The Angel Tapes Page 10

  “Call it coincidence if you like,” Flynn went on, unaware of his colleague’s distress, “but this particular investigation is exactly nine years old. You should know: it was one of yours.”

  The roosting chickens were pecking viciously at Nolan’s vitals. He was back in the summer of ’89—the night of Saturday, July 1, to be precise.

  The message had come into Harcourt Square at around eleven at night. Somebody at Centurion hadn’t received the call-in from two of their security guards. It was probably nothing, the man had said; the guards had most likely forgotten to call headquarters at the routine time. Probably in the middle of a hand of poker.… But could they send a car to check all the same?

  Nolan wouldn’t have known about it had he not been drinking coffee with a friend at the dispatch desk at Garda Command and Control. The squad car had reported a break-in at Kildare House, a building shared by a number of government departments: Industry and Commerce, the Department of Finance, others. It was considered “low risk” by Centurion Security and consequently the company had it manned by their more elderly guards, retired policemen in the main.

  The uniformed gardaí had found signs of forced entry at Kildare House, the desk unattended. It hadn’t taken them long to discover the whereabouts of the two security guards; they lay on the third floor of the building, bludgeoned to death. One of them was Gerry Merrigan, Nolan’s old superior. The patrolmen had recognized him and had called the Square.

  Nolan had alerted Blade Macken and the two had covered the short distance to Kildare Street in under three minutes. Both men had wept that night. Gerry Merrigan had been more than simply their chief.

  But if the Saturday night had been unsettling for Nolan, the following morning had brought even more surprises. Jim Roche had summoned him to his office at Centurion and told him facts that had made Nolan’s hair stand on end. He’d known that Roche had his finger in many pies, but when Roche had passed the file across to him and informed him of its contents, Nolan had been taken aback.

  The papers were fake, Roche had assured him; the genuine articles were now in safe hands. Were that not the case, then the following morning they’d have been scrutinized by an employee of the Department of Industry and Commerce and a scam, involving a multimillion-pound tax swindle, would have come to light. Heads would have rolled, including that of Jim Roche. Roche was on the board of the offending company: Banba Meat Marketing.

  But there’d been more. Roche, panic-stricken, had confessed his part in the break-in that had led to the retrieval of the file. Calling on his contacts in the underworld, he’d hired the two burglars to ransack the office where the file had been kept. The security guards had surprised them. Roche had blood on his hands.

  Nolan remembered the conversation in Roche’s office as if it had taken place yesterday.

  “I’ll hang, Charlie,” he’d said. “I’m up to me fucking neck in it.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  Nolan should have guessed. Roche had patted the fake file.

  “I want you to slip that in the safe where they kept the real one. Room forty-seven. The boys left the safe open. It’ll be a piece of cake, Charlie. There’ll be a garda seal on the building; all you have to do is rough up another office, so it’ll look like they were after something in there.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Jim!”

  “You have to do it, Charlie. There’s no one else.”

  “What do you take me for? That’s tampering with evidence. I’d lose me job over it—and probably end up behind bars. No, no, find some other mug. I won’t do it, and that’s that.”

  Roche’s eyes had narrowed. “You will, Charlie. ’Cause if I go down, then by Jesus I’ll take you with me.”

  Then Roche had produced the tapes.

  Nolan hadn’t known how the fucker had done it—but it shouldn’t have been too difficult for Roche, given his occupation. Roche had it all: every single “business” conversation they’d had together over the years. Each time Nolan had put work Roche’s way, he’d incriminated himself. What, he’d asked himself, was worse? Being found out tampering with evidence or being caught taking “commission”? Talk about a shagging rock and a hard place.

  He’d been unable to contact Macken the morning after the slayings. Nolan had guessed that Blade was drowning his sorrows somewhere, and for once Blade’s excessive drinking had worked to his partner’s advantage.

  It had gone according to plan. Nolan had been the investigating officer and so had had priority access to every square inch of the building.

  He’d done it, and more. He’d even been able to convince poor Gerry Merrigan’s widow that Macken was somehow involved in dirty dealings related to the case. The murderers had evaded capture; Nolan had seen to that. The case was closed.

