be very soon,’ Ructions says. ‘I’ll let you know when the time is right.’
‘There’s nothing else to be said, then, is there?’ Serge raises his glass. ‘To good business.’
SEVEN
Finbarr comes out of a nightclub in Dublin’s bustling Temple Bar district. Revellers pack the cobblestoned streets. Traditional Irish music drifts out from the Temple Bar pub, which is surrounded with noisy drinkers. Strong odours of tobacco and grass infuse the cold December air. A man in an elf outfit sups his pint of Guinness while watching four men and three women brawling at the entrance to the pub. The elf finishes his pint and puts down the empty glass on a drinks barrel. He carefully takes off his jaunty hat and pointy elf ears and puts them in his pocket. He breathes deeply and charges into the middle of the melee, only to emerge a few minutes later with a bloody nose. One of the brawlers appears from the pack and raises his fist to punch the elf. Someone shouts, ‘It’s Elfie! They’re beating up the elf!’ More people join the fight. A well-fed cloud explodes and a blizzard of hailstones ping off the heads and faces of the scrappers. As quickly as it had started, the fight ends, as the antagonists scatter to find cover. Finbarr remarks to himself that the Irish don’t like getting wet during a good fight. He stands in a doorway until the hailstones abate, then walks to a car park. He gets into the car park’s elevator and presses the fourth-floor button. Two men, one in his twenties and the other in his forties, rush in just as the door is closing.
Finbarr gets out of the elevator and makes his way to his car. Once inside, he turns on the radio. Bob Dylan’s ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ bursts into life. Finbarr looks around and sees that no one is about. He dips a cocaine spoon into a small plastic moneybag, snorts some cocaine, shakes his head and runs a finger across his nose. His passenger-side door opens suddenly and the older man from the elevator gets in. He is a stocky man in a blue suit, with gelled grey hair tied at the back in a small ponytail. The man produces a hand gun and sticks it in Finbarr’s ribs.
‘What the—?’
‘Fuck up,’ the man growls in an earthy Dublin accent. He reaches over, grabs the car keys and says, ‘Do you know who I am, Finbarr? Yes or no.’
‘No.’
‘I’m from the Provisional IRA and you’re under arrest. Don’t speak unless I tell you to and you’ll be fine.’ His tone is calm. He takes out a pair of sunglasses and hands them to Finbarr. ‘Here. Put these on.’
Finbarr puts on the glasses and finds that the inside of the lenses is covered in black tape. The man searches Finbarr for weapons. ‘You’re doing good, young man. Now, open your door and get out.’ As Finbarr steps out of the car, the younger of the two men who had been in the elevator takes him by the arm, puts him into the back of a second car and gets in beside him. The older man gets into the driver’s seat and drives off.
A large photo of Murdoch, Coleman and the two heavies in a car adorns the big screen in Inspector Gerry Rowlands’ office at police headquarters, Belfast. Also on the screen is an image of Murdoch, Coleman, Panzer and Ructions at the table in the roadside service station on the Belfast–Dublin motorway.
Four senior police officers and a note-taker sit around a circular table. Christened ‘Poxy’ by his colleagues because of his pock-marked face, Inspector Rowlands is a jobber, a reliable man: one who has the wit to recognise his limitations. He stands beside the screen with a large stick. His secretary knocks on the door and enters the room with tea and biscuits. She puts the tray on the table and leaves.
Unlike Rowlands, Chief Superintendent Daniel Clarke does have ambition – container-loads of it: he wants to be Chief Constable of the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Bald, chubby-cheeked and frog-eyed, Clarke is hardly a public relations’ dream. Yet, vainly, he considers himself to be good-looking. He reaches over, pops two sugar lumps in his cup and stirs his tea. His eyes never leave the screen. ‘Murdoch’s on the IRA’s GHQ staff now, isn’t he?’ he says.
‘Yes, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘Has been for over a year now.’
Clarke lifts his cup to his lips but holds it there. ‘And he’s conferring with two known bank robbers. Why?’
‘It’s hard to say, sir. MI5 seems to think that this was a chance meeting. I believe there’s merit in that assessment.’ Rowlands runs the recording back to the part where Murdoch and Coleman join Panzer and Ructions. ‘As we can see here, Murdoch has just sat down at the table when he grabs handfuls of Panzer O’Hare’s chips and then wolfs downs his burger. Those are unfriendly acts. A bully boy is throwing his weight about.’
‘The look on Panzer’s face confirms that,’ a female officer adds.
‘It certainly appears that Panzer’s uncomfortable around these people,’ Clarke says.
Rowlands runs the recording to where Ructions grabs Colm Coleman’s wrist when he tries to eat his fries. ‘This is James “Ructions” O’Hare, sir, Panzer’s nephew.’
‘Yes,’ Clarke says. ‘He’s really put out, isn’t he?’ The clip runs on. ‘He doesn’t say much, does he?’
‘His body language says everything,’ another officer comments. ‘He evidently doesn’t like Murdoch or Coleman and he’s not afraid to show it.’
‘We think Ructions was the brains behind the Balcoo cigarette robbery in January and the Ballymena Ulster Bank robbery in April,’ Rowlands says.
‘I wonder,’ Clarke ponders, ‘if Panzer neglected to pay his IRA taxes for those jobs? Could that be the reason for the hostility?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘We don’t know whether he paid or not, but certainly, if he didn’t, I suspect it would be an issue.’
Clarke stirs his tea. ‘Hmm. Ballymena was a tiger-kidnapping, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. They held the manager’s wife and two children hostage overnight and forced him to bring them the contents of the safe the next day.’
‘And how much did they get away with?’
‘Eight hundred thousand in unmarked notes, sir.’
Clarke taps his chin. ‘So, we have master bank robbers conferring with master terrorists. Yes.’ Clarke waves his hand. ‘And MI5 think this meeting is coincidental, Gerry?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rowlands says. ‘Murdoch doesn’t rob banks.’
‘The Provisional IRA does. And, anyway, neither do master bank robbers – they get mugs to rob them for them.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
‘Why is there no audio with this recording?’ Clarke asks. ‘I hope our friends in MI5 aren’t holding out on us again.’
‘I asked Controller about the absence of audio, sir, and he said there was interference.’
‘Do you believe him?’ Clarke asks.
Rowlands shrugs.
‘It’s stuffy in here,’ Clarke says, opening a window. He puts his head out and looks up the side of the building. He turns around. ‘Colm Coleman
