Two Kinds of Blood

by Jane Ryan

  Liam had the grace to keep his eyes on the road.

  We were silent for a time and the road rolled on, the city blazing amber behind us. Stars spun in dotted patterns and circles, vast and unknowing. I was small and hidebound in my orbit. Not so Seán Flannery, who’d stepped out of his – if he’d ever been in one – long ago, unrestrained by societal rules. He knew we were dust, less, particles within the dust with no judgement or God behind the stars. Only more dust.

  Liam scratched his domed head. ‘I’m as bald as a kiwi.’

  ‘That why you grew the goatee?’

  He chuckled, but it had a layer of purple chagrin.

  ‘Suits you,’ I said and meant it.

  He grinned. ‘How’re things with Matthew and the kids? Have you been down to Roosky?’

  ‘I went over during the summer for a couple of days, but I haven’t been down since.’

  A feeling of loss. Kay had bequeathed me a dwelling inside each of her children’s hearts and a linchpin loosened inside me when Matthew took his family halfway across the country.

  ‘You know Matthew wasn’t coping in Dublin, Bridge. He had to go home.’

  ‘It’s selfish of me to want the children close.’

  ‘It’s not, Bridge. You love them, but Matt needed his family. I don’t have to remind you what a tomb that house was after Kay.’

  The pain of her murder was a switchblade slicing and made me grip the door handle of the settee-on-wheels Liam had picked to travel in.

  We followed two orbs of headlights, a destination in mind but the way not clear.

  Chapter 4

  Liam’s phone pinged.

  ‘What does it say?’ He handed me his mobile.

  I read the text. ‘Nothing found at the Port. They’re still tearing the place apart.’

  ‘Your tout was right, and it’s played out for you. You’ll get kudos from Muldoon. Nice to have a favour there. He might give you your stripes back.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  The side of Liam’s mouth rose. ‘Are we all dancing to your tune, Bridge?’ His tone was playful. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Head for the Mill House in Kilmacow, keep on the N7.’ I flicked my fingers to increase the size of the map on the screen and looked up to orientate myself. In the surrounding dark I was a blue floating face. ‘Says we’re about twenty minutes out.’

  ‘What’s Flannery’s going to do with the shipment? You think he’ll be here?’

  ‘Yes, I do, and what would you do with a tonne of cocaine?’

  ‘Jesus! How much?’

  ‘It’s from the Fuentes cartel in Venezuela – direct to Flannery – Fuentes doesn’t ship in kilos. Flannery has to break it up. We seized some of his five-point-star stuff at a party. He cuts it with Warfarin and Panacur.’

  ‘The stuff for roundworm in cows?’

  ‘How do you even know that? The Tech Bureau had to tell me what it was used for.’

  ‘Grew up on a dairy farm, so why wouldn’t I? But where did Flannery find out about it? He’s lived in East Wall all his life.’

  ‘Good question. It’s his secret recipe – easier to snort, gets into the bloodstream quicker and less damage to human membranes and septum – he leaves it forty-percent pure and his dealers are obliged to keep it at the same level. Or face his retribution.’

  Liam’s face creased.

  We were moving fast, the dark encapsulating us as the fields and hedgerows blurred by, the digital display shining red against its black background. 8.15pm.

  ‘Time to call the back-up in Kilkenny,’ said Liam. He handed me his cell.

  Lost in thought at what Flannery might be doing, my eyes found the shape of Liam’s thighs bulging against the material of his suit trousers compelling. Heat flashed up my neck to my face and I turned away.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Of course.’ Embarrassment made me curt. ‘Who am I ringing?’

  ‘Cigire Charles Murray. He’s out of Thomastown and mind your tone when you’re talking to an inspector. They’re no big deal in the Square, but they run things in the country. He’s under Charlie M.’

  I rang and Charlie M picked up on the second ring, recognising the number.

  ‘Conas a tá tú, Liam?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you, Cigire Murray – how are you?’

  ‘Who’s this?’ Suspicious.

