John Brady - A Carra ring

“All right, Fergal. Thanks very much. ”

Malone followed the inspector out to the car. Minogue glanced up at the night sky. It was brown. He sat in and grabbed the map. Malone drove by the checkpoint and pulled in behind a parked bulldozer.

“Well,” he said. “Now, are you going to let the Iceman in on this?”

Minogue had no answer. He looked in the mirror again as a taxi passed.

“When’s the last time you did any training in pursuits?” Malone went on.

Minogue pushed the phone charger harder into the cigarette lighter.

He clicked the light-on display. Malone shifted in his seat and tugged under his arm.

“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 humor. 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.

“‘We’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 on 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 which 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 turnoff 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 gob-shites.”

“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 evirons 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.”