A Carra King

by John Brady

  Daly seemed to grasp an answer before Minogue had offered. He smacked his forehead with his palm and closed his eyes for a moment. He spoke slowly then, his gaze on the table at first.

  “Come on, you can’t be serious,” he said. He looked up at Minogue. “You’re not going to try a drug thing on us, are you? What is this, a shakedown?”

  “Listen now, Mr. Daly,” said Minogue. “That’s exactly the wrong thing to say.”

  “Listen you,” Daly shot back. “If this is a shakedown it’s the lamest, stupidest effort I’ve ever seen.”

  He used his phone to point to the two detectives in turn.

  “What do you know,” he said. “If you had ever consulted with your pals back in Harcourt Street, you’d know just what’s involved in running a phenomenon like Public Works.”

  “What’s that got to do with Harcourt Street, or Guards?” Malone asked.

  “This is an industry,” Daly said, “a valuable export industry. Do you know how may blackmail attempts we get in an average month? Pregnant sixteen year olds? The most disgusting stories about drugs? Fellas phoning up who want ten grand so’s one of the band doesn’t get his legs broken? We’ve had it all.”

  “That bad, huh,” murmured Malone.

  Daly glared at him.

  “Yes it fucking is. Excuse me. But I’m not complaining. There are gobshites everywhere. Let me tell you something: we have the best security in this country — well maybe not like the British Ambassador or them but that’s a different — ah, what’s the point . . .”

  Minogue watched Daly sling his overnight over his shoulder.

  “Before you take your leave, Mr. Daly.”

  “What? ‘It’s a mistake’?”

  “No,” said Minogue. “Hardly that. We’d like to close off this, er, line of enquiry. The possibility that your band was being set up as transport for material being taken out of the country. Illegally?”

  Daly said nothing. Minogue watched the scorn change to anger on his face. It quickly became bewilderment. Daly put the phone in his pocket and rubbed at his face. He let the overnight bag down on the back of his chair. His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “Am I hearing you right, you’re saying that . . .?”

  “Nothing is watertight,” said Minogue. “The band takes pretty serious amounts of gear when they go on tour, am I right?”

  Daly sat back. His frown deepened. Minogue rubbed at his elbow again and tried to straighten his arm.

  “Jesus,” said Daly. He sat down slowly, looked across at the detectives. “My God. Now I see where you’re coming from.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Mules,” said Daly. “That’s what you’re gettin “How do you mean?” Minogue asked. He’d been thinking of Paddy Mac: the hair like a crop, his pigeons hurtling hell-for-leather through the air for home. Pigeons could hit sixty miles an hour.

  “You know,” said Daly. “Carriers? Dummies, who wouldn’t even be aware of what they were doing.”

  “I suppose,” said Minogue. “Yes. Mules.”

  “Drugs, then? Is that where you’re leading?”

  “We don’t think so. Some stolen property.”

  “This American . . .?”

  Minogue nodded.

  “Wait a minute now,” said Daly. “Hang on there. I’m not going to let on I don’t know who this guy was.”

  “Oh,” said Malone. “You remember him now do you?”

  “No, I don’t. What I mean is that I know he’s connected or was connected to a big shot. Something to do with Leyne, the food guy in the States. Right?”

  “That’s right,” Minogue said. Daly sat back.

  “I was curious,” he said. “Maria – she runs the studio with Noel — she told me the next day. I was on the phone early before the first take. If this guy was well-to-do, what’s he trying to move? Why would he be doing that, I mean?”

  Minogue shrugged.

  “There you have me now,” he said. “That’s why we’re chasing down any small leads we have.”

  Daly looked down at his bag and back at Minogue. Then he shook his head and let out a sigh. Minogue eyed the capped teeth as Daly yawned.

  “Look,” Daly murmured. “I think I’ve made a bollocks of meself.”

  The face had turned boyish, Minogue realized. Maybe the smile was genuine.

  “Ah, you’re all right,” said Minogue. “Pressure and all that. Maybe our timing’s not the best here. I just thought well, being as we’re out here, we’d . . .”

