The Rage (24 page)

Vincent Naylor’s hair was barely there. His dark curls were gone. What was left was cropped so tight it might have been sprayed on. He was wearing a black suit, a blue shirt and a dark grey tie. His shoes were black leather, highly polished. He looked like a creep from a television show about wannabe entrepreneurs. Only his nails, bitten short, betrayed him.

‘No one would look for me here.’

‘When I didn’t hear from you, when I heard about Noel – you must—’ Her voice was soft. ‘I know how much he meant to you.’

Vincent shook his head. He looked down at the table and said nothing for a while. Then, leaning forward, his face close to Michelle’s, he said, ‘I’m in trouble. I have to leave the country.’

‘For how long?’

‘Have the police been to see you?

‘Why would they?’

‘I was worried there might be some comeback on – someone might connect you to me.’

‘What’s happening, Vincent?’

He held her gaze. ‘This thing with Noel – I can’t stay in Dublin.’

‘How can I help?’

‘There are ways – people I know, I can get whatever papers I need, transport. But I have things I need to do.’

‘Then what?’

He touched a finger to the side of his mouth, the nail scraping at the skin. ‘I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.’

‘Have you decided where you’re going?’

‘England, to start – then, maybe—’

‘It has to be a city. No way do I end up in the sticks.’

After a moment, Vincent said, ‘You mean it?’

‘God help me.’

He brought her up to his room and after a while she said, ‘Let’s go now, tonight.’

‘I haven’t got the stuff I need.’

Vincent was lying back, hands behind his head. Michelle laid her cheek against his chest, breathing in his scent. ‘How long will that take?’ she said.

‘Couple of days, maybe.’

‘Then – we go?’

‘There are other things I need to do.’

‘Such as?’

It was a while before he replied.

When she came back from the bathroom, Michelle’s eyes were rough. The tissue in her hand was crushed and wet.

‘Vincent, please, this isn’t you.’

He looked into her clear blue eyes and he’d never seen anything so pure, so beautiful, so full of everything he never thought he would have. And he nodded slowly and he said, ‘This is me.’

He told her about the supermarket. He’d been buying a toothbrush, paste, food, bits and pieces, after he left the MacCleneghan building.

‘Middle of the aisle, couple of old geezers – husband and wife, whatever – and the old guy’s standing a couple of feet out from the shelves, holding up a packet of something, squinting at it like it’s got the Third Secret of Fatima written on the back. And she’s got her trolley parked sideways – fucking
sideways
, across the aisle – and I lost it.’

He could have walked around them, squeezed past, but Vincent’s mouth twisted and he dropped the basket he was carrying, turned the old guy round, knocking the packet of something out of his hand, pushing his arms up and out, like the stupid fucker was walking a tightrope. And Vincent said, ‘Like
that
– stand like
that
. OK?
OK
, you stupid piece of
shit
?’

The fear in the old man was so strong Vincent could smell it. ‘What?’ he said, not daring to lower his outstretched arms. ‘Why?’

‘Cos, you and your stupid missus – if you hold your fucking arms out you can block the
whole
fucking aisle, right?’

The old bitch said something high-pitched, but Vincent gave her trolley a shove and walked on towards the checkout, leaving his basket on the floor. He heard the noise from behind as the trolley crashed into shelves, things falling, things breaking and he didn’t look back.

It was an idiotic thing to do.

As it happened, Vincent walked clear, no problem. But there could have been a couple of security thugs and they might have taken Vincent, then called the police, and that would have been that.

He couldn’t help himself. When he calmed down later he knew the anger was dangerous, but what could he do about that? A couple of nothings like those two, the walking dead, hanging on, taking up space, while Noel was lying cold in a coroner’s drawer. What a fucking waste.

It was a thought that inflamed him half a dozen times a day – fat stupids walking down the street, big-mouth idiots on the television screen in the room at the Westbury. Wherever he looked, alive and fouling up the world, while—

It wasn’t right.

