Kaddish in Dublin imm-3

by John Brady

  “No,” Farrell interrupted. “The ones we fingered, we got them off the phone feeds. Some of them might be duds though. This last bugger, we had to wait for him since nine. He was visiting his wife in the hospital. She had a baby at seven o’clock this evening. Did you ever hear the like of that for timing? Can you see us going into the maternity ward and clipping his hands in front of his missus?”

  Kilmartin snorted. “Great work, Tommy,” he said.

  “I’ll be a lot happier when Gibney’s out of that house,” replied Farrell harshly. “I don’t like this one little bit. You’d think he had a sixth sense the way he left a few minutes before the arrest team showed up at his place.”

  “Gorman’s missus and the three children are in there, all right,” said Kilmartin.

  Gallagher checked with the radio van. There had been no calls to Gorman’s house.

  “Looks like it’s sealed nicely all the same,” said Kilmartin.

  “Buy me a pint and a small one on the head of it,” grunted Farrell. “What the hell is Gibney doing in there?”

  “He may have a lot of persuading to do with Gorman, by the sound of that earlier call we heard off the tape,” Minogue observed. “The nearer we get to the Ard Fheis, the more Gorman’ll need to be persuaded.”

  “I suppose so,” said Farrell. “We couldn’t get into the bloody house all day. The missus was home with one of the kids, so we couldn’t get any device inside the house at all. Take too long to rig up an infra-red mike on the windows with all the houses here so higgledy-piggledy. Christ, I’d give my right ball to hear what they’re saying to one another in there right now.”

  Kilmartin glanced quickly at Minogue. Both men remembered a recent Special Branch blunder which had involved the use of directional microphones in one of their stake-outs. A Branch specialist had been perched on a wall, headphones on and pointing a dish toward an anchored yacht in Howth harbour one night over the summer. The Gardai had been called by a citizen who was suspicious of such a person pointing what looked like a Martian weapon at the boat. Rather than alert people on the yacht to the surveillance, the Branch man had allowed himself to be arrested. Farrell would not want his officers lampooned in cartoons as they had been after that affair, if neighbours of the Germans found men perching on their window-sills or in their apple trees pointing things at the Germans’ house.

  The car radio came alive with a click and a hiss: “ Phone’s ringing in the house, over-”

  “Do it, so,” hissed Farrell.

  Gallagher squeezed the transmit button on his handset.

  “Alert to all units. This is Control. Repeat: alert to all units. Phone is ringing in the house. Repeat: phone is now ringing-”

  Gallagher’s hand was shaking as he released the button. The radio van began transmitting a patch from the relayed phone-tap. Minogue felt his leg cramping but he ignored it. The familiar double ring of the telephone came eerily from the radio. Farrell had his hand on the door release, body poised to elbow the door open. Minogue moved back on the footpath. The man who had been at the bus stop was now running softly towards Gorman’s house. There would be the others poised by the door, by the windows, moving across the grass…

  The phone was picked up in the middle of a ring.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice. Farrell raised his hand as though about to start a race.

  Another hello. Minogue stood up and looked down the street.

  “Hello, Finnoula? This is Madeline. Howaryou?”

  “Madeline! Is it yourself that’s in it? How are you doing yourself?” Mrs. Gorman replied. “ Are you up here in Dublin?”

  “I am. I was up today and I met Emer. She said you were confined to barracks.”

  “Sean is sick, but the other two are grand. It’s only a bit of the diarrhoea.”

  “I hope I’m not calling at a bad… ”

  “ Not at all, I’m only delighted to hear you,” said Finnoula Gorman.

  A lovely warm voice, Minogue thought. Welcoming, confident. Does this woman know what her husband is up to?

  “Sure they’re all packed off to bed. I’m watching a cod of a thing on the telly, an oldie with Gary Grant in it.”

  The other woman laughed.

  “Well I’ll be up in town here until tomorrow, Finnoula. That’ll be long enough to spread the word.”

  Farrell’s eyes widened and he sat forward in the seat.

  “I’m expecting, so I am.”

  “Ah, that’s just fantastic! Well, tell me the whole story now… ”

  The transmission cut off. Farrell swore and let his hand drop on to his knee. Gallagher squeezed the set.