  “Ah, don’t be talking about pressure.”

  Minogue managed a smile in return.

  “Between yourself and myself now, Mr. Daly — ”

  “ — Call me Kevin, will you.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. Well we have very little to go on, Kevin. The family want answers, and sure why wouldn’t they. We have to chase down every lead. So there you have it now.”

  Daly nodded his head.

  “I understand,” he said. “The Guards have been taking a lot of stick this last while.”

  He glanced over and met Malone’s stare for several moments.

  “What with the gangs and that, the, er. Well, you know what I mean.”

  “The drug trade,” Minogue murmured. “The paramilitaries? The open cases on two murdered Gardai. The flood of guns that hit Dublin last year.”

  Daly nodded and looked down at the floor.

  “As well as the usual fucking losers,” said Malone. Daly half-smiled at him. He doesn’t get it, Minogue thought. It took practice to recognize Malone’s anger.

  “Joey — Cortina — mentioned you,” Daly said. “‘Funny fella.’ Weren’t you the one asking for your sister’s blouse back?”

  Malone chewed his gum several times.

  “So let me ask you,” Minogue said. “Are there places where your baggage, your equipment, I mean, could be interfered with?”

  Daly stroked his neck, looked up at the ceiling for several moments.

  “If someone could stash something in there, like,” he murmured. “Maybe. Well, I mean, if someone really wanted to and it was small. . . I’d have to ask. I could find out for you, no bother.”

  “That’d be grand,” said Minogue. “Yes. Thanks now. But tell me, wouldn’t you be on the ball to such a possibility? With your security and that?”

  “Oh, I think so. Yes. We have Coughlin, you know them? Worked for the Guards. Very thorough.”

  “Do they look after such things for you?”

  Daly made a short huff and looked ruefully at the Inspector.

  “Well to tell you the truth, I don’t actually know,” he said. “So there. Doesn’t sound too professional, does it? I don’t know the exact details, I mean. But Maria would.”

  Minogue studied the seams on Daly’s overnight bag again. Daly chewed on his lip.

  “Look,” he said. “The business has its bad elements, sure. I mean, behind it all, these are ordinary lads who made it big — very big, yes. We all have our foibles, don’t we?”

  “To be sure.”

  “But I can’t dictate to all the lads what they can or can’t be doing. It’s not like say, well, say the Guards. No offence now, but yous do what you’re told, basically. Right?”

  Minogue flicked a glance at Malone.

  “Most of the time, I suppose.”

  “Tell you what,” said Daly then. “I’ll head back into town and find what’s what. And then I’ll phone you?”

  “We’d prefer that we be the ones going through the equipment now, Kevin.”

  Daly frowned.

  “It might well be that the very staff supposed to be taking care of your lads’ equipment might be the ones who’d be blackguarding.”

  “What, our staff? That’s impossible — I mean I just can’t imagine that.”

  “Whoever handles your arrangements to get things packed and put on a plane. Your freight handlers, agents.”

  Daly took in a breath and held it for several moments.

  “All righ
t,” he said. “All right. All I can say is I’d be absolutely shocked, I mean, totally. We’ve dealt with the same handlers for years.”

  “Would there be stuff already here at the airport that we could look through?” Minogue asked.

  Daly seemed to be lost in thought. Malone had resumed chewing. An announcement on the PA came through as a resonance in the walls and door.

  “What? Oh yes. I was just thinking that — well, I’m just totally gobsmacked here. I’m beginning to see that you might have, what I mean is, I’m beginning to think how you think. It’d be only logical from your point of view. This man, the photos — yes.”

  “There’s stuff here at the airport in storage that we could take a look at?”

  “No, not really. A few bits at most maybe. The real stuff’s at the studio, in people’s houses even, can you believe. I know we’re headed out but I’m not sure at all how far ahead we are in putting it together. Let me phone Maria and I’ll ask.”

