Vinnie sat on his own in a room in a house at Howth to which he had been summoned to explain himself after the fuck-up at Ranelagh. How the hell did he know what had happened? She must have got out the back way or something.
‘There’s a lane at the rear. It leads to a kind of avenue running across. I didn’t know it was there and anyway I can’t be in two places at once.’
That is what he had told the man Schenk and the other two. He did not tell them about the half hour he had spent in the pub or the fact that he had fallen asleep in the car. All he told them was that he had sat and waited for a couple of hours and then when it was dark he had gone up to the house and had a look around but it was obvious there was nobody there.
Humble and Parrish had driven off a couple of hours ago and then Schenk had left him on his own in this room with the TV flickering in the corner.
‘I might have something else for you to do,’ he said, ‘something which may make up for this disaster. Wait here for a while.’
For a nervous few minutes after he had been left by himself, Vinnie wondered if they were going to whack him. But the two hard men had gone and he did not think Schenk would try it. That was not his game. He was only a wee fellow, old too, and Vinnie could break his neck with a twist, but the guy made him shiver, whatever it was about him, and so Vinnie waited, fidgeting and unshaven, but doing what he was told.
Upstairs, Leslie stared out at the rain.
More than the weather was closing in.
When Humble and Parrish came back from Dublin they would take Dwyer away and kill him. He had served his purpose and it was pointless to have him hanging around any more. Yet as they had driven off he had been conscious that it was useful to have Dwyer here just at the moment.
In case something went wrong.
It was looking increasingly that way.
His mobile was on the windowsill beside him. It was silent now. A little while ago, Parrish had called with the startling news that Emma Gallagher had turned up in the magazine office where she had been talking to a teenage boy.
Damn it, she had not done what she was told. She was more obstinate than he would have believed.
But this boy . . .
Was it he who had started this business with the bank? Was he the person they wanted? If Emma Gallagher knew him was it possible that he was—
That he was the woman Forrest’s son?
And if that was the case, then Tom Gallagher had to be involved, too.
Feeling alarm course through him, Leslie had instructed Parrish to take them both, her and the boy.
He had told them to call him every fifteen minutes.
The last call had been from Humble, a few hurried seconds. Emma Gallagher and the boy were in somewhere called the Powerscourt centre. They would get them out of there.
Leslie looked at his watch. Almost half an hour since that call. Something had happened.
He had better talk to Dwyer. He might indeed need him.
He went downstairs and opened the door of the sitting room. Dwyer was watching the lunchtime news. Leslie was tired of having to deal with him and wished there could be some other way. The man was an imbecile.
Vinnie jumped up as Leslie came in. ‘Hey – big news flash there,’ he said with a grin. ‘Some sort of shooting at the Powerscourt Townhouse.’
Leslie made his decision.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘You’re taking me to the airport.’
They cordoned off the whole area around the Townhouse. The blockade paralysed the city.
In the entrance hall, Mumble’s body lay where it had fallen, a trail of blood startlingly red along black and white tiles.
Gallagher cradled Emma in his arms while they waited for the ambulances.
The woman who owned the jewellery stall was suffering from shock and a dislocated shoulder but Paul and Emma were unhurt, apart from a few cuts. Tomorrow there would be bruises, too, Gallagher thought, but at least there would be a tomorrow.
The horror of what he had done had drained the colour from Dolan’s face. He stood with distant eyes and a cup of strong coffee which someone had handed him.
‘I’ll call the boy’s mother,’ Greeley said.
Emma looked up at her father, dazed and unable to understand how he came to be there.
So he explained. After that, she told him about Leslie and Goulding and Levy’s house at Howth. As he listened, he felt some of the pain easing.
She was not one of them after all.
Suddenly, they looked at each other, registering a single thought.
The house at Howth. Was it possible Leslie was still there? Had the missing gunman been able to alert him?
Gallagher grabbed Greeley. ‘Get us a car. We’re going to Howth.’
