The Rage (13 page)

‘I’ve told you – I’ve no access—’

‘You and me, we’re going to go have a coffee.’

Vincent Naylor started the engine and eased the car out of the pub car park. He glanced at his watch.

On schedule
.

Through the half-closed venetian blinds at the living-room window of Turlough McGuigan’s home, Liam Delaney watched the street outside. Nothing stirring.

Kevin Broe was standing at the sliding doors that led into the dining room, in his Superman T-shirt. Delaney and Broe were both wearing baseball hats and shades.

Deirdre McGuigan was sitting on the sofa. PlayStation sounds and the laughter of her two small boys drifted down from their bedroom above.

‘Shouldn’t be long,’ Liam said.

The woman looked up, her expression a mixture of fear and disgust.

‘What are you doing with my husband?’

‘He’s OK.’

‘Get him to ring me, so I know he’s OK.’

‘He’s OK.’

‘I need to—’

Liam Delaney held up his hands to stop her. ‘Look – the way this is, what’s best is if you just keep quiet, do as we say. That way it’s all over quickly, things get back to normal.’

‘Things will never be normal.’

‘Another hour – no more than that, maybe even—’

‘When you work for a security company, and something like this happens – even when you’re totally innocent, things are never the same. Even if he keeps his job, things won’t – the police will – the company—’

‘That won’t—’

‘Jesus, he’s worked so hard, he’s—’ She lowered her head, waited a moment, and when she looked up again at Liam Delaney she was straining to keep her voice at a level pitch. ‘What happens next?’

‘Your husband’s seen the photo by now—’

‘Doing this, to a family – that picture – you’re
disgusting
, all of you.’

‘Count yourself lucky.’ Over by the window, Kevin Broe was smiling. ‘I know of jobs where people needed serious convincing – bank staff, security guys.’ He bent forward towards Deirdre McGuigan, his smile fixed in place. ‘Quickest way to do that is pick someone, a wife or a girlfriend, and give her a hammering. After that, no one gets lippy.’ He seemed almost disappointed. ‘Nothing like that here.’ He made a cup of his right hand, as though weighing something. ‘You got your tit felt up, no big deal, and – who’s to say—’ He kissed the palm of his hand – ‘maybe you enjoyed it?’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

Kevin was still smiling. He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘Just a
little
bit, no?’

Liam Delaney said, ‘Here he is.’

‘Turlough?’ The woman stood, turned towards the window.

Kevin Broe said, ‘Sit the fuck down.’ Deirdre McGuigan sat down.

Turlough McGuigan’s Suzuki was parked outside. Noel Naylor was getting out.

By the time Noel got to the front door, Liam Delaney had it open. Noel handed over the depot manager’s white shirt, nodded and turned to leave.

‘Everything going OK?’ Liam said.

Noel half turned and held up a thumb, then continued down the front path.

Kevin Broe moved towards the door, paused and turned to Deirdre McGuigan. ‘Got to go, baby. Love ya and leave ya.’ He blew her a kiss. Passing Liam Delaney he smiled and said, ‘You get all the fun jobs.’ He followed Noel Naylor down the street and around the corner to a black Lexus.

In the living room, Delaney was talking to Deirdre McGuigan.

‘You need to listen to me, OK?’

‘I need to hear from my husband.’

‘Your husband’s called in sick. He’s OK, he’s cooperating with us. This is your husband’s shirt. That way, his company will believe he’s home – the tracker device, you know? Same reason my friends have left his Suzuki parked outside.’

‘Where is he?’ Her voice sounded a couple of rungs below hysterical. Delaney leaned forward and tried to make his voice a lot calmer than he felt.

‘Pay attention. This is important for you and your husband. They’ll ring, the company – soon as they know he’s home, they’ll want to talk to him. It’ll be a routine check. You tell them Turlough’s gone to bed, soon as he came in the door. You got that? He’s gone to bed, he’s out of it.’

