Dark Circles (24 page)

CHAPTER 57

I must have been fucking mad, Richie Simpson said to himself as he left the Republican Club in Andersonstown. He had attempted to enlist the assistance of the Fenians in taking care of Sammy Rice, but they’d laughed into their pints of Guinness and sent him on his way. His head was hurting. He had gone on a bender with some of Jackie’s money and had already got rid of upwards of a grand. He was out of his mind taking a contract on Rice. He didn’t do killing. That wasn’t exactly true; he already had blood on his hands. So he could kill, but the chances were that if he tried to kill Rice, he was the one who would end up on a slab. The word on the street was that Rice had become his own best customer. However, a doped-up Sammy Rice was possibly a lot more dangerous than the sober version. He waved his hand at a black cab that pulled up beside him. He climbed in and said ‘Donegall Place’. The driver looked at him in the mirror and drove away without saying a word. The phrase ‘once in never out’ was running around in his brain. He had no way to make up the grand he had squandered on drink, gambling and women. It was more fun than he’d had since Jackie’s political party folded. So there was no question of giving the money back. Even if he could, Jackie wouldn’t accept it and he’d be the one with the contract on his head. The cab stopped, and the driver turned the clock around so that his passenger could see it. Simpson passed over a £5 note and didn’t wait for the change. It was a perfect spring day, and he needed a coffee. Maybe a belt of caffeine would activate his brain cells. The coffee shops in Donegall Place had embraced the continental ethos and had already set tables and chairs outside their premises. Spring was in the air and summer wouldn’t be far behind. He sat outside Clement’s Café on one of the black metal chairs and ordered a double espresso. He watched the citizens of Belfast as they passed in front of him. Who the hell in this city would be willing to kill a lunatic for ten thousand pounds? His double espresso arrived, and he was in the process of stirring it when a man sat in the seat beside him. He looked up and recognised Davie Best, Gerry McGreary’s top boy.

‘Good to see you, Richie,’ Best said motioning to the waitress. When she arrived, he pointed at the cup in front of Simpson.

‘Davie, it’s been a while.’ Simpson continued stirring his coffee. Best was one of the most dangerous men in Belfast. He wanted to believe that this meeting was a coincidence, but he was in Belfast long enough to know that men like Best didn’t meet you by accident.

They sat silently until the waitress delivered Best’s coffee.

‘I just got a call from one of my Fenian friends,’ Best said stirring his coffee.

Shit, shit, shit, Simpson thought. This was exactly what he didn’t need. Within days, every gobshite in Belfast would know that he was trying to organise Sammy Rice’s demise. If one of those gobshite’s worked for Sammy, it would be time to emigrate to Australia. That is if he was still alive.

‘Seems you need a job done.’ Best sipped his coffee.

Simpson looked at the people passing by. He was wondering if he ran, would any of them help him. But running would be pointless. Best or Rice would find him, and then he would be dead meat.

‘It appears that Sammy is out of control,’ Simpson spoke as lowly as he could and there was a nervous catch in his voice. ‘Important people want Sammy put out of harm’s way.’

‘Important people?’ Best asked.

‘People who don’t like a partner who is rapidly becoming a liability.’ Simpson sipped his coffee. His mouth was dry, and he wished he’d asked for water.

‘I think that you should meet with Mr McGreary.’

‘I thought McGreary and Rice were friends.’

Best smiled. ‘I wouldn’t call them friends. More like business rivals.’

Simpson finished his coffee and called the waitress. ‘Can I have a bottle of still water, please?’ What in God’s name had he got himself involved in? If McGreary wanted Rice dead, he could bloody well arrange it himself. He could see what was coming. He was going to have to do Rice himself, and McGreary wouldn’t shop him as a quid pro quo.

Best finished his coffee. He removed a card from his pocket and laid it on the table. It had a mobile phone number on it. ‘Call this number tonight and we’ll arrange a meet. Do not fuck up on this Richie because if you do, they’ll never find your body.’ Best tossed a £5 note on the table. ‘The coffees are on me.’

Simpson picked up the card and slipped it into his pocket. He felt totally calm. It was the calmness that came from the knowledge that he was a dead man.

CHAPTER 58

Big George Carroll was very pissed off. He was working like a slave while Boyle got to walk around like he was the bloody foreman. The least he could have done was to spell him by doing a bit of physical work himself. George was thinking about the trip back to Belfast and the cake waiting in the car. He didn’t bother to think about the hole he was digging. They were either digging something up or putting something down. George never got involved in the thinking part. He was always the doer. He was concentrating on making the hole as perfect as he could. He’d straightened off the edges, and he was almost down the two feet that Boyle had requested. He was lucky the earth was so soft. The rain of the previous few days had loosened the soil and made his work a lot less onerous. He hadn’t hit a box or anything like that, and he was almost finished.

