Hang on St. Christopher (The Sean Duffy #8)

23. Killian’s Intel

CHAPTER 23

KILLIAN’S INTEL

You know the old trope about the detective who solves the case but can’t solve his own life? You’ve seen that one a million times. So have I. Suicide and alcoholism in the RUC aren’t occupational hazards, they’re actual career pathways in the brochure they give you when you join: admin; forensic; community policeman; detective; riot squad; station drunk number 1; station drunk number 2; quiet guy who shoots himself and is missed; loud, annoying, wife-beating guy who shoots himself and is not missed.

Glad to be out of it.

Glad to be across the sheugh.

New world over here. Cold turkey on the ciggies. Down to a lunchtime drink and a couple in the evening. Still the occasional spliff, but trust me, it does more good than harm.

The night ferry.

My own bed.

Morning.

Daughter curled on the sofa in a gold-colored blanket. Pale, beautiful, wild-haired like an Irish princess in exile in a foreign court.

Soldiers and boiled eggs for her this morning. “These floppy bits of toast with butter all over them, these are called the soldiers.”

“I know that.”

“And the eggs. The boiled eggs. Do you know what they are?”

“They’re not anything. Its eggs and soldiers. The eggs are just eggs.”

“The floppy bits of toast are the soldiers, but the tough-looking hard-boiled eggs, now, they’re policemen. See how they’re all lining up together? There’s probably a riot about to happen. The soldiers will run, you’ll see, or panic, but the cops—the cops will stay calm and still.”

Emma listened politely to this and then picked up one of the silver teaspoons and cracked down in the middle of one of the eggs. She peeled off the excess skin and shell and dunked the soldier in the running mess.

“Looks like you’re enjoying it,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“As long as you don’t think hitting the policeman was the best bit.”

“No, Daddy, of course not!”

I dressed her and walked her to school.

Walked home along the cliffs. Thought of Dirk Bogarde walking along these very cliffs in Hunted (1952), directed by Charles Crichton. Bogarde tries to escape his murder rap by fleeing to Ireland, just over the horizon.

Ireland lurked there in the mist.

I ignored it and walked home. Another day listening to records and staring out the window at the water. That’s what you did on off days: make breakfast, walk Emma to school, go for a walk, sit in the living room and watch the sea. Wait. Wait for what, exactly? Waiting is its own reward, say the Zen masters. “Why are we waiting?” chant the fans on the Liverpool Kop.

Fingers reaching for the telephone dial.

Crabbie’s home number.

“How do?”

“Sean, what about you?”

“How’s the farm?”

“It’s good. Milk subsidy went up by five pence.”

“What does that mean?”

“They give us five pence more per gallon.”

“Who does?”

“The EEC... the Europeans.”

“And what do they do with the milk?”

“I have no idea.”

“It’s the Germans who are subsidizing this whole milk-buying business.”

“Aye.”

“They buy all the Irish milk and French butter and Italian grapes.”

“Aye.”

“To keep the farmers in jobs.”

“Aye.”

“And I buy a new BMW every couple of years to keep them in jobs, so in effect, it’s me that’s buying all that milk, isn’t it?”

Crabbie knew me well. Too well. “What’s on your mind, Sean? Is it the case?”

“No. I just wanted to chat.”

“You have to let it go, Sean. It’s Special Branch’s case now. The tiny bit of the investigation that’s left in Carrick is Lawson’s case now. They’re all Lawson’s cases now.”

“We have to let this one go?” I asked semirhetorically.

“Aye, Sean, we do,” Crabbie said firmly. “We’re the wee dog chasing the post van. Even if the post van stops for us, what can we do but bark at it? We’re not real peelers anymore.”

“That hurts.”

“Does it? It shouldn’t. It was the choice you and I both made. We make choices and we live with them.”

“Since when did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise; it’s just that you never listened to me before.”

“You’re hitting me with too many truth torpedoes too early in the day, mate. I’m going to have to go.”

“Take it easy, Sean. Buy a dog and then walk the dog. Play a round of golf. These are your golden years. And if you’re still bored, I could do with a hand bringing the yearlings in.”

