A Carra King

by John Brady

  Malone tugged at the catches on a box.

  “Hold your horses,” said Paddy Mac. “You can’t be opening that.”

  Malone glanced at Minogue.

  “It’s restricted here,” he said. “I’m only showing you around.”

  “Restricted how?”

  “Well, first of all, we’re responsible for stuff here. There’s insurance, liability. But the big thing is we close it off so’s no one comes in and tampers with outgoing freight. Security’s the main thing. Then there’s headers, obviously.”

  “Bombs, you mean?” Malone asked. Paddy Mac looked him up and down.

  “Well, yeah. If you put it like that. Or there’s people dropping little items in along with legit stuff going out. Contraband. Drugs — but that’s all seat traffic for years, if it’s not passenger baggage, like. If they’re really stupid.”

  “So, not everything’s inspected,” said Minogue.

  “On the way out? Who’s asking?”

  “Just a Guard,” said Minogue.

  “Like an Inspector just-a-Guard?”

  “Just-a-Guard.”

  “Shouldn’t you be going through the APF mob for these questions? What happened to security, confidentiality?”

  “Well, stop us if we’re putting our feet in it.”

  Paddy Mac tugged at his lip. He looked from Minogue to Malone and back.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Only some stuff is inspected. But do you know what goes through here? Bet you don’t. Microchips. Computers. Software by the ton. Not a lot of people know that. People think it’s still butter and pigs and boatloads of Guinness. Not any more, let me tell you. Exports, man. High tech.”

  Minogue looked at the boxes again.

  “Drugs?”

  “What? Drugs? You keep asking me that. Wouldn’t yous know that?”

  “Haven’t a clue, to be honest,” said Minogue. Paddy Mac took a step back.

  “Wait a minute. Are we just having a conversation here? Or are we talking about this band and drugs, like?”

  “Just a chat,” said Minogue.

  “In that case then we’d better introduce some common sense then,” said Paddy Mac. “Who’d be such a gobshite as to stuff drugs in here? Even a week’s dope for one of them? Come on. Nobody’s that thick — not even them. Sure they’re millionaires, man. They’d have no trouble getting what they’d want on tour. Drugs. Free teenagers.”

  He gave Malone a wry look.

  “Like the King?” Malone asked.

  Paddy Mac put his knuckles on his hips. The dust and the acrid smell from fresh plastic was beginning to cloud Minogue’s thoughts.

  “Here, look. You can bet your bottom dollar the Yanks would be all over any stuff coming in freight for a rock band. They don’t sit around over there you know. Customs, DEA, FBI. Do you know anything about them?”

  Minogue stopped rubbing his eyes. He examined the reinforcing bands on one of the boxes again.

  “No. Who gets in here? Into this cage, I mean.”

  “Staff,” said Paddy Mac quickly. “It’d depend on the shift. Stuff’d be moved in and out, signed in by whoever’s on shift.”

  “Other people, I mean.”

  “Nobody. We sign for stuff, we bring it in here.”

  “So say there’s stuff brought here — ”

  “ — Drivers, freight forwarders, taxis sometimes, couriers, you’re talking about, chief. We get the paperwork, we see the bill of lading. We sort it out. We stick it on the right plane.”

  “Do you get break-ins?” Malone asked. “Stuff go missing?”

  “A: no. B: it’s happened.”

  “Recently?”

  Paddy Mac studied some distant part of the ceiling for several moments.

  “The last break-in was two and a half years ago,” he said.

  “Yobs, total iijits. We had pilfering and that but two fellas were nailed for that. That was early last year.”

  He turned and pointed at two boxes by hanging lights.

  “See them?”

  “Yes and no,” Minogue said. “What are they?”

  “They’re cameras. The union finally gave them the go-ahead last year. It was a do or die thing. The computer crowd as well as the big pharmaceutical companies here put the boot in and said they couldn’t do business here if there was no watertight freight handling. Security and that.”

  Minogue surveyed the boxes again.

  “Are all those boxes that heavy stuff?” he asked.