They piled in, Gallagher, Emma, Greeley and a driver, and began to battle against the frozen tide of traffic. They mounted footpaths, drove across pedestrian zones, scattering passers-by, and took one-way streets the wrong way. But it was impossible.
‘Christ, we’re never going to get out of here,’ Gallagher said.
Greeley took the handset and demanded to be patched through to the Garda station at Howth. He found a surprised sergeant on lunch duty and gave him the address of Levy’s house.
‘Get every car you can muster up there right away. Block every possible road out. Have you got that?’
‘Well now, that’s a bit of a tall order,’ the sergeant said. ‘I think I’d need to get clearance for—’
Emma leaned forward and grabbed the handset. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘Sergeant Declan Haire,’ he said, responding without thinking and surprised to hear a woman’s voice. He recovered himself. And who am I speaking to?’
‘This is Emma Gallagher, the Minister for Justice. Now, Sergeant Haire, if you don’t want to find yourself packing your bags for a new post in the arsehole of Mayo, I suggest you do what you’re bloody well told.’
There was a second’s silence while Haire took it in.
‘Right away,’ he said.
Greeley looked shocked.
She shrugged. Apparently that’s the way to get things done.’
Gallagher looked out the window. They had escaped the log jam at last and he could see a signpost pointing them in the direction of Howth.
He had no great hopes of finding anyone when they got there.
Vinnie’s car smelled rank and there was a mist of dust and old breath on the inside of the windscreen. Leslie, his overnight bag resting on his knee, felt contaminated just sitting in it.
‘Why the airport? Where are you going?’ Vinnie asked him as he drove.
‘Something has cropped up in England and I need to attend to it. I’ve asked the others to meet us at the airport so that I can brief them. They’ll explain later.’
‘Why not explain now?’ Vinnie wondered, surprising himself with his sudden cheek. But to hell with it. He was suspicious. Something had changed. He could see it in the man’s face.
Leslie did not reply. Vinnie did not push it. He still had a vision of the big time they were offering but he was far from happy about any of this.
They reached the village of Howth. There were red lights at a crossroads and as they stopped, three police cars came at speed from nowhere, sirens shrieking, and roared up the road in the direction from which they had just come.
The lights changed and Vinnie drove on. He looked at Leslie with a question in his eyes.
‘Nothing to do with us,’ Leslie said. ‘Just keep going. I don’t want to miss my flight.’
Howth was not too far now, just another couple of miles. The radio had a message for Greeley.
‘We’re at the house, sir,’ a voice said. ‘There’s no one here.’
‘Damn!’ Gallagher said. ‘It was too much to hope for.’
‘Had a word with one of the neighbours,’ the voice went on.
‘He saw a couple of people leaving a short time ago. A heavy-looking guy and an elderly man with a small bag. They drove away in a blue Mazda. We must have bloody well passed them on the road.’
Gallagher looked at Greeley. ‘He’s getting away.’
There was a junction ahead. A signpost showed a sign for Howth and Portmarnock and another one for the airport.
That was it.
‘Head for the airport!’ Gallagher shouted and they all lurched violently as the driver made the turn on two wheels.
Greeley picked up the handset again to set up a security block. Then he made another request.
‘I want you to scan all flights going out in the next hour. See if there’s anyone called Leslie or maybe Schenk booked on any of them. Quickly as you can. I know it’s a long shot but you never know what might turn up.’
He turned and looked at the other two. Gallagher was holding Emma’s hand. It was a hell of a way to have a reconciliation.
They reached the airport in twenty minutes, just as the vehicle checkpoint was being set up. There were eight cars ahead of them.
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ Greeley said, ‘I didn’t mean them to stop us.’
The radio had another message.
‘No one called Leslie. But there’s a passenger Schenk booked on a flight to Birmingham. He’s just checked in. It leaves in twelve minutes.’
‘That’s it!’ Greeley shouted in triumph.
Their car was going nowhere so they scrambled out. Gallagher looked at his daughter in her jogging clothes. ‘At least you’re dressed for this,’ he said.
