behind the net-curtained window of a flat diagonally across the road from the jeweller’s shop, which he’d rented from an agency three months earlier. The flat had worn carpets and cheap furniture; nothing in it belonged to Boyce. The monthly rent was paid up front through a standing order from a false-name account. When the most recent payment had gone through, six days earlier, Boyce had closed the account. After the robbery, the police might or might not check out the buildings overlooking the shop, but Boyce always wore gloves when he came here, so it wouldn’t matter.
He had a foolscap pad on his knee. There wasn’t much to take note of, but he had a four-week daily record of anything that mattered. Timetables of openings, regular deliveries, rubbish-bin pick-up, daily post. Eleven-fifteen, every day, the jeweller’s assistant fetched a take-out from the nearby coffee shop. The jeweller’s shop was less than a mile from Macken Road garda station, but the only police activity around the area consisted of a couple of beat coppers plodding past the row of shops, never before noon and never after twenty past twelve.
Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays, always around eleven-forty, a Brinks van collected money from a building-society branch office two doors down from the jewellery shop. A gobshite in a security guard’s uniform stood at the door of the building society. Young man, lanky, with a big chin and a shaven head. He was already there each day when Boyce arrived and he was there when Boyce left. His job seemed to be to stand in the doorway all day, occasionally scratching his arse but mostly just looking bored. Bugger-all use to anyone if there was a serious attempt at robbery, but his presence would keep the insurance people happy.
After four weeks watching the jewellery shop, Boyce planned to take it shortly after it opened the next day. He’d leave the stolen getaway car in the small car park off to the side of a twenty-four-hour shop about a hundred yards up the street. He reckoned he’d have fifteen minutes to do the job safely without interference.
There couldn’t be a guarantee, but Boyce had put enough work into the job to give him a very good chance of getting in and out without any trouble, and to finish up with enough jewellery to choke a whale.
Boyce checked his watch. It was pushing noon. Another hour, and that was that. Seeing as this was his last day watching the shop, and as the robbery would be long over well before noon, there was really nothing to be gained by staying until one o’clock. But Joshua Boyce liked to do things right. He watched a pair of cops walk past at ten minutes past noon, and he waited another fifty minutes. Then he had one last look around the flat, made sure that he was leaving nothing behind, and left it for the last time.
He walked for ten minutes, then got a taxi across the city to the Northside. He bought a sandwich in a deli near the small garage he owned. He spent a while at the garage, chatting with the two mechanics he employed. Between the three of them, they made a good living and the garage also served as a cover for the kind of work from which Boyce couldn’t declare an income.
He left the garage at two-twenty-five and after a short walk he was standing outside the school in plenty of time to collect Ciara.
8
It was called preparing a file for the Director of Public Prosecutions. Harry Synnott had been working on the task for a couple of hours since lunchtime. At first the work involved nothing more than scribbling on a notepad, occasionally scratching out a thought, adding to the list or subtracting. He read his own notes three times, and he read the statement that Rose Cheney had already typed up from her notes.
The file would have to convince a lawyer from the DPP’s office that Max Hapgood Junior had raped Teresa Hunt. Then it had to convince the lawyer that the evidence was strong enough to persuade a jury of Max’s peers to send him to
He had a foolscap pad on his knee. There wasn’t much to take note of, but he had a four-week daily record of anything that mattered. Timetables of openings, regular deliveries, rubbish-bin pick-up, daily post. Eleven-fifteen, every day, the jeweller’s assistant fetched a take-out from the nearby coffee shop. The jeweller’s shop was less than a mile from Macken Road garda station, but the only police activity around the area consisted of a couple of beat coppers plodding past the row of shops, never before noon and never after twenty past twelve.
Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays, always around eleven-forty, a Brinks van collected money from a building-society branch office two doors down from the jewellery shop. A gobshite in a security guard’s uniform stood at the door of the building society. Young man, lanky, with a big chin and a shaven head. He was already there each day when Boyce arrived and he was there when Boyce left. His job seemed to be to stand in the doorway all day, occasionally scratching his arse but mostly just looking bored. Bugger-all use to anyone if there was a serious attempt at robbery, but his presence would keep the insurance people happy.
After four weeks watching the jewellery shop, Boyce planned to take it shortly after it opened the next day. He’d leave the stolen getaway car in the small car park off to the side of a twenty-four-hour shop about a hundred yards up the street. He reckoned he’d have fifteen minutes to do the job safely without interference.
There couldn’t be a guarantee, but Boyce had put enough work into the job to give him a very good chance of getting in and out without any trouble, and to finish up with enough jewellery to choke a whale.
Boyce checked his watch. It was pushing noon. Another hour, and that was that. Seeing as this was his last day watching the shop, and as the robbery would be long over well before noon, there was really nothing to be gained by staying until one o’clock. But Joshua Boyce liked to do things right. He watched a pair of cops walk past at ten minutes past noon, and he waited another fifty minutes. Then he had one last look around the flat, made sure that he was leaving nothing behind, and left it for the last time.
He walked for ten minutes, then got a taxi across the city to the Northside. He bought a sandwich in a deli near the small garage he owned. He spent a while at the garage, chatting with the two mechanics he employed. Between the three of them, they made a good living and the garage also served as a cover for the kind of work from which Boyce couldn’t declare an income.
He left the garage at two-twenty-five and after a short walk he was standing outside the school in plenty of time to collect Ciara.
8
It was called preparing a file for the Director of Public Prosecutions. Harry Synnott had been working on the task for a couple of hours since lunchtime. At first the work involved nothing more than scribbling on a notepad, occasionally scratching out a thought, adding to the list or subtracting. He read his own notes three times, and he read the statement that Rose Cheney had already typed up from her notes.
The file would have to convince a lawyer from the DPP’s office that Max Hapgood Junior had raped Teresa Hunt. Then it had to convince the lawyer that the evidence was strong enough to persuade a jury of Max’s peers to send him to
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