Collusion (22 page)

66

No one noticed Fegan as he entered McKenna’s bar on the Springfield Road. It was early yet and only a few drinkers sat staring at pints of Guinness or glasses of whiskey. Tom the barman filled chill cabinets with bottled beer and cider, the clink of glass on glass piercing the gloom. His head was just visible as he crouched behind the bar.

This was where it had all begun, just a few months ago. Michael McKenna had placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder and set his own death in motion. Had that not happened, if McKenna hadn’t sought him out that night, Fegan wondered if he might never have started this terrible journey. Perhaps the twelve would still have been following him, hiding in the shadows, emerging to torment him when sleep was all he wanted.

Fegan walked further into the pub, seeking the dark places. No one sat at the bar. He watched Tom work for a while before slowly, quietly approaching. Tom stood upright, an empty crate hanging loose at his side. He turned, saw Fegan, froze.

‘Hello, Tom,’ Fegan said.

Tom stared, his mouth hanging open.

‘I want a word,’ Fegan said.

Tom’s eyes darted around the bar before coming back to Fegan.

Fegan nodded to the door behind the bar. ‘In the back,’ he said.

Tom didn’t move.

Fegan walked to the side of the bar, lifted the hinged top and walked through.

‘What do you want, Gerry?’ Tom asked, his voice like sand on paper.

‘Just a talk,’ Fegan said. He indicated the door. ‘It won’t take long. Then I’ll leave you alone.’

Tom backed up until he reached the door, the crate still in his hand. Fegan scanned the dark corners of the pub. No one watched. They both entered the back room, a small space with a sink and a microwave oven, boxes of crisps and peanuts stacked in the corners. Fegan took a stool and placed it at the centre of the linoleum-covered floor.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

Tom dropped the crate and did as he was told. ‘I need a smoke,’ he said.

Fegan nodded.

Tom took a packet of Silk Cut and a lighter from his shirt’s breast pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips. His hands shook too hard to get the lighter to catch. Fegan took it from him and thumbed the wheel. The flame sparked into life. He held it to the end of the cigarette. It danced in the flame. Tom sucked hard, coughed when the tobacco caught, blew the flame out.

Fegan set the lighter on the worktop. ‘You know why I came back?’

Tom shook his head, took a drag on the cigarette.

‘Somebody tried to take Marie McKenna’s daughter yesterday,’ Fegan said. ‘I need to know who it is.’

Tom coughed again. ‘I don’t know anything about it. She’s been gone for months, her and the wee girl. She cleared out after … you know.’

‘She came back yesterday,’ Fegan said. ‘Someone tried to snatch Ellen at the hospital. It said on the news someone was arrested. It didn’t say who. You know everything that goes on. People talk to you. Now you talk to me.’

‘I don’t know anything, Gerry, I swear to God.’

Fegan bent down so he was at eye level with Tom. ‘You know better than to lie to me.’

‘I didn’t know she was coming back,’ Tom said. ‘I saw that thing on the news last night, but I never knew it was her and the wee girl.’

‘Where’d she been?’

‘Away somewhere, nobody knows where. After that business with her uncle and all, she took off.’

‘What about that cop?’

Tom flinched. ‘What cop?’

‘The one she used to live with,’ Fegan said. ‘He’s the wee girl’s father.’

‘Yeah, I know who you mean,’ Tom said. ‘What about him?’

Fegan straightened and looked down at Tom. The barman could barely hold onto the cigarette. He had started sweating when Fegan mentioned the cop.

‘He’s been around here, hasn’t he?’

Tom opened his mouth ready to say something, but changed his mind. His shoulders slumped and he nodded.

‘What did he want?’

‘He was asking the same as you, about Marie McKenna and the kid, where they were. I told him the same as I told you: I know nothing about it.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Big fella, broad-shouldered. Dirty blond hair. Dresses well.’

Fegan studied Tom as he sucked hard on the cigarette. ‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

‘He asked about what happened with Michael McKenna and that business in Middletown. About the feud. Then he asked about Patsy Toner.’

