Gun Street Girl (34 page)

“I . . . I've got nothing to do with Moony,” he said. He was very pale and very sweaty now and that wasn't just the coke working its white magic.

“It's the Americans who are calling the shots around here, isn't it? I've tangled with them myself. They almost did for me and I'm an RUC detective. An RUC detective with no evidence and a lot of wild guesses. Whereas you . . . you actually know the whole story. And once the deal is done, once the missiles are gone, they'll make sure all the loose ends are tidied up. And in case my figurative language has confused you, Nigel, by loose ends I mean you. You won't be getting any dough, Nigel. You won't be getting any love. But you'll probably be getting a bullet in the fucking head.”

Nigel closed his eyes, breathed in and out, went to get a glass of water, drank it.

“Talk. Tell me, Nigel,” I said.

He sat down again.

“What do you want, Duffy?” he asked.

“I want the killers. I'm a homicide detective. I don't give a fuck about the missiles. I want the men who threw Michael Kelly off a cliff. I want the men who murdered little Sylvie.”

He shook his head. “I . . . I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything about that,” he said in a monotone.

I grabbed his dressing gown by the lapels and pulled him close to my face.

“Can you deliver them to me, Nigel? Can you? If you can you can save your skin.”

He shook his shaggy head. “I don't know who killed those people and I don't know anything about any missing missiles.”

“We can go the official route: full confession, witness protection program, new identity for you anywhere you like,” I said.

I took the roll of banknotes and held it in front of his nose.

“Or we could go the unofficial route. There's ten grand here. That pharma coke could be worth another ten. You just give me the proof I need and it's yours. Disappear. Vanish off the face of the earth until Moony's in jail or dead . . .”

Vardon shook his head.

“I want you to go now,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. I stood up. I had him on the hook and that was enough for now.

I wrote out my home phone number and my phone number at Carrick RUC and left them on the table. “Call me any time. Day or night. Just don't do it from the phone box in Ballycarry. Special Branch has tapped that one. Understand me, Nigel?”

He nodded sullenly. “I understand,” he said.

I put the coke and money in my jacket pocket. I walked back across the muddy field to the BMW. I drove home as another snowstorm moved in from the north.

My whole body ached now just as the doctors in Coleraine predicted it would do. I stripped off in the bathroom and found that I was covered with yellow and purple bruises. I lay in the bath and drank neat vodka with aspirin and codeine.

Darkness fell on Ireland and I went downstairs and locked the doors.

I lit the paraffin heater and climbed into bed. I checked that my Glock nine-millimeter was under the pillow. I tested the action and checked the clip. All was well. If they came for me again tonight they'd pay a heavier price this time. I thought about Sara and I thought about Kate, and finally I thought about Niamh. “
Tá an tachrán ina shuan codlata
,” a voice from the past said.
The child is fast asleep.
And some time after that he was.

26: THE CONFIDENTIAL TELEPHONE

Doorbell at eight in the morning. I looked through the peephole. Crabbie and Lawson.

I opened up.

“What's the
craic
, lads?”

“We got a report that you were in the hospital, Sean,” Crabbie said, concerned.

“I'm fine. And they mostly avoided my pretty face.”

“What happened? Someone lifted you?” Crabbie asked.

“Yup.”

“Paramilitaries?”

“Hard to tell because they were wearing balaclavas. But here's the interesting part . . . they had American accents.”

“Wait a second, what happened to you?” Lawson said.

“Someone gave him a hiding,” Crabbie said.

Lawson was shocked. “How can this happen to a policeman?”

“It happens, and worse. Where do you think you're living, son?”

“Did you report it?” Lawson asked.

“I did. Not that that will ever do any good.”

McCrabban's knuckles were white with fury. “If I ever catch them that's done that to you,” he began.

“Forget it. Why don't you come in and have some coffee.”

After the lads left I took another personal day. I stayed home because I couldn't face the office, but also because I was waiting for Vardon to call.

Waited there. Watched
Murder She Wrote
and
Countdown
. Solved the murder before Jessica, solved the numbers before Carol.

Vardon didn't call.

That was OK. Give him another day to stew.

I went to the wine shop in Carrick and bought a bottle of the expensive stuff that Sara liked.

Quick shower. Shave. Clean shirt. Sports coat. Tie.

Under the BMW.

Inside the BMW.

Sara's house.

Knock, knock, knock.

The door didn't open.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Who do you think?”

“I told you I was busy, Sean.”

Her voice . . . annoyed.

“I bought you some wine.”

“Leave it on the doorstep, will you?”

“Can't I even come in?”

“No. I'm working.”

“What are you doing?”

“Working! For fuck sake, Sean. I'm trying to do some work.”

“Are you alone?”

“Of course I'm alone. I just don't want to be disturbed. All right?”

“I'll leave the wine on the doorstep, then.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I walked back to the Beemer and turned on my police radio. I ran the license plates of all the cars on the street.

The one on the other side of the street belonged to a certain Martin McConville, who was the deputy editor of the
Belfast Telegraph
. The man with the good handshake. The one that looked like the Yorkshire Ripper.

I moved the BMW to a more discreet location under a chestnut tree at the end of the road. Martin finally came out at nine. He almost tripped over the bottle of wine. He handed it back through the doorway. He leaned in for a kiss good-bye. It was lingering. Heartfelt.

“And that's the end of Sean Duffy and Sara Prentice,” I said to myself. “Shame. I really thought we were on to something.”

I didn't blame her. I was just as bad. Worse.

Back to Coronation Road.

Up the path, phone ringing.

“Yes?”

“Where were you? I tried you at your office. I tried you at your home number.”

Vardon.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I slipped over the fields to the James Orr pub in Ballycarry.”

