Dead Girls Dancing

by Graham Masterton

  ‘They’re Ulstermen,’ said Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘If they decide to do that, we’ll just wait outside here until they run out of tea.’

  Although he was joking, it was a deadly serious joke, and they all knew what he meant. The AIRA men would either have to come out with their hands up or try and escape. Whatever they decided to do, there was no longer any chance that they would be able to carry out their intended mission and assassinate Ian Bowthorpe.

  All four patrol cars drove off in different directions, with as much revving and screeching of tyres as possible, so that the AIRA men couldn’t fail to hear that they had gone. Then the Ghost Team returned to their unmarked black Audis, noisily slamming their doors. Katie and Detective Sergeant Begley and Detective Ó Doibhilin followed Detective Sergeant Boyle’s car. It went around the corner into Fairfield Avenue, but only about a hundred metres, and then it U-turned to face back towards Knockpogue Avenue. Detective Sergeant Begley pulled in close behind it.

  They waited for another half-hour, but there was still no sign of the AIRA men leaving the house. Katie closed her eyes for a while. She was beginning to feel very tired, and hungry, too, and she would have given a month’s salary for a cappuccino.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin suddenly said, ‘I hate to say this, ma’am, but my back teeth are floating.’

  ‘Go on, then, go behind that wall over there,’ said Katie.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin climbed out of the car, hurried over to the wall by the bus stop, and stood there with his back turned while he urinated.

  ‘Kids today,’ said Detective Sergeant Begley. ‘The first thing they trained us when I was at Templemore was how to hold it for twenty-four hours at a time, even if you were bursting.’

  Katie said nothing. She wouldn’t have minded going to the toilet herself and so she didn’t want to think about it.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin had zipped himself up and he was walking back to the car when Detective Sergeant Boyle’s voice barked out over the r/t, ‘They’re away! They’re going for it!’

  His Audi roared into life and pulled away from the kerb with its tyres shrieking. As it did so, the yellow Volvo estate came speeding out of Knockpogue Avenue, straight across Fairfield Avenue, and disappeared south towards the city centre.

  The Audi slewed around the corner and went after it like a lion after a gazelle. Detective Ó Doibhilin scrambled back into their Toyota and before he had managed to slam his door shut Detective Sergeant Begley had started the engine and stamped on the accelerator pedal. None of them said a word as they skidded into Knockpogue Avenue and followed the Audi at over 80 kph, and Katie kept a tight grip on the door handle. Both sides of the road were lined with parked cars, which made it dangerously narrow at this speed, and their car hit a Range Rover’s wing mirror with an explosive bang.

  Flashing past Farranferris Green recreation ground they saw the Garda patrol car that had been waiting there, but it was clear that the Volvo had been driving far too fast for it to be stopped – not without risking a fatal collision. After they had gone by, though, the patrol car immediately lit up its flashing blue lights and came behind them.

  ‘Why in the name of God don’t they just pull over and call it a day?’ exclaimed Detective Sergeant Begley as they rounded a mini-roundabout with their tyres screaming in chorus. But now the Volvo was speeding even faster, its suspension bouncing up and down as it plunged down Fair Hill.

  Katie could see it colliding again and again with the cars parked by the sides of the road, with sparkling fragments of mirror flying in the air. It was obvious that the AIRA men were desperate, but it was equally obvious that they had no intention of stopping for anybody. She had come across this so many times before when suspects she was pursuing had lengthy criminal records. They would rather be shot dead trying to escape arrest than go back to spend another decade in prison.

  As they neared the city centre and the River Lee the streets became narrower and steeper, but the yellow Volvo kept bounding and careering down between the shops and houses at the same reckless speed and Detective Sergeant Boyle’s black Audi clung only three or four metres behind it. Katie could hear their suspension thumping and clonking as they hit the potholes in the tarmac.

  Like some dramatic twist of fate, they reached the bottom of Shandon Street at Farren’s Quay right beside the boarded-up shell of the Toirneach Damhsa dance studio. The Volvo’s brakes smoked as it skidded to a halt. When it tried to turn left, though, it was suddenly confronted by a huge Guinness truck which trumpeted its horn like an outraged bull elephant.

