"So what are you going to say to them? You don't even know yet if Allen was shot or what happened," Minogue retorted.
"Was that the deal? You throw them to the wolves for public relations and the Brits let you question him for ten minutes. If he's still alive. And the passenger?" Minogue continued.
"You don't get holy on me, Minogue. I'm doing this stuff every day of my working life and more besides. Don't give me the innocent bystander bit. They're all at it."
"I'm telling you that she's not involved!"
Was that himself shouting, Minogue wondered. How long since he had shouted at someone?
"Look, Minogue. All I know about you is that I'm to assist in you getting an interview with this Allen fella. I don't know or care who your mother is or whether you're the full shilling or even whether you got your arse shot off or not. If I have to revoke this because you've gone off the deep end, I will, and I can live with the bloody consequences."
Before Minogue could reply, headlights flashed twice ahead. The driver flashed back and accelerated toward the light. Minogue looked behind as the car started off. He saw men in battle dress in the ditch. Back at the customs post, blue lights whirled.
Ahead of them, Minogue saw three vehicles blocking the road. One was an ambulance. As they slowed, the ambulance moved off. A soldier waved them down. Scully rolled down the window.
"We're to see a Sergeant Davies," said Scully.
The magenta Cressida stood like an abandoned toy. The doors hung open and the lights were still on. The back window had been shot out. Minogue saw a half-dozen holes in the boot and a ding in the bumper. Scully stepped out of the car and Minogue followed him. Minogue realised there were people standing off in shadows, soldiers. Two cars started up almost simultaneously beyond the floodlights. A Land Rover equipped with a crane drove slowly toward them. It turned away from them and began reversing into the ditch behind Allen's car. More soldiers and men in plain clothes appeared out of the darkness. Minogue thought that there must be a lot more of them out in the fields too. Behind them, their car with the two detectives still in it, backed slowly to the side of the road, followed by the soldier who had waved them down, cradling a rifle.
Two men in plain clothes approached Allen's car and looked inside. One of them walked to the back of it. He bent over, his face inches from the back lights, examining the boot lid. Then he closed the doors slowly. He guided the Land Rover in. The other man walked over to Scully and Minogue. Minogue felt nervous and exposed.
Sergeant Davies was a slight man with pale features which were whitened further by the glare off the lights. His hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a v-necked jumper over a collar and tie. Minogue guessed him to be in his early forties. Looked like he had just put down the paper after tea and come out for a stroll. His face suggested a minimum of surprise at guesting these coppers from the Free State.
"Davies," he said.
Minogue wondered why he had not learned to distinguish regional accents in the North. For an instant he was back watching the news at home, listening to the inquiring and querulous tones of the North. Another shooting, more condemnation, more bile. Why did he feel they were so foreign?
"Detective Sergeants Scully and Minogue," Scully said. Minogue nodded. There were no handshakes. No love lost here.
"In the van here," Davies said.
Minogue's heart was pounding. He had restrained himself from asking about the ambulance. He noticed his hands were in fists.
"What was that little problem ye had there with some fellow running along the road?" Davies asked.
Scully paused a moment before answering:
"Nothing to it. It's settled now."
"Uh," Davies said. He stopped at the back of a Sherpa van. "Ten minutes or so. We have to get out of here. Too much lights, do ye know. It's not the safest of places," Davies said.
Allen's face was white. Minogue crouched for a few seconds,' paralysed, at the door. Allen's shirt hung out over his pants. He was shivering. Looking at Allen's strained and damp face, Minogue doubted that he was the same man he had spoken to recently.
Davies leaned in the doorway. Scully sat down opposite Allen. Minogue noticed flecks of blood on Allen's face. There were cuts on the back of his hands. He looked out under his eyebrows and the toss of hair at Minogue, then at Scully.
"I'm Detective Sergeant Scully. Sergeant Minogue here will be asking you questions. If you make things awkward, there'll be trouble. Just tell what you know."
Allen's pupils were tiny. His eyes seemed to bulge wider. He didn't know what to do with his handcuffed hands.
When Allen spoke, Minogue was shocked at the voice. It was a high, child-like register, with none of the assurance Minogue had expected.
"I might have known," Allen said.
"What about the girl?" Minogue whispered. Allen didn't answer but looked at Scully and Davies instead.
"What about the girl? Agnes," Minogue hissed. Again, all they heard were the engines outside. He's in shock, Minogue realised. He's out of it.
"She's gone in the ambulance," Davies said. Minogue reeled inwardly. He turned to Davies.
"Is she badly hurt?"
Before Davies could reply, Allen said:
"Agnes is taken away. They took her away, you see." His voice trailed off. Then he stared at Minogue.
"She was hit," Davies said. Minogue concentrated on the accent: 'hot' for hit.
"Minogue," Scully said.
Minogue heard the reprimand in Scully's voice.
"Loftus. I know I don't have to tell you anything. You know Loftus? Yes. Loftus. You could say he is… very, resourceful. He is quite without any…" Allen whispered.
He looked up at Minogue.
"No. You needn't ask. It wasn't voluntary on my part… Not at all, I can assure you."
"Who else?" Minogue asked
"People on the phone. I don't know"
"Was there an American?" Minogue asked
Allen's brow knitted over.
"An American," Minogue repeated.
"I'm not sure. I don't know."
"What's in the car?" Minogue said
Allen grinned but his eyes held the fright, unchanged. Minogue saw that Allen's eyes were blinking rapidly.
"I don't know. I really don't," he whispered.
Minogue looked at Scully. Davies was pushing back the cuticle on a nail.
"But there was something."
"I suppose. They said-"
"Who?"
"On the phone… that's all."
Minogue waited before asking. Then he spoke slowly.
"Where does Jarlath Walsh fit in?"
Allen stared at his handcuffs. Minogue asked again.
Allen looked up at Minogue. His eyes were wet, blinking.
"That wasn't my decision at all. You should understand that," he whispered hoarsely. "I had no hand, act or part in it."
"In concealing evidence you did."
Allen stared at him for a moment. Minogue saw some defiance in the stare before the eyes slipped out of focus again.
"You don't know half of it, Minogue. Nothing," he said.
"Tell me then," Minogue said, "You've nothing to lose now."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The train jolted to a halt with the rattle of couplings.
The older man stood and stretched.
"Canadian? Are they fond of their beer there, tell me."
"Fairly."
The tanned man followed them out onto the platform. Groups of people were wrestling luggage down toward the rear of the platform.
He looked at some of the others walking down the platform. A couple with a sleeping child and too many bags. A heavy-set man, his suitcase tied with a belt, walking unsteadily.
"Is there a big line-up here?" he asked the red-faced navvy.
"Ah no. Nothing to it. Sure they know the half of us going across."
"What about a ticket?"