Читать книгу Northern Heist - Richard O'Rawe - Страница 14

SEVEN

Finbarr comes out of a nightclub in Dublin’s bustling Temple Bar district. Revellers pack the cobblestoned streets. Traditional Irish music drifts out from the Temple Bar pub, which is surrounded with noisy drinkers. Strong odours of tobacco and grass infuse the cold December air. A man in an elf outfit sups his pint of Guinness while watching four men and three women brawling at the entrance to the pub. The elf finishes his pint and puts down the empty glass on a drinks barrel. He carefully takes off his jaunty hat and pointy elf ears and puts them in his pocket. He breathes deeply and charges into the middle of the melee, only to emerge a few minutes later with a bloody nose. One of the brawlers appears from the pack and raises his fist to punch the elf. Someone shouts, ‘It’s Elfie! They’re beating up the elf!’ More people join the fight. A well-fed cloud explodes and a blizzard of hailstones ping off the heads and faces of the scrappers. As quickly as it had started, the fight ends, as the antagonists scatter to find cover. Finbarr remarks to himself that the Irish don’t like getting wet during a good fight. He stands in a doorway until the hailstones abate, then walks to a car park. He gets into the car park’s elevator and presses the fourth-floor button. Two men, one in his twenties and the other in his forties, rush in just as the door is closing.

Finbarr gets out of the elevator and makes his way to his car. Once inside, he turns on the radio. Bob Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ bursts into life. Finbarr looks around and sees that no one is about. He dips a cocaine spoon into a small plastic moneybag, snorts some cocaine, shakes his head and runs a finger across his nose. His passenger-side door opens suddenly and the older man from the elevator gets in. He is a stocky man in a blue suit, with gelled grey hair tied at the back in a small ponytail. The man produces a hand gun and sticks it in Finbarr’s ribs.

‘What the—?’

‘Fuck up,’ the man growls in an earthy Dublin accent. He reaches over, grabs the car keys and says, ‘Do you know who I am, Finbarr? Yes or no.’

‘No.’

‘I’m from the Provisional IRA and you’re under arrest. Don’t speak unless I tell you to and you’ll be fine.’ His tone is calm. He takes out a pair of sunglasses and hands them to Finbarr. ‘Here. Put these on.’

Finbarr puts on the glasses and finds that the inside of the lenses is covered in black tape. The man searches Finbarr for weapons. ‘You’re doing good, young man. Now, open your door and get out.’ As Finbarr steps out of the car, the younger of the two men who had been in the elevator takes him by the arm, puts him into the back of a second car and gets in beside him. The older man gets into the driver’s seat and drives off.

A large photo of Murdoch, Coleman and the two heavies in a car adorns the big screen in Inspector Gerry Rowlands’ office at police headquarters, Belfast. Also on the screen is an image of Murdoch, Coleman, Panzer and Ructions at the table in the roadside service station on the Belfast–Dublin motorway.

Four senior police officers and a note-taker sit around a circular table. Christened ‘Poxy’ by his colleagues because of his pock-marked face, Inspector Rowlands is a jobber, a reliable man: one who has the wit to recognise his limitations. He stands beside the screen with a large stick. His secretary knocks on the door and enters the room with tea and biscuits. She puts the tray on the table and leaves.

Unlike Rowlands, Chief Superintendent Daniel Clarke does have ambition – container-loads of it: he wants to be Chief Constable of the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Bald, chubby-cheeked and frog-eyed, Clarke is hardly a public relations’ dream. Yet, vainly, he considers himself to be good-looking. He reaches over, pops two sugar lumps in his cup and stirs his tea. His eyes never leave the screen. ‘Murdoch’s on the IRA’s GHQ staff now, isn’t he?’ he says.

‘Yes, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘Has been for over a year now.’

Clarke lifts his cup to his lips but holds it there. ‘And he’s conferring with two known bank robbers. Why?’

‘It’s hard to say, sir. MI5 seems to think that this was a chance meeting. I believe there’s merit in that assessment.’ Rowlands runs the recording back to the part where Murdoch and Coleman join Panzer and Ructions. ‘As we can see here, Murdoch has just sat down at the table when he grabs handfuls of Panzer O’Hare’s chips and then wolfs downs his burger. Those are unfriendly acts. A bully boy is throwing his weight about.’

‘The look on Panzer’s face confirms that,’ a female officer adds.

‘It certainly appears that Panzer’s uncomfortable around these people,’ Clarke says.

Rowlands runs the recording to where Ructions grabs Colm Coleman’s wrist when he tries to eat his fries. ‘This is James “Ructions” O’Hare, sir, Panzer’s nephew.’

