The Storm Protocol (32 page)

‘Fuck, it really is like a war zone,’ s
tated James, echoing Roussel’s thoughts.

A uniformed officer was standing at the front of what was left. James flashed his badge and the officer parted the tape and allowed them admittance. He stared hard at Roussel as he went past.

Roussel looked down at himself. Shit, he was still filthy from the night before; he hadn’t had time to change his clothes. It was only a matter of time before a seriously distracted James would notice. Thinking fast, he feigned tripping over his own feet and fell headlong into the dust and debris, rolling a couple of times for good measure.

‘Jesus, Charles, watch where you're going,’ said James. ‘Look at the state of you.’

Roussel got up carefully.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

They were standing in what was left of the sitting room.

‘So
, what caused the explosion?’ asked Roussel, making a show of dusting himself off.

‘A small explosive charge, most probably a grenade,’ said James
.

Roussel raised his eyebrows.

‘I know,’ said James. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

‘So
, do we know who they are?’ asked Roussel, getting himself onto firmer ground; information that could be useful.

‘Yes we do and that's what's worrying us,’ said James. ‘On the way here I was telling y
ou about the feud. Well that dispute is between two rival gangs; one based in the north and one based to the south. This is North Cork we’re in now, but virtually every one of the dead here are members of the North Cork gang; certainly the ones we have been able to identify anyway.’

‘So
, basically, they were killed on their own patch,’ said Roussel.

‘That's what it's beginning to look like,’ said James. ‘I don’t have to tell you how territorial these guys are. This is serious shit. This is serious escalation. The guy who runs this side of town; he’s not going to take this lying down.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Roussel.

‘Very interested all of a sudden, aren’t you,’ said James, with the merest hint of suspicion.

‘Only because it’s connected, or seemingly connected to the case I’m working on,’ Roussel fired back, straight away.

‘True,’ said James grudgingly. ‘Anyway, the guys name is Eoin Morrison, but everyone calls him Black Swan.’

‘So, you think my man was mixed up in a drug feud?’

‘Certainly looking the most feasible explanation at the moment,’ said James.

‘And who are their rivals?’ asked Roussel.

‘South Cork is controlled by a man called
the Bullock
,’ said James.

He smiled at Roussel's expression.

‘I know it sounds funny,’ he said soberly, ‘but the guy is the complete opposite of amusing. In fact, you can see how this row is escalating. These guys have very similar personalities. They don’t back down, they don’t take rejection well and they hate being number two.’

Something caught James attention.

‘Excuse me for a second,’ he said, touching Roussel’s arm before walking over to a technician in a white coat. As he watched James, engrossed in conversation, Roussel mentally digested the information he had gleaned.

The guys who had surrounded the house were members of
a drug gang controlled by the North Cork overlord. He shook his head; none of it made any sense.

James came back to him.

‘Yep, confirmed, definitely a grenade. Do you know what?’ he asked. ‘I thought I'd seen it all, but a grenade in a quiet suburban street; beggars belief really, doesn’t it?’

The journey back was accomplished in complete silence. If it was making James uncomfortable
, he sure as hell wasn't showing it.

‘Here you go, Charles, here’s your stop,’ said James. ‘Do you want to catch a bite later? I know it’s only lunchtime, but I can round up some of the local gang and have a session later tonight if you want? A few beers, bit of a sing song?’

Roussel flashed him a grimace of apology.

‘Think the jet lag is catching up with me,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if we took a rain check?’

‘Not at all,’ replied James.

He handed Roussel a business card.

‘If you sleep in, as I suspect you will, just give me a shout. If I’m not busy, I’ll come and collect you.’

‘Cheers,’
said Roussel.

‘Sleep tight,’ yelled James
, as he drove away.

#

‘You've been holding out on us,’ said Roussel. ‘I told you I wanted honesty; no secrets.’

‘Oh
, I’ve plenty of secrets, believe me,’ I said, with no trace of humour. ‘Just nothing that is relevant to this.’

