The Rage (18 page)

She looked up at him. ‘He was frightened, the second man. The first man was dead, died immediately. The other man was alive, his throat was all bloody, he was making noises. I started saying – I didn’t think – it’s as natural as making the sign of the cross. I started saying the Act of Contrition. And – the poor man – it was just a moment, but I could see the fear. He knew, when he heard me—’

‘It was a comfort, I’m sure it was.’

‘He was afraid and I made it worse.’

‘Most people wouldn’t even think of going out onto the street, with something like that happening.’

‘I was in here, just looking out at the street – sometimes I do that. I saw them, they were the men who left the car there, I was going to ring you. One of them opened the driver’s door, he looked up and I could see the panic, one of them put his hands up, the other one—’

She sat silently, as if seeing the events again.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘A time like this, you have to look after yourself. I can make you something.’

‘If I hadn’t said anything. Those two young men. Lying out there in the street.’

‘The technical people are nearly done, the bodies will be removed soon, everything will be back to normal.’

‘If I hadn’t called you—’

‘You did the right thing. They had guns, they were putting other people’s lives at risk.’

‘What did they do?’

‘I don’t know – a robbery, I’m not sure where. I’ll find out, if you like.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

He leaned forward. ‘Maura, the shock, a thing like this – it’d drain anyone. You ought to lie down, try to get some sleep.’

‘I couldn’t. I keep thinking—’

‘No need to worry – there’ll be a Garda on duty all night, it’s routine when something like this happens. You’re safe here.’

‘It’s not that—’ She closed her eyes.

‘I’ll stay here. It’ll be OK.’

She looked at him for a long time, her eyes older and more tired than he’d ever seen them. ‘Would you?’

‘I promise.’

Vincent Naylor’s eyes were shut tight. He was lying on his side on the laminated wooden floor of his squat, wearing just boxer shorts. The volume on his iPod was beyond comfortable and the relentless pounding of Fear Factory filled his head, dissolving all thought. He’d been lying like this for a long while, buried deep inside the pulsing sound, hiding from grief and time, his body rocking with the beat.

Before that, when Liam Delaney called, Vincent was taking a Marks & Spencer ready-made Indian meal out of the microwave.

‘Vincent – Jesus, man—’

Vincent’s first thought was to switch off the phone, lose it somewhere.
Strict radio silence
. Liam had no business calling anyone involved in the job. Him calling might mean he’d been snagged and he was obliging the shades in the hope of a good word.

‘I just heard—’

‘What you calling me for?’

‘Shit, Vincent, I just heard.’ There was silence, then Liam’s voice was rushed, getting high-pitched, louder. ‘Vincent, it’s on the television, for fuck’s sake – North Strand, it has to be them – haven’t you heard?’

In the hours since then, Vincent had needed noise, something to hold stuff at bay so he didn’t have to think about anything. He’d picked up on Fear Factory from Noel, and it did the job tonight. For a while. Then, above the insistent bass and the relentless drums and the slashing guitar, something – some combination of the overwhelming presence and the irreversible absence of his brother – attached itself to his mind and exploded. As Vincent Naylor rocked and threshed on the floor, the noise of the band and the pain of his grief were locked into his head, surrounded by the silence of the room. And beyond that the silence of the flat and the six soundless floors of the abandoned apartment block.

The crime scene tents had gone, taken down after the bodies had been removed last night. The blue-and-white tape had been taken away and the street was its unexceptional self. Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey had slept for a while in the fireside chair in the front room, woke with a crick in his neck and couldn’t get back to sleep. He got a glass of water from the kitchen and sat by the window for a while, looking out at the dark street. When his watch said it was almost 4 a.m. he went back to the kitchen and when he couldn’t find any coffee he made two mugs of tea, went to the front door and gestured to the Garda dawdling around the pavement on overnight duty. Grateful for having his boredom eased, the Garda stood at the door, drinking tea, chatting, both their voices kept low. After a while, the Garda took a twenty from Tidey and headed down to the all-night Spar on the corner. He came back with half a dozen newspapers and a packet of Rothmans. Tidey opened the cigarettes and the two lit up at the doorstep and the uniform went back to his pointless duty, the cigarette cupped in his hand.

Both the
Irish Times
and the
Irish Independent
carried the story of the double shooting low down on the front page. The two dead men were ‘known to the police’. The Garda ombudsman had already launched an inquiry into the circumstances. The stories were light on facts and the newspapers bulked things up with comments from politicians. A statement from the leader of the opposition praised the Gardai and condemned the government for its softness on crime. Most of the tabloids rehashed the bare details in clichés about shoot-outs and streets of death. The
Irish Daily Record
carried the shooting on page 4 and half of page 5, complete with grinning photos of the two dead men. It also had a fair amount of detail, gleaned from locals, about the shooting. One story said that one of the gunmen was surrendering and he called out to the other one.

‘Something about not giving them an excuse, that’s what I heard,’ Phil Heneghan, aged 79, a resident of Kilcaragh Avenue told the
Irish Daily Record
. ‘I was putting out my wheelie bin when it happened, I was standing a few yards away.’ A statement from Garda HQ said the Emergency Response Unit had fired only after being fired on.

It wasn’t a duty Tidey could imagine for himself – carrying a gun, facing panicking criminals, making instant decisions about whether to shoot. Move too quickly, you maybe kill someone trying to surrender. Hesitate and you or a colleague or a civilian gets shot. The
Record
story might be on to something – someone moved too soon. Or it was just media shit-stirring. Either way, Tidey felt regret for the two gobshites in the morgue, and for whatever policeman put them there.

