'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.'
