Irish Psycho

By Frank Lawlor

To most, Damien Dunne appeared to have had the perfect upbringing. Wealthy, well educated and one of Blackford’s most eligible bachelors he can no longer resist the urge to kill. Shielded by his high profile image, his rapid descent into depravity initially goes unsuspected by the police who are led a gruesome dance

Leon Brown, an ex-MMA fighter with a chequered past returns to Blackford to investigate the death of his sister, Helena, a heroin addict, who worked the streets to feed her habit.

After having an affair with Cindy Taylor, the wife of his friend, Kevin, Damien murders Cindy when she refuses to accept their affair is over. Returning from a business trip abroad, Kevin Taylor goes into meltdown after finding his wife is missing, and invites Damien to help him figure out what’s happened to her.

Zac Collins, a gun for hire owns a crematorium. After eliminating a drug mule Damien used to procure the lethal drug, scopolamine, for him in Colombia, Zac finds himself compromised by Damien who pays him to dispose of his victims.

Legendary Murder Detective, Bobby Coppinger, is sent down from the Murder Squad in Dublin to investigate Helena Brown’s murder and subsequently Cindy Taylor’s disappearance.

As Damien becomes more audacious with each kill, Leon Brown, Kevin Taylor and the Coppinger have him in their sights. Feeling the net tighten, a paranoid Damien hatches a master plan to make his escape and continue his carnage elsewhere.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Lawlor
• Release date: Jun 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370711345

Frank Lawlor

Born in Listowel, Co Kerry, Ireland, a heritage town known as the literary capital of Ireland, like a lot of Listowel natives it was as if I were compelled to write. When I am not writing or reading thrillers I like to work out in the gym. I have a passion for MMA, boxing and football and love a drink. I have self-published and been published in the past and Irish Psycho is my latest offering. If you take the time to read my book I would love to hear what you think. Feel free to message me on my Facebook page. Best of, Frank.

Book preview

IRISH PSYCHO

FRANK LAWLOR

First published in 2018

Copyright © Frank Lawlor 2018

The right of Frank Lawlor to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 9781980713296

To the Memory of Frank O’Carroll

(1939 – 2017)

Bogota (Colombia)

Ricky Ryan felt the sweat seep from his pores. The heat was unbearable as the ineffectual fan laboured over his head, its creaks and groans like the muffled breathing of a dying man. Thinking that he wouldn’t have to spend much longer in his rundown hotel, he checked the time on his watch. It had just passed 2pm. Another few minutes and he would have what he needed. Then he could catch the 5pm flight to London’s Heathrow.

Taking a swig from his bottle of water, he looked out the window of his third floor room and stepped out onto his tiny balcony. On the opposite side of the street, he spotted his contact getting out of a taxi and stepping onto the pavement.

Santiago Jimenez looked exactly as he had expected. A small-time drug dealer and gangster, he had a face riddled with scars and the physique of a middle-weight boxer. Wearing a white cotton shirt and beige knee-length shorts, Jimenez ran his fingers through his shoulder-length, oily black hair as he waited for the taxi to pull away. Then glancing up to where Ryan was watching him, the gangster flashed him a friendly smile.

Jimenez’s smile told Ryan that he was good to his word. Excited, Ryan stepped out of his room and waited on the landing for the Colombian’s arrival.

‘Hola, mi amigo,’ Ryan saluted Jimenez, watching him climb the last of the creaking stairs.

‘Ricky, you are almost fluent in Spanish now,’ Jimenez quipped.

‘Everything okay, I take it?’ Ryan said and invited Jimenez into his room where besides the unmade bed, there was nothing more than an old tallboy, a mirrored wardrobe and the creaking ceiling fan.

‘Si, Senor.’ Jimenez grinned. ‘I told you I wouldn’t let you down, my friend.’

Ryan shut the door behind him, dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and produced a bundle of pesos.

‘Let’s take a look at it then,’ he said, handing over the cash to Jimenez, who in turn smacked his lips at the sight of the crispy notes.

As Jimenez counted the money, Ryan noticed his shirt darken under his armpits with sweat. It had been Bogota’s hottest August on record and the temperature was rapidly approaching twenty-six degrees.

