Harry Synnott stared back.
Hogg said, ‘I understand the tout knows this chap Boyce, saw him somewhere, damaged his alibi?’
Bitch.
Cheney.
Fucking bitch.
‘I’m sorry, sir – there seems to be a misunderstanding.’
Hogg’s gaze was unflinching.
‘Do you have a copy here of this woman’s statement?’
‘Sir – there’s no statement. This informant, she’s – she tries to be helpful, but there’s times she hypes things. She thought she saw Boyce on the day of the robbery, but when I pushed her, when I tested her evidence – sir, that was the height of it. Happens all the time. She wasn’t sure what day she saw him, she wasn’t even a hundred per cent sure it was him.’
Hogg waited a moment. Then he said, ‘I see.’
In the silence that followed, Harry Synnott found himself compelled to speak. ‘There’s no statement, sir.’
It sounded weak and he knew it. He recognised his own response from the dozens of times he’d let a suspect stew in silence, making them feel obliged to say something. He felt a flush of resentment at being the subject of such a cheap manoeuvre by a fellow officer. He stood up.
‘Is that all, sir?’
‘I’ll need to talk to this tout.’
Harry Synnott stood there for a while, meeting Hogg’s gaze. Then he pushed his chair back under his desk. He turned and walked towards the door, aware all the way that Hogg’s gaze was fixed on him.
Five minutes away from Macken Road, Synnott pulled into a pub car park. He sat for a minute, then pulled out his mobile.
‘Thanks a fucking lot.’
Rose Cheney said, ‘Fuck you, too, sir.’
‘I asked you, begged you, to keep the tout’s statement to yourself. I told you it was embarrassing.’
‘That’s not what this is about, sir.’
‘You went to Hogg, you tried to put me in the shit.’
‘I was
this
close to putting that Hapgood bastard in jail for rape, not to mention putting his big-shot father behind bars for interfering with a witness – and you piss all over the work I’ve done.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Hapgood’s a serial rapist. We don’t get him for what he did, and we can’t stop him doing it again. Well done, sir. And maybe the next time the woman gets too stroppy and he kills her.’
‘I did the Hapgood case by the book, every step –’
‘It doesn’t matter – you’re damaged goods, and right now the DPP won’t buy anything you’re selling no matter what the price. Have you a notion of how hard it is to get a rape conviction in this country?’
Harry Synnott said, ‘I did nothing wrong.’
Cheney made a noise. ‘That’s up to Hogg to sort out. Did you give him the tout’s statement?’
‘There was no statement.’
Cheney hesitated a moment, then she said, ‘Last night, you told me the tout made a statement.’
Synnott said, ‘She told me about seeing Joshua Boyce, I told you what she said, then she changed her mind. What you told Hogg was wrong. There’s no statement.’
‘When they talk to Dixie Peyton—’
Synnott felt a whiplash across his chest when he realised that Cheney remembered the tout’s name.
‘– she’d better back up whatever you told Hogg. Or you’re fucked.’
‘You sold me out.’
Cheney’s voice was filtered through layers of ice. ‘It’s like you said – if you know about it and you stay silent you become part of it.’
*
When Shelley Hogan came out for a smoke, there was a loser standing outside the pub door, a pinch-faced gobshite with spiky, dyed blond hair. One of the worst things about the smoking ban, you come out for a smoke and the pavement’s full of would-be Casanovas. Spiky Hair put on what he must have imagined was his playboy face and gave her a nod. Shelley ignored him and lit up a cigarette as she walked a few yards to the right. She stood, one hand across her midriff, cradling her other elbow, taking a second and then a third drag from the cigarette.
Her thumb was flicking at the bottom of the cigarette filter, shedding ash from the Rothman. She took another drag and watched the tip of the cigarette grow brighter.
Tight corners.
There are times when the corner’s so tight you have to turn your face away from everything else and do what you have to do.
Spiky Hair was looking at Shelley’s tits. She stared at him until he looked away, his lips sucking on the butt of his cigarette. Shelley took her mobile out of the side pocket of her jeans. She took a beer mat from her back pocket and checked the number scrawled on it, then she tapped in the number.
When someone answered, Shelley said, ‘Is this Mr James?’
*
The flame from the candle made the heroin bubble and roll on the aluminium foil, the smoke rose in twisting ribbons and Dixie Peyton sucked it in and held her head back, eyes closed, as she felt the drug swaddle her mind.
Tomorrow.
47
Harry Synnott left the car’s engine running outside Dixie’s house in Portmahon Terrace. When Brendan Peyton answered Synnott’s knock, he was on crutches.
‘Is Dixie here?’
‘Go away.’
Synnott hadn’t seen Brendan Peyton for a couple of years. Whatever had happened to his legs, swathed in bandages below his creased and baggy shorts, had aged him by a decade.
‘It’s important.’
‘I’ve no idea where she is and I couldn’t care less.’
‘What happened?’
‘Goodbye.’
Brendan’s hapless effort to shut the front door in Synnott’s face caused him to drop one of the crutches. He winced as he hopped backwards, off balance.
Synnott held him by the shoulders, pushed him back against the hallway wall.
‘Get the fuck—’
Synnott jammed his right forearm under Brendan’s chin and forced his head back.
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
Synnott released Brendan and went further into the house. It took him less than a minute to check upstairs and down. When he returned, Brendan was sitting at the kitchen table. He slumped, as if something had broken inside him. ‘I haven’t seen her in days. I rang her mate’s place an hour ago, when I got home from the hospital – someone answered and hung up as soon as I spoke. I think it was Dixie.’
