A Carra King (42 page)

“This is getting more and more bizarre — ”

“What was it?” Minogue asked. “Bypass? They found cancer?”

Freeman shook his head and looked at the traffic.

“Book me,” he said, “and give me my call. Anything's better than this.”

“Two hundred million,” said Malone. “That's a lot of jack, man.”

“Was Leyne behaving erratically?” Minogue tried. “According to shareholders or directors, maybe?”

Malone had to slow down for the cobblestones. Freeman surveyed the high walls, the graffiti on doors long-sealed.

“Why are we going along here?” he asked. Minogue looked in the envelope where he had taken the documents from. No, nothing more.

“Is this your idea of sending me a message or something, cruising by here?”

“This is an historic part of the city,” Minogue murmured. He took another look across the covering letter. “So don't be complaining just because it looks like a bomb hit it.”

Malone pulled in to let a taxi and a lorry pass. Minogue looked out at the line of parked cars, the steering lock contraptions so prominent in the windows. People still willing to take a chance and park here instead of paying through the nose for car-parking. He noted the leftovers of a shattered window on the roadway, a relic of a recent break-in, no doubt.

“If it's any news to you, Mr. Leyne didn't exactly have confidence in the police here. He was right.”

Minogue cocked an eye at Freeman.

“Whatever he has or had, Mr. Freeman, whatever he decided to do with his company, his foundations, his family, his will — all that, these are things others would be very keen to know about, can we agree?”

Freeman kept his stare on the headrest.

“Patrick Shaughnessy in particular would be one who'd have a stake.”

Still Freeman said nothing.

“Who else, then?” Minogue went on. “Who else would get burned if Leyne did something like turn things he had into some class of charitable foundation? Or if he was to liquidate a company, sell off a bit of one? Stock prices, would they drop, would they catch fire?”

“I don't play the market,” Freeman muttered. “And from the sound of things, you shouldn't either.”

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' 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 grey Nissan, a Technical Squad car, thought to be in the city centre, 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' 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 seat back. 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 back seat. 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 Malone 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 head 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, 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 tail light, 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 contorted, 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 say. 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 had 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.