  Farren’s Quay was one-way westwards and there was no room for the Volvo to manoeuvre its way past even if it tried to drive over the pavement. The driver turned around in his seat and tried to reverse, but Detective Sergeant Boyle’s Audi came around the corner and hit it just behind the nearside rear wheel, knocking it sideways.

  The Ghost Team immediately opened up the rear doors of their car, but at the same time the passenger door of the Volvo opened up, too. An AIRA man in a black sweater and jeans raised a sub-machine gun and fired three quick bursts at the Audi, shattering its windscreen and one of its rear windows. The Ghost Team men dropped down to take cover behind their doors, and as they did so the sub-machine gunner slammed his door shut again and the Volvo backed up with its wheels spinning and rammed the Audi out of its way.

  Detective Sergeant Begley was slowing right down as Farren’s Quay came into sight and as soon as they heard the rattle of sub-machine gun fire he jammed his foot on the brake and reversed until they were shielded by the flower shop on the corner. Katie climbed out of the car, tugging her revolver out of its holster, and looked cautiously through the florist’s windows to see what was happening.

  The Volvo had backed into the railings at the corner of Griffith Bridge. It appeared to be jammed there because she could hear its tyres making an abrasive slithering sound and see clouds of black rubber smoke. The Ghost Team were taking advantage of that by shooting with their Heckler & Koch sub-machine guns into its radiator and front wheels. The cracking and popping and gunfire sounded like a firework display.

  The passenger window of the Volvo came down and the AIRA man poked out his sub-machine gun to fire another burst. Bullets ricocheted in all directions, rattling across the pavement and hitting the façade of the funeral director’s. Then the Volvo gunned its engine to screaming pitch, wrenching at the railings again and again. At last, with a metallic screech, it tore itself free and lurched forward, colliding with the Audi a second time. The Ghost Team men fired short concentrated bursts into its doors and boot and petrol tank. They avoided shooting directly into the windows – they were under orders not to kill the suspects unless they really had no alternative.

  Katie was still shielded by the florist’s windows when the Volvo’s petrol tank exploded. There was a deep whoomph and a huge ball of orange flame rolled out of it, quickly turning into oily black smoke. Even around the corner she could feel the heat of it.

  Almost at once, though, there was another explosion. This was ten times more forceful than the petrol tank blowing up. Katie felt as if a superheated wind had blasted over her. This time the flower shop windows were turned instantly to what looked like ice, and then dropped to the ground.

  Two of the Ghost Team had been knocked on to their backs, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the Volvo. It was burning like a giant white-hot stove. All she could see through the glare was the outlines of three men, two of them sitting in the front and one in the back, waving their arms almost comically, as if they were life-size marionettes.

  In what must have been a last desperate attempt to save himself, the driver somehow managed to shift the Volvo into reverse and put his foot down. The burning car jolted backwards, mounting the pavement and forcing its way through the twisted railings with a scraping noise that put Katie’s teeth on edge. It teetered right on the brink of the parapet for a few seconds and then dropped backwards into the river, landing with a deep double-sl
apping splash and a fierce hissing sound. Clouds of smoke and steam billowed up into the air, smelling of petrol and melting plastic.

  Katie and Detective Sergeant Begley crossed quickly over to the bridge and looked down into the water. The tide was in, so the river was deep, but even the river hadn’t extinguished the fire. The surface was boiling and bubbling furiously and underneath it they could see the incandescent green outline of the Volvo, still burning. Katie was sure she could even see the man who had been sitting in the passenger seat convulsively waving one arm out of the open window.

  Detective Ó Doibhilin came up behind them and stared down at the weirdly luminous river and the car that was still ablaze beneath it.

  ‘Now that – is – fecking – impossible,’ he declared.

  ‘No,’ said Katie. ‘That’s TPA more than likely – the same stuff that was used to burn down the dance studio there. The petrol tank going up must have ignited it. It burns anywhere, TPA, even in a vacuum, or underwater, like magnesium.’

