Black Water, page 12
The frosted glass door swung back. In stepped Slammer. The bench creaked as he sat. The heavy squint in Slammer’s eyes meant Lock Man could never read much from them. He studied the crevices and lumps in the man’s big head. He knew him long enough to sense he was feeling the strain from the heavy lifting.
‘Talk,’ Lock Man said, as calmly as he could.
‘Jobs, Shop and Maggot were pulled over.’
‘Maggot. What the fuck was that headbanger doing there?’ Lock Man uttered, the pieces of the how-the-fuck jigsaw rapidly assembling in his brain. ‘Bet ya that fucking prick caused this.’
Slammer nodded. ‘Shop said he let him come along only because he had been wrecking his head to go.’
‘Stupid cunt,’ Lock Man said. ‘Anyways, what the fuck happened?’
‘Shop said this copper was nosy, asking loads of questions, but he and Jobs reckoned she would have left them go. But Maggot got itchy and pulled a gun, one he had on him.’
Lock Man shook his head and cursed the new generation of gobshite gangsters.
‘Shop said he had the car in gear when he knocked off the engine – cos the copper had told him to – and the car jumped. That’s when the shot went off.’
‘Fucking abortion this,’ Lock Man said, the pulsing in his head going techno. ‘How did they get out?’
‘In the artic we had on standby. Gave instructions to Jobs by text. The Romanian lads had the ramps out and they drove right up into the container. They were gone in minutes.’
‘Dosser’s Field?’
Slammer nodded. ‘I was there, waiting for them. On my way down I texted Dosser to go to work.’
‘Talk me through how ya cleaned up.’
Lock Man knew the wiser thing might be ignorance on his part, to leave it to Slammer. But he needed to know everything. His brain wouldn’t give him rest until he digested every detail and was satisfied of a clean repair job.
‘The truck came and Shop reversed the car down the ramps onto some industrial sheeting Dosser put out. I squared with the Romanians and told them to head for the border and the ferry to Scotland. The lads fell out of the car, gasping with the heat and dehydration and all. I had my hands by my side, a T-shirt on, to let them think I didn’t have a piece. I had me nephew up on the balcony on the second floor. He took Maggot and Jobs out as they were half-sprawled on the sheeting. I went over to Shop, who was shaking like a lump of jelly. He told me what happened. I got Shop to get the mobiles off the two lads, Maggot’s Glock, and his own mobile and put them into a bag. They’ve been smashed up and scattered. I had Shop put the two lads back in the car.’
Lock Man smiled. Even though this was a shitstorm, he knew Slammer had taken care of this, down to a T.
‘I got Shop to take the firepower out of the boot.’
Good man. I don’t want to be losing that arsenal, after forking out for it.
‘Disposal?’
‘I told Shop to ease the car out and head for the JCB. I walked beside the car all the way. The spot is by the woods, where no one can see. He pulled up by the section Dosser had just finished excavating. I plugged Shop as he sat in the car.’
Lock Man sniffed, impressed as fuck.
‘The JCB tipped the car in and banged it down flat. And filled in the soil.’
Slammer ended his story.
No sign of Slammer playing the fucking hero, thought Lock Man. Just did what he’s an expert at.
‘Slam, if I had more of youse, I wouldn’t need an army of muppets.’
Slammer tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘Dosser even sprayed grass seed over the patch. It being the growing season and all.’
At that, Slammer allowed himself a rare smile.
Lock Man couldn’t help but laugh. But the paranoia kept scratching the side of his head.
‘Any CCTV that could have picked up the artic at the shops?’
‘No,’ Slammer said. ‘I done a scour of that area day before. It was clear.’
‘That leaves any fucking camera footage of the car and any eyewitnesses.’
‘If they can ID one of the lads, they’ll know they’re ours, yeah, but they won’t find them or the Glock or the phone now, so they won’t have evidence linking this to us.’
