by John Brady
“He’s fairly shifting it now,” Malone went on.
Minogue eyed the van edging into the fast lane. Sixty, already. He’d better tell Murtagh.
“Mazurka to Polka One.”
“Go ahead there, Mazurka.”
“Our friend is motoring. You’d better get a start there.”
He nudged Malone.
“Pass him, Tommy. Fast as you like.”
Malone didn’t change into fifth until he was directly behind the van.
“There’s Johnny Boy,” he muttered. Minogue spotted Murtagh’s Corolla ahead of an aged Renault 4. Jesus Farrell was slouched in the passenger seat.
Minogue looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five.
“Oh, oh,” Malone murmured. “He’s on the phone.”
Minogue eyed the headlights receding in the passenger mirror. The van pulled out to pass Murtagh now.
“I’m going to pull in the far side of the lights, by that church, what’s the name of it . . .”
Minogue let go the antenna.
“Stick with that for now Tommy, yes.”
“Polka One to Mazurka. I’m on. Over.”
“Good enough, Polka One. You’ll see us the far side of the lights.”
Malone kept flicking glances at the mirror.
“He’s still motoring, boss. He’s damn near catching us.”
“Take it handy, Tommy. Let him do what he wants.”
Malone didn’t touch the wipers after the first few drops hit the window. He swore instead. He finally jerked the stick as they came in sight of the traffic lights and the turn-off to Santry.
He spoke the same time as Murtagh came on the radio.
“Polka One. Is he turning? Can you see him?”
Malone geared down for the red light.
“He’s five or six back,” said Malone. “Can’t see him.”
“Stand by, Polka One.”
“I think he’s coming now,” said Malone. “Yeah. Behind this Escort. Doesn’t have his blinker on. What does that tell ya? Yep, he’s going left.”
“Can you take it, Polka One?”
“I can. Over.”
“We’re going with the original. Look for us in a minute.”
Malone didn’t stop swearing until he had made it across the road into the turning lane. The old Vauxhall ahead hesitated.
“We’re bollocksed,” he whispered. “Look. He’s sussed us. He’s done this before, let me tell you.”
Minogue fingered the city guide to page twenty-four.
“What’s in Coolock for him,” he muttered. “Lives there, and he’s parking it for the night? Hardly.”
Malone jammed the accelerator as the light changed, and came around the wrong side of the Vauxhall.
“Mazurka to Polka One. How are we doing?”
Farrell sounded harassed now.
“Steady here,” he replied. “Are you with me? Over.”
“Can’t see you yet but a couple of minutes at most.”
Malone let the Opel over the white line but the cars ahead were slowing.
“We’ve hit a red light here, Polka One. Keep us posted.”
Malone slapped his knuckles on Minogue’s arm.
“Byrne grew up around here,” he said. “Home turf. But he doesn’t live here now, I can tell you. He’s up in some ranch the far side of Malahide.”
Minogue studied the red light smear on the wet roadway ahead. Malone had to brake after he’d accelerated too quickly behind a Golf.
“He’s going to dump us, boss. That’s all he wants here. We’re the gobshites.”
“He’s speeding,” came Farrell’s voice. “Over.”
Minogue began to squeeze the base of the cell phone between his thumb and forefinger. He could phone Tynan and keep his head down when the shite hit the fan. Malone tried to pass the Fiat ahead but had to pull back in. He braked hard as the oncoming lorry’s horn sounded. He glared at Minogue.
“Call him in, boss. We’re going to lose him if we don’t.”
“Do you know Coolock and environs well, Tommy?”
“Pretty well. Maybe. What’s the plan?”
“If the fella in the van takes a runner, you’re going to catch him for us.”
“What, behind all this traffic? In this piece of shite? He’s probably barrelling down the bloody Howth Road by now.”
Minogue thumbed the radio.
“Mazurka to Polka One. Are you still on board?”
“We are,” said Murtagh. “He’s in sight, but he’s flying. I think he’s onto us.”
“Go to Code One, Polka. We need the location.”
“Confirm that, Mazurka. Over.”