  “What would you say now,” said Paddy Mac. Minogue read the scorn plainly now. “The boys’d need their gear wouldn’t they. ‘Customized’, oh yeah. Everything has to be just perfect. For the boys.”

  The sneer was for Malone, Minogue believed.

  Malone looked at his watch. He held his hands out.

  “I think I’m getting the shakes,” he said. “Do you know that? I keep on thinking this last while I’m going to wake up. Is that how it — ”

  Minogue had his hand on the phone already. He pressed to receive even before the ring had finished. Éilis’s voice brought him relief.

  “What’s with the warrant, a stór?”

  “Not a word, I’m afraid.”

  “But didn’t we have a judge lined up?”

  “We do,” she said. “Plateglass and John Murtagh took it to Enright’s chambers, what is it, now?”

  “Over an hour ago, Éilis. What does Enright want, someone bigger than Sergeant to sign it over?”

  Éilis said that she didn’t know. Minogue leaned against the window of the Opel. A breeze stirred a crisps bag and sent it scudding across the pavement. There had been steady traffic in and out of the terminal. He had given up counting the planes. Paddy Mac’s shift was over in ten minutes. He thanked Éilis and closed the phone.

  “Nothing on the getaway car even?” Malone asked.

  “No. It’s the search warrant we’re chasing now still.”

  “Ah shite,” said Malone and closed his eyes again.

  Minogue studied his colleague’s face for several moments. The patches around the eyes, already almost closed to slits, were new to him. Malone opened his eyes, and rolled down the window. He hawked long, and then spat once.

  Minogue checked the battery strength.

  Malone let his eyes close and settled back in the seat.

  “Waiting,” he sighed and yawned. “Sitting in a car, waiting. That’s half the job.”

  Minogue felt the belt pinch his shoulders again. He shifted in his seat. He knew he’d be checking the gun, for the tenth time since they’d driven out to the airport. Completely neurotic, of course, but still he’d check: he had never loaded in a magazine.

  He reached in and pushed up the strap. The Velcro gave a little.

  “Are you going to load it or not,” Malone murmured. Minogue looked over. Malone hadn’t opened his eyes.

  “I should just take a bleeding walk and leave you to it,” Malone said.

  Minogue thumbed the Velcro down and tugged on the grip. Tight.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” said Minogue.

  “Where’s the clip?”

  Minogue studied the scrawny shrubs wavering in the breeze. A small turboprop rose over the terminal.

  “You need things called bullets to make it work. You know?”

  “Tings,” said Minogue.

  “Come on,” said Malone. “Show it to me in anyhow.”

  “What.”

  “The clip. So’s I know you have one at least. Or did you throw it out the shagging window on the way out here?”

  “No. I have it.”

  “Prove it. How do I know? Show it to me.”

  “I just didn’t want to blow my arm off, Tommy.”

  “What, you want someone else to do it for you? Gimme.”

  “I haven’t had one of these for years. Anything could happen.”

  “Anything will happen! If you don’t show me the — ”

  “I’m an Inspector, Tommy.”
<
br />   “Oh yeah, now you pull the regimental shite? Now all of a sudden you decide it’s — ”

  Minogue lifted out the phone and waved it at Malone. Éilis sounded pleased.

  “They’re on the way, your honour.”

  “Who, Éilis? The both of them?”

  “To be sure. They don’t want to be in the squad with Purcell and company looking through the laundry here.”

  “But who’s in charge there then?”

  “I am.”

  “Éilis, much as I admire — ”

  “I have Purcell corralled in the Palace. I think he’s busy phoning people. Locksmiths or such like.”

  Minogue stared at the frayed tip of the windscreen wiper. Malone had shoved home the clip and had tested the safety twice.

  “What in the name of God does he want a locksmith for?”

  “We can’t find keys to some of the cabinets, your honour.”

  “Éilis — ”

  “Whissht! I’ve enough on my hands. Farrell’s here, too. He’ll cover the legit side of the staffing for the investigation.”

  “Should I be hearing this?”

  “Decide that for yourself,” she said.