  Detective Sergeant Begley was calling for the fire brigade and an ambulance. When he had put down his r/t, he came over and said, ‘They’ll be here in five minutes max, that’s what they said. To be honest with you, I haven’t a notion what the point is in calling for either of them. How can the fire brigade put out a fire underwater, and what can the paramedics do for three fellows after they’ve been incinerated and drownded, and probably shot a few times into the bargain?’

  35

  Two hours later, Katie called an informal press briefing on the steps of the Garda station at Anglesea Street. It was sunny now, but a cold wind was blowing which made all their coats flap like washing on a line.

  Fionnuala Sweeney from RTÉ’s Ireland AM had been keen to use Farren’s Quay with its twisted railings as a background, but Katie had ordered the north embankment of the River Lee to be cordoned off all the way westwards from John Redmond Street to the Shaky Bridge.

  ‘All I can tell you at this stage is that there were three suspects in the vehicle whom we had been following for some time. They were thought to be in possession of firearms and explosives and that proved to be the case.’

  ‘Do you know their identities?’ asked Dan Keane from the Examiner.

  ‘We believe we do, yes, but it would be premature of me to tell you who they were. I have to emphasize that what happened this morning was only one aspect of a much wider ongoing investigation.’

  ‘And what wider investigation exactly is that, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to give you that information just yet.’

  ‘So – these three suspects – were they affiliated with any gang or political organization? I mean, are we talking about crime here, DS Maguire, or terrorism?’

  ‘Again, Dan, it could seriously compromise our enquiries if I were to tell you any more just at the moment.’

  ‘There were two separate gunfights – one up at Fair Hill and one down here on Farren’s Quay,’ said Fionnuala Sweeney. ‘I’m assuming they were connected.’

  ‘No comment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Who was doing the shooting? Would it be right to say that armed gardaí from the Regional Support Unit were involved in both? Or were they detectives from the ERU?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give you any more details about the operation, Fionnuala. I’ll be making further statements in due course, but that’s all for now.’

  ‘What about the car that went into the river?’ asked Dan Keane. ‘I’ve talked to several witnesses and some of them said that it was still burning when it was under the water. How could that be?’

  ‘No comment yet, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But they said it was still alight, even though it was completely under the surface like.’

  ‘No comment, Dan. For now, we’ve called in navy divers from Haulbowline to extricate the three bodies, and then the vehicle will be lifted up from the river bed by crane. When that’s done, the Technical Bureau will be able to make a thorough forensic examination of both bodies and vehicle.’

  ‘Is this investigation linked by any chance to the visit of the British defence secretary to Cork today?’

  Katie gave one of her frigid smiles and said, ‘That’s all for now. Thank you for coming. Mathew McElvey will be in touch with you when and if there’s any more.’

  *

  She went back up to her office. Moirin had arrived and brought her in a cappuccino. She took off her jacket and sat down on one of the couches under the window and eased off her ankle-boots.

  ‘Mother of God, I’m beat out,’ she said.

  ‘I saw you on the news so,’ said Moirin. ‘That was something terrible by the sound of it, that car going into the river.’

  ‘Not the happiest way to start the day,’ said Katie. ‘But I really need to get some sleep now, if only a couple of hours.’

  ‘Can I fetch you something to eat?’

  ‘No, later maybe, Moirin. I can scarce keep my eyes open.’

  As soon as she had arrived at the station she had called Detective Inspector Mulliken to bring him up to date. Later this morning he would apply for a warrant to bring in Joe ‘Knucklecracker’ Keenan on possible charges of conspiracy. The Keenan house was already cordoned off, with four uniformed gardaí on duty outside to prevent anybody from entering or leaving.

  Meanwhile, all across the city, the search for Davy and Cissy Dorgan had resumed. More than thirty officers were going house to house, to every known member of the Authentic IRA and Davy Dorgan’s cigarette-smuggling gang, and following up any sightings reported by the public.

