The Rage by Gene Kerrigan

each side masked by walls and bushes. Castlepoint was the kind of neighbourhood where the average house was impressive and the upper range imposing. The houses of the truly wealthy were hidden behind tall trees and high walls.
    Detective Sergeant Bob Tidey was early for his conference at Castlepoint Garda Station. Although the Emmet Sweetman murder had been national news, he’d paid little attention to it, apart from the occasional radio news headline. After Colin O’Keefe’s call, Tidey googled the murder and he wasn’t much wiser, apart from the information that Sweetman had lived at a house on the south end of Briar Road, on the outskirts of Castlepoint. This morning, he’d kill time while getting a feel for the neighbourhood, the access routes to the Sweetman house, the layout surrounding the murder scene.
    He came to a straight stretch of road and slowed down. He stopped at a solid wooden gate, above which he could see the grey slated roof of a large, detached house. The brass plate on the gatepost said ‘Sweetman’s Retreat’. That’s the way – spend a fortune on an exclusive hideaway, then stick up a sign advertising your whereabouts to any predators.
    Tidey got out of the car, climbed onto the bonnet and looked over the gate. The land surrounding the house – best part of an acre – was bordered by a wall with a scalloped stone facing. No skimping on the finish. The road was sufficiently secluded to provide cover for intruders – it would be the work of a moment to exit a car and scale the wall. Enough trees and bushes on the far side of the wall to provide privacy while you prepared to clip your target.
    Not much more to see, bit of a wasted trip, but better than twiddling his thumbs at Castlepoint Garda Station. He glanced at his watch. If he took the coast road back to Castlepoint village he’d catch some nice views and still be in lots of time for the conference.

21
     
    Vincent Naylor took the gun out of the depot manager’s crotch. ‘Just keep behaving – this will be over before you know it.’
    ‘I’ve no control over the money.’
    ‘I know that, Turlough. You let me worry about that.’
    ‘It isn’t—’
    ‘Watch the road and shut the fuck up.’
    After a couple of minutes, the Megane veered into the car park beside a pub called Murnaghan’s.
    ‘Pull in behind him, Turlough.’
    The depot manager did as he was told.
    Vincent rested a hand on the depot manager’s arm and spoke softly. ‘You won’t switch off that engine, will you, Turlough? If you do, the first thing happens is an alarm goes off at Protectica headquarters. The second thing happens is you get shot in the face.’
    The depot manager stared at Vincent.
    ‘I know everything there is to know, Turlough – I know about overshoots, burners and blinders, carriers and maces, I know podmen, passwords and procedures – there’s no end to the things I know.’
    ‘Then you know I can’t get my hands on the money?’
    ‘I bet you could, Turlough, if you had to. But that’s not the job we’ve got for you this morning. All you’ve got to do is make a phone call.’ He tapped the manager’s breast pocket. ‘Use your own phone.’
    ‘Who do I call?’
    ‘You call the depot, you tell them you’ve a message for Mr Fry.’ The depot manager’s lips moved involuntarily. ‘Yeah, Turlough, we know all that stuff. You’re on your way to work and you’re not going to make it. You had to pull over, you’ve got a dose of something and you have to take the day off. You’re heading home. You tell them that.’
    The manager took out his phone. He used the back of his hand to rub his lips.
    ‘One last thing, Turlough – we know all the code words. You mention a Mr Crown or a Mr Wilde – you fuck around at all – this whole show is over.’ Vincent made a face, like someone coming to terms with disappointment. ‘Then they find you sitting here with the back of your head all over the inside of your car. Next time we do