“I think I’ll pass on that. Later, mate.”

“Later.”

Coffee. Digestive biscuits. Murder She Wrote . It was the one where Jessica visits Fiona, a friend of her late husband, in Cork, where the family runs a traditional wool garment business. Cousin Ambrose is about to take over management of the factory and move the site to Dublin—too far for the local villagers to keep their jobs. Ambrose is found murdered in the local church. Unfortunately, the local Garda copper DS Terence Boyle doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure out the murder, but Jessica is somehow able to put the whole story together. I won’t spoil it for you if you haven’t seen it. (And if you’re unemployed and stuck at home most days, you will see it.) I got the murderer at the twenty-eight-minute mark, but then, I was a better copper than DS Terry Boyle, who was perhaps somewhat handicapped by the fact that he clearly had never been to Ireland in his life before this visit to the fake County Cork of the Hollywood back lot.

Phone ringing.

“Hi, sweetie, how are you?”

“ Murder She Wrote . Jessica’s in Ireland. I got the murderer before she did. Intuition, really, rather than deduction.”

“Uhm, well done, Sean. Look, the sun’s supposed to come out later... And there’s the market on downtown.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t sit in the house all day, I promise. There’s nothing on till Countdown now, and you know that Gyles Brandreth rubs me the wrong way.”

“Well, that’s good. Remember what Dr. Havercamp said. A good brisk walk?—”

“I remember. I know, I’ll go for a walk. I’ll walk the cat on a leash.”

“I’d like to see you try. There’s the bell. Better go. Love you, Sean.”

“Love you too.”

Later.

The market was a very good place to pick up records. It seemed the whole country was switching to CDs and CD players, so entire record collections were being sold on the cheap.

The market was the big weekly event in Portpatrick, and people came in from all over Galloway and parts of Ayrshire too. Today was even crazier because it coincided with the quarterly horse fair, and when I got to the top of the hill, I saw that the little village was a teeming souk of Travellers, traders, and tourists.

I almost went back to the house, and that, of course, would have been the end of the case. No Iceland, no Knock, no Delaware, no answers. No dance with death, either. But Gyles Brandreth was on bloody Countdown, so I didn’t go back. I walked down the hill into Portpatrick.

I waded through the people, horses, and school-ditching kids until I saw big Mike Moffatt at the record stall, looking pleased with himself. Mike was six feet six and nineteen stone. Bald and bearded, he was one of those characters who only ever wore a white T-shirt and stovepipe jeans, no matter the weather. A Geordie not afraid of the bloody cliché.

“New records?”

“Nothing that would interest you.”

“Well, maybe next week, then, Michael,” I said, trying to beat a hasty retreat.

“Not so fast, Duffy. Some Gypsy kid was looking for you. Says he’s got some information about a case. He knew you lived somewhere in Portpatrick and he knew you’d be down my record stall, so he left a note for ya. Smart kid.”

“Let’s have this note, then.”

Big Mike shook his head. “Nah, mate, quid pro quo. Buy a record and I’ll pass on the note.”

“Fuck that, I’ll find him. I’m sure he’s over by the horses.”

“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Here, take this Cliff Richard Christmas album. Fifty pence to a good customer such as yourself.”

I forked over the fifty pence and got the record and the note.

The note was a sketch of a horse and the numeral “2.” Two o’clock at the horse fair. Killian was illiterate, then, but that didn’t mean much; a lot of tinker kids were illiterate.

I Oxfammed the Cliff Richard record and headed over to the beach. There wasn’t an Irishman born alive who could resist a Gypsy horse fair, so the note had been superfluous. And sure enough, I found Killian with various uncles and cousins racing field hunters and Shire horses along the strand.

Even though we were across the sheugh, it probably wouldn’t do his reputation any good to be seen with a peeler, so I just gave him a nod when he turned a big brown chestnut mare near me. Our eyes met, and I went over to the improvised shabeen tent, which always seemed to spring up at these things.

Killian met me as I was scoffing risible chips and a good poteen.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“Can we talk somewhere more private?”

“My house is just over the hill.”

“You lead, I’ll follow.”