“Special Branch see you go?”

“No.”

“Who's in the pub?”

“Couple of old farmers.”

“Any strangers?”

“No.”

“All right. I'll meet you there in twenty minutes.”

I went to the shed and got the coke and the money. I looked under the BMW for bombs, didn't find any and drove to Ballycarry.

The James Orr was a sour-smelling country pub with a few old stagers in flat caps complaining about the price of wool and beef.

Nigel was in a corner hanging on to a pint of Harp and looking nervous.

I got a pair of double whiskies and brought them over.

“Speak,” I said.

“You figured out most of it anyway.”

“Tell it in your words. From the beginning. From Michael coming back from uni.”

Vardon sighed. “Michael getting into uni in the first place. His da virtually building the school gym so Michael would get glowing letters of recommendation. Dad furious when Michael dropped out and got himself mixed up in a scandal with a homosexual. His da had got all respectable, you know? A long road to respectability. Rotary Club, charity work, MBE on the cards. He didn't even want to take Michael in. Said he was a bad 'un. Mikey told me that there was some doubt about whether Ray was even his real da . . .”

“Go on.”

“So anyway, they do take him in. The ma insists. Mikey's living at home dealing with that lunatic old man and he's not happy, but he's OK because he's biding his time. He's done well at Oxford. No degree, but he didn't really give a shit about that. It's not the piece of paper. It's who you meet. And Michael met. He has all these contacts. Knows a million people. Contacts over the water. International contacts.”

“Contacts for what?”

“Guns. Arms. You name it.”

“So what was the score when he came to see you?”

“Big score. Massive score.”

“What was it?”

“It was all his idea. He'd heard about these men who were interested in acquiring a modern surface-to-air missile system. And he knows I work at Shorts and, well . . . it was a match made in heaven, wasn't it?” Nigel said bitterly.

“Where were the men from?”

“He told me different stories.”

“Like?”

“Israel, Iran, South Africa, all over . . .”

“Not Northern Ireland?”

“No! This was big money. This was oil money or something.”

“He mention America?”

“Aye. He said some of them were American. The man he was dealing with was American.”

“Connolly.”

“Connolly came on board later.”

“What did the men want?” I asked.

“At first it was only blueprints. Just blueprints. A million quid for blueprints. But that was just to hook me. They needed complete missile systems so they could reverse-engineer them.”

“And you were the inside man?”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn't do the stealing.”

“Fuck, no! All I had to do was provide security passes and old Tommy Moony would do the rest.”

“Michael met Tommy?”

“Oh yeah, all three of us met up before the operation.”

“Then what happened?”

“They took the missiles. Everything went according to plan.”

“And then?”

“The problem was the timing. The foreign partners were having problems moving the money. They were good for the cash but the problem was moving it. Scrutiny, you know?”

“Scrutiny from who?”

“Michael didn't say, but I assumed the cops.”

“So what happened to the Javelins?”

“The missiles are hidden, wherever Tommy Moony has stashed them, waiting to get shipped out of Ireland.”

“Why the murders? What went wrong, Nigel?”

“Moony was getting impatient. ‘Where's the money?' ‘We want to meet with the buyer.' Michael was the voice of reason. He knew how to deal with these sorts of people; he knew that Moony would fucking blow it.”

“So no meet.”

“No. But Moony's not happy. Getting more pissed off all the time. And then we hear Shorts has started an internal probe into the inventory. And Moony's fucking furious. He wants to change the split. He said that he'd done all the work and all we'd done is set up the deal between them and the foreigners. Moony said that we could split a ten per cent finder's fee between us.”

“Michael didn't like that.”

“No he didn't. Michael said it was his show. It was the old split or nothing. We were getting a third each.”

“What was the original split?”

“Two million for him, two million for me, two million for Moony.”

“So how did it escalate?”

“Michael threatens to call the whole thing off. He says that he's indispensable, that the international buyers will only deal with him . . . And you know what happened next?”

“What happened next?”

“Michael's parents are killed and Michael goes off a cliff.”

I swallowed my whiskey and got another round in. “So Moony found a way of contacting the international buyers without Michael's assistance.”

“Looks like it, doesn't it? And after you talked to me, someone firebombs my house, as if I haven't got the message before.”

“The message to say nothing.”

“Aye.”

“Do you have any proof that Moony killed Michael and his parents and Sylvie?”

“No.”

I nodded. “So will you a wear a wire?”

“No way!”

“We need proof. If you can get Moony to incriminate himself we can give you witness protection and—”

“No. I'm not doing any of that. Moony will kill me. He'll get to me somehow. Be my death warrant. No, I want your Plan B, Duffy. The money and the coke. You've brought it?”

I patted my jacket pocket. “What do I get for it, Nigel? All you've told me is what I already guessed.”

“I know something you don't know, Duffy.”

“What?”

“I know the date they're shipping the missiles out. My last conversation with Michael was in Whitehead car park. He was telling me not to worry about Moony or the investigation or anything else. He said that after December seventh we'd get our money as planned. That's when the boat's coming—December the seventh. That's when the missiles are leaving Ireland.”

“Where?”

“I don't know where. Michael never told me that. Somewhere up the north coast, I think.”

I shook my head. “But after he killed Michael, Moony must have made other arrangements with the foreign buyers.”

“Other arrangements for the money, maybe, but the missiles are going out that night. It's been arranged for weeks. They can't leave it much longer. Every day they delay is a day closer to discovery.”

“The night of December seventh? That's your tip?”

“Aye.”

“That doesn't get me the murderers.”

“No, but if Special Branch follow Moony on the night of December seventh, he'll lead them to the missiles and they get him for theft, espionage, whatever else you can throw at him.”