Father, look kindly on your children|who put their trust in you.
Bless them and keep them from all harm.
Strengthen them against|the attacks of the devil.
May they never offend you,|but seek to love you in all they do.
May Almighty God bless you,|the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
The Mass has ended.|Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.
Thanks be to God.
Good morning, Mary. How are you?
Good morning, Elizabeth. How are you?
Good morning, Bernie.
Father, would you say a prayer|to Our Lady for an intervention?
- What's wrong? Is someone sick?|- No.
I just want us to pray for my daughter|to lose her driving licence.
Case number 37 422: Veronica Guerin.
Almost 1 200 parking tickets.
March 1 0th, speeding ticket.
Just last month another speeding ticket|for driving at 1 04 miles per hour.
Well, now, I think that shows|some improvement by my client, Judge.
I'll alert mothers it's safe|to let their children back on the streets.
I... I deserve to lose this case, Judge.|That's fair enough, you know.
But if I can't drive, I can't do my job. I'm|a journalist with the Sunday Independent.
We all know who you are, Miss Guerin.|That does not grant you immunity.
This is Bernie Guerin. I can't take your call|at the moment. Please leave a message.
Mum, I'm driving!|Can you believe it? He let me off.
He actually let me off.|I love you, Mum. Talk to you.
Ah, no! You're having me on.
No, I swear to God. Just a 1 00 fine|and a warning. I'm behind the wheel again.
- It's your ma, the criminal.|- Hi, Ma.
Well, I hope you've learned a lesson|and reformed your ways, young lady.
- Hey, you're not speeding now, are you?|- No, of course I'm not.
Well, maybe a little.
What did you say to that daft judge?
I told him I was guilty as sin.
And he let you off?|Pleads a great case for judicial reform.
Yeah. Another repeat offender|returned to decent society.
This is Garda detective Chris Mulligan.|Please leave a message.
You didn't get me this time, Chris.|Still got the wheels.
I was fined - you're gonna love this -|1 00 quid. Can you believe it?
You owe me lunch. You said wherever|I want, and I'm expensive, don't forget.
Veronica?
Veronica?
The fucking eagle has landed.
How are you, boss?
Push off, you little scum.
Come on, get your money ready. 5.
How are you?
The name's Veronica.|I write for the Sunday Independent.
May I ask you some questions?|D'you mind?
How much d'you pay for one of those?
A few quid. Anyway, it's cheaper|to rent someone else's needle.
What about the score?
- First one's free.|- Well, I heard 5.
- Where d'you get the cash for all this?|- I just say to some broad like you:
''Give me your money|or I'll inject you with AlDS.''
- How old are you?|- What's it to you?
I'm writing a piece for the paper.|I wanna know where you get the gear.
I'll do your work for you.|Come back when you got some money.
- Fatso, don't be spending that on food.|- I'll check it later.
- Lost, are we?|- Who might you be?
- Neighbourhood watch.|- Yeah, well, better keep an eye out.
I hear there's some dodgy scangers about.
I fucking swear to God...
Ah, Jamey, Jamey, Jamey, Jamey.
You're an awful man, do you know that?
What'd you have to go and shoot|your mouth off to the Gards about me for?
Did you think I wouldn't find out it was you?
You know, I was thinking about killing you.
And then I thought to myself,|people get killed every day,
and nobody gives a shite.
So I've decided|I'm going to have to hurt you a bit.
Actually, I'm going to hurt you an awful lot.
But the good news is that I'm going to|do you meself. Oh, yeah. Personally.
I mean, you don't want people thinking,
just because I got me name|in the papers and all that,
that Martin Cahill is too posh to do|his own dirty work, now, do you, huh?
For fuck's sake...
Take the gag out of his mouth.
Let the little scumbag squeal.|It's what he's good at, isn't it? Squeal!
Please...
- I'm sorry!|- How are you?
- You made lunch. Aren't you great?|- I must be.
- Hi.|- Hi, Jimmy.
Off to a big news story, are we?
Come on, Ronnie. Give us a scoop.|Who's the scumbag of the week?
Go and buy the paper, little brother.|You ready for me?
- Did I say something?|- Don't look at me. She's your sister.
- Warm enough?|- Yeah.
Night. Night, darling.|I'm in the other room if you need me.
OK.
He won't have any trouble sleeping tonight.
That's cos you wore him out|on the football pitch.
Yeah.
- What's up?|- Nothing.
Nothing or something?
It's bollocks, what I'm writing.
- Give yourself a bit of credit for a change.|- Whatever. So it's half-decent bollocks.
It's light. It's human interest.
It's bollocks.
What a state, on the street.|There were needles everywhere.
- Right where the kids were playing.|- Jesus.
You should have seen these wankers.|Standing there with their new Mercedes.
How many 5 hits of dope do you need|to shift in order to buy a new Mercedes?
Do the math. How many kids is that?
Nobody's writing about it. Nobody cares.
Somebody needs|to get after these bastards.
They're making megabucks.|That's what I should be writing about.
That wouldn't be bollocks.
The pushers are using the underage kids|to do their business.
They know the Gards won't touch the kids.|Everyone knows what goes on here.
Eight kids from this block alone|died from drugs last year. Eight.
All of them under 15.|Four of them were me sister Iris's kids.
Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry.
TDs, Gards, close their eyes,|call it a family problem.
But for some families|these kids are dead already.
So we formed Concerned Parents|Against Drugs, made it our problem.
I'd appreciate it if you'd write about us.
- How often do you march?|- Once a week.
- It's quite a commitment.|- It's quite a problem.
Hey. Do you remember me?
- Were those Cahill's lads in the van?|- What van?
She can help, Timmy.
You know, Martin Cahill. The General.
You know him?
What's your cut?
- I'd better go. I can't be seen with yous.|- Let us help you, Timmy.
I can find you a good place|to stay tonight. Tomorrow...
Do yous wanna have sex with me?
I'm not expensive.
- The bill, please.|- He nicked your wallet.
- What do we want?|- Pushers out!
- When do we want them?|- Now!
- What do we want?|- Pushers out!
- When do you want them?|- Now!
Are these marches always this small?
Hopefully, with your help,|the word'll get out to more people.
Yeah, hopefully.
I'll make sure it does.
- Get out, Mullen!|- You bastard, Tommy Mullen!
- What do we want?|- Pushers out!
- When do we want them?|- Now!
- What do we want?|- Pushers out!
- When do we want them?|- Now!
- Pusher, pusher, pusher!|- Out, out, out!
Look who's got hisself a new girlfriend.
- We'll see you there, then, John.|- Yeah, go on ahead.
- What the hell do you want?|- Is that any way to talk to a lady?
Ladies don't go calling|on gentleman unannounced.
So we're a gentleman now, are we?
Where's your manners?|You didn't introduce me to your friends.
- If that's what you're after.|- You closing up early?
One of the benefits of being self-employed.
You're amazing, John.|No, really, you're a model of... profitability.
How to succeed in business|without any customers.
- I do well enough.|- Yeah, well...
There must be a few bob|in those brothels there on Rathgar Road.
What they worth now, John?
- You're a dangerous little bitch.|- Ah, well. Do my best. Buy us a drink?
It's the benefit of being self-employed,|John. You are your own boss, aren't you?
You're way off the mark. Martin Cahill|isn't into the drugs. Neither am l.
You sure?
We're just ordinary, decent criminals.
If you're not going to take my word for it,|why don't you ask Martin?
- He's very fond of the ladies.|- Yeah, exactly. So set it up for me.
Why are you chasing the drugs?|You should be after the pubs.
- They do more damage than the drugs.|- Yeah, right.
Yeah?
No. I tried that. It was a dead end.
Call you back? Grand.
So how many guys|are you working for stories at once?
A less generous person|might say you were ungrateful
for what I gave you already.
Stealing old paintings, kidnapping bankers'|families. You're above that now, are you?
I got you famous with those stories.
Yeah, you feed me superficial crap.
- I make you look good.|- Great picture.
Come on. I need your help to get to Cahill.|Write me a reference.
I'm late for an appointment.
Word of advice.|Stay away from Martin Cahill.
Sorry to disturb you.
Are you Mrs Cahill? Frances Cahill?
Right.
Are you Frances Cahill?
- I am.|- Hi. I'm Veronica.
- I'm a friend of John Traynor's.|- I know who you are.
Is your husband home?|I just want to ask him a favour.
Martin Cahill doesn't|do favours for journalists.
So piss off.
There's a rumour going about he's putting|drugs on the street. You got any comment?
I know he nailed a tout to the floor of a flat|the other day. Was it drug-related?
Look, I just want a brief comment.|Off the record.
I'll be out of your...
Mr Cahill! You couldn't|do me a favour, could you?
I need the names of those kids|who are selling drugs for you.
And I'll do you a favour. I won't write|what people are saying about you.
You know, that you're having kids|with your wife's sisters.
There's me number. Give me a call.
Cheers.
So, what can I do for you, Veronica?
How could you lose a body?
- That's just downright careless.|- You find some, you lose some.
It'll turn up. Those bodies always do.
So you gonna join those crying foul?
''More Garda incompetence.|Is this why we pay our taxes?''
Some might say it's incompetent, but|you could say it's that you're understaffed.
Your hands are tied. You couldn't maintain|24-hour surveillance on that murder site.
People should know that.|I mean, I think someone should write that.
And if someone did write that,|what would that someone want in return?
I talked to the couple you detained|after the weekend in Amsterdam.
Held for 48 hours cos they bought|nothing there but a box of condoms.
How does it feel to wait around for a mule|to shite out a condom full of drugs?
You and I both know that the courier's|the lowest man in the organisation.
Somewhere some Mr Big is sitting there,|laughing at you and your stool sample.
You can't touch him. I want -|we both want - to get Mr Untouchable.
What are you gonna do when you get him?
Your paper's so scared|that some big criminal is gonna sue them,
they employ more lawyers than journalists.
Well, I mean,|there's more than 300,000 people.
I don't want to blow my own trumpet,|but they know Martin Cahill's the General
because, you know,|of what I write in the Sunday Independent.
- At least they know what he's up to.|- Great, for your readers.
But does it help me|put him behind bars, does it?
We're on the same side, Chris.
Now, I trained as an accountant, right?
If I could have a look at these files,|then I could go after those other wankers.
Put some pressure on them.
Come on.
Go on.