‘Her mate?’
‘Shelley Hogan.’
‘And Shelley Hogan lives where?’
‘She did this. Dixie did.’ Brendan gestured towards his legs. ‘She ratted on Lar Mackendrick. Heard me talking about Lar’s business – I didn’t know she was touting – she never told me a thing about it. The bitch hung me out to dry.’
Brendan stared at Synnott, as if daring him to admit that he was the policeman who worked Dixie.
‘You reckon she’s there? This friend’s place?’
‘Hadn’t the decency to answer me when I called, the cunt.’
‘Lar knows she’s a tout?’
‘Brendan was silent for a while, then he said, ‘They would’ve killed me.’
‘Where does Shelley Hogan live?’
‘Iron bars, they used. I didn’t say anything at first, then I couldn’t help it.’
‘Where does Shelley live?’
‘When Lar finds her, she’s dead meat.’
‘Where does Shelley live?’
After he got Shelley’s address, Synnott put a hand to Brendan’s forehead and pushed his head back until his face was almost horizontal. Synnott leaned down until his mouth was just inches from Brendan’s ear.
‘I didn’t come here this evening. No matter who asks, no matter how this turns out, none of this ever happened. You, me, Dixie – one word to
anyone
, now or
ever
, and I put the word out that both of you – Dixie
and
you – were on the payroll.’
He released Brendan’s head.
‘Understood?’
Brendan said nothing.
Very gently, Harry Synnott kicked Brendan Peyton on the bandaged right shin. After Brendan finished screaming he moaned, ‘I swear, I swear,’ over and over. When he looked up at Harry Synnott there was nothing in his face any more except fear and submission.
*
Lar Mackendrick waited in the back of the Peugeot, parked down the street from the pub. Lar could see Matty standing in the pool of light outside the pub, talking to a bird with short dark hair. She was shaking her head. Then she took a drag on her cigarette and shook her head again. Matty turned and walked away and the woman said something. Matty went back and after they talked for a bit the woman took a pen from her handbag and wrote something on a piece of paper. Matty gave her something, then he turned and walked back towards the car.
When he got into the Peugeot he handed the piece of paper to Lar.
‘Flat 48, in the Sunnyfield, near Gardiner Street. Fourth floor. That’s the code you’ll need for the front door into the building. She wouldn’t give me the key to the flat itself, but that shouldn’t be a problem if Dixie is really there.’
‘The cow give you any trouble?’
‘She wanted the two grand up front. I told her to go fuck herself, so she said she wouldn’t tell me anything unless I gave her half up front. I gave her fifty on account.’
‘Will she be a problem?’
Matty thought for a second. ‘If it works out, we pay her off, she knows to keep her mouth shut.’ He waited, then he said, ‘We can do the other, if you think it’s necessary.’
‘Dixie’s definitely there now?’
‘They talked earlier. She’s in for the night.’
‘Let’s go.’
*
Harry Synnott crossed the Liffey at Tara Street bridge. Traffic was in a tangle at Bus Aras, so he went the long way, up Amiens Street and around into Sean McDermott Street. Brendan Peyton hadn’t been certain of the number of Shelley Hogan’s flat – ‘42, 44 maybe – and there’s a front-door code, so you’ll need to press a lot of buttons before someone buzzes you in.’
There was no certainty that Dixie’d still be at Shelley’s place. She might already have tried something, getting hold of the kid, taking him wherever. Whatever she tried, she’d fuck it up.
If she was taken in again,
Jesus
.
Five minutes it’ll take, before she gives me up
.
Synnott touched the outside of his jacket, feeling the bulk of the envelope in the inside pocket. Two grand, on top of the first one – that should be enough. One condition – she’d have to let him take her straight to the airport, this evening, see her onto a plane, off to hell out of here.
The kid, she could deal with that problem later.
Give it a week or two, Synnott would come to see her in London or wherever, help her get settled, sort herself out, help her get a job. After that, it would take a couple of months – then, quietly, she could begin the business of getting hold of the kid legitimately. With the money to keep her from going under – and it would cost more than the two grand in his pocket – she could hack it. Show that she’d made a life for herself, show she’d stayed clean. If it mattered enough to her, she could do that.
No guarantees. If anyone can fuck things up it’s Dixie, but this is her best shot.
Synnott turned along Gardiner Street and a minute later he was in a narrow deserted road, Collier’s Row. He pulled to the kerb about fifty yards from the Sunnyfield Apartments building and parked midway between two lamp-posts that gave out a feeble orange light.
Fourth floor. Time to start pressing buttons.
As he switched off the engine a black Peugeot turned in behind him from the Gardiner Street direction and swept past. It pulled into the kerb thirty yards ahead. As he watched, the back door on the left side of the Peugeot opened and a bulky figure got out.
Mackendrick.
Synnott could see the shapes of two others in the front of the car. He gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. Then he reached for the door handle.
*
Something made Dixie stand up. She pushed against the armchair and felt a weakness in one knee as she got to her feet. She was aware that she was swaying slightly, but she was steady enough to know she wasn’t about to fall.
What?
There was some reason why she’d stood up.
She wasn’t going anywhere, there wasn’t anything she should be doing. Get something to eat? She wasn’t hungry. Maybe she ought to have something to drink. She was thirsty.
Then the doorbell rang again and she knew that was what had got her on her feet. There was someone at the door.
48