by Alan Gorevan
Her hand on his arm reassured him.
“I should get cleaned up first,” Christopher said. “I’m covered in mud.”
His voice, which sounded strangely calm, seemed to be coming from a long way off, as if it belonged to someone else.
“Okay,” Mum said. “Go and have a shower.”
She ducked into the kitchen. Christopher heard the fridge door open. Then she was back beside him, opening a bottle of smoothie and pushing the drink into his hands.
“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”
“Why?”
“It’s good for you. You’ll feel better.”
She wasn’t making a lot of sense, but Christopher did as she said, his fingers clumsy. He just about choked on the thick fruit drink. After he’d swallowed it, he did feel a little better.
Mum took the bottle from him.
“Go ahead.” She nodded to the stairs. “Go and have a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He stumbled up to the bathroom where he washed his hands.
He looked in the mirror.
Maybe he lost himself in his reflection, because suddenly Mum was in the doorway, asking if he was okay.
“I’m fine,” he said, blinking quickly.
She went away, still looking concerned.
He went into his bedroom, where he stripped, dumping his clothes in the laundry basket and grabbing a pair of boxers and a T-shirt from the wardrobe.
He brought the clean clothes back into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stepped under the water. It was only when he’d been under the shower’s spray for five minutes, that he began to think about Kavanagh.
The way Kavanagh had turned and seen the knife.
The way he knocked Christopher to the ground.
Christopher shuddered.
Pushed those thoughts away.
He’d got away from there. He’d scrambled to his feet and run. Maybe he should consider a career in athletics. Running seemed to be his thing. His coach would just need to put a bully on the starting line, and Christopher would outrun anyone.
He laughed, his mouth filling with water.
Then he stopped himself, because the laughter sounded crazy.
Chapter 55
The nose of Joe’s Honda jutted out onto Morehampton Road. There was no sign of Barry Wall’s motorbike yet. He accelerated into the thickening traffic. Rush hour was approaching, and they were close to the city centre. The road would get clogged soon.
Joe drove past the station. A little further down the road, he saw a silver Lexus stalling. The flash of a blonde ponytail confirmed that Dunne was behind the wheel. Joe pulled in just in front of her.
His phone rang.
“What the hell is going on, Joe?”
He was beginning to regret being so familiar with Dunne from the start. The whole first-name thing was not helping. A little formality might have reminded her that he was the more senior officer.
“Nothing.”
“What were you doing? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” He could hear sirens in the distance. “Get ready,” he said.
“I’ve been ready for ten minutes.”
Joe ended the call. He watched in the rear-view mirror as a motorcycle approached.
Barry Wall, all in black leather, with a black helmet, shot past on a black motorbike. Two white motorbikes were right behind him, lights flashing, sirens blazing. The Garda Traffic Corps used Honda Deauvilles, which could get up to 200 km per hour, even with all the equipment typically loaded onto them. There was no chance of Wall getting away this time.
Joe flicked on the lights and siren and fell in behind the traffic cops. A quick look in the mirror told him Dunne was right behind.
They shot up Morehampton Road. The sirens did their job, making motorists pull over to the side to let them pass unobstructed. Wall’s bike kicked up water from the wet street, but the traffic cops stuck on him, while Joe stayed in their slipstream.
They passed onto Upper Leeson Street, very close to the city centre now.
Joe had always liked the way Dublin city was bounded by two canals and cut in half by the River Liffey. There was something appealing about that symmetry. The Royal Canal enclosed the north inner city while the Grand Canal enclosed the south, and that lay just ahead of them now.
He could already see the hump of Leeson Street Bridge, rising over the water.
The street they were on went straight across the bridge before branching at another junction. Ahead was St. Stephen’s Green, Grafton Street, Trinity College and Temple Bar. In other words, tourist central.
Cutting across Leeson Street was another busy road running along the south side of the canal.
As they approached the bridge, the traffic lights changed to red. Joe slowed and so did the traffic cops.
Wall didn’t stop.
He didn’t slow down.
He shot straight through.
Immediately, cars began to pass from right to left and left to right, blocking the way. The two traffic cops went ballistic, waving and shouting over the wail of their sirens. Soon the traffic stopped, but it had cost them time. Joe accelerated forward as soon as he could.
Wall had cut in around the far side of the bridge, and was driving down a cycle lane parallel to the canal. Joe couldn’t follow. He beeped his horn and pointed Wall out to the traffic cops, but they’d already seen him, and they set off in pursuit.
Joe had to content himself with turning left and drive down Adelaide Road, past the Eye and Ear Hospital. He checked his mirror, but Dunne was nowhere to be seen.
Down a road to the left, Joe catch a fleeting glimpse of Wall, powering along on the bike path. Unfortunately, Joe still couldn’t follow him, and Adelaide Road began to curve away from the canal.
Ahead, another little road turned in to the left. As Joe was turning to look that way, Wall shot towards him from that direction and passed right in front of him, almost close enough to touch the Honda’s front bumper.