‘They’re making ashes of him,’ he said to Michelle. ‘And I’ll be in another country.’

Before she left the Westbury, Vincent gave Michelle a thick envelope full of money.

‘How long?’ she said.

‘I can’t say for sure. When you’re settled, buy a new phone, text me. Soon as I get to London—’

‘Please, Vincent.’

‘I can’t, not yet. Things, the way—’

One hand gently brushed his thin layer of hair. Close to her ear, Vincent’s voice was low, insistent. ‘If I don’t do this, it’s like I’m saying what happened to Noel doesn’t matter.’

When they kissed she held him long and tight.

Inside Castlepoint Garda Station, Detective Chief Superintendent Malachy Hogg approached the corner desk where Bob Tidey was working. ‘Just got word – the hearing’s at lunchtime, the judge’ll see us in his office, five past one. You ready?’

Tidey indicated the computer screen in front of him. ‘Ten minutes, I’ll have it done.’ Several yards away, Rose Cheney held up a single folded sheet. ‘That’s it, keep it simple – best thing,’ Hogg said. He took her statement.

As promised, Connie Wintour had found a judge to give him an interim injunction, putting a stay on the seizure of his mobile phone. This afternoon, the judge would read evidential statements and hear submissions on whether the injunction should be confirmed or discontinued.

When Hogg went back to his office, Bob Tidey sat staring into space for a couple of minutes. Then he took his personal laptop from a drawer and went down the corridor, found an empty office and sat behind a desk. It took him a couple of minutes to start up the laptop and connect a card reader, then he took from his inside jacket pocket the sealed envelope holding Connie Wintour’s phone and tore it open. Within another two minutes, he’d downloaded Connie’s contact list and call information. He found another evidence envelope, put the phone in, sealed it and signed it.

Back in the detectives’ office, he put the envelope in front of Rose Cheney and handed her a pen. ‘The envelope got torn, I had to replace it.’

Cheney stared at him.

Tidey said, ‘Accidentally – taking it out of my pocket, it got torn.’

Cheney said, ‘I won’t lie.’

‘That’s OK – just sign it. No harm done.’

Cheney signed the envelope. ‘Anyone asks, I’ll tell them exactly what happened – you told me the envelope got torn, I signed again.’

Bob Tidey nodded. ‘No one will ask.’

Detective Chief Superintendent Hogg came into the detectives’ office, crooked a finger and said, ‘You two.’ Cheney stood up, and Tidey put away the file he’d been reading. In Hogg’s office, the Detective Chief Superintendent held up a thin file. ‘From Technical – the death of one Justin Kennedy, last seen with most of his head missing. It was suicide. His prints confirm his identity, his fingermarks are all over the shotgun. The weapon belonged to his brother, who’s now living in Turkey.’

Cheney said, ‘He shot himself and then threw the shotgun halfway across the car park?’

‘Seven feet away, the shotgun was. And he didn’t throw it. He sat down, tucked the muzzle under his chin, the stock resting on the floor, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil sent the shotgun flying, and it landed where it did. Beyond doubt, according to Technical. There’s impact marks on the floor, traces on the stock, and all the angles are right.’

Tidey said, ‘Where does that leave us?’

‘Kennedy was involved in a couple of deals with Emmet Sweetman – and that was a nightmare even before Sweetman was murdered. They seemed to have pulled a couple of strokes, the two of them. Now, the Revenue had their hooks into him and several of his associates were taking him to court. Criminal charges were a possibility. His marriage ended a year ago. His girlfriend says he’s been missing for days at a time. All the signs are he just decided it was time to rest his chin on a shotgun.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’

‘We’ll head off for the courts in twenty minutes.’

Back at Bob Tidey’s desk, Rose Cheney said, ‘There’s no way you can use anything you found in Wintour’s phone, you know that? This hearing – the best we get is we confirm Emmet Sweetman called Connie Wintour on the day of his murder.’

