Bob Tidey smiled. ‘Operation Sledge Hammer, is it? The Minister and the Commissioner must have done some late-night brainstorming to come up with that one. Everything sounds more efficient if you give it a military title. These people can’t do a shit without announcing that they’re launching Operation Bowel Movement.’
Tidey bent and picked up a shard of glass hidden in the grass at his feet. He walked about ten feet to a litter bin beside a bench and dropped it in. When he returned, O’Keefe said, ‘We do PR because we have to – there are needs that have to be met. That doesn’t mean we’re not also trying to get on top of this mess.’
Tidey looked at the Assistant Commissioner. ‘I’m sorry, Colin, you didn’t make things the way they are. All those years ago, when James Snead rang 999, I was in uniform, I was first on the scene. I went up to the flat and I saw the bodies, the shitty playpen. And I found James Snead next door, in a neighbour’s flat, with Oliver
in his lap. He was shushing the baby, telling him everything would be okay. And last night I went to James Snead’s flat, to tell him Oliver was dead. And, all down these years, I don’t know what I could have done differently – or what you could have done differently, or what the fucking Minister could have done – so that it wouldn’t work out this way.’
Danny Callaghan finished his coffee. His first job this afternoon was to collect a package from the Mater Hospital and deliver it to an address on the south side. Later, he had to drive some business type from Clonskeagh to Wicklow town, wait for a couple of hours and then drive him back in the early evening. He dumped the half-eaten cheese sandwich he’d made, washed his cup, plate, knife and spoon and put them away. He checked again the notes he’d made on the day’s jobs, put on his brown suede jacket and inspected himself in the mirror.
On his way to the car, he could see a gaggle of cops, uniformed and plain-clothes, heads together, near the white tent out on the green. Despite the light rain, the line of cops was still inching across the killing ground. Approaching the black Hyundai, Callaghan thumbed the remote and the central locking clicked open. Inside the car it was cold. When he started the engine he used the wipers to clear the rain from the windscreen. The front passenger door opened and a young man in a Nike top and sweat-pants got into the car, sat down and held a gun in his lap, the muzzle turned towards Callaghan.
He won’t shoot
.
Not with the police just fifty yards away
.
‘This distance, they won’t even hear the shot,’ the man said.
For an instant, Danny Callaghan could see himself slumped against the wheel, bleeding, while the man got out of the car and walked away.
‘He told me everything was cool,’ Callaghan said.
The man said, ‘Who?’
‘Frank Tucker.’
‘That right?’
‘He said—’
‘Drive,’ the man said. ‘We’re not going far.’
On the way out of the estate they drove past a parked police car, the driver chatting on his mobile.
‘Take a left here.’
‘You ought to ring him. Me and Frank Tucker, everything’s okay.’
‘Shut up and drive.’
Pointless
.
This wouldn’t happen unless Frank Tucker gave the go-ahead
.
Mistake, going to see him
.
All it did was remind him of a loose end he had to cut off
.
The young man gave directions and several minutes later they were driving under a railway bridge, then a sharp left and into a cul-de-sac.
‘Here.’
When Callaghan pulled in to the kerb behind a light grey Toledo the young man said, ‘Kill the engine.’
The driver’s door opened and fear jerked Callaghan’s head around. For a moment he couldn’t place the face of the man who stood there, a small pistol down by his side.
‘Last time we met,’ the man said, ‘what you told me was if you ever saw me again I’d get my pimply arse kicked. That still the case?’
The houses in the cul-de-sac were mostly boarded up. The street was worn and dirty, as if it had been carelessly used for a long
time, then abandoned. ‘Get out, get into the back of the car in front.’ Karl Prowse stood back as Callaghan got out of the car. His partner got out the far side and climbed into the driving seat of the Toledo.
Karl said, ‘Give me an excuse and we can end it right here.’ He followed Callaghan into the back of the Toledo.
He used a plastic strip to tie Callaghan’s hands and put a black hood over his head. He patted him down, found his mobile and switched it off.
‘Why don’t we see how far down you can crouch?’ For encouragement, he used the butt of his gun to hit the smart bastard on the side of the head, just above the ear.
As the car moved forward, Karl told Robbie, ‘We’re in no hurry – rules of the road all the way.’
When they took off the hood Danny Callaghan found that he was standing inside some kind of warehouse. It was Karl who took off the hood. The other guy, standing off to one side, had put away his gun. There was a man in his early sixties standing in front of Callaghan. Short grey hair and a face with as many creases as a crumpled paper bag.
‘Bit cold in here. Sorry about that, but I needed somewhere quiet for a chat.’ His hands were in the pockets of his bright red anorak. ‘My name is Lar Mackendrick.’
There were empty steel shelves running along both walls, steel pillars at intervals down each side. The floor was bare and dirty. A couple of rickety chairs and a dirty table. In one corner, a makeshift canteen – a sink, a counter with a dusty camping cooker.
‘Why am I here?’
Mackendrick gestured. ‘Look around you – a bit of a dump, this place. It’s a has-been industrial estate, mostly closed down. The
kind of place where no one would hear you scream.’ He smiled. ‘But you don’t want to find that out the hard way.’
Callaghan stared at the man’s lined face. Mackendrick spoke of violence in the calm tones of someone musing over the choices on a menu.
Mackendrick said, ‘Talk to me about Frank Tucker.’
‘What about him?’
The young man who had the gun said, ‘He told me Frank Tucker said everything’s cool.’
Mackendrick said, ‘Is that right?’
‘What’s this got to do with Tucker?’
‘You went to see Tucker recently. Are you working for him?’
‘I killed a cousin of his, a long time ago. Went to jail for it.’
‘I know that.’
‘I just got out a few months back. I went to see him, to clear the air. He told me he doesn’t hold a grudge.’
