Dark Times in the City (4 page)

The little prick should have been here by now if he’d done what he was told. Detective Garda Templeton-Smith glanced at the door of the pub, then back to the coffee on the bar in front of him. Usually Walter was sensible enough, but the panic Templeton-Smith heard in his voice might have driven him into some little bolt-hole where he could curl up.

‘Freaking out won’t help. Calm down.’

‘Two of them,
two
of them! With
guns
!
Jesus!
’

It took a while before Garda Templeton-Smith got the story of the two assassins and how the gun didn’t fire first time and then it did but the guy missed and how Walter used the confusion to make his getaway.

‘What the fuck are you going to do?’

‘Calm down.’

‘Easy for you to say – what are you going to do about making me safe?’

Garda Templeton-Smith named a pub on the south side of the city centre. ‘Go directly there, soon as you hang up. I’ll meet you there.’

Walter’s voice went up a pitch. ‘I’m not going near that shithouse!’

‘Twenty minutes from now, I’ll be at the bar, waiting for you. Take a taxi – shouldn’t take you much longer.’

‘You people going to put me somewhere, keep me safe?’

‘We’ll talk.’

‘I’ll need stuff. I can’t just—’

‘Don’t go home – go straight to the pub.’

‘I’ll be there.’

That was ninety minutes ago. Still no sign of Walter.

The pub walls were lined with sporting memorabilia. Not just programmes and photographs but jerseys and signed balls, an oil painting of a cup-winning team, a large photograph of the pub owner with his arms around the shoulders of two grinning sports heroes. The pub was fairly busy, mostly men. Garda Templeton-Smith went through two Ballygowans before he switched to coffee.

There was always a possibility that the people who wanted to kill Walter had come upon him by chance on his way to the pub. Unlikely, if he did what he was told. Walter would be next to invisible travelling in a taxi. This pub was far removed, in every sense, from Walter’s usual haunts.

The barman was pouring a fill-up when Garda Templeton-Smith saw Walter come in. The policeman said, ‘Pour us a second cup, please.’

Walter waited until the barman had finished and moved away. ‘This is where the queers drink.’

‘Soon as you walked in the door, you set their pulses racing.’

‘Fuck off. I don’t drink in places like this.’

Garda Templeton-Smith took a sip of his coffee and said, ‘Did you have any warning?’

‘I told you, they just came into the pub waving cannons.’

‘No one said anything to you over the past few days? Nothing to make you wonder? Anyone act strange – maybe someone shut up as soon as you came into the room, that kind of thing?’

Walter was staring at two men further down the bar, their heads together, their voices low. He said, ‘Nothing like that.’

‘You piss anyone off – take something, maybe grope someone’s missus?’

Walter said, ‘That’s not me.’

‘You into anything where you might hold back someone’s share?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

Garda Templeton-Smith took Walter through the attempted killing, move by move.

‘You sure you didn’t see any faces, no names?’

Walter shook his head.

‘It’s best you move on, so.’

‘What the fuck do you mean?’

‘It’s not safe for you, this city. Someone knows you’ve been yapping to me, probably. Probably you’ve been careless.’

‘And that’s all you can say – jack it all in, leave Dublin?’

‘Or stay, take a chance – your choice.’

‘What are – you’ve got witness protection, you’ve got places—’

‘You’re not a witness, Walter, you’re a tout. And now that you’ve been blown you’re an ex-tout.’

‘Fuck that.’

Templeton-Smith smiled. ‘You play this the wrong way, you’re a dead tout.’

Walter’s expression flickered between anger and panic. ‘I can’t go home, I need somewhere.’

Templeton-Smith took an envelope from an inner pocket. He gave
it to Walter, who looked inside and then slapped the envelope against the bar. ‘That’s less than –
Jesus
, in this town, that wouldn’t buy me a good meal. How am I supposed to survive?’

‘We don’t do pensions.’

One of the two men further down the bar turned and looked their way. Walter stared until the man turned back.

‘How can I move – where can I go?’

‘You’ll get by, Walter. You’re a practical kind of guy.’

Walter made a contemptuous noise. ‘Word gets around – people hear how you treat people who work for you—’

‘You’re threatening me now, Walter?’

‘I’m just saying.’

Garda Templeton-Smith nodded. He leaned closer. ‘We get into a pissing match, Walter, who do you think’s going to get wet?’

Walter just sat there.

Touts have a short-term view of life. They sign up because they’re looking for a quick way out of trouble – like Walter had been when Templeton-Smith caught him driving a BMW X3 he’d just stolen to order for a northside outfit.

‘No way – no
way
,’ Walter said when Templeton-Smith first made him the offer.

‘Your choice,’ Templeton-Smith told him. ‘Judges identify with people who get their BMWs stolen. This isn’t a month or two sitting on your arse while the screws prepare breakfast. Three years, minimum, at a guess. You got three years to spare, Walter?’

It took ten minutes. Walter said the people who commissioned him to do the BMW X3 were off-limits, and that was fair enough. ‘And I won’t give evidence against anyone,’ which was as much as could be expected.

Garda Templeton-Smith gave him a pass on the BMW and Walter began dropping titbits. Disappointing stuff so far, but he might have coughed up some more useful information in the long run. Should have lasted more than seven weeks, but those were the breaks.

Who?

Someone in the station, probably. Over the seven weeks, Templeton-Smith met Walter just once, in a pub. He’d rung the tout once a week. Should have been safe enough, but there was no telling. Someone saw or heard something, yapped about it. It happened.

Walter tapped the envelope. ‘You can afford more than that. Please.’

