‘It doesn’t bother me.’
In recruiting foot soldiers for the job of taking down Frank Tucker, Lar Mackendrick was flying blind. There wasn’t anyone inside his outfit who mightn’t have been squared away by Frank Tucker. Approach the wrong person and Lar would be dead by nightfall. Matty had known who the up-and-comers were in the city. Lar’s knowledge was limited.
Almost a year had passed since Lar had told Karl Prowse to fuck off when the young smartass called and offered him a piece of a jewellery robbery. Karl said all he needed was someone to help sell the stuff. Lar had hung up. A month later, Karl Prowse
made the papers when a murder charge was dropped. Karl was pulled in after a Chinese student was mugged in St Anne’s Park and died two days later. On the day the case opened, the prosecution disclosed that the two witnesses who had identified Karl as the assailant were refusing to verify the information they’d given in statements to gardai. The judge ordered them onto the witness stand and threatened them with strict penalties and they all swore they couldn’t remember anything about the crime.
Prowse had been stupid to ring Lar out of the blue, offering stolen jewellery. But the killing charge said he could handle himself. The fact that he could arrange to frighten witnesses into silence suggested that he wasn’t as thick as he might seem. He should be good enough for the kind of work required. Crucially, he was off the radar as far as Frank Tucker was concerned. Karl brought his friend Robbie Nugent into the game.
The third recruit was Walter Bennett, a low-profile moocher who stole cars and whatever else he could sell. Nicking cars without wrecking them, and supplying credible plates, were the kind of skills that didn’t come off the peg along with muscle like Karl and Robbie.
Forced to recruit from outside his usual circles, with just three untried foot soldiers, Lar needed someone with hard experience, and no one came harder than Dolly Finn.
‘I owe you,’ Dolly Finn said.
‘Jo-Jo and me, we owed you a lot more,’ Lar said.
‘I did what I thought was right.’
Dolly Finn had been an independent operator in Dublin, mostly doing hold-ups. It had been several years back that he’d been approached to do a hit on Jo-Jo Mackendrick. Dolly informed Jo-Jo, the would-be assassins were dealt with and Jo-Jo gave Dolly sixty grand and his eternal gratitude. After a kidnap job went wrong Dolly had had to leave Dublin. He spent a year in Nottingham and when that didn’t work out he headed down to
London. Some months later, adrift and unconnected, he risked a visit back to Dublin, where he approached Lar for help. Lar gave him money and a recommendation to a London outfit with which he’d done business. Since then, Dolly had thrived. He insisted on repaying the money that Lar had given him.
‘Who are we talking about?’
Lar gave Dolly Finn the background on Frank Tucker.
‘Gang war – I don’t do gang wars.’
‘Neither do I.’ Lar told him the plan.
There were several business types in the pub, and a well-dressed woman who kept checking her watch. Over near the door a white-haired man was talking loudly, angrily, to a woman half his age. Lar thought he heard him say something about a drum solo. Though there was no one within earshot and they were talking in soft tones, Dolly looked around before he said, ‘You got the IRA to sell you that stuff?’
‘No, the Provos have gone hippie these days. A spin-off, people I’ve dealt with before. Declan Roeper?’
Dolly shook his head. ‘Never heard of him. Is he in on this?’
‘No chance – first-class wanker. I gave him some shit about using the stuff to cause a distraction so we could pull off a job.’ Lar leaned closer. ‘What I need the stuff for is to take out a very specific building at a very specific time.’
Dolly raised an eyebrow. ‘A bomb in Dublin – the way things are these days, it won’t just be the gardai checking that one out. You’ll have everyone from the MI6 to the FBI sniffing around.’
‘I’ve made provision. They’ll round up the usual suspects – but one likely lad will be missing, presumed to have fled the jurisdiction.’
‘This Roeper fella?’
‘Big-headed bollocks. Couple of years ago, he and his people wasted a couple of drug dealers in Dundalk. The cops know it was him. When Frank Tucker’s hotshots get taken out and Roeper’s
gone missing, he’ll fit the bill – the police will put it down to another Republican clean-up job.’
‘You want me to do him?’
‘No – that’ll be done by the time you come over. I need you for three jobs, same day. One day’s work – then you come back here, that’s the end of it.’
‘All in one day?’
‘All going well.’
‘Ambitious.’
‘Has to be. If we drag things out, give them a chance to hit back – they’ll slaughter us. Has to be quick, clean. We waste Tucker and a handful of his top people – take the head off the snake and it’s a goner. Frank himself, I’d love to do him personally, but it’s not practical.’
‘Long as he goes, it doesn’t matter.’
Lar nodded. ‘You’re in, then?’
‘Like I say, I owe you.’
‘If this works, Dolly – anything you want.’
‘Call me Michael,’ Dolly Finn said.
Lar met May at the hotel and they took a taxi to Covent Garden, then they strolled until they found a restaurant that May thought looked nice.
They sometimes had their individual schedules that parted them for a day or two, but mostly in their long marriage they’d spent hardly any time apart. They maintained this evening ritual, at home or in a restaurant, sitting across a dining table, looking back on the day. Over the years, it was like Lar and May had seeped into each other. They’d become not Lar and May but Lar-and-May, a single unit made of two equal parts.
After dinner, they walked up towards Leicester Square and strolled a while, enjoying the buzz. They continued on down to
Piccadilly Circus, arm in arm, then they got a taxi back to the hotel in Kensington. May went up to the room, and Lar sat for a while in the hotel bar. He was on his second vodka when he remembered the bar served spirits only in doubles. There was a time when that wouldn’t have mattered, but those days were gone. He’d had a glass of wine with the meal, and now more vodka than he intended. He left half the second glass on the table and went up to the room. After they’d made love, Lar and May lay in the dark, talking quietly about the Tucker problem. Before they fell asleep they’d agreed on a definite date on which to make it go away.