  Until this moment.

  Detective Superintendent Nolan watched with mounting dread as his colleague summoned up a list of names on the computer screen. They meant nothing to Nolan.

  “I didn’t know anything about the case,” Flynn said. “I’d just come on. But I did some cross-referencing. These are companies that were due to be examined the following Monday—the one right after the murder—by the auditors from Industry and Commerce.”

  Nolan scanned the list. An abbreviation, BMM, sprang to his attention. Banba Meat Marketing, exporter to the developing countries of the world.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked in what he hoped was a neutral voice.

  “Ah, that’s the beauty of it, Charlie.” Flynn patted the keyboard. “We didn’t have these little boyos nine years ago. It was all paperwork then. But Duffy had a bunch of lads in last year—computer men—who transferred half the archive down below onto the system. It took them months, I believe. But it was well worth it. Watch.”

  Flynn called up another file, also containing a list of companies. Nolan’s palms began to sweat.

  “This is a year later—1990—shortly before the Beef Tribunal, when the bold boys in the meat industry were shitting themselves.” He pointed at the screen. “These are firms that had ‘convenient’ burglaries just before the state auditors got round to them. Now watch this.”

  He hit a series of keys. Two names were highlighted on the screen; one of them was BMM. Nolan loosened his collar.

  “Here’s the good part,” Flynn said. “Look who was involved, right up to his red neck.”

  There they were: the members of the board of Banba Meat Marketing. Jim Roche’s name was near the bottom—and highlighted. Flynn then brought up another file; a bar across the top of the screen identified it as the property of the Dublin chamber of commerce. It listed the commercial interests of a certain James P. Roche.

  “BMM,” Flynn crowed triumphantly. “And”—he moved the cursor up the list—“Centurion Security.” He turned around to face Nolan. “Who just happened to be guarding both Kildare House and BMM offices when they were burgled. How do you like that, Charlie?”

  Charlie would have liked the tundra of Siberia better at that moment; it was safer. His mind was a ferment.

  “Listen, Paddy,” he said urgently, “let’s keep this between ourselves for the time being, all right? What I mean is: Don’t let on to Macken.”

  Flynn raised an eyebrow.

  “What I’m saying, Paddy, is if anyone’s going to nail Roche, then I want it to be me. Good fuck! I’m working with the hoor at the moment and you’d swear butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. The cunt!”

  “D’you reckon he’d something to do with Merrigan’s murder then?”

  “I don’t know, Paddy; I don’t know. But that particular investigation gave me a few more gray hairs than I was due. Plus the fact that Gerry was a good friend. The best. I owe it to him as well.”

  He looked at the screen again.

  “So will you keep it under your hat, Paddy? For the time being? Blade has enough to keep him busy anyway. More than enough. He wouldn’t be able to handle this along with the rest.”

&nbs
p; “Fair enough. So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He gestured toward the computer terminal. “Is that it? Is there anything else I should see?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you give me printouts of those files you showed me?”

  “Sure.”

  And Nolan carefully followed each and every move Flynn made, as he brought up and printed out the pieces of the nightmare.

  Fourteen

  Macken allowed Elaine de Rossa to do the ordering. She was doing the paying, too, and that suited him. He’d last dined in a restaurant like this on his fifth wedding anniversary. But it was Elaine’s treat; she’d insisted on it and Blade, having first gone through the motions of protesting, had given in graciously.

  He looked around the L-shaped room. There was nobody he knew.

  “What I like most about this place,” Elaine said, “is that they let you take your time. I simply can’t bear it when you’ve a gaggle of impatient waiters buzzing around your table like bluebottles as soon as you’ve drained your coffee cup.”

  “Don’t I know it. And you have to tip the buggers as well ’cause you never know if you’ll be back. A friend of mine didn’t once, only to be invited to the same restaurant by a client of his a week later. I don’t know what the bastards did with his grub, but he was as sick as a dog for two whole days.”

  “Gosh!”