‘Anything else I might find out from the phone – it can’t be used in court, but it might point us in the right direction.’

‘I hope you—’

Bob Tidey wasn’t listening.

Across the room, Detective Garda Eddery was leaning back behind his desk, reading the back page of a tabloid. Facing Tidey, the top of the front page carried photos of a footballer and a blonde woman. Most of the bottom half of the page was taken up by a large headline and a photograph.

Tidey whispered, ‘Ah, Jesus.’

He crossed the room and said, ‘Sorry, I need that, just for a second,’ and took the newspaper from Eddery. A minute later, Tidey gave the newspaper back to Eddery, then tapped at his phone and when Maura Coady answered he said, ‘I’m sorry, Maura, I’ve no idea how this happened.’

She hung up.

Vincent Naylor sat on a bench in Stephen’s Green, reading the newspapers. People strolled along the pathways, stood near the water and fed the ducks, or just watched them. On the grass, kids played, couples lay close. Somewhere, a brass band was playing. Vincent finished the broadsheets, skimming page after page. Not a word. It was like the papers had moved on to other business.

He put the
Mirror
aside and turned to the
Daily Record
, glanced at the front page—

Jesus fuck
.

He read quickly through the opening paragraphs, his breathing heavy. There were just three paragraphs of the story on the front page, the rest of the story carried over to an inside page. Vincent stared at the headline. ABUSE NUN IS SHOOT-OUT HERO. To the right of the headline, there was a photo of the bitch – a bucktoothed old biddy. And a name – Maura Coady.

‘
Jesus fucking Christ!
’

It was only when he saw the man with the laptop bag dangling from his shoulder, stopping, staring at him, that Vincent realised he must have sworn aloud. The guy was tall and thin. What was left of his hair had been allowed to grow long and was brushed across his head. He looked like a worn-out mop. The mop’s face was a picture of disdain. Vincent stood up from the park bench, dropped his newspapers, put a hand to the worn-out mop’s face and pushed and kept pushing. The guy back-pedalled, making indignant noises, until he ran out of footpath and went backwards into the water, landing on his arse, ducks scattering.

The gobshite was screaming as Vincent walked away. Standing up in the water, ranting after Vincent and flailing around in search of his laptop. When Vincent got to the exit from Stephen’s Green he looked back. A young guy in jeans and a T-shirt was making a hopeless effort at pretending he wasn’t following Vincent. The guy had a mobile to his ear.

He tried to run but Vincent caught him within a few yards and pushed his face into the ground, hard. Then he took the guy’s mobile and smashed it.

Ten minutes later, he checked out of the Westbury.

The injunction hearing was to be held in Judge Daddley’s office, and he was in no hurry. Detective Superintendent Hogg, Bob Tidey, Rose Cheney and a lawyer from the Chief State Solicitor’s office stood a few yards to the left of the door to the judge’s office. Connie Wintour and his lawyer stood to the right. The conversations were muted, with little eye contact between the two sides.

‘Bugger’s probably having a sandwich,’ Hogg said.

‘What’s he like?’ Cheney asked.

‘Not much nonsense about him, fairly new to the job. We live in hope.’

Bob Tidey was mentally rehearsing his evidence, in case he was grilled. Whether it’s on the witness stand or in a judge’s office, the trick is to be clear about what you want to say, say it and give as little as possible beyond that. Above all, don’t get into a pissing contest with the other side’s lawyer – lawyers live in the urinal, they know all the angles.

Tidey had his evidence stripped down to basics. Police work turned up a previously undiscovered phone belonging to murder victim Emmet Sweetman. It had been used sparingly, for numbers Sweetman didn’t want recorded on his regular phone – namely his girlfriends. And calls to Connie Wintour. The police wished to confirm that Wintour had spoken with the deceased on the day he died, and when the lawyer denied receiving such a call it became necessary to obtain access to his phone, to establish the truth.