inquiry – in a case that already has more than enough.’
The police officer’s ideal murder case isn’t one that involves clues and alibis, obscure poisons and convoluted motives. The ideal murder is one in which the victim is known to have pissed someone off and when the police arrive that someone is standing over the body with a bloody axe in his hand. With a bit of luck, several people witnessed what happened and someone has already uploaded a thirty-second video of the killing onto YouTube. Anything much more complicated was a pain in the arse.
The fat, red-faced detective next to Tidey said, ‘Maybe someone sold someone else a gun? Simple as that.’
‘Possible,’ Hogg said. ‘It’s an orderly world, though. We have our lowlife gangsters – scams and hold-ups, smuggling, drugs, sex trade and protection rackets, all the mucky stuff. And we have our highlife gangsters – who do their thieving through layers of companies, hidden bank accounts, bribes, forgeries and offshore cut-outs. How does the gun get from one side of the city to another? From one category of crime to another? From one social class to another? A money grudge involving a ghetto kid, and a millionaire fraudster?’
One of the detectives said, ‘I’m still betting on some IRA types. They shoot drug dealers – and there’d be almost as much kudos these days in shooting bankers.’
Hogg said, ‘The Branch’s touts haven’t heard a word. Could be some new faction, of course.’
The fat detective said, ‘How does this kid – this Snead killing – how does it change things operationally, sir?’
‘Bob Tidey will concentrate on possible connections between the two murders. The rest of you will continue working through the existing lines of inquiry. Anything that might relate to the mucky side of the business, you let Bob know. If some business-school gangsters have begun calling in gunmen instead of lawyers – no one knows where that kind of thing leads.’
22
Vincent Naylor smiled and said, ‘That was very good.’ He took the phone out of Turlough McGuigan’s limp hand. ‘You nearly had me convinced you’re having a sick day.’
Vincent waved at the Megane. Moments later, Noel got out of the car and climbed into the rear of the Suzuki. He too wore round sunglasses and a moustache. A floppy white hat hid his hair.
Noel spoke to Vincent, but smiled at the depot manager. ‘He being sensible?’
‘Turlough’s a good boy.’
Noel said, ‘Take off your shirt, Turlough.’
‘What?’
‘Put this on.’ Noel dropped a dark purple sweatshirt into the depot manager’s lap. ‘And hurry.’
‘What the fuck?’
Vincent said, ‘You know why, Turlough, you know why.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘We know everything, Turlough,’ Vincent said. ‘Passwords, codes, schedules, names, addresses, how everything’s done – after this I could set up my own security business, the kind of stuff we know.’
His trembling fingers made the buttons difficult, but the depot manager took off his white shirt and gave it to Vincent. He pulled on the purple sweatshirt.
‘Good man,’ Vincent said.
Vincent handed the shirt to Noel, who clapped Turlough on the back and said, ‘Time to go, man.’
Vincent said, ‘We get out, now, Turlough, you and me. And we take the Megane.’ A minute later, Vincent and the depot manager were sitting in the front of the Megane, as Noel pulled away in the Suzuki, Turlough’s white shirt on the passenger seat beside him.
Over most of the previous decade, every cash-in-transit robbery was followed by security companies promising tougher procedures, and embarrassed Ministers for Justice threatening drastic regulation. The companies got a makeover. Tighter protocols, more sophisticated technology, consultants brought in to game-play the business until they’d accounted for just about every possible scenario.
‘Going to be tougher than ever,’ Vincent told Noel, ‘specially after that
The police officer’s ideal murder case isn’t one that involves clues and alibis, obscure poisons and convoluted motives. The ideal murder is one in which the victim is known to have pissed someone off and when the police arrive that someone is standing over the body with a bloody axe in his hand. With a bit of luck, several people witnessed what happened and someone has already uploaded a thirty-second video of the killing onto YouTube. Anything much more complicated was a pain in the arse.
The fat, red-faced detective next to Tidey said, ‘Maybe someone sold someone else a gun? Simple as that.’
‘Possible,’ Hogg said. ‘It’s an orderly world, though. We have our lowlife gangsters – scams and hold-ups, smuggling, drugs, sex trade and protection rackets, all the mucky stuff. And we have our highlife gangsters – who do their thieving through layers of companies, hidden bank accounts, bribes, forgeries and offshore cut-outs. How does the gun get from one side of the city to another? From one category of crime to another? From one social class to another? A money grudge involving a ghetto kid, and a millionaire fraudster?’
One of the detectives said, ‘I’m still betting on some IRA types. They shoot drug dealers – and there’d be almost as much kudos these days in shooting bankers.’
Hogg said, ‘The Branch’s touts haven’t heard a word. Could be some new faction, of course.’
The fat detective said, ‘How does this kid – this Snead killing – how does it change things operationally, sir?’
‘Bob Tidey will concentrate on possible connections between the two murders. The rest of you will continue working through the existing lines of inquiry. Anything that might relate to the mucky side of the business, you let Bob know. If some business-school gangsters have begun calling in gunmen instead of lawyers – no one knows where that kind of thing leads.’
22
Vincent Naylor smiled and said, ‘That was very good.’ He took the phone out of Turlough McGuigan’s limp hand. ‘You nearly had me convinced you’re having a sick day.’
Vincent waved at the Megane. Moments later, Noel got out of the car and climbed into the rear of the Suzuki. He too wore round sunglasses and a moustache. A floppy white hat hid his hair.
Noel spoke to Vincent, but smiled at the depot manager. ‘He being sensible?’
‘Turlough’s a good boy.’
Noel said, ‘Take off your shirt, Turlough.’
‘What?’
‘Put this on.’ Noel dropped a dark purple sweatshirt into the depot manager’s lap. ‘And hurry.’
‘What the fuck?’
Vincent said, ‘You know why, Turlough, you know why.’ The depot manager shook his head. ‘We know everything, Turlough,’ Vincent said. ‘Passwords, codes, schedules, names, addresses, how everything’s done – after this I could set up my own security business, the kind of stuff we know.’
His trembling fingers made the buttons difficult, but the depot manager took off his white shirt and gave it to Vincent. He pulled on the purple sweatshirt.
‘Good man,’ Vincent said.
Vincent handed the shirt to Noel, who clapped Turlough on the back and said, ‘Time to go, man.’
Vincent said, ‘We get out, now, Turlough, you and me. And we take the Megane.’ A minute later, Vincent and the depot manager were sitting in the front of the Megane, as Noel pulled away in the Suzuki, Turlough’s white shirt on the passenger seat beside him.
Over most of the previous decade, every cash-in-transit robbery was followed by security companies promising tougher procedures, and embarrassed Ministers for Justice threatening drastic regulation. The companies got a makeover. Tighter protocols, more sophisticated technology, consultants brought in to game-play the business until they’d accounted for just about every possible scenario.
‘Going to be tougher than ever,’ Vincent told Noel, ‘specially after that
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