Undercover (28 page)

"Can I see your ID?"

"Like I said, I've been working undercover. It's not a good idea to carry ID on the job."

The uniform's mouth twitched and Cormac could see that he wasn't convinced.

"Do you want to call my handler? I can give you his number."

The young officer relaxed a little. "No, don't worry about it. I've enough on my plate here." He nodded towards the three kids. "What is it you're after, Detective Kelly?"

"I'd like a few minutes up in the flat. See if there's anything in there that'll help me track down the rest of the gang."

The uniform pushed the button on the radio clipped high up on the left side of his vest. "There's a Detective Kelly from the PSNI down here. He wants to go up to have a look at the flat, Malcolm."

The radio crackled. "PSNI...? Right. Send him up, then."

Cormac took the stairs up to the top floor two at a time. He wanted to get in and out fast, before any awkward questions started. The longer he hung about, the greater the risk that they'd find out that he was having an unauthorised poke about.

Malcolm had just stamped out a cigarette judging by the smell of tobacco smoke that hovered around him. He held his hand out for Cormac to shake. Cormac was a little taken aback by his enthusiasm – most cops were ridiculously territorial – but he returned the uniform's firm grip.

"Detective Kelly, all the way from Ireland, eh? My granny was from Belfast."

"You could play for the national football team, then."

Malcolm smirked. "Very good. Here, maybe you could settle an argument between me and young Ronnie down there." He pointed at the uniform in the car park.

"I'm in a bit of a rush."

"Yeah, yeah. Won't keep you a moment."

Cormac turned up his palms. "Go on, then."

"This Pete Scullion. Was he one of those Real IRA boys?"

"No. Ex-Provo turned gangster."

"Good, good. That's what I thought. We've enough to worry about with the Muslim fundamentalists without some mental Micks slinging bombs about." He held up a placatory hand. "I only say Mick because I'm part Irish myself. No offence, you understand."

"Aye, none taken. Now if you don't mind...?" Cormac pointed to the flat's open door.

"Be my guest, mate."

Cormac ducked under the police line. The flat was a decent enough size. He'd seen much smaller in Belfast. The décor wasn't up to much, though. It was every bit the lair of a single man who hadn't done all his growing up. Big TV, games console, framed posters of movie scenes and players from the Chelsea squad. Cormac looked at a stack of junk mail piled on a small table by the door. The credit card and loan offers were addressed to Brendan Rooney. Nothing too surprising there. At best, Cormac could conclude that they'd gotten sloppy in their haste, allowing the Belfast boys to come here despite Brendan's obvious connections to the big cheese, Martin Rooney.

The kitchen area showed a few small signs of a struggle; a broken plate on the linoleum, the kitchen drawer open, its contents jumbled like a hand had swept through it frantically for a weapon.

Back in the living area, Cormac noticed a laptop charger plugged into the wall but no laptop nearby. He looked into the bathroom. Nothing in there but the threat of E. coli and hepatitis. He closed the door quickly.

There were two bedrooms, one used as sleeping quarters, the other a storage/dump room. He checked out the spare room first. Found little of interest. Judging by the thick layer of dust, the junk in there hadn't been disturbed in some time.

In the bedroom, Cormac found a poster of Rory Cullen in his old Chelsea gear. Somebody had added a crudely drawn penis to his face and a speech bubble pointed to his mouth with the witty statement, "I'm a knob face traitor", scrawled within. The handwriting was child-like. There was nothing in the dresser drawers other than clothes, and the wardrobe was just as fruitless.

Cormac went to the bedside cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. Amid a tangle of headphones, gold chains and knick-knacks rested a plastic wallet with the Chelsea logo printed on it. Cormac flipped it open and found a current Stamford Bridge season ticket. He checked in behind it and found a different coloured ticket. It was an executive box ticket for a match the weekend after next. Chelsea vs. Manchester City. The first game Rory Cullen would play against his former squad.

A foot soldier like Brendan Rooney was lucky to afford a season ticket, but to land a spot in an executive box for a match as hyped as this one? He'd either come into a bit of money and blown it on this or been gifted the ticket by somebody in a high place. Somebody like Martin Rooney. Perhaps as an award for pulling together a caper that'd give them more control over the outcome of the game. It seemed like Lydia Gallagher's theory wasn't all that far-fetched.