Look, I've got some more packing to do.|I'll be back in an hour or so.
Looking forward to reading|someone's column on Sunday.
''For the Coach every day is lotto day.''
''What others might earn in a decade,|he can conjure up in an afternoon.''
''His Swiss scam was such a stroke,|a child of his remarkable ingenuity.''
''The fruits of a complex fraud...''
- The Coach, boss.|- What?
Never knew you were|such a horse lover, John.
- What took you so long?|- The traffic.
Nothing to do with that woman|who writes for the Sunday Indo?
- Did the boys say something?|- That's not the question, Johnny.
The question is:|what did you say to that woman?
Nothing important.
She fancies me, so I humour her.
You know why I'm successful, Johnny?|I lead a quiet life.
Nobody knows what I'm doing,|and that's very good for business.
When you talk to that bitch and when she|writes about you, you feel like a movie star.
Don't think she doesn't know|how to use that, because she does.
You're not as smart as you think you are.|That makes you a liability.
Remember this. If that bitch|ever mentions my name, you pay.
You like playing the gangster, do you?
Do you? It makes you feel like a big man.|Does it make you feel like a big man?
How does it feel now?|Heap of shite! You heap of shite!
- John, please...|- You bunch of eejits.
Who's the fucking genius|messing with the gun around my horses?
You don't insult me boys, Gerry.|You leave that to me.
Unless you want|some of the same yourself.
Word of advice.|Keep your fucking mouth shut.
I called you here|cos we've got a debt to settle.
What debt?
Your man Martin Cahill thinks|over half a million quid is owed him.
I got him to loan us that money to start up|the operation. If he wants it back...
As far as I'm concerned|that money keeps moving forward.
He lent you the money when you were just|out of prison. Now he's down on his luck.
He can't shift the paintings|from the last job. They're too hot.
- Why don't you just pay him?|- No, no. You don't get it.
When a scumbag like Cahill is down|on his luck, you kick him in the bollocks.
Wouldn't try that with Martin Cahill.
Whose side are you on, Coach?
I just think we should make payment.
Don't you worry about it.|We're gonna make payment.
Jesus!
Are you people fucking insane?
For a few hundred grand,|you've murdered all of us.
I don't like your tone, Coach.
Maybe the Gards|don't know what you did
but if the rest of the Cahill mob find out,
they'll kill yous|and everyone you did business with.
The IRA has claimed responsibility|for the murder of Martin Cahill.
We are now doing everything in our power|to apprehend and identify the gunmen.
At the moment,|no progress has been made.
This isn't the first execution|we've seen all year.
What progress has been|made on other cases?
I cannot comment|on any other investigation at this time.
Why is progress never made|on any cases involving the IRA?
Cahill's family has stated that the General -|and I quote - ''was not killed by the IRA,
but because someone saw how much|money he made and wanted to take over.''
In your opinion,|could the murder be drug-related?
- You can't believe everything you hear.|- Neither can you, Des.
Look, Veronica, every journalist|sees a vast conspiracy in everything.
We haven't a fucking clue about anything.|We just don't know who killed Cahill.
Yeah, and you don't care, right? As long as|they kill each other, it's easier for all of you.
Here. Let's sort out the petty criminals first.
Those who loved Martin Cahill|feel a deep sense of loss and pain.
Violence can only lead to death,
because it's the way of hatred,|fear and revenge.
Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed|be thy name, thy kingdom come...
Nothing like a funeral|to bring out the competition, is there?
Look at Gerry Hutch there, all tearful.|Or should I say the Monk?
He's not bad-looking, for a monk.
The thing about monks,|though, is they're celibate.
Supposedly.
See those two there?|They're dealers, right?
Oh, yeah.|Fatso Mitchell and Tommy Mullen.
- Cahill wasn't running drugs.|- No?
I followed the money and it turns out|your man was absolutely broke.
- The family had to borrow 1 0,000 for this.|- Really?
- Didn't have the cash to run drugs.|- For fuck's sakes.
Will you look? The north side rivals|to pay their respects.
That's Brian Meehan there.
- The blond one?|- Yeah. Nasty little fucker.
Blessed art thou among women, and|blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us|sinners now and at the hour of our death.
Hail Mary, full of grace,|the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women|and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Yeah?
- The IRA didn't act alone.|- Tell me something I don't know.
- Where are you?|- Gerry Hutch ordered the hit on Cahill.
Hutch? Jesus, are you sure, now?
I was there.
She bought it.
Boohoo!
Boohoo!
Get out of here now|or I'll put you out of your misery.
OK. Let's bring him in.
Right, strip him and search him.
I'll get you. Your wife, your kids.|You think you're the big fella now?
You'll not be so big|the next time you meet me with a bally on.
Yeah? I'm trembling. We can do this|the hard way or the easy way. Your choice.
Let's do it the hard way, huh?
Do you like men with big cocks, do you?|D'you want that, do you?
Is she a lesbian, is she?|You fancy me arse, don't you? You pervert.
All right. Get your designer gear back on|and get the fuck out of my sight.
There's over 600 there.|You can keep that.
Yous fuckers need it more than I do.
Bunch of fucking eejits,|working and paying taxes.
D'you know what? I make more in a week|than yous fuckers earn in a month. Here.