‘I have to go.’ As Garda Templeton-Smith stood up he put a tenner on the counter. ‘You stay, have a drink on me.’

Walter shook his head. He picked up the money. ‘I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking in a place like this.’

‘Fair enough, you’ve got standards.’

Walter gave it one last try. ‘Look, Jesus, there’s got to be more you can do – if not more money, somewhere to go—’

‘I’m a policeman, Walter, not your guardian angel.’

‘You don’t care, do you? You don’t care what happens to me.’

Garda Templeton-Smith thought for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Don’t give a fuck.’

The kettle plugged in, switched on, Danny Callaghan took down his mug and reached for a spoon, his hand knocking against something. When the jar of instant coffee hit the floor, Callaghan barked an obscenity.

Great start to the day
.

After he’d cleaned up the coffee and the broken glass, he did the washing-up – the glass from which he’d drunk his orange juice, the bowl from which he’d eaten his microwaved porridge. He put them in the cupboard with the coffee mug he hadn’t used. One bowl, one glass, one mug – and, in the cabinet, one plate – all bought at Tesco the day he moved in. He washed the two spoons he’d used. Part habit from prison, part the urge to keep things simple. Clean as you go, that way a little place like this stays liveable.

Callaghan set out for the local shopping centre. He passed a petrol station and shop that used to serve as a neighbourhood convenience store. It had already closed down, bought by a developer, when Callaghan moved into his flat. The intention was to build another apartment block, with retail units on the ground floor, but the developer killed the project when the property market collapsed. Now there was no local shop and there wouldn’t be one while the developer awaited a new property boom. Meanwhile, the garage had become an eyesore, the pumps vandalised, the abandoned car wash a haven for teenage lovers in search of ten minutes of frantic privacy.

It took Callaghan twenty minutes to reach the shopping centre. He bought two newspapers, then he went to the coffee shop and
took a black coffee to a seat by the window. This time of morning the shopping centre had yet to come fully to life. Mostly old people and young women with buggies.

One bowl, one glass, one mug in his kitchen. In the seven months he’d been out his life had remained small, bare, cramped, not much in it beyond the things that met his immediate needs. Living within a prison routine for eight years, it never occurred to him that life outside might contract into a routine just as narrow.

He’d had a general intention, when freedom came, to return to some variant of the business he’d set up before he went inside – interior fittings for kitchens, apartments and shops. Throughout his sentence, the country had been full of chatter about opportunity. Once he got out, he recognised that he simply didn’t have the interest in the constant planning and assessing involved in running a business.

‘Take control,’ Novak told him. ‘If you’re not in control of your life, someone else will be.’ Which was when Novak offered him the driving job. ‘Until you pull things together.’

The driving ate up hours, the routines of sleep and food and drinking slotted into the spaces around the work. Much of the rest of the time just seemed to evaporate. There were times, here at the coffee shop, when he’d be staring at something innocuous – an old man leaning on his cane, a dog waiting outside the shop for its owner to return – and he’d take a sip of coffee and find the remnants had gone cold. He couldn’t tell if ten minutes or an hour had passed.

Two Asian waitresses, barely out of their teens, were cleaning nearby tables. During Callaghan’s eight years inside, a lot of things had changed. All the talk was of money, opportunities and the nervous prosperity. And it was like every hotel, pub and café and most of the shops had become a mini-United Nations, staffed by Asians, Africans or Eastern Europeans. Despite the low pay, the loneliness and the racial insults, they seemed to burn with a sense
of purpose. Watching the girls, Callaghan tried to imagine them making their way across the world, each probably alone, determined to survive and prosper. He envied their passion.

His mobile rang.

‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’

Novak said, ‘I called last night.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Must have had your phone off. You haven’t forgotten you’ve got a pick-up this morning?’

The silence said that Callaghan had forgotten.

Novak said, ‘I can get someone else – it’s not a problem.’

‘No, it just – it slipped my mind. You know how that goes.’

‘Fine.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘The airport, two people – take them to Northern Cross, the Hilton. Then on to the financial centre. They’re due in mid-morning, wait a minute—’ Novak checked a sheet of paper and said ‘—eleven-forty. Aer Lingus flight from London. They’ve got a working lunch with the people picking up the tab for this. Then – whatever. Their schedule’s a movable feast.’

‘Until?’

‘Whenever. Today, tomorrow morning, depends how today goes. You have a pen there?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Rowe and Warner – R-O-W-E.’

Novak gave him a flight number, then waited a few moments before he said, ‘The police been around?’

‘No.’

‘Most likely someone will give them your name.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Will you be dropping by tonight?’

‘Depends what time these people finish their business. Probably not.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘Yeah.’

It was mid-morning when Karl Prowse woke. He could hear his wife making baby talk with the kids, down in the kitchen. When he came down he kissed her, then kissed the baby attached to her right tit.

‘You working late tonight?’

Karl poured a coffee. ‘Depends. You know how it is.’

Sitting on the floor in a corner, the two-year-old was complaining about something, so Karl put his coffee down and spent a few minutes hunched down with her, playing ‘A Sailor Went to Sea-Sea-Sea’ until she started laughing. He went to the local Centra for the
Sun
and the
Mirror
, but there was nothing about the shooting.

Karl was upstairs, texting a friend about a cancelled trip to Amsterdam, when his phone rang.

‘Outside, now,’ and the call ended.

He went to the window and moved the curtain enough to see down into the street, where a green Isuzu was parked across from his house, Lar Mackendrick’s shape recognisable behind the wheel.