‘I know,’ said Richie. ‘You need to get the fucker. Get in. The ambulance won’t take long. I’ll use my mobile.’
Richie moved away from the car to find a signal. He spoke urgently, then ran back to the car, starting the engine and screeching across the grass and onto the road.
‘He’s in a white Ford Fiesta van. He only has about five minutes on us,’ said Richie. ‘He’s gone up the hill. I won’t use the lights or siren, he’ll panic. Where do you think he’s headed?’
‘He knows he’s screwed,’ said Joe. ‘He’s wanted for too many crimes back home, he knows that now. He’ll want to get the fuck out of Dodge, but he won’t make it onto any plane.’
‘But he could get to England or Wales,’ said Richie.
‘On the ferry.’
‘From Rosslare? Would he know that?’
‘The guy is not stupid. He would have planned every bit of this.’ ‘Do you think we should call Frank?’
Richie raised an eyebrow, ‘And follow the rules?’ He glanced over at Joe. ‘This guy tried to kill your wife…’
He got his answer in Joe’s silence. They rounded the next bend and sped past the right-hand turn into Manor Road that would have brought them past the church and up through the village. They both glanced right. Richie braked.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe, slamming his fist onto the glove box. Richie reversed and the abandoned white van came into view. ‘What the fuck is he doing in the village?’
Shaun cradled his mother’s head on his lap, feeling strange to have her so close. Her eyes were shut, her face pale. He had been rubbing her forehead compulsively for the fifteen minutes since Joe had left. A chill wind was whipping rain around the lighthouse and his ears hurt. He stopped and put his hand over Anna’s ear so she wouldn’t feel it. His sweatshirt lay across her stomach. He pressed it against her wounds. But he knew there was blood everywhere and he couldn’t look down.
Richie parked the car at an angle, its headlights trained on the battered van. Joe jumped out, quickly wrenching the back door open with a crowbar. Empty, the small space seemed huge. He ran back to Richie, squinting against the light.
‘Go! Let’s go! There’s nothing there. He’s gone.’
‘Fuck,’ said Richie, turning the car towards the village, flooring the accelerator.
He hit seventy as he took the next bend, his mind on the chase, not on his driving.
‘Jesus Christ, look out!’ said Joe.
Richie jammed on the brakes, stunned by the scene ahead. There was no way through. The road outside the church was filled with cars, most of them parked, some of them moving and one at a ninety degree angle, its driver frozen by the speeding squad car bearing down on it. Richie jerked the steering wheel to the left and they spun out of control, skidding across the wet surface, sending up a spray of muddy rainwater, finally shuddering to a stop inches from impact.
‘This is fucked up,’ said Joe.
Richie jumped out and slammed the door violently. The glove box popped open. An icy fear flooded Joe’s body. He grabbed Richie’s mobile from the dash and ran. All around him, people were rushing for their cars, struggling with umbrellas in the wind. Drivers flashed headlights and honked their horns. As he ran, Joe hit redial to find Frank’s number. Rain splashed onto the screen. He wiped it away and read through the list of dialled calls. Then he bolted, past the church steps where the crowd was at its thickest, where people were beginning to notice something wasn’t right. He kept running. A cigarette tip caught on his sleeve, shedding a spray of sparks. Someone cursed behind him. As the crowd thinned out, he caught up with Richie. He dived for his legs, tackling him to the wet tarmac. He turned him over and punched hard, splitting the skin under Richie’s eye.
Shaun heard the wail of a siren. Tears started to stream down his face. Lights flashed again outside the lighthouse. He heard the engine cut and shouts in the distance, slowly getting closer.
Joe sped through everything he knew. Richie’s anger, his road rage. Ray’s puzzled face when he had mentioned it. Ray hadn’t said road rage, he’d said ’roid rage. Steroids. Drugs. The edgy cokefuelled arrogance. Jumpy Richie by Mariner’s Strand a month after Katie’s death. He was probably there a month before, and would be there the following month too…a regular meeting with a dealer he could tip off. An image of Katie standing alone in the dark flashed into his mind. She was holding her mobile and she was calling Frank Deegan because she knew he was the only person she could trust. But she never got the chance to finish the call because a drug-addled six-foot- three keeper of the fucking peace—
Richie punched him in the jaw, sending pain rocketing through him. He staggered backwards and landed hard. A reluctant crowd had started to gather and Richie gestured for them all to stay back. He walked over to where Joe was lying and crouched down beside him.
Frank Deegan took the steps, two at a time, up to the lantern house. He climbed the ladder and raised his head carefully through the trap door. The first thing he saw was blood. He had to put his hands in it to push himself up. He had to sit in it before he could stand. His voice cracked as he called down to O’Connor,
‘Get an ambulance, for the love of God, Myles.’
‘Shaun,’ said Frank gently. ‘Who was here?’
‘The guy who did this,’ he whispered, squeezing his mother. ‘My dad’s gone after him. He’s with Richie.’
Frank looked down at O’Connor. Their eyes locked. O’Connor grabbed his radio.
Joe leaned up into Richie’s face. ‘I saw your cell phone.’
‘Give me that fucking phone,’ said Richie, slamming his elbow onto Joe’s wrist, releasing his grip.
‘You didn’t even call Anna her ambulance, you evil son of a bitch. They’ve found prints on Katie’s sneaker from the harbour. Frank told me they’d ruled Shaun out. And you were hoping you could pin this on Duke Rawlins, get me to take care of that—’
‘Oh, I think I could pin it on you after this,’ he said, nodding towards the people who were starting to move up around them.
Joe snorted. ‘They’ve got no respect for you.’
‘Says the loose cannon murdering cop? I’m the one in uniform here, remember,’ Richie hissed. ‘You haven’t a fucking hope. There are no prints, Joe. And you’re covered in blood, for fuck’s sake. You’re in a strange country. And we look after our own here. No-one’s going to believe you. Watch this.’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Someone help me out here,’ he shouted, his voice full of authority. ‘This guy’s a maniac.’ Joe looked up at him, amazed. Anger flared inside him. He heaved Richie off him and struggled to his feet. Two stocky men stepped forward to face him, but were blocked by Petey Grant. Petey leaned forward awkwardly, his big hand holding the lapels of his coat tight under his chin. Rain streamed down his pale face.
‘You didn’t help your friend,’ he said, pointing at Richie.
‘Joe’s not my friend,’ said Richie, standing up slowly.
‘You didn’t help him.’
Richie ignored him and turned back to Joe, his fists clenched.
‘You didn’t help him!’ shouted Petey. ‘Your friend! Justin Dwyer. In the sea. I saw you. You stood there. He died.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Richie.
‘He was crying and you didn’t help him—’ A gust of wind caught his coat and it swung open, rain soaking quickly through his white shirt.
‘It was an accident—’, said Richie.
‘I know, but you didn’t help him. You can swim. Why didn’t you help? Why? You were watching him drown. I saw you. I was there. Hide and seek…’ Petey started crying.
‘Shut up, you idiot,’ said Richie. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
‘No,’ sobbed Petey. ‘I can’t. No.’
