A Carra King (52 page)

“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 flashlight 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.”

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.

T
HIRTY

M
inogue redialed. He still couldn't get his thoughts to line up.

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