That's more than you earn in a year.
Thanks. See you, guys. All the best.
See you soon, Brian.
I always like to go shopping after a funeral.
- What are you doing here?|- It's looking bad for you.
- People say you ordered the hit on Cahill.|- People can say what they like.
I was out of the country at the time.
Is that your response, Mr Hutch?|Or should I call you the Monk?
You're invading my privacy|and the privacy of my family.
So if you don't get the fuck off my property,|I'm gonna sue you and your fucking paper.
Now fuck off!
Can I quote you on that?
I can't talk to anyone right now.
It's Tony Gregory.|He's the MP for Dublin Central.
I know who he is. I still can't talk to him.|Tell him to call back later.
- You can tell him yourself.|- Hiya, Tony.
What is this shite?
It's Ireland's finest newspaper, Tony.
''Dublin city is currently|like a tinderbox just waiting to explode.''
- This sounds like self-fulfilling prophecy.|- It's a source quote.
It's not me editorialising.
No north inner-city gang|was involved in Cahill's murder.
The garda have photos of these gangs|and no witnesses identified them.
The only reason there isn't|a blood bath right now
is because the Cahills|didn't buy your story.
Now, as far as I am concerned,|this woman is reckless and inflammatory.
She treats rumour as fact.
And your newspaper is irresponsible|for publishing it.
Now, I expect to read my response|over my breakfast next Sunday.
- I did nothing wrong.|- I know. Did you corroborate your facts?
I was told by a source who's never|been wrong before. I didn't name Hutch.
I didn't even call him the Monk. I put it|to him. He said he was out of the country.
He said he would sue us,|but he didn't deny it.
- We know that.|- And the lawyers approved it, Aengus.
We don't doubt you, Veronica. It's Gregory.|He's a Member of Parliament for the area.
- He wants to have his say.|- I don't give a shite about that.
What about the source?|He won't go on record?
Course he won't. He's a criminal.|Jesus, this is like being a cop.
Worse. You can't get a search warrant or|a wiretap but you have to prove everything.
Yes. And you want to check|how reliable that source of yours is.
Is Traynor about?
- Jesus!|- Oh, sorry, John. Just a quick question.
You're not aiming to start a gang war,|are you, between the Cahills and Hutch?
- Jesus. She's famous.|- Shut up, you.
I have a feeling you've been feeding me|a line of shite about the Monk.
What are you talking about?
Get the south and north side gangs to kill|each other so someone else can take over.
You're talking out of your arse.|Get outta here. Unless you wanna join in.
You told me you were there, John.
- I've done you a lot of favours.|- I'm the one doing the favours.
I've done you the favours! Don't forget that.
I tell you what I know.|I don't tell you what to do with it.
You come in here calling me a fucking liar!
That's a bit of an overreaction there, John.
- Why don't you come and have a pint?|- Too many journalists for me.
You can't join a club|if you ignore the members, Veronica.
I know what they say about me:|no journalistic experience,
I'm exaggerating the drug problem,|my sources are unreliable, I can't spell.
- Pretty accurate.|- I know I'm no great writer.
Well, I think you're a poet, Veronica.
Go on. Go on, Cantona!
That's poetry.
- What's the score?|- Nothing-nothing.
Cantona's a fucking vacuum cleaner today,|man. It's unreal.
He's what you call a striker.|Number seven. Watch him.
A striker? What did you say his name was?
Eric Cantona.
Born 26th May 1 966.|Led Man United to six cups.
Premier League footballer|of the year in '89. Is that him?
Well, fuck me pink. I think it is, yeah.|Fair play to you.
- I met him.|- You met Eric Cantona?
- What did he say to you?|- Doesn't matter. He's a genius.
He is a fucking genius, man. He's deadly.
Look at that.|I bet you any money the Monk done that.
Do you fancy going for a pint? There's|a great little pub down the road. Very quiet.
That's almost three million quid.
Where would you hide three million quid?
How could you find any fun|in hiding three million?
Wouldn't you be out on the town|spending it like a mad thing?
Yeah. That's exactly right.
- Good night. Thanks.|- So no pint, now?
Not a chance?
- Well done on the Brinks job, Gerry!|- What the fuck you doing following me?
- I'm gonna write about it.|- I don't give a bollocks what you write.
- What are you doing with the money?|- It's none of your business what I do.
There you go.
You know, I've forgotten my manners.
You've been to my home.|Maybe it's about fucking time I visit yours.
- Straight ahead, sir.|- Thanks. I'll see you again.
- Night, Ma.|- Night, love.
- What are you reading, Ma?|- Just some of me notes.
- On the bad guys?|- No. There's just one bad guy I'm after.
It's the one who's up way past his bedtime.|Now, let's go.
You're getting much too big for|your old ma. I'll have to read you a story.
Jesus.
What the hell was that?
- Stay there.|- All right.
That's great. Thank you.
Ronnie. We're all nervous.
Ma's nervous, I'm nervous.
Even Graham.|He just won't say anything about it.
Everyone knows|it's no use talking to you.
Jimmy, those people issue death threats|if their laundry's folded wrong.
Ma! Ma, where did you put the candles?
They're on top of the bread box!
Ah, right.|Besides, it's not the first.
You remember those religious fanatics|after the Bishop Casey story.
