – the Lexus and the Megane, that’s all.’ He checked the side of the jerrycan. ‘Twenty litres? You’re going to have fun carrying that to the fourth floor.’

‘Bollocks.’

They took turns carrying the jerrycan to the flat. Vincent opened the window, to let the fumes disperse, then he held a funnel steady in the mouth of a large plastic Coke bottle, while Noel hoisted the jerrycan.

They filled four two-litre Coke bottles. Then they cleaned up and went for a couple of pints. Vincent always had a bit of a bash, the night before a job.

That was the thing about Vincent – he was positive. It might be he had his own opinions on these things, but he thought before he spoke, he didn’t just mouth off. He could have called Lorraine dirty names, he could have said Noel was best off with the bitch gone. Instead, Vincent said, ‘Happens to us all – things don’t click, things that ought to, and people get hurt and there’s nothing to be done about it.’

Noel Naylor sometimes got upset about Lorraine – but he was glad Vincent showed her respect. The way Vincent talked about it, it made what happened seem like an adult thing, a thing to accept and get over. Instead of feeling like a pathetic teenager, which is what Noel sometimes felt like when he thought of how the bitch screwed him over.

Funny the way it worked out. Was a time when Vincent was a kid and Noel had to look out for him, show him how things worked. Now, there were things Vincent knew best, times when he seemed like the big brother. Noel liked that, the give and the take.

‘We make a good team,’ Noel said.

‘Laurel and Hardy?’ Vincent said.

‘Bollocks,’ Noel grinned.

Vincent gestured to the barman, pointed at the almost empty pint glasses. When the fresh drinks arrived, Vincent raised his glass, looked his brother in the eye and said, ‘Tomorrow.’

Noel nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’

Behind the wheel of his yellow Suzuki Alto, Turlough McGuigan glanced at his watch. He lived fifteen minutes away from the depot and he was halfway there. He had a reputation for getting into work early, staying a week ahead on the schedules and rosters. It was an attitude that had made the difference when it came to the rivalry for the job of depot manager. Turlough’s ambitions didn’t stop there.

Ahead, a red Renault Megane backed too quickly out of a laneway, but Turlough was onto it. Back in the old days, before he became depot manager, he spent six years on the road. He’d come across so many motoring morons that he took a course in defensive driving, the rewards of which were still with him. He’d clocked the Megane as soon as it showed its tail out of the laneway, and he’d factored in the possibility that the driver was a Jeremy.

Turlough slowed the Suzuki to a stop and when the passenger in the Megane gestured apologetically Turlough returned a gracious
be my guest
wave.

The Megane’s door opened and the passenger got out – a tall, skinny guy with a moustache, wearing a bright orange T-shirt and knee-length khaki shorts with more pockets than a snooker table. Lucky bastards had the day off, probably on their way to a round of golf before finding a cold beer and a sunny spot.

The skinny guy in the shorts was headed for the passenger door of Turlough’s Suzuki. Still moving, he bent, smiled, looked at Turlough over the top of his round shades and said something. Turlough shrugged, put a hand to his ear. The man in the khaki shorts opened the door, got into the car and reached into Turlough’s crotch.

‘Stay calm, Turlough,’ he said. When Turlough looked down he saw the man was holding a small black revolver in a latex-gloved hand.

Ahead, the red Megane was now out of the laneway and moving on up the street.

‘Follow him.’

‘Listen, man—’

‘We can end this right here – all I’ve got’s a wasted morning.’ The man’s moustache seemed slightly out of proportion to his face. He leaned closer. ‘But you’ll have to explain to your nice wifey how come your balls got shot off.’

The narrow road lifted and turned gradually to the right, the houses on each side masked by walls and bushes. Castlepoint was the kind of neighbourhood where the average house was impressive and the upper range imposing. The houses of the truly wealthy were hidden behind tall trees and high walls.

Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey was early for his conference at Castlepoint Garda Station. Although the Emmet Sweetman murder had been national news, he’d paid little attention to it, apart from the occasional radio news headline. After Colin O’Keefe’s call, Tidey googled the murder and he wasn’t much wiser, apart from the information that Sweetman had lived at a house on the south end of Briar Road, on the outskirts of Castlepoint. This morning, he’d kill time while getting a feel for the neighbourhood, the access routes to the Sweetman house, the layout surrounding the murder scene.

He came to a straight stretch of road and slowed down. He stopped at a solid wooden gate, above which he could see the grey slated roof of a large, detached house. The brass plate on the gatepost said ‘Sweetman’s Retreat’. That’s the way – spend a fortune on an exclusive hideaway, then stick up a sign advertising your whereabouts to any predators.

Tidey got out of the car, climbed onto the bonnet and looked over the gate. The land surrounding the house – best part of an acre – was bordered by a wall with a scalloped stone facing. No skimping on the finish. The road was sufficiently secluded to provide cover for intruders – it would be the work of a moment to exit a car and scale the wall. Enough trees and bushes on the far side of the wall to provide privacy while you prepared to clip your target.

Not much more to see, bit of a wasted trip, but better than twiddling his thumbs at Castlepoint Garda Station. He glanced at his watch. If he took the coast road back to Castlepoint village he’d catch some nice views and still be in lots of time for the conference.

Vincent Naylor took the gun out of the depot manager’s crotch. ‘Just keep behaving – this will be over before you know it.’

‘I’ve no control over the money.’

‘I know that, Turlough. You let me worry about that.’

‘It isn’t—’

‘Watch the road and shut the fuck up.’

After a couple of minutes, the Megane veered into the car park beside a pub called Murnaghan’s.

‘Pull in behind him, Turlough.’

The depot manager did as he was told.