The gangster’s eyes lit up when he notice Ryan had paid over the agreed price and extracted a folded wrap of paper from his wallet.

‘You better be careful with this shit,’ he warned, handing over the wrap to Ryan. ‘This stuff is muy peligroso.’

Ryan took a dust mask from his suitcase and put it on before opening the wrap. From what he researched on scopolamine, one only had to breathe it in and they ran the risk of being controlled by somebody with nefarious intentions.

‘Christ, you would never think that something like this could be one of the most dangerous drugs in the world. It’s just like speed or coke.’ Ryan chuckled.

‘It isn’t called the Devil’s Breath for nothing.’ Jimenez smiled. Then glancing at his gold watch, said, ‘Okay my friend, I must go now. I have much business to attend to.’

Ryan resealed the wrap and removed the mask from his face. Thanking Jimenez, he was just about to show him out when the gangster winked at him.

‘Suerte, mi amigo.’

Ryan hadn’t a clue as to what Jimenez said to him. He could easily have insulted him for all he knew. Smiling, he thanked him again while ushering him from his room. The sooner he got to the airport the better. Then he could enjoy a well earned beer before his departure to London, now that his work in Bogota was done.

Chapter 1

(Blackford, Ireland)

In Angelo’s Italian Restaurant, Damien Dunne was enjoying a late lunch with his financial advisor and accountant, Henry Madigan. Situated on the quaint and pedestrianised Bond Street, and surrounded by chic designer boutiques, Angelo’s was one of Damien’s favourite restaurants and was frequented by the town’s elite.

Dressed in a tailor-made black suit, light lavender shirt, and with his wavy, combed-back brown hair, swarthy complexion and emerald eyes, Damien would often be mistaken for someone from the Mediterranean.

Angelo’s being a regular haunt of both, they would meet up there to discuss potential business investments and opportunities for Damien.

Spaciously designed, Damien loved the old black and white prints dotted around on the walls, depicting early twentieth century life in Calabria, where Angelo the owner of the eponymously named restaurant hailed from.

With both having a passion for Italian cuisine, Angelo’s was the perfect setting to discuss business while indulging in its exclusive Michelin Star menu that catered for Damien’s penchant for the Duck Terrine and its Gaja wines. Having finished their meal, they were enjoying the last of their second bottle of red when they were disturbed by an incoming call on Damien’s mobile. Damien checked the display and launched himself to his feet. An excited glint in his eye, he said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me but I’ve got to take this in private. It’s important.’

‘Not at all.’ Henry waved him away with a flick of his wrist.

Damien strode straight for the front door with urgency.

Bursting out onto the busy pavement without looking around him, he bumped into a plump middle-aged lady and sent her designer shopping bags crashing to the ground.

After offering a profuse apology and helping the irate woman to collect her bags, Damien eventually managed to answer his mobile before it rang out.

‘Ricky, I presume you have good news for me?’ he said, eying up the red-faced woman who finally continued on her way mumbling and moaning under her breath. If the whining bitch hadn’t moved on when she did, he would have had to stop himself from knocking her fucking lights out.

‘Five grams as requested,’ Ricky Ryan chirped. ‘Though I still cannot believe how potent this shit is.’

Not in the mood for small talk, Damien asked Ryan where he was.

‘London, waiting for my connecting flight. I should be in Blackford later on this evening,’ Ryan briskly replied.

‘Good. Text me as soon as you get into town. In the meantime, you will have to excuse me as I am busy right now. I’ll talk to you later,’ Damien said and killed the call, thinking he couldn’t listen to another word from the petty criminal’s mouth. Checking the time, and before rejoining Henry, he made a quick phone call to Zac Collins.

‘Damien, what a pleasant surprise.’

‘I need you to run a small errand for me this evening. There’s 5K in it for you, and there will be much more from where that came from,’ Damien said.

‘Sure. Who’s the player?’

‘Ricky Ryan. You know the script?’

‘Sure. You can count on me.’

‘Good. I will contact you later and let you know where and when.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Okay. Got company here, so I better go,’ Damien said and clicked off.

When Damien rejoined Henry, his accountant was just after ordering a couple of glasses of twelve year old Bushmills whiskey.