  ‘Garda Bridget Harney. I’m here with Detective Garda Liam O’Shea. We –’

  ‘Put me on speaker.’ He didn’t waste any niceties on me.

  ‘I would if I could, Cig, but this is an old car and the Bluetooth isn’t seeing Liam’s fancy iPhone.’

  I grinned at Liam who shifted around in his chair and motioned to me to punch the phone’s audio button.

  ‘You’re on speak, Cig,’ I said.

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘Howya, Charlie – we’re looking for a bit of help.’

  ‘I got an email from DCS Muldoon, saying you’d be needing back-up. What can I do for you?’

  Liam and Cig Murray had the easy comfort of shared experiences in their voices.

  ‘Yeah – we’re following some information on a container, ripped off from Dublin Port and headed towards the Mill House in Kilmacow.’

  ‘Lonely country, Liam, you won’t see a light on for miles. Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  We searched for the neon-blue signs the EU had part-funded, but their grand plan had missed this part of the country.

  ‘Maps say we’re in Knocktopher,’ I said.

  ‘Does your woman have marbles in her mouth?’ said Charlie, laughing.

  Liam mouthed an apology at me.

  Undeterred by our silence, Cig Murray continued.

  ‘You’re about twenty minutes out from Kilmacow. Are these lads expecting us?’

  ‘No,’ said Liam, looking at me for confirmation.

  I made a shim-sham movement with my hand.

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Liam said, ‘but it’s a big haul so they’ll be tooled up and with workers to cut and package, some soldiers protecting. We believe their boss will be there too and he never travels light.’

  ‘Not a small operation then?’ said Cig Murray, his voice full of hyena excitement.

  ‘What do you have available to us?’ I said.

  ‘Thanks to Muldoon’s warning,’ he said in a tone that signalled a clear rebuke to me for joining the conversation, ‘I can give you eight armed detectives plus myself, but I’ll ring into the city and get an armed response unit on the road. They’ll be a good half hour behind us. Why the last-minute call, man?’

  ‘Because we don’t know how this will pan out,’ said Liam.

  ‘Not sure of your tout?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Coming up trumps for me now, though,’ I said.

  ‘You’re running the tout?’

  The surprise in his voice wasn’t flattering, but I said nothing – he was ponying up eight armed officers.

  ‘Meet me at Mullinavat, Liam. It’s past Knocktopher. There’s an Applegreen fuel station, only thing around for miles. I’ll see you in twenty.’

  He hung up.

  ‘He’s a good bloke. A bit old school,’ said Liam, his jaw tight.

  He said no more. There wasn’t a whole lot to say when ten guns were getting together. We drove in silence and I spent my time planning positions and formations, a game of chess with live pieces, panic the size of a fire ant walking up my spine, biting each vertebra as it passed. Despite my bluster I was risk-averse, not wanting to chance lives against Flannery’s capos.

  ‘Remember, Bridge, Charlie is running this show.’

  I nodded, too tense to make a fuss.

  The petrol station appeared ahead, a blinding block of light in a farmer’s field, a fuzzy neon nimbus making the darkness surrounding it bottomless.

  Liam cut the lights in the car and slowed.

  ‘Pull in here, Liam – stay well back and don’t go into the forecourt.’

  ‘Wh
y? There’s no one here, place is empty.’

  It was a flicker, something deep in the loops of my brain.

  ‘Stop the car. It’s too quiet.’

  ‘It’s the middle of nowhere and well past eight o’clock,’ said Liam.

  ‘Even so,’ I said.

  It was picture-perfect and soundless.

  Liam eased the car into the cover of a hedgerow and we got out, closing the doors with a soft click.

  I magnified the serving hatch with my phone camera.

  ‘Look at the clerk – he’s by the hatch and barely breathing. The only things moving are his eyes. Does that strike you as late-shift behaviour?’

  We stood in the quiet and I raised my head, a dog sniffing for lookouts. Nothing but cold country air.

  I nudged Liam and pointed towards the truck-wash area. A juggernaut had its dark face pushed into the cone of light above the steam jets, an international shipping container on its rear axis. He took out his phone and snapped a picture, magnifying it with a flick of his fingers.

