the present.
Agnes McGuire carrying her terrible burdens. Mick Roche trying to work through the place, not cynical enough to give up on the well-to-do students there. And Allen, for all his academic manner, he was trying in his own way to change things. Was he jealous of Allen? Minogue recalled Agnes smiling briefly as she went off in Allen's car, under his care. Maybe it was that he, Minogue, had felt stuck on the sidelines again, a spectator to events, with Allen's swanky car hissing away to the funeral in the rain. Allen's car: Jesus, Mary and Joseph…
'Pull over here, if you please, Sergeant,' Minogue said.
Kilmartin was staring at Minogue.
'That other car in that garage. You said whoever called gave a description which might match that one in the garage.'
'The Mercedes, the canary yoke,' Kilmartin said.
'No. The other one,'
'We don't know. A Japanese car, fancy, was the best we got on the one in the garage.'
'And the one in the tip-off?'
'I don't know. A Branch man just told me it was awful like the description of the other one,' replied Kilmartin.
'Are there any reports of stolen cars of that type?'
'Now, Matt, you know as well as I do… '
'But it was checked against the reported stolens, wasn't it?'
'No doubt. But, here, hold on a minute Matt. The one in the garage might have been legit anyway, a fella fixing a car. Anything. It was only that oul lad thinking he saw one. Let the Branch worry about it.'
The sergeant was assiduously trying to prove he was deaf. Minogue opened the door.
'Sergeant, could I ask you a favour, please.'
The driver's head shifted around.
'Anything I can do, Detective Sergeant.'
'Would you find out what you can on the radio about this car business. Inspector Kilmartin here will furnish details.'
'But Matt,' Kilmartin leaned over to look under the roof as Minogue stepped out onto the kerb.
'That can wait. We have this thing on the boil.'
'Sure what can we do about this evening, Jimmy, except, kill time waiting for something?' Minogue said.
He had actually been reprimanding in his tone, the driver realised. Now if he himself tried that with an Inspector…
'I'll be back in a few minutes,' Minogue said. He began striding down the footpath toward Trinity.
As if Minogue's new-found vigour had by default led him to lassitude, Kilmartin slouched in the back seat listening to the driver. He was becoming aware that Minogue was more than merely contrary. Because Minogue did what he had just done so rarely, it appeared almost aggressive. Kilmartin decided he needed some time in the near future to sort out how to deal with Minogue. The sergeant was stroking his neck in anticipation of a reply on the radio.
'Takes 'em long enough,' the sergeant muttered.
Kilmartin idly watched two drunken men staggering arm-in-arm down Dame Street. They didn't even notice the police car.
Then Minogue was climbing into the front seat, breathing heavily.
''A magenta Toyota Cressida,' he said.'
'What?' said Kilmartin.
'It's a magenta Toyota Cressida. It's on its way north tonight.'
'What are you saying?' asked Kilmartin.
'All this talk of a big Japanese car. I was thinking about that McGuire girl, the Walsh boy's girlfriend. Allen gave her a lift to the funeral in a fancy car, I'm sure it was a Toyota, and I think it was a magenta colour. You know, the one you don't know if it's crimson or purple. I could kick meself, so I could.'
'But how in the name of Jas-' Kilmartin began.
'— I asked one of the porters, one of the fellas who works in the college. He checked the parking passes off a list.'
A voice yowled on the radio.
'No reported thefts of that type. A magnet… a magan-a magenta Toyota Cressida or Datsun. Over.'
'Tell them,' Minogue said. His wide eyes bored into Kilmartin's.
'Hold on a minute,' Kilmartin leaned over. 'Tell them what?'
'The suspect car is heading for the border.'
'But the tip-off was for tomorrow, Matt.'
The driver looked to Kilmartin.
'Over,' the radio said.
'Allen has a car like that. He's gone up north to deliver a lecture. He left a day early. He's the one.'
Kilmartin's frown bit deep into his forehead. 'The professor fella who does the peace lectures?'
'Allen. Dublin registration. A Professor Allen.'
He ate in McDonalds in Grafton Street. His throat was still tight, barely letting food down. The restaurant was full. He looked around and realised that almost all the customers were young people. The older folks didn't trust hamburgers. So this was freedom and progress. He looked down at the shoulder bag under the table and he thought back to his exit from the hotel. The shift had changed for the evening and he hadn't been noticed. He had peeled off the moustache in an alley. The glasses irritated the bridge of his nose. He could discard them later.
The food tasted the same as stateside. Near the bottom of his coffee cup, he decided that he should try to get out tonight from Dun Laoghaire. There was nothing else for it. Either he left tonight or he waited for a week or two. His disguise was foolproof up to the point of someone checking when he had entered the country. They'd never go that far.
He stepped back out onto Grafton Street and crossed onto the footpath which led to the Front Gate of Trinity College. Busses and cars swept by him. The lights of shops spilled out over the path opposite. He remembered that the ferry left at nine o'clock.
He felt quite alone for the first time since he had landed. This bothered him all the more when he wondered as he passed people if they knew he was carrying a gun or that he had killed someone. There was no one he could phone or say goodbye to. This is absurd, he thought: get some control. Nothing would be served by an attack of nostalgia on top of the fear. As he passed the front of the college, he noticed a police car turning into Dame Street. The doubts began to creep in again. What could McCarthy tell them if he was picked up? His thoughts turned to wondering how much surveillance there would be at the dock in Dun Laoghaire. Had they installed a metal detector there since he got the O.K.?
Ahead of him, the bustle of O'Connell Street lit up the bridge. A tinker woman with a baby shawled next to her breast sat by a cardboard box on O'Connell Bridge.
'A few ha'pence, sir, to feed the child,' she said.
He walked by her thinking of O'Connell, the Liberator, with beggars in his liberated land. In the distance he heard a siren. It came from behind him, from College Green and it faded quickly.
As the police car sped up Dame Street, Minogue watched the red light spilling and wiping along the buildings. The siren seemed to vibrate inside the car. For a few moments he wondered if this was real at all. In five minutes he'd be aloft in a helicopter from Dublin Castle on the way to the border. Ridiculous, to be sure. Was that him who shouted at Kilmartin to get him a place on it with the Special Branch men? And why had he insisted so? He wanted to see Allen's face, to tell him something, not to ask him questions. Minogue didn't know what it was that he should tell Allen. His mind struggled, looking for a grip on some words.
'Have you ever been up in one of those things before?' Kilmartin asked.
'Never in my life,' replied Minogue.
The car shuddered over the kerb and stopped abruptly at the gate to Dublin Castle. Walls loomed over the car. A uniformed Garda walked over to the car. The driver knew him. The Garda nodded his head and returned to the booth. The barrier lifted soundlessly. '^r
'Who owns it?' Minogue asked.
