Alan Glynn - Winterland

He’s helped the others out over the years, paid for things, talked to people, pulled strings, but Gina has always insisted on her independence – which of course Noel loves.

He glances at his watch. As he savours the prospect of seeing her again so soon, his mobile goes off.

He’s just passing the Crumlin Shopping Centre.

‘Yep?’ It’s Jackie.

‘Look, Noel, I’ve had a word with a few more people, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And it’s the same story. No one knows a thing. The other members of the gang are all freaking out apparently.’

Noel taps his fingers up and down on the steering wheel. ‘Christ, someone must know what happened.’

‘You’d think, but the people I spoke to say there was no particular feud going on, no outstanding thing , no obvious reason for this.’

Noel exhales. ‘Yeah, but I mean look, half of these bastards are going around out of their heads on coke, they’re pumped up on steroids and they’ve got guns they barely know how to use. You told me all this yourself. They don’t need a reason. You look at them crossways and that’s it, you’re dead.’

‘That’s true, but this job wasn’t like that. It was clean and professional.’

‘Jesus, all this gangland shit is -’

‘Yeah, but that’s just the point, Noel. I don’t think it was gang-related.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think it’s something else, someone else, an outsider. Has to be. Whacking Noel Rafferty like this? It makes no sense.’

‘Hhnn.’ Noel swallows. ‘Whacking Noel Rafferty,’ he repeats. He knows what Jackie means, but the words leave a strange taste in his mouth. ‘OK, Jackie, thanks. Keep me posted, will you?’

Shaking his head, Noel drops the phone onto the passenger seat. His sister, his nephew… his nephew, his sister. And now – with Morahan’s just up ahead – Paddy Norton, Richmond Plaza, this bloody situation…

His head is throbbing.

He pulls into the half-empty car park at the back of the pub and crawls along until he spots Paddy Norton’s BMW in the corner. He parks a couple of spaces up from it.

He holds the steering wheel with both hands for a second and shuts his eyes. A weird feeling comes over him, a sense that something isn’t right. He can’t put his finger on it, but it’s there, in the back of his mind. It’s nagging at him, like a name he’s forgotten and is desperately trying to remember.

He opens his eyes and wonders if he has any Solpadeine. He looks in the glove compartment. He finds a box there, but it’s empty.

Aware of Paddy Norton getting out of his car, Noel turns and starts getting out of his. He doesn’t want any more arguing here. He just wants to get the folder and go. He’s scheduled a conference call for tomorrow morning with head office in Paris, and that’s all there is to it.

‘All right, Noel?’ Paddy says.

‘Yeah.’ Though hardly, given what’s happened. He looks at his watch. ‘I have to get back out to my sister’s. She’s distraught.’

‘Naturally enough, I suppose.’

The two men stand facing each other. It’s cold and quite breezy now. Norton is wearing his Crombie coat, buttoned up, a silk paisley scarf and leather gloves. He’s not wearing a hat, and the few wisps of brown-grey hair he has left on his head are being tossed about gently by the breeze. He also has a glazed look in his eyes, a look that Noel has seen before, and dreads. The man is fifty-seven years old, but tonight for some reason he looks a lot more than that, closer to sixty-seven.

‘So have you got the folder on you, Paddy?’ Noel asks.

‘Yeah, I have, yeah.’ Norton tips his head back slowly. His eyelids are at half-mast and his voice sounds a little slurred. ‘It’s in the car.’

‘Well, can you give it to me then?’

Norton pauses. ‘You haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet, have you? Discussed it with anyone? No?’

It’s as though his tongue is swollen and the words are having a hard time getting past it and out of his mouth.

‘ No . Of course not. That’s what we agreed.’

‘OK. Good.’

‘So. Come on then, let’s have it.’

Norton shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Noel, no.’

‘Why not?’

Noel feels really tired all of a sudden. He still hasn’t figured out what is wrong, but the suspicion that something is wrong has deepened and is draining him of energy, of resolve.

‘Well,’ Norton says, raising his eyebrows, ‘if you can’t figure that one out, you’re not nearly as smart as I gave you credit for.’

This tone, sarcastic and detached, goes hand in hand with the glazed look and lethargic manner. Noel wonders if Norton isn’t on some kind of medication here and if that wouldn’t explain the mood swing. He does know from experience that when Norton is in this state you can’t reason with him.

‘Look,’ Noel then says – and of course immediately trying to reason with him, because what else can he do? – ‘not giving it back to me won’t change anything. I’ll just give Dermot a ring.’

‘Ah,’ Norton says, ‘Dermot.’ He looks down at the ground, at his shoes, at Noel’s shoes, but not at Noel himself. ‘Dermot Flynn . Now there’s an overzealous little cunt if ever there was one.’

‘He was just doing his job, Paddy.’

‘No he wasn’t.’ Norton looks up again. ‘No one told him to stick his nose in. I didn’t. Did you ?’

‘Look,’ Noel says, ‘what difference does that make now?’ He shakes his head. ‘We’ve been over this. We don’t have any choice.’

‘But there’s where you’re wrong, Noel. We do .’ Norton pauses before adding, ‘Well, at least I do.’

Noel stares at Norton, and that’s when it hits him. He understands now what’s wrong and it’s confirmed for him when he turns to the right and sees someone approaching from the other side of the car park.

There is light from the street and from the back of the pub, but it takes Noel a moment or two to recognise who this is.

‘ Fitz ?’

‘How are you, Noel?’

Fitz is a short, muscular man in his late forties. He’s wearing jeans and a zipped-up leather jacket. His hair is thinning and he has a round, red, babyish face. He runs a company called High King, which provides on-site security at all of Paddy Norton’s construction projects.

‘I’m fine,’ Noel says, as calmly as he can make it sound, but his head is racing. Who else knows about this? No one. Except for Dermot Flynn of course. Noel got the report from Flynn early last week, looked it over and immediately swore him to secrecy. He then brought it to Paddy Norton – in retrospect, he now sees, probably the last person he should have brought it to. But why did he bring it to Norton and not to someone else? Noel doesn’t have to think about that for very long. He wanted to impress him – it was that simple, that venal, that stupid. However, instead of the expected pat on the back, what he got was a barrage of abuse, followed by a torrent of arguments for suppressing the report.

And in among these arguments, now that he thinks about it, he also heard a few threats of physical violence.

None of which – even for a second – he took literally.

He looks back at Norton, and then blurts it out, ‘You can’t be serious, Paddy.’

‘Oh, I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ Norton says, and runs a gloved hand over his head, trying to settle his wispy hair. ‘Well, maybe once.’

Noel swallows. He stares at Norton. ‘But… I mean… did…’

‘What? What? Your nephew ?’