  Blade liked her saying that; it sounded so quaint and little-girlish.

  “But Gregory,” Elaine went on, sweeping her hand to take in the room, “is super. Once you’re drinking, he’ll let you stay till closing time—or longer, if he knows you well enough. Ah, hi, John.”

  “Good evening, madam. Nice to have you with us again. Good evening, sir.”

  He handed them menus. Blade’s had no prices marked.

  “I shall send the wine waiter over directly.”

  Elaine looked a little flustered. “Umm, not for me, John. Wine doesn’t agree with me.”

  The waiter raised one eyebrow, an almost imperceptible action.

  “Perhaps for you, Blade?” she asked.

  He didn’t relish the thought of having a bottle of expensive plonk uncorked for him alone. Besides, he wasn’t, strictly speaking, a wine drinker either. A pint would go down well now, he thought. But it wasn’t the time—and certainly not the place.

  “I’ll have a large Irish, I think.”

  “And make mine a double vodka and bitter lemon,” Elaine said. “The good stuff, mind,” she added. “Gregory’ll know.”

  They turned their attention to the menu and were not long in choosing: It was almost entirely à la carte. Evidently Gregory didn’t believe in having his patrons stray far from his chef’s recommendations.

  “I think I’ll just have the lamb,” Elaine said. “I’m not that hungry.”

  Shit. He’d been deciding between the marinated quail and the salmon mousse as a starter. Thoughts of both had set his mouth watering.

  “Hmm, me too.”

  But the rack of Carlingford lamb was delicious—if far from filling—and Blade finished every morsel. He resisted the urge to mop up the sauce with a hunk of bread.

  They had more drinks: he whiskey, she vodka. The order had been repeated five times even before the meal ended. Elaine de Rossa, he mused, could sure put away her drink.

  “Would it be all right if I smoked a cigar in here?”

  “Of course. Shall I order one for you? John!”

  “No, no. I have my own.” He produced his yellow pack.

  She giggled.

  “A Hamlet? That’s not an after-dinner cigar, Blade. Are you trying to embarrass me or what?”

  The waiter was already at their table.

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Bring the gentleman a brace of Romeo y Julietas.”

  “Certainly, madam. Will there be anything else?”

  Elaine downed the contents of her glass with one, swift motion.

  “Yes. I think the same again please, John.”

  Jesus, she could hold her liquor well. Blade was already feeling very tipsy, and Elaine had matched him drink for drink.

  The big, hand-rolled cigar was an experience. He blew a small, blue smoke ring at the ceiling, and felt like a prince.

  There was a sudden touch of smooth skin on his hand; Elaine slipped her fingers into his. She leaned across the table, her dress falling open to reveal high, round breasts held in place by a tiny, black lace brassiere. Her perfume vied with his cigar smoke, and won. She kissed him: just a peck on the lips.

  “We can’t go back to my place tonight, Blade darling,” she said softly. “I have a cousin up from Kildare.”

  “That’s all right.” Fuck it.

  “But we can go back to yours if you like.”

  Oh, Christ. He thought of a week’s accumulation of dirty dishes in his kitchen, the living room a pigpen, and bed linen that he hadn’t changed since … since whenever.

  Blade’s mind raced. He toyed briefly with the idea of checking them into a hotel—but a girl like Elaine wouldn’t be caught dead in the only sort of hotel he could afford. He thought of calling one of his bachelor friends and “borrowing” a room for the night. But that was just as bad, if not worse.

  “Okay,” was all he said, stroking Elaine’s hand.

  * * *

  Macken had lost count—as a clock struck midnight somewhere in the city of Dublin—of the number of large whiskeys he’d consumed at Gregory’s. Seven? More? And the bould Elaine had downed an equal number of double vodkas. He’d known she was into horses in a big way but had never imagined she’d the constitution of one.

  He rose unsteadily from the table, put an arm around her waist, nodded his thanks to the maître d’—and nearly tripped down the stairs.

