The Rage (27 page)

Sitting in the office Harry shared with four others, Bob Tidey talked about the sudden end to the Sweetman case. ‘Maybe I’m making too much of it.’

‘Someone’s pulling strings?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Tidey said. ‘It could be they believe this Kennedy fella did the killing. Or it could be they see some other possibilities opening up – roads they don’t want to go down – and Kennedy’s a plausible story to justify wrapping things up.’

‘Either way, Bob – they’ve drawn a line.’ Synnott, who had crossed an occasional line in his time, smiled ruefully. ‘Some kinds of lines, you step across them and you’re in the twilight zone.’

Tidey said, ‘Stephen Hill. You know the name?’

Harry Synnott shook his head. ‘Nothing comes to mind. Who is he?’

‘Emmet Sweetman, the day he was murdered, twice called a dodgy lawyer. The dodgy lawyer immediately called this Stephen Hill. The only way I can run a check is if I turn up for work – which means risking a head-butting contest with Hogg. I was hoping—’ Tidey gestured towards the monitor on Synnott’s desk.

Synnott eased his chair towards the desk, pulled his keyboard closer. After a minute he turned the monitor towards Tidey. ‘Stephen Hill – two robberies, aggravated assault. Interviewed in the course of two murder investigations, but nothing came of either.’

‘That’s someone who might turn up on a doorstep with a shotgun.’

‘And there’s a connection. You asked me the other day about Gerry FitzGerald – Zippo. Says here both he and Stephen Hill were pulled in for questioning on an aggravated assault. The two lads said nothing, walked away from it.’

It took Tidey ten minutes on the phone to the DPP’s office to find out that Stephen Hill had four times been represented in court by Connie Wintour.

When Connie Wintour came out of the lift on the fourth floor of the Criminal Courts of Justice, he saw Bob Tidey and gave him a big smile. ‘Ah, Sergeant, we meet again. Are you down here to prosecute a case, or perhaps you’ve come for a wee chinwag?’ He turned left and headed towards the courtrooms.

‘When was the last time you spoke to Stephen Hill?’

Wintour didn’t react, just kept strolling. ‘Stephen – I still have hopes for the lad.’

‘I’m sure he comes in handy, if someone needs to send someone else to hospital.’

Wintour stopped and smiled. ‘Still fond of the view from your high horse, Sergeant?’

‘Injured innocence doesn’t suit you, Connie.’

‘Did I ever tell you, Sergeant, about the third case I handled, the first that mattered? A bloody daft burglar who spent more time in jail than out. He was caught twenty yards from the broken window of a parish priest’s house, carrying a set of golf clubs. And when the prosecuting Garda suggested that eighteen other counts of burglary should be taken into consideration, he just nodded. Open and shut.’

‘I’m sure you did a crackerjack job.’

‘Better than that – I went through every document, checking every detail. And six of the burglaries he confessed to – they happened when he was in jail.’

‘Aren’t you the clever lad?’

‘Not really. My mistake was when I stood up and triumphantly informed the judge of this unsavoury state of affairs. He deleted the six counts and gave my chap the maximum on the rest. What I didn’t know was that the police were clearing their books – adding unsolved crimes to open-and-shut cases. The judge was cooperating, and my client was furious with me because he expected a shorter sentence for taking it on the chin.’

Wintour continued walking, casually swinging his briefcase. ‘We live and learn, Sergeant. It’s a funny old business, law and order.’

‘I’ve a suggestion, Connie.’ Wintour paused. Tidey gave him what he hoped was a confident smile. Connie would be approachable if he believed his personal position was under threat. The first step was to give him a reason to consider opening negotiations.

‘I think you know where the Sweetman murder inquiry is heading.’

Connie looked genuinely puzzled. ‘And that should concern me – why?’

‘What it looks like – Sweetman was about to roll over and start blabbing to the Revenue about a bent property deal. And I think maybe that upset the heavies you and Sweetman were both involved with. I think you talked to Sweetman that day – one last try to get him to shut up. When he wouldn’t, you rang someone else.’