  Minogue leaned against the wall. Malone began unwrapping a piece of gum. The smell of leather and leftover cologne was stronger now. Daly’s jacket squeaked as he used his arms. Minogue studied his shoes. Maria wasn’t there. Shit, said Daly, and asked for a Noel. Minogue couldn’t hear any of the other side of the conversation. He listened to Daly’s rapid-fire questions, the impatience. Maybe they all talked like this on cell phones. Are you sure, Daly asked the Noel again. He folded his phone and tugged at his nose.

  “‘Don’t think so,’ says Noel,” he said. “They’re just putting stuff together and testing it at the studio before they’re packing it tomorrow.”

  “Nothing packed and waiting that we could look at?”

  Daly shrugged.

  “There you have me. No. But I can find out pretty quick. How soon do you need to know?”

  “Right away,” said Minogue.

  “Tell you what. I’ll go straight to the studio, see if I can find out and I’ll phone you. I’ll look into it personally. How about that?”

  Minogue exchanged a look with Malone.

  “I’d know inside an hour maybe. Would that do you?”

  “‘Call me, Kevin,’” said Minogue. “I like that. Kevin: howiya, Kevin.”

  Malone snorted.

  “Buy me a pint, Kevin,” he muttered. “Have you any sisters, Kevin.”

  Malone kept his eyes on the monitor hanging from the ceiling. It was the same replay of Doherty’s goal, the header against Spain last year.

  “He can always say he didn’t know,” he said. “He knows what he’s doing. The lying bastard.”

  “Maybe he genuinely doesn’t know.”

  “What? There’s a load of really expensive equipment out here ready to be wheeled onto a plane and he doesn’t know that?”

  “Could be, Tommy. He doesn’t have to persuade us, you know.”

  Malone slid up from his slouch and stretched his neck. The queues had gone from the check-ins. Minogue thought over his determination not to come to this airport for a long time in the future if he could avoid it. The phone ringing confused him. He fumbled but Malone had it. He listened to Sheehy and then handed it to Minogue.

  “Fergal, me life on you. What have you?”

  “I’ve a pain in my side laughing at this fella you sat me with. Paddy Mac.”

  “Are you still there in the electrical room?”

  “I am.”

  “Is Paddy Mac doing what he’s told, but?”

  “Arra God, no. He doesn’t need to be told anything. Sure he’s right into it. ‘The man from UNCLE,’ says he. James Bond — James Effin’ Bond, I should say.”

  Minogue watched the arrivals list roll down the screen again. Something from Tenerife had landed. Sunburned, hungover faces would be drifting in soon.

  “But has he covered all the items?”

  “I think so,” Sheehy replied. “He has the evening supervisor set with the story. The boxes and crates are stacked and ready. He even got a bit of dust on them. A real pro.”

  Someone was singing in the pub. Minogue looked over. Two women were rocking from side to side, their glasses raised.

  “He has it all worked out,” Sheehy went on. “The minute anyone shows he’ll be down there. He has a stack of crates and cases and God knows what else dumped in a cage opposite so’s he can be in there beavering away and keeping an eye out.”

  “Any loose ends you can see, Fergal?”

  Sheehy paused.

  “I still think keeping an eye on the big one is a bit dodgy. The one with the stone in it. They all look the same to me, all them boxes.”

  “Well Paddy Mac has me persuaded, Fergal.”

  “Fair enough, but — ah, I’m not going to pretend I’m happy with it.”

  “It might be a long night, Fergal. It’s gone to a twenty-four-hour facility since last year.”

  “Send us over a few pints and bags of crisps why don’t you.”

  Minogue eyed the two singing again. They had lapsed into giggles. What he had thought were shorts on the one with the long hair was actually a skirt.

  Minogue felt the vibrations on his hand before the ringing registered with him. His fingers slipped as he drew the phone out again.

  “There’s a fella here,” said Sheehy. “Just arrived.”

  Something began in Minogue’s chest. A glow, he had tried to explain it, some stirring: not really excitement yet, just a relief that something was on the go. He stood up, the aches at a distance now, and turned toward the back of a kiosk.

  “Go ahead now Fergal, I’m with you.”

  “Paddy Mac took it over. He’s headed down to a loading door with one of those trolley things.”

  “Did you get a look at this fella?”