‘Yes,’ Clarke says. ‘He’s really put out, isn’t he?’ The clip runs on. ‘He doesn’t say much, does he?’

‘His body language says everything,’ another officer comments. ‘He evidently doesn’t like Murdoch or Coleman and he’s not afraid to show it.’

‘We think Ructions was the brains behind the Balcoo cigarette robbery in January and the Ballymena Ulster Bank robbery in April,’ Rowlands says.

‘I wonder,’ Clarke ponders, ‘if Panzer neglected to pay his IRA taxes for those jobs? Could that be the reason for the hostility?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘We don’t know whether he paid or not, but certainly, if he didn’t, I suspect it would be an issue.’

Clarke stirs his tea. ‘Hmm. Ballymena was a tiger-kidnapping, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. They held the manager’s wife and two children hostage overnight and forced him to bring them the contents of the safe the next day.’

‘And how much did they get away with?’

‘Eight hundred thousand in unmarked notes, sir.’

Clarke taps his chin. ‘So, we have master bank robbers conferring with master terrorists. Yes.’ Clarke waves his hand. ‘And MI5 think this meeting is coincidental, Gerry?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘Murdoch doesn’t rob banks.’

‘The Provisional IRA does. And, anyway, neither do master bank robbers – they get mugs to rob them for them.’

‘Quite so, sir.’

‘Why is there no audio with this recording?’ Clarke asks. ‘I hope our friends in MI5 aren’t holding out on us again.’

‘I asked Controller about the absence of audio, sir, and he said there was interference.’

‘Do you believe him?’ Clarke asks.

Rowlands shrugs.

‘It’s stuffy in here,’ Clarke says, opening a window. He puts his head out and looks up the side of the building. He turns around. ‘Colm Coleman – he’s been with the Provos, how long?’

‘About eight years now, sir.’

‘He seems to have had something of a meteoric rise in the ranks, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘His forte, if you could call it that, is bank robbery. We estimate Coleman was involved in at least ten major robberies with the Frankie Downey gang, before Downey went to live in Spain. With Downey out of the way, Murdoch saw an opportunity, recruited Coleman and now he uses him as his tax collector.’

‘Colm Coleman … the IRA’s tax collector?’ Clarke says. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’

‘Actually, I think recruiting Coleman was a pretty clever play on Murdoch’s behalf,’ Rowlands says.

‘Oh, I agree,’ Clarke says. ‘Pity we can’t recruit Murdoch. Now that would be a coup.’

‘C3 is of the opinion that he’ll do more good where he is. Apparently, he’s one hundred per cent behind the Provos’ peace strategy.’

‘And presumably Coleman would’ve been invaluable to Murdoch because he knew all the ODCs and their methodology?’

‘Exactly, sir.’

Clarke walks up to the screen and wheels around. ‘Gentlemen, this is a formidable gathering.’ He turns to Rowlands. ‘Anything else, Gerry?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Keep me informed.’

It is 1.55 a.m. Panzer’s Land Rover dips and rises on the uneven ground of the disused quarry. He stops and his vehicle lights shine on a grey Toyota. He leans forward. Two faces look up from the steamed-up, back-seat passenger window. Panzer keeps his lights on the Toyota. A young man and a woman with dishevelled hair stagger out of the back, adjusting their clothing. The man squints and holds his hand up to shield his eyes from Panzer’s headlights. He takes a step towards the headlights, thinks twice and joins the woman in the Toyota. They drive away.

Panzer turns off his engine. He is used to the darkness of the countryside, but this blackness is impenetrable. Lowering his window, he listens. Nothing. You’re out there. I know it. I can feel your eyes on me. A car comes up behind him. Its lights are turned off and the driver’s side door opens. A figure gets out. Panzer exhales.

Tiny Murdoch gets into the passenger side of the Land Rover. Panzer looks straight ahead. ‘Are you all right?’ Murdoch asks.

Panzer is in no mood for conviviality. ‘What is it, Tiny? Why did you drag me out of bed at this time of night?’

Murdoch ignores Panzer’s brusqueness. ‘I’m thinking of buying a Land Rover. Would you recommend it?’

‘They’re … very durable.’

‘Very durable. I’ll remember that.’ Murdoch holds out his hand. ‘Phone.’

Panzer hands over his phone.

Murdoch pats Panzer down. ‘Now, let’s get into my car.’

‘Why?’ Panzer asks.

‘Coz this car could be wired.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Says you.’

‘It isn’t. And anyway, how do we know your car isn’t wired?’

‘Coz it’s not my car.’ Murdoch gets out.