There were some crims I wouldn’t want to know where I lived (especially if they knew I was going to be on vacation and the house would be empty except for an unreliable watchcat) but Killian had a weird honor code that would never allow him to exploit the knowledge of my address for personal gain.

I walked back up the hill and toward the cliffs. An election was coming up, and a sign near the house said, “Vote Tory to increase the dissonance.” It did my heart good to see the word dissonance on an election poster. Over that little stretch of water, election posters were cruder and uglier, and if there was a big word it was a big word from the Book of Revelation.

Killian trailed me to the house.

I went inside and put the kettle on, and when he saw that the coast was clear, he came on in too.

“Tea?” I asked.

“Milk, no sugar,” he said.

“No sugar?”

“It’s what I grew up with. And goat’s milk.”

“We only have cow’s milk.”

“That’ll do.

“I saw you riding that big mare. You handled her well without a saddle or a bit.”

“I was riding horses before I could walk.”

“I’ll bet you were. What does a big old mare like that sell for?”

“She’s not old. That gray on her flank is her natural color. A year old. Fourteen months. She’s a high-blooded animal, not a workhorse. If you’re looking for a trotter for your wee girl, I could get you a bargain.”

“No, I’m not yet. What’s brought you to see me, Killian?” I said.

“I have an opportunity in New York. Mate out there. We both know you, it seems.”

“This mate of yours... he’s not called Forsythe, is he?”

Killian raised an eyebrow but neither confirmed nor denied it.

“That’s one of the reasons I’ve come to see you. I could do with a bit of start-up cash for flights and such,” he said.

“What makes you think you’ll get cash from me?”

“Something tells me I’ll be leaving here with some dough,” he said with an air of satisfaction I didn’t like at all.

I made the tea, and we repaired to the living room. He was a big lad, with big hands and a long, gormless face with oddly penetrating, intelligent dark eyes.

“Nice place,” Killian said.

“Thanks.”

“Good little setup you have here. You’re a peeler over there, but here you’re away from the nightmare.”

He was perceptive, this kid.

“Away from the nightmare but not away from the nightmares,” I found myself saying.

“You should go to a therapist. I’ll bet you can get one on the NHS.”

“What do you want to tell me, Killian?”

“Well, remember you said if I spotted that Norton Commando rider again I should let you know? That there might be a reward in it for me?”

“You’re four days too late,” I said. “We found that Norton burned out in an alley in South Belfast. And no recoverable evidence from it.”

Killian nodded. “How much of a reward we talking about, here?” he asked.

“Like I said, we found that motorbike?—”

“You found the motorbike, but you were looking for the rider.”

“Shit. What do you have for me?”

His eyes became sly, cautious, sleekit.

“Spill it, son,” I said.

“Prelims: you’re not interested in a bit of petty larceny, now, are you? From a professional standpoint?”

“Was it in Carrick?”

Killian smiled. “It was well out of your jurisdiction. It was at the airport. That’s not even the RUC, is it?”

“No, it isn’t. That’s the Belfast International Airport Constabulary. Whatever you did at the airport is not my concern.”

Satisfied, Killian continued. “So I’m running a wee team at the airport. Distraction and lift with my cousin Kate, you know how it is.”

“Sorry, what are we talking about here?”

“Kate’s a redhead. Sixteen going on twenty-five. Distraction and lift. Standard stuff.”

I had never heard it called this before, but it was easy enough to grasp what he was talking about. “Your cousin distracts male travelers at the airport by asking about a gate or a flight or something while you steal their bag or their wallet?”

Killian shook his head. “I don’t do the lifting. It’s a three-man job. Kate distracts them, I keep watch for the peelers, and Luke, me partner, he gets accidentally jostled into the mark by the crowd and lifts whatever he can and he hands it to me. If it’s a wallet, I strip it of its money and leave it on a seat. Someone’ll turn it in, and the mark’s usually so happy to get his passport and credit cards back, he doesn’t give a shit if the money’s gone. Kate is the key. She’s so fucking innocent, they never associate her with the wallet going missing. Nine times out of ten, they actually think they left it there on the seat.”

“Nice little arrangement. And what if it goes wrong?”

