John Brady - A Carra ring

“We’re taking the scenic route back to our office,” said Minogue.

“You’re buying time, to stay out of touch so no one can reach me. That’s illegal.”

“Listen,” said Minogue. “It’s in your interests here to put all your cards on the table. What did Leyne tell the son to do in those phone conversations?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“You’re covering for Leyne,” said Malone. “Or the business, or something. You’ve got two hundred million reasons to do what you’re doing, right?”

“Ridiculous. Shield him from what?”

“Liability,” said Minogue. “Accessory. That’s what.”

“Wait a minute: are you accusing him of counseling Patrick to commit a crime? Or to cooperate in one?”

“What did he tell the son on the phone then?” Minogue asked. “To go ahead and take this stone?”

“Of course not!”

“He collects this kind of stuff, doesn’t he?”

“What’s on the open market at auctions, yes,” said Freeman. “Where ownership is established. And legal, of course.”

“Did the son tell him he’d killed someone to get his hands on it?”

“Oh, come on!” said Freeman. “Don’t even think of pushing this. I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake. If this is the way you intend to carry on here — ”

“What happens now to the company?”

Freeman sat back against the door. He stared at Minogue. Another tic. Minogue knew that Freeman had seen it, noticed.

“And his foundations here?” Minogue added. “His family?”

“There’s no way I’m even going to reply to that,” Freeman said. “Much less speculate on this, this innuendo. Anyone can see what you’re leading to.”

“His will,” said Minogue. “Have you seen it? Did the son know something about it?”

“I can tell you this, that he never wanted anything from Patrick except to be left in peace, to see out the rest of his days.”

“Changed his will after the operation, did he?” Malone joined in. “So a lawyer was more important than a doctor to have with him on the trip here? In case he had to make some change to the will in a big hurry — ”

“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’s 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 gray Nissan, a Technical Squad car, thought to be in the city center, 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’s 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 seatback. 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 backseat. Son of a, he was saying.