A Carra King (51 page)
“What's he doing, for Jases' sake?”
Minogue checked his watch. Four minutes since they'd parked. He turned to Malone.
“Give John a poke, will you. Make sure.”
Malone took the handset up off the floor.
“Tell me who we are again.”
“Mazurka. John's Polka.”
“What's a mazurka again?”
“It's what we dance to in Clare when we do be in a good humour. Now call him Tommy for the love of God and stop throwing questions at me.”
Minogue watched a BMW brake to take the turn onto the roundabout. Skirts they called those low bits: cost a fortune, too. Murtagh must have been thinking along the same lines as Malone.
“âWe're still solo on this,' he wants to know,” said Malone.
Minogue gave Malone his reply in the same deadpan tone Malone had relayed Murtagh's question to him.
“For the moment, yes.”
“He says for the moment yes,” said Malone.
Minogue held his thumb off the button until the first ring elapsed.
“He's heading out,” said Sheehy. “Just left.”
“Are we sure he has it?”
“Paddy Mac went right out to the van with him, yes. He dropped off one box and took ours.”
“No mistake now, Fergal?”
“For sure he took it. The one he left's a box just like it.
Almost the same size, heavyish. That's a sign, I'm thinking.”
“What's in it? Did Paddy chat him up at all?”
“He didn't push him at all,” said Sheehy. “Just like you told him.”
Malone started the engine.
“Any idea if there's other stuff in the van there?”
“Can't be sure at all,” came Sheehy's reply. “He went out to the loading dock with him but your man didn't want any extras, help loading, I mean. He didn't give him the brush-off or anything but Paddy didn't want to drop a hint at all.”
“Thanks, Fergal. You'll stay put and make sure there's no one else coming out of the woodwork for any of the stuff there?”
“This is him, I think,” said Malone.
“We have him here, Fergal. I'm going to the radio now.”
Minogue glimpsed the driver's face as the van passed. The antenna on the roof of the van glinted and shook.
“Did you get the number?”
He counted to five. He heard Malone licking his lips.
“Are we on?” came Farrell's voice now. Minogue tapped the dashboard. Malone pulled out.
“We are, Polka One. We'll go by him before you take over.”
Malone slid in behind a station wagon that had come through the roundabout from the Belfast Road.
“Take bets,” he said. “I say the van heads for the studio. Plenty of places to lose something there. Switch it too, very handy.”
Minogue kept scratching at the rubber on the antenna.
“He's fairly shifting it now,” Malone went on.
Minogue eyed the van edging into the fast lane. Sixty, already. He'd better tell Murtagh.
“Mazurka to Polka One.”
“Go ahead there, Mazurka.”
“Our friend is motoring. You'd better get a start there.”
He nudged Malone.
“Pass him, Tommy. Fast as you like.”
Malone didn't change into fifth until he was directly behind the van.
“There's Johnny Boy,” he muttered. Minogue spotted Murtagh's Corolla ahead of an aged Renault 4. Jesus Farrell was slouched in the passenger seat.
Minogue looked down at the speedometer. Seventy-five.
“Oh, oh,” Malone murmured. “He's on the phone.”
Minogue eyed the headlights receding in the passenger mirror. The van pulled out to pass Murtagh now.
“I'm going to pull in the far side of the lights, by that church, what's the name of it . . .”
Minogue let go the antenna.
“Stick with that for now Tommy, yes.”
“Polka One to Mazurka. I'm on. Over.”
“Good enough, Polka One. You'll see us the far side of the lights.”
Malone kept flicking glances at the mirror.
“He's still motoring, boss. He's damn near catching us.”
“Take it handy, Tommy. Let him do what he wants.”
Malone didn't touch the wipers after the first few drops hit the window. He swore instead. He finally jerked the stick as they came in sight of the traffic lights and the turn-off to Santry.
He spoke the same time as Murtagh came on the radio.
“Polka One. Is he turning? Can you see him?”
Malone geared down for the red light.
“He's five or six back,” said Malone. “Can't see him.”
“Stand by, Polka One.”