They took off towards the terminal. Greeley had his ID in his hand and he flashed it at a young uniformed officer who was questioning someone in a car. Its driver was a red-haired man with a hang-dog look.
‘What’s this?’ Greeley asked. The policeman had his notebook out and was writing something in it.
‘His road tax is out of date, sir,’ he said proudly.
‘Ah for fuck’s sake,’ Greeley said and ran on.
Inside the terminal building, Gilbert Leslie and Vinnie Dwyer stood in the centre of the bustling departure concourse. Leslie had his bag and his boarding card for Birmingham in his hand.
Vinnie looked towards the glass entrance doors, then turned angrily.
‘So where are they then?’
‘They’ll be here,’ Leslie said, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t wait for them. My flight’s being called. You stay where you are until they come.’
Vinnie had had enough. He snatched Leslie’s bag and boarding card away from him.
‘Ah well now, just hold on a minute,’ he said. ‘There’s something fucking funny going on here. I’m tired of getting the runaround from you. When do I get my end of the deal? And what were all those police cars about? I want a fucking explanation.’
Leslie needed that bag. He looked around nervously. No one was paying any attention to them. People were streaming into the building, all of them in a hurry.
Among them was a young man in the outfit of a motorcycle messenger.
Dermot Davis had chosen today.
But as soon as he had done so, everything had started to go wrong.
First, there was yesterday’s strange carry-on, with Vinnie going to Ranelagh and sitting outside somebody’s house half the night. Then he had gone to a house at Howth. Dermot had sat in the bushes beneath a blanket of rain, watching until Vinnie and this man came out, got into the car and drove here to the airport.
He had had trouble finding somewhere handy to leave the bike in case he needed it in a hurry, which meant they had got inside the terminal ahead of him. He hoped he had not lost them.
At the doorway a couple of people waited in front of him while a uniformed security man waved an electronic wand over their cases.
He checked bags, Dermot saw, not people. A sash barrier alongside the door created a narrow channel towards where the guard stood and there was a long counter where doubtful baggage could be opened up and searched.
When it was his turn, Dermot put his helmet down on it with his gloves folded inside. He took off his satchel and held it out to be checked. The wand swept soundlessly over it and then the guard stepped to the side to let him past.
Dermot picked up his helmet and walked on.
He paused and gazed about.
He could not believe his eyes.
Christ, there they were. Standing about twenty yards away from him were the man with the grey hair and Vinnie Dwyer. Right in the middle of the concourse.
Vinnie was going somewhere. He had a travelling bag and a ticket in his hand.
Dermot swallowed. There were no choices left. It would have to be now. Whoever the other man was, he better not get in the way.
He slipped his hand into his helmet and clasped the small automatic hidden under the gloves. Then he began to walk as calmly as he could towards the two men.
Just a few feet behind him, the others arrived. Greeley flashed his badge at the security man and they swept past as if he did not exist.
‘There!’ Gallagher said and they stopped abruptly.
Gilbert Leslie.
He was not imagining it. Greeley was staring, too, rooted to the spot.
Emma broke the spell. ‘Who’s that with him?’
‘Wouldn’t you know,’ Greeley said. ‘Sean Donovan’s right-hand man.’
Gallagher snapped out of it. He took in the situation. It looked like the two men were having an argument.
Leslie turned and saw him.
As he felt the chill of that stare, the anger of the years thudded in Gallagher’s heart.
There was someone else now. Someone walking up behind Leslie’s companion. A young man in motorcycle gear.
Leslie saw him too. His eyes darted to the hand taking the gun from the helmet. Instinctively, he raised his arm to cover his face and he swung his body to the side.
Vinnie turned to see what was happening.
He was frowning as the first shot hit him in the chest. As he staggered backwards, his feet giving way on the smooth floor, three more bullets followed. He fell back hard, clutching the bag, and as the life went out of his eyes he still did not understand.
There were screams of panic and people began to run away. Leslie turned and dashed into the safety of the mounting confusion.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Greeley said, running towards where Vinnie lay. All around it was like a stampede.