There's always someone.|You get used to them.
No, Ronnie, you get used to cold water,|not bullets. This is madness.
You'd do the same. If you saw those kids|on the street, you would do the same.
- Not if there was people shooting at me.|- Ma, look!
- Cathal, that's great! Who gave you that?|- You and Dad.
Yeah.
I am listening, actually. Whoever did it|made sure I was not in the room.
Could you do this? You're better at it.
- There's nothing to worry about.|- Nothing to worry about?
I'm the only Guerin in the phone book.|Who do you think they'll come after next?
Don't flatter yourself, little brother.
Are you going to dance on this|or are you gonna go fast on it?
- Here, give someone else a go.|- Give me a turn!
Are you coming to bed?
- What?|- I know you can hear me. Coming to bed?
I'll be along in a minute.
Fine. Suit yourself.
Turn it down. Turn it down!
Come on. I love it. I love my work.
I'm finally doing something|that can make a difference.
What am I gonna do with you?
- Oh, come on.|- No.
OK.
Come on, man.
Come on. Good boy!
Did we wake you up?
What can I say?|I don't think Gerry Hutch is into drugs.
The Brinks heist, probably.|But drugs is just not his scene.
I understand, but I've been|tracking his movements.
I just need to source the drugs.|The connection's easy. I need your help.
- I need you to stop coming to my office.|- He's got the money.
We're talking about a fella|with no visible source of income
who paid tax on 2 million last year.
It's laundered|through the government's tax amnesty.
- He's got too much money not to be into it.|- In your esteemed journalistic opinion.
I know you seized shipments from Cork.|It's coming from somewhere. Where?
We've impounded drugs from|Liverpool, Scotland, Amsterdam, Pakistan.
You're not the only one trying here, and|Hutch isn't the only one with dirty money.
- Who else you got?|- I could name you a dozen.
Here's the latest candidate,|just in from Interpol.
John Gilligan, one year|out of Portlaoise Prison.
Can you tell me|how this Ballyfermot lowlife
has 300,000 to launder in an Amsterdam|casino? You're the star journalist.
Gilligan. Certainly keeps a low profile.
Yeah?
Hi, Aengus. Yeah, can you hold?
- Can l...?|- Go on. It's a copy.
- Great.|- Just go.
I owe you lunch.
No, run the Brinks story.|Just hold off on the drugs claim.
What for? This stuff you sent is great.
Just give me 24 hours.|I got a tip. This could be big.
- I'm trusting you on this one, Veronica.|- Oh, aren't you great!
Nice tan there, John!
Hope there's no hard feelings between us.
I'm not one to take a bullet|through my window personally.
Get lost.
I told you to be careful|with the likes of Gerry Hutch.
But you didn't tell me|about a fella named Gilligan.
Who?
You provided him with a car|when he got out of prison.
John Gilligan. Do you want me to spell it?
I run a bleedin' garage.|I provide loads of cars to people.
Hardly gonna remember|every one of them, now, am l?
- Is that him there?|- Why should I give a shite?
No reason, really. Just the fella behind|the security guard looks a lot like you.
- Now, there's a coincidence.|- Where's his money coming from?
Is he providing|hash and heroin to Mitchell?
I can't help you, Veronica.|Don't know nothing about him.
If I hear of anything,|I'll let you know, OK? Molly!
You can keep the photo if you like.|It's a nice one of you. We got plenty.
- You sell horses yourself?|- I do.
- You have a number.|- I sell them on to Germany mostly.
Myself and Geraldine are planning|to make this the largest and finest
equestrian centre in all of Ireland.
Well, I must say the size is impressive.
Said the nun to the sailor.
How about an apritif?|Some champers, caviar? It's all imported.
John and I have great plans for this place.
Hang on.
Hello?
- Hello?|- John...
You're breaking up there. Hello?
- It's Traynor.|- Johnny.
Listen, Veronica Guerin's got hold of|a photo of us in Amsterdam.
But, John, I swear I had nothing|to do with it. I never mentioned your name.
But she was asking about you.
Johnny, I told you before, if she so much|as mentions my fucking name, you pay.
Fucking eejits!
Fuck 'em!
Happy Christmas!
- Now, isn't this great?|- When's Mum coming here?
She'll be here soon.|We'll want something stronger than that.
Yeah? Ma, how are you?
- Happy Christmas, Ann. You look great.|- Happy Christmas.
- Where's your mum?|- You know her. Always going for the gold.
All right.
There's someone at the door, Ma.
My phone'll be on all night.|You can call me whenever you want.
I love you too. OK. Bye. Bye.
Yeah, all right, all right.
Veronica's been shot!
How are you?
- How are you?|- You look gorgeous.
- Look at you. For God's sake.|- Hey, Willy.
Can't find any sport on. Can you believe it?
..extensive investigations|into organised crime in Dublin...
Why do they always use|that brutal picture?
It was a very serious incident.
Veronica Guerin|is a very talented journalist.
An attack like this could be seen|as an attempt to muzzle her
because of certain publications|or articles she wrote.
This would be connected|with last month's 3 million robbery?
We all know who pulled that one,|don't we, Hutch? He threatened me.
Veronica, please, stop this.|Write about fashion, about football.