Lock Man gave his belly a slap, the sweat spitting out in an arc. The techno in his head had eased to a dull throb. ‘Right, we need to be extra fucking careful. They’ll be watching us and pulling us over wherever we go. Give them nothing to hang on us. So tell Ghost to lay off resupplying the crews and put Cracko on a tight lead. We have to expect that the Provos will seek advantage in this, but we’ll have to wait till things die down. In the meanwhile, we stay visible, act as normal. Don’t give the filth any reason to suspect we’re behind this.’
He looked at Slammer and flung another layer of sweat off his forehead.
‘We’ve been around long enough, Slam, to know the avalanche of shit this will mean if they get the slightest bit of evidence linking us to it. The filth will make it their life mission to nail us, now or in the future. That Tyrell fucker, for one, won’t let this go. He’ll be like a dog digging for a bone. And now he has his little bitch too.’
25
Shay left through the back of the building and took a moment at the top of the steps. He needed a strong coffee. With sugar.
He walked down an alleyway, one that led through a car park and onto the street. There was an Insomnia on the corner.
If I do deliver on this, I’ll be back in – Hall said as much – and Lisa and the kids will get out.
But part of him knew he couldn’t trust Hall.
‘Americano and a Danish,’ he said to the assistant.
He took a stool at the window. He placed his coffee and plate on the counter and watched the traffic and the pedestrians stream by.
He knew Hall controlled his future, no matter what way he cut it. He took a chunk of the Danish and slurped down a mouthful of the steaming coffee, nearly burning his throat. He exhaled in satisfaction. Memories of Hall popped into his head, from a few years ago, after the assault, when he was working in Cork and Waterford. Hall had met him one bracing morning along the strand in Tramore.
‘You have one option,’ Hall had told him. ‘You resign from the force. You leave all this to quieten down. You hope you haven’t been spotted and that no complaint is made against you – that you do not become a suspect. After a couple of years you should be able to get back in. In the meantime you can continue to work for us, as a community intelligence source.’
‘This a joke?’
‘No joke. You remember a light flashing at you? Just as you were about to drop a block on that scrote’s head? That was a surveillance team we had on the McCabes. They couldn’t ID you for certain as you were well covered and it was dark, but we know it was you. You were seen shadowing the scrote the weeks beforehand.’
Shay remembered the flashing light. He thought he had planned it all perfectly. He’d conducted surveillance on Jamie McCabe, established his movements at night and when he might be on his own.
Then one night he jumped Jamie from behind, on a quiet road, and forced him onto the ground. He kneeled onto his shoulder and rained down blows on the back of his head. His fists felt like they were splitting with the impact, but he kept slamming him, left and right. Jamie’s teeth grated on the rough tarmac. Before he knew it, he was dragging over a big slab of rock lying against a wall. That he hadn’t planned, but a dark rage had consumed him. He lifted the block. That was when the light flashed in the distance, small, but bright like a torch. He couldn’t tell where it came from. He threw the slab to one side and ran.
But he’d kept to his plan. He got to the old factory, pretty sure no one had followed him. He found the bag where he had left it and emptied the clothes out. He pulled the double layer of latex gloves off his hands, caked in blood and hair, biting his lips at the pain from his fists. He stripped completely, including the snood, hoodie and cap, and dumped everything into the bag.
He rubbed himself down with a towel, put that in the bag too. He threw on another set of clothes. He poured accelerant on the bag and set it alight. He got to the B&B about half an hour later – again checking for anyone tailing – and went up to his room. He shed that set of clothes and put them into another bag. He had a long shower, washed his hair and face and hands over and over. He scrubbed the inside of the shower with a brush and Dettol and steaming water.
He put on a new set of clothes and took everything in his bag. No one saw him leave. He had already made sure there were no cameras in the B&B and, as far as he could see, on the road outside. He dumped the bag in a bin put out for collection the next morning.
He got home about an hour later, taking a complicated route by foot. Lisa was still sound asleep. He’d seen her taking a sleeping tablet before he left, on top of the anti-anxiety medication. He soaked his fists in ice bags for hours. He covered them with antiseptic cream and collapsed into bed, and a fierce sleep.