‘You drink too much, Henry,’ Damien jested.

It was obvious by the Henry’s grey complexion and his bloodshot eyes he was a hard drinker. Still, he was the best accountant in Blackford as far as Damien was concerned. And more importantly, Damien knew he could trust him.

‘That’s what my wife keeps telling me, but at my age there aren’t many more enjoyable things in life than a single malt whiskey.’ Henry smiled.

Damien chuckled. ‘So true.’ Whatever about his accountant’s drinking, he admired his blithe outlook on life. ‘Anyway, where were we?’ he asked, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

‘We were discussing oil exploration in Africa.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Damien said, thinking of the scopolamine and the carnage he was going to create in Blackford.

After investing shrewdly in high-tech, start-up companies, manufacturing and real estate, Damien Dunne had amassed a small fortune. Thirty-eight years old and rich beyond his wildest dreams, money was no longer his king. Now, he needed to harness a sinister predilection that he had repressed for too long.

As he was driving home drunk after his lunch with his accountant, he was buoyed by the news that Ricky Ryan was on his way with the goods. Having discovered scopolamine by accident after reading an article about it in one of the broadsheet supplements, and subsequently followed it up with some further research online, he thought the drug would be an interesting accessory in fulfilling his warped ambitions.

He recalled how his last victim fought tooth and nail before he murdered her unintentionally, and knew that he would have to be more meticulous when he killed and disposed of the bodies if he were to prolong his intended mayhem in town.

Scopolamine, also known as ‘The Devil’s Breath,' he was to discover, was derived from a tree common in Colombia known as the Borrachero. Colourless, odourless and tasteless when it was extracted and subsequently refined, the drug was used by criminals to rape, rob and murder. Excited by his findings and on the lookout for a mule to go to Colombia to procure some for him, he stumbled on Ricky Ryan by chance in Blackbeard’s Inn, a popular bar in the notorious Camden Lock area much frequented by bohemians, criminals and lowlifes.

Ryan was a small-time hustler and thief with a gambling habit. Desperate for what he perceived was an easy payday, he jumped at the opportunity to go to Colombia to seek out the drug for Damien. Renowned as a nasty piece of work who took pleasure in beating up his women, Ryan was despised by many in the criminal world, and Damien knew that the thug wouldn’t be missed when he had him disposed of on his return. Ryan had neither family nor any close friends, and it would be as if had never existed.

When Damien passed through the security gates of the exclusive estate in which he lived, he was greeted by Mickey Rourke, the security guard on duty for the afternoon shift. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt and black trousers, and with a truncheon dangling from his belt, Damien thought Mickey looked more like a Spanish copper than a security guard.

‘Afternoon,’ the athletic looking Mickey greeted Damien, who stopped and dropped his window on the passenger side and was met with the smell of freshly cut grass.

‘How’re you doing, Mickey. I trust you had a good holiday?’ Damien was courteous as always.

His face and arms a chocolate brown from the sun, Mickey politely replied, ‘Lovely. Can’t complain now.’

‘I see you caught plenty of rays.’

Mickey smiled, exposing perfect white teeth and the sparkling blue eyes of a man who was happy in his own skin.

‘You know yourself, Damien, when we don’t see the sun from one day to the next in this country, we have to take advantage of it when we go abroad.’

‘I totally agree with you, and it’s nice to see you back,’ Damien said, slipping his car into gear. ‘Right, I better be off. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Thanks, Damien. It’s good to be back,’ Mickey said, patting the roof of Damien’s Audi 7 as he pulled away.

As Damien drove the short distance to his property, flanked on either side by beech trees and sweeping lawns, he knew most people in Blackford would kill to own a house like his. Built during the Celtic Tiger years, Florida Villas was one of the more exclusive addresses in Blackford and home to the nouveau riche. Damien’s large two-story villa was ascetic and minimalist in design. Built with concrete and glass, it was surrounded by an eight foot wall that allowed him the privacy and seclusion he desired.

When he passed through the security gates of his sumptuous residence, he was glad to see that his gardener had done yet another excellent job. Lawns had been cut, hedging pruned and new flowers set in the many raised flowerbeds skirting the lawns as requested.

