The south side of Dublin being snotty, plenty of the cars which passed Gardai Kehoe and Cummins cost more than twice their annual salaries, before tax. The two were sitting in a Garda squad car near the Bray Road, the main thoroughfare $outh from Dublin. There was an agreement between them that their priorities would be given to Jags, BMWs, Mercedes and anything made in Italy that wasn't a Fiat. Speed traps were rare on Irish roads, but such a potential source of revenue as the billiard table expanse of the new Bray Road couldn't be ignored,
Kehoe and Cummins had been sitting in the car before morning rush hour some weeks previously, and they had observed a reddish projectile rocketing under the bridge in Belfield. Kehoe burned his fingers as he tried to get the cigarette out of his mouth, looking for the ignition. The UFO had obliged them by mounting a curb near Stillorgan, ripping off the front of the car and grinding to a stop after it had rubbed itself like a drugged, frantic cat along a wall for over two hundred feet. All this at ten to seven in the morning. Later, the authorities were to report that the showband star inside, one Malachi O'Brien of O'Brien's Country Treasures, a band enjoying a large following in all parts of the republic except Dublin, was too drunk to get out of the car. O'Brien expressed his gratitude at being rescued by the officers and added that it was only because the new Bray Road was so well constructed that his life had been extended. The car had been travelling at speeds close to a hundred miles an hour.
"It's the bloody telly. Smokey and the Outlaw, or whatever you call it. Did you hear him? 'Arra boys, the blessin's of God and his Holy Mother on you. Amn't I only delighted to see ye. Sure the bloody car took off by itself and I couldn't stop it,'" Kehoe mimicked to his colleague.
"Blind drunk, I suppose, was he?"
"Man dear, he was nearly speechless with the drink. He didn't know what century he was in. I wouldn't mind but he's a favourite of the wife's. She was surprised, I can tell you."
"Pop stars? A pack of ujits. That's a nice how do you do."
Both Gardai guessed that the motorists had been flashing lights up ahead. In ten minutes, they hadn't heard the alert from the speed gun.
"We'll head off so," Kehoe muttered.
Kehoe clipped on his belt and started off on the slip road which joined the dual carriageway a hundred yards ahead. Cummins radioed in and sat back. Kehoe noticed a large car which had been coming up fast behind them. It had braked when the driver had realised he was passing a police car, itself doing the legal limit. Kehoe saw the bonnet of the car, a Mercedes, dip in his mirror. That'll learn you, he thought. For divilment, he slowed the police car. The car, a yellow Mercedes, was obliged to pass. Kehoe nudged his partner. Both looked over to the right at the slowly passing car. The car was no more than a year old.
The Gardai knew that the occupants would pretend not to notice them. There were three men in the car. It was a kind of play: the driver knew he had been speeding, the Gardai knew it, they all knew that each knew it, but the radar wasn't on. The driver and passenger stared ahead. As the rear passenger drifted by the police car, he darted a glance at the two policemen. Both Cummins and Kehoe noticed this. Kehoe, closest to the passing car, was the first to say it.
"Well, Lar. Will we give it a look?"
Cummins didn't answer immediately. Cummins was a Dublin-man, an exception on the Garda police force. He came from Crumlin, a working class district. He had had to take a lot of stick for joining the police. Crumlin didn't harbour many Mercedes. Cummins didn't mind that many of the policemen he worked with were bogmen, even though he knew they acted the heavy sometimes because they wanted to get a dig at Dublin hooligans.
Cummins had a new house in Templeogue and his wife, Breda, had a job in the bank. He had bought a new car. Cummins and the wife had been to Greece on their honeymoon. He didn't think he had any reason to resent rich people. Cummins could not ignore the internal radar, that intuition which he and Kehoe, who was a Kilkenny bogman, along with other police had. Three men in a car starts you thinking.
"Keep an eye on him anyway, I suppose."
Cummins reached for the microphone and called in the registration, a Dublin one. A 280 SEL. He wondered if that was a six-cylinder model. Waiting for the reply, the Gardai could hear the chatter of the other units. Kehoe had sat in, two cars behind the Merc. They'd have to decide soon because the turnoff to Booterstown was coming up soon.
"Blackrock, Unit Fourteen… a yellow Mercedes, number is… Meath. Hold on a second until I get the number…reported stolen yesterday in Dunboyne. Model 280 SEL, year…"
"Blackrock, Unit Fourteen. Meath, is it?"
"Yes, Fourteen. Hold on a sec now…"
Cummins looked over at Kehoe. Kehoe nodded. Cummins wrote down the number anyway. Cummins radioed in their location and that they wanted to look over the car.
Kehoe pulled out and drew alongside the Mercedes. Faces turned to the two Gardai. Cummins had put on his hat and he had opened the window. He signalled the driver to pull over. One of the passengers leaned forward and spoke to the driver. The driver looked over to the policemen and nodded briefly. The Merc slowed. Kehoe pulled in ahead of the car.
He unbuckled his seat-belt as he watched Cummins walk back toward the Mercedes. There were about two car lengths between them. In the mirror, Kehoe noticed that the three men were sitting quite still, watching Cummins approach. Just before it happened, Kehoe had a sudden understanding of something, like when he had fallen on the ground during a game of football as a child.
Cummins heard the engine race and he chose the right direction to run. He leaped over the kerb as the Mercedes shot forward into the traffic lane. It surged into second gear and Cummins heard the deep burr of the six cylinders pick up the load again, rocketing the car into the light traffic. By the time Cummins had run to the car, Kehoe had it moving.
The Vauxhall squealed out from the kerb. Kehoe switched on the siren and threw his hat into the back seat. Cummins worked the radio. He felt calm even when Kehoe threw the car around in traffic. He glimpsed the tail of the Mercedes already racing by Booterstown Avenue. The traffic light there was turning orange.
"Ah shag it," Kehoe said. He skidded to a stop and leaned on the horn. Then he started off again.
"Be better off on me bike," he added, disgusted.
Cummins knew enough about cars to put his faith in the two-way radio. Blackrock and Donnybrook stations were the closest, unless there were cars out on the road ahead. Maybe a Garda on a motorbike. Cummins began figuring the chances as he listened to the radio, waiting. A Merc could easily do the ton and it could peel the door handles off this car on its way too. The Vauxhall could wind up to a hundred or maybe a hundred and ten if it was going down the side of the wall with a strong tail wind. Main thing was to keep it in sight and get the job done by radio.
Cummins saw the Merc veer sideways across a lane ahead. The chances might be even better, he thought. Suddenly the Mercedes darted across three traffic lanes and took off over the kerb down Merrion Avenue. Over the siren, Cummins could hear tires squealing still. Someone blew on a horn. Kehoe, with his tongue caressing his lower lip, dodged the cars, their brake lights popping on, their drivers up over the steering wheels. With a sense of timing and dexterity which surprised and pleased him, Kehoe crossed over the three traffic lanes in the wake of the Mercedes, now but a couple of hundred yards ahead.
Kehoe shot a glance at Cummins. Might actually be able to stay with it, Cummins thought.
Merrion Avenue is a broad, straight avenue which runs toward Blackrock and the sea. Off Merrion Avenue run various avenues and roads which draw out the most florid prose in auctioneers' sale ads. A tidy amount of money is to be made installing and updating burglar alarms along the Avenue.
In theory, one can drive down the Avenue at a wicked speed. The risks involved in doing this include an uneven road surface, the entry of other roads onto the Avenue and the presence of several schools at the bottom of the Avenue, just before it joins onto the coast road.
Cummins and Kehoe knew the Avenue. Each separately wondered if the driver of the Merc did. There was a good chance that there were some kids knocking about at the bottom of the Avenue.
Kehoe was travelling at eighty and the Merc was still pulling away. The Vauxhall bottomed out on a dip in the road surface. Kehoe had put the odds at about even: the Mercedes had the power and the handling, but it had to open a path in the traffic too. Dispatch, a girl with a Cork accent, told them there was a unit turning up Merrion Avenue to meet them. She cut off and the other car radioed that it was passing Sion Hill School. The driver of the Merc didn't use the brakes at all now. He swung it across the road or even passed on the inside. The distance between the cars was widening. Then Kehoe spotted the flicker of blue light atop the other police car in the distance. At the same time, the brake lights on the Merc glowed. In an instant, the Mercedes had turned off to the right. The driver had almost lost it. The yellow car had skidded to face almost completely up the Avenue. The tires left greying smoke in the wake of the car. Time yet, Kehoe thought.
The Vauxhall roared into the street behind the Mercedes. Cummins shouted that there was a cul-de-sac up on the left. Kehoe looked in the mirror to see the other police car come swaying into the street at speed. Ahead of the Merc, a County Council dustbin lorry was backing out onto the road. The Mercedes swung wildly to the left and careened into the cul-de-sac. Kehoe laughed aloud. Cummins groaned inwardly because it looked like another episode of leaping over walls and through bushes. They might be lucky. Maybe the Merc would crash and give them the chance to put the heavy hand on these fellas. The other police car was closing in behind them. Four against three. Shag it, Cummins thought, and he hoped to God that there was some fit lad in the car behind to do the leaping and jumping. Lucky there was no one on the street. The Merc sped up.
"How far ahead?" Kehoe shouted.
"Around the bend there's a crescent and that's it," Cummins replied.
