The Bloomsday Dead (27 page)

“Arthur Street police station?” I ask the keep.

“Who wants to know?” he says.

No more time for this shit. I pull the revolver out of my trousers and point it at his face.

“Arthur Street police station?”

“Go out of here, straight on, till ye hit Powers Street, make a left at the Boots, then another left, ya can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” I say, put the revolver away, and leave his bar, vanishing out into the creeping, cold Belfast night with all the other guntoting villains.

But that was then. A lot had changed in Belfast since and the cops had gotten fat, lazy, and inattentive, no longer dressing in full riot gear or carrying submachine guns. But still, you’d think after today’s incident the peelers would be on high alert. For all they knew, the failed RPG attack on their colleagues could be the herald of a big break-down in the six-year-long IRA cease-fire. Dozens of attacks might be on the way this very night. A major IRA assault with bombs, guns, rockets—it could be the start of the Northern Irish civil war. So either they’d gotten information from O’Neill and the IRA brass that the RPG attack was nothing to do with them or they were even more bloody complacent than I thought. Probably the latter. The peelers inside the gatehouse didn’t even notice when I knocked at the bullet-proof window. They were drinking tea, laughing, and watching a football game on a portable television.

“Hey,” I said, and knocked even louder to attract their attention.

“What is it?” an irritated copper yelled through the glass.

“I’m with Bridget Callaghan,” I said. “She’s supposed to be here?”

“You’re late. They’re all here already,” the policeman said.

“Ok, where am I supposed to go?” I asked.

Man. United scored a goal on the telly. One peeler cheered while another one groaned, reached into his pocket, and gave him a fiver.

“Bridget Callaghan?” I tried again.

“Oh, aye. Across the yard, present yourself at registration,” a copper said. I hesitated at the gate and went in. They didn’t even want to search me. So here I was, walking into a police station in Belfast with a handgun in my pocket.

“You see, that’s why so many Americans are dying in Iraq. If a Humvee gets hit by an RPG, it just sits there and blows up. A Land Rover or any other high-sided vehicle will roll over and the impact will be much, much less. The low center of gravity actually works against the bloody Humvee,” the sergeant was explaining.

“Is that so?” the constable said, concealing a yawn.

“Aye, it is, that’s why our boys survived today’s incident,” the sergeant said.

“They weren’t even in a Land Rover, they were on foot patrol,” the constable said, rolling his eyes, as if he’d heard this and similar crazy arguments too many times before.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“What do you want?” the sergeant asked, glancing over the topless woman on page three.

“I’m looking for Bridget Callaghan,” I said.

“Did you kidnap her wean and now you’re turning yourself in?” he asked deadpan.

“Aye,” I said. “That’s exactly it.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I work for her, I’ve got some information.”

“Interview room three, she’s with the chief super. Chief super, indeed. We’re pulling out all the stops for her even though we had four officers attacked today,” he said with obvious distaste.

“Thanks,” I said and walked down the corridor.

“Aye, you go to your fucking hoodlum bitch boss,” the sergeant muttered under his breath.

I stopped, turned, went back to the desk.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said your boss, Bridget Callaghan, is a fucking American hoodlum bitch, who we should be fucking deporting, not helping,” the sergeant said.

“Take it easy, Will,” the constable said.

“Take it easy? Take it easy? Four good coppers nearly topped today and some snatch from America has us running through hoops because she’s lost her fucking slut of a daughter. I mean, Jesus Christ, talk about priorities.”

I stared at the sergeant. Even if the other peelers around here weren’t upset about the RPG attack, he was old enough to remember when such things were a daily occurrence. It was really sticking in his craw. Still, that was no bloody excuse.

“Listen, mate, you might not like Bridget Callaghan, she’s not exactly my best friend either, but you better take back what you said about her kid.”

“Or you’ll what?”

“Or I’ll tell her what you said,” I said, grinning, to show I meant it. The sergeant thought about it for a moment. He didn’t want to lose face in front of the constable, but even so, Bridget had a reputation. He hesitated for a second or two and then looked down.

“No offense meant,” he said quietly.

“None taken,” I replied, and hurried down the long beige hall.

“Bridget Callaghan?” I asked.

“Next door on the other side of the corridor,” one of the peelers said.

I crossed the hall and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” a voice said.

I went in. A bunkerlike room with no windows and big Ordnance Survey maps of Belfast plastered over the flaky white concrete walls. An oak table with coffee cups, ashtrays, and several phones. Three uniformed female cops, two uniformed male cops, half a dozen plainclothes detectives, Moran, Bridget, the two goons from the elevator, the goon from the Crown wearing a bandage, a female assistant, a priest, and the chief superintendent, who was a forty-year-old high flier with a leather jacket, purple silk shirt, purple tie, and a blond ponytail. I could tell before he said anything to me that he was a wanker. He was explaining something to Bridget. No one saw me come in. I let him finish the sentence before I walked over to her.

Bridget looked up.

“Michael.”

“How you doing?” I asked.

