Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [14]
“You’re right. I was stupid. Gambling, bookies, the horses. I owed too much and they paid it off. But believe me, Eddie, I never thought they’d turn our own people out of their homes. I didn’t know. Now I want to get them. The bastards. They destroyed me and I want to destroy them.”
He reached inside his coat and pulled out a large bulky envelope.
“Everything’s in here. All the evidence. Record of payoffs— who, where, and when. Bank account statements showing how the money was laundered. There’s enough here to start a dozen tribunals. It’ll destroy Mortimer and bring down the Minister. He’s a corrupt bastard! The word around is that you’re pretty close with his missus. Watch yourself.”
Ed Burke sat in silence, holding the envelope as though it was a bomb. Which, in a sense, it was.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the taxi stopped outside Marty’s front door in Harold’s Cross. Marty gripped his hand, said, “Do the right thing, Eddie,” and left.
And Ed Burke did the right thing. He met next day with Murphy and told him that he could not defend Mortimer, told him about Marty Rainey’s evidence, told him that they’d have to meet with the judge and turn this evidence over to the court. Murphy reluctantly agreed and insisted that Burke secure the envelope with the firm for safekeeping until they could take it to court. Burke considered this advice sensible and lodged the envelope in the firm’s safe. Had he examined the evidence more thoroughly before he handed it over, he would have seen that Murphy’s “fingerprints” were all over the money-laundering operation, tying him directly to the illegal lodgement of these monies offshore in the Ansbacher Cayman accounts.
That same night, the jarring ringing of his phone brought Ed Burke out of a deep slumber. He growled: “Yeah?”
“Ed Burke? Is this Ed Burke?”
“What do you want? Do you know what time it is?”
“This is the emergency call service. We have an alert on Martin Rainey. We think he has fallen in his home and can’t get up. He needs help. Can you go there now?”
“But I’m not on any alert system.”
“You’re on it, Mr. Burke. Mr. Rainey insisted that we call you if he needed help.”
Ed Burke decided that he had no choice. Marty Rainey wouldn’t have put him on the alert list without a good reason. He confirmed Marty’s address with the emergency service, dressed, and called a taxi.
At 3 a.m. with no traffic on the streets, the taxi reached Harold’s Cross in fifteen minutes and dropped Burke at the end of Marty’s street. A neat row of red brick houses wound in an arc ahead of him; houses that cost a few thousand only fifteen years ago now ran into hundreds of thousands. A cat scurried across the street in front of him, breaking the silence of the night.
He found number 27 and rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again, holding down the buzzer. Still no answer. Now he stood contemplating what he should do. He knew that he must get inside. Further down the street he saw a break in the pattern of the houses and what seemed to be a large commercial doorway. Counting the houses he reached it and got lucky. A smaller door stood closed but unlocked. He took out his flashlight, opened the door, and passed through a dry stone wall, finding himself in an open grassy space at the rear of the houses. Counting back he reached Marty’s house. The dry stone wall at the back provided a natural foothold. He climbed up. Marty’s house, probably his kitchen, had been extended and took up the small backyard. Its flat roof backed up against the wall. Burke simply stepped onto it, reached up, and leveraged himself on a ledge outside the window on the second floor. His luck held. The window stood slightly ajar. He squeezed inside, shined his flashlight around, and saw that he stood on a landing at the head of the stairs.
Calling out Marty’s name, he inched his way down the stairs to the living room, found the light switch, and turned it on. He saw the blood first. Pooled around Marty’s head where he lay on his side in the middle of the room.