Boyle watched George as he was cleaning up the hole. You couldn’t say a great deal about Big George, but he was a bloody good digger. It was just ironic that he had managed to dig his own grave without knowing it. Time to get the business at hand over with. ‘I need a piss,’ he said and moved deeper into the wood. As soon as he was out of sight, he removed the Hi Point from his pocket and checked the magazine. There were eight slugs. They were good to go. He thumbed off the safety.

‘Finished.’ George climbed out of the hole and turned around. There was no sign of Boyle and he remembered he’d heard something about a piss. He was walking towards the Beemer when Boyle came out of the woods carrying a pistol in his hand. All of George’s brain development had taken place in his amygdala, the oldest part of the brain that is dominated by the flight or fight responses. There was little or no development of the subcortex which governed basic thinking and passed messages to the cortex, the decision-making part of the brain, an area that was totally undeveloped in George’s case.

‘Sorry,’ Boyle said and raised the gun. He fired.

Big George heard the click of the hammer and pulled his head to the side. He felt the wind from the bullet as it sped past the left side of his face. He felt an instant pain in his left ear and raised his hand. His ear felt squishy, and it was wet.

‘Shit.’ Boyle smiled. The man was as big as a fucking house, and he had managed to miss him. The fucking bullet had ripped George’s left ear off, but he was standing there with a puzzled look on his face. He would have to spend a few quid on a session at a firing range. He’d assumed it was going to take a head shot to put Big George down but there was a lot more body to aim at. He lined up to fire a second shot and pulled the trigger. There was a click, but the gun didn’t fire. It must have been a dud, he thought. He tried to eject the cartridge but wasn’t able. The fucking gun had jammed.

George’s amygdala was in overdrive. He was in a life-threatening situation, and if he didn’t act fast, he would be dead. He let out a primal scream as he raced towards Boyle with the agility of a ballet dancer. It was a nimbleness that totally belied his bulk. As he moved, his right hand pulled back the spade. When he was within striking distance of Boyle, he swung the spade and aimed it at Boyle’s neck. The edge of the spade struck the left side of Boyle’s neck and cut through the external flesh, the trapezius muscle, the levator scapulae muscle, and the splenius cervicis muscle before cutting the blood vessels to the brain. It cut through the external ceratoid and the ceratoid sinus before slicing through the vertebral column. It continued on its way through the neck hacking muscles and ligaments until it exited on the right side of his neck. It was a stroke worthy of a medieval executioner. Boyle’s head tottered on his shoulders before falling off and landing on the grass at his feet. His eyes looked up and the last image imprinted on his dying brain was the fountain of blood pouring from his headless body. The body slumped on the grass next to the head.

George dropped the spade and looked at the broken body on the ground in front of him. His brain struggled to make sense of what just happened. There was so much adrenalin surging through his body that he took no notice of the pain in his shattered ear. He walked forward and stood over Boyle’s body. He bent and picked up the gun. Owen Boyle had tried to kill him. He took the car keys from Boyle’s body and went to the Beemer. He opened the boot. It was empty. Where was the object that they had been sent to bury? It slowly dawned on him that perhaps he had been digging his own grave. That was impossible. Boyle must have gone crazy. He walked to the edge of the clearing and sat on a rock. The ground around Boyle was a sea of red blood. Boyle’s eyes were wide open and there was a look of astonishment on his face. The adrenalin rush was beginning to subside and George could feel the onset of a searing pain in his left ear. He put his left hand to the side of his head and found that his ear had been turned into a piece of raw meat. He looked on the ground but there was no sign of the missing part of his ear. He walked across to Boyle’s prone body and pulled out a large section of his shirt. He tore it off and wrapped it around his head. He wondered whether he should go to a doctor. If he did, they would ask him how he had been injured. That would lead to Owen Boyle and that would not be good for him. Maybe he could live with just one ear. He pulled Boyle’s body to the hole he had dug and dropped it in. He kicked the head into the hole on top of the body. He picked up the spade and shovelled the earth over the dead man. If he went to the police, he would have to explain the dead body. He couldn’t go back to Sammy. Boyle’s torn shirt had staunched the blood somewhat, and he was becoming used to the pain. He took out his phone and called his mother. When she answered, he told her what had happened. After she assured herself that he was okay, she told him not to phone Sammy and not to accept any calls from him. He should return to Belfast and go to his uncle Ray’s house. She and Ray would be waiting there for him. He didn’t like it that he could hear her crying on the phone. He didn’t like to make her unhappy. She told him that she loved him, and he was to take care on the trip back to Belfast. He closed his phone and walked to the BMW. His mother was the clever one. He would love to be able to think like her, but he had long ago accepted that there was something that didn’t work right in his head. His mother had said that it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, he was just made like that. If anyone was to blame, it was God. He opened the door of the BMW and smiled. The cream cake from Maud’s was sitting on the passenger seat.