  “Fall back all units. Repeat: fall back. Await further instructions.”

  “At least she’ll keep anyone else from phoning in,” said Farrell.

  By ten-fifteen Kilmartin could wait no longer.

  “I hope there’s no one looking out their windows here tonight. ‘Cause if they are, they’ll be seeing an important Garda officer by the name of Kilmartin making his pooley up ag’in the wall here. I’m only bursting, I tell you,” said Kilmartin.

  Kilmartin walked to a shadowed part of the footpath which was overhung with shrubs tumbling down from a high wall. Minogue strolled back up the footpath. He was reluctant to get back into the car with Hoey because he knew Kilmartin would follow him. How was it that some people talked even more when they were nervous, while others simply shut up?

  Dried leaves had gathered against parts of the walls along the road. Gorman lived in a street of well-to-do people, Minogue saw. A Volvo and a Saab were parked within a few cars of one another. The breeze had died down but Minogue could still sense the sea. If he had the chance he’d take a sick day and walk Sandymount strand before the bitter east wind came in with the Dublin winter. Bring Kathleen. Go for Chinese food on the credit card afterwards. Finish off with a quiet one in Gerry Byrne’s over in Galloping Green, he’d have the fire lit in the lounge for sure… Anisette. Pernod would do all right, even if it was a tourist’s drink here.

  Behind him, Minogue heard the splash and trickle of Kilmartin’s urine. A soft sigh from Kilmartin. The States, Daithi… what did people his age in the States drink? Cans of beer? Cocktails? Kathleen still considered Parisians snotty. Still. No way in the world would he go for a holiday in the States.

  A car drove quickly down the street, heading for Sandymount village. The sharp tattoo of a current pop hit washed over Minogue as the car passed. Kilmartin caught up to him. Minogue had almost forgotten the detective in the shadows by the bus stop. This time he saw the earphone wire snaking up from the coat to the detective’s ear. His trained, indifferent eyes followed Minogue and Kilmartin to their car.

  Half-ten. Minogue caved in, and got into the car. Hoey had been dozing. Minogue let the seat back and closed his eyes. September, yes. He had woken up early last week and seen that it was still dark at six o’clock. Ireland is on the same latitude as Hudson Bay… How many days to Christmas now? New Jersey, that was just a suburb of New York- or was it a State in itself?

  Gallagher’s voice came softly over the radio. “ Phone call’s over.”

  Kilmartin grunted from the back seat. “Jases, how could they find the time to go and get themselves in the family way, these women, and they on the phone half the night?” he grumbled before subsiding into smoky silence again.

  Minogue tried to remember the photo of Gibney. A strong, angular face, good looks. An air of assurance, but not the arrogance he had expected. Was this man a killer? Minogue looked all over the face but saw nothing to help him answer the question. Young for his rank, but he’d done it all: seven months in Lebanon with the UN, tours of Border duty here on and off for the last five years. Farrell had raised an eyebrow at the mention of Gibney’s father, a retired colonel who counted Major-General O’Tuaime as one of his friends.

  Minogue turned his head on the head-rest and opened his eyes. He could see down the footpath to the gates of Gorman’s house.<
br />
  “Maybe they’re saying the Rosary,” Hoey murmured.

  “Hardly knocking back the drink,” agreed Kilmartin in a mordant tone. “Where do you want him, Matt? Up in the Bridewell along with the others?”

  Minogue wondered what Gibney would be like when they arrested him. A talker? Would he want to explain things, to defend their cause? Or would he be the loyal soldier? “I don’t mind,” he replied wearily. “We don’t have to book a suite in advance, do we?”

  “Front door’s opening.”

  The voice belonged to one of the detectives in the van. Minogue ratcheted the seat upright. Hoey turned the radio up higher.

  “All units in for the catch now… Over. Everybody in. Gibney’s in the doorway… Gorman too. Make sure that back door’s open… ”

  The detective from the bus stop walked briskly by their car.

  The voice on the radio was strained now. “ Gorman’s going to the gate with him. They’re taking their time. Very slowly now…”

  “No sweat, Danno,” murmured Kilmartin as he leaned his chin on the back of Minogue’s seat. Minogue remembered that Kilmartin had written an anonymous letter to Radio Telifis Eireann complaining about their decision to drop Hawaii Five-O re-runs several years previously.