‘Apparently, all those guys who died last night are members of the same gang; an organised criminal empire that controls the north side.’

He consulted his notebook.

‘The gang is controlled by a guy called Eoin Morrison.’

I shook my head.

‘Sorry, the name means nothing.’

‘Everyone knows him as Black Swan,’ added Roussel.

I blinked and he snapped his fingers.

‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘You're holding out on us.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ I said. ‘Let me explain.’

I extracted my iPhone and showed them the gruesome picture.

Roussel blinked in surprise.

‘That’s victim number one, our man....’

‘Scott Mitchell,’ I finished. ‘The very man we’ve been discussing. A couple of days ago, I decided to do some snooping down in the red light district. I got lucky; somebody recognised him and told me he worked for a guy called Black Swan.’

‘And you were going to tell us this when?’ asked Foster.

‘I completely forgot about it,’ I said genuinely. ‘Speaking of disclosure though, I have been pondering this for the last couple of hours. I think it's time both of you were educated. This, gentlemen, is what we are dealing with.’

I extracted the white ring binder from the hold-all I had been carrying around. Foster gasped as he read the name on the front cover.

‘Who wants to go first?’ I asked.

19
th
May 2011 – Nine days after the Storm.

The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides. Accept life and you must accept regret. – Henri Frederic Amiel.

I pulled the hood as far over my head as I could. I looked like a teenage hoodlum, but I didn’t care. Not that anybody would recognise me, but I wanted to be anonymous for a while. I didn’t want to feel known; didn’t want to feel judged.

I
inhaled the fresh, clean air.

I was getting reacquainted with the sky. I didn't feel hemmed in the way I did in big cities; didn't feel the buildings closing in around me
, like a prison. I was getting used to the changing landscape, where every second shop-front was a pub, and everyone had a smile on their face and a joke on their lips.

I’d left the two boys
with their homework. I knew that folder virtually off by heart at this stage. I’d read it so many times, not really out of interest, but more through a healthy sense of self preservation. At least I knew now what a protocol was. I’d even looked it up in a medical journal. The plain and simple statement had indicated that it was
the type, quantity, method and length of time of taking the drugs required for any treatment cycle
.

That
’s why I’d got out of the flat. I knew there would be questions; I just needed to empty my brain for an hour or so. I looked at my watch. It was coming up for one pm, and I was getting the first stirrings of hunger.

Suddenly
, my footsteps started echoing off the pavement in a strange way. I looked down. It was the reverberation of my shoes on the metal hatch that covered the entrance to a beer cellar. I stepped back and peered at the name of the place; John G Hartigan and Son. It looked as nice an establishment as any to get a full belly.

The first thing I’d remembered about Irish pubs was how dim and dingy they were
, compared to their modern American counterparts. In the US, you had a myriad of TV screens in the bars, each playing a different channel; a practice, I had to confess, I found intensely annoying. You didn’t go into a bar so people could shout at you; it was supposed to be a relaxed and peaceful area. That’s why there was something about the ambience of an Irish pub that you just couldn't beat. Some of them had been there for literally hundreds of years. When you sat at the bar, the building seemed to settle around you like a warm and friendly embrace. They were there for centuries for a very good reason.

I parked my rear on a stool
, and caught the barman’s eye.

‘Be with you now,’ he shouted; an Irish euphemism for
you’ll have to wait a second
.

The subtle nuance
s were all coming back to me. I adjusted myself on the stool and pulled the hood off, safe in the relative anonymity. I let my gaze wander slowly around the interior, drinking in the atmosphere.

Even though the smoking ban had been in force in Ireland for a couple of years, the ravages of nicotine could still clearly be seen on the fabric of the building. Most pubs like these, true traditional pubs, had shunned the home improvement boom of the Celtic Tiger era. People came to pubs for their character, not the paisley print wallpaper and velvet throw cushions.