  ‘No one inside, but it’s a UK reg,’ he said.

  ‘Could be Flannery’s. Tell the Cig to slow down and approach with caution.’

  The whole garage was eerie as hell, more stranded spaceship than service station. A single operator and no other living thing in sight.

  Liam texted to Cig Murray: Set-up.

  ‘How did this truck get here before us?’ said Liam. ‘We never caught sight of it on the roads.’

  ‘Tout never told me what time they left the Port – for all we know the truck’s been here for hours.’

  A ping in the ensuing silence made me jump.

  Liam showed me the text on his phone: Fan out.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘OK,’ said Liam.

  Both of us were gun-range regulars, every month instead of the prescribed three times a year, and had our holsters unbuttoned, not our weapons drawn. The provocation of drawn guns was for television and escalated a situation. However, the Garda were not transparent in what constitutes reasonable use of force in these situations, never making Garda rules of engagement public. It’s more act-first-ask-forgiveness-later and Cig Murray struck me as this type of individual.

  He had eight detectives in an arc outside the halo of halogen light from the garage. Weapons drawn and gung-ho heads on them.

  Of course, I was not above shooting Seán Flannery if it were him and me, with some modicum of fairness attached, but I wouldn’t let anyone face a firing squad.

  ‘There’s no one in that cab, Liam. Signal your cig and get him to calm down. They’ve gone all OK Corral on us.’

  I hadn’t given Liam sufficient credit. He stared down one or two of the detectives, all the while tapping his holstered weapon.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Some of them got the message and put their guns back in.

  Cig Murray was a cocked-and-locked cliché advancing forward. Apart from armed gardaí, no one else was on the forecourt.

  One of the detectives walked over to the serving hatch as if he wanted the daily special. He rested his elbow on the silver drawer. The man behind the till shook his head until it was a blur and pointed to the truck.

  The detective waved a hand at the rest of us. Said, ‘Driver left half an hour ago. Told him not to move as they’ve a tap into his CCTV.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Liam. ‘And he believed it!’

  We converged and circled the truck. Human adrenaline had an odour and contrary to popular belief it wasn’t fresh and fizzy, rather more burnt solder. Liam made a motion with his forefinger and thumb to indicate he was going to open the container. It had no seals. The shutter lock was open and dangled under the lock box. Liam and Cig Murray pulled the handles of the long vertical columns that kept the doors in place. They swung out and we scattered to each side – no one up to taking a bullet to the head.

  Silence.

  ‘Gardaí!’ Our voices were an off-key choir.

  Nothing.

  We moved in pairs, one garda in front, hands free for his or her gun, the other garda at the back with a torch aloft.

  The discs of bright light swept over cardboard boxes with Aceite de Oliva Barcelona stamped on the side. No faces caught in our beams.

  ‘Clear,’ said one of the detectives. ‘No one here.’

  Liam turned to me, nostrils flared. ‘What’s this? Food?’

  I motioned for him to follow me and jumped up into the container, my blue gloves on in a moment. Four other detectives followed my lead onto the container platform. The horse-stable smell of cardboard was overpowering. I cut through the masking tape of the nearest box, pulling out a tortilla, solid, yellow and shrink-wrapped. I threw it at Liam. He caught it one-handed and dropped it, his face covered in surprise at the weight.

  ‘I’m guessing we’re going to find the tortillas are in fact cocaine and the olive-oil containers have floaters,’ I said. ‘Don’t know how many of these little treasures there are in each box.’

  Voices deeper into the container called out as other gardaí found similar packages.

  ‘Automatic weapons here,’ said a male voice.

  The gun-oil solvent smell lay under the faecal pong of cardboard.

  Liam made a small tear in one of the tortilla shrink-wraps with a short blade he carried and pressed down either side, letting white powder push up. It had a ground-aspirin texture.

  ‘The yellow colour must’ve been painted inside the plastic,’ said Liam. ‘Clever, but the interior’s cocaine.’

  ‘Any identifying stickers?’ I said.