“Go to Code One. Start giving us the locations.”
Minogue counted to eleven before Murtagh began. How could he be annoyed at him? Murtagh, too, must have been wondering about a scanner pick-up, or what the hell Communications was making of the radio traffic on this band. Polkas, reels, mazurkas: the Clare dance card.
“Will I put up the lights?” asked Malone. “See if he freaks now?” Minogue shook his head.
“Just wait for now, but,” he said. He knew that Malone was eyeing him, but he didn’t look over.
“And if we lose him? What’s the plan then?”
Minogue wanted to tell his colleague to shut up.
“Boots up on the high-road, Tommy. That’d be it.”
TWENTY-NINE
The radio went hissy. Minogue tried tuning it manually. It made it worse.
“He’s going down . . .” Murtagh was saying. “Wait, I don’t know the name yet. . . Over?”
Minogue heard Murtagh’s car working hard in second or third gear.
“Have you gone by Barryscourt Road yet?” he asked.
“I have,” said Murtagh, but Minogue heard the uncertainty still. “He’s turned. Coolock Avenue. Over.”
“Christ on a crutch,” Malone said. “It’s a bleeding maze in there.”
“Are you on him, Polka One? Over.”
“. . . Waiting to cross. No. More cars. Here we go.”
Malone strained to see around the Fiat ahead.
“I can meet him if he’s doubling back, boss,” said Malone. “Kilmore Road?”
Minogue nodded.
Malone pulled hard on the wheel. The Opel’s tires slid but he slackened his grip on the wheel and the car straightened.
“He’s at the bottom of the avenue,” said Murtagh. “Gone right. Over.”
“Gotcha, ya bollocks,” Malone murmured. He punched the horn at two teenagers meandering on bikes by the curb.
Minogue brought the flashlight and the map closer. Tranquillity Grove? What kind of a mind had come up with that one?
“I turn here at Kilmore Avenue or Close or whatever it’s called, and there we are.”
Minogue put down the map.
“ Come in, Polka One.”
“Okay . . .” said Murtagh. “He’s slowing down . . . Over.”
Malone took the turn off Kilmore Road.
“Pull in, Tommy.”
“He’s parking it. I’m going to carry on by him. Over.”
“Go around the block, Polka One. Kilmore Close. And wait at the top of the road. Over.”
“Are you caught up? Over.”
“Look to your left as you go around,” said Minogue. “Is he moving at all?”
“He’s out. I’m going by him now . . . I can’t get a house number . . . Over.”
Malone shook his head.
“He’s gone home?” he muttered.
“. . . gone around the back of the van. I’m gone by him now. Coming around the corner. . . No, he’s out of the mirror. Over.”
Malone flashed the lights as Murtagh and Farrell passed.
“I’m going for a walk, Polka One. Come around and wait at the far end. Over.”
“Read you. Over.”
“You’re what?” Malone said.
Minogue already had his belt off. He buttoned the top of his coat and pulled th
e door handle.
“A quick walk by and we’ll see what the score is. Fair enough, Tommy?”
“The rain, boss? You’ve no hat, have you.”
Minogue dropped the walkie-talkie in Malone’s lap.
“All right, so,” he said. He opened the coat again. “I’m going to be gargled.”
Humming, loose-limbed, Minogue stopped and swayed. The rain had turned to a drizzle. He fumbled in his pockets and groaned.
“Me fags,” he said. “Me fags is gone. Aw, Jases.”
He hawked and spat and continued down the footpath. The van stood by a battered Dihatsu. He slowed to watch the glow and flare of an enormous television in the window of a darkened living room. There was some muscle-bound gobshite leaning out of an American sports car firing off a machine gun. The sounds came to him from the windows as grinding vibrations. He glanced at the van and then back to the carnage in the window.
A drip started down his forehead. He made a clumsy effort to wipe it off the bridge of his nose. He heard the scrape of a hall door opening, words. He dragged his left foot a little as he moved on and let his elbow dig into the hedge. Raindrops sprayed up at him from the leaves as his elbow dragged on.