Write about anything you like, but stop this.|You don't have to do it any more.
I don't see myself covering the catwalks|or doing a gardening column, Aengus.
You've always wanted|to write about politics.
I am. Drugs are political.
What if I told you|I wouldn't publish your stuff any more?
But you never would tell me that.
For Christ's sake, there's no sport channel.
- We have to go.|- What kind of hospital is this?
Is this what we pay health insurance for?
- Where Cathal?|- He's at your sister's with your mum.
- Don't worry.|- I'm not worried.
Right. We've just got you|24-hour police protection.
- OK?|- Grand.
What a way to spend Christmas Eve,|looking at the poxy box.
Mary Poppins. Gone with the Wind.
Next thing you know|it'll be A Wonderful fucking Life.
The doctor says it missed|the artery and the bone.
Point-blank range|with a .45, and this is all they could do.
- Where's Cathal? How is he?|- He's fine.
Where is he? Oh, yeah. He's with Mum.
- Yeah. He keeps asking for you.|- Yeah?
- ..shooting happened shortly after...|- ..investigations for the...
..warning from a crime gang.
You gonna stop this now?
Nan, look! It's Mum!
- Give me the keys.|- I know what I'm doing, Graham.
- They shot me cos I'm on the right track.|- Give me the keys, please.
- Thank you.|- Would you give me the keys?
No.
Look at the state of you.
Do you think I want to do this, do you?
I don't want to do it. I have to do it.
You're a journalist. You write.|You let the Gards look after this.
Oh, Graham, come off it. The Gards|can't do anything. They'll get away with it.
- 1 4 shootings in 1 4 months.|- You're one of them.
I know who the guys are.|Would you just give me the keys?
No. Tough shit.
Come on inside. Please.
They're not getting away with it.|I'll catch a cab, then.
Oh, for God's sake.
Ah, Jesus Christ.
Yeah, hi. It's Veronica Guerin. I'd like a...
Thank you. Come on. Get in.
- Who's driving?|- You can't drive with two good legs.
- You think I'll let you drive with one?|- That's low, that is.
- You drive like an old granny.|- Come on, Hopalong, get in.
Where is she going? She only got out|the hospital a couple of days ago.
I know.
You let me do it.
Look! Veronica Guerin.|Come here. Have a look.
Tommy Mullen?
Fatso Mitchell?
- Yeah.|- This is for you.
Get the fuck out of here. Here!
- Your column's upsetting me mother.|- Ah, you poor fella.
You think I'm a drug dealer, don't you?|Well, I'm no drug dealer.
I've seen family and friends dying|week in, week out because of 'em.
All right. Why did you shoot me?
No, I had nothing to do with shooting you.|I wouldn't have missed.
I'm telling you, he isn't here.
And I have to go. I'm busy.
- How old are you?|- None of your business.
Please, just give this to Traynor.
Are you gonna be OK?|I mean, your leg and all?
Yeah, I'm grand.
Are you gonna be all right?
And I thought... I mean, I've always|believed that... Well, I'm a journalist.
Nobody shoots the messenger.|I mean, a journalist doesn't get shot.
If the bullet had hit an artery,|you could have died.
So why do you do it?|Why do you take the risks?
Well, I'll give her this. It takes some balls|to shoot yourself in the leg for publicity.
- She should have shot herself in the balls.|- Bigger target.
- Shall we?|- Never liked this place anyway.
She can always use the insurance money|for a course in journalism.
Here. Check this out.
..bringing to the attention|of the public generally
a culture that exists in our society|that nobody knows anything about.
Your girlfriend's looking|very fucking healthy.
Too bad the moron you hired|shot her in the leg.
Now the whole country's watching her,|thanks to you.
She's a real martyr, thanks to you, Coach.
Saint Veronica of the Sunday Independent.
Relax, will you? She's convinced|it was Gerry Hutch that done it.
You better pray she stays that way.
Come on.
Champagne - now.
These letters that you delivered.|What did you say in them?
There was one simple question|on each of the letters,
and it was|''Were you responsible for my attack?''
Mr Gregory?
What are you doing here? How did you get|past Security? You can't just barge in.
I'm sorry. Do you mind if I sit down?
A young woman wounded, on a crutch.|I'd be at a disadvantage. Take a seat.
I've come to apologise,|if I've got it all wrong.
All of you journalists have got it wrong.
You call these guys the Viper,|the Monk, the General.
You glorify them. They're not movie stars.
With respect, I've no option.
I can't name them.|Your libel laws won't let me.
Journalists are going to jail|for doing their job.
Liz Allen, she's facing imprisonment|for exposing these murderers.
I'm not getting involved|in your personal vendettas.
- I'm not here because I was shot.|- Now we know what you're not here for.
Look, I've been writing quite extensively,|in a balanced way, for the past 1 8 months.
You must have missed some of my articles.|On June 1 1th - I just want to clarify this -
I suggested extending|detention periods for drug offenders.
Then on July 1 6th I wrote about|tax officials - I mean, this is ridiculous -
saying that they are paid|only to record declared income,
not to worry about|whether it comes from drugs.
Then on July 23rd|I wrote about the garda.
They can seize drug proceeds but can't|hold them. How frustrating is that?
I don't need you to tell me the fight against|drugs has been hampered, crippled,
by the laws that we have at the moment.
