by John Brady
Minogue studied Freeman’s face.
“Ah, don’t feel so bad there now,” he said. He glanced at Malone, met his eyes for a moment. “You’re probably not the only one who’s been set up here.”
“Is this how you treat people here?” Freeman asked. “Then maybe Mr. Leyne was wised-up years ago. I heard you were friendly, easy to get along with. Oh sure, awkward maybe, but decent. I actually used to turn a deaf ear to him when he’d go into his, his, they weren’t exactly tirades, but — ‘They’d cut your throat behind your back.’ There — an Irishman saying that about an Irishman?”
“No news there,” Minogue said.
“And still he was — he is — so proud of being Irish. You probably can’t understand that, can you? And after this episode, let me tell you — ”
“Shut up a minute,” said Malone. “Boss?”
Minogue turned.
“You see it?”
“Which?”
“A green Mondeo sitting back there? A boom-boom version. Fancy wheels?”
“Might be one of ours, Tommy. Turn on the radio.”
There was a two-way about a stolen van being followed through Finglas.
“He wasn’t there when we came onto the street,” said Malone. “He must have come in after that lorry, and pulled in.”
Minogue strained to see along the parked cars.
“Naw,” Malone murmured. “He pulled in at an entrance to some place there. I can still see a bit of the side of him there…”
Minogue turned up the radio a notch. There was a traffic accident somewhere near Rathmines. The stolen van was now speeding through red lights in Finglas village.
“If it’s someone Hayes’s mob has put on us, they’d have their own band,” said Malone.
Minogue weighed the phone in his hand. Freeman wasn’t going to tell them anything. Time to show up, probably. Whatever about Hayes and company, Declan King would be trouble. Tynan might blow a gasket over this.
“Let’s move on, Tommy. Let them play if they want.”
“I think he might have been with us a few streets back, boss.”
“Are we close to your place?” asked Freeman.
“He’s coming along with us, boss,” said Malone. Minogue looked out the back window. He wondered if there was a pick-up car, a tandem, somewhere ahead.
“Who’s following us?” Freeman asked.
“I don’t know,” said Minogue.
The dispatcher’s voice had a different tone now, Minogue believed. He repeated the message. A gray Nissan, a Technical Squad car, thought to be in the city center, perhaps heading for headquarters in the Phoenix Park.
“We’re famous now,” said Malone. “Bet you it’s the Iceman. He’s gotten an earful from King already. ”
The dispatcher repeated the request to get in touch with CDU section 3 by phone immediately.
“There goes the promotion,” said Malone.
“You’d better tell me what’s going on here,” said Freeman.
“Huh,” said Malone, his eyes on the rear mirror. “Hayes’s mob. James fucking Bond cha-cha tango gobshites. With their souped-up shitbox Mond-Jesus!!”
Malone stood on the brakes and yanked the wheel. Minogue’s belt bit into his neck. Freeman’s shoulder hit hard on the seatback. It was a white car, a Golf, but Malone had managed not to stop in time. Tires shrieked somewhere behind. Freeman was trying to right himself in the backseat. Son of a, he was saying.
The passenger door of the Golf swung open. Minogue was surprised how could a driver so blatantly in the wrong want to leap out and start shouting. In the split second before the man turned, Minogue had taken in the covering on his head, the bomber jacket, the thing in his hand, and he had registered all this somewhere as trouble. Planned, he knew instinctively as he realized that he was watching a man with a nylon stocking over his face carrying a gun.
Malone had already found reverse. He jammed the pedal, shouting. The man with the gun hesitated, took a few steps, and stopped as Malone accelerated. The Nissan began to waver as Malone overcorrected but he kept it going. Minogue looked out the front. Someone in the Golf was waving and shouting at the gunman.
“Oh-oh,” from Malone, and then a shout as the Mondeo blocked the roadway behind.
“Hang on,” Malone called out. “I’m going to have a go at him!”