  ‘This,’ said Liam, opening the inside flap of a box with a sun logo emblazoned on the side. ‘And this?’

  It was an FC Barcelona soccer decal.

  ‘The sun is the Fuentes logo – it denotes their purity,’ I said. ‘The FC Barcelona decal might be Flannery’s new shipping sticker. It was Homer and Marge, but Fuentes must have changed it. Much good it will do us – as soon as they see the seizure on the news, they’ll change everything again.’

  Nine pairs of eyes regarded me.

  ‘Can’t say she isn’t worth the price of admission,’ said Cig Murray.

  No one laughed.

  Then he was on his phone calling for the Tech Bureau, bagging up the packet in Liam’s hand and telling his men to seal the area off. Puffed-up and shiny-faced with excitement, Cig Murray sensed his next promotion.

  Liam didn’t look so sure of himself and leaned in to me, so close his wet breath touched my ear. ‘Why would Flannery abandon a haul this size? After all the effort of the rip-off? And in a fuel station where anyone could find it?’

  ‘He didn’t have any choice. Flannery knew we were following him so ditched the container. He wasn’t going to lead us to the Farm.’

  Liam’s face cemented with the truth of my words.

  ‘Flannery was tipped off,’ I said. ‘We have an informer in the DOCB.’

  Chapter 5

  We made our way out to Kilmacow farm in cold silence, Liam digesting my theory. I’d gone over old ground with him of when Flannery had been ahead of us in the past. Liam became more withdrawn with every incident I recounted until the stark quiet matched the landscape we found ourselves in.

  We were following a couple of carloads of Kilkenny detectives with an armed response unit behind us. Reflected in the visor mirror was a huge jeep, phosphorus yellow with red stripes. All it needed was an ice-cream-van jingle to make us unmissable. We wouldn’t be creeping up on Flannery.

  ‘We’re close,’ I said.

  ‘This tout of yours is gold. I’ve never had one that was so accurate. Or trustworthy.’ His voice was bitter as a green orange.

  ‘I’m being played, is that it? Or do you think I’m in on it? Is that what you’re trying to say?’

  The heat from his face was a thing in that small stuffy car.

  ‘No!’ He banged his hands on the steering wheel.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You think someone in the DOCB is
telling Flannery we’re after him? Isn’t it a more reasonable assumption that his man at the Port rang him and told him cops were crawling all over the shipments? It’s not as dramatic but it fits.’

  I didn’t want to look sceptical or offhand so appeared to give his statement due consideration.

  ‘Of course it’s possible and much easier to swallow – no one wants to think there’s an informer in the squad – but I believe Flannery knew the shipment was being tracked by MAOC. Remember, Flannery had that shipment ripped off before we got there. That kind of precision takes accurate information. And there’s the timing of his visit to my mum – he was creating a diversion – knowing I’d lose the head. He had to book that appointment with the nursing home days ago, so he knew precisely where the shipment was and its trajectory.’

  Liam was fighting the inevitable conclusion.

  ‘Say you’re right – how do you know this farm isn’t a set-up and we’re going to get a full-on war when we arrive, if we’re not ambushed first?’ He jabbed a thumb behind him. ‘We’re not travelling light or inconspicuous and if Flannery’s the genius you claim he is, he’ll be expecting us.’

  I shifted around against the grooves of the car seat’s corduroy material and wound down a creaking window. ‘How old is this jalopy?’ A bead of sweat rolled down my back and lodged in the lower curves of my body. It only added to the anxiety chewing at the wall of my stomach.

  Liam ignored my question.

  ‘He might be expecting us, but I’m hoping there’s no one there,’ I said. ‘If he was tipped off and ditched the drugs, it stands to reason he’d clear the Farm out. That’s the best-case scenario.’

  ‘But he could’ve left a welcoming party, hopped up on cheap crack,’ said Liam.

  ‘Yes.’ The word was lost in the speed of the car and the darkness outside. Drops streaked the windscreen – the rain was here.

  ‘As long as Gavin Devereux’s not there,’ said Liam. ‘He’s a violent beast.’