‘I know that, Walter, and I’ll see that we make it up to you. All my fault.’
Silence. MacKendrick wondered if he’d sounded too contrite.
He won’t buy too much meekness
.
He put the slightest edge into his voice.
‘Be reasonable, Walter – a right royal fuck-up on my part, but I’ve made it clear to everyone – this was my fault, no one else’s, and you’re an innocent party. You’re an important part of the team.’
‘Fuck that, Mr Mackendrick – they almost killed me.’
‘Let me make this up to you, Walter. Wherever you’re staying, you know now it’s safe for you to go home. Home ground, Walter, you and I can—’
‘No.’
‘Wherever you say, we’ll meet wherever you say, the two of us, we’ll sort—’
‘No, no meeting.’
‘Whatever you want. But you have to be reasonable. Give me an address, so we can send – I know, I know, it won’t make up for what happened, but some compensation is on the cards, just a token of—’
‘This isn’t about fucking compensation.’
Mackendrick said, ‘I know you’re upset, Walter, you’ve a right. Fuck sake,
I’m
upset, and I won’t be happy until we put this shit behind us.’
Put it up to the little bastard
.
‘I hope you accept that, Walter.’
‘I want to believe you, Mr Mackendrick.’
Silence again.
‘I hope you do, Walter. I really hope you do.’
Mackendrick paused, as though searching for the right words. ‘I need to show you – I’m really, there’s no other way to say it, Walter, I’m embarrassed, really embarrassed. I want you to know that. I want you to see that. In person. When you feel comfortable. Tonight, maybe.’
Walter didn’t respond.
‘Or maybe tomorrow – maybe you can ring me again?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Walter said, ‘I’ll ring you again, Mr Mackendrick, and we’ll arrange something.’
It’s not what he said
.
What Mackendrick said, it made a kind of sense, it might be true.
Except for what happened when Walter lost his temper.
‘
This isn’t about fucking compensation
.’
Walter felt an immediate surge of regret and fear. He’d never dared display such irritation with Mackendrick. And when the reply came back instantly, Walter knew it was all bullshit.
‘
I know you’re upset, Walter, you’ve a right
.’ Calm, sympathetic, understanding. No matter what the circumstances, Mackendrick wouldn’t take cheek from anyone, least of all someone he usually treated like a halfwit. He was being too understanding.
‘
You’re an important part of the team
.’
How fucking dumb does he think I am?
This wasn’t about a mistake, about compensation or wanting to make things right – this was about Mackendrick getting his hands on Walter.
Fuck that
.
The offer of money was tempting, but money wouldn’t keep you warm if you were face down in the Dublin mountains.
‘
Tomorrow, I’ll ring you again, Mr Mackendrick, and we’ll arrange something
.’
Yeah, right
.
The sensible thing to do was to get out now. The money from Garda Templeton-Smith, the couple of hundred that was all he could get from an ATM, that would be enough to get him to Glasgow. He had a few hundred in a bank, some more in the Credit Union, but his account books were in his apartment and he wasn’t going there. The kind of money he’d need to keep him going in Glasgow – he’d need Dessie Blue to cough up. Once that was sorted – he had friends in Glasgow, from the old days, people he could trust. A thing like this, it would sort itself out in a few months, he could come back.
Or not
.
Bugger-all reason to stay in this crummy town, apart from Sissy
.
Today, touch base with Dessie Blue, pick up that eight hundred – with that kind of money in his pocket, this Glasgow thing could work out not too bad.
He looked at his watch. Gone half-eleven.
Time to wake up Dessie Blue
.
He found a crumpled piece of paper in his wallet and checked the number.
Christ
.
It was the third time Lar Mackendrick had tapped out Karl Prowse’s number and the third time he’d got the engaged signal.
We don’t have this kind of time to waste
.
Everything was already on hold until Walter Bennett was replaced. Now his elimination – just a piece of necessary housekeeping – had turned into a project all of its own.
Again, Mackendrick tapped out Karl Prowse’s number. Again, the barren sound of the engaged signal made him frown.
‘Well? Have you got it?’
‘I’ve got it.’
Got it
.
Walter Bennett tried to keep the hope out of his voice. He gently swayed forward and back, his stare fixed on the ground at his feet. ‘Great. I can meet you now.’
Dessie Blue said, ‘Not now. Tonight.’
‘Now.’
‘Tonight.’
‘This afternoon, then.’
‘Tonight. Maybe first thing tomorrow – at the latest.’
Shit
.
‘You don’t have it.’
‘I have it. I just need to get my hands on it – just a matter of arranging things.’
‘Arranging things?’ Walter’s voice was tighter, the pitch higher. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Getting the money actually into my hands.’
‘You’re fucking me around.’
‘I swear.’
‘This is
important
to me! I
need
it, you
owe it to me
, you bastard!’
Dessie Blue broke the connection.
Shit-shit-shit-shit
.
Shit
.
Walter ground his lips together. After a few seconds, he hit the buttons on his phone.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Please, Dessie – you’ve no idea, man, this—’
‘You call me a fucking bastard, then you—’
‘I’m under pressure, Dessie, the worst kind.’
‘Tonight, then.’
‘Thank you – thanks,
Jesus
, man—’
‘Half.’
‘Half what?’
‘Half the money.’
‘Ah, fuck that, Dessie, please, please.’
‘I can get you half – you want to take half, or you want to wait a while?’
