Read Online Little Criminals by Gene Kerrigan - Free Book Online Page A

nowhere and neither he nor Helen wanted it to.
    As Helen’s maroon Chrysler Crossfire pulled out of the car park, Kennedy unlocked his Merc and threw his briefcase on to the back seat. When he sat at the wheel, he paused for a moment, allowing himself the ritual indulgence of enjoying the moment – the achievements and the pleasures of the day, the evening yet to come, not least the feel of the car, the way it fitted into the life he had built around him. It would be nice to get home at a reasonable hour. The kids would still be up.

6
     
    The house lights went off within a few minutes of ten thirty. They could see just one light now, in an upstairs room at the front, but it was too far away to see anything useful. Frankie Crowe and Martin Paxton spent three evenings parked in a lane from which they could see the Kennedy house, but Frankie thought that kind of thing was too risky. ‘One snoopy copper and it’s all fucked up.’ Tonight they were just cruising the neighbourhood, stopping for a few minutes down the street from the target house.
    They drove by the house several evenings, sometimes up to half a dozen times, getting a handle on the routine. Twice they saw the target arriving home in his Merc. Other than that there was very little to see.
    Every house in this part of Ballsbridge cost at least two or three times the price of the average Dublin home. Every house on Pemberton Road cost at least twice the Ballsbridge average. The Kennedy place was bigger than any of its neighbours. It was a double-fronted red-brick Victorian, bay windows all over the place. The front of the house was almost completely clothed in creeping vines. Each corner of the roof was dominated by a chimney, making it look a little like a small castle. Although set in a busy neighbourhood and parallel to a main road, Pemberton Road managed to retain a placid atmosphere. The house was set well back, behind an array of bushes and trees, with plenty of space on either side. Private, or – from another point of view – isolated.
    As they drove away from Pemberton Road, Martin said, ‘Ready for Jo-Jo?’
    ‘Tomorrow. He’ll be OK.’
    ‘You’re up for it, then, a bit of crawling?’
    ‘Fuck off, Martin, we’re not crawling. Jo-Jo’s no problem. He owes me.’
    It was starting to rain as Angela Kennedy closed the bedroom curtains. The weather had been fitful through the summer, rain never far away. Angela enjoyed the certainty of the approaching winter, the cosy feeling she got closing curtains against the elements. Soon, they’d be on the run-in to Christmas, their second Christmas in this house. She had enjoyed the two weeks in New York with Justin and the kids, and the week in Barbados alone with Justin, but she welcomed the coming winter just as much. More, perhaps. The summer was pleasure, the winter was intimacy. Just a few years back, when drink and parties and the frippery of social conquest mattered, she could never have imagined the depth of happiness to be found in the weeks of long nights at home, snuggled with the kids and – when he could manage it – Justin. The fire blazing, games or crayons or a last video before bedtime, reading and hugs and all the stuff that sounded too trivial until it became the centre of everything. There were enough nights on the town with Justin or with friends to make a contrast. Knowing it would be just a few short years before the kids became too old or too cool for that kind of thing only made the intimacy more intense.
    By the time Angela slid between the sheets, Justin was locking up downstairs. The kids were already asleep. When Justin came out of the bathroom, Angela said, ‘Saskia has your birthday present already. Luke wants me to take him into town at the weekend, he has something in mind for you.’ She paused. ‘I know you’ll make it home early.’
    ‘It’s not for another – what? – two weeks.’
    ‘They’re counting on it. You’ll be there?’
    ‘I’ll be