Joe jammed on his brakes, then turned to the right and followed Wall towards the National Concert Hall. The two Traffic Corps motorcycles shot past him.
The thumping sound of a helicopter came from overhead. A quick glance confirmed it was a Garda Air Support Unit.
Wall really wouldn’t get away this time. He was done for. The roads ahead would be packed. It was nearly rush hour in the city centre, and it was raining. Put those ingredients together and you get gridlock.
Motorcycles, cars and a helicopter.
It was game over.
As Wall’s motorbike approached the next junction, Dunne’s Lexus shot out in front of him. He braked hard and skidded on the wet tarmac. The bike toppled onto its side, then skidded along the road.
Joe slammed on the brakes, bringing the Honda to a screaming halt. He got out of the car and ran forward.
Wall twitched, and managed to stagger to his feet.
Tough guy.
“Don’t fucking move!” Dunne shouted, as she got out of her Lexus.
The helicopter was right overhead now, hovering just above them, its noise deafening, its blades creating a furious gale.
Wall turned in Joe’s direction. His hand began to reach into his jacket.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Dunne shouted. She pulled out her 9mm Sig Sauer and stepped forward, pointing the gun at Wall. With a quick movement, Wall reached into his jacket.
Dunne called, “Get down, he has a weapon.”
She fired her Sig three times into Wall’s chest, knocking him to the ground.
“Stay down,” she shouted.
Joe hurried over. Wall was lying motionless on his back. Joe reached for his helmet. Working carefully, in case he was still alive, Joe began to ease the helmet off his head.
The traffic cops crowded around. One of them was on his radio calling for an ambulance.
Dunne stepped closer, gun still raised.
“Is he dead?” she shouted.
Joe finally eased the helmet off completely. He looked down.
“Is he dead?” Dunne said again.
“Oh shit,” Joe said.
Chapter 56
The rain began to ease off at five thirty. At five forty, it stopped completely and by a quarter to six, the sky cleared to reveal a canvas of clean blue.
Christopher lay on his bed, wearing a T-shirt and his boxer shorts, the afternoon’s events running through his head.
Clara Fry. Mrs. Dresden. Hurrying out of school. The light rain turning hard. Following Kavanagh, his heart racing. The deserted park.
The knife.
Struggling with Kavanagh. Shouting. Falling.
Running away.
I must be a loser, Christopher thought, watching a spider cross his ceiling. I’m not normal. Why else would Kavanagh haven chosen to bully me?
When the spider began to descend from its web, Christopher roused himself. He stood on the mattress and prodded the spider with a sheet of A4 paper until the spider clung to it. He took it over to the window, lifted up the glass, and dropped the paper and spider together down into the garden.
He closed the window and started pacing the room.
He could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Mum had gone in there after Christopher finally finished. By the time Christopher was done, his skin was as wizened as that of a hundred-year old.
The bedroom door opened.
“Alright, pal?” Graham said with a smile. He wore a brown polo shirt today – a little more subdued than his usual style. “I thought I might go to the chip shop, get us some dinner. What do you think? I don’t think your mother has anything planned.”
“No. Yeah. That sounds alright.”
“Good man. What do you fancy?”
“Chicken burger and chips,” Christopher said. “And a battered sausage. And curry sauce.”
“You have some appetite on you tonight.”
“Sorry,” Christopher said, and blushed. But he didn’t change the order.
“No reason to be sorry about a healthy appetite.” Graham gave him a smile and stepped into the room. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“Everything okay at school?”
“Yeah.”
“Did your dad talk to the principal?”
“I don’t think so.”
Graham shook his head, then gazed at Christopher. “You seem jumpy.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Look,” Graham said, putting a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “I know we haven’t known each other that long. But I really like your mother. She’s a classy bird. And I hope you and me can get on well too. You know what I mean?”
“Um, I guess.”
“I just want you to know that you can talk to me whenever you want. About anything. Alright?”
Christopher nearly let go then. He almost told Graham what happened. Maybe he’d feel better if he did.
He opened his mouth to speak.
But the shower fell silent. Mum would be out in a minute. Christopher looked up at Graham. The stocky, older man gave him another smile.
“Thanks,” Christopher said. “I’ll let you know if I want to talk.”
The sound of Mum’s footsteps came from the hall. She was padding into her bedroom in her bathrobe.
Graham said, “Let’s talk later, alright?”
“Sure.”
“Good man.”
He squeezed Christopher’s shoulder before backing out of the room and closing the door.
Christopher heard Graham go down the hall. He heard the sound of a slap, and Mum gasped in surprise. She hissed, “Not now,” and Graham said, “The usual fish and chips? No problem. Back soon.”
When Graham was gone, and Mum was dressed, she came and knocked on his door. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel.
“Mind if I sit down?” she said.
“Go ahead.”
She began to towel her hair dry as she spoke.
“I meant to ask you earlier. What do you think of Graham?”
“Not much,” Christopher said. A flash of guilt hit him. He thought of the way Graham had spoken to him a minute ago. “But I guess he’s not the worst.”