  “If Gibney’s carrying a gun, it’ll be in the car.” Kilmartin kept up the commentary in a murmured monotone. “Farrell should have got one of his wizards to pump the lock on his car out there and get inside it for the gun… They wouldn’t need to be pissing their pants now, I’m telling you…”

  “Still talking.”

  Minogue didn’t bother to argue with Kilmartin. Farrell hadn’t wanted to give any alert to people in the street, but had put his faith in his own arrest-team.

  Kilmartin continued his monologue, directing events: “Aisy-daisy and gently Bentley. Gorman’ll expect two coppers on guard anyway… Let the one walking down the path put it on Gibney, and the two in the car can back him up and get Gorman out of the action…”

  Minogue imagined the other detectives converging on the two men at the front gate; coming around the side of the house, behind the hedge…

  “Come on now, boys and girls,” murmured Kilmartin in a nursery-school sing-song. “Step up to the citizen and make the arrest. Just like in training…”

  “Shaking hands. Gibney’s opening the gate.”

  “How far is Gibney’s car down the street, again?” Minogue asked.

  “Four or five cars down, sir,” said Hoey. “He has to pass the two doing guard duty in the car.”

  The detective who had walked from the bus stop slowed his pace. Wants Gibney through the gate so Gorman’s on the other side of it, Minogue thought. Good training: Gorman could be taken by the detectives who were coming from the side garden. Minogue pressed his head against the glass to see further down the street.

  “Get your big head outa me light, would you?” said Kilmartin.

  The detective had slowed almost to a halt. If he stops to tie his shoelace that’ll be a television cop, Minogue thought wryly. Ahead of the detective Minogue saw a figure step out on to the path. Gibney.

  Gibney stood facing the house as he drew the gate closed. The detective picked up his pace again. Further down the road Minogue saw a car door opening. He could not see the driver’s side of the car. He heard a clink as the handle of the gate slipped home. Gibney paused before turning toward his car. It’s as if he’s trying to remember something, Minogue thought neutrally.

  “He’s not moving… Wait, Gorman’s saying something to our two men… ”

  “Jesus,” Kilmartin exclaimed by Minogue’s ear, “Gorman’s saying good-night to them, or some bloody nonsense. He’s going to notice the two are not regulars on this shift! Close in and nab Gibney, can’t ye, before he makes them too, for fuck’s sakes!”

  Minogue watched Gibney’s head turn back toward the detective on the footpath. The detective had his pistol out, and he was holding it slightly behind his backside as he advanced on Gibney. There couldn’t be more than ten or twelve feet between them now, Minogue guessed. Gorman’s upper body appeared in view then, leaning over the waist-high gate as he addressed the two detectives who were getting out of the car. Somewhere behind the thoughts of an observing, detached Minogue an alarm was going off. Gorman was in the way: there were two concrete pillars to which the gates were anchored…

  The detective had seen it too. He faltered. Gorman leaned further over the gate to see around the pillar. Someone began shouting. Too early yet, Minogue’s mind roared. Have to get around Gorman. Where are the rest of them? Gibney had his hand under his jacket even before Minogue’s mind could scream: Gibney knows, he knows now!

  “Jesus!” Kilmartin cried. “They’ve no angle, with Gorman like that!”

  The detective crouched and brought the pistol around in one smooth motion. Minogue did not see the flash. The shot popped like a stone dropped straight into deep water. Gibney had a gun out and was backing on to the gate. Someone was shouting Gorman’s name.

  “ We have the house, we have the house!” the voice on the radio shouted.

  Minogue saw a flash from Gibney’s gun. He shouted for Kilmartin and Hoey to get on the floor and banged his ear as he threw himself across the seat into Hoey’s lap. Hoey had the door open already: he reached out on to the roadway and rolled from the car. Kilmartin was tugging at the back door release and swearing. Minogue kicked off against his own door and landed beside Hoey on the roadway. More shots sounded, louder now. Somebody screamed inside the house just as Kilmartin came out of the back door, on his hands and knees. Minogue heard footsteps racing down the footpath opposite.