Wintour stopped again. ‘And that was?’

‘Stephen Hill. Trigger man.’

Connie gave him a warm smile. ‘You’re here to rattle me, Sergeant. Shouldn’t you be wearing your Columbo raincoat, so you can pretend you’re done with me, then you turn back –
just one more thing, Mr Wintour
, right? Well, I’m afraid, Sergeant, the days when a policeman could rattle me, inside a courtroom or out, are long gone.’

‘That might well be, but—’

‘The Sweetman inquiry, as you’re well aware, Sergeant, is over.’ Wintour began walking. ‘Before long, the awful truth about the late Mr Kennedy and his ease with a shotgun will doubtless be leaked to an obliging reporter. The hack will in turn announce that he’s cracked the Emmet Sweetman mystery.’

‘Who told you?’

‘A city is made up of many villages, many circles, many layers, and with modern means of communication—’ He stopped at the entrance to a courtroom. ‘Here we are, today’s bear pit.’ He turned away and pulled the door open. ‘Take care, Sergeant.’

‘You did ring Stephen Hill. He’s the killer.’

Wintour looked back. ‘Stephen – not a bad chap, easily led astray. With time and patience I hope to see him become a useful member of society. Mind how you go, Sergeant.’ He let the door swing shut behind him.

If you’re not in, Anthony Prendergast believed, you can’t win. For every ten tip-offs a reporter follows, maybe one pays off with a story. The rest – well, you work for a newspaper, so people with a bee in their bonnet assume you can help them swat it. Some are decent people who’ve truly been screwed, others have surfaced from the bottomless swamp of paranoia and obsession. The trouble with conspiracy theories is that when you reject them you’re immediately accused of helping the conspirators suppress the truth. Which is when your name turns up on websites, listed among the agents of Satan.

But if you don’t wade through the crap you miss the occasional worthwhile story. Anthony Prendergast knew his talent didn’t lie in the quality of his prose. And his contact book wasn’t heavy with high-level sources. But he had a young reporter’s hunger – he’d wade through the deepest crap, across the widest fields of codswallop, as long as there was a chance of a story at the end of it. This afternoon was an example of casting your bread upon the waters, with little expectation of getting back anything other than soggy bread.

‘He sells guns.’ The voice on the phone was slightly hoarse.

‘A policeman?’

‘A sergeant.’

‘Do you have any personal knowledge of this?’

‘I know what I know.’

‘Are you a Garda yourself?’

‘I know someone who bought one.’

‘A gun?’

‘Yeah.’

‘From a policeman?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Can you give me your name?’

‘You can call me Matthew.’

‘You know this cop’s name?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What is it?’

‘Not on the phone.’

‘What station?’

‘I have a file.’

Oh dear
.

Civilians who keep files on people tend to be secret-agent fantasists. The files are laced with underlined words and exclamation marks, a coded index and key sentences typed in capital letters. Anthony’s interest went down a couple of notches.

‘Can I see it?’

‘Meet me this afternoon.’

Walking down along the south side of the quays, Anthony had already tagged this one as a loser. But, if you’re not in you can’t win.

As promised, the would-be Deep Throat was sitting in Sorohan’s, at a table near the door, a glass of Coke in front of him. A surly-looking guy in his twenties, with a lower-level Civil Service look to him. Anthony introduced himself, relieved he wasn’t expected to go through a password ritual.

Anthony pointed at the Coke. ‘Get you another?’

‘I’m OK.’

Anthony got himself a coffee and sat down next to Matthew.

‘Are you in the force yourself?’

‘No.’

‘The civilian end of things?’

‘You want to see the file?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s in the car.’

It took less than a minute to get to the car, a large Renault, in the car park behind Sorohan’s. ‘How did you find out about this?’

‘I have my ways.’

Anthony said, ‘Yeah.’