The policeman was middle-aged, with a flash suit, bad teeth and a hunger for money.
‘What did it say?’ Lar Mackendrick asked.
‘I couldn’t very well take notes, could I?’
‘You saw it or you didn’t.’
‘Just a glimpse.’
‘Couldn’t you get a copy?’
‘Look – it wasn’t like that. I was leaving a report on the Chief Super’s desk – I bent down, had a look, just curiosity. Then I heard someone coming – it was the station sergeant coming in with some filing. I went about my business.’
‘The gist – what was the gist of it?’
‘It was an authorisation sheet. For what, I don’t know. Disposal of charges, non-standard expenses or whatever. That’s what they’re used for.’
‘And?’
‘That’s it – I saw Detective Garda Templeton-Smith’s name, and Walter Bennett – I know he’s done stuff for a lot of people, so I thought I ought to put the word around about the little fucker.’
You thought it might be worth something
.
With a week to go before the opening of hostilities against Frank Tucker, this was more of a nuisance than a disaster. Walter, as a driver and provider of cars, knew bugger-all about the plan. But he was in a garda’s pocket and he could yap at any time. The project would have to be put on hold until the problem was fixed.
There’s always an upside
.
Karl Prowse and Robbie Nugent needed a blooding. They’d need strong nerves in the days to come, so a little taster would do no harm. Taking care of Walter would settle their nerves. The wise leader takes advantage of a change of circumstances.
Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing
.
The way it worked out, the smartass who poked his nose in and kept Walter Bennett alive for a few days turned out to be useful. Danny Callaghan was younger than Walter, bigger and tougher, with a killing on his record. Lar liked him for the job – and the fact that the person he had killed was a cousin of Frank Tucker made Lar like him even more. He was easy to get a grip on. His ex-wife, and the bitch he was screwing – all Lar had to do was threaten to shred them and Callaghan was putty.
It went well after that. Karl and Robbie successfully did the job on Walter, second time round. Danny Callaghan passed his test. If he’d chickened out and gone to the police the stolen 4×4, and the two kids in it, would have been lifted.
Then there was one last job before it was time to move against Tucker. And that job would be useful for nailing the new boy down even more firmly.
‘Danny?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You free?’
‘Just getting something to eat.’
‘I want to show you something. Now.’
‘I need to change, have a shower, it won’t take—’
‘You’re fine as you are.’
‘This is Declan Roeper. As you can see, Declan’s been digging a grave.’
When Lar Mackendrick threw the spade, Danny Callaghan instinctively reached up and caught it.
‘Help him,’ Mackendrick said.
‘What’s this about?’
‘It’s about you doing as you’re told.’
Callaghan stood there holding the spade. There was a small smile on Karl Prowse’s face, as though he was hoping that Callaghan would do something silly.
After a moment, Callaghan stepped down into the grave. Roeper nodded to Callaghan, almost a companionable gesture.
‘Keep at it,’ Karl Prowse said. ‘We don’t have all night.’
The grave was less than a foot deep. It was cold up here. Even so, Roeper – in a three-quarter-length waxed coat and leather homburg hat – was overdressed for the task. He resumed digging, very slowly. Callaghan hefted the shovel and began work.
It took about twenty minutes before the grave was almost two feet deep. Roeper’s breath was loud, his face was sweaty. He’d taken off the coat, though he still wore the leather homburg. He was bent forward, each shovelful an effort.
‘Enough,’ Lar Mackendrick said. He motioned to Callaghan to get out of the grave. Callaghan put the spade aside and stepped up from the hole. He could feel the beat of his heart echoing in his throat. Roeper continued digging.
Mackendrick said, ‘Declan.’
Roeper turned and looked from Callaghan to Mackendrick. He dropped the spade. His movement jerky and unsteady, he stepped up out of the grave. ‘Lar—’ he said.
‘No point.’
Roeper stared, then he made a noise in his throat and spat into the grave.
‘Give me time for a prayer.’
Mackendrick shrugged. He pointed at the grave. ‘Get in.’
Roeper grunted as he stepped back down into the grave. He turned and made the sign of the cross. His puffs of breath, visible in the cold air, were small and each quickly followed the one before. He took off his leather hat and dropped it at his feet, then took a pair of rosary beads from a pocket and held them, his hands loosely clasped, as he silently mouthed the words of a prayer. When he finished he made the sign of the cross again, kissed the rosary beads and wrapped them around his left hand.
Lar nodded to Karl Prowse.
Prowse lifted his automatic pistol, released the safety and pulled back the slide. Then he took his time walking around the grave. He stood next to Mackendrick.
Roeper looked at Mackendrick for a moment, then turned away to look instead towards the trees. He straightened up, as if his spine had unwound and the exhaustion had left his body. He raised his head, thrust his chin forward and put his arms down by his sides. Staring out into the darkness, seeing whatever he saw out there, an old soldier standing to attention.
It lasted two or three seconds, then Karl Prowse shot him twice in the chest and Roeper fell straight back and rolled onto his side.
From several feet away, Robbie came forward and fired another bullet into the limp body. Prowse looked at him in irritation, as if his friend had nicked a piece of food from his plate without asking.
Lar Mackendrick said, ‘Cover him up.’ Callaghan looked up from the body and saw that Mackendrick was speaking to him.
‘I’m not—’
‘Cover him up.’
Slowly, Callaghan stepped into the grave. He reached down and turned Roeper onto his back. He stood a moment, looking down at the body, no puffs of breath now visible around the face. Callaghan straightened out the legs and put the arms down by the sides.