Mackendrick smiled. ‘Frank’s a forgiving kind of guy.’ He looked down at the floor, kicked idly at a pebble. ‘Tell me why you interfered when my good friends here went about their business with Walter Bennett?’
The plastic binder around Callaghan’s hands seemed suddenly to tighten.
‘These two, they came into a pub, waving guns – people having a drink. I did what I did, it was instinct.’
‘We had business with Walter, you interfered.’
‘This hurts.’ Callaghan held up his hands. ‘Could you at least loosen it?’
Mackendrick said, ‘I’ll be honest with you – the way it is, someone sticks his nose in, screws up something important – normally you’d have been stiffed by now. And Karl here would’ve been delighted to oblige.’
Karl Prowse’s voice was harsh. ‘Not such a big guy now.’
Mackendrick said, ‘You’ve already met Karl Prowse. This other
young chap – Robbie Nugent. Last time you met he was carrying a shotgun. These lads were just doing a simple job – you fucked it up. Maybe we’re entitled to some kind of compensation.’
Callaghan wondered if he should say he was sorry, make some gesture of submissiveness.
A bad move
.
There’d been a lot of this type in prison. You grovel, it brings out the contempt, they enjoy seeing you hurt and they want more of it.
Perhaps he ought to put up more of a front? His hands bound, that wouldn’t be very convincing.
Mackendrick said, ‘Your ex-wife’s name is Hannah. You’re still close with her. Her new husband’s name is Leon.’ He was ticking points off on his fingers. ‘Your girlfriend’s name is Alexandra Kane. We know all about where these people live, where they work.’
Callaghan stared at him.
‘Your girlfriend, for instance, has an apartment down by the waterfront, fifth floor. She—’
‘She’s not my—’
‘—took you home Saturday night. Your ex-wife—’
‘What’s this about?’
‘What I want you to understand is this – at any time, I lift a finger and someone close to you is stiffed. One or two of them, or three. And you too. We do who we can immediately, and when everything calms down we wipe up whoever’s left.’
‘This is—’
Mackendrick put a finger to his lips. ‘Pay attention. Your ex will get preferential treatment. First on the list.’
‘
For Christ sake!
’
‘It’s not just Karl here you’ve to worry about – there’s a whole army of people I can tap into. One word and she’s in the boot of a car, and the last thing she’ll do before she dies is curse your name.’
‘This is crazy—’
‘What I want you to say is –
yes
.’
‘To what?’
‘To everything. Anything. Whatever I want from you. Before we go any further, I want you to say yes.’
‘You can’t just—’
‘Oh, I can.’ Mackendrick came closer. His left hand held Callaghan’s chin. His touch was gentle. He moved his face to within inches of Callaghan’s. ‘Think of ten years from now. Coming up to Christmas. You’re what – what age are you now?’
‘I’m thirty-two.’
There were tiny hairs at the corners of Mackendrick’s mouth, where he’d shaved carelessly. The skin on the bridge of his nose was dry and rough.
‘Imagine you’re forty-two. Can you do that? Fifty-two. Sixty-two. Ten more years. Another ten. Imagine you’re eighty-two. Imagine the next fifty years. All the Christmases. All the meals you’ll eat and the booze you’ll drink, the places you’ll go, the things you’ll see. Imagine the women you’ll ride. The children – you don’t have children, right? – imagine the children you’ll have, the grand-children.’ He snapped his fingers close to Callaghan’s face.
‘Gone. Snuffed out. I click my fingers and it disappears. Never happens.’
He snapped his fingers again.
‘Bit of a waste, right? I’ve nothing to gain from killing you. What I need to do is show you how important it is to please me. You please me, I don’t click my fingers. I don’t send Karl to kick in your ex-wife’s ribcage before he cuts her throat. Your girlfriend gets home from work and she finds Robbie lying on her bed, waiting to show her what he can do with a knife – no need for that to happen.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Say yes.’
Callaghan said, ‘Yes.’
Lar Mackendrick nodded. ‘Walter let us down. We needed Walter for some routine jobs, nothing too heavy. Then we found out Walter was a bit of a mouth. I had to click my fingers. You got in the way, but that’s been put right. What we need done, you’re well able for it, a man with your record. Do it, and you and your ex-missus and your friends, you stay healthy. And I bung a couple of grand in your pocket.’
‘I don’t want money.’
Mackendrick smiled. ‘That’s up to you.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing too difficult. Driving, mainly.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Mainly.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘The reason Walter died, he had a mouth. What I’m about to tell you – it could make you die, if you get talkative. Maybe your ex-wife, your girlfriend too, whoever we can reach in a hurry.’
‘I don’t gossip.’
‘I have a project that needs someone who can get me a car when I need it. No questions asked. And do some driving. And since Walter’s out of the picture, you’re elected as my little helper.’
‘If I get caught doing anything illegal – I’ve got four more years in jail hanging over me.’
‘Then you’ll have to make sure you don’t get caught.’ Mackendrick raised his eyebrows, tilted his head, inviting a response.
Callaghan said, ‘I’ll do it.’
When they took him from the warehouse, Callaghan had a panicky moment. The urge to run surged through him and walking the ten or so feet to the car his eyes jerked this way and that, in search of a way out. A couple of hundred yards away someone was loading
boxes into the boot of a car. A guy in yellow overalls. No other sign of life on an industrial estate that seemed forsaken. Everything looked like it was closed – a tyre importer, a warehouse with
Peterson Desks
stencilled in white on the dark green door, a barred window below a shabby plastic sign that said
McCall’s Interiors
. Mackendrick was right – it was the kind of place where screams wouldn’t bring anyone running.
In the car, Callaghan bent to allow Karl to pull the hood over his head. At first he sought to remember the twists and turns of the car, but within minutes he’d lost track.