  As soon as they were settled in the back of the cab, Elaine flung her arms around his neck, cocked a bare leg over his, and kissed him passionately. Her tongue teased his tonsils. He felt a hand slide down the front of his trousers and wrap itself around his erection. She didn’t squeeze, just ran her fingers and thumb lightly up and down the shaft. Jesus, but he wanted her.

  They half walked, half fell into his apartment, Blade slamming the door behind them with a foot. Fuck the neighbors. He began to undo his tie.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing. Hurry up and get them things off you or I swear I’ll take you as you are on the kitchen table.”

  “Gosh, what’s the mad rush?” She stood with folded arms. “We’ve all night, darling.”

  She stalked into the living room, found the light switch, and made straight for Macken’s drinks cabinet. He followed her sheepishly into the room, as she sought among the depleted bottles for a relatively full one. While her back was turned, he kicked various discarded items of clothing and other jetsam behind the sofa and arranged its cushions. The rest of the room she’d have to take as she found it.

  “Ah, gin!” Elaine said, studying a label. “That’ll do me nicely. And there’s a half-full bottle of whiskey as well. We’re in luck.”

  She poured their drinks and sat down on the sofa. He joined her and put an arm around her shoulder, cupping a breast in his hand. Elaine leaned her head against his cheek.

  “Who’s that?” she asked lazily, pointing with a now-bare foot to a framed photograph on the wall. “Your mother?”

  “Er, no; it’s Joan, my wife. Well, ex-wife, I suppose. We’re separated.”

  She giggled. “Sorry. It’s the hair.”

  “I know. And you needn’t say you’re sorry. It’s all right.”

  “She has an interesting face.”

  “Look, can we not talk about her?”

  He squeezed her breast harder and leaned across to kiss her. She pushed him away, gently but firmly.

  “Gosh, you’re like a kid in some ways, do you know that, Blade? Just drink your drink.”

  She placed a hand on his groin and kept it there. �
��Plenty of time to show me again how good you are.” She caressed his crotch slowly. “Now, tell me all about yourself.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Elaine extricated herself from Blade’s limp arm and stood up.

  “Where’s the bathroom? I want to freshen myself up.”

  Blade saw two Elaine de Rossas.

  “S-second on the right … no, I mean left.”

  “Thanks. Here, let me top you up.”

  She filled his whiskey glass again.

  Elaine returned fifteen minutes later, to find him sprawled full out on the sofa, snoring noisily.

  “Blade!” she called. And again, more loudly. He didn’t stir.

  Elaine had no idea what she was looking for, so it was going to be a haphazard search. Yet she’d time on her side: Blade, she was certain, wouldn’t wake for hours.

  There was nothing of importance in his kitchen. Most people have a habit of “filing” things in kitchen drawers, with the intention of sorting them out at a later date. Blade was no exception: Elaine found invoices, old letters, bank statements; a final demand from an installment-plan company, long out of date. There was a lot of junk, and photographs of Macken’s three children at various ages. Elaine lingered over a black-and-white shot of a younger and trimmer Blade wearing a United Nations uniform.

  Nor did the rest of the apartment yield anything of value to her in her quest. She was about to give up and call a cab, when her eye was caught by the cellular phone Blade had tossed carelessly on the coffee table. It was lying face down, and there was something about it that set it outside of the ordinary. Elaine picked it up.

  She’d never seen a phone like it before. A complete, built-in tape recorder. Unbelievable; what would they think of next? Throwing a quick, cautious glance at the comatose Blade, she pressed the PLAY button.

  “—DAYS TO GO. WHAT’S HAPPENING, BLADE? WHAT’S THE STORY ON MY MONEY?”

  “It’s coming.”

  “I MEANT EVERYTHING I SAID ON FRIDAY, BLADE. I DON’T GIVE A SHITE WHO COMES UP WITH THE MONEY, BUT IF IT ISN’T THERE ON THE FOURTEENTH, THEN IT’S BOOM TIME.”

  Elaine shut it off. She stood there quietly in the small living room for perhaps two minutes, musing and bemused. Then she wound the tape back to the beginning, took a notebook from her purse, and switched on a standing lamp.