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.”
“Go to Code One. Start giving us the locations.”
Minogue counted to eleven before Murtagh began. How could he be annoyed at him? Murtagh too must have been wondering about a scanner pickup, or what the hell Communications was making of the radio traffic on this band. Polkas, reels, mazurkas: the Clare dance card.
“Will I put up the lights?” asked Malone. “See if he freaks now?” Minogue shook his head.
“Just wait for now, but,” he said. He knew that Malone was eyeing him, but he didn’t look over.
“And if we lose him? What’s the plan then?”
Minogue wanted to tell his colleague to shut up.
“Boots up on the high road, Tommy. That’d be it.”
CHAPTER 29
The radio went hissy. Minogue tried tuning it manually. It made it worse.
“He’s going down…” Murtagh was saying. “Wait, I don’t know the name yet… Over?”
Minogue heard Murtagh’s car working hard in second or third gear.
“Have you gone by Barryscourt Road yet?” he asked.
“I have,” said Murtagh, but Minogue heard the uncertainty still. “He’s turned. Coolock Avenue. Over.”
“Christ on a crutch,” Malone said. “It’s a bleeding maze in there.”
“Are you on him, Polka One? Over.”
“Waiting to cross. No. More cars. Here we go.”
Malone strained to see around the Fiat ahead.
“I can meet him if he’s doubling back, boss,” said Malone. “Kilmore Road?”
Minogue nodded.
Malone pulled hard on the wheel. The Opel’s tires slid but he slackened his grip on the wheel and the car straightened.
“He’s at the bottom of the Avenue,” said Murtagh. “Gone right. Over.”
“Gotcha, ya bollocks,” Malone murmured. He punched the horn at two teenagers meandering on bikes by the curb.
Minogue brought the flashlight and the map closer. Tranquillity Grove? What kind of a mind had come up with that one?
“I turn here at Kilmore Avenue or Close or whatever it’s called, and there we are.”
Minogue put down the map.
“Come in, Polka One.”
“Okay,” said Murtagh. “He’s slowing down… Over.”
Malone took the turn off Kilmore Road.
“Pull in, Tommy.”
“He’s parking it. I’m going to carry on by him. Over.”
“Go around the block, Polka One. Kilmore Close. And wait at the top of the road. Over.”
“Are you caught up? Over.”
“Look to your left as you go around,” said Minogue. “Is he moving at all?”
“He’s out. I’m going by him now… I can’t get a house number… Over.”
Malone shook his head.
“He’s gone home?” he muttered.
“… gone around the back of the van. I’m gone by him now. Coming around the corner… No, he’s out of the mirror. Over.”
Malone flashed the lights as Murtagh and Farrell passed.
“I’m going for a walk, Polka One. Come around and wait at the far end. Over.”
“Read you. Over.”
“You’re what?” Malone said.
Minogue already had his belt off. He buttoned the top of his coat and pulled the door handle.
“A quick walk by and we’ll see what the score is. Fair enough, Tommy?”
“The rain, boss? You’ve no hat, have you?”
Minogue dropped the walkie-talkie in Malone’s lap.
“All right, so,” he said. He opened the coat again. “I’m going to be gargled.”
Humming, loose limbed, Minogue stopped and swayed. The rain had turned to a drizzle. He fumbled in his pockets and groaned.
“Me fags,” he said. “Me fags is gone. Aw, jases.”
He hawked and spat and continued down the footpath. The van stood by a battered Dihatsu. He slowed to watch the glow and flare of an enormous television in the window of a darkened living room. There was some muscle-bound gobshite leaning out of an American sports car firing off a machine gun. The sounds came to him from the windows as grinding vibrations. He glanced at the van and then back to the carnage in the window.
A drip started down his forehead. He made a clumsy effort to wipe it off the bridge of his nose. He heard the scrape of a hall door opening, words.
He dragged his left foot a little as he moved on and let his elbow dig into the hedge. Raindrops sprayed up at him from the leaves as his elbow dragged on.
He started humming first and soon let words take over.
“ There was a, wild colonial boy, ”
