A Carra King

by John Brady

  Malone flicked the wipers back to normal. He let out a sigh.

  “Ah, I don’t know,” he added. “Maybe I’m only beginning to freak out after the mess this morning. The delay, like . . .?”

  Minogue waited. Malone shifted in the seat.

  “It’s just I can’t stop thinking well, we’re headed in the wrong direction here,” he said. “Ah Christ — forget it. Look, there’s the DART.”

  Minogue caught a glimpse of the passengers in the train before the Opel bobbed as it came over the bridge. The van picked up speed.

  “What’s he doing . . .?” Malone whispered.

  “Polka One to Mazurka.”

  “Go ahead Polka.”

  “We’re on board here,” said Farrell. “No problems. Over.”

  “Have you had a look through?” Minogue asked.

  “I’m in the garage now. Yours truly’s got your man in the kitchen, him and his missus.”

  “No trouble getting in?”

  “Not a bother. Made no run for a phone or the like.”

  “Do you think he expected us?” Minogue asked.

  “Can’t say. He didn’t freak when I gave him the grounds, the receiving goods one. ‘Go ahead,’ says he. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’”

  “What’s the story then?”

  “There’s a big speaker and wires,” Farrell replied. “That’s it.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. ‘I been doing repairs for years,’ says he. ‘They send me stuff to fix. It’s the nephew, I got him started a few years ago. Never forgot where he came from.’”

  Malone smacked the steering wheel.

  “What’s he say about the driver?”

  “Doesn’t know him from Adam.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. Over.”

  “You were right,” said Malone. Minogue’s thumb danced over the button.

  “Will we stay put, Mazurka? Over.”

  “Stand by.”

  “Maybe he was given two drops,” said Malone. “He could be blind himself, you know, a dummy? Is this the Howth Road already . . .?”

  The van wasn’t indicating a turn back into the city centre. Minogue watched the brake lights of the car ahead.

  “Mazurka to Polka One. Over.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Stay put,” said Minogue. “Bring them in, the two of them, if he starts with you. Over.”

  “Good enough. If — hold on, I think I hear the phone.”

  Minogue squeezed the button hard.

  “Listen,” he said to Farrell. “Let him answer. I want every word. Over.”

  “I’m going in the kitchen door now. Read you.”

  “He’s headed the other way,” said Malone.

  Minogue watched the street lamps on the Howth Road slide along the panel of the van as it turned.

  “I think he’s on the phone,” said Malone. “Look, will you. He is, isn’t he?”

  Minogue couldn’t decide. The hand was up by his head. Headlights from a city-bound car came closer.

  “He is, boss. I’m telling you. They’re in on it.”

  Only a much-abused Mini Metro sagging at one side separated them from the van now. The van began to pull away. Minogue heard the breathing grow louder. It was his own.

  “He’s slowing,” said Malone. “Look.”

  Minogue looked across at the speedometer.

  “He’s finished talking,” said Malone.

  “Polka One to Mazurka. Over.”

  “Go ahead, Polka One.”

  “Very short and sweet,” said Farrell. “Nothing clear to us. Over.”

  “Did you pick up on it?”

  “Only this end. And I think it was a code or the like.”

  “What did he say exactly though?”

  “‘Yeah,’” said Farrell. “And ‘Not so bad.’ Then, ‘Buy me a pint.’ Laughed a bit. Then he hung up after a ‘yeah’ or two.”

  “Nothing clear?”

  Minogue’s throat was tight now.

  “Go after him,” he snapped. “Take the missus in too. Aiding and abetting will do for a start.”

  The drizzle had eased. He stared through the drizzle on the window at the lights of the van.

  “Look,” said Malone. “He’s on the phone again. I’d swear it. Look at the head going up and down. Let’s take him now, boss.”

  Minogue’s eyes were stuck on the lights.

  “We take him, boss. Right?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Look, he’s talking. See him? He’s got the phone on the seat ’cause he knows we’re on to him.”

  Minogue flipped to Tynan’s number and began to dial. One ring.

