Danny Dempsey and the Unlikely Alliance (7 page)

‘It doesn't look like I've got a choice,' Gerald finally managed, shrugging his shoulders in resignation, consoling himself with the thought of the riches coming his way for his services. ‘But I've one favour to ask before we pull this off.'

‘And what might that be, Mr Casey?' Moran asked him softly.

‘I don't want Mr. Dawson to know I'd anything to do with this. I want whoever's carrying out the snatch to make it look like I'm being taken captive just like he is, and that I'm being forced to drive the Merc to wherever you're planning taking him. Okay?'

Myles Moran smiled and held out his hand to shake on the deal. ‘It will be as you wish, Mr. Casey. And may I commend you on your loyalty to your employer.' He stood up and, for a minute, Gerald could have sworn he was going to give a formal bow before he left, but he merely nodded his head in acknowledgement of their coming to terms with each other. ‘Come, Mr. Desmond. We've arrangements to make. And we'll contact you, Mr. Casey, in due course.'

Gerald didn't doubt it for a second. He only realised after they'd left that he hadn't a notion what his fairy godmother's name was.

*

Anna Conway couldn't believe it had been so easy. Granted, the Boss had made all the prior arrangements for the abduction to be carried out smoothly, but still - - .

‘Trust me, Miss Conway,' Myles Moran had assured her, ‘They'll be expecting you.'

And they were. When she knocked on the Headmistress's door, Lily already had her coat on over her school uniform. The Headmistress had received a phone call from Lily's
Mother
half an hour before Anna Conway parked her BMW beside the row of teacher's cars in the school grounds.

‘I'm afraid my husband's been involved in an accident,' Lily's
Mother
had told Miss Rawlings, her voice trembling appropriately to suit the occasion. ‘No, no, I've been assured it's not too serious, but I'm still at my wit's end.'

‘You poor thing!' Miss Rawlings commiserated. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? I can bring Lily home myself if - -'.

‘That's very kind of you, Miss Rawlings, but I won't be here. I've to dash off to the hospital straight away. One of my neighbours will pick her up and mind her until I get home. She'll be there in about half an hour or so. I'm sorry for taking Lily out in the middle of - -'.

‘Think nothing of it, Mrs. Cartwright. You've more important things on your mind right now. I'll see to it Lily's ready to leave as soon as the lady arrives. And try not to worry, Mrs Cartwright. I'm sure everything is going to be fine.'

‘I hope so,' Lily's
Mother
replied hesitantly, ‘I sincerely hope so.'

‘Should I say anything to Lily about - -'

‘Oh, no! I don't want her worrying unnecessarily. Just tell her that her Mommy said to go along with Mrs. Stevens, and stay with her until I get back from – from - -'.

‘I'll think of something, Mrs. Cartwright,' Miss Rawlings interrupted her, telling herself the poor woman had enough on her plate right at the moment without having to come up with some excuse to put her daughter's mind at rest. ‘You run along now and don't fret yourself any further. Lily's a very obedient little girl. She'll do as she's told.'

*

Lily Cartwright thought it odd that her Mommy had sent this strange lady to collect her before the school day had even ended. Sitting in the back seat of the BMW not unlike the one her Daddy owned, except for the colour, that was, she was being driven out the school gates before she had time to ask who the lady was. Miss Rawlings had distinctly said her Mommy phoned to say she was to go with the lady, so Lily supposed that she was one of Mommy's friends she'd never met before. She was positive the lady was wearing a grey wig.

Lily wondered why. It certainly made her look a lot older than Lily suspected she really was. But adults were funny that way. This lady seemingly
wanted
to look older, while her Mommy was always trying to make herself look younger. And she'd even heard her Daddy making a fuss from time to time about getting another grey hair. As if it mattered. He only had about four or five as it was.