As Panzer approaches the car that isn’t Murdoch’s, a man in a camouflage jacket with night-vision goggles emerges out of the darkness. Murdoch and the man speak in whispered Irish before the latter disappears as quickly as he appeared.

As they sit in silence in the car that isn’t Murdoch’s, Panzer’s mind absorbs the situation. Ghosters in camouflage jackets … night-vison glasses … conversations in Irish … who the fuck do you think is out there, Tiny? The Viet-fucking-Cong? The Taliban? You’re a fucking drama queen, boyo. Bringing me to this godforsaken hole in the ground in the middle of the night. ‘What’s on your mind, Tiny?’

‘Barry …’ Murdoch glances behind him.

Panzer had not seen anyone in the back of the car when he got in and he is taken aback when a clean-shaven young man with rimmed glasses leans forward and hands over an open laptop to Murdoch. Murdoch points to the laptop.

On screen, Finbarr is naked and tied to a chair in the corner of a room. Besides having a black eye, there are welt marks on his body. His teeth chatter as he stares at the camera. A person wearing a ski mask holds a gun to Finbarr’s temple. ‘You’re a fucking paedophile cunt, aren’t you?’ the person shouts. Finbarr nods. ‘Fucking say it!’

‘I’m a fucking paedophile cunt.’

Murdoch closes the laptop. ‘We picked him up in Dublin.’

‘What for?’ Panzer says defiantly. ‘What’s he done on the IRA?’

Murdoch glances at the car’s clock. He turns his head to look out the side window. ‘Your son’s an animal, Panzer.’

Panzer cranks his neck and coughs nervously. This is bad, this is really bad. ‘Any confession he made has been beaten out of him and you know it. Look at him. He’s been tortured.’

‘He’s part of a paedophile ring we’ve been investigating for months.’

‘That’s bollocks!’ Panzer says. ‘I don’t believe you, not for a fucking second.’

‘Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether you believe me or not. We have him and we know what he’s done and what he’s capable of.’

‘He’s my son.’

Murdoch turns abruptly. ‘And what’s that got to do with it?’

‘You’ve no right to harm him.’

‘I’ve no right to harm him? Are you serious, fuckhead?’ Murdoch points an accusing finger at Panzer. ‘We know about your pervert son. We know he has an associate, a Latvian called … What’s his name, Barry?’

‘Peteris Edgars,’ Barry says.

‘Edgars and your son, amongst others, have been raping children, kids as young as eight.’

‘If he has broken the law then—’

Murdoch pulls a gun out of his waistband and jabs it into Panzer’s neck. Panzer winces. ‘Don’t you dare come over all sanctimonious with me, you lowlife shithead! I am the fucking law! The ’RA’s the fucking law!’

‘Okay! Okay, Tiny,’ Panzer says through pursed lips. ‘No harm meant. I’m just …’ Panzer rubs his ribs and grimaces. ‘I’m a father who’s worried about his son, that’s all.’

Murdoch sticks the nozzle of the gun in Panzer’s nostril, forcing back his head. ‘Don’t ever, ever try to get clever with me again.’

‘Yes. No. I won’t. No worries, no worries.’

Murdoch has spent a lifetime honing his responses to certain situations. He knows it is always a matter of control and that when you have a gun stuck up someone’s nose, you are in control. He puts the gun back in his waistband.

In a voice that is barely audible in case Murdoch perceives it to be offensive, Panzer says, ‘Are you going to hurt him?’

Now that Panzer has psychologically collapsed, Murdoch softens. ‘The thing is, Panzer, as we speak …’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘He’s in a car with two members of the nutting squad.’

‘No!’

‘And they’re taking him to a quiet spot on the border—’

‘No, Tiny! Not that!’

‘The Army Council has made its decision, Panzer. For what it’s worth, I voted against it.’

‘But you can change it, Tiny! You can stop it, can’t you?’

‘Panzer,’ Murdoch puts his hand on top of Panzer’s knee, ‘I wish I could. Like, I don’t forget: when the Libyan shipments came in, you pulled me out of a hole.’

Panzer joins his hands together, just like he would if he were praying. ‘I held a tonne of armaments and explosives for you, for four months, Tiny. Four months. When your back was to the wall and you needed help, I pulled you out.’

‘I know, I know.’ Murdoch puts his hand to his mouth, as if to throw a fire blanket over his words. ‘I shouldn’t have come up here. I knew it would be a mistake.’

‘Why?’

Murdoch exhales. ‘I’m sorry, Panzer.’ Murdoch looks forlorn. ‘I’m charged with paying you the courtesy of telling you that your son Finbarr is about to be shot dead. I don’t have to but I’m doing it because you helped the boys in the past.’