  “Is there anything coming in then?”

  “Not a thing — wait. There’s only seven cars left at the long-term car park unaccounted for. Three were claimed this morning, all holiday people in from Greece I think.”

  Minogue glanced at Malone.

  “I take it Purcell has tried to contact me at home to get those keys then?”

  “He has,” she said. “And you’re not there, are you?”

  Minogue closed the phone and checked he had switched it off.

  “We’re on,” he said to Malone. “They got it. The warrant, Fergal and John.”

  Malone handed him the pistol.

  “Leave it,” he said. “Remember the deal: I don’t want to be a sitting duck like this morning.”

  Minogue waited until Malone had stepped out to greet Sheehy when he and Murtagh showed up ten minutes later. He drew out the pistol and shoved it under the seat before he stepped out.

  Plateglass Sheehy unfolded the warrant and handed it to the Inspector.

  “So we’re investigating the theft of a bit of the nation’s heritage then.”

  Minogue checked the Premises section again.

  “That’s right, Fergal,” he said.

  “You look like you’re just after getting out of ten years’ solitary,” said Sheehy.

  Malone leaned against the window. He looked from Murtagh to Sheehy.

  “You look worse,” said Murtagh. Malone grunted.

  “Do you want us in then?” said Sheehy. Minogue folded the warrant again.

  “As long as you know you’re only assisting us in a theft investigation,” he said. “We’re, er, standing back. In a manner of speaking.”

  Sheehy nodded. Minogue heard Malone’s mocking snort.

  “Here, look,” said Malone then. “Here’s our fella.”

  “With the hair?” said Murtagh. Minogue opened the door first.

  Paddy Mac stopped and pulled his jacket tighter. Minogue almost smiled. Horsey people ended up looking like their horses. Why not racing pigeons? It must be the haircut.

  “. . . Teddy boy for Jases’ sake . . . ” Minogue heard before slamming the door. He nodded at Paddy Mac and walked over.

  “Well,” said Paddy Mac. Minogue studied the white spots by his nostrils. The wind had picked up.

  “We have a warrant here, Paddy,” Minogue began. “But I don’t want to just march in there and start in on it.”

  Paddy Mac eyed the three policemen in the Corolla.

  “What,” he said. “More of yous. That should be enough to overpower any resistors.”

  Rezizz-tarz. The gleeful scorn. How could he ever leave this damned city, Minogue thought. It was the whole bit: the stance, the jaw lowered, Paddy Mac’s slow-moving eyes that took in an imagined future which could only be comical.

  “So what are yous waiting for?”

  “It has to be done on the QT, Paddy. I need you.”

  Paddy Mac eyed the Corolla again and sighed. He began to sing between his teeth.

  “I ne-heed you so-o . . .”

  “The Commodores?”

  “I-hi wa-hant you so-hoo. No.”

  “The Bachelors?”

  “No. No Commodores, no Bachelors.”

  “Will you come over to the car for a chat?”

  “What? Into that car with three, four, cops? Are you mad?”

  “No. I have that Opel there.”

  “Why on the quiet, if you have the warrant?”

  “We need it tight so’s no one knows we’ve been through.”

  “Do I look like James Bond? Yous’ll have to do your own thing here — ”

  “Will you sit in the car and I’ll tell you?”

  Paddy Mac looked from the Corolla to the Opel.

  “All right. Where’s your butty, the musical know-it-all. The Dubb-al-in man.”

  “He’s hiding in the back seat there.”

  Minogue waved at the Corolla. Malone laboured out.

  “Yous have a plan I hear,” Paddy Mac said.

  Malone said nothing. Minogue led Paddy Mac to the passenger seat. He leaned his arm up on the back shelf.

  “We need to keep it clean,” Minogue said. “It’s not the time to waltz in and grab people yet.”

  “What people?”

  “If what we’re thinking is not there, then they’ll never bring it if they know we’re onto it.”

  “Who, though? Are you trying to tell me there’s bent staff here?”