Lily couldn't help thinking that adults never seemed to be satisfied with their appearances. She was also wondering if the lady in the wig had lost her way. As far as she could tell, they weren't anywhere near where she lived. And it wasn't long before there were fields and hedges and trees flying past in the opposite direction. But Lily wasn't in the slightest bit worried. If she had taken a wrong turning somewhere, the lady could always stop and ask someone for directions back to their neighbourhood.

T
he Minister for Justice was going crazy. It was at his desk that the buck inevitably stopped in such a high profile case. He was demanding answers, and demanding them immediately. The Chief of Police was getting it in the neck. A week after the kidnappings, he had nothing concrete to report. Sitting in the Minister's office now, with the Minister raving and ranting at him wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing afternoon. It certainly wasn't doing his high blood-pressure any favours. He'd already explained that he was every bit as concerned as the Minister was, but may as well have been talking to a concrete block. The Minister wasn't an individual known for his tolerance and understanding at the best of times. Right now, he was all but frothing at the mouth.

‘Do you realise what all this is making me look like, Carter?' he demanded, ‘Have you been reading the reports in the papers every day?'

‘Yes, Minister,' Carter said wearily. ‘Both of us are being referred to as incompetent fools.'

‘Exactly! But it won't do, Carter! It's not good enough! There's an election coming up in six months time, and I'm being written about as though I'd personally carried out the abductions. The Opposition are screaming for my head already! And if I go down, Carter, you'll be coming with me! So what are you going to do about it?'

‘Practically every member of the force is out there looking for leads, Minister. We're doing everything we can. They seem to have vanished into thin air.'

The Minister, who had arisen from his large leather chair, and was now circling the desk in agitation, his face puce, didn't look at all impressed with this latest statement. If there was anything he abhorred in a subordinate, it was being informed of something he was only too well aware of. He's already huffed, puffed and bluffed his way through the last few days. He'd had his spin doctors working overtime preparing a statement, declaring that everything was under control, and that a breakthrough would be announced in a matter of days.

‘I
know
they've vanished into thin air, Carter! The media keeps pointing that out to everyone! It's when you're going to make them
reappear
is what I want to know! Surely your people have come up with something by this stage? Something substantial I can publish in my next statement. Some tiny piece of information to keep them all from clamouring that I should be hung, drawn and quartered for allowing such a thing to happen in this day and age!'

Carter was on the point of replying, but never got the chance, for the Minister, almost on the brink of collapse from his hundredth or so circumnavigation of his desk, still managed to bark out his complaints. ‘It's a disaster! Nothing short of a disaster!' He stopped on one of his circuits, placed his hands on the top of his chair, gripping it tightly as though he were trying to strangle it, glaring at the Chief of Police as he did so. ‘Tell me, Carter how in heaven's name could the Governor of the Central Bank be spirited away just like that? What about Security? It's virtually impossible the kidnappers didn't leave
some
sort of evidence behind them.'

Carter sighed. ‘We've already interrogated the security guard, Minister. And taken a statement from the chauffeur after he managed to escape. There were two men in the car with the Governor and his chauffeur, but the guard didn't think it in anyway strange. Apparently, there's nothing unusual in that.'

‘Surely he got a good look at their faces?'

‘From what he told us, he wasn't paying any attention to them. He said he thought the chauffeur looked a bit tense, though.'

‘Wonderful!' the Minister exploded, taking off again around his desk. ‘How very perceptive of him! I'm sure I'd look tense too if someone was holding a gun on me. The poor man! It's a wonder he was able to give a statement at all after the callous manner in which they treated him after he'd served his purpose. How he managed to free himself I'll never know. At least
he
was able to give a good description of the kidnappers, not like that incompetent security guard!'

‘Unfortunately, Minister, the descriptions don't match any of our usual suspects. It seems a very strange case altogether. He went through our rogues' gallery of computer images for over three hours and still wasn't able to identify anyone. According to the chauffeur, he's of the opinion the men were members of the Russian Mafia or some such organisation, even if their English was pretty passable.'