“I’ve been thinking we should go our separate ways. I wanted to know what you thought of that.”
“Will you marry Joe?”
She stopped drying her hair. “What? Why would you ask me that?”
Christopher shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just wondered.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think Joe and I have a future together.”
“But you love him, right?”
A long pause.
“I did,” she said. “A long time ago.”
“Not anymore?”
“Let’s talk about Joe another time. I was only wondering if you’d miss Graham.”
“I wouldn’t miss him at all. When will you dump him?”
“Maybe tonight. He’s spending more and more time here. I’m starting to feel suffocated.”
Christopher gave a nervous laugh that turned into a sigh of relief.
“Me too,” he said.
Mum finished drying her hair, and threw the towel into Christopher’s overflowing laundry basket.
“Hey,” he said.
“I think I’ll put on a wash,” Mum said, and took the basket out of the room with her.
Chapter 57
At nine o’clock, Donnybrook Garda Station closed to the public. The front door was locked. The public desk was abandoned. You might have been forgiven for thinking that the building was empty. It wasn’t. The station was full of activity. Two dozen officers swarmed around.
Half of them were in the incident room. Joe included. He was still full of adrenaline. On a high from the chase, and queasy from the other stuff that had happened.
The murder.
Upon Joe’s return to the station, he’d written up a statement about the chase and the shooting, and he’d now been waiting twenty minutes for David O’Carroll to start the meeting he’d called. So far, he hadn’t even shown up.
Anne-Marie Cunningham and Kevin Boyle were chatting like they were having a casual natter in a pub. Alice Dunne was right there with them, laughing at their jokes like they were best friends. It turned Joe’s stomach.
If she could be taken in by Boyle, then Joe wanted nothing to do with her. He’d thought she was smart. Of course, he’d also thought his son was incapable of murder… maybe he wasn’t such a good judge of character.
He made a coffee run to the back of the room. Dunne came over as he retook his seat.
“Everything okay, Joe?”
He decided to be civil.
“Fine. You?”
“I’m good.”
“Feeling upset?”
Dunne looked confused.
“Of course not. Why would I be upset?”
“You killed a man this afternoon.”
Dunne gave him a look, like Joe was being silly.
“A bad guy,” she said. “Why would that bother me? I thought he was going to shoot you. Aren’t you glad I put him down?”
“Yeah. I am glad you had my back.”
It turned out that the man hadn’t been carrying a gun. He seemed to have been reaching into his pocket for his phone.
More to the point, the man wasn’t Barry Wall.
Dunne took a step closer and leaned over Joe, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. “What were you doing earlier?”
Joe took a sip of coffee.
“What do you mean?”
“You went AWOL at Herbert Park. You still haven’t explained why you ignored my calls and hung up on me.”
“Nothing. I was on my way.”
“You were so eager to catch Wall, but something—”
“Dunne, are you always such a pest? I told you, it was nothing. Why don’t you let it go? Just go and sit with your new friends.”
Dunne stared at
him for a second.
“That doesn’t work for me,” she said. “Letting things go.”
A chill ran down Joe’s spine. He had the feeling that she meant it.
“Too bad,” he said.
She went and took a seat next to Cunningham.
Joe didn’t need an ambitious, pissed-off, trigger-happy detective poking into his business. He tried to gauge how worried he should be.
John Kavanagh’s body still lay in the boot of his car, wrapped in plastic. The thought made him sick.
He was doing something terrible. Or was he? Was protecting his son the right thing to do? Joe rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t afford to get tangled up in the ethics of it. Not now. Getting rid of the body was his number one priority. Every second that it lay in Joe’s car, the forensic evidence linking Christopher and Joe to the murder might be increasing, getting out of control.
Joe pictured microscopic fibres from Kavanagh’s uniform, hair from his head, droplets of blood from his wound. He imagined them attaching themselves to Joe’s clothes and skin, being carried with him wherever he went, contaminating his office and home… and being found later by a Technical Bureau team.
He wondered if anyone had seen what happened. Pointless to torture himself, but he couldn’t seem to help circling back to that question.
David O’Carroll finally bustled into the room.
“Alright. Let’s have a little quiet please.”
The chit chat was already subdued. It died completely as everyone took a seat around the conference table. O’Carroll made his way to the front of the room, and took up position next to the white board.
“Alright, so, our leather clad friend – as you know, he is not Barry Wall.”
When the chase ended down by Harcourt Street, and Dunne put three rounds into the suspect, Joe couldn’t wait to see Wall’s face. But when he removed the helmet, he’d seen at once that it wasn’t Wall.
Joe had no idea who the motorcycle rider was. Another decoy?
“We’ve now ID’d him as William ‘Dinky’ Talbot,” O’Carroll said. “Released from Mountjoy Prison in February. Worked in the kitchen with Barry Wall. Now, we’re not going to cry any tears over Dinky’s death. He wasn’t a very nice man. We’ve established that three motorcycles departed from the scene of the crime in Booterstown simultaneously. They each went in a different direction.”