Malone didn’t slow down. Minogue put his head down as the Nissan hit the Mondeo, but the impact threw his head against the headrest. Freeman came forward, his hands over his head, crashing into the seat. The Nissan was stalled and beeping. Minogue heard something metallic rolling away outside on the roadway. Malone leaned over the wheel now, grabbing at the small of his back.
“Out,” he shouted. “Get somewhere between the parked cars!”
Minogue saw that the gunman had begun to run toward them now, the Golf following. He looked around for Freeman, and then slipped as he came around his open door and went down on his side. The pain from his hip and his elbow stunned him. He heard Malone was calling his name, shouting something about over here. The roadway was greasy under his palms. A slicing pain from his palm came to the fore now: some piece of a light from one of the cars was embedded there. He got up to a crouch, called out Freeman’s name.
There were hissing sounds coming from somewhere, grinding too: the front of the Mondeo. The driver was trying to start the engine again. Malone shouted something about Freeman, he was over here.
Minogue ducked when he heard the crack, like a stone being split, then another. He ran blind on his hunkers to the parked cars. Malone grabbed his collar as he put out his hands.
“Get down here, boss! Boss! Down!”
He saw Freeman’s leg as he dropped down between the bumpers. Malone leaned around a bumper and fired off three shots down the street. There was a quick squeal of tires and a shout. Minogue thought he heard “gun.” Maybe they hadn’t expected them to be armed. Freeman was half on the footpath now. Minogue called out to him. Freeman’s face appeared by a taillight, his mouth slack with the shock. He was bobbing on his hunkers.
“Don’t,” Minogue called out.
The driver of the Mondeo gave up. A car door opened. Minogue crouched lower, heard footsteps scrambling. Oh fuck, he heard Malone curse. Someone began shooting steadily now. He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. There was a whirr in the air close by. Malone bobbed up, fired a shot toward the Mondeo, and dropped down.
Minogue turned when he heard the scrambling behind. Freeman was gone There were more shouts, some from himself, Malone. Two shots rang out in quick succession, then two more. The running footsteps stopped and he heard something hit a panel, scrape on the cement of the footpath. Malone began shouting Freeman’s name now too.
There was another shot and then Minogue heard someone running. Minogue tried to get his feet under him better for a sprint. One of his knees wouldn’t bend enough. A car began to rev high — the Golf, he thought. Someone was shouting, “Let’s fucking go!” More shots now, a steady, measured volley from one gun. A car window went out with a pop nearby, pieces hesitating and then cascading in bunches to the roadway. Malone fired: to keep them at bay, Minogue knew. How many were in a clip on those new automatics, he thought. Did Malone carry — The revving gave way to tires squealing and a door being pulled shut.
“Freeman, are you there?” he heard himself call out.
“Stay down,” he heard Malone shout. The driver of the Golf made a racer’s gear change into second.
“Are they gone?” Malone called out. Minogue peered around the bumper. It was a Peugeot he’d been hugging, he realized. Behind him, a Starlet, close to being a clapped-out banger. His palm was beginning to sting. He looked down at the cut. And there was a rip at the knee of his newish trousers, bought in that shop in… The weakness flooded into him in an instant. Was he going to faint now?
“Are they gone?” Malone was asking.
“I don’t know,” he managed. Malone, his face red and contorte
d, was backing toward him on his haunches, his gun trained on the gap between the cars.
“Where’s Freeman?”
Minogue’s jaw seemed to be locked. He shook his head.
“Where’s Freeman?”
Still Minogue couldn’t find the words. Tires squealed one street over. The hum and background hush of the city seemed to come back louder than ever. Malone began to take quick looks around the bumper at the two cars in the middle of the road. The driver’s door on the Mondeo still hung open.
“Did they take off in the other car?” Minogue heard him ask. There was a sharp smell in the air that Minogue recognized all too well. Malone was standing in a crouch now, looking through the window of the Starlet. Minogue heard him talking but couldn’t hear the words. Malone hunkered down again, gasping.
“He’s over by the footpath,” Malone said and gasped again. “Boss?”