  “He’s a delivery man. Street clothes. Mid-thirties. Heavyset. Longish hair, fair, clean-shaven. Sounds Dublin, but he’s not saying much. Wearing fancy runners, a jean jacket over a sweatshirt, I think. He has a big van backed up at the door. Paddy Mac waltzed him over so’s I could get a dekko at him. Trouble is, I don’t know if he’s coming back or what the hell’s going to happen.”

  “We’re coming over, Fergal.”

  “Are we sticking to the plan? Let ’em out? No transmitter?”

  “Unless there’s some big upset. John’s waiting outside at the end of the service road with Jesus Farrell to tag them when they hit the motorway. We’ll folley them out and go by them, pick them up in Whitehall and let John out of their mirror awhile.”

  He heard Sheehy moving about the room.

  “Paddy Mac might be overplaying this,” he said. “I hear him halfway down the building, so I do, bollocksing away to this fella about flu and absenteeism and overwork. Christ — ”

  “All right, Fergal. Thanks very much.”

  Malone followed the Inspector out to the car. Minogue glanced up at the night sky. It was brown. He sat in and grabbed the map. Malone drove by the checkpoint and pulled in behind a parked bulldozer.

  “Well,” he said. “Now, are you going to let the Iceman in on this?”

  Minogue had no answer. He looked in the mirror again as a taxi passed.

  “When’s the last time you did any training in pursuits?” Malone went on.

  Minogue pushed the phone-charger harder into the cigarette lighter. He clicked the light-on display. Malone shifted in his seat and tugged under his arm.

  “What’s he doing, for Jases’ sake?”

  Minogue checked his watch. Four minutes since they’d parked. He turned to Malone.

  “Give John a poke, will you. Make sure.”

  Malone took the handset up off the floor.

  “Tell me who we are again.”

  “Mazurka. John’s Polka.”

  “What’s a mazurka again?”

  “It’s what we dance to in Clare when we do be in a good humour. Now call him Tommy for the love of God and stop throwing questions at me.”

  Minogue watched a BMW brake to take the turn onto the roundabout. Skirts they called those low bits: cost
a fortune, too. Murtagh must have been thinking along the same lines as Malone.

  “‘We’re still solo on this,’ he wants to know,” said Malone.

  Minogue gave Malone his reply in the same deadpan tone Malone had relayed Murtagh’s question to him.

  “For the moment, yes.”

  “He says for the moment yes,” said Malone.

  Minogue held his thumb off the button until the first ring elapsed.

  “He’s heading out,” said Sheehy. “Just left.”

  “Are we sure he has it?”

  “Paddy Mac went right out to the van with him, yes. He dropped off one box and took ours.”

  “No mistake now, Fergal?”

  “For sure he took it. The one he left’s a box just like it.

  Almost the same size, heavyish. That’s a sign, I’m thinking.”

  “What’s in it? Did Paddy chat him up at all?”

  “He didn’t push him at all,” said Sheehy. “Just like you told him.”

  Malone started the engine.

  “Any idea if there’s other stuff in the van there?”

  “Can’t be sure at all,” came Sheehy’s reply. “He went out to the loading dock with him but your man didn’t want any extras, help loading, I mean. He didn’t give him the brush-off or anything but Paddy didn’t want to drop a hint at all.”

  “Thanks, Fergal. You’ll stay put and make sure there’s no one else coming out of the woodwork for any of the stuff there?”

  “This is him, I think,” said Malone.

  “We have him here, Fergal. I’m going to the radio now.”

  Minogue glimpsed the driver’s face as the van passed. The antenna on the roof of the van glinted and shook.

  “Did you get the number?”

  He counted to five. He heard Malone licking his lips.

  “Are we on?” came Farrell’s voice now. Minogue tapped the dashboard. Malone pulled out.

  “We are, Polka One. We’ll go by him before you take over.”

  Malone slid in behind a station wagon that had come through the roundabout from the Belfast Road.

  “Take bets,” he said. “I say the van heads for the studio. Plenty of places to lose something there. Switch it too, very handy.”

  Minogue kept scratching at the rubber on the antenna.