The would-be informant opened the boot, leaned in and said, ‘I bet you thought I was talking through my arse?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, it’s just—’

Matthew took a gun out of the boot and pointed it at Anthony. He gestured towards the boot. ‘Get in,’ he said.

When they got to the house at Rathfillan Terrace, Vincent Naylor drove the Renault inside the garage, closed the door and opened the boot. He reached down and held the reporter by the front of his shirt, pulled him up and out. There was a yelp as the reporter hit his shin off something, then Vincent was opening the internal door, pushing the reporter inside, through the kitchen, moving fast.

‘What’s this about?’ The reporter’s voice was high-pitched, panicky.

When Vincent got him into the living room he pushed him backwards into the armchair facing the door. The pussy was sweating.

‘What’s this about?’

Vincent stood there, looking down at him, the reporter’s lower lip quivering.

‘This is very simple,’ Vincent said. ‘I’m going to ask you questions, you’re going to answer them. You don’t answer them, you’re no use to me. I put you back in the boot of the car and wait until the middle of the night. Then I drive you to a spot along the Royal Canal and I push the car in.’

‘Jesus, come on – what am I supposed to know? I’ve no idea who you are, I’ve no – this isn’t—’

Vincent leaned down and picked up a folded tabloid from the floor. He made eye contact with the reporter as he smoothed the paper, then he looked down and read from it. ‘“Sitting in the living room of his modest house, with his wife in the kitchen making coffee and sandwiches, it’s easy to recognise that this is no storm trooper—”’ Vincent looked up from the paper. ‘You remember that shit?’

‘That—’

‘Easy question – you remember that shit?’

‘Yes, the robbery story – the ERU guy—’

‘That was my brother he shot.’

‘That’s not—’

‘What’s his name and where does he live?’

The reporter sat there, his mouth open, his eyes wide, breathing hard. ‘Jesus – I can’t tell you that – I – look—’

Vincent leaned in so close that when he whispered Anthony could feel his breath on his cheek. ‘Is that your final answer?’

When he got the reporter upstairs, Vincent made him kneel beside the radiator, then he used plastic ties to bind his hands to the pipes. He used a twisted shirt to fasten the reporter’s legs together – kneeling, leaning against the radiator, head down near the floor.

‘Awkward, I know, and you’ll probably get cramp, lying like that. But if your information checks out I’ll be back to untie you. If you’re pissing me about, I’ll be back to shoot you in the head. One way or the other, this won’t take long.’

‘Please, this won’t—’ His neck straining, his head half turned so he could look up at Vincent, the reporter’s face was pale and sweaty. There was blood around his mouth, a cut above his right eye. ‘He didn’t shoot your brother—’

‘You had your chance. You knew – and don’t say you didn’t – that if you gave me the cop’s address he’s as good as dead. You had a choice – your life or Sergeant Dowd’s, remember that? My opinion – you made the sensible choice. Don’t spoil it now, bitching and begging.’

‘He was just doing his job—’

‘One last little thing.’ Vincent leaned right down, his face close to the reporter. ‘This nun, this bitch, Maura Coady – Kilcaragh Avenue, North Strand, right? In the paper, you didn’t mention a house number.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Well, that’s a pity.’ Vincent straightened up. ‘You’ve made the cop die – and now you’re going to die anyway.’

‘I really don’t remember the number, I swear.’

‘I believe you.’

Vincent reached for the Bernardelli on the bedside table. ‘Sorry it ends like this—’

‘Forty-one.’

‘Kilcaragh Avenue?’

‘Yeah.’ Anthony looked away from Vincent, staring straight at the wall.

‘You know if I go there and—’

Anthony said something, his voice so low that Vincent had to lean forward.

‘Say what?’

‘I said it’s the truth.’

‘North Strand and Rathmines – a bit of a drag. This evening, I do one of them. The cop or the nun? What do you think? Which of them goes to God tonight? Eeny meeny miney mo?’