The motorcyclist had disappeared.
Gallagher’s eyes searched frantically for Gilbert Leslie.
And then above the sounds of chaos he heard a voice ringing loud and clear.
‘This is the final call for passenger Schenk travelling British Midland to Birmingham. Please proceed immediately to gate A5. Passenger Schenk travelling to Birmingham, please proceed to gate A5. This flight is now closing.’
Gallagher grasped a woman in an Aer Lingus uniform.
‘The departure gates. Which way?’
His grip was hurting her. She pointed across the concourse. Gallagher saw a sign with an arrow and ran towards it.
There was a security archway and people were lining up to go through. ‘Excuse me,’ he grunted and pushed a man out of his way.
He vaulted over a barrier alongside and he was off down the corridor before the security guards knew what was happening.
They began shouting.
‘Hey, what are you doing?’
‘Jesus, stop him!’
Alarm bells rang hysterically and red lights started to flash. Two of the guards sprinted after him, one of them calling on his radio for assistance.
Gallagher was surprised at his own pace but wondered how long he could keep it up. He had to stay ahead. He had to get to Leslie.
Gate A5. Where was it?
He burst into a shopping area that was a duty-free Aladdin’s cave. There were long rows of massive bottles of whiskey, tiers of designer perfume and cigarettes piled high in coloured cartons. He pushed his way between two women trying to decide which Guinness sweater to buy, the red one or the green, and left a stream of Italian invective in his wake.
Now the corridor split into two. Which way? There were directions on the wall ahead. The gate B area was to the left, gate A to the right.
Right.
It took him into another long corridor, this one with a glass wall. He could see the airport police speeding across the tarmac in open jeeps, heading in this direction. The commotion behind was growing louder and nearer but he did not turn to see. Passengers gliding in slow motion along a moving walkway stared in disbelief.
He was tiring. Someone was getting closer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a security guard was at his right shoulder, almost upon him, ready to dive and take him down.
He could not find the extra speed. He was finished.
‘Leave him! He’s with the police!’ It was Greeley’s voice, breathless, somewhere not far behind. The distance between him and his pursuer grew.
He passed gates one and two. Three, four. And there was five ahead with a British Midland attendant staring aghast at the mob running towards her.
Gallagher reached her first. He stopped, panting. He could hardly speak.
‘Schenk,’ he gasped. ‘Schenk.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Schenk,’ the attendant said firmly. ‘We did try to page you but I’m afraid your flight has just left.’
Holding something to his chest, Gallagher stood at the big window in the viewing lounge with other people watching flights departing, imagining they could see friends and loved ones waving at them from the aircraft taxi-ing out there into the distance.
All around, the talk was of the shooting on the concourse.
Emma watched at his side.
It was a procession that never ended. From where he stood, he could see four planes, Aer Lingus, British Midland, American Airlines, Iberian Airways, lined up for take-off. More would be waiting to take their place. And so it went on, all day and all night.
Was Leslie out there on one of those planes, strapped securely into the seat he had booked under whatever name he had chosen?
Who was he today? Not Schenk, at any rate; that had been a security precaution, a false trail which they had followed enthusiastically and foolishly. What nationality was he? Where was he headed?
Gallagher turned away.
‘This is a waste of time,’ he said. ‘He’s long gone.’
The police searched the airport thoroughly but they found nothing that would give them a clue. Short of closing the airport down altogether, which is what Greeley wanted but did not get, there was nothing more they could do.
Vinnie Dwyer’s killer had also disappeared without trace.
A gangland hit, broad daylight in the middle of the airport. A shoot-out in a shopping centre. Heads would roll and Greeley hoped his would not be one of them.
He looked at Emma standing with her arm around her father. She would have to resign. That would be the start of it.
Gallagher looked at the object he was holding, that he had found in Leslie’s bag. It was a photograph in an ornate silver frame.
Emma peered at it. ‘What’s this?’
‘Something he left behind,’ he said. ‘A memory.’