‘Half now, half later.’
‘You want this in a hurry, Walter, you take half.
Finito
.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Whatever.’
Silence.
‘You settle for that, Walter, right? Half?’
‘It has to be tonight, though.’
‘You working tonight? Anthony’s place?’
‘No.’
‘Be there. Nine-ish.’
‘Dessie—’
He was gone again.
This time, no engaged signal from Karl’s phone. Lar Mackendrick was standing by his dining-room table. One hand holding the phone to his ear, the other silently tapping the table top in time with the distant ringing.
Come on
.
‘Yeah?’
Mackendrick said, ‘It’s me.’
‘Everything okay?’
‘You’re free today?’
‘I’m busy this afternoon,’ Karl Prowse said. ‘Family stuff. Free this evening.’
‘Good.’ Mackendrick spoke evenly, as though passing a comment on the weather. ‘I’ve talked to our friend. He insists on staying out of touch. I spun him a yarn, but I don’t think he’s buying. So we’ve got to find him, urgently.’
‘Any idea where he’s staying?’
‘Probably a B&B, maybe he’s got family.’
‘Okay.’
‘Use your initiative.’
This was the time Danny Callaghan liked best. Alone in a car, a straightforward task to perform, no time pressure. The motorway was busy – the afternoon light fading, endless streams of cars mostly driven by tired, edgy people, in too much of a hurry to get somewhere that might make up for the long hours of work they didn’t much enjoy. But Callaghan liked the calming effect that came with emptying his mind of everything except the mechanical routine
of calculation, adjustment and response involved in driving on a busy motorway.
The drive to the airport, in the early afternoon, had been mostly silent. He gathered from their infrequent remarks that Rowe and Warner weren’t too confident they could offer a cure for the problems of 257 Solutions. Rowe suggested a holding memo, as soon as they got back to London. Before heading home they were off to another job, this time in Frankfurt.
On the way to the airport, Callaghan caught himself yet again glancing in the mirror, not just routinely checking traffic but scanning the road behind for a glimpse of blue.
Stupid
.
Once, he caught a hint of something blue and looked again but couldn’t see it. When he got too close to the hatchback in front he gave up the vain search in the mirror.
Stupid
. The notion of looking for a blue Ford van. Whoever it was – if there was anyone to worry about – could be driving any kind of car.
He glanced in the mirror again.
If it was just about the blue van he could write it off as paranoia. But this afternoon, an hour before he was due to pick up Rowe and Warner at their hotel, Callaghan had been getting ready when the doorbell rang.
Shit
.
The police did things like that. Figured the time most likely to mess you up, then came to collect you for a wholesome chat down the station, and you didn’t get to leave until they’d screwed up your day.
His hand on the lock, Callaghan drew back.
Don’t assume it’s the police
.
He fetched the hammer from under the bed and when he opened the door the kid from two floors up was standing there.
‘Someone’s looking for you.’
The kid, name of Oliver, was wearing the same hoodie outfit he’d been wearing when he’d nodded to Callaghan a couple of nights back, out on the green in front of the Hive.
Callaghan waited.
‘Couple of fellas, they were asking around last night.’
Callaghan said, ‘The police. They were here this morning. It’s nothing.’
‘Not the cops. I saw these guys. These weren’t cops.’
‘These days, they’re recruiting all sorts. It’s not just mountainy men in long overcoats – long-haired men, little chirpy women.’
The kid said, ‘I know cops. These weren’t cops.’
Callaghan said, ‘Two fellas, right? Both of them wearing anoraks. One was fat-faced, the other—’
‘No.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘Nothing special – jeans, I think, heavy jackets.’
‘Fat-faced fella, big?’
The kid shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. These weren’t cops,’ he said for the third time.
After a few seconds, Callaghan said, ‘Okay.’
The kid pointed to the hammer. ‘You expecting trouble?’
‘I don’t know. Thanks.’
The kid nodded. He said, ‘See you, then,’ and he turned and left.
Callaghan was south of the airport on the M1, having dropped Rowe and Warner at Departures, when his phone rang. It was Novak. ‘Any chance you could handle another job?’
‘That’s fine. I’ve just dropped – I’m free for the day.’
‘It’s way out west?’
‘No problem.’
‘From there on to Celbridge?’
‘No problem.’
‘Thanks, Danny – we’re stretched this afternoon.’
Novak said the job came from a larger transport firm, embarrassed by a limo breakdown that threatened to leave three clients stranded at the Citywest Hotel.
‘I’m on it.’
There were a lot of SUVs in the car park of the Citywest, and helicopters lined up in the grounds. Legions of primped and burnished middle-aged men hanging about in expensive casual wear. The three clients were from that tribe, and they talked about golf all the way to Celbridge. Danny Callaghan tuned them out. The last time he’d held a golf club had been almost a decade earlier and there’d been blood on the clubface then.
At Celbridge the three golfers asked to be dropped at their local pub, where they gave Callaghan an extra-large tip.
On his way back now, Callaghan was in no hurry. His glance instinctively found the mirror again, and he cursed himself.
Do something
.
Find out
.
It had become too much of a habit, this checking the mirror and expecting the flash of blue. The blue van might have something to do with what had happened in Novak’s pub. Or maybe Frank Tucker was finally looking for payback for his cousin’s death. Perhaps it was the police, still looking to link him to whatever Walter was into.