“I think he's coming now,” said Malone. “Yeah. Behind this Escort. Doesn't have his blinker on. What does that tell ya? Yep, he's going left.”
“Can you take it, Polka One?”
“I can. Over.”
“We're going with the original. Look for us in a minute.”
Malone didn't stop swearing until he had made it across the road into the turning lane. The old Vauxhall ahead hesitated.
“We're bollocksed,” he whispered. “Look. He's sussed us. He's done this before, let me tell you.”
Minogue fingered the city guide to page twenty-four.
“What's in Coolock for him,” he muttered. “Lives there, and he's parking it for the night? Hardly.”
Malone jammed the accelerator as the light changed, and came around the wrong side of the Vauxhall.
“Mazurka to Polka One. How are we doing?”
Farrell sounded harassed now.
“Steady here,” he replied. “Are you with me? Over.”
“Can't see you yet but a couple of minutes at most.”
Malone let the Opel over the white line but the cars ahead were slowing.
“We've hit a red light here, Polka One. Keep us posted.”
Malone slapped his knuckles on Minogue's arm.
“Byrne grew up around here,” he said. “Home turf. But he doesn't live here now, I can tell you. He's up in some ranch the far side of Malahide.”
Minogue studied the red light smear on the wet roadway ahead. Malone had to brake after he'd accelerated too quickly behind a Golf.
“He's going to dump us, boss. That's all he wants here. We're the gobshites.”
“He's speeding,” came Farrell's voice. “Over.”
Minogue began to squeeze the base of the cell phone between his thumb and forefinger. He could phone Tynan and keep his head down when the shite hit the fan. Malone tried to pass the Fiat ahead but had to pull back in. He braked hard as the oncoming lorry's horn sounded. He glared at Minogue.
“Call him in, boss. We're going to lose him if we don't.”
“Do you know Coolock and environs well, Tommy?”
“Pretty well. Maybe. What's the plan?”
“If the fella in the van takes a runner, you're going to catch him for us.”
“What, behind all this traffic? In this piece of shite? He's probably barrelling down the bloody Howth Road by now.”
Minogue thumbed the radio.
“Mazurka to Polka One. Are you still on board?”
“We are,” said Murtagh. “He's in sight, but he's flying. I think he's onto us.”
“Go to Code One, Polka. We need the location.”
“Confirm that, Mazurka. Over.”
“Go to Code One. Start giving us the locations.”
Minogue counted to eleven before Murtagh began. How could he be annoyed at him? Murtagh, too, must have been wondering about a scanner pick-up, or what the hell Communications was making of the radio traffic on this band. Polkas, reels, mazurkas: the Clare dance card.
“Will I put up the lights?” asked Malone. “See if he freaks now?” Minogue shook his head.
“Just wait for now, but,” he said. He knew that Malone was eyeing him, but he didn't look over.
“And if we lose him? What's the plan then?”
Minogue wanted to tell his colleague to shut up.
“Boots up on the high-road, Tommy. That'd be it.”
T
he radio went hissy. Minogue tried tuning it manually. It made it worse.
“He's going down . . .” Murtagh was saying. “Wait, I don't know the name yet. . . Over?”
Minogue heard Murtagh's car working hard in second or third gear.
“Have you gone by Barryscourt Road yet?” he asked.
“I have,” said Murtagh, but Minogue heard the uncertainty still. “He's turned. Coolock Avenue. Over.”
“Christ on a crutch,” Malone said. “It's a bleeding maze in there.”
“Are you on him, Polka One? Over.”
“. . . Waiting to cross. No. More cars. Here we go.”
Malone strained to see around the Fiat ahead.
“I can meet him if he's doubling back, boss,” said Malone. “Kilmore Road?”
Minogue nodded.
Malone pulled hard on the wheel. The Opel's tires slid but he slackened his grip on the wheel and the car straightened.
“He's at the bottom of the avenue,” said Murtagh. “Gone right. Over.”
“Gotcha, ya bollocks,” Malone murmured. He punched the horn at two teenagers meandering on bikes by the curb.
Minogue brought the flashlight and the map closer. Tranquillity Grove? What kind of a mind had come up with that one?