  “He’s down!” somebody was shouting. “I’m on him! I’m on him! He’s down!” There was an edge of panic to the voice.

  Kilmartin had crawled around the back of the car. Minogue followed him. They both looked down the road. From nearly fifty feet Minogue could see how tightly a detective was holding his pistol, both arms extended fully. He was back on one foot as though ready to push a stalled car, and his gun was trained on a figure lying against the gate. The figure was not moving. There was another figure closer to Minogue and Kilmartin, that of the detective, leaning against the wheel of a car. Minogue saw him squirm slightly and relax.

  Hoey was up first, with Minogue and Kilmartin after him. Gallagher came running down the footpath, the antenna of the handset whipping the air as he ran; he knelt by the seated detective and began fingering the man’s clothing. To his relief, Minogue heard the detective whispering to Gallagher. Gallagher’s hands moved down to the man’s leg. The detective nodded and leaned his head back against the car-wheel.

  An elderly man with a newspaper dangling from his hand had opened a hall-door opposite and he was squinting out into near-darkness. Minogue heard another door scraping open as he went by Gallagher. Gibney was lying on his side by the gate. Minogue heard a voice from the front garden asking what had happened, who…? The detective who was training his gun on Gibney was staring intently at Gibney’s hands. He kept talking, but quieter now.

  “Gill all right there? We need an ambulance, don’t we? I don’t know if this fella’s gone. Where’s the ambulance?”

  “It’s all right now,” said Minogue firmly.

  “Gill saw him coming up with the gun and he got one off, I saw it happening but I wasn’t quick enough-”

  “It’s all right now,” Minogue repeated. “It’s over now.”

  “I had to do it. Gill went down, I saw him shoot Gill!”

  Kilmartin was fumbling for a pencil. Minogue looked down at the gun on the footpath near Gibney’s outstretched hand. There was a black stain near the gun and it was moving, getting bigger.

  “Where’s Gorman?” Kilmartin barked. Minogue crouched down by Gibney, well outside the detective’s line of fire. Gibney’s chest was moving slightly.

  “Is Gorman okay?” Kilmartin was saying. He knelt down by Minogue and poked a pencil through the trigger-guard of the automatic pis
tol. “That’s a parabellum, that is. A Beretta, I’ll wager,” he said.

  The stain moving out from Gibney began to creep in a faltering line toward the roadway.

  “Is he gone? He looks gone,” said the detective overhead.

  Minogue heard sirens in the distance. A car burst into the street with its tyres howling. He crouched closer to Gibney and felt for a pulse under the jaw. The stain had emerged on the far side and new lines were branching out across the footpath. Farrell was hunkered down beside Kilmartin now. Kilmartin drew the gun carefully along the tarmac with the pencil.

  “That his?” said Farrell quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the detective from above. “He drew on Gill and shot him, sir. I had to fire then or else…”

  “It’s all right, son. Put that away now,” said Farrell gently. “You did what you had to do.”

  “Where’s Gorman, Tommy?” asked Kilmartin.

  “We’re all right. He’s in the garden, they pulled him down when the shooting started.”

  “He’s breathing,” said Minogue and leaned his head closer to hear a faint, bubbling whistle that came at short intervals. He tried harder to distinguish the sound but there was shouting nearby. “We have to stop this bleeding,” he said then. “Better get him over so we can see it.”

  As he reached a hand under Gibney, Minogue saw Gibney’s eyes open.

  “Jesus,” whispered Kilmartin.

  It was then that Minogue heard the bubbling sound again and he froze: Gibney was in bad trouble, it was a sucking wound from a punctured lung he had been hearing. “I have to turn you over,” Minogue said, fighting to keep his voice neutral. “You’re bleeding so I have to do something. The ambulance’ll be here any second. Can you hear me?”

  Gibney blinked once. His eyes strayed from face to face. His lips moved slackly. He stared at Minogue again.

  “I can’t hear you,” said Minogue. “Don’t talk now.”

  Gibney’s face strained with the effort of protest. A whisper escaped him.

  “A priest?” said Hoey.

  Gibney blinked again. Minogue watched the lips try to shape a P.