A bang on the café window pulled Shay from his thoughts. Two drunks were arguing and pushing each other, thumping against the pane. Shay realised he was still holding the coffee cup in his hand. He took a sip. It was lukewarm.
He rose suddenly and swayed, feeling dizzy. The tinnitus in his ear rang clear as a whistle. Then he dropped.
‘Sir, you okay? Sir?’
Shay felt something cold and damp against his head and cheeks. He opened his eyes and saw a cloth over his forehead. The assistant looked at him, concerned. He dragged himself up, feeling weak and embarrassed.
‘You okay?’ the assistant asked.
‘Yeah. Did I faint?’
‘You fell on floor hard. Lucky you not bang head.’
Shay took the cup of water she offered, nodding in thanks. His fist throbbed. His knuckles resisted when he flexed them. He stood there for a moment, pressing his left arm against a counter. He needed fresh air.
As he left, a red BMW cruised past, not unlike the one used by the shooters at the canal. What was it about the fella in the back of that car, he asked himself again, knowing there was something.
Then it hit him.
It was a green hoodie, but it had dark green stripes along the shoulders and arms. The same kind of hoodie he often saw Maggot wearing.
26
Tyrell took his mints out his jacket pocket as he pulled up outside Harcourt Square. It was 11.30 a.m. and he was already half way through a packet.
He’d arrived at the Garda Dublin HQ early to organise his thoughts. They’d all been working straight through the night. But they hadn’t found the car. And they had limited descriptions on the culprits.
He opened his car door, stepping over a splatter of vomit. Bottles and shattered glass lay strewn along the footpath, the usual morning debris from the clubs dotted along Harcourt Street. He walked along the perimeter wall of the police complex, his nostrils assailed by the stench of piss. Combined with a lack of sleep and of appetite, he felt a bit weak. A Luas click-clacked beside him as it curved down towards St Stephen’s Green.
Admitted into the conference room, he circled the massive thirty-foot table. Three glasses of water were positioned on one side and some ten glasses on the other. As he came to the far side, he peered out through the tall sash windows onto the unkempt courtyard, absently studying the grim fountain that never seemed to function.
He turned to noises from the direction of the door. In strode the Chief, his hat under his arm. His suit looked freshly dry cleaned and pressed.
‘Anything more?’ the Chief said.
‘No update,’ Tyrell replied, noticing the cluster of red veins that always sprouted on the Chief’s cheeks when he was anxious.
‘I’ll give an intro and you’ll take over,’ the Chief said.
He pulled back the chairs and placed his heavy frame down. The Chief put his hat in front of him, adjusting its position slightly. Tyrell took his place beside him and waited, disturbed only by the metallic twang of the trams.
As the minutes passed, other senior officers streamed in. The chiefs and supers of the various specialist crime bureaus: organised crime, drugs and a couple from Intelligence and Security. They greeted them with nods and hellos, taking positions either side of them.
Tyrell eyed Detective Superintendent Hall. He tried to recall exactly what he did in the shadows. He knew he was a leading light in the revamped intelligence structure that was set up a number of years ago. A judicial tribunal had called for an overhaul in the garda structures in the area to separate intelligence and security from operational policing. The result was a new expanded section, the Intelligence and Security Division. It brought together various intelligence sections – both criminal intelligence and subversive intelligence – and all the security, counter-terrorism, surveillance, undercover and covert units, as well as policy and analysis units and IT under its command. ISD was no longer headed by an assistant commissioner, but a deputy commissioner, next rung down from commissioner and officially, if not traditionally, equal to the rank of deputy commissioner operations.
Commissioner Harte swept in, rousing Tyrell from his thoughts. He checked his watch. Bang on midday. Accompanying him were Deputy Commissioner Ops Archibald Brady and Deputy Commissioner Intelligence Raymond Nessan. Everyone else stood up as the force’s top three officers positioned themselves at the other side of the table and took off their hats.