CHAPTER 59

Moira couldn’t believe that she had actually said it. She was going to quit the best job she could have imagined, something that she was more than good at, to take a leap into the unknown. Was she mad? It didn’t matter. She had already done the hard part by telling Wilson. Now, it was just a case of writing the letter. The best phase of her short life was coming to an end. She wondered whether Brendan’s love would be big enough to fill the hole. Now that the decision was made, she could stop agonising over what she was going to do and start concentrating on the case. Eric’s information was easy enough to analyse. There was no doubt that Robin Construction was the preferred contractor of the Infrastructure Agency. The crux of the matter was whether undue influence had been brought to bear in order to achieve that performance. The fact that Sammy Rice was the frontman for Robin did not bode well. The question was whether Rice had the wherewithal to exert influence. She doubted it. Rice was a criminal and strong-arm man. He was the kind that would put a gun in your mouth to get your attention. That wasn’t the kind of pressure that would make the bureaucrats toe the line. That type of pressure came from above. It needed political influence to create that level of compliance. Therefore, the focus on Carson Nominees. She got on her computer. Within a half an hour, she had a complete rundown on Robin Construction. The company was just one grade above a shell. It had employees, but they were not numerous. After Robin obtained a contract, most of the work was subcontracted. The declared profits of the company were totally out of line with the effort expended. Robin Construction was a cash cow providing its owners with substantial annual dividends. She next carried out a search on Carson Nominees and found that Robin Construction wasn’t their only investment in the Province. She extended her search to look for information on Carson Nominees itself. That was where she hit the wall. There was nothing aside from the registered address in George Town on Grand Cayman. She needed help, very specialised help. She took out her mobile and called Brendan. She thought about telling him of her decision, but that could wait until this evening. She was on a roll and right now Carson Nominees was her top priority. She explained her problem, and Brendan said he would arrange something. She would receive a call within fifteen minutes. Seventeen minutes later, her mobile rang.

‘Hi, can I speak to Moira?’ The accent was an exact copy of Brendan’s.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Moira McElvaney,’ she said.

‘Hi Detective Sergeant Moira McElvaney. This is Professor Joel Feinstein of Harvard University Business School. I’m just gonna call you Moira, and I’m Joel.’

‘Okay, Joel, sorry about the formality. It goes with the job.’

‘What’s the problem, Moira?’

She explained the situation with Carson Nominees, the Cayman connection and the link to a whole series of companies in Northern Ireland.

Feinstein said, ‘While we were talking, I was looking into some databases for information on Carson. I’m acquainted with their registered address in George Town. There are at least six hundred companies registered at that address, and I would guess that the only directors listed would be the guys who run that particular office. Brendan picked on me because I’ve written a book on the use of offshore banking to hide assets and ownership.’

‘Is there any way we can find out who actually owns Carson Nominees?’ Moira asked.

‘If these people are serious, and I guess they are if they’ve gone to the trouble of registering in the Caymans, then they’ve already set up a series of shell companies in other jurisdictions that assist those who want to stay anonymous. It might take years of research by someone like me to sift through the ownerships to find out who actually owns Carson Nominees. And even then the chances of success would be significantly reduced if they discovered someone was looking for them. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but these are the facts.’

‘What can I do?’ Moira asked.

‘Not a lot, the guys who go this route are more slippery and sneaky than a snake. They couldn’t set up this scheme, unless they had significant financial expertise, or at the very least access to significant financial expertise.’

‘You’re giving me a bad message, Joel.’

Feinstein laughed. ‘Considering that there is more than $30 trillion out there in the so-called Treasure Islands, you can just imagine the kind of services that are provided by unscrupulous bankers for the real owners of companies like Carson. They have infinitely more resources than you and I could muster.’

‘So they slide?’

‘Unless they get careless, or you get lucky, and I wouldn’t make a bet on either eventuality. Sorry. I got a class in ten minutes. I gotta go. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.’

‘Thanks for your time, Joel.’ Moira ended the call. Carson Nominees were probably at the centre of the case, and it was a dead end. Wilson wouldn’t be happy. She stood up and went to his office.