  “Ah, shite,” Malone cried and stood on the brakes. The belt snapped taut against Minogue’s collarbone. Not again, was his first thought. He heard O’Leary’s voice from the phone again.

  The glow from the brake lights on the Mini flared across the windscreen. Minogue got his hands on the dashboard as the Opel slid. The Mini hopped as they hit. A shower of plastic from tail lights flew up on the bonnet.

  Malone was trying to reverse. The van was turning. Malone stabbed at his belt release, shoved open the door. The van’s back tires spun on the wet road as it went by. Malone rolled back in and grabbed the gearstick again. The driver of the Mini was a bewildered middle-aged man with a woollen hat hanging off the back of his head. He placed his two feet on the road, paused and elbowed himself upright. Minogue’s fingers went to his pocket. Two cars had stopped behind.

  “Out of the way!” Malone called out. “Gardai! Stay where you are, mister, we’ll get a car out to you and sort it out. We’re chasing someone. Out of me way!”

  A lorry driver leaned on the horn as Malone began his turn. It slowed to walking speed as it drew alongside the front of the Opel.

  “Ya bleedin’ maniacs,” Minogue heard. Malone leaned on the horn and began shouting. Minogue lifted the phone again. Dead: he’d hit the wrong button somehow.

  The car swayed as Malone launched himself out, shouting. Minogue stared down at the pieces of coloured plastic glittering on the bonnet, and he swore.

  THIRTY

  Minogue redialed. He still couldn’t get his thoughts to line up.

  “Sorry Tony, it’s Matt Minogue again.”

  “Are you okay there?” O’Leary asked.

  The lorry had stopped. Malone had grabbed the walkie-talkie and launched himself onto the roadway. He watched Malone waving the walkie-talkie and telling the driver to get the fuck out of the way or else. This driver, Hackett, knew what he was doing. If they couldn’t catch him, Daly could walk away laughing behind a half-decent barrister. That was even if they could get the DPP to come up with anything that’d stick. Botched and bollocksed, a squad investigation that blew up because Minogue had kept it an inside job. Gemma O’Loughlin could paste this on readers’ eyeballs to sell more papers, too.

  “I am, Tony, sorry.”

  “What’s going on there? Are yous in a scrap or something?”

  “In a manner of. I’m out on the Howth Road. We were in a pursuit but it’s gone jammy. We’re after walloping a car a bit here. We need a bit of help but no questions until the dust settles.”

  Over Malone’s shouts of take your fucking complaints and stick them up your hole and the noising revving of the lorry’s diesel, Minogue heard a paper being turned at O’Leary’s end.

  “A pursuit?”

  “Don’t ask yet, Tony. We need a few cars out here. The van we were after made a run for it. He’s carrying something from the airport. To do with the Shaughnessy murder.”

  “What, the American thing, Leyne again?”

  “We were tracking this van, two of ours, but he made a drop-off. The other team stayed to cover that.”

  “What kind of a set-up is this fella, a van you said?”

  Malone sat back in behind the wheel and accelerated around the Mini before taking a U-turn. Minogue stared at the roadway ahead. All
he could see were the lights of the centre city and docks, the oncoming headlights.

  “He seems to be wised up with the electronic gear,” he said to O’Leary.

  “Armed?”

  “Doubtful,” said Minogue. “But can’t say for sure. I want you to call out for North Central cars.”

  “From the boss, like?”

  Minogue listened to the ticks he heard from the engine as Malone took it to sixty in third. He couldn’t tell if the headlights were still intact.

  “I don’t have time to explain, Tony. That’s why it’s you I’m calling. We need this van. Here’s the registration.”

  Malone braked behind a newish Volvo, swearing. A horn from an oncoming car trailed off behind as it passed. O’Leary asked for the number again.

  “The Howth Road, where?”

  “Coming up to the lights where it goes up to Raheny.”

  “Decision time,” said Malone.

  “Give me a minute there, Tony. Sorry.”