‘And you told him nothing.’

‘That’s right.’

Fegan’s gut told him to keep pressing. ‘There’s more,’ he said.

‘No, that’s all,’ Tom said. He brought the cigarette to his lips.

Fegan reached out and took the cigarette from Tom’s mouth. He dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath his heel. ‘There’s more,’ he said.

‘No, Gerry, that’s—’

‘Don’t,’ Fegan said. He stepped closer to Tom, forcing the barman to crane his neck to look up at him. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

Tom sighed. It turned to a whine in his throat, then a cough in his chest. ‘There was another fella came round. I didn’t like the look of him. He had a bad eye, infected or something. He was asking about Patsy Toner. Couple of days later, Patsy Toner drowns in a hotel bathtub.’

‘You think he was the one tried to take Ellen yesterday?’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Tom said.

‘What was he like?’

‘Dark hair, cut short. Medium height, sort of thin, but built tough. All knuckles and muscles and veins, you know? Southern accent, maybe like a gyppo.’

‘A traveller?’

‘Maybe. Thing is, there was something about him, the way he carried himself, the look in his eye. He was like …’

‘Like what?’ Fegan asked.

‘You,’ Tom said. ‘He was like you.’

67

‘Where’s the other fella?’ the Traveller asked, his eyes still raw.

‘I have asked my colleague to sit this one out,’ Gordon said.

‘Why’s that, then?’

Gordon arranged his pen and notepad on the table between them. ‘Because his presence was required elsewhere,’ he said. ‘Let’s proceed, shall we?’

The Traveller smiled. ‘Ready when you are.’

Gordon did not return the smile. ‘I’m curious as to what contacts you might have in Belfast.’

‘No comment.’

‘We’ve recovered only one weapon, and two clips of ammunition, during your arrest and subsequent searches. We suspect another party may be hiding items for you somewhere in the city.’

‘No comment.’

‘We’ll shortly have permission to search your hotel room. Are we likely to find anything incriminating there?’

No comment.’

‘If you cooperate with us now, tell us what we might find there, and where we might find it, that will be taken into consideration in our recommendations to the Public Prosecution Service.’

‘No comment.’

Gordon hit the stop button on the twin-deck tape recorder. He stood and came around the table. He perched on the edge, folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at the Traveller. ‘I miss the old days,’ he said.

‘That right?’ the Traveller said.

‘That’s right,’ Gordon said. ‘The days before the Police Ombudsman and the Human Rights Commission. Back then we could be a little more … well … vigorous in our interrogations. We used to do all sorts, and nobody minded. I put away a lot of scumbags in my time, most of them based on confessions. You should’ve been around then, seen where that “no comment” nonsense got you. I’m a Christian, you know.’

‘Good for you,’ the Traveller said.

‘Yes, it
is
good for me. The missus converted me. I used to be a drinker. She soon sorted that out, got me going to church, got me right with the man upstairs. That was back in, oh, ’79 or ’80. And I’ll tell you the funny thing: beating the likes of you senseless, knocking your teeth down your throat, that never bothered me. It never conflicted with my Christian beliefs.’

‘That was handy,’ the Traveller said.

‘It was indeed, son. You see, I hold my beliefs very dear. I live and breathe by them. But when it comes to someone like you, or any of those toe-rags I put away back then, my beliefs cease to apply. Because you’re an animal. The good Lord above has no more regard for you than for a pig in a slaughterhouse, and neither do I.’

The Traveller feigned offence. ‘Here, now, there’s no—’

‘Shut your mouth.’ Gordon leaned close. ‘We don’t do things the way we used to. I never saw it as torture, just rigorous interrogation. But the bleeding hearts and the politicians took a different view, so that’s that. But it’s not too late to turn the clock back. You’re already looking pretty rough, so I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving too many marks. Now you start talking to me, son, or you’ll be getting a lesson in the police procedures of yesteryear. Understood?’

The Traveller said nothing.

Gordon gripped the Traveller’s face in one meaty hand. ‘Understood?’

