Veronica Guerin Page #3

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 f***ing 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 f***'s sakes.

Will you look? The north side rivals|to pay their respects.

That's Brian Meehan there.

- The blond one?|- Yeah. Nasty little f***er.

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 c*cks, 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 f*** out of my sight.

There's over 600 there.|You can keep that.

Yous f***ers need it more than I do.

Bunch of f***ing eejits,|working and paying taxes.

D'you know what? I make more in a week|than yous f***ers 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 f*** off my property,|I'm gonna sue you and your f***ing paper.

Now f*** 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 f***ing 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 f***ing 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, f*** 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 f***ing 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?

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes