Moroney and Galvin, the two Special Branch detectives, stepped from their car in Baggot Street. They had been preceded by plain-clothes officers from a surveillance unit some hours before.
Neither of the detectives was happy with what they had heard. The driver of the Mercedes had picked up the stolen car with its plates doctored in a lane behind Baggot Street. On the way in from Blackrock, they had been radioed that the garage had been located. They had had to decide whether to keep a lookout on the premises or whether to go in right then and there. Curiously, it was Galvin, the detective who had done the heavy with the prisoner, who was in favour of keeping watch.
"You never know. They mightn't have heard… " he had said.
"It's been on the radio and the telly," Moroney replied.
"But they mightn't reckon on our pal telling us anything. They might be kind of slow on the details. Might come in a hurry to tidy up or something."
Moroney wondered if perhaps they hadn't an embarrassment of riches. Perhaps they had done their job too well, getting the driver to tell them what he had.
"Ah, give them credit now. They'll have been mobile and ready to get the hell out at a moment's notice. I have an idea that there might be something useful in this place for us. My guess is that it's part of a network. I think we have to move fast. We have to get some results, that's the politics of the thing right now. The shootings and bombings are on the up and up. Can't wait."
Galvin said nothing.
"We'll go in, what?"
"All right," Galvin said.
The two men walked by the entrance to the lane. The light was poor. They recognised the old coachhouses, garages and sheds which had formerly been servants' quarters, stables and the like. Now they were used as storage buildings or for parking. Often they were gutted and turned into pricey mews houses. They wondered if they hadn't gone to the wrong lane. There was nobody about, no cars. A man in a light raincoat stepped out from the shadows.
"Sergeant?" he said.
"Hello. Special Branch. Yes. We're just in from Blackrock. What's the story?"
"Very discreet. We met a fellow up the lane who has an electrical shop there. He knew the place."
"Are you sure?"
"I am. He even remembers walking by and the door was half-open. Said he saw the Mercedes in there."
"See anyone?"
"He didn't. We haven't seen anyone either. There's men over beyond and a few in the garden there with night glasses. We're ready to go."
The way he said it irked Moroney. These fellows were more like paramilitaries. They didn't let you know they were in the area half the time. Strolling about the place with submachine guns, like they were out walking the dog.
"Hold on there now. What's the chain of command here?"
"We were called in sir. Told to wait for your instructions."
"Who?"
"Superintendant Reynolds."
Moroney almost smiled. They had been given a surprising amount of leeway. That'd be one in the eye for those yobbos.
"And you're…?"
"McAuliffe, sir."
"Right McAuliffe, give them the billy."
McAuliffe fingered his earphone more securely into his ear. He turned back a lapel and bent his head toward the mike.
"We are going when I say. Have you got a clear field up there? O.K. Back up 1 and 3. Clear? Any lights in there? Right 9 and 10, back door to yard opens inward all right? Ready units 2,4 and 6. What? Yes, jemmy it."
He paused and looked down the silent lane. Only the centre of the lane was in light.
"Stand to the side, gentlemen," he whispered to the two detectives.
Leaning to the mike, he said "Go, now."
He reached under his coat and drew the sling tight to his shoulder as he poked a Uzi out. He ran on his toes down the lane.
The detectives saw a half dozen men sit upright on the roofs of sheds to the front and sides of the garage. Three more men in what looked like jogging suits ran to the door. One produced a crowbar and levered a crack between doors until a loud splintering sound echoed down the lane. The man swore and quickly inserted the crowbar again. This time the doors gave way and the crowbar fell to the ground. Another figure yanked open the door and leaped in, shouting. The men on the roofs jerked their heads slightly from side to side, listening intently to their earphones, all the while training their weapons on the doors. A can was kicked over inside. The shouting died down. A light went on. Still no one appeared in the lane. No one had noticed, the Special Branch men realised. They recognized McAuliffe's silhouette in the light which spilled from the door. He beckoned to them.
