February 1994
The calls started late one night, waking Gary Tooley, the manager of the Carter-owned Blue Parrot nightclub, from his peaceful slumbers alongside his latest squeeze, Caroline Wheeler.
‘What the fuck?’ he asked, because actually it wasn’t even late one night, it was early the next morning.
To be precise, it was three o’clock, and he was pissed off to be woken up like this. He’d had a crazy Friday night, punters kicking off and complaining left, right and centre, staff arsing about and people shooting up in the toilets, and all he wanted now was some kip. Was that too much to ask?
Of course Caroline, the idle bitch, didn’t lift a finger to answer the phone. She’d been working the bar a couple of months when they’d started getting friendly, and friendly had quickly turned into fucking the life out of her down in the stockroom, then in the empty bar, then in the cellars, then in bed.
Now here she was, snoring like a hog and taking up most of the quilt. Christ, he would really like his own bed to himself for a change. Caroline was good in the sack – she was even good on the floor – but sometimes all a bloke wanted was some sleep. He leaned over her huddled form and snatched up the phone.
‘What?’ he demanded.
And then came the voice. Female. Foreign accent. But speaking English. Saying that there was a crash, she knew about it, Constantine had planned it.
What the hell? wondered Gary, brain fogged with sleep.
‘Who is this?’ he said, when she’d babbled on for a full five minutes.
There was a long pause. Then a decisive: ‘I am Gina Barolli.’
‘OK. Right. And why are you phoning me in the middle of the night?’
‘You work for the Carter family.’
‘I do. Yeah.’ Gary scrubbed a hand wearily over his face. Caroline snored on, undisturbed.
‘It was all for her. Annie Carter. The crash.’
‘The what?’
‘The plane crash.’
Gary’s attention sharpened. Was the mad old bint talking about the plane crash in the seventies, the one that should have put an end to those mad cunting Irish the Delaneys forever? Sadly, it hadn’t. Redmond Delaney survived. Gary knew all about the plane crash; all the trusted people close to Max Carter did. So what?
‘My brother, Constantine . . .’ she said, and paused.
‘Yeah. Your brother. What about him?’
‘I’ll tell you everything,’ said the woman, and the line went dead.
That was the first call. And then came others, and that made Gary think. Maybe it was time to cash in on some of this info. Caroline had expensive tastes and he had a bit of a gambling habit, loved the dogs and the horses; a bit more wedge would come in very handy right now. And he knew exactly who he was going to get it from.