  He strained over the dashboard to look up the Howth Road. Nothing. Raheny Garda Station was a mile up there. Was he trying to double back to the Airport, to throw them off? He grabbed the map again and squinted at it.

  “He wouldn’t have many outs that I can see if he headed up to Raheny, Tommy.”

  “What,” said Malone. “Go along by the sea there? What do you think?”

  Four cars waited on the red light to turn up to Raheny.

  “Go the Clontarf Road,” Minogue said. “Whatever it’s called.”

  Malone pulled to the left. There were tail lights in the distance. Minogue took his hand off the mouthpiece.

  “Tony. We’re heading down the Clontarf Road. Into town, like.”

  “Have you radio?”

  “I was using a Branch frequency. I’ll switch over. I was using Mazurka. Will you feed us to Dispatch then?”

  The slaps from the joints in the roadway came like a slow drum beat up from the wheels.

  “I’ll get back to you,” said O’Leary.

  The thumping grew faster. Eighty miles an hour, Minogue saw.

  “We’ve only the one headlight,” said Malone. “Which traffic lights are these ahead? The park there, St. Anne’s?”

  Minogue turned the map.

  “No,” he said. “That’s the road onto Bull Island. A golf club out there, isn’t there.”

  “Yeah. But it’s dead end though.”

  “But there’s another bridge at the far end though,” said Minogue. “Isn’t there? Dollymount?”

  “Yeah, but for cars, I mean,” said Malone. “They blocked off the strand with them rocks to stop people racing down there. Years ago. How you go in is how you go out, see.”

  Minogue tried to shield his eyes from the glare of the street lamps as Malone eased his foot off the accelerator. The lights of the south city, and the more scattered and dim points from the hills, were soon cut off by the dunes that rose from Bull Island.

  Minogue looked at the street lamps over the causeway and the darkness beyond.

  “If he knows his stuff he’s not going down there,” said Malone.

  Minogue saw the pedestrian light flashing ahead. This light must have been green for a good long while. The van would have been flying through, making for streets he knew. A straight road ahead, with plenty of streets to turn into now.

  “Go then,” he said. Malone floored the pedal as the light changed.

  “This shitbox, I’m telling you . . .” Malone said.

  “Control to Mazurka. Over?”

  “Oh-oh,” said Malone and jammed it into fourth again. “That was fast. We’re on the air now.”

  Minogue wondered if Tynan himself had made the call. He glanced over at Malone. His colleague shook his head once and swore.

  “Mazurka here,” Minogue said. “Go ahead, Control. Over.”

  “You have three units dispatched for your assistance, Mazurka. Over.”

  He eyed the map again.

  “All right. Get them to call in and give location, if you please. Over.”

  Malone dithered as Minogue asked for one patrol car to come out the Howth Road from Fairview. Alpha Bravo Two had what sounded like a Corkman handling the radio. They were coming out of Raheny. Minogue repeated the registration number of the van.

  He waited for the third car to confirm it was turned around on the Howth Road by Killester. The bus ahead pulled out from the stop. Two, three sets of headlights were closing the distance from the city end.

  “Ah, not this!” Malone shouted. “I can’t . . . Now we’re bollocksed for sure . . .”

  “Pull in there,” said Minogue. “Ask that oul lad with the dog if he saw it.”

  The Opel slid before it came to a stop, and the front wheel bounced off the curb. Malone rolled down his window as two cars passed. Minogue leaned down to see the man better. The poodle had a tartan jacket.

  “Did a white van come flying by here,” Malone asked. “Going like hell?”

  The street lamps caught the man’s glasses. Seventies, Minogue guessed. He put his hand to his ear. Another car passed between them. The fine spray landed on Minogue’s face, too.

  “A van,” Malone shouted. “A white van going like bejases?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  A few nods of the head. The shrugs didn’t help.

  “The fucking bastard,” said Malone. “He did it. He fucking did it.”

  He looked down at the map, and followed the lines with his finger.

  “He could go around the corner there and head back out. Ah Jases!”