Inside, the men who had stormed the place stood around looking both disappointed and relieved. One of them was speaking into his radio and staring off into space as his head inclined to listen to the reply.
The garage was not really a garage. It was a dusty shed. Some planks lay haphazardly on the floor. They could see right up to the rafters. There was a faint smell of paint. Some rusted garden tools lay piled in a corner. A homemade stool made of rough plank scraps lay on its side. A car pulled up outside. In it were two uniformed Gardai. A small old man sat in the back.
"He's the one up the lane. The electrical shop," McAuliffe said.
The detectives walked over to the car.
"Hello. We're police officers," Moroney said, leaning in the window.
"You're the man who spotted that the place was being used as a garage…?"
"I am that."
"Anything unusual at all lately?"
"Not to speak of. No. But didn't I see a fella working on that Mercedes Benz the other day."
"Yesterday, like?"
"The day before."
"And did you know him? Did you know his face, like?"
"You know, I never even seen him. I saw his legs I think. He was doing something at the front of the car, down near the bumper. 'Hello I says to him.' And he says 'Hello' back. That was it. The only time I seen him and I didn't see him at all."
"Never saw his face at all?"
"Not a bit of it," the old man said with a look of satisfaction.
Moroney looked away to his colleague. The two Gardai remained in the front seats listening to the dispatcher on the radio. Galvin's eyes went toward a heaven he privately doubted.
"Tell you what," the old man said suddenly. "I saw him, or actually didn't see him fiddling with another car."
"And…?"
"And nothing. I don't know what class of car it was at all."
"No idea? When was this?"
"Early in the week. He had it up on one of those jacks. He had the back up, I know that. He had the car backed in that time. I heard him wriggling around under the back. 'Hello' I says-"
"— and he says 'Hello back,'" Galvin interrupted.
"How did you know?" the old man asked.
"Was there a colour?"
"Let's see. You know when something is crimson and purple at the same time…?"
"Magenta?"
"Ma what?"
"Was it new?"
The old man's face took on an indignant look.
"And how would I know? Do you think I'm an encyclopaedia of cars or something?"
"How well you know the Mercedes, though."
"Sure that's a quality car, mister. There was a singer in Dublin by that name back in the thirties. Would you credit that? Mercedes McNamara. A bit of an actress too. Before your time, I'm thinking."
Moroney looked down the lane. He was aware of McAuliffe standing next to him.
"Will you be wanting the fingerprint brigade in, sir?"
Moroney wondered if McAuliffe was being bloody-minded. 'And should I try picking my nose, sir? Or maybe will I let a fart, sir?'
"Where are they?"
"The van's out on Baggot Street, sir. I think you passed it on your way in," McAuliffe replied.
Moroney scrutinised McAuliffe's face for any visible trace of insolence. He could find none and this irritated him all the more. These lads had been trained in leaping about like the Chinese, living off the bog, killing people with paper cups and that sort of effort. Very modern men entirely. Toughs who'd probably never have to start on the beat and get promoted into plain clothes.
"I'll be needing you to bring this man here to the station and go through the car book with him," Moroney said.
"I took the liberty of assigning that work to the two Gardai here from Harcourt Street station. It's my understanding that we've done our part," McAuliffe said.
"What?" said the old man in the back of the car.
"Here, leave me off at the bus, the number 10. I have to get home. The missus'll be wondering if I've run off with a young wan. Hee hee. Are we right?" the old man continued.
The Garda behind the wheel looked wearily at McAuliffe, then at Moroney.
"We need you to look through a few pictures of cars for us," McAuliffe said to the old man.
"Are you joking? Sure I've done what I can. I have to get home. Jases."
"You can call the wife from the station. We'll drive you home. You'll get your tea too," said the Garda in the passenger seat.
"Feck it, lads. God forgive me for cursing. Magnum P.I. is on the telly. I never miss it."
McAuliffe waved the van into the laneway. His men were putting on jackets and dispersing. A couple who had walked into the laneway stood staring as the van disgorged wires and lights and boxes. McAuliffe made himself scarce in the hubbub. When Moroney went off to look for him, he was gone. Moroney was still angry.