The Vauxhall rocked and squealed over the concrete roadway. As it swayed around the bend, Kehoe saw a housewife look up from the plants near her front door, her hand full of weeds and a trowel in the other hand. Then a yellow shape appeared across the roadway ahead of them. Two men were jumping out the doors on the far side of the car. The driver was shouldering his door on this side. Kehoe stood on the brakes and with screaming tires, the Vauxhall dredged into the road.
Cummins was thinking: watch out, the lads are coming up fast behind. Kehoe was looking at the heads which appeared over the roof of the Mercedes. They're not running, Kehoe thought. They're not running; isn't that a queer turn of events?
The Vauxhall was slowing, skidding sideways. Cummins felt and heard a pat somewhere in the body of the car. Pebbles? More. Then something like one of those sticker things against the window, those joke bulletholes. One of the men ran out from behind the Mercedes. He was carrying some kind of torch, flashing it at them. The windscreen whitened and a chunk of it fell out onto the bonnet. The Vauxhall was almost stopped now, grinding down on the suspension on Kehoe's side. Kehoe grunted and sighed. Something went through the car, then another and another, in and out the windows.
Isn't that odd? Cummins thought. It's me who should be leaning up against Kehoe the way the bloody car is going, not the other way around. Anyone would think he was trying to give me a feel. His hands are all over the place. Something hit Cummins in the side of the face. A warm snowball, like a sod you'd clip from the field when you missed with your kick at the ball. Sore thing, that…
The siren had stopped. Someone was breaking glass. Before the car had stopped-at the very instant that Cummins looked at his partner-their car was hit by the patrol car which had come into the cul-de-sac behind them. Cummins' belt bit into his neck and his head shot out in reaction to the shock. The door was coming in at him. Everything became suddenly glarybright and the world turned sideways, then over. Cummins' car rolled but once before it hit the Mercedes. It came to rest on its side. Without turning his head, Cummins could see Kehoe half hung in his belt above him. His head and shoulders had slipped out and lay partly on Cummins. Bright red splashes covered the roof of the car and Cummins could feel the absurd drip soaking further into his navy blue uniform. Cummins felt uncomfortably hot as the darkness which welled in through the windows from the sideways world outside gathered him.
Minogue stood in the doorway of the building which housed Allen's office. He stroked his upper lip between thumb and finger. A group of passing students looked at Minogue and awoke him. Loftus he discounted. He was engaged in the administration of his fiefdom and his loyalties to the university and an old army buddy of his. Chivalry my royal Irish arse. Allen? Minogue gave it a chance.
He walked up the staircase slowly. On the way he stepped around a woman on her knees, washing the steps. That could be that Brosnahan woman doing that, Minogue thought. Maybe her knees'd give out soon or she'd have arthritis for her pains. He knocked, expecting and hoping that Allen wouldn't be there. Bugger: Allen's face appeared in the doorway.
"Sergeant," he said.
"Good day to yourself, Doctor. I hope you can spare me some of your time."
"Just a few loose ends, Sergeant?" Allen asked.
"I beg your pardon," Minogue said.
A smile crossed Allen's face briefly. Minogue thought he saw irritation replace it. Maybe something else.
"Nothing really. It's just that I expected you to say something like that. Like the films or the television. Yes, I can spare you about ten minutes. Will that be enough?"
Minogue marvelled at the mixture of sentiments which Allen's remark could conceal. There were touches of sarcasm undoubtedly, and even a little arrogance too. There were also traces of relief and apprehension. In a strange sense he seemed relieved to see Minogue, almost resigned in some way, but he was guarded.
Minogue stepped into the room. The place was cluttered with books. Some order informed it all though, Minogue's glance affirmed. Allen sat next to his desk. Minogue noticed Allen's eyes. They seemed bigger than normal, whiter. Perhaps they were more opened. He looked as though he had just run up the stairs or he had been walking for some time.
Behind Allen, a view of the greenery and trees of New Square was framed in the tall window.
"Oh, I think I get it all right. I really should polish up my lines. You're quite right about the loose ends, I don't mind telling you. I'll be calling them straws soon enough. Where there's life…"
Allen, his arms folded, was displaying a patience which was not easy for him, Minogue realised. He was privately pleased that Allen should be uncomfortable.
"To follow up on every little thing," Minogue continued. "I need to convince my superiors and myself that this is not some lunatic random thing."
Allen frowned.
"Yes. I suppose that I've hidden my light under a bushel, Doctor. Do you know that I hadn't even admitted to myself out loud in the middle of the day that this simply couldn't be a random thing? Well, there you have the gist of it. We can't escape it. I feel badly that I don't have some class of solid stuff for my superiors to digest, you know. It's like I can trace out elements, but I can't put things together in a way that appears rational. I'm waiting for a part of my brain to catch up with me," Minogue allowed himself a grin before continuing.