“I turn here at Kilmore Avenue or Close or whatever it's called, and there we are.”
Minogue put down the map.
“ Come in, Polka One.”
“Okay . . .” said Murtagh. “He's slowing down . . . Over.”
Malone took the turn off Kilmore Road.
“Pull in, Tommy.”
“He's parking it. I'm going to carry on by him. Over.”
“Go around the block, Polka One. Kilmore Close. And wait at the top of the road. Over.”
“Are you caught up? Over.”
“Look to your left as you go around,” said Minogue. “Is he moving at all?”
“He's out. I'm going by him now . . . I can't get a house number . . . Over.”
Malone shook his head.
“He's gone home?” he muttered.
“. . . gone around the back of the van. I'm gone by him now. Coming around the corner. . . No, he's out of the mirror. Over.”
Malone flashed the lights as Murtagh and Farrell passed.
“I'm going for a walk, Polka One. Come around and wait at the far end. Over.”
“Read you. Over.”
“You're what?” Malone said.
Minogue already had his belt off. He buttoned the top of his coat and pulled the door handle.
“A quick walk by and we'll see what the score is. Fair enough, Tommy?”
“The rain, boss? You've no hat, have you.”
Minogue dropped the walkie-talkie in Malone's lap.
“All right, so,” he said. He opened the coat again. “I'm going to be gargled.”
Humming, loose-limbed, Minogue stopped and swayed. The rain had turned to a drizzle. He fumbled in his pockets and groaned.
“Me fags,” he said. “Me fags is gone. Aw,
Jases
.”
He hawked and spat and continued down the footpath. The van stood by a battered Dihatsu. He slowed to watch the glow and flare of an enormous television in the window of a darkened living room. There was some muscle-bound gobshite leaning out of an American sports car firing off a machine gun. The sounds came to him from the windows as grinding vibrations. He glanced at the van and then back to the carnage in the window.
A drip started down his forehead. He made a clumsy effort to wipe it off the bridge of his nose. He heard the scrape of a hall door opening, words. He dragged his left foot a little as he moved on and let his elbow dig into the hedge. Raindrops sprayed up at him from the leaves as his elbow dragged on.
He started humming first and soon let words take over.
“
There was a wild colonial boy
.”
The van was new. The United pennant hanging from the mirror had gold lettering on it. He still couldn't make out the conversation from the doorway.
“
Jack Duggan was his name
. . .”
The antenna on the roof was nothing special. Any delivery van would have one. A drainpipe gurgled somewhere ahead. One of the two men in the doorway turned.
“
He was born and raised in I-er-land
. . .”
He leaned against the gatepost and coughed.
“Hi lads, am I right for Bolands, am I?”
The driver he recognized from Murtagh's description. The other one had white hair and a Fu Manchu moustache. The denim waistcoat with the silvery bits put Minogue in mind of some country and western type.
“Am I right . . .?” he called out again.
“What?” from Fu Manchu.
“Am I right for Bolands, lads?”
“Bolands?”
“Bolands pub. The taxi man said go down here.”
One of the men chortled.
“Ah you're on the wrong planet there, man,” said Fu Manchu. “There's no Bolands here.”
Minogue allowed himself a gentle sway.
“But didn't I get a taxi here?”
“You were codded then, weren't you. No Bolands, pal. No pub.”
“But your man in the taxi . . .”
“Where did you come from?” Fu Manchu asked.
“I'm up from Lisdoon, so I am. I came up tonight on the Limerick train.”
“Lisdoonvarna? And where are you headed?”
“A nephew of mine says to come out to Fairview to meet a fella about a job. A watchman.”
“Fairview?”
“That's it. Bolands pub in Fairview.”
The driver cleared his throat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“There's a Fairview and there's a Bolands there too, pal,” said Fu Manchu. “But you're going at it arseways, in a big way. Where did you get your taxi from?”
“Down the quays. I stopped off for a pint and . . .”
“Well I hope you like walking. Fairview's that way.
Where's your bag?”
“What bag?”
Minogue took a step back and looked around the footpath. He backed into the gatepost again.