He found Galvin, gawking like an adolescent looking at donkeys at it in a ditch, a far cry from the heavy who had thrown the Duffy fella around that afternoon.
"Here. Leave these fellas alone. Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to buy a pint of stout apiece for yourself and myself and a big fuckin' sandwich below in O'Neill's. What do you think of that?"
Galvin frowned. It wasn't like Moroney to be so coarse.
As the two detectives walked out under the arch to Baggot Street, they passed several people looking down the alley at what must have looked like people making a film. There were three squad cars parked beside theirs now. As they passed one Garda, Moroney said, "The hard man, is it yourself. How's things out in Blackrock?"
"Divil a bit," the middle-aged Garda replied and shook his head.
They walked on. As he opened the door of the car, Moroney's pessimism rolled up relentlessly behind him and broke over him.
The birds had flown, he realised. It was dark now.
The following day being Friday, Kilmartin did not feel too aggrieved at having slept poorly. He had had a feeling which persisted into his dreams that something was unravelling nearby, but that it couldn't be detected. Were there a forced choice, Kilmartin would have preferred 'prosaic' to 'man of fantasy' on his gravestone. Nonetheless he felt as a child felt upon awakening, knowing it had snowed in the night, even before opening the curtain. This morning, Kilmartin's snow was quite invisible. He felt gruff. He smoked four cigarettes in the car on his way to work. Eight hours ago, the two gunmen in Blackrock had not been found. He had gone home after midnight, despondent and furious by turns.
Of the two men who waited outside his office, he would have preferred not to see Minogue. Connors he could send on some errand. Minogue's odd face gave Kilmartin a tiny pop in his stomach. He groaned inside at the thought of a morning's gas.
"Good morrow, Matt. Tea, then?"
"Good morning yourself," Minogue replied, fingering the folders under his arm.
"Step in, step in. Connors, would you kindly root out some tea?"
Minogue sat lightly in the chair. Kilmartin sat on the edge of his desk, wondering if the clackety clack of the typewriters would now add a headache to his woes.
"Any big moves, Matt?" inquired Kilmartin gently.
"Well now. This thing will be eclipsed by other concerns, I'm sure, so I'll make a long story short. Someone tried to run me over yesterday. They could have tried a bit harder too, I've been thinking."
Kilmartin started. He stared at Minogue.
"Odd, isn't it? In a carpark. Of course I didn't tell Kathleen, but someone phoned the house masquerading as an old school friend, if you please. Some yarn about a reunion. All rubbish of course, but he knew where to find me and what I looked like."
This was it, Kilmartin was thinking. Minogue has gone batty. The signs were there and it's only now they're coming together.
"Yes. All part of an elaborate play. I'm thinking someone is trying to push this drug thing on me."
"I don't get it, Matt…"
"I'm being led. That's what I'm saying. I believe that boy's girlfriend or whatever you'd call her. I'm not sure why."
"Her account of the boy…?"
"Yes. I'm not happy with the two yobbos in Trinity pushing those hints about drugs."
Kilmartin thought for a minute. Minogue seemed relaxed and somehow resolute about this. Had he changed a bit somehow? "What makes you feel that you're being led down the garden path, Matt?"
"There's the rub now. I haven't an inkling. Well, actually now I shouldn't say that at all. I have the feeling that something is happening and that time is a factor. Like while the show is on, someone is picking pockets in the cloakroom."
Kilmartin stood up and walked to the window. He risked a small burning fart for relief. Minogue's thing was contagious, damn it all. Hints and inklings, suspicions. What Kilmartin really wanted was to be called to help in this business last night, not to be left eavesdropping in the radio room for great events which made careers for other men. Something you could leap into and work at and get credit for.
"Anyway. I'm hoping the car was stolen and that it'll turn up. There's no reason for people trying to bump me off, you know. The old grey matter is nagging at me to believe there's something in this to do with that boy Walsh."