Minogue scrambled on his knees over to the edge of the footpath. He put his hand out on the bumper to steady himself and took a quick look down the path. Those boating shoes Americans seemed to be in love with, he thought first, not wanting to take in the sight. There was something dark on the footpath beside where Freeman lay. A line led crookedly out from it to the edge of the footpath.
Malone’s hand grasped his upper arm but he hardly noticed. He looked up to where Malone was crouched above him now.
“They went after him,” Malone said in a whisper. “They went after Freeman. What are we going to do?”
“There he is,” said Dolan. “The boss man himself.”
Minogue turned his head slowly. Even at this distance, he recognized O’Leary stepping out. Tynan was out then, putting on his hat. Something about the way he put on the hat seemed ridiculous to Minogue. He watched the television crew pushing forward by the cordon at the end of the street behind. Tynan stooped to get under the tape.
Minogue shifted in his seat and exchanged a glance with Malone. Malone sighed and stared at the fluttering tape, the small crowd milling behind the squad cars drawn up at the end of the street. Minogue tried again to stretch. No go. In the half hour since Sergeant Malachy Dolan had shepherded them into the unmarked car at the far end of the area, his neck and shoulders had gone stiff.
Dolan hadn’t annoyed them much with questions, especially after Malone’s angry reply to a question asked more than once: he didn’t know if the other fella or fellas had all jumped into the frigging Golf, because he was busy ducking bullets from one of them to cover their getaway, for Jases’ sake. Dolan didn’t seem to take this badly at all, and had sat behind the wheel, monitoring the radio for news of the Golf with them. Nothing was showing up.
Minogue fingered the plaster on his palm and tried to flex his knee again. It wasn’t swollen, but it had gone warm and numb. He watched Tynan study the footpath, incline his head to listen to Murtagh.
“Let’s have our say, Tommy,” he said, and opened the door. “And get out of here.”
The handle felt odd: tight, well-made, too springy maybe. The strangeness of everything now. He felt the beginnings of a laugh, then panic. Dolan looked over when he didn’t step out
“Are you all right?” he asked.
His chest was still full of that airy, swollen feeling. Maybe he should have gone in for observation for a few hours. Malone was waiting for him to step out too.
“Boss? We’re not carrying the can for this, right?”
Minogue was up now. Tynan had spotted them, and had ducked back under the tape and was heading toward them
“They knew,” Malone went on, “they knew, there was something else going on with all this. Right? And they didn’t say a fucking word to us, so they didn’t. It’s all up to them then, isn’t it? The bastards.”
Minogue nodded. Malone’s bastards were Hayes and company, he supposed. Tynan covered ground quickly, he thought. The handshake, unexpected, reminded Minogue of the loser in a close bout.
“Matt?”
“Well I’m on me feet.”
“Tommy?”
Malone shrugged, took the handshake. Tynan stared at Minogue.
“At least get a lie down, will you?”
“No. I’m okay.”
Minogue stared at the crowd standing by the tape. Dolan had followed them from the car. He stood back now.
“No.”
Tynan looked back at the sheet covering Freeman, Murtagh writing something.
“You knew straightaway?” he asked. “After the shooting?”
Minogue nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened? The lead-up.”
“The fella behind was tracking us,” said Malone. “He was good. I only spotted him later on.”
Minogue shivered.
“But they definitely went after Freeman,” he said.
Tynan frowned.
“You don’t think they put him as one of yours? Ours, I mean. A Guard?”
Minogue waited for Tynan to out with it.
“Smiths?” he murmured finally.
Minogue shrugged and looked over at Malone, who shook his head once.
“They’d know us,” he said.
“I’m still going after each and every one of the Smiths’ crowd,” Tynan said. “Every last little hanger-on and gofer, every little worm that ever had anything to do with them.”
Tynan turned to Dolan.
“Can we clear these two to go?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dolan. “We can get a car in for them soon’s we get the word.”
“Please,” said Tynan. “And would you go into that bashed-up Nissan there and take out an envelope, a big one, with some fancy letterhead printed on it, and get it for us?”