The Traveller shrugged.

Gordon took his hand away, wiped it on his trouser leg. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back to it.’

He returned to his seat and started the tape recorder.

‘Now,’ he said, taking his pen in hand. ‘Who is your contact in Belfast?’

The Traveller grinned. ‘No comment,’ he said.

Before Gordon could react, the door opened and the pale cop stepped in. The Traveller kept his stinging eyes fixed straight ahead. The pale cop approached Gordon, bent down, whispered in his ear.

Gordon stopped the tape recorder, coughed, and followed the pale cop out of the room.

The Traveller ran his tongue across his upper lip and smiled.

68

‘Shit,’ Lennon said.

‘I’m sorry, there’s no one else,’ Gordon said.

‘I’d rather stay here.’

‘Nobody knows where “here” is,’ Gordon said. ‘You won’t even tell me, so how could anybody else know? Look, I need an officer of your experience on scene for the search. The hotel management are waiting. The only other officer I could send in is Dan Hewitt.’

‘No,’ Lennon said. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

‘Good lad,’ Gordon said.

Lennon went into the living room and sat down on the couch beside Marie. Ellen dozed in her lap as late-night music videos played silently on Roscoe’s huge television. ‘I’ve been called away,’ he said. ‘But I’ll stay if you want me to.’

‘Go,’ Marie said. ‘I don’t need a guard dog.’

‘You’ll be safe,’ Lennon said. ‘Roscoe has this place done up like Fort Knox. The door’s got two locks and a chain. It’s rock solid. Besides, no one knows you’re here.’

‘That Roscoe knows,’ she said.

‘I trust him.’

‘I don’t,’ Marie said.

Lennon took the Glock from its holster. He held it out to her. ‘Here.’

Marie stared at the gun. No,’ she said.

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ she said.

‘It’ll make
me feel
better.’

‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it.’

‘It’s easy,’ Lennon said. ‘You just pull this back to chamber a round. Then you point it and pull the trigger.’

‘I don’t want it,’ Marie said.

‘Take it.’ He held it in front of her. When she didn’t take it, he stood and crossed the room. He reached up and placed it on a shelf, too high for Ellen to reach. ‘It’s there if you need it,’ he said. ‘But you won’t.’

Marie didn’t answer, just watched him from the couch as she rocked their sleeping daughter.

‘I’ll be an hour, two at most,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back. I promise.’

69

The sound of heavy boots slapping the tiled floor jerked the Traveller from his doze. His body ached from lying on the thin mattress. He sat upright in the dark, sniffed, and wiped his one uncovered eye. He listened.

Running men and hard voices. Not panic, but some sort of emergency. One voice called for a doctor. Another called for a knife. The Traveller stood and walked to the metal door. He pressed his ear against it.

He heard, ‘Stupid fucker.’

He heard, ‘His trousers.’

He heard, ‘Hanged himself.’

The Traveller smiled. He walked to the toilet, unzipped, and emptied his bladder. He tucked himself away and zipped up. He breathed deep, steadied himself, faced the door, and waited.

Perhaps ten minutes passed as more footsteps hammered along the corridor beyond the door. They all seemed to be travelling the same direction, past his cell, deeper into the custody suite. The footsteps died away, leaving only urgent voices in another part of the building.

The Traveller imagined the pale cop on the other side of the door, waiting for his moment. When Hewitt told him the plan, the Traveller didn’t think he’d go through with it. But, by the sounds of things, he had.

The door clanked and creaked as a bolt moved aside. The Traveller smiled. He squinted as light from the corridor flooded the cell. Hewitt stood in the doorway. The Traveller struggled to make out his features in silhouette, but he could see the cop was sweating, his eyes dull.

‘You did it, then,’ the Traveller said.

‘Yes,’ Hewitt said.

‘Didn’t think you had it in you.’

‘Neither did I.’

The Traveller smiled. ‘First one’s the hardest.’

‘There’ll never be a second,’ the cop said.

‘You sure of that?’

