Red Light (14 page)

As she climbed the red-tiled steps in front of the Garda headquarters, a hoarse voice called out, ‘Katie! Wait up there a moment, would you?’

It was Chief Superintendent Dermot O’Driscoll, puffing towards her like a red-faced steam engine, his white hair flapping like the smoke from its funnel. His tie was askew and he was carrying his linen jacket over his shoulder, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his belly hanging over his belt.

‘Thought you were having the day off, sir,’ said Katie, as he caught up with her.

He dragged a green spotted handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and mopped at his forehead and the back of his neck. ‘I was. I am. I haven’t come in to do any work. I needed to come in and have a word with you and some of the others.’

He opened the door for Katie to enter the building and then they went up in the lift together to his office. On the way up he smiled at her once or twice but said nothing, which was unusual for him. Usually he couldn’t stop talking about last Saturday’s disastrous hurling match against Clare, or what a mountain of pasta he had eaten the previous evening at Kethner’s, or how his wife’s sister had visited again and never stopped talking and in the name of Jesus that woman would break your melt.

‘Have a seat,’ he told her, when they entered his office. He dropped his jacket over the back of his chair and then quickly shuffled through the messages that had been left on his desk, sniffing as he did so. He picked up one message and read it and grunted in amusement, but he didn’t make any attempt to read the rest.

‘I’ve, ah …’ he began. Then he stopped and said, ‘You and me, Katie, we’ve worked together for quite a good many years, haven’t we, considering that you’re so young and I’m so old?’ He stopped again and then he said, ‘There used to be a song about that, didn’t there, I seem to remember?’

Katie smiled, but she didn’t answer. She could tell that there was something badly wrong. Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll was never hesitant and he was never evasive. He always came out and spoke his mind directly, no matter how unpopular his opinion might be. That was what he had always admired about Katie, and why he had so vigorously backed her promotion to detective superintendent, against determined opposition from other senior Garda officers in Cork, and even from Dublin Castle.

Assistant Commissioner Pádraig Feeney had publicly commented in the
Examiner
about Katie’s appointment: ‘Women should be at home, hoovering and baking barm brack and wiping the children’s snotty noses, not detective superintending.’

Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll drew out his chair but he didn’t sit down. ‘The reason I took the day off today was to go to my doctor to get my results,’ he said. ‘The thing is, like, I’ve been having symptoms for some time, but, you know … I assumed they were the natural consequence of growing older and putting on a bit of weight.’ He slapped his stomach as if to emphasize the point, and then he said, ‘The thing of it is, I’ve been having a bit of difficulty with the waterworks.’

Oh God. The waterworks. Of course, Katie knew what was coming next, but she could only wait with her cheese salad sandwich in her hand while Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll found the words and the courage to tell her what his doctor had told him. She knew with a terrible inevitability that this was one sandwich that she was never going to eat.

‘It’s prostate cancer,’ he said. ‘Quite advanced, so far as they can tell, but I’ll have to be given some more scans before they can know for sure how far it’s spread.’

‘Oh, Dermot,’ said Katie.

Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll shrugged and smiled as if to say, ‘Oh well, that’s life for you,’ but Katie could see that he was gripping the jacket on the back of his chair so tightly that it was crumpled and his knuckles were spotted with white, and from the way he kept blinking and sniffing she could tell that he was very close to tears.

‘I’ll be going off on indefinite sick leave from tomorrow onwards,’ he said. ‘They’re taking me into the Bon Secours on Monday morning first thing, and then we’ll just have to see where it goes from there.’

Had he been anybody else that Katie knew, she would have stood up immediately and put her arms around him and hugged him to comfort him. She stayed where she was, though, because she knew that hugging him would only make him feel uncomfortable. He was her superior officer, after all, and for all that he had fought so ferociously for her appointment, she still respected his rank. She knew, too, that he was far from being a feminist. He simply believed that women had far keener noses for sniffing out cheats and liars than men.

‘Tadgh McFarrell is still on his holliers until the end of next week,’ said Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll. ‘I thought he might take over, but they’ve already told me that they’ll be bringing in somebody from outside to run things, at least until I’m fit enough to come back.’