Tynan watched him quickstep it back to the car. Minogue looked over at the Nissan and the roadway beyond. The chalk circles around the bullet casings looked like eyes.
“Did you sign over your pistol?” Tynan asked Malone.
“I did. To John Murtagh, he bagged it.”
“Good,” Tynan said. He threw a glance Minogue’s way. “I won’t bother asking you. Have you changed your bloody mind after this, then?”
Minogue said nothing.
“Now,” said Tynan. “We need to clear the decks sometime soon here. We’re going to sit down very shortly and sort out, try and sort out, what happened in that hotel room.”
Minogue tugged at the edge of his plaster again. He was aware that Malone was standing very still beside him. He didn’t want to look over at him for a reaction.
“Because that’s when things started to fall apart,” Tynan added. He waited until Minogue looked at him.
“What were you doing in this part of town, with Freeman in tow?”
“We were headed for the squad,” said Minogue. “An interview.”
Tynan looked from Minogue to Malone and back.
“Those papers Freeman had for you,” he said. “I know what’s in them. So did King, and so did Hayes.”
Tynan looked at the two site technicians by the Mondeo. Callaghan, one of them.
“Aren’t you surprised?”
“I am and I amn’t,” Minogue said. “I thought we were first in.”
“So did Freeman,” said Tynan. “He had called Boston to get the go-ahead after our Mr. Leyne took a turn and was put on the life support. He got the go-ahead to go to you. But we received a phone call here from the principals too.”
“Who, you?” Minogue asked
“No. Justice. Mr. Declan King.”
“Hayes?”
“That went around me completely,” Tynan said. “That’s why you and Head-the-Ball are not being given the treatment here at this very moment. At least your contrariness was out in the open — ”
“They were running us, John. They were trying to turn the case.”
Tynan set his jaw and looked over at Malone.
“Are you picking up on all this, Detective Garda?”
Malone nodded.
“Your CO here arguing the toss with the commissioner? At a murder scene? Right
in front of a detective Garda, detective Garda from Dublin?”
Malone darted a glance at Minogue. Tynan’s blank stare went back to Minogue.
“I only heard of these calls after you two clattered King and company down at the hotel,” Tynan went on. “They’d come in on Freeman, and they were going to set you straight when you showed up for the meeting. That didn’t happen.”
“Set us straight how?”
Tynan gave no sign he’d heard Minogue.
“Oddly enough, Leyne seems to have formed some… ” he paused to consider his choice of words “… some attachment to yourself, Inspector. Seems to think you were all you were cracked up to be — and he checked, let me tell you, I found out. So he wanted to rely on you with this affidavit about the son phoning. But the lawyers beyond had their own ideas, and one of them was to notify the Department of Justice here that you were going to be given these papers. An insurance measure, you might say.”
Tynan looked down the street at the cordon.
“In my book, it’s that meddling made this come about. But now look: Freeman… There’ll be moves over this after the dust settles, let me tell you. Clean house, and sharpish. But this, this mess hangs on King and the others.”
He turned back to Minogue.
“You asked what King knew, and was going to let you in on?”
“Money, I’d be thinking,” said Minogue.
“Always a safe guess.”
Minogue gave him a hard look.
“Okay then: when do we get some real answers?”
Tynan looked around once, nodded at O’Leary.
“Right now, if that’s what you can handle. But not here.”
Minogue exchanged a look with Malone, who shrugged.
“Let’s go, then,” he said to Tynan.
“Fair enough, then,” Tynan said. Minogue didn’t mistake the new edge in his voice. “But, before we start, know this: you’re standing down from the case for now, the both of you. No arguing here about it either.”
O’Leary held up the cordon tape but it was Dolan steering them to Tynan’s Grenada, brushing off a man holding out a walkman. He insisted on shaking hands with Minogue and Malone as they sat in. Minogue’s knee gave him a stab as he pulled in his leg. He looked over at Malone. His colleague looked like he’d just been pulled out of a carwash.