This would be another day for immersing himself in the investigation file on the Sweetman murder. The bad night’s sleep meant he’d need a lot of coffee as the day went on. So far, the file was mostly interviews with people who said they didn’t know much about anything. Detective Chief Superintendent Hogg’s people had been thorough but unproductive. And there was nothing at all suggesting any possible link to the Oliver Snead murder.

If Maura Coady was still edgy tonight he’d have to find someone with rank who’d put a uniform outside the house for a couple of nights, just for comfort. These days, every minute of overtime had to be approved in triplicate, but the force owed her for this.

He could hear Maura moving upstairs. She’d be OK, he decided. The nuns were tough old birds – had to be, to stay sane while living that kind of narrow life. When Tidey first met Maura Coady several years back she’d walked into Cavendish Avenue Garda Station looking to talk to someone dealing with the Teresa O’Brien murder. Tidey was involved in the case, a prostitute found in a builder’s skip in a lane off Capel Street, beaten to death with a brick. At that time, Maura was living in a house with three other nuns from the Sisters of the Merciful Heart. The convent in which she’d lived for decades had been sold at the height of the property bubble and the sisters dispersed to rented houses. Since then, through death and further property sales, the sisters had been reduced to a handful, and Maura opted to live alone.

‘I know who did it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Teresa O’Brien – I know who killed her. It was Mossy Doyle.’

‘And you are?’

‘Maura Coady – I was a teacher, a nun, and Teresa used to be a pupil of mine. She came to me a few months back, she needed somewhere to stay and I fixed her up.’

‘We’d better talk.’ Tidey waved a hand towards the door leading into the interview rooms and twenty minutes later he had a very concise statement. She’d been having a cup of tea with Teresa in a cafe in Talbot Street when Mossy Doyle arrived and began roaring at them. Doyle was a less than successful pimp, who felt he still had some claim on Teresa. ‘I’ll swing for you, bitch, I’ll beat every breath of life out of you.’

Maura Coady repeated the words to Bob Tidey that day in Cavendish Avenue station, and she said them again on oath, in the Central Criminal Court, with Doyle a few yards away, staring daggers at her. Maura’s initial statement led to a search of Doyle’s home and the recovery of a pair of shoes stained with what turned out to be Teresa’s blood. The result of the trial was never in doubt. Giving the evidence that put him away, Maura hadn’t so much as glanced in Doyle’s direction, her voice steady and certain.

The nuns were tough old birds, all right.

When he came out of it, sometime during the night, his brain bruised by the hours of pounding music, Vincent Naylor moved slowly. Lying on his back, body limp, he raised his hand to his chest, took hold of the iPod lead and pulled out the earphones. Eyes closed, he threw them and the iPod across the room. The silence assaulted his ears and he lay there a long time, dazed, allowing his senses to gradually awaken. He was aware of a massive dread at the centre of everything. After a while he identified a scent.

Petrol
—

He wondered what that might mean.

He felt a dull wave lapping at his consciousness and recognised it as sleep. He let it take him.

When he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, Bob Tidey glanced at his watch. Just gone five fifteen. Maura Coady was wearing a dark check dressing gown. ‘Morning, Sergeant Tidey. I hope you got some sleep.’

Tidey stood up. ‘I think it’s probably OK to call me Bob, now that we’ve spent the night together.’ He immediately regretted the quip, but she smiled.

‘There was a time when you’d have gone straight to hell for a remark like that.’

‘Sorry. You slept OK?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. It was just the shock – I’m fine now.’ She crossed to the window and looked out for a moment. ‘It’s like nothing happened out there – two lives.’

‘It’s in the papers. The reporters will probably come knocking, looking for witnesses.’

‘They’ve already been. A young man, wanted to know what I saw.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I looked him right in the eye and I lied. Said I wasn’t home when it happened.’

‘Best thing to do.’

‘I don’t see the point of yapping about it, for the entertainment of others.’ She moved towards the kitchen. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘I’ve just made a pot.’

‘That’s great.’

He realised they were both speaking in low tones. No one to disturb, but it was instinctive, this time of the morning.

Sitting in the living room, sipping from her mug, Maura Coady said, ‘I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do today’.

‘I’ll head off soon. You’re sure you’re feeling OK?’

She smiled. ‘Contemplative – it’s what nuns do.’

Tidey put his mug down. ‘Do you have someone – do you have contact with the other nuns, the convent, whatever? – I’m not sure how that works these days.’

‘You know how it was with those veterans from the First World War? Every year there’d be an anniversary and someone did a headcount, until there was just a handful left and it got to be like a death-watch. We’re not reduced to that yet, but the structure’s threadbare. Pretty soon. Anyway, no, I have very little contact.’

‘That’s your choice, yes?’

‘I had friends in the Order, they died. And, these days, the way things went, there isn’t much reason for reunions and celebrations.’

Tidey nodded.

Maura said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘What am I thinking?’

‘You’re thinking what everyone thinks when they talk with a nun or a priest, especially one who’s been around as long as I have. How much did she know? That’s what you’re thinking. Did she cover things up, or maybe she was one of the ones who beat the kids, or worse?’

‘That’s not what I was thinking.’

‘It’s what everyone thinks.’

‘You forget – I’m a member of an outfit that’s had its own troubles. After the Donegal scandal, people assumed we were all stitching people up. Every policeman was bullying witnesses or blackmailing touts and jailing the innocent.’

‘And some of you did.’

He nodded. ‘Some of us did. But not all of us. Not even most of us. And not all the priests were raping children, not all the nuns were beating them black and blue. In this job, if you’re going to be any use to anyone, you learn early on that you need an open mind.’