Indeed, thought Kilmartin. Well now, Matt Minogue, I'm not going to come straight out and tell you what I think, but I'll give you a hint.
"Tell you what, Matt. Give it until this evening or over the weekend. Then we can get someone else to start from scratch and rehash it."
Kilmartin caught wind of his newborn fart. It had emerged and lain in waiting only to burst when he had congratulated himself for his discretion. Holy God, it was a killer. The window was stuck. So was Kilmartin. A sulphurous aroma rose around him. Minogue uncrossed his legs and brushed lightly across his nose with his fingers.
"Right so. I'll look over the parents' statements again and rethink it," said Minogue, rising from the chair.
"Good, Matt. Look, do you want me to follow up on this thing yesterday? Where that car came at you?"
Minogue recognised the challenge. Minogue is gone loony, right?
"No. I'll go through the thing myself."
"Sergeant Minogue? Doherty here. You asked about a car."
"Doherty? Right, the one from the Vehicle Bureau."
"Yes. Are you Pat Doherty's brother?"
"I am."
"Tell him they haven't a ghost on Sunday in Nenagh. The Wex-ford crowd will take the day. Ye'll have to play the wings and pass the ball more." „
"Go on out of that," Doherty said. "If the rain comes again, we'll scalp that crowd. The Wexford crowd hate the rain."
"My eye," said Minogue.
"I'll put money on it," Doherty replied.
"I don't want to be robbing you."
"Well. A white Ford Granada was stolen on Churchtown Road in the afternoon. Are you with me?"
"I am."
"Reported at 10:53 three last night. Some old bollocks had been in a pub all that time. And then he wanted to drive home, but he couldn't find his bloody car."
"Comical."
"The country is gone to pot," Doherty said. His Galwegian indignation came softly to Minogue, who thought of the long, open bogroads by Clifden with the clouds rolling in over the horizon, sea on the air.
"Well, it turned up today in Dundrum. Next to a bus-stop. The cheek of it, I ask you. Do you know, it caused a bit of havoc in the traffic this morning."
As if he intended we find it, Minogue realised.
"Where is it now?"
"Store Street Station."
"Good luck."
Minogue's years on the Drug Squad afforded him the chance to track down a pal, Jack Currelly.
"And how's the family, Matt?"
"Oh, pulling the divil by the tail, Jack."
"Where, now?"
"Store Street. Don't bother with the kit. Let's keep it informal for the moment. You'd know what I'm looking for straight away."
Minogue stood in the yard leaning on a freshly crushed Capri. Currelly rested on one knee on the driver's seat as he checked the interior. To Minogue, the white Granada looked threatening.
A uniformed Garda stood by, clasping a clipboard.
"Rain do you think?" a garrulous Minogue said.
"God knows now, sir. It's as like as not."
A fresh-faced lad up from the farm, big sky-blue eyes on him and a razor cut next to his chin. Trying too hard to be perfect.
Currelly kneed his way out of the car. He showed Minogue the remains of a joint nestling in the palm of his hand.
"One roach. In the ashtray, if you don't mind. Well, Sherlock. What do you think? Will we call in Dr Watson or what? Joy-ride, I'd say. Still though you'd expect the car would be done in a bit. Want me to give it the once-over in earnest?"
"No thanks." Minogue turned to the Garda.
"Do ye dust these yokes for prints or that class of thing?" Minogue asked.
"If requested, sir. If the items are part of a body of evidence. Commission of a crime, like."
"How about this one?"
"No, sir." The Garda pointed to the Comments on the sheet as he held out the clipboard for Minogue. Minogue read 'Joy-ride? and, below, 'No apparent damage.'
"So?"
"Well, it's a question of volume really, Sergeant. Your man should be glad he got it back in one piece. There's a lot go missing in Dublin."
"And if we find a narcotic substance in it?" Minogue pressed.
"Oh in that case I'm sure that'd warrant full treatment, sir."
Whatever the hell 'full treatment' meant these days.
"To tell you the truth, sir, the car was just given the once- over very quick, like, when it came in. The real examination would be done later in the day, I'm thinking."
