Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“Enter,” a voice said.

I went in. A bunkerlike room with no windows and big Ordnance Survey maps of Belfast plastered over the flaky white concrete walls. An oak table with coffee cups, ashtrays, and several phones. Three uniformed female cops, two uniformed male cops, half a dozen plainclothes detectives, Moran, Bridget, the two goons from the elevator, the goon from the Crown wearing a bandage, a female assistant, a priest, and the chief superintendent, who was a forty-year-old high flier with a leather jacket, purple silk shirt, purple tie, and a blond ponytail. I could tell before he said anything to me that he was a wanker. He was explaining something to Bridget. No one saw me come in. I let him finish the sentence before I walked over to her.

Bridget looked up.

“Michael.”

“How you doing?” I asked.

She smiled a little, thought about the question, closed her eyes, and then her body slumped forward slightly. She almost fell off her seat. Moran, the chief super, and I all made an attempt to steady her, but Moran nodded to one of the goons, who got between me and her. He placed his hand discreetly on my elbow and kept me from touching her. Moran and the chief super grabbed Bridget, helped her regain her composure. Moran looked at me furiously. I wasn’t to touch her. Not now, not ever. I nodded to show that I understood him. There was no point making a scene.

“Michael, what happened to your face?” Bridget asked, her eyes widening with what in the old days one might have thought was concern. It threw me for a moment. Bridget brushed the red hair from her forehead and waited for an answer.

“I fell down a set of stairs, I’m fine.” I said.

“Who are you?” the chief super asked, looking at my damaged leather jacket and Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

“I’m just a friend.”

“Yeah, well, you and all your other mates better keep out of it. They’re calling in ten minutes,” he said.

“How do you know when they’re calling?” I asked Bridget.

“They phoned the hotel and told me to get on over to the police station. They’re going to want street closures and full cooperation from the police. They want the police to assure them they’re going to back off. But it’s ok, Michael, they just want the money, they don’t want any trouble, they’re going to let Siobhan go as long as we cooperate,” Bridget said, her eyes brightening with hope.

I nodded. The kidnappers weren’t so dumb. They appreciated that if the police were running things there was less chance of a cock-up. Bridget’s men might fly off the handle or do something unpredictable, but the cops would not. All in all, sensible policy. But then what? How do you do it? How do you keep the peelers from following Bridget? How do you ensure that you get the cash and get away with it?

“Ms. Callaghan,” the chief super said. “If I could get your attention, please…”

Bridget gave me a dismissive wave and began talking to him again. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater. She was beautiful. As devastating as ever, despite the circumstances. She couldn’t help looking sexy. I couldn’t help thinking that she looked sexy. Those eyes, those cheekbones.

Bridget would be a flame at seventy.

Moran approached me, took me to one side.

“What have you got, Forsythe?” he asked in a low tone. My ribs were killing me. I ignored Moran, grabbed a cold cup of coffee, swallowed one of the morphine pills I’d taken from O’Neill.

“What have you got, Forsythe?” Moran asked again.

I looked at him closely. What was his game? Could he be trusted? How many angles was he playing at once?

“I’ve got a name,” I said. “A man called Slider.”

“What about him?”

“He might be part of the gang that lifted Siobhan. But if not, he might be involved somehow. I’m really not too sure,” I said, deciding to be honest with him.

“Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“It’s a bit fucking vague, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not much of a lead, but-”

“Do you see what time it is?” he interrupted.

I looked at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock.

“Nearly nine,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. He’d given me the chance to do something, to pull myself out of the trough. A narrow shot at redemption and I hadn’t come through.

“It’s too late. It’s over. Can’t afford any interference. Everybody’s rolling now,” he said.

“What do you want me to do with the name?”

“You’ve got the name of somebody who somehow might be involved. Terrific. Tell the cops after the exchange. After the exchange. We can’t have them or you messing things up, as per fucking usual.”

“I never messed anything up in my life,” I said.

“You haven’t fucking messed up? You killed my brother and Sunshine and Darkey White and ratted out the rest of the fucking crew,” he said with fury.

“Yeah, that wasn’t a fuck-up, mate, that was deliberate,” I said.

His fists clenched, his face reddened, and he gave me a look of cold, calm hate.

He was about to say something else but just then the phone rang. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and looked at it ominously. Bridget picked it up, the chief super nodded to a peeler next to a bank of electronic equipment, signaling him to begin recording the conversation and put it on the speaker. He put his finger to his lips and nodded at Bridget.

“Hello?” she said.

It was the switchboard.

“I have a call for Bridget Callaghan,” the switchboard operator said.

The chief super leaned into the speakerphone.

“Put them through to interview room three, keep the line open, and start the traceback,” he said.

Static, a long pause, and then a voice:

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Bridget said.

“Bridget Callaghan?” the voice asked. A foreign accent, and there was something about it that immediately tweaked me. It sounded European, Spanish maybe. Very old. A man in his late eighties or nineties.

The interview-room door suddenly opened and another young peeler came in; he gave the chief super the thumbs-up. The trace was on.

“I’m Bridget, I want to speak to Siobhan,” Bridget said, the way she’d been coached.

There was a silence on the line and a voice began to speak. This time, a different person. A young man, definitely from Belfast. North Belfast, if I had to guess.

“Your daughter is still alive, I can assure you of that. Now, about tonight-”

“I want to speak to her,” Bridget insisted.

“You’ll do as you’re fucking told,” the voice said.

“I won’t do anything until I speak to Siobhan,” Bridget said.

Another pause. Longer.

“Siobhan, say something,” the second voice finally demanded.

A brief silence and then a tiny “Mommy? Mommy?”

“Oh, Siobhan, honey, are you ok?” Bridget said, bursting into tears, barely able to control herself.

“I’m ok, Mommy, I’m ok, Mommy, I’m ok-”

“What have they done to you, have they been feeding you? Are you ok?”

“Um, I’m ok… I feel funny.”

“Oh, Siobhan, darling, it’s going to be ok, I’m going to see you in a couple of hours, be brave, honey, I love you so much,” Bridget said soothingly.

“Love you, Mommy,” the girl said dreamily.

Silence. Bridget choked down sobs and the second kidnapper came on again.

“Did you get the money?”

“I got the money,” Bridget said.

“Good. Ok, you know she’s alive, and you’ll get her back and everything is going to go very smooth if you fucking cooperate. Ok. I have a list of things to tell you. Tell the fucking peelers to write this down. The first thing is this. All helicopters in Belfast need to be grounded at eleven o’clock. If there’s one helicopter flying in the sky after eleven, the deal is off and the girl dies. Second, there’s a phone box at the Albert Clock. We’ll be calling at twenty to twelve. You have to come there alone with the ten million. If we see one peeler, or one of your fucking boys, the deal is off and the girl dies. Third, we are going to be bouncing you all over the city, so you better come in a car, and you better fucking know how to drive, because if we see anyone else in the car, the deal is off and the girl dies. Fourth, do not let anyone try to follow you, if we see anyone following you, the deal is off and the girl dies. Fifth, when you meet with the middleman, he is going to search you. If you don’t have the money or you’re wired up in any way, the deal is off, he walks away, and the girl dies. No GPS, no bugs, no transponders, no mobile phones. Have you understood these arrangements?”