Stepping out of his car to the sound of crunching gravel beneath his feet, he took a moment to admire the recently painted columns of his house – the white paint refreshing a façade that had become tired and neglected looking of late.

On entering the two story foyer, he strode straight for the kitchen, his heels clicking and resonating off the oak floor. The hollow sound of his footsteps would always be a reminder of his lonely existence.

The immaculate kitchen with its expensive white units, black marble worktops and matching marble tiles, overlooked a large decking area and more sweeping lawns at the rear of the house.

To the right of the kitchen, a step led down to an equally impressive dining area where French doors also opened out onto the decking area. It was a part of the house Damien seldom utilised and where some of the kitchen appliances had yet to be used.

He threw his keys on the breakfast bar and opened the fridge, knowing exactly what to expect. There was nothing but an out-of-date litre of milk, a tub of humus, some low cholesterol butter and several bottles of Sol lager.

Thirsty after his drive, he grabbed himself a lager and sat at the breakfast bar. He switched on his flat screen television and flicked through the various channels, scoffing at the amount of crass quiz shows being televised at that hour of the afternoon. Deciding to catch up on the news, he tuned into the BBC instead of RTE. Tired of continuous reports about the Irish banks and the bailouts and the bullshit, he was no longer able to watch the national broadcaster that had now become a never ending tale of economic woe.

On the BBC News, stories of atrocities in Syria and Egypt were being broadcast with snippets of rhetoric from spineless western politicians being aired in between, telling the world what was needed to bring peace in countries steeped with inveterate religious hatred and bigotry. Damien couldn’t care less if they blew each other to smithereens now that he had his own destiny to fulfil. Taking a sip of his lager, the corners of his mouth rose into a twisted smile, knowing he wouldn’t have to wait much longer before creating his own mayhem and carnage.

Ricky Ryan approached the outskirts of Blackford as the skyline lit up with the yellow glow of the street lights. Exiting the ring road circumventing the east side of the town, he texted Damien Dunne to inform him of his imminent arrival and received an immediate response.

Wilmott’s warehouse by the old flour mills, someone will be there to meet you with the money and I trust you to come alone, the text said.

Ryan knew the address well. Initially perturbed by the drop location’s remoteness, he convinced himself that he was just being paranoid and Damien being very careful due to his high profile.

Turning into a service station for some petrol and a much needed coffee, as soon as he parked his car up, he sent off a text to Damien.

On my way.

Zac Collins was sipping bourbon in the Silver Duck Pub, a seedy drinking hole in the Camden Lock area by the canal. He was waiting for instructions from Damien Dunne.

On a makeshift stage, an ageing rock band was playing cover versions of old heavy metal songs. On the small dance floor, a dozen middle-aged bikers, along with their denim and leather-clad girlfriends, were head-banging to the heavy guitar riffs.

Wearing a denim jacket and jeans and sporting a Zapata moustache, goatee beard and specs, Zac fitted in well with his surroundings.

Perched at the bar and thinking of how ridiculous the bikers and their girlfriends looked, shaking their greying greasy locks on the dance floor, he was suddenly alerted to the ping of an incoming text on his mobile phone. Sent by an unnamed number, it was the message he had been waiting for.

Wilmott’s warehouse by the old flour mill in twenty minutes.

His nerves kicking into gear, he texted the word, done, and sent it off. After he knocked his bourbon back in one, he gave a cursory glance around the bar before leaving. Vigilant to the point of paranoid, Zac was always aware of the possibility that one day he might be followed or double-crossed, or both.

In the driver’s seat of his grey Renault Laguna, he extracted his handgun from the glove compartment and checked it one last time, making sure that all was in order before heading to the old warehouse district by the canal. From here on in, he would have to have his wits about him, as there would be no room for error. One mistake could easily cost him his life or a long stretch in prison.

When he left Camden Lock, the dark and desolate road between there and the old flour mills was eerily quiet, except for the odd prostitute or junkie treading the pavement. What was once a thriving area for the garment industry in the early twentieth century, it was now a continuation of large, derelict, red-brick buildings, some now squatted by junkies and people who had fallen on hard times because of the Recession and subsequent Austerity. And even though it was still summer, there was a slight chill in the air.