- We're on the same side, Mr Gregory.|- We're on the same side?
I don't like your methods,|and I do not like your paper.
Yeah. It's a rag. But it's a popular rag.
Use it. Get your message out. Use me.
You've got to change these laws|that favour the criminals.
When do we get to the part where|you use me? Or is this just a charity offer?
Well, I'm looking into a guy called Gilligan.|Just take my phone calls.
Gilligan, did you say?
Friend of mine said he rents these|containers out. Seen him about much?
Slightly overweight, like? Bald guy?
We've never seen him here.
- Thanks for the smoke.|- Yeah.
Willy, do me a favour, will you? Find out|how long Tony Gregory'll be in his office.
Hiya. Look, no offence,
but these guys are not gonna talk to me|with the cops hanging about. All right?
- Right.|- Thanks. It's not working.
Gilligan's listed here as living|in a council flat on the dole.
That's just a mailing address.
Those lads go to meetings with their|probation officers in BMWs and Mercedes.
Having money isn't a probation violation.
It is if the assets are illegal.
Now, then I'd like to see a register|of ownership for the following properties,
and this corporation here,|with a copy of the shareholders reports.
And the same for these other companies|run by a man named John Gilligan.
I told you, this office is closed for lunch,
so unless you're on staff or with|the government, it's always closed to you.
Not a problem. I've got a friend|who'd like to talk to you.
Do you know Tony Gregory?
Oh, you're an angel.
- I'm just finishing up.|- You're a bad liar.
Oh, God.|You make the worst cup of coffee.
Here. I'll help you put Cathal to bed.
He's been asleep for an hour.
Of course.
Don't you ever just wanna keep him|in the house? Not let him out ever?
Yeah. But mostly I feel that way about you.
I've got him, Graham. I've got his name.
I'm gonna get this Gilligan bastard.
I am so close, you know. I'm this close.
Do you trust me?
Right?
Don't worry.
Easy for you to say.
How are you? Do you know|where I might find Mr Gilligan?
- Sorry. Don't know.|- Right.
Mr Gilligan? I'm Veronica Guerin|from the Sunday Independent.
I've come to ask some questions|about your property ownership,
including this lovely|equestrian centre you've got here.
You could start by telling me|where you get the money.
Cunt! Cunt!
Cunt!
Cunt! Cunt!
- Are you wearing a wire?|- No! No!
Get off my property, you cunt!
Jesus! Jesus, what happened to you?
What happened to you, darling? God! God!
What happened to you?
Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling.
Can you see it all?
Right.
- Are you ready to go home?|- Yeah.
- You wanna try a drop of that?|- Thanks.
Look, it's up to you, Ronnie,
but if you do press charges,|writing their story might prejudice the case.
I know you. You just want to steal it.
Of course I do. I'm a reporter.
So what's it to be, Veronica? Do you want|the story or do you want to press charges?
Yeah?
This is John Gilligan.
If you do one thing on me,
if you go to the garda or write about me,
I'm gonna kidnap your son|and I'm gonna ride him.
I'm gonna shoot you.
Do you understand|what I'm saying to you?
I'm gonna fucking kidnap your son|and I'm gonna ride him,
and then I'm gonna shoot you.
I'm gonna fucking kill you.
- Veronica.|- Where's Cathal?
- What's wrong?|- Where's Cathal?
He's in the country.|He's with your sister. He's safe.
Jesus.
- It was him.|- What?
I should never have gone there. Oh, Jesus!
- I'm so scared, Graham. I'm really scared.|- I know, I know, I know.
It's going to be all right.
- I want you to promise me something.|- What?
- Don't tell anyone I was like this.|- What?
All right?
- I don't want them to have it.|- All right.
That's what they want more than anything.
I promise you. You were never afraid.
All right. Oh, Jesus.
Never afraid.
Jesus, Veronica. Look at you.
I'll live.
How are you, John?
It's... been a while.
I'm grand. Get you a drink?
No, thanks. I'm not thirsty.
So, what do you want to talk about?
- I've a message for you from John Gilligan.|- The man you don't know.
As soon as I heard, I went to see him.|I told him he'd got it all wrong.
He's a small man with a chip. You know.
He's got a temper. He just lost his head.
Anyway, he wants you to know|that he's sorry for what he done,
and for what he said|about your kid and the family.
He'd never do those things.
He wishes he could take it back.
Gilligan got you to feed me|that shite about Hutch.
Yeah. He murdered Cahill, stepped back|and let the IRA take credit.
I don't know what you're talking about.|I'm here because he wants this to end
before things get any worse.
How can it get any worse?
Things can always get worse, Veronica.
Now, if you don't press charges,|you'll be 1 00,000 richer within an hour.
It's not enough. I want 300.
- I think I could get you that.|- Right.
You tell Gilligan that|he's not gonna be buying me off.
Nobody's trying to buy you off.|The man just wants to be fair, that's all.
Even if he's convicted,|all he'll get is six months.
Right, well, if he's not worried,|why is he prepared to pay so much?
Why did he bother sending a messenger?
You're not the Coach at all,|are you, Johnny?
You're the ball boy.
What are you doing,|talking to her like this, after what you did?
What the fuck are you doing here?|Get out of here.