There was a long silence between them. Katie couldn’t think what else to say, except that she was sorry. She couldn’t really ask him how long he had been suffering from painful or difficult urination, or how long it had been since he had experienced an erection.

She couldn’t even ask him how long he expected it to be before he came back, because she knew that he had no way of telling and that the likelihood was that he would never come back at all, even if he survived.

But Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll smacked his hands together as if to say, ‘That’s enough of that maudlin nonsense. Let’s get on.’

‘How’s it going with that black feller?’ he asked. ‘The one who had his napper shot off?’

‘Oh – well, yes, him,’ said Katie. ‘The pathologist hasn’t sent through the results of his autopsy yet, but I should get them later today. As far as identifying your man is concerned, a few witnesses have told us that they’ve seen him around the city from time to time, and judging by the company he was seen in, which was mostly young brassers, it seems highly likely that he was a pimp. But nobody’s come up with a name, except for Mawakiya, the Singer.’

‘That doesn’t tell us anything, does it? He could have been handy with a sewing machine for all we know. How about the girl?’

‘The one who was found with him? Isabelle? Well, that’s what I’ve called her for now. Not a squeak out of her so far. But the therapists are working on her, and I’m going to see Father Dominic at Cois Tine at three o’clock. I’m hoping he can find us one of his warm motherly African women – somebody who speaks her language and who can coax her into talking to us.’

‘Okay, then, grand. And what about Michael Gerrety? I’d give anything to see that skanger sent down.’

‘We’re supposed to be meeting with him and his lawyers at 1 p.m. tomorrow. But to be honest with you, sir, I don’t think we’re going to get very far with that.’

‘Well, no, we didn’t think we would, did we? All this Green Light shite. The trouble is, Gerrety has half of the city council in his pocket. If he’s not paying them off, they’re round at one of his massage parlours having their knobs gobbled, excuse my language. Even some of the social workers speak up for him, “Oh, at least he’s keeping the poor girls safe off the streets.” And none of his girls are going to say a word against him, are they? Not unless they want three shades of shite beaten out of them – or worse.’

Katie said, ‘We’ll still be going ahead with Operation Rocker? I mean, even after you’ve gone off on sick leave?’

‘Operation Rocker! Of course. Why not? What’s to stop it? It’s the only way we’re going to be sure of shutting Michael Gerrety down, after all. He can hardly deny living off immoral earnings if we bust into his premises and catch his prozzies and his punters in mid-fornication, can he?’

‘It’s his laptops I want to get my sticky fingers on,’ said Katie. ‘His laptops, and his iPhones, and the contents of his safe. We’ll never nail him under the Sexual Offences Act, not in the present climate. It’s public order we need to go for – that, and trafficking. We’ve got some pretty solid evidence of that, so long as the witnesses hold up in court. No – it’s his accounts I’m after. That’s how we put Terry Buckley out of business, after all. Four million euros to the Criminal Assets Bureau, that’s what Buckley had to pay. I’ll bet you Michael Gerrety will have to cough up at least twice that.’

‘Don’t you worry, Katie,’ said Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll, shaking his head so that his jowls wobbled. ‘There’s nothing going to stop Operation Rocker. I’m not tolerating Cork being known as the vice capital of Ireland, not while I’m still in charge.’

For nearly six months now, Katie had kept three of her detectives assigned almost full-time to Operation Rocker, as well as two part-time. It was a smaller but more intelligence-led follow-up to Operation Boulder which had raided fourteen brothels in Cork last year. Detective Horgan had chosen the name: a ‘rocker’ was what children called a very heavy stone, but one that they could just about manage to pick up and throw.

The team working on Operation Rocker had been gathering incriminating evidence from every possible source. They had kept watch on every suspected brothel and every individual hooker. They had interviewed prostitutes in the women’s wing of Limerick Prison, and in the Dóchas Centre in Mountjoy Prison in Dublin. With legal authority, they had hacked into mobile phones and internet connections. Not least, they had kept their ears open to casual conversations in pubs and clubs, and between lawyers in the district court.

In three weeks’ time all of this work would culminate in simultaneous raids on seven premises in the city centre – not just sex shops and massage parlours, but accountants’ and solicitors’ offices.