He started humming first and soon let words take over.
“There was a wild colonial boy.”
The van was new. The United pennant hanging from the mirror had gold lettering on it. He still couldn’t make out the conversation from the doorway.
“Jack Duggan was his name . . .”
The antenna on the roof was nothing special. Any delivery van would have one. A drainpipe gurgled somewhere ahead. One of the two men in the doorway turned.
“He was born and raised in I-er-land . . .”
He leaned against the gatepost and coughed.
“Hi lads, am I right for Bolands, am I?”
The driver he recognized from Murtagh’s description. The other one had white hair and a Fu Manchu moustache. The denim waistcoat with the silvery bits put Minogue in mind of some country and western type.
“Am I right . . .?” he called out again.
“What?” from Fu Manchu.
“Am I right for Bolands, lads?”
“Bolands?”
“Bolands pub. The taxi man said go down here.”
One of the men chortled.
“Ah you’re on the wrong planet there, man,” said Fu Manchu. “There’s no Bolands here.”
Minogue allowed himself a gentle sway.
“But didn’t I get a taxi here?”
“You were codded then, weren’t you. No Bolands, pal. No pub.”
“But your man in the taxi . . .”
“Where did you come from?” Fu Manchu asked.
“I’m up from Lisdoon, so I am. I came up tonight on the Limerick train.”
“Lisdoonvarna? And where are you headed?”
“A nephew of mine says to come out to Fairview to meet a fella about a job. A watchman.”
“Fairview?”
“That’s it. Bolands pub in Fairview.”
The driver cleared his throat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“There’s a Fairview and there’s a Bolands there too, pal,” said Fu Manchu. “But you’re going at it arseways, in a big way. Where did you get your taxi from?”
“Down the quays. I stopped off for a pint and . . .”
“Well I hope you like walking. Fairview’s that way.
Where’s your bag?”
“What bag?”
Minogue took a step back and looked around the footpath. He backed into the gatepost again.
“Me bag,” he shouted. “Where’s me bag? I had it in the seat beside me there, I put it . . . ah, for the love of God . . .”
Fu Manchu blew out a volley of smoke.
“Jases,” he said. “You weren’t just codded there pal, you were robbed. You’d be better off going home to Lisdoon.”
“But what am I . . .” Minogue went on. “Where’s me fags? I’ve no fags either.”
The driver stepped out to the gate. He held out three cigarettes. Minogue let his eyes out of focus and grabbed at them. He looked down to where they fell and smiled.
“Holy Jases,” said the driver. “I’m fuckin’ throwing money away on a culchie.”
“Ah you’re the decent man — ”
“Look it,” he said. “Go up that way there and go left. Find a bus stop this side of the road and go back and get your shagging train home to wherever.”
The hand on Minogue’s shoulder let go.
“Where . . .”
“Go on with you,” the driver called out. “Before somebody catches you here and throws you into a fuckin’ saucepan and eats you.”
There were bars across the back of the bench seat of the van but the street lamp showed the bottoms of the boxes. Two for sure.
He paused by the van and turned.
“Have you got a light, lads?”
“Get out to hell with you,” the driver called out. “You’d oney set fire to yourself. Go on with you!”
“What do you mean you’ve no comb?”
Malone yawned. “I-have-no-comb,” he said. He eyed his colleague. “No fucking comb. Are you with me now?”
Minogue shifted in the seat. He tugged at his collar again. The rain had gone all the way down his back. Malone had inched the Opel to the head of the street. Lights glistened on the wet hedge, the puddles, the dips in the cement roadway.
“What the hell are they doing?”
Minogue wondered if he’d overdone it. He looked down at Malone’s notebook again. Fu Manchu was Kevin Halloran, an uncle of one of the band members. He’d been in the music scene himself thirty years ago. Listed as musician. A drunk and disorderly, assault within the last five years. Receiving stolen goods seven years ago.
“Have you heard of this Tony Hackett?” Minogue asked. “The driver?”
“No. Has he any form? Wait, here they come.”