The Minister sighed deeply. Again, he was being told what he already knew. Things were going from bad to worse. ‘What about the bank's car park CCTVs?' he asked, more in hope than expectation. ‘What's been shown up on them?'

‘Nothing, I'm afraid, Minister' Carter replied, hesitating for a few seconds before continuing. ‘They sprayed them with paint before they pounced. Blue paint, to be precise.'

‘I'm really not concerned what colour the paint was, Carter!' the Minister growled, flopping down in his chair from sheer exhaustion, then pulling himself together as best he could, before leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, peering intensely into the Chief's face. ‘Just get out there and find those kidnappers. There's an old man with a heart condition and an innocent seven-year-old girl depending on it. And no more excuses, Carter, you hear? Both our careers are hanging by a thread unless you come up with something fast!'

*

Superintendent Clifford hung up the phone. The Chief of Police had just given him an earful. The Superintendent had listened, but said little apart from the odd:
Yes, sir! No, sir! Three bags full, sir!
to pass the time. He'd no respect for Carter. All he was interested in was taking credit for solving crimes he'd no involvement in. When the twin brothers had finally been arrested, Carter ensured the media were made aware of how
he'd personally
supervised the operation, despite the fact he didn't know anything about it until the Superintendent and Danny had wrapped up the case.

This was different, though. Carter found himself in the spotlight now for all the wrong reasons. And he didn't like it one little bit. He wanted action, he'd shouted at Superintendent Clifford, and he wanted it now, going on to re-echo almost word for word what he himself had had to endure from the Minister for Justice.

The Superintendent wasn't in the least bit concerned about what the Chief of Police shouted down the line at him. He wondered what Carter would have said if he'd told him he'd already had a meeting with a twelve-year-old boy and requested his assistance in dealing with the kidnappings. He'd probably have a fit, and wouldn't believe a word of it. He'd think Superintendent Clifford had lost his mind. And heaven knows what would happen if the Superintendent added that Danny had helped him in the past on numerous occasions.

The Superintendent smiled to himself at the thought of the reaction that would provoke. Steam shooting out Carter's ears, smoke from his nostrils with, at the end of it all, the Superintendent finding himself rapidly reduced in the ranks. And if Carter got wind of the fact that the Superintendent was in the process of forming a covert team to try and uncover who was behind the snatchings, he'd probably go into orbit altogether.

The Superintendent called Reception and summoned Harrington to his office. Harrington had been impressing him more and more with each passing month he'd been in the station. He was wasted at the reception desk. He was going to send him out into the big, bad world, if for no other reason than to test his own intuition that there was a lot more to Harrington than advising his superior on the proper stance to maintain whilst putting golf balls into glass tumblers.

‘Sit down, Harrington,' the Superintendent indicated to one of the two chairs on the far side of his desk. ‘As of now you're part of my secret team. One that doesn't officially exist.'

Harrington remained silent. As was usual with the Superintendent's many mysterious remarks in the past to him, he hadn't a notion what he was referring to now either. It could have been anything. Maybe he wanted him to caddy for him at the next inter-station golf tournament. He waited patiently for further enlightenment.

‘What do you think yourself, Harrington?'

‘Whatever you say, sir,' Harrington replied cautiously, which was another of his standard responses when he'd no idea what was expected of him.

‘We're in the middle of a crisis, Harrington. I want you to get out there and try and get a handle on a few things for me.'

Harrington was still all at sea. The Superintendent sometimes had this exasperating convoluted way of getting around to what he meant. At other times, he could be so succinct and lucid when giving orders, it was difficult to get it into your head you were dealing with the same person.

‘It's top priority, Harrington. It's to do with these recent kidnappings. We were trying to keep it under wraps, but the media have got hold of it. Now that it's out in the open, the public are going ballistic.'

‘That's hardly surprising, sir,' Harrington ventured, then added, ‘Especially when there's a little girl involved.'

