“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.
The passenger door of the Golf swung open. Minogue was surprised how could a driver so blatantly in the wrong want to leap out and start shouting. In the split second before the man turned, Minogue had taken in the covering on his head, the bomber jacket, the thing in his hand, and he had registered all this somewhere as trouble. Planned, he knew instinctively as he realized that he was watching a man with a nylon stocking over his face carrying a gun.
Malone had already found reverse. He jammed the pedal, shouting. The man with the gun hesitated, took a few steps, and stopped as Malone accelerated. The Nissan began to waver as Malone overcorrected but he kept it going. Minogue looked out the front. Someone in the Golf was waving and shouting at the gunman.
“Oh-oh,” from Malone, and then a shout as the Mondeo blocked the roadway behind.
“Hang on,” Malone called out. “I’m going to have a go at him!”
Malone didn’t slow down. Minogue put his head down as the Nissan hit the Mondeo, but the impact threw his head against the headrest. Freeman came forward, his hands over his head, crashing into the seat. The Nissan was stalled and beeping. Minogue heard something metallic rolling away outside on the roadway. Malone leaned over the wheel now, grabbing at the small of his back.
“Out,” he shouted. “Get somewhere between the parked cars!”
Minogue saw that the gunman had begun to run toward them now, the Golf following. He looked around for Freeman, and then slipped as he came around his open door and went down on his side. The pain from his hip and his elbow stunned him. He heard Malone was calling his name, shouting something about over here. The roadway was greasy under his palms. A slicing pain from his palm came to the fore now: some piece of a light from one of the cars was embedded there. He got up to a crouch, called out Freeman’s name.
There were hissing sounds coming from somewhere, grinding too: the front of the Mondeo. The driver was trying to start the engine again. Malone shouted something about Freeman, he was over here.
Minogue ducked when he heard the crack, like a stone being split, then another. He ran blind on his hunkers to the parked cars. Malone grabbed his collar as he put out his hands.
“Get down here, boss! Boss! Down!”
He saw Freeman’s leg as he dropped down between the bumpers. Malone leaned around a bumper and fired off three shots down the street. There was a quick squeal of tires and a shout. Minogue thought he heard “gun.” Maybe they hadn’t expected them to be armed. Freeman was half on the footpath now. Minogue called out to him. Freeman’s face appeared by a taillight, his mouth slack with the shock. He was bobbing on his hunkers.
“Don’t,” Minogue called out.
The driver of the Mondeo gave up. A car door opened. Minogue crouched lower, heard footsteps scrambling. Oh fuck, he heard Malone curse. Someone began shooting steadily now. He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. There was a whirr in the air close by. Malone bobbed up, fired a shot toward the Mondeo, and dropped down.