  Minogue turned. A steady row of headlights filled the rear window now. A car pulled out from behind them. The driver looked across with a raised eyebrow as it passed. Minogue decided he could at least have one of the squad cars roll down Vernon Avenue.

  “Mazurka to Control,” said Minogue. “Over.”

  He wondered if Tynan was listening in to the radio traffic. The driver would hear it anyway.

  “Go ahead, Mazurka. Over.”

  “Put the van out to all units, if you please.”

  “North and South, Mazurka?”

  “The both, yes. He’s done a bunk on us for the moment. Over.”

  Malone drove the Opel up onto the footpath. The tilt made Minogue lean on his door. The two policemen listened to the radio traffic, the desultory reports from the squad cars trolling the area. A car going along Dorset Street called in inquiring the number of the van again.

  Malone said nothing. He began a slow tattoo with the knuckle of his forefinger against the window, shifting several times and tugging at his jacket.

  Minogue switched off the light and rolled down the window. The smell of seaweed was stronger. He heard lapping against the seawall.

  “We’re fucked, aren’t we?” said Malone. Minogue rolled up the window again. He held the map up, turned it to face the street lamp.

  “Well?”

  He held his thumb and forefinger on the scale and then tried to measure.

  “We’re waiting, Tommy, that’s what we’re doing. Waiting.”

  He’d been out here maybe twice in the last twenty years. That uncle of Kathleen’s: Kevin. Heart attack at fifty-eight; nearly twenty stone when he dropped dead on the floor. Got up to switch stations when his team was getting hammered in the FA Cup one year.

  “Let’s bring Daly in then,” said Malone, “and take bits off him.”

  “Soon enough,” Minogue said.

  “How soon?”

  “We’re full of holes still, until this van turns up.”

  “Come on now, boss. Put this Halloran in the blender, at least.”

  Minogue held the map up to the window.

  “You and Jimmy,” he murmured. “Twins, you are, but born a generation apart. A miracle entirely.”

  “Well what’s your suggestion then?”

  Minogue put down the map again. He radioed the Raheny car.

  “The Causeway,” came the Cork acce
nt from Alpha Bravo Two. “Next to St. Anne’s? Over.”

  “That’s it. Station yourselves there and keep us up on it. Over.”

  “Are we conducting here, Mazurka, or just roosting? Over.”

  “Sit tight for now. You’ll have company there if we can’t turn up the van. He might abandon it down there on the island or that. Anything coming or going down that bit of road, you open it.”

  Malone ran the wipers. The grit scratched even with the fluid going constantly.

  “Go down there to Dollymount, Tommy. The other bridge there.”

  “And park it?”

  “For now, yes.”

  Malone drove off the footpath without slowing. He slowed a little as they passed the Dollymount Inn to eye the car park. No van there. He turned onto the bridge and stopped at the red light. The street lamps from the Clontarf Road behind shivered on the waters of the channel below. Minogue rolled down the window to get a better look at four cars parked by the cottages attached to the old coast guard station. To Malone’s side the lights of the city docks and the Liffey Basin shone yellow and white over the blackness by the side of the road.

  The light changed. Malone took it slowly. Minogue didn’t remember the bridge being this long.

  “Park it awhile, Tommy.”

  Minogue radioed their location to the squad cars. The car from Fairview had reached Clontarf. No van. Minogue told them to go around Castle Avenue and come back by Vernon Avenue.

  The breezes came in short gusts around the car now. The road ahead was empty.

  “You might get fellas coming and going to the club house,” said Malone. “Gargle and that. Couples coming down for a wear maybe. In their cars, like.”

  Minogue shoved his hands in his coat pockets. The strap around his shoulder began to bite again. Prickly heat under the leather. He shuffled in his seat, tried to move the lump under his arm better. The strap pulled at the hairs in his armpit.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “Damn it to hell. I’m crucified with this thing.”

  He slid the pistol out and laid it on the floor.

  “Ah Jases, come on, will you? Don’t leave it there, boss. You’ll forget it and it’ll be robbed. Or you’ll kick it and shoot someone’s shagging foot off. Like mine.”