- He sent that man to shoot you.|- That's a load of bollocks.
- Don't listen to this junkie slag.|- It's true.
He said the man was supposed to shoot|you in the head, but the gun didn't work.
Veronica!
I've decided to make a formal complaint|against the guy who beat me.
I mean, I would... I would lose a lot,
right, if I was to give in to these thugs,|and I'm not going to be doing that,
because it'd be worse for me|and for journalism
if I or any journalist was to be intimidated.
That means they've won.
And they're not going to win.
Fuck off!
''The house shuddered and collapsed,
and then the little people discovered
that they were disappearing|into a swirl of leaves.''
He's fast asleep.
Thanks for watching him, Ma.
What should a girl wear to court?|Maybe the navy.
- This one looks grand.|- Oh, look.
Ah, look at that.
Look at you always trying|to be better than the boys.
That reminds me, you know, of a day -|I don't know how old you were.
You were out playing football and the ball|went over the wall into Old Man Clancy's.
Do you remember him? He was|a very dangerous man. Very violent.
The boys did nothing,|but you, bold as brass,
you marched up those steps|and you just knocked on his door.
- Scared the bejasus out of me.|- You didn't show it.
That's your thing, isn't it?|You don't show your fear.
You know, Veronica, sometimes it's wiser|to let the crazy old man keep the ball.
It is, and sometimes|it's braver to just walk away.
Well, I got the ball back, didn't I?
You know exactly what I mean.
In response to a motion by the defence,|I'm granting an extension until June 30th.
- This hearing is adjourned.|- I'm sorry.
Hey. You haven't seen|the last of us, missis.
Cheers.
You all right?
I've got a speeding issue|to deal with tomorrow.
You're big in Naas. You haven't|bought off any judges, have you?
- Who is it?|- Ballaugh.
Can't help you. I hope you didn't take|what that junkie slag said seriously.
Her brain burned out months ago.
And you didn't call me here|to talk about a speeding ticket.
Changed your mind about Gilligan's offer?
I'm writing a story.|Just want to clear some things up.
- You're my man.|- What do you wanna know?
How you guys launder all the money|you're making from the drug deals.
- Is it the Amsterdam casinos?|- Are you saying I'm a drug dealer?
Would you talk straight to me? The two car|franchises, the yacht, the house, holidays.
All that comes from the brothels? Don't the|taxmen ask where the money comes from?
You think I'd threaten those tax fellas?|That's bullshit. I was with me accountant.
The taxman was very fair.|I'm legit. They can't touch me.
Who shot me, John?
- You know as well as I do, Veronica.|- Yeah. I need to hear it from you.
Gerry Hutch.
I'm one of the only people in Dublin who|knows who did 90% of the hits last year.
- Cos you're Gilligan's partner, right?|- Look, I'm a fairly minor player.
You've seen Gilligan's house.
He has a two or three million fucking horse|shed out the front that'll hold 8,000 people.
I'm not in his league.
So why are you asking me all|these questions? What's the story about?
You.
- Me?|- Yeah.
I'm gonna say you're a dealer,|name you, quote you on Hutch.
- You can't do that, Veronica.|- I think I can.
- You do that and I'm a fucking dead man.|- You poor fella.
Listen to me, Veronica,|I'm trying to fucking help you.
Take Gilligan's offer. I can't control him,|and you don't know how far he'll go
to keep from going back to prison.
I came with a photographer from the paper.
He's standing over there|next to the police. Smile.
Let go of my door, John.
Hello? Just a minute. Hello?
She'll be at the Naas Courthouse|tomorrow morning.
Come the fuck with me. Go on.
1 00 fine.
Thank you.
Well done.
She's out.
Mum, I'm driving!|Can you believe it? He let me off.
He actually let me off.|I love you. Talk to you.
Yeah. Another repeat offender|returned to decent society.
She's on her way.
I told him I was guilty as sin.
Veronica?
Veronica?
Veronica Guerin's writing|turned the tide in the drug war.
Her murder galvanised Ireland into action.
Thousands of people took to the streets|in weekly anti-drug marches,
which drove the dealers out of Dublin|and forced the drug barons underground.
Within a week of her death, during|an emergency session of Parliament,
the government altered the constitution|of the Republic of Ireland
to allow the high court to freeze|the assets of suspected drug barons.
That same year, the Criminal|Assets Bureau, CAB, was formed
and given the power to access and seize
unexplained wealth|from suspected criminals.
Charles Bowden turned state's evidence|and became the first person in Irish history
to be entered into|the witness protection programme.
Brian Meehan was sentenced|to life imprisonment
for the murder of Veronica Guerin,
and his assets were seized by the CAB.
Eugene Holland was sentenced|to 20 years in prison for drug trafficking.
His assets were seized by CAB.
John Traynor escaped to Portugal
and continues to fight extradition|to Ireland on charges of murder.
His assets were seized by the CAB.
After a long extradition battle,
John Gilligan was brought back to Ireland|from England
and sentenced to|28 years in prison for drug trafficking.
His assets were seized by CAB.
By the following year,|crime rates had dropped 15%.
Everyone in the Republic of Ireland|remembers where they were
when they heard that Veronica Guerin|had been murdered on the Naas Road.
herkese kar Ar