She nodded. Her hands were on her thighs, rubbing invisible creases out of her skirt.

‘Soon as he’s feeling better, he’ll give them a ring, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘You can do that?’

The phone rang.

Delaney said, ‘They don’t hang around. You OK for this?’

Deirdre McGuigan didn’t reply. When she picked up the phone the only sign of her distress was her pale face. ‘Hello, yes?’

After a moment she said, ‘He just got here, yes – listen, can I get him to give you a ring in a while?’ Her voice was concerned, but self-assured. ‘He’s in bits – came in a minute ago, pale and sweaty, went right to bed.’ Her head was back, her eyes closing as she concentrated on her task. ‘Mind you, this morning, I knew he was a bit off colour, but he said he’d shake it off.’

Liam Delaney, sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace, realised he’d been holding his breath. For the first time since he came to the house, he allowed himself a moment of relaxation.

This is going to work
.

Detective Garda Rose Cheney said, ‘He died just short of ten o’clock in the evening. Shotgun blast in the chest – lifted him off his feet, threw him there. Just where you’re standing.’

Although the white marble floor had been cleaned since the murder, instinct or squeamishness made Bob Tidey take a step back.

‘Anyone else in the house?’

‘He’d just arrived home. Wife was upstairs, on the phone to her brother. Sweetman came in, closed the front door, left his briefcase over there.’ Her heels clicked on the white marble floor. ‘Dropped his keys on the table here. According to the wife, she heard him come in, maybe thirty seconds later she heard the doorbell, then the shotgun.’

‘She see anything?’

‘She came halfway down the stairs, in time to see the two gents leaving – pretty messed up about it, as you might imagine. Hadn’t a lot to offer.’

‘She’s not here?’

‘Staying with her parents – Mount Merrion.’

‘Kids?’

‘Three – the youngest is seven, oldest is twelve. The granny’s looking after them.’

Cheney passed over a bulky A4 envelope. ‘Have a look at the snaps.’

Tidey took the album of crime scene photographs and tucked it under one arm. ‘I assume they’ve got CCTV front and back?’

‘Nothing useful,’ Cheney said. ‘Smudgy images of two men, wearing the usual gear. The angle – you don’t see the shotgun blast. One of them takes a few steps into the hallway – that’s the one put the two bullets into his head. Then they left.’

‘He just opened the door when the bell rang?’

‘Nothing unusual. Aged forty-two, still a bit of a lad. Golf, poker, big rugby fan – he and his mates often dropped in on one another unannounced.’

‘The house next door – it’s got cameras covering the grounds. Any chance they caught something relevant?’

‘We’ve checked every house on the road, and the CCTV on all the approach roads. Nothing.’

Tidey was looking up. ‘Jesus, what’s that? Blood?’

Directly above, a pattern of darkened, dried blood speckled the white ceiling.

Cheney said, ‘The shotgun tore into his chest, knocked him off his feet. The body goes back, the blood flies out. Some of the blood—’ Cheney pointed up at the ceiling – ‘the blast was so strong, his body jerking back, some of the blood flew all the way up and hit the ceiling. Then, after a few seconds – Technical says – droplets came down from the ceiling. Left little sunbursts on the floor.’

‘A shotgun blast, then two in the head?’

‘Someone was taking no chances.’

Tidey opened the photo album and found a head-and-shoulders shot. The bullets had torn lumps out of Sweetman’s flesh, and the neck and face were veiled in the blood thrown up from the chest wound. He flicked towards the back of the album and found a studio shot of Sweetman. Handsome features, expensively groomed, oozing confidence. Not the kind of man to ever imagine someone might open him up and spill him all over his own hallway.

Vincent Naylor said to Turlough McGuigan, ‘My friends have arrived.’ The Protectica depot manager looked across the coffee shop to where Noel and Kevin were ordering something to drink. Noel was still in his shorts and T-shirt and false moustache, Kevin was wearing jeans and sweatshirt and a baseball hat.

‘What are we waiting for?’