She smiled a little, thought about the question, closed her eyes, and then her body slumped forward slightly. She almost fell off her seat. Moran, the chief super, and I all made an attempt to steady her, but Moran nodded to one of the goons, who got between me and her. He placed his hand discreetly on my elbow and kept me from touching her. Moran and the chief super grabbed Bridget, helped her regain her composure. Moran looked at me furiously. I wasn’t to touch her. Not now, not ever. I nodded to show that I understood him. There was no point making a scene.

“Michael, what happened to your face?” Bridget asked, her eyes widening with what in the old days one might have thought was concern. It threw me for a moment. Bridget brushed the red hair from her forehead and waited for an answer.

“I fell down a set of stairs, I’m fine.” I said.

“Who are you?” the chief super asked, looking at my damaged leather jacket and Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

“I’m just a friend.”

“Yeah, well, you and all your other mates better keep out of it. They’re calling in ten minutes,” he said.

“How do you know when they’re calling?” I asked Bridget.

“They phoned the hotel and told me to get on over to the police station. They’re going to want street closures and full cooperation from the police. They want the police to assure them they’re going to back off. But it’s ok, Michael, they just want the money, they don’t want any trouble, they’re going to let Siobhan go as long as we cooperate,” Bridget said, her eyes brightening with hope.

I nodded. The kidnappers weren’t so dumb. They appreciated that if the police were running things there was less chance of a cock-up. Bridget’s men might fly off the handle or do something unpredictable, but the cops would not. All in all, sensible policy. But then what? How do you do it? How do you keep the peelers from following Bridget? How do you ensure that you get the cash and get away with it?

“Ms. Callaghan,” the chief super said. “If I could get your attention, please . . .”

Bridget gave me a dismissive wave and began talking to him again. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater. She was beautiful. As devastating as ever, despite the circumstances. She couldn’t help looking sexy. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked sexy. Those eyes, those cheekbones.

Bridget would be a flame at seventy.

Moran approached me, took me to one side.

“What have you got, Forsythe?” he asked in a low tone. My ribs were killing me. I ignored Moran, grabbed a cold cup of coffee, swallowed one of the morphine pills I’d taken from O’Neill.

“What have you got, Forsythe?” Moran asked again.

I looked at him closely. What was his game? Could he be trusted? How many angles was he playing at once?

“I’ve got a name,” I said. “A man called Slider.”

“What about him?”

“He might be part of the gang that lifted Siobhan. But if not, he might be involved somehow. I’m really not too sure,” I said, deciding to be honest with him.

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s a bit fucking vague, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not much of a lead, but—”

“Do you see what time it is?” he interrupted.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock.

“Nearly nine,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. He’d given me the chance to do something, to pull myself out of the trough. A narrow shot at redemption and I hadn’t come through.

“It’s too late. It’s over. Can’t afford any interference. Everybody’s rolling now,” he said.

“What do you want me to do with the name?”

“You’ve got the name of somebody who somehow might be involved. Terrific. Tell the cops after the exchange. After the exchange. We can’t have them or you messing things up, as per fucking usual.”

“I never messed anything up in my life,” I said.

“You haven’t fucking messed up? You killed my brother and Sunshine and Darkey White and ratted out the rest of the fucking crew,” he said with fury.

“Yeah, that wasn’t a fuck-up, mate, that was deliberate,” I said.

His fists clenched, his face reddened, and he gave me a look of cold, calm hate.

He was about to say something else but just then the phone rang. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and looked at it ominously. Bridget picked it up, the chief super nodded to a peeler next to a bank of electronic equipment, signaling him to begin recording the conversation and put it on the speaker. He put his finger to his lips and nodded at Bridget.

“Hello?” she said.

It was the switchboard.

“I have a call for Bridget Callaghan,” the switchboard operator said.

The chief super leaned into the speakerphone.

“Put them through to interview room three, keep the line open, and start the traceback,” he said.

Static, a long pause, and then a voice:

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Bridget said.

“Bridget Callaghan?” the voice asked. A foreign accent, and there was something about it that immediately tweaked me. It sounded European, Spanish maybe. Very old. A man in his late eighties or nineties.

The interview-room door suddenly opened and another young peeler came in; he gave the chief super the thumbs-up. The trace was on.

“I’m Bridget, I want to speak to Siobhan,” Bridget said, the way she’d been coached.

There was a silence on the line and a voice began to speak. This time, a different person. A young man, definitely from Belfast. North Belfast, if I had to guess.

“Your daughter is still alive, I can assure you of that. Now, about tonight—”

“I want to speak to her,” Bridget insisted.

“You’ll do as you’re fucking told,” the voice said.

“I won’t do anything until I speak to Siobhan,” Bridget said.

Another pause. Longer.

“Siobhan, say something,” the second voice finally demanded.

A brief silence and then a tiny “Mommy? Mommy?”

“Oh, Siobhan, honey, are you ok?” Bridget said, bursting into tears, barely able to control herself.