from the end. Markings on the two shells recovered at the scene had been linked to one previous known killing.
Oliver Snead.
He scanned the single sentence that summarised the bare details of the Snead murder. He vaguely recognised the name and he spent a moment mentally trawling the countless cases he’d absorbed over the years, retrieving a small cluster of facts he’d retained about the Snead murder.
‘Assistant Commissioner . . .’
O’Keefe looked towards Robertson Wynn, then ignored him.
The Snead murder was eighteen months back, or thereabouts. Two gunmen – Snead was with friends, a winter drinking party on waste ground in front of the block of flats where he lived with his grandfather. The Hive. He owed someone money, a drugs thing.
As memory filled out the details, O’Keefe paused for just a moment, then he opened the contacts list in his mobile and scrolled down through the names.
Outside the court, Sergeant Derek Ferry offered Bob Tidey a cigarette. ‘Sorry you got dragged into this petty shit.’
Tidey lit Ferry’s cigarette. ‘Things happen.’ He thumbed the lighter again and there was just a bare flicker of flame. He sucked it into his own cigarette.
He found a shop and bought a packet of Rothmans and two disposable lighters. Leaving the shop, his mobile rang. The screen said Colin O’Keefe.
Jesus, that was quick .
In the years since he partnered O’Keefe on a couple of high-profile cases, the two had kept in touch. The friendship remained, but now that O’Keefe had reached the heights of Assistant Commissioner the contact was only occasional. Either Colin wanted to sympathise about the judge’s reprimand, or he wanted to know if Tidey had been fucking about.
‘Bob – it’s Colin. You got much on your plate?’
Tidey took a moment to think. ‘Some court work, paperwork, and a few witness depositions scheduled to start tomorrow—’
‘Take a day to wrap it all up – two at the most. I can get you help with the witnesses.’
‘It’ll take longer than—’
‘Malachy Hogg’s running the inquiry from Castlepoint – touch base with him, do your best to sideline the other stuff and get stuck in.’
‘What’s this—’
‘Oliver Snead.’
Tidey said nothing for a moment. Then he said, ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve connected that case to a recent shooting.’
‘Good.’
‘This other shooting – it’s way beyond Oliver Snead’s league. Something doesn’t make sense.’
There was silence for a moment, then Bob Tidey said, ‘Go ahead, surprise me.’
14
Michelle Flood had just forty minutes for lunch, so Vincent Naylor met her in the Abbey Street food hall, five minutes’ walk from the hairdresser’s where she worked. Over sandwiches he told her why he’d had to leave during the night, all about Noel and the shed and the bitch who used to live with him.
Michelle smiled. ‘Lorraine – Paris Hilton without the inheritance. I know her sister.’
Long dark hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt granite. Even wearing the dark blue top and grey trousers that came with her part-time hairdressing job, Michelle looked like something from a magazine.
This thing between them went deep very quickly. At first Vincent worried about how and when – and if – he should let her know this was serious for him. Then it dawned that he knew it was serious for her, and she hadn’t said a word.
‘The bitch lived with Noel for over a year,’ Vincent said. ‘Cracked about her, he was. Total basket case when she dumped him.’
‘She’s a cow. An over-the-hill cow. Everyone knows that. How is he now?’
Vincent just said, ‘Fine, he’s OK,’ but he still wasn’t sure how last night’s trouble would work out.
It had been pushing five in the morning when Liam Delaney dropped them off at Noel’s house. Noel was drained.
‘I’ll get you a coffee.’
Noel shook his head, shuffled towards his bedroom. Vincent helped him take off his jacket, shoes and jeans,
Oliver Snead.
He scanned the single sentence that summarised the bare details of the Snead murder. He vaguely recognised the name and he spent a moment mentally trawling the countless cases he’d absorbed over the years, retrieving a small cluster of facts he’d retained about the Snead murder.
‘Assistant Commissioner . . .’
O’Keefe looked towards Robertson Wynn, then ignored him.
The Snead murder was eighteen months back, or thereabouts. Two gunmen – Snead was with friends, a winter drinking party on waste ground in front of the block of flats where he lived with his grandfather. The Hive. He owed someone money, a drugs thing.
As memory filled out the details, O’Keefe paused for just a moment, then he opened the contacts list in his mobile and scrolled down through the names.
Outside the court, Sergeant Derek Ferry offered Bob Tidey a cigarette. ‘Sorry you got dragged into this petty shit.’
Tidey lit Ferry’s cigarette. ‘Things happen.’ He thumbed the lighter again and there was just a bare flicker of flame. He sucked it into his own cigarette.
He found a shop and bought a packet of Rothmans and two disposable lighters. Leaving the shop, his mobile rang. The screen said Colin O’Keefe.
Jesus, that was quick .
In the years since he partnered O’Keefe on a couple of high-profile cases, the two had kept in touch. The friendship remained, but now that O’Keefe had reached the heights of Assistant Commissioner the contact was only occasional. Either Colin wanted to sympathise about the judge’s reprimand, or he wanted to know if Tidey had been fucking about.
‘Bob – it’s Colin. You got much on your plate?’
Tidey took a moment to think. ‘Some court work, paperwork, and a few witness depositions scheduled to start tomorrow—’
‘Take a day to wrap it all up – two at the most. I can get you help with the witnesses.’
‘It’ll take longer than—’
‘Malachy Hogg’s running the inquiry from Castlepoint – touch base with him, do your best to sideline the other stuff and get stuck in.’
‘What’s this—’
‘Oliver Snead.’
Tidey said nothing for a moment. Then he said, ‘Go on.’
‘We’ve connected that case to a recent shooting.’
‘Good.’
‘This other shooting – it’s way beyond Oliver Snead’s league. Something doesn’t make sense.’
There was silence for a moment, then Bob Tidey said, ‘Go ahead, surprise me.’
14
Michelle Flood had just forty minutes for lunch, so Vincent Naylor met her in the Abbey Street food hall, five minutes’ walk from the hairdresser’s where she worked. Over sandwiches he told her why he’d had to leave during the night, all about Noel and the shed and the bitch who used to live with him.
Michelle smiled. ‘Lorraine – Paris Hilton without the inheritance. I know her sister.’
Long dark hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt granite. Even wearing the dark blue top and grey trousers that came with her part-time hairdressing job, Michelle looked like something from a magazine.
This thing between them went deep very quickly. At first Vincent worried about how and when – and if – he should let her know this was serious for him. Then it dawned that he knew it was serious for her, and she hadn’t said a word.
‘The bitch lived with Noel for over a year,’ Vincent said. ‘Cracked about her, he was. Total basket case when she dumped him.’
‘She’s a cow. An over-the-hill cow. Everyone knows that. How is he now?’
Vincent just said, ‘Fine, he’s OK,’ but he still wasn’t sure how last night’s trouble would work out.
It had been pushing five in the morning when Liam Delaney dropped them off at Noel’s house. Noel was drained.
‘I’ll get you a coffee.’
Noel shook his head, shuffled towards his bedroom. Vincent helped him take off his jacket, shoes and jeans,
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