Cormac pocketed the tickets and left the flat.

"Find anything useful in there?" Malcolm asked.

"Not really."

"Neither did our boys. Good luck rounding up the rest of them."

Cormac considered giving Malcolm his mobile number in case he found out anything about O'Neill's whereabouts. It seemed unlikely that the information would trickle down to him though, and it was probably a bad idea to leave anything that might allow his superiors to track him down. He skipped down the stairs, breezed past young Ronnie the uniform and got back in the car.

It was time to chat to McGoldrick. He just needed to find a nice private spot.

###

"I
t makes more sense to stay at my place," Rory said. "There's the security system and Stevie here has agreed to a sleepover as well."

Lydia considered Rory's proposal. It seemed sensible. And the longer she put off spending her first night in her own bed without John the better. But she had to consider Mattie. Maybe it would be better for him to get back to normal as soon as possible.

"What do you think, Mattie?"

"Can Cormac stay too?"

Lydia was getting uncomfortable with Mattie's apparent fascination with this cop. She would have to take the time to talk to Mattie and find out exactly what he'd been through, what he'd seen and what Detective Kelly had done over the past few days. The gaps in her knowledge unnerved her.

"I'm sure he would appreciate the offer," Stephen Black said. "But I believe Detective Kelly is out looking for the last of the scoundrels who kidnapped you, young Mattie."

Mattie looked Stephen Black up and down then turned to Lydia. "Can you text Cormac with Rory's address, Mum? Just in case he does need a place to crash tonight?"

"You should be asking Rory. It's his house."

Rory tapped the tabletop, one finger at a time. "Another guy with a gun in the house? Seems like a good idea to me. Even if he is a peeler. Just don't tell any of my mates back home, all right, kid?"

"Thanks!"

Lydia tapped out the text. Mattie watched the phone's screen over her shoulder to make sure she didn't do something wrong. He didn't relax until she hit send.

"So what now?" Lydia asked.

"We'll need to call a taxi," Stephen Black said. "Good ol' Nathan will have made himself scarce in his whirlybird by now, no doubt."

"You think so?" Rory asked.

"Wouldn't you, dear boy? I mean, it had to have been him who told the thugs we were on our way to this hospital."

Lydia thought about it for a moment. "He'd have had plenty of time, I guess."

Stephen Black nodded. "It would have taken just one quick text or a coded message over the radio."

Rory slapped the table. "Sneaky fucker."

"He was just doing his job, I suppose," Stephen Black said. "Probably didn't fully understand what he'd done."

"I'm tired," Lydia said. "Let's just get going."

"Do you think you should tell those English cops that you're not going home? They might want to reroute their surveillance boys."

"No, I don't want to talk to anybody else tonight. And sure, they should be there anyway in case anybody comes looking for me. Until I hear that somebody somewhere has arrested that Ambrose O'Neill bastard, I don't want anybody thinking they can relax."

––––––––

Y
ou need to surround yourself with the right people or this game will eat you alive.

Rory Cullen,
CULLEN: The Autobiography

––––––––

C
ormac disabled the CCTV cameras on the top floor of the multi-storey car park before he opened the Vectra's boot. The place was closed for the night and the bays were mostly empty. Just a few cars on each floor remained, their drivers maybe having decided to hit the pub and take a taxi home that night. He'd been able to raise the barrier with a good shove and hadn't set off any audible alarms. He figured there wasn't much to safeguard after hours in a place like this.

The only light in the building came from the Vectra. It was enough. Cormac reached into the boot and pulled the little man out and dumped him onto the concrete floor. McGoldrick rolled onto his back, took a deep breath but didn't scream. Maybe he was too scared, perhaps he wanted to save energy; either way, Cormac wasn't overly concerned. So long as McGoldrick was willing to talk when he urged him to, they'd get along just fine.

"Can you walk?" Cormac asked.

"I don't know." In just those three words his Scottish accent rang through.

"Have a go."

He watched as McGoldrick rolled onto his belly and ever-so-slowly went from all fours to a kneeling position. Then the old Scot used the Vectra's rear bumper as a handhold and climbed to his feet. Cormac considered slamming the lid of the boot shut on his hand when he used the rim to steady himself, but he didn't want to send the old bastard into shock. He waited until McGoldrick was upright and looked confident that he wouldn't keel over.