Vincent looked at his watch. ‘Another ten minutes – then we’re in business.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘You’re not thinking, Turlough. Where are we?’

‘What do you mean – we’re in Doonbeg.’

‘And where in Doonbeg?’

‘The shopping centre.’

‘And what happens this morning in Doonbeg shopping centre – twenty past eleven, give or take five minutes?’

It took McGuigan a few seconds to get it.

‘That’s not on.’

‘Well—’

‘There’s no way – they’re not going to—’

‘The mobile I gave you, there are some pictures.’

McGuigan flinched, shook his head.

‘Not that one, Turlough, unless you need to refresh your memory. Give it to me.’

Vincent tapped the phone until the screen showed a photo of the outside of a house. He thumbed a button, and again, another house, then a third.

‘Mick Shine, Paudie McFadden, Davey Minogue. You know them, Turlough, though you mightn’t recognise their homes.’

‘There isn’t—’

‘You have a job to do, Turlough.’ Vincent thumbed the button once more and the picture on the mobile screen changed and Turlough looked away from the image of his wife’s terrified face.

Rose Cheney opened a pair of double doors, leading into a living room big enough for tennis doubles. There were oil paintings on the walls, with big, gold-coloured frames and subjects out of the nineteenth century – a bewigged man sitting stiffly on horseback, a hunt in full cry, a garden party, women in pale dresses and flowered hats ranged around a marble fountain.

Cheney said, ‘Some house, huh?’

Tidey nodded. ‘The wages of sin.’

‘Four million, he paid for it, four years ago. Four-point-four, to be precise, which was considered a bargain for this neighbourhood. Today, if anyone was buying – which they’re not – you’d get a million and three-quarters, probably less.’

‘I’ve seen better taste in Phibsboro bedsits.’

Cheney smiled. ‘I’ve been in a few of these places – this isn’t the worst. Some of them, they look like Barbie grew up and became a footballer’s wife. No limit to the budget, all spent on a twelve-year-old’s notion of taste. One thing they’ve all got on display – and there it is.’ She stopped at a table flanked by two wingback chairs. The table held a large chess set, the base a couple of inches thick, edged with steel, the squares of the board in dark grey and light grey wood. ‘Monster chess sets – they’ve all got them.’

Tidey picked up a black knight. It was intricately carved to resemble a Roman legionnaire. ‘Someone loves his hobby.’

‘Handmade pieces, inlaid boards, they cost more than the biggest LCD telly. And – ask them – hardly any of them can play the game. If the new Irish aristocracy had an emblem, that’s it – a swanky, overpriced version of a game they can’t play.’

‘What do we know about Sweetman? Any threats, any real suspects?’

‘No threats we know of – a whole sea of possibilities, nothing solid. Lines of inquiry—’ she began ticking them off on her fingers – ‘husbands he pissed off, business partners he cheated, bank shareholders he swindled. Take a walk through Dublin 4, throw a stick, chances are you’ll hit someone with a reason to shove a shotgun in his face. Most of them, they wouldn’t know which end of a shotgun to point – but, someone did.’

‘Paramilitaries?’

‘Killing a corrupt banker – you could see the patriotic side of that, if you did your thinking with your trigger finger. But Hogg says Special Branch has every second patriot on the payroll – not a whisper.’

‘What’s the score with pissed-off husbands?’

‘He didn’t make a big secret of screwing around. Of recent girlfriends – we’ve talked to one and there’s no jealous husband involved. Two more, we don’t have their names yet. There might well be husbands or partners from previous affairs who’ve been nursing a grudge for a long time.’

Tidey shook his head. ‘If it was a knife or a baseball bat, maybe – but two heavies with guns, hardly an act of passion.’

‘We’re tiptoeing through every number in his BlackBerry.’

‘How bad were his business problems?’

‘Apart from running the bank, he had three outside directorships and a company based around his property portfolio – he was in a consortium with some lawyers, doctors, a couple of bankers.’