‘What can I get you, squire?’ asked the barman, interrupting my thought patterns.

I glanced at the bar menu. It was strangely reassuring to see that some things hadn't changed in decades. It was about as far from Tapas and Sushi
as it was possible to get.

‘Pint of Murphy's and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, please,’ I said.

‘Home for good?’ he asked, as he worked.

It was half statement and half question.

I didn’t even bother quizzing him on how he knew I was home from the US; at this stage, I was beginning to settle back in. Maybe I really was home this time?

‘We’ll see,’ I said.

The sandwich, when it came, was just like I remembered. The pint, when it came, was just like I remembered too. I drank it slowly, savouring the bitter sweet bite as the alcohol hit the spot. I slid the newspaper across the bar and started reading the headlines.

I was adrift in a sea of relaxation, when I felt a waft of air and then a presence beside me
. Definitely female, my subconscious told me, communicating a vague hint of an understated perfume.

‘Hello Thomas,’ she said softly.

She didn't even have to say my name; the initial word was all it took. For the first time in a long while, I was transfixed; like a rabbit caught in the proverbial headlights. A physical shock went through me. I turned my head slowly and dragged my gaze up to her face.

I wouldn't have immediately recognised her; fashions obviously change
, and her hair was subtly styled and a different colour. But weirdly, I could see a ghostly shadow of the girl that I'd known, all those years ago; a vague outline, superimposed upon the statuesque and elegant woman standing next to me.

She looked at my face
, and the first vestiges of doubt flitted behind her eyes.

‘I
t is Thomas, isn’t it?’ she asked again, this time with a slight hesitation.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak just yet, contenting myself instead with another sip of stout.

‘Would you like to get a table?’ I asked, cursing inwardly as my voice came out in a schoolboy squeak. ‘Maybe we can catch-up for a few minutes.’

She smiled at the shrill inflection. At least she was smiling. She looked at her watch, seemingly in two minds.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ she said, ‘but okay, I can spare half an hour.’

There was a measured pause.

‘It would be nice to catch up,’ she added, as an afterthought.

I ordered her a drink
, as she settled into the corner table. I carried my half empty pint and placed the glass of cider in front of her. She smiled again, this time in genuine amusement.

‘I stopped drinking cider about twenty years ago,’ she said.

I coloured and made to get up, but she put a hand on my arm.

‘No, it's okay, I’ll have a few sips,’ she said.

I scanned her face, seeing if she had felt the same shock that I had; probably just static electricity.

‘So
, how long has it been?’ she asked.

‘Twenty three years, twenty four maybe,’ I answered.

She put her hand on my arm again.

‘Thomas, just before you go on,’ she said kindly, ‘can I just say something.’

I nodded, unable to speak.

‘I forgave you long ago,’ she said.

My throat felt constricted and I couldn’t say anything.

‘Yes, I had my moments early on, but make no mistake,’ she said. ‘I didn't sit in a rocking chair facing the Atlantic, staring out of the window and pining for your return.’

‘I wouldn't have been so presumptuous,’ I managed to say.

‘Just to put you at your ease,’ she answered. ‘On the whole, the last twenty four years of my life have been blessed.’

‘You’re certainly looking good,’ I said, meaning it.

‘Thanks,’ she replied
and then sat back, taking a sip of cider. ‘Marriage seemingly agrees with me.’

The two gold bands had been the first thing I’d noticed
, but her mention of matrimony drew my attention to her left hand. She noticed me staring and moved the fingers self-consciously, causing the engagement ring to twinkle; it was one hell of a rock.

‘He’s a lucky man,’ I said.

‘Yes he is,’ she said, agreeing with me. ‘And I’m a lucky girl.’

We lapsed into a semi-awkward silence for a couple of minutes, sipping our drinks
, while we racked our brains for something else to say.

‘Did you stay around the Cork area?’ I asked eventually.

‘You wouldn’t believe it, especially in this day and age,’ she said, ‘but I’ve never been any further than Dublin city since you left.’