"Yes. What do you call it, free association. Like we allow ourselves to believe certain things without even stopping to think. We don't know the half of it, do we? A hint here, a suggestion there. It's my experience that people are easily led, if you know what I mean."
Allen eased himself in his chair a little.
"I think I follow you. Your technique for thinking out loud is a very good exercise. What I'm asking myself though is why you do it here."
"Ah, there's a good one indeed, Doctor. I confess I was drawn to your office by the need of your insight. I mean that I think I'm up the garden path at the moment. For instance, the drug thing you mentioned to me. I'm stymied by it. Agnes McGuire knew nothing of his interests in that line. He wasn't the kind of lad to hold back, was he? I mean, that was almost a failing in him, the way he had so much to say, to offer. He was naive, like."
"Well, he'd hardly advertise it to someone he wanted to impress, Sergeant," Allen observed.
"So you put some store in the whole thing then?" Minogue asked quickly.
"Actually I'm almost sorry I mentioned it at all. You seem to be saying that it is a red herring."
"Were you aware that an anonymous note had come to the college security officer, Captain Loftus, suggesting that Jarlath Walsh might be involved in drugs?"
"Matter of fact I was. I'll grant it may have coloured my interpretation of the questions he was asking me. Like I said, I'm almost regretting having told you about this in the first place…"
Allen sat back in the chair and folded his arms again. Then, like a cloud passing over his face, Minogue watched the idea come to Allen. Allen leaned forward slowly.
"I have the distinct feeling that you're not asking what you really want to ask me, Sergeant, but you're trying to provoke me in a way."
Full marks, Minogue thought. Go to the top of the class. Did it really look that obvious?
Minogue said nothing. He watched what looked like indignation loosen Allen's manner. Finally he said:
"Doctor, I'm sorry if I left you with that impression. I wonder if I might ask you to sleep on the matter. Any small details or memories that come to you. A remark in class, a fellow student, anything."
"You think I'm concealing something, don't you?" Allen said.
"Not at all. I haven't been able to firm up anything on this effort about the drugs, you see, and it's distracting me. I must be a very suggestible person."
Not fooled for a minute, Minogue thought. Allen's gaze suggested a knowingness but an amused ambivalence too. Maybe he was working hard at not being rude, Minogue considered. Hard to blame him, with a detective who is flying by the seat of his drawers.
Minogue returned to the room he had been lent in Front Square. He determined to make an early day of it. At least it had stopped raining. Walking to the carpark, he found himself searching the faces of passing students for any signs of a son or a daughter. Were they all the same, students?
Climbing into the car, he assigned the day a four out of ten. Little remained of the rain except a saturated city and oily roads. Could it be that they might get a bit of sun?
Minogue wanted to sneeze but the sensation passed. A police car with sirens and lights going full blast went by him as he rounded into College Green. Damn and blast it, he thought. It would be better if he at least phoned Kilmartin's office and checked in. Go by the book. Minogue stopped at two phone-boxes in succession. Both had been vandalized. Reluctantly, he drove up Dame Street toward the Castle. Another police car passed him at the lights at George's Street, screaming away. Maybe it was a bank robbery, another one.
Outside Kilmartin's office there was no work being done. Several uniformed Gardai sat on the edges of tables, smoking. Minogue could hear the monitored voices of men out in the streets, patrolling. The voices and clicks drifted down from the dispatch room. Nobody in Kilmartin's office. Minogue strolled toward the dispatch room, nodding at several Gardai as he passed them.
"Inspector Kilmartin, lads?"
"He's above in dispatch, sir," a Garda replied.
Kilmartin was sitting in a chair next to one of the girls. She was studiously concentrating on her earphones, nervous at his presence. He was smoking a cigarette. He stood up when he noticed Minogue and he walked over to the doorway.
"Did you hear about it?"
"What now?" Minogue asked.
"They shot our lads out in Blackrock. It's still going on. They got the driver, but the two fellas with the shooters are on the loose still."
Minogue felt an approaching swell. He waited. Kilmartin was mooching about for someplace to kill the butt of his cigarette. His arm was wavering. Minogue felt light, cold. The day was transformed. Somehow the room looked lurid. It pressed in on him.
"The IRA or the INLA or whatever crowd, I'll wager. One of our lads was killed outright. The other one's alive," Kilmartin murmured, still wandering around the room. Minogue was taken up with watching the girl's nervousness as Kilmartin paced.
"Only a pack of animals would react to a uniform like that. They have automatic rifles. The place is upside down so it is. They have a cordon up. The army and the whole shebang is there."
"Where?" Minogue heard himself asking.
Kilmartin stopped walking.
"Out near the bottom of Merrion Avenue, near enough to Blackrock."
As hard as he tried, Minogue couldn't get the taste out of his mouth. The fear was like cheese on his breath. It sticks in your throat, it actually chokes you, he thought. Smell it on your breath.