‘Gentlemen,’ Commissioner Harte said dramatically, taking his seat, the rest following suit. He looked directly across at the Chief.
‘Commissioner,’ the Chief said, with a cough. ‘Firstly, the situation with Garda Peters is unchanged. He is in a coma. His spine is severed and the injuries to his brain remain the same.’
The commissioner nodded. Tyrell noticed others either dropping their heads or adjusting themselves in their seats. Except for Hall, who remained impassive.
‘I spoke with the families of Garda Grant and the little girl, Taylor Williams, last night, as well as Peters’ parents,’ the Chief went on.
The commissioner closed his eyes slowly and opened them again.
Then the Chief filled everyone in on the details of the shooting. Tyrell kept his eyes on the commissioner. Number One was nearing retirement, he mused, in less than a year. The rumour was he wanted an extension. And was likely to get it. Apart from the Smyth Tribunal report into Garda intelligence, he had a fairly unblemished record. Harte got good press in media circles and was seen as the good guy, against government efforts to push home austerity plans.
‘The early indications from the Technical Bureau and the State pathologist are that, from where the bodies were found and the tyre marks, Garda Grant was at the driver’s side. Garda Peters was at the front of the vehicle. Garda Grant suffered catastrophic head injuries. The PM this morning confirmed her injuries were from the wheel of the car.’
The Chief stopped to take some water. The top button of his shirt was too tight, Tyrell noticed; it dug into his neck, adding to the strain in his face, already clear from the thick bags under his eyes.
‘One shot was fired from a 9mm Glock,’ the Chief continued. ‘The shot may have glanced the side of Garda Grant’s head, then travelled across the road and hit the girl in the face.’
Tyrell looked around and noticed faces reacting in some way. Again, apart from Hall.
‘The Technical Bureau believe the car hit Garda Peters and rammed him against a metal pole inflicting traumatic injuries to his back. As the car reversed, he fell, hitting his head against the ground.
‘Detective Inspector Tyrell will fill you in on the investigation,’ the Chief said, sitting down, the chair groaning with the strain.
Tyrell was startled at the sudden announcement, but didn’t show it. He was well prepared.
‘According to witnesses the suspects were in a red BMW, 3 series, 95 reg. There are three suspects, with partial descriptions. We have no pictures of the actual shooting from cameras. As I said, we have only partial descriptions of the shooters.’
He could see the commissioner’s eyes narrow as he spoke and could sense his shoulders tensing. But he kept his composure.
‘We got some description on the car, which one of our teams is tracking from Phoenix Park, where it was captured on camera beforehand. We got a partial reg. We suspect the registration is cloned. So, unless we get an actual hold of the car, we can’t trace its owners or where or when it was stolen. We are trying to follow the car since the shooting. One 9mm shell was found at the scene. The firearm hadn’t been fired before and we haven’t located it yet. We’re getting limited assistance from witnesses, so far.’
Tyrell stopped, and judging by the looks from across the table, a bit too abruptly. He sat down.
‘I see,’ the commissioner said, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘So, who do you think is behind this?’
The question shouldn’t have caught Tyrell off guard, but he took a second to compose himself.
‘Too early to say, sir.’
He immediately realised it was not the answer the boss wanted. He continued. ‘If we can get a better description of the suspects in the car, or if the car turns up or the gun –’
‘A lot of ifs there, detective,’ the commissioner interrupted. Tyrell was getting the heat. He noticed the Chief bow his head.
‘Given where this happened, it’s possible that it was one of the local gangs,’ Tyrell said. ‘However, it could have been a hit team from elsewhere. We are trying to locate all known gang members, to see who is turning up and, more importantly, who is not. That might give us a lead. We are examining what threats are out there against gang members. We have teams turning over every scrote in the area. Our colleagues in Intelligence,’ he said, glancing briefly at Nessan, who returned him a blank face, ‘are examining phone traffic in the area at the time and checking their own, em, sources.’
The commissioner turned to Nessan, who nodded to Hall.
