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Authors: Gene Kerrigan
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Harley, he’s got a point of view on gangland murders.’
Harley nodded. ‘The more of them the better. Dumb fuckers take each other out, saves us a lot of work.’
Wyndham stood up. ‘Detective Harley and me, we have a difference of opinion on this. I think that when dumb fuckers get the habit of using guns to solve their problems there’s no telling where they’ll stop.’
There was misty rain in the icy wind and Lar Mackendrick quickened his pace as he neared the shelter. The few walkers and joggers on the Clontarf seafront had bundled up against the weather. The morning rush hour had started and traffic on the road that paralleled the seafront crept impatiently towards the city centre. Mackendrick wore a red anorak, a tweed cap and soft leather gloves. The figure waiting in the shelter wore a dark green waxed coat and a leather homburg hat.
‘Bracing weather,’ Declan Roeper said.
He was about the same age as Lar Mackendrick, with the face of someone who had become used to disappointment. ‘Wonderful public amenity, this. Green space on one side, the sea on the other – the sweep of the bay, the sea air, a long, clear path to walk on. Relief from the mundane.’
Mackendrick said, ‘Not in this fucking weather.’
‘Rain or shine, seven days a week, I take advantage of it – keeps old age at bay. I’m surprised they never sold it off to a developer with connections. You could fit in any number of apartments if you didn’t mind spoiling the view.’
Mackendrick grunted. ‘Don’t give them ideas.’
A young woman, soaked through, in red shorts and a white Nike top jogged past towards the Bull Wall. Roeper watched her go.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Mackendrick said.
‘You’re ready to take the material?’
‘Almost.’
Roeper nodded, as though this was the answer he feared.
‘Not good enough. I brought you down here to set an unbreakable deadline.’
Brought me down here?
Who the fuck do you think you’re speaking to?
Lar Mackendrick kept his expression calm.
‘Declan, it’s not as though—’
‘The pick-up was supposed to be immediate.’
‘Something serious came up—’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘There was a time, Declan, in the years before peace and brotherhood became all the rage, and your people needed a place to stay or something delivered – many’s the time I did what I could, and damn the risk.’
Roeper stretched his legs out and crossed one foot above the other. ‘You were well paid.’
‘It’s a short, unavoidable delay.’
Roeper looked directly at Mackendrick. ‘If you don’t take possession of the material within the next forty-eight hours, we’ll have to dispose of it. And we don’t give refunds.’
‘We’re not ready.’
‘Get ready.’
‘Declan—’
Roeper turned his gaze back towards the sea. ‘We don’t provide storage. We sourced the material, prepared it for use – now it’s sitting in a lock-up and every day that goes by is another twenty-four hours of risk we didn’t agree to.’
‘Be reasonable.’
‘Forty-eight hours. The clock is ticking.’ There was deliberate insult in the abrupt way Roeper stood up. Watching the slight figure hunch against the cold wind and walk with head down towards the bridge to the Bull Wall, Lar Mackendrick let the restrained rage of the past couple of minutes show on his face. Then he spat on the wet ground.
From the window, Danny Callaghan watched the two detectives cross to their unmarked car. The older one took the passenger seat, Fatface got behind the wheel. Beyond the waste ground he could see the slip road that led out of the estate. It was already busy, feeding into the main road, with the city’s day shift flowing towards their workplaces. His own work – picking up Rowe and Warner and taking them to the airport – would start late and finish early.
He yawned. It was inevitable that the police would come asking silly questions, but they could have picked a civilised
Harley nodded. ‘The more of them the better. Dumb fuckers take each other out, saves us a lot of work.’
Wyndham stood up. ‘Detective Harley and me, we have a difference of opinion on this. I think that when dumb fuckers get the habit of using guns to solve their problems there’s no telling where they’ll stop.’
There was misty rain in the icy wind and Lar Mackendrick quickened his pace as he neared the shelter. The few walkers and joggers on the Clontarf seafront had bundled up against the weather. The morning rush hour had started and traffic on the road that paralleled the seafront crept impatiently towards the city centre. Mackendrick wore a red anorak, a tweed cap and soft leather gloves. The figure waiting in the shelter wore a dark green waxed coat and a leather homburg hat.
‘Bracing weather,’ Declan Roeper said.
He was about the same age as Lar Mackendrick, with the face of someone who had become used to disappointment. ‘Wonderful public amenity, this. Green space on one side, the sea on the other – the sweep of the bay, the sea air, a long, clear path to walk on. Relief from the mundane.’
Mackendrick said, ‘Not in this fucking weather.’
‘Rain or shine, seven days a week, I take advantage of it – keeps old age at bay. I’m surprised they never sold it off to a developer with connections. You could fit in any number of apartments if you didn’t mind spoiling the view.’
Mackendrick grunted. ‘Don’t give them ideas.’
A young woman, soaked through, in red shorts and a white Nike top jogged past towards the Bull Wall. Roeper watched her go.
‘I can’t stay long,’ Mackendrick said.
‘You’re ready to take the material?’
‘Almost.’
Roeper nodded, as though this was the answer he feared.
‘Not good enough. I brought you down here to set an unbreakable deadline.’
Brought me down here?
Who the fuck do you think you’re speaking to?
Lar Mackendrick kept his expression calm.
‘Declan, it’s not as though—’
‘The pick-up was supposed to be immediate.’
‘Something serious came up—’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘There was a time, Declan, in the years before peace and brotherhood became all the rage, and your people needed a place to stay or something delivered – many’s the time I did what I could, and damn the risk.’
Roeper stretched his legs out and crossed one foot above the other. ‘You were well paid.’
‘It’s a short, unavoidable delay.’
Roeper looked directly at Mackendrick. ‘If you don’t take possession of the material within the next forty-eight hours, we’ll have to dispose of it. And we don’t give refunds.’
‘We’re not ready.’
‘Get ready.’
‘Declan—’
Roeper turned his gaze back towards the sea. ‘We don’t provide storage. We sourced the material, prepared it for use – now it’s sitting in a lock-up and every day that goes by is another twenty-four hours of risk we didn’t agree to.’
‘Be reasonable.’
‘Forty-eight hours. The clock is ticking.’ There was deliberate insult in the abrupt way Roeper stood up. Watching the slight figure hunch against the cold wind and walk with head down towards the bridge to the Bull Wall, Lar Mackendrick let the restrained rage of the past couple of minutes show on his face. Then he spat on the wet ground.
From the window, Danny Callaghan watched the two detectives cross to their unmarked car. The older one took the passenger seat, Fatface got behind the wheel. Beyond the waste ground he could see the slip road that led out of the estate. It was already busy, feeding into the main road, with the city’s day shift flowing towards their workplaces. His own work – picking up Rowe and Warner and taking them to the airport – would start late and finish early.
He yawned. It was inevitable that the police would come asking silly questions, but they could have picked a civilised
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