Chief Inspector O’Driscoll sat down at last, wincing, and looked thoughtful.

‘That informant of yours,’ he said. ‘You know. The one with the eyes like a goat.’

‘Denis Costigan, is that the one you mean?’

‘That’s your man. Is he still sure he knows where Gerrety keeps his records?’

Katie nodded, and couldn’t help smiling, Denis Costigan did have eyes like a goat. Not only that, his jaw moved rhythmically from side to side when he chewed, just like a goat chewing grass. But he knew everybody and everything that was going on in Cork. His goat’s eyes were always open when money or drugs or stolen property was changing hands.

‘He called me yesterday,’ said Katie. ‘He’s ninety-nine per cent sure that Gerrety is still using the basement of that sex shop on Oliver Plunkett Street, Amber’s. We’ve been keeping it under observation, but only very discreetly, because we haven’t wanted to spook him. He was there on Friday afternoon, with that wife of his, Carole. His girls are still bringing their earnings there, too, according to Denis. Half for Michael Gerrety and half for the girls, minus the two hundred euros he charges them to advertise on his website, or the five hundred euros he charges for the rent of one of his scruffy rooms.’

‘Good,’ said Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll. ‘I know I can rely on you to see this through. You and Tadgh McFarrell or whoever else it is they put in charge. I just wish I could be here to supervise it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Katie. It was nearly ten to three now and time for her to go. ‘It’s too close to my own heart to let it go wrong.’

She stood up, with her cheese salad sandwich in her hand.

‘You’re not going to have time to eat that, are you?’ he asked her.

‘No, I don’t think I am. Besides, I’m not very hungry. Do you want it?’

‘What is it?’

‘Cheese salad.’

He suddenly looked old and tired and sad. ‘No, Katie, I don’t think so. My salad days are over.’

It was 9.30 p.m. before she arrived home that evening, and she hoped that John had remembered to take Barney for his walk. She would have done it herself if she had still been living her own, but her mind was being jostled by the day’s events and all she wanted was a drink and something to eat and bed.

John must have seen her headlights through the curtains in the living room because he opened the front door as she climbed out of her car. Barney came tumbling out from between his legs and barked, and jumped up at her. She tugged at his ears and said, ‘Whisht! Whisht! Calm down! You’d think I hadn’t been home in a week!’

John smiled and kissed her and said, ‘Good evening, pig-in-chief. How are things at the pigsty?’

‘Stressful as usual,’ she said, as she came into the hallway and took off her jacket. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Supper. I hope you’ll be able to eat it.’

‘Well, to be truthful, it smells really, really good, and I’m hungry. Not only that, I haven’t had to look at any decomposing bodies today.’

She went through to the spare bedroom, which she still called the nursery, unfastened her holster and laid her Smith & Wesson revolver in the top drawer of the linen chest. When she came back into the living room John was already standing by the drinks table, holding up a cut-crystal tumbler of vodka, tinkling with ice. ‘There, I poured you one already.’ He handed it to her and kissed her again. ‘
Slainte
. May bad luck follow you all of your life, but never catch up.’

‘Where’s your drink?’ she asked him.

‘In the kitchen. I’ve nearly finished cooking. Do you want to come join me? My God, I’m getting so domesticated, it’s unbelievable. Do you know what I did today? I dusted the window sills. I have a PhD in computer science and I dusted the window sills.’

She followed him into the kitchen, laying her hand on the back of his white cotton shirt as she did so. He was so tall and slim and godlike and she loved his curly black hair, even when it was cut short like this. What she loved about him so much was that he was physically strong but emotionally sensitive, and that he always seemed to be able to sense when something was worrying her.

He went over to the stove, lifted the lid of an orange casserole and peered inside. ‘Doing great,’ he said. ‘Give it twenty minutes and it’ll be ready.’

‘What is it? Spaghetti bolognese?’

‘Meatballs Mexican-style, the way my cleaner, Nina, taught me to cook them in San Francisco, in chipotle-tomato sauce. Believe me, when you cook these, you never get any leftovers.’

‘That sounds wonderful. I haven’t had anything all day. I could eat the back door buttered.’