  “I don’t know who,” said Minogue. “But if there’s cargo going out — ”

  “Freight. Cargo’s for boats.”

  “Freight. If there’s something going out with a certain shipment — is shipment the right word?”

  “I like payload: but shipment’s okay for runners-in.”

  “Well then, it might not have been brought out here yet.”

  “What thing are yous talking about?”

  “A rock.”

  “A rock? A rock band?”

  “A stone,” said Minogue. “It’d be like a kind of a statue.”

  “What, an antique, like?”

  “Something like that, yes. Can I tell you what we’d need?”

  “You can try, but I have to kick this upstairs. Someone has to know about it.”

  “No, Paddy. Sorry. No. That can’t be done.”

  “Says who?”

  “Let me explain it, then.”

  Paddy Mac listened, watching Malone fiddle with the keys, then the wipers, then the keys again.

  “Okay,” said Paddy Mac. “But maybe you weren’t listening to a whole lot of things I told you earlier on. Number one, anything to do with the likes of the Works would be clean as a whistle. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to smuggle anything.”

  “Intentionally, you mean.”

  “Any shagging way, that’s what I mean. That’s why they have managers and everything. Their stuff is under lock-up here so’s it doesn’t get interfered with.”

  “It’s not checked going out is it though.”

  “What, that mountain of gear? No. How big a thing are yous looking for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I can tell we’re going to have a grand time of it so.”

  “But I do know it could arrive here as long as no one thinks we’re onto them.”

  Paddy Mac took a step back. Minogue glanced down at the feet. Tiny, ninety degrees, like birds. The barrel chest.

  “Well how do you propose to keep it all quiet here?”

  “Number one is that you undertake not to say a word to anyone.”

  “What, including me boss?”

  “Including your boss, your wife and kids, anybody. Then you get us in there, as employees maybe. A set of uniforms maybe? Overalls?”

  “Four of yous?”

  “Two of us, s
ay.”

  Paddy Mac looked from face to face. Minogue wondered if the humour would win out.

  “Let me have a gander at this warrant then.”

  Minogue handed it over. Malone met his eyes in the mirror.

  “Never seen one before tell you the truth,” said Paddy Mac. “Except on the telly. Ha ha. Looks real enough, but.”

  He folded the papers and handed them back.

  “So,” said Malone. “What’s it going to be, Love Me Tender?”

  The Dublinman’s glazed and faraway stare gave way to a smirk.

  “Well it won’t be Heartbreak Hotel,” he said. “This time, like.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Minogue’s overalls were too short in the crotch. He pulled at them, shoved his hands down hard in the pockets, but they still caught him. Malone looked a model. He leaned against the wall and watched Minogue try to stretch the overalls again. Paddy Mac arrived in from the hall.

  “Jases, you look like you’re choking in that.”

  “Have you nothing else?”

  “No. Here’s the list for that load of stuff.”

  Minogue gave up on tailoring and joined Malone looking over the printout.

  “What’s FEI?” Malone asked.

  “Freight Express Ireland. They’re just the delivery agent. The number there is the day. The month comes first. It’s American software.”

  Minogue looked down the dates. He tried to put dates to Shaughnessy. His brain wouldn’t work. He searched for a Biro.

  “The dates,” he muttered.

  “Dates for what?” Paddy Mac asked.

  “Ah, I’m trying to match events to this stuff, this storage.”

  Minogue opened his notebook and tore out a sheet. He began with the last day of Shaughnessy’s stay in Jury’s Hotel. He half-listened to Paddy Mac quizzing Malone about murders.

  “The American fella,” said Paddy Mac. “You’re not telling me anything about that end.”

  “Call out the dates to me Tommy, like a good man.”

  Malone stopped when Minogue raised his hand. The Inspector looked back in his notebook.

  “What?” said Paddy Mac.

  Malone stepped over to Minogue. The Inspector tapped on dates he’d put down after the PM.

  “The last two there,” Malone whispered. “That’d be after he was killed, right?”

  Minogue looked at the boxes again.

  “Is this all there is for them?” he asked Paddy Mac.