Good lad, Minogue thought, at least you're covering for your pals and that's no bad thing. Not the end of the world.
"Could you arrange to have it done, if you please? And have that Garda Doherty call me as soon as he has anything?"
"Yes, sir."
Currelly and Minogue strolled over to their own car.
"Is this a big deal, Matt?" Currelly asked.
"Ah you know, I'm just pulling on bits of things really."
"Terrible bloody mesS that thing yesterday. Out in Blackrock."
Both men got into Minogue's car.
"And tell me, Matt, how have you been since that other business?"
"Could be worse, Jack, could be worse," Minogue heard himself reply.
The traffic on Friday in Dublin had staggered an already shaky system. Soon they became enmeshed. The sun came out and Currelly rolled down his window. On the path beside him, a well-dressed couple walked by speaking French loudly over the noise of the cars. Minogue knew there wouldn't be any prints worth a damn in the car and he was still being bobbed around on a string. He'd call Trinity to see if anything had shown up in lost and found.
The Irish Times headlines lay across Allen's desk, barely held in by the width of the newspaper itself. The picture of a Garda in uniform stood next to a picture of a car on its side, leaning against a Mercedes. He was sure of his decision now. Surprisingly, Allen had slept well. He had not dreamed. He felt light now. The sun threw light in the window, over his notes and against the bookcases. It was as good a time as any.
Allen was certain that he could persuade her. He returned to his notes and began trying to memorise the outline. Allen gathered his notes. He couldn't concentrate. He removed mementoes from a drawer-a pen won in grammar school, a medal of his father's. He looked around the room. There was little or nothing personal in it. A few plants-they could stay-a radio alarm clock, a poster of an old phrenology diagram. The books had been expensive but they could be allowed no weight now.
Allen fingered through the files in his desk. Anyone could take his place, marking tests, going to conferences, meeting with colleagues. Committees, proposals, luncheons. Student counselling, research, administration. Evaluation, theses, recommendations. Evisceration. Yes, that too. His friends? Allen's reserve and self sufficiency had allowed him distance. He sat at his desk and began writing a list of what he had to do: 'Bank, letter, solicitor.' He'd go whether she agreed or not. He went through his office again, selecting and discarding.
The committee met in a carpeted room in Dublin Castle. Army intelligence arrived in civvies. The only uniforms present were those of two district superintendents from Dublin. Almost half of the eleven men present were from Special Branch. A civil servant who looked more like a priest, and knew it and cultivated it, sat at the table also.
"The basics are these," a Special Branch detective was explaining.
"We have a man in custody, one James Duffy, native of Newry. He has no record of criminal activities with the RUC. The most he has done in his life is thrown stones during riots, live on the dole and, the RUC suspect, drive other people's cars without their permission. He is on a list of theirs as under suspicion for involvement in IRA activities. Admits to driving the car yesterday. Claims not to have known the other two. Not even their names. You know the routine. Admits to being a 'volunteer.' He says he was here on a kind of holiday. We think he's small fry and that he will be no loss to them. That's probably why he was sent down here. Expendable."
"What does he know, Sergeant?" army intelligence asked bluntly.
"Yes, he picked up the car-incidentally the plates were fakes-in the vicinity of a lane behind Lower Baggot Street. We found the garage that probably hid the car and fixed the plates. So, to answer your question, he knows bugger-all. He's more or less a stooge. He says the two were bored so they wanted to crack a bank in south county Dublin."
"How did he get his instructions?" the army man persisted.
"Over the phone. As for the garage. We got in yesterday evening. It was decided by the boys on the spot. As it turns out, nothing would have been gained by setting up a surveillance. They had flown the "coop."
"They?" said the civil servant.
"Whoever. The owner rented it out, paid in advance. He says the man who rented it was, what was his word, 'civilised.' Well-to-do. Youngish and fit-looking." The detective flicked to a page: "… 'well groomed'… 'obviously a businessman'… The man told him it was for preparing antique cars for restorations. The name doesn't mean anything and the address is rubbish. The man was'refined.'"