I was about to ask whether she had any regrets, and then realised the possible connotations of that question
, if it came from me. I kept my mouth shut; partly because I didn't want to know the answer.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Did you make that fortune?’

‘I'm fairly wealthy, yes,’ I answered. ‘In American terms, I would be nicely off.’

At that particular moment, I had just
shy of twelve point six million dollars on deposit, in four numbered accounts.

‘You've seen a lot of life,’ she said.

It was a statement.

‘I’ve seen my share,’ I acknowledged.

‘It shows in your face,’ she said.

The slightly awkward pause again.

‘I always saw you as the boy with too much ambition,’ she said suddenly. ‘I would categorise you now as the man with too much....’

She searched for a word
and found three.

‘
....world weary resignation,’ she finished.

‘I’m not unhappy,’ I said defensively.

‘And therein lies the problem, I think?’ she ventured. ‘Oh Thomas, don't look so serious, it would never have worked out between us. We were two utterly different people; a star and a planet, in different orbits, in totally different solar systems.’

‘Funny,’ I said. ‘I always thought we were well suited to each other.’

‘I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ she said. ‘Even though I begged you to take me with you, I didn't really want to go. America sounded so cool, so exciting, but when I thought about it, everything I needed was here. When I thought about it some more, you were no longer one of the things I needed.’

‘That's a bit harsh,’ I said to her.

‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘How many times did you think about me when you were over there? How many times did you try and contact me in the last twenty four years?’

She looked at me; my silence was answer enough.

‘Sometimes a teenage vision of love is exactly that; a vision, a dream. You’ve seen life,’ she said. ‘When does the dream ever equal the reality?’

I sensed a hint of bitterness in her words, but if I looked inside myself, I could
see that what she said was true. I hadn’t really given her a backwards glance. A bit of teenage angst and then; bang, gone. Pastures new, here we come. She nodded, as she saw my expression changing.

‘It’s been good to see you Thomas, it really has,’ she said, patting my hand. ‘It’s allowed me to square some things away in my own head.’

‘Glad I could help,’ I said, a trifle sarcastically.

‘O
h Thomas, look at you,’ she exclaimed.

She glanced at her watch.

‘I am going off to meet my husband in about seven minutes,’ she added. ‘Even the thought of it is brightening my mood. If you were a doctor and you were measuring my pulse, I bet you would find it increasing.’

She looked at me with a strange smile.

‘Do you not know what I’m talking about?’ she asked.

My problem was that I knew exactly what she was talking about; the mood lifting, the pulse quickening, the emotions building to the euphoria. That's how I felt when I killed. I smiled back at her.

‘You’d better go,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to be late for Mr Right.’

‘Don’t be nasty, Thomas,’ she said.

‘I wasn't,’ I protested.

And then suddenly the thought came to me.

‘Do you remember my confirmation name?’ I asked, straight out.

She looked at me and blinked.

‘Where did that question come from?’

‘Just popped into my head,’ I lied.

‘You know I don’t,’ she said with certainty. ‘You never told me; refused to in fact.’

She got up and struggled into her coat. I stood up too.

‘It’s Mary,’ I said softly.

‘What is?’ she asked.

‘My confirmation name.’

She glanced at me, and I noticed her eyes were a little misty. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have to. There was an awkward moment
, as I went to kiss her on the cheek at the same moment she went to kiss me, and we gently clashed heads. She dropped her eyes and turned away.

At the doorway
, she glanced around quickly and waved; I could tell it was goodbye. The primary emotion that I could ascertain from her was relief; or maybe it was release.

As I sipped at my pint, something she’d said was nagging at the back of my mind. There was something about the feeling she’d described. Something had made me feel like that in the recent past. It had not been killing, and it had not been her. I drained the
remainder of my drink, nodded my thanks to the barman and walked onto the street, eyes scanning the road.

‘Taxi,’ I shouted.

A car swerved over and the front door flew open.