  Neither Liam O’Breen nor Murtagh McCourt had returned home and neither of them had been seen since they had taken Cissy away from the hospital.

  Katie had left it to Detective Sergeant Begley to give Chief Superintendent MacCostagáin a full rundown on the abortive siege at Knockpogue Avenue and the firefight at Farren’s Quay. First she would need to have the identities of the three dead AIRA men confirmed, and find out from the burned-out wreckage of their car what weapons and explosives they had been carrying. Then she would hold a meeting to discuss what action they needed to take next. For this she wanted to bring in not only her own detectives but also the ERU detectives in charge of Ian Bowthorpe’s security. With Davy Dorgan still at large she was concerned that he might be planning another assassination attempt, even though it was much less likely now that his three hit men from Ulster had been eliminated.

  She lay on her couch and closed her eyes and fell asleep within minutes. She dreamed that she was walking through the woods with Barney, but that he kept disappearing. She called him and called him, but when he reappeared and ran up to her he looked different somehow, as if his red colour had lost its lustre and his eyes were bulging.

  You’re not Barney. You’re another dog.

  He ran off again and this time he didn’t return. Katie struggled her way through the underbrush but it grew increasingly prickly and tangly, and after a while her coat was so snared with brambles that she was unable to move.

  Where are you? I don’t know where you are.

  ‘I’m right here,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Katie opened her eyes. Bending over in front of her with a smile on her face was Dr Mary Kelley, the assistant deputy state pathologist. Both of her thinly plucked eyebrows were raised in amusement.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Katie, sitting up. ‘I went totally haboo then. I didn’t get any sleep last night at all.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to wake you, but I thought I’d come in to see you in person,’ said Dr Kelley. ‘I’ve completed my post-mortem examination of Mrs Dennehy and I’m on my way to catch the 12.20 to Dublin.’

  ‘Oh. When will you be back? We’ll be needing you again on Monday.’

  ‘Sure, yes. I heard on the radio this morning that three deceased fellows were recovered from the river, but Dr Mulready will have to come down and deal with those. It’s my anniversary and I’m having a few days off in Italy next
week – Verona.’

  Katie stood up and went over to her desk. Her cappuccino was still there but it was stone-cold now and the froth was flat. ‘So... what’s the story with Mrs Dennehy? It looked to me as if she’d been sexually assaulted.’

  ‘Oh, you’re spot on there,’ said Dr Kelley. ‘Sexually assaulted and not just by one assailant. Fortunately for us, she had not done what most women do when they’re raped, which is to give themselves a thorough wash. It’s almost as if she wanted to leave material evidence of what had been done to her.’

  ‘So, how many assailants, would you say?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say exactly, but the acid phosphatase and Christmas tree tests definitely showed the fluid in Mrs Dennehy’s vagina to be semen. We call it the Christmas tree test because of the dyes we use – picroindigocarmine stains the tails and necks of the sperm green, while nuclear red stains their heads scarlet.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Katie. She knew that, but she always thought it sounded unpleasantly flippant, considering why the test was usually carried out.

  ‘Obviously the sperm cells had deteriorated considerably since she was raped, but they tend to survive longer inside the vagina,’ Dr Kelley went on. ‘Judging by the quantity, it was the semen of more than one man, possibly as many as three or four. Your average ejaculation is 3.5 ml and I found almost three times that. Some of it was ejaculated high up inside the vagina while I found some of it just inside the labia, and indeed some on the labia themselves, so it was possible to distinguish one sample from another.’

  ‘Jesus. Poor woman.’

  ‘There’s another clear indication that there was more than one assailant, and that’s the distinct difference in sperm count between different samples. Smoking and drinking can dramatically lower a man’s sperm count, and at least one sample appeared to have oligosperma, or no sperm at all. It’s even conceivable that there were more than four assailants and that some of them didn’t ejaculate, which is why I also tested for prostate specific antigen. You have to be cautious with that, though, because it’s also produced by the majority of women from glands around the urethra. It can even be present in breast milk.’