Zac loved the seedy squalidness and bleak surroundings. Cops seldom entered this part of town, allowing him to carry his weapon with confidence while knowing the chances of him being stopped were very slim.

No sooner was he out of Camden Lock than he spotted a colourful prostitute at the side of the road. A large black lady dressed in a silver sequined top and a revealing short skirt, she was leaning in the window of a beat up Corolla, probably discussing her price with a potential punter. Zac glanced in his rear-view mirror on passing and smiled as he watched her sit into the passenger seat of the Corolla, thinking that very shortly she would be blowing her punter for the measly price of a fix.

Passing the old and imposing buildings of the defunct garment industry, he then drove past the old flour mills that spanned a good eighty metres along the old canal. Their commanding structures were a reminder of when Blackford was once a booming town during colonial times.

At the far end of the flour mills, large warehouses were now left to the elements, dilapidated remnants of Blackford’s halcyon days.

Zac took a left and drove down a short road leading to the canal, flanked on either side by tall warehouses. Half way down the road and to the right was his destination, the Wilmott name painted in large, fading white letters on the red brick wall. Turning into a large cobbled courtyard, surrounded by more towering red brick walls, interspersed by large sliding gates, he rolled down his window to allow some fresh air into his car. Instead, he was met with a damp, musty smell of decay. In the distance, he could hear the conflicting sounds of a barking dog and the fading siren of an ambulance.

Backing his car up against one of the sliding gates and out of sight from the front entrance, he immediately killed the headlights and the engine. Enveloped in darkness, he sparked up a cigarette and took a long draw. As the smoke filled his lungs, he focused on the glowing ember on the end of his nose, thinking that if it weren’t someone from his past that was going to kill him, then it was definitely going to be the cigarettes if he didn’t give them up pretty soon. The faint distant sound of a revving engine distracting him from his morbid thoughts, he checked the time on his mobile, hoping that he didn’t have much longer to wait.

Clinical in how he went about his business, there would be no drama or prolonged sadistic ritual when Zac fulfilled a hit. A bullet to the heart or head – clean and clinical – job done.

Minutes later, headlights lit up the darkness as a car pulled into the courtyard. The driver dimmed his lights and backed up next to Zac’s Laguna. His front windows down, Zac could make out the faint sound of Ed Sheeran playing on the car stereo. Though it was dark, the moon’s silver crescent in a cloudless sky offered them sufficient light to see each other.

A squinting Zac stuck his head out of his open window after slipping his gun down the front of his jeans, complete with suppressor. ‘Ricky, yeah?’ he enquired as if he didn’t already know.

‘That’s me,’ Ryan briskly replied, glancing nervously around him as he emerged from his car. ‘You got the money? he asked as Zac too stepped out of his Laguna after stubbing out the end of his cigarette in the ashtray.

‘Show me the goods first. Cannot be too careful these days.’ Zac stamped his authority.

Ryan took the wrap of scopolamine from his wallet and handed it to him.

‘One minute, please,’ Zac said, sitting into his car to examine the contents with the help of the interior light while also playing for time. ‘How do I know this is the real McCoy?’ he then asked, making sure not to get his nose too close to the drug as Damien advised him.

Ryan screwed up his face as if the question were absurd. ‘You will have to trust me,’ he assured. ‘It’s not like I am going to rip Damien Dunne off for something I have no use for, is it? Besides he has paid me well for the trip.’

Zac couldn’t help smiling to himself. If only he knew.

Overhead, the shrill cries and flapping wings of disturbed seagulls unnerved Ryan. Several of them rose from the rooftop of the warehouse and flew away with great urgency. It was as if they were fleeing from something scary in their midst. Suddenly the high walls seemed even taller and more encroaching as a couple of passing clouds cast eerie shadows on the surrounds.

When Zac stepped out of his car, he could tell by Ryan’s uneasy shuffling that he was nervous.

‘Can I have my money now, please? It’s just that I have to be somewhere else in half an hour,’ Ricky requested, his trembling voice exposing a jittery disposition.