"In other words, nobody."
"Has the owner been through the books?" one of the superintendents asked, more to get a word in than to advance the understanding of the meeting.
"Yes, sir. Nothing." The detective sat down. The man next to him stood and put his hands in his pockets. He had no notes to brief him.
"A man who used one of the sheds up the lane identified the Mercedes straight away. He couldn't be sure about another car he saw there earlier in the week though. He settled on a Japanese car and that's as good as we'll get. The thing which may be of concern is that one of them was getting some substantial attention. Some alteration or repair job."
"What's the significance, Inspector?" queried the superintendent.
"Well, we believe the car or cars are being prepared for some operation. If this old man is right, a car has been modified most likely. We're working on the worst interpretation here."
"With respect, Inspector, I have to explain to the Minister why you are considering this. Seems tenuous to me," the civil servant said. The inspector, who had twenty years on the bureaucrat he was silently eying all the while, continued.
"Fair enough. We discount legitimate purposes. We don't think that this outfit went to the trouble of getting a place just to switch plates on a stolen car. A babe in arms could do that blind drunk on a wet night. We think there's some kind of a shift on but to be quite honest," he paused and looked directly over to the man from army intelligence, "we don't really know more than the next man."
He didn't have to spell it out. Sources in the British Special Branch and anti-terrorist squads had been unusually communicative lately. This was the case with the Brits only when they were grumbling. They grumbled because there was little they could do about it from their side, and they grumbled because the RUC's grumbles weren't listened to as keenly in the South. Ergo there was something going on in the South they wanted to stop but couldn't do it themselves. The increase in shootings and the sophistication of the weapons and techniques involved had them stymied. Their usual sources knew nothing about how the weapons were getting in. They had stepped up the border patrols and they had undertaken aerial surveillance with helicopters. The inspector let the silence sink in with its eloquence. Then he reminded them.
"There are signs that there's a new twist to the arms supply. You all know that our department feels the political pressure very quickly. We're pulling out all the stops. This business yesterday has turned up the heat even more."
"Will you outline the courses we can follow, gentlemen?" the civil servant asked.
"We're at a disadvantage. Our sources have either dried up or they don't know anything. There seem to be new men in the game. Whoever this'refined businessman' is, we don't know. We should acknowledge that. We think that there's a connection between yesterday and our current problems. A slip. The human factor, if you like. No organisation is completely watertight. I'm suggesting that every available man be on a surveillance roster for each and every so-called republican on our books. The two murderers have to go to ground somewhere. I want taps on phones… I have a list here and it's as short as I can make it."
He pre-empted the civil servant whose face was already taking on a set of disapproval.
"And I don't like it either. There's no point in picking them up and interrogating the whole lot of them."
He slid the list across the table toward the civil servant and he sat down. Nobody spoke for a half minute. The civil servant looked up from the list and said,
"Inspector, can I see you after the meeting?"
A rustle of papers moved the committee on. The army intelligence had reports of sightings of Russian trawlers just outside the boundary last week, the week before and again this week. They had left the area before fishery protection vessels could get there and confirm the sightings. Nothing special, he said, time of year perhaps. A report from British Intelligence that it was almost certain one of their men had been killed by a sniper who used a Startron nightsight. Nothing else could explain him being shot in the head at nearly three hundred feet in the dead of night. Queried to the States because it was restricted on the Munitions List from their State Department.
Toward the end of the meeting, the inspector looked up from his fingerplay to find the civil servant's limpid gaze fixed on him. The civil servant was absent-mindedly drawing a thumb to and fro over the edge of the sheet which listed the names for the telephone taps. He looked away as the inspector met his stare, affecting attention to the speaker.
Scared, the inspector reflected. He feels things are slipping, but he doesn't want to tell his Minister that, because the Minister would rather believe otherwise. The inspector gave him a lingering look, knowing the civil servant would be aware of his mild scrutiny. Not as scared as some of my men, he's not, the inspector guessed. Probably not as scared as me.