The handcart came out the gate, hopping once as Hackett pushed it onto the footpath. Halloran entered the van by the sliding door. Hackett flicked his cigarette into the street and stepped into the van after him.
“Say when,” Malone murmured. Minogue held up his hands.
The van shook and wavered as they moved about inside. Halloran stepped down on the path. Hackett joined him and began lifting down a box.
“That’s it,” said Malone. “So how do you want it?”
Minogue ran his fingers along the buttons on the walkie-talkie. “Leave it,” he said. “Wait. I want to see what happens with the van.”
He could admire the dexterity with which Tony Hackett nudged the box onto the handcart, levered it up and smartly turned back up in the driveway. He called Murtagh.
“Mazurka to Polka One.”
“Go ahead. Over.”
“Stand by,” said Minogue. “We’re waiting to see if our fella leaves.”
Malone gave him a nudge. The driver, collar up now, strode out the gateway and stepped around to the driver’s side.
“You think he’s going to phone Halloran in a few minutes,” said Malone. “To check?”
Minogue watched the vapour from the exhaust.
“Polka One,” Minogue said. “He’s off. We’re going after him. Over.”
It was Farrell answering.
“What about the house?” he asked.
“Stay put here. You might be going in. If there are any comings and goings, ye’ll go in for sure, no questions asked. Over.”
“Fair enough,” said Farrell in a voice Minogue knew only too well. “Out.”
Malone started the Opel. He waited until the van had turned the corner before he let out the clutch.
“Oi, boss.”
Minogue didn’t look over.
“I’d feel a lot smarter if we had company, boss, I have to tell you. If this Hackett’s up to what you think he is, he might be ready to really lose us.”
Minogue pulled his seat belt tighter. He checked his flas
hlight on the map again. Malone slowed and let the Opel freewheel.
“What’s he doing?” Malone asked.
Minogue switched off the flashlight. The van turned onto Oscar Traynor Road. Malone pulled out after a taxi.
“Unless he’s going out to the Malahide Road,” he muttered. “And then taking that way back down to the studio. Why would he be going that way?”
Hackett’s home address was Terenure, Minogue remembered.
“Any sign of him there, boss?”
The traffic slowed at the lights for the Malahide Road.
“There he is ahead. He’s gone straight.”
Malone glanced over at Minogue.
“He’s headed out to Kilbarrack? Raheny?”
Minogue ran the flashlight over the street map.
“He’s not hanging around either,” said Malone. “Are we going to bust your man’s gaff now, Halloran’s? See what’s in the box?”
Minogue took the radio up from his lap.
“Mazurka to Polka One. Over.”
“Go ahead, Mazurka,” said Farrell.
“Move in now. No calls, sit tight. Over.”
“Are we expecting anything?”
“Our friend might be phoning or your fella might try to phone out,” replied Minogue. “Bí ullamh. Over.”
“Read you, Mazurka. Over.”
Malone sprayed the windscreen. He left the wipers on full for several seconds. Minogue caught a glimpse of the van three cars ahead.
“Bí ullamh,” said Malone. “Last time I heard that one was the Killer, up with that lunatic in the South Circular, who was he? Mac something. The suicide. After he shot the wife’s new fella.”
It was drizzling like this then too, Minogue remembered. Kilmartin had gotten a call for a talker. There’d been a shooting and the gunman was still in the flat. He wanted some “serious cop,” someone who knew their stuff, someone from the Murder Squad, not some fukken chancers trying to play shrink. Kilmartin had muttered the Irish boy scout motto as he and Minogue and Malone had pushed their backs harder into the wall to let the armed response team scurry by.
“I just got that feeling, boss,” said Malone.
“What.”
“’Member I told you about the boxing? When you got hurt with a punch and you know you’re hurt?”
Minogue looked over. Malone’s sombre tone was rare.
“And you know that he knows it,” Malone went on. “And he’s really going to let you have it now. The both of you know that neither of yous can stop it. You’re hurt but you’re wide awake. You know everything’s out of hand but it’s going to play itself out, and finish.”