Crowe eyed the bare-chested man, as he swayed to some personal silent reverie. He stood at his doorway, his head angled up towards the morning sun and his eyes shut. A cigarette flopped in his mouth. Another client of Ghost’s and Cracko’s, she guessed.
She pulled her jacket tight and walked to her car. She had wasted her time. The partner still wasn’t talking. And never would by the looks of it. Same for his girlfriend most likely. The doctors had told her the woman was in no condition to talk and was on heavy pain relief and tranquillisers.
When Crowe got to the house yesterday, there was pandemonium. There had been an anonymous call about a disturbance. An ambulance had just left with the woman. At first, Crowe thought the partner had done it, but he was in bits too. He had massive bruising around his eye and was clutching his chest. A second ambulance was coming for him. Their toddler, naked apart from a filthy T-shirt, was hysterical. Now and again, he’d gasp out the words, ‘Bad man.’
A kettle was on the floor. The partner wouldn’t say who did it and refused to give a formal statement. Crowe bagged the kettle and took it away for examination, just in case the couple changed their mind.
The neighbours saw nothing, though one of them had obviously rung 999.
When Crowe checked the partner’s name at the station, she discovered he was on bail in relation to a recent drugs haul, reputedly belonging to the Canal Gang. It dawned on her pretty quick who the bad man was. And why no one was talking.
Leaning on the wall outside the house, she thought about the little boy again. She made sure the hospital would check him out when he arrived with his dad, and suggested to staff that a social worker be consulted. In addition to all the drug paraphernalia, she didn’t like the look of that upstairs room with the bolt on the outside.
Poor thing. What chance does he have?
She pushed herself off the wall and strolled up to her car. As she did, a passing car slowed down and the driver looked over in her direction. The figure was on the heavy side, Crowe thought. A woman probably. The car, a bit of a banger, came to a stop. The driver had a hoodie pulled up now and didn’t budge. Then she turned back and nodded to Crowe as if to get in.
She approached the vehicle, carefully, touching her hip, to make sure the Sig was there.
The woman leaned over and opened the door. Crowe saw it was the manager of the Oasis Community Centre.
‘Go on, will ya, sit in before anyone clocks us,’ Lynn said.
Crowe complied. The chance that someone like Lynn wanted to talk to her might mean she had something useful to say. In an area where no one volunteered information, what had she to lose?
She pushed off an empty packet of John Players onto the floor. The quality of the air suggested the very bones of the car breathed tobacco.
Lynn drove off, the engine grinding.
They passed the house that Crowe had just come from. She sensed Lynn looking at her.
‘Fucking savage that,’ Lynn said.
Crowe turned to her.
‘You hear anything about it?’
‘Just did there a while ago,’ Lynn replied, taking a roundabout without bothering to indicate.
‘You know them?’
‘Yeah. Both of them have been in and out of addiction for years. Nothing the guy done deserved what they done to his partner, the boy and all watching. Sick fuckers. It’s getting worse again, now they’re back.’
‘Ghost and Cracko’s crew?’
Lynn nodded.
‘I was thinking of talking to ya,’ Lynn said, after a moment had passed, ‘and when I just seen ya there, I said fuck it. But don’t ever tell no one I talk to ya, right?’
Crowe nodded. Her interest was piqued.
‘Ya know about the new Provo crowd?’ Lynn said, pulling up at lights and glancing around her.
‘The RCAD?’ Crowe said, thinking how she had seen a lot more of their graffiti and posters around the place in recent months.
‘Well, the upholders of republicanism,’ Lynn said, taking off, to career around a roundabout, ‘have been going around asking, encouraging more like, local groups to link up with them. All part of a community uprising, they call it, against the gangs.
‘I don’t be having much truck with them,’ she continued. ‘One thing I learned over the decades is that, with them, the politics comes first, and the people, second. And they wants to control everything. Having said that, they stood by communities in the eighties and nineties. Anyways,’ she said, taking another roundabout, ‘it’s clear they have their sights on the Canal Gang, now that they’re back. And I’m not talking about marching on homes.’
Just as she finished, Lynn turned onto MacBride Road. Crowe knew this was a coincidence, but it sent a shiver down her spine. All her investigations into the Canal Gang had hit a brick wall: the death of Ms King, the murders, and now, the kettle attack. The Canal Gang’s reputation as ‘untouchables’, as the tabloids had termed them, was well deserved. Though the recent seizures had tarnished that. But that was the work of Intelligence and Security.
The disused factory where Grant lost her life was up ahead. As if reading her mind, Lynn took the next turn off.
‘As I was saying, garda, I think they might be planning something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, one of them “spectaculars” that the Provos used to boast about. I’m concerned that innocent people in this community are going to get caught up.’
Lynn neared to where she had picked Crowe up.
‘Who are you hearing this from?’ Crowe asked.
Lynn tilted her head to say she should know better than ask her that.
‘Any idea of what kind of spectacular, or when?’ Crowe asked instead.
‘Definitely something big,’ Lynn said, pulling in, glancing around. ‘As to when, hard to know, but my gut says soon, like in the coming weeks.’