‘Precisely,' the Superintendent said. ‘And the fact that we haven't yet had a single demand from the kidnappers is another worry. We need information, Harrington. Some snippet to throw a chink of light on who's holding them. I know a few dens of iniquity you might be fortunate enough to pick up some leads in.'

‘What do you want me to do, sir?' Harrington asked, ready and willing to lay down his life if that was what it took to bring these criminals to justice. In Harrington's eyes, murder itself was about the only crime more despicable than kidnapping. Putting both the victims and their families thought such mental suffering was too awful to even think about. But Harrington was most definitely thinking about it. It filled him with a terrible rage which he was finding hard to control. Yet he managed to somehow conceal his wrath, realising that a cool, professional approach was what the Superintendent would expect of him.

‘I want you to go undercover, Harrington,' the Superintendent told him. ‘As far as this case is concerned, you're no longer a police officer.' He paused to see how Harrington would react to this, was pleased see him nodding his head earnestly, indicating that he was prepared to do whatever it took to help break the case. ‘Good! Now listen carefully. What I'm going to tell you could make the difference between you winding up in the river in concrete boots or living to a ripe old age.'

Harrington listened avidly for the next half hour, never once taking his eyes off Superintendent Clifford's face, his heart beating faster as time progressed, the Superintendent's words filling him with a burning zeal. His eyes were bright when he finally left the Superintendent's office, shining at the thought that at last he could try and do something to make a difference for the betterment of the world. It was for this he'd joined the Gardai in the first place.

But even through all the idealism which consumed him, Harrington's head was spinning after the Superintendent told him he'd be working closely with Danny Dempsey. Not to mention lots more about Danny to confirm Harrington's suspicions that Mrs Pearson mightn't be quite as crazy as the Superintendent had pretended she was in the past.

Harrington had been sworn to secrecy, though. And had been handed a glass of water to help him get over the shock of what he'd been told. He thought this was a small price to pay to finally be given the chance to get his teeth into some really important police work. He was looking forward to working with Danny after what he'd just learned about him, but wasn't too keen on meeting Charlie, that's if Mrs. Pearson's description of him had been even half-accurate.

*

Harry the Hustler knew easy meat when he saw it. He'd been watching the guy who'd been practising by himself on the pool table in the dinghy basement in a side street not far from the centre of town. It was only midday, and the place was practically empty. Two teenagers were shooting balls on one of the twelve tables standing on the cement floor.

Times were lean for Harry right now. He could hardly remember when he'd last taken a sucker for some easy money. He was too well known, that was the problem, and the regular lowlifes who drifted in as the day wore on and turned to night wouldn't cross cues with him even when he was prepared to let them have three shots to his one in every rack. All Harry could do was while away the hours watching them labouring at the tables, making a perfectly simple game look like it was rocket science or something. As the night wore on, Harry just sat on the bench and drank a bottle of beer now and then to pass the time. That was when he could afford it.

Old Baldy Bradford, who owned the hall, sometimes gave Harry a free bottle to ease him through the torment of it all. The look of disgust on Harry's face as he watched lesser players complicate the game he loved always gave Baldy a lift. It was comical to watch Harry's features distort into a painful grimace as he witnessed the butchery unfold.

Harry was into the hall as soon as it opened at eleven each day. And left when it closed at four in the morning. He took a break for a Big Mac or a Kentucky Fried in the local outlets when the hunger pangs assailed him, but apart from that, Harry only went home to his one-roomed flat in a crumbling tenement when Baldy was switching off the lights in the early hours of the morning.

When Bradford had asked him one night as he was heading off why he didn't go and get himself a job, Harry had looked at him as though Baldy had suddenly been stricken with dementia. He could hardly believe that someone of his talents had been asked such an idiotic question.

‘Because I'm an artist, Baldy,' he replied frostily, before heading off to his dingy room.

‘Sure, you are, Harry!' Bradford called after his retreating figure. ‘A con artist! But everybody's wise to you now.'