Hewitt stood silent for a moment before stepping into the cell and closing the door behind him. It sealed them together in the dull glow from the nightlight. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s with the kid. The CCTV is down for the whole custody suite. You’ve got four, five minutes at most.’

The cop took a roll of cash from his pocket and handed it to the Traveller, along with a set of car keys. ‘It’s an old Volkswagen Passat, parked on the far side of the playing fields. Once you’re out the gates, turn right then cut straight across the rugby pitch, it’ll be at the other side. Keep out of sight till you’re there.’

‘Don’t worry, I will,’ he said.

‘And here,’ Hewitt said. He undid the catch on his holster, drew the Glock 17, and held it out butt-first.

The Traveller reached for the gun and tucked it into his jacket pocket. They’d taken his belt, so his jeans hung loose from his hips. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said.

‘Wait.’ The cop gripped his sleeve.

The Traveller turned to see him in the dimness.

‘It needs to look right,’ Hewitt said, his voice wavering and cracking.

‘All right,’ the Traveller said. He slammed his forearm into Hewitt’s face.

The cop stumbled back silently, blood spurting from his flattened nose. He slid down the wall, his jacket whispering on the painted concrete, his legs spreading out in front of him.

The Traveller patted Hewitt’s pockets until he found the can of CS spray. ‘Is he paying you well?’ he asked.

Hewitt stared back at him with clouded eyes. The Traveller gave him a sharp slap, sending a fresh spray of blood across the floor. The cop blinked at him.

‘Is the Bull paying you well for this?’

Hewitt coughed and moaned. ‘Well enough,’ he said, the words gurgling in his throat.

‘Don’t scream,’ the Traveller said. He shook the can.

‘No,’ the cop said.

‘You said it had to look real,’ the Traveller said. ‘You scream, and you’re more fucked than me.’

‘No.’

The Traveller covered his own mouth with his lapel, and aimed. He let Hewitt have it. The cop opened his mouth and leaked air. He inhaled, then convulsed as the CS attacked his chest and throat. He collapsed on his side, coughing.

‘Nice working with you,’ the Traveller said as he dropped the can and stood. He went to the door and listened. He heard nothing above Hewitt’s gasping and spluttering. His own throat stung, and his good eye watered. He ripped the dressing from the other and blinked as the cool air washed around it.

He opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor, his vision blurring and sharpening as it adjusted to the light. He shook his head and blinked, tried to clear it. Voices came from around the corner, where the kid’s cell was. They’d have cut him down, tried to resuscitate him. The Traveller hoped Hewitt had done a decent job of it. He drew the Glock, exited the cell and closed the door behind him. He slid the bar across and locked Hewitt’s whining behind the steel.

The Traveller moved quickly and quietly. Left took him to the booking desk, now deserted as all hands tried to save the kid. Left again took him to the corridor leading to the reception area. He froze as he turned the corner.

Gordon stood by the locked door. They stared at each other, ten feet between them.

Gordon mouthed some words.

‘What?’

Point the gun
, Gordon’s lips said.

The Traveller did as he was told, and Gordon raised his arms. The cop stepped aside so the Traveller could see the keypad for the lock.

The door’s small window showed the exit beyond. A camera watched from its perch where the ceiling met the wall.

He understood. ‘Put your number in and open it,’ he said, crossing the distance between them.

Gordon did it without argument. The lock whirred and clunked.

‘There’s no one on the gate,’ Gordon whispered in a voice so quiet the Traveller could barely hear him. ‘You’ve got a clean run at it, so long as you’re quick.’

The Traveller nodded, kept the Glock trained on Gordon.

‘Hewitt said I’d be looked after,’ Gordon whispered. ‘He said your people would take care of me.’

‘That’s right,’ the Traveller said.

He put the pistol to Gordon’s temple, waited long enough to see the realisation in the cop’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The Traveller stepped over Gordon’s twitching legs, and went for the outer door. Beyond it, the gates stood open and unattended. The night air cooled his face as he ran.

He didn’t stop running until he found the Volkswagen.