‘Sure. Let’s get you sorted then,’ Zac said before strolling to the back of his car and opening the boot. With the open boot lid blocking Ryan’s view of him, Zac produced his gun, his senses suddenly sharp and alert. ‘Five grand, yeah?’ he called out.

‘That was the deal,’ Ryan croaked, his words almost strangled in his throat.

Zac dropped the boot lid, and before Ryan had a chance to react, he fired off a couple of shots, hitting the petty criminal in the shoulder and the chest, the sound of the impacting bullets like the muffled sound of a bass drum.

Ryan immediately fell to the ground with a thud and cracked his head off the cobbled stone.

Calmly glancing over his shoulder, a smirking Zac stepped forward and popped another bullet into Ryan’s heart, killing him instantly and putting him out of his misery.

‘Sorry about that, buddy, but business is business,’ Zac coolly addressed the corpse as if he were genuinely contrite. Taking a life couldn’t have been any easier for him.

Careful to avoid contact with the dead man’s blood, Zac grabbed him under his armpits from behind and dragged him to the rear of his car before hauling him into the boot.

‘God, I am getting too old for this shit,’ he moaned, his exertions leaving him spent as he leaned on the back of the car and gasped for air.

Parked a short distance away, a small time gangster friend of Zac’s was waiting for instructions from him. Once Zac got his breath back, he sent his friend a text, instructing him to come and take Ryan’s car away with his pick-up truck. Owner of a car breaking business, Zac’s friend would make Ryan’s car disappear, while he took care of the body. Then without further ado, Zac sped in the direction of his latest business acquisition, Collins’s Crematorium. There he would transform Ryan’s corpse into an urn of ashes and dump them in the canal. And, as Damien Dunne requested, it would be as if Ricky Ryan had never existed.

Zac Collins parked his Laguna at the back of his crematorium and out of sight from any potential prying eyes. He slipped through the rear entrance of the main building and briskly returned to his car with a gurney, eager to get his errand over and done with as quickly as possible. Careful not to leave any incriminating evidence in the boot of the car, he had already covered its interior with a sheet of plastic. After a brief struggle, he eventually managed to extract the body and place it on top of the gurney. His face and brow coated in a film of sweat, he could feel his heart pounding from his exertions.

As he wheeled the body inside, he exhaled a long sigh of relief, thinking that the worst of his job was over. Waiting for the cremator to heat up, he wondered how much longer he would survive as a hitman. Every hit brought its own element of danger with it, and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he got caught if he didn’t retire. And now that he was establishing himself as a legitimate businessman, he had the comfort of knowing that he wouldn’t have much longer to wait.

When the cremator was eventually ready, he watched as Ricky Ryan’s corpse was automatically loaded into the primary chamber. When the body combusted, he texted a terse message to Damien Dunne, Job done. And as the temperature inside the cremator was near on a thousand degrees, Zac suddenly felt his body go cold. His thoughts drifting to Damien Dunne, he felt there was something eerie about the illustrious businessman that sent a trickle of ice shooting down his spine.

Joe the Pimp Rattigan strolled nonchalantly through the maze of streets and alleyways of Camden Lock. He was delivering smack to his whores while making sure that they were ready for business.

Twenty metres away, Leon Brown was stalking him and watching his every move. It had just been over twenty-four hours since Leon’s sister had been fished out of the canal, a short distance from where he was now.

As Rattigan stopped to talk to one of his girls, Leon paused in front of a busy Chinese restaurant. While pretending to examine the menu displayed on the window, he kept his eye on the pimp. Several cooked ducks hanging from hooks just inside the window caused his stomach to rumble with hunger. He hadn’t eaten since the discovery of his sister’s body.

As Rattigan commenced walking again, a cloud of steam spewed from the air vent of an Indian restaurant, temporarily cloaking him from Leon’s line of vision as an aroma of curry and spice caused his stomach to rumble again.

Passing a couple of supplicating drunks sprawled on the pavement, Leon snarled at them and put the fear of God into them. With glazed eyes and unsteady feet, the hooker Rattigan had just spoken with accosted him. ‘You want a good time, big boy?’ she flirted.

‘Another time, sweetheart,’ Leon humoured, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the