"Do you think you lost much blood?"

"I'm still conscious, aren't I?"

Cormac noticed that McGoldrick had managed to tear lengths of cloth from his polo shirt and fashioned some tourniquets for his upper thighs. He pointed at them.

"Very inventive."

"Who are you? What the fuck do you want?"

"Let's concentrate on you."

McGoldrick puffed his chest and squared up to Cormac. He was a game wee bastard, he had to give him that.

"All right, pal, how about this. Do you know who
I
am? Do you know what I could have done to you?"

"Ah, the old rich man favourites. Yes, I'm starting to get a handle on who you are, Mr McGoldrick. You're a millionaire who didn't make his money without breaking a few rules. One thing led to another and you got in bed with a very bad man called Martin Rooney. Now you can arrange to have people kidnapped. So, yeah, I know exactly who you are and what you can do. The question is, do you know how much shite you're in right now? Here's a hint. You can't throw money at this problem."

"What the fuck do you want from me, then?"

"I haven't decided yet. This caper of yours has cost me a lot. I've burnt a lot of bridges, ruined my career and somebody very close to me has been badly hurt. I could blame you for that and act accordingly."

Cormac drew his Glock and levelled it at McGoldrick's head. The old Scot stared back defiantly, but Cormac didn't miss the slight quiver in his hands before he folded his arms across his chest.

"I have to tell you, McGoldrick... that option is in the lead right now. A double-tap in your face won't repair my life. It'd make it worse in the long run, really. But it'd be very fucking satisfying."

"You said you haven't decided yet," McGoldrick's voice was strong and steady. A negotiator to the end. "What else are you considering?"

"I'm thinking about how much more useful you could be to me if I left you alive."

McGoldrick's shoulders dropped slightly as tension eased from his frame. He was relaxing into the situation, ready to barter for his life.

"Okay. How much is this going to cost me, then?"

"I've already told you, you can't throw money at this problem."

"What do you want, then?"

"Martin Rooney."

McGoldrick ran his still shaking hands through his hair. It flopped back into place and the old Scot whistled a descending note.

"How am I supposed to deliver something like that?"

"Give yourself up and implicate Rooney as a co-conspirator in this kidnapping case as well as the other illegal activities he's helped you out with over the years."

"Nothing's going to stick to him. He's been distancing himself from the illegal shit for years now. Everything is done through middlemen. Rooney keeps his hands clean."

"He'll have fucked up somewhere. They all do. You confess your sins, roll over on Rooney and let the investigation take care of the rest."

"So I can lose everything, go to jail and get killed by one of his lackeys? I'd be better off getting shot in the head here and now."

"If that's the way you think it's going to play out, you need to fire that high-powered legal team you undoubtedly have on your payroll, mate."

McGoldrick sat on the rim of the boot. "Sorry, I'm not fit to stand. My legs are killing me."

"That's okay. Saves me picking you up off the floor after I kill you."

"You're so brave, picking on an unarmed and injured man."

"Don't forget old and grey." Cormac smirked. "I've seen first hand what you're capable of, even if you do pay others to do the dirty work for you. Forgive me if I can't dredge up much sympathy. Must feel a bit strange, though. To be on your own, I mean. All that money useless to you."

McGoldrick sagged. Cormac could have continued the torment. It was easy to belittle someone then kick them when they were down. But he wasn't in the market for that sort of perverse satisfaction. He just wanted results. And if he could hand the Met a case that would take down Rooney, maybe it'd stand in his favour when he had to face the music back home.

"I can't do it," McGoldrick said.

Cormac sighed and tucked his Glock away. The old Scot looked up at him, confused but hopeful; like maybe he'd called a very convincing bluff. Cormac rolled his shoulders and then rushed McGoldrick. He grabbed the old Scot's polo shirt and yanked him back onto his feet. Stitches popped but the seams held on. McGoldrick loosed a surprise hiss of breath. He started to struggle and Cormac head butted him. A cut opened along McGoldrick's left eyebrow. Cormac had done him a kindness, delivering a little tap to the forehead instead of crushing the old Scot's nose. He just wanted to keep him under control. And it worked. McGoldrick softened like wet cardboard.