“Almost never goes wrong. Luke’s so deft at the lift and the handover that if they catch him, he doesn’t have the wallet on him. It’s already with me.”

“ Almost never is the key phrase, I’m guessing here.”

Killian nodded. “Almost never. And yesterday was one of those almost-never days...”

“I’m listening.”

“So yesterday we’re doing the morning rush-hour flights at Belfast International and we’re doing a healthy business.”

“What’s a healthy business?”

“We have a hard limit of ten marks in a session and then we call it quits and go. The airport police are fucking eejits, if you’ll pardon the expression, but even eejits catch on eventually.”

“What happened?”

“We were on mark number eight and we’d taken over four hundred quid. Healthy score, you know? And I let Kate pick the marks. She’s an old hand and she can weed out the troublemakers and the undercover cops. And she starts doing the old song and dance to this guy, asking him for gate thirteen, and Luke takes his wallet and I get ready for the handover, but this fucking guy, I can’t believe what I’m seeing, he grabs Kate by the wrist and has her on the ground and with his other hand he has Luke by the wrist and has him on the ground. Christ, he’s fast. Nobody’s that fast. But he is. Amazing. So they’re on the ground and the airport fuzz come running over and I’m about to get the fuck out there when I look at his face and it dawns on me that I’ve seen it before.”

Chills. Fucking chills down the spine, man.

“Motorcycle Man.”

“Motorcycle Man.”

“Are you sure?”

“I never forget a horse or a face.”

“So what did you do?”

“So instead of legging it, I kind of join the crowd around the cops and Luke and Kate. And they’re doing the right thing. Protesting that it’s all a mistake and they’re innocent, but the airport peelers aren’t listening. And I’m watching the guy and his face is unusual. He’s just caught someone lifting his wallet and he’s not triumphant like you would expect. He’s annoyed; he’s annoyed at himself. He’s made this big fuss and everybody’s looking at him and he’s pissed off.”

“What happened next?”

“You might well ask. So the lead peeler comes out, plainclothes guy, and he opens his notebook and the uniforms are cuffing Luke and Kate, and then suddenly Motorcycle Man gets all apologetic and picks his wallet off the ground and he says, ‘I’m so sorry, I dropped my wallet. These two had nothing to do with it.’ All this in an American accent. And he looks at Kate, and Kate knows he’s letting her go, so she doesn’t kick up a stink. But the peeler’s not buying it. The peeler’s going on about Gypsy pickpockets and how he’s seen Luke before around here and all that shite. But the guy is insistent. They had nothing to do with it; there’s no crime been committed here; you have to let them go. And the peeler finally can see that there’s no percentage in arguing it out, and if the guy’s not going to press charges there ain’t gonna be no case, so he lets them go. And the guy—this is the good bit—he apologizes to Luke and Kate for their trouble and gives them twenty quid each to get a cup of tea.”

“Are you sure about the American accent?”

“Quite sure.”

“So what happened next?”

“Luke and Kate scarper before there’s any other trouble.”

“But you don’t.”

“No, course I don’t.”

“What do you do?”

“I wait until all the fuss has died down, and I follow him first to the coffee shop and then to the departure lounge and finally to his gate.”

“So where’s he going?”

“He’s flying to Knock.”

“Knock.”

“He takes Aer Lingus Two-Twenty-Two to Knock.”

“That’s what you’ve got for me?”

“That’s what I’ve got. How much is that worth to you?”

At some imperceptible point in the story, the language of our conversation had switched from English to Irish, and a request for money in Irish doesn’t quite have the brutal ring to it that it has in English.

“I’m not sure I can do much of anything with this. Aer Lingus flights to the Republic only require boarding passes with a name on them. You don’t need to present an ID or passport to fly to the Irish Republic,” I said.

“So you check the names.”

“It’s going to be a fake name, isn’t it? Give any old name when you book the ticket, and if you’re as cautious as Mr. X...”

Killian smiled “But you’re going to check it anyway, aren’t you?”

Yup, he knew me, this kid. “How many other passengers? What type of plane?”

“Dash Seven, I think. No more than ten passengers.”

“I’ll get my wallet.”