Minogue had slowed to second gear. He sat over the wheel and changed the speed of the wipers every now and then. The rain drummed harder on the roof. Minogue checked the sun-roof for the fifth time and squinted out through the flow on the windscreen.
“Now that’s a cloudburst,” said Kilmartin. “And any man with any titter of wit would pull over to the side of the bloody road-”
“Be quiet, Jim. It’s hard enough trying to see anything without you ologoning. We’re nearly there.”
“Nearly where? Christ, man, you’re after driving us in the wrong direction!”
Kilmartin sat back and waved his hand toward the dash.
“What the hell use are all your feck-me-do buttons and switches now. Pull in off the road, man, or we’ll be under the wheels of some big lorry here.”
A flash showed the rain as needles but it was enough for Minogue to spot the cars.
“Now we’re in business,” he murmured.
“What business? What’re all those cars there? They looked like unmarkeds… What are they doing in there off the road?”
Minogue pulled the lever next to the hand-brake and turned in over the grass. He heard Kilmartin’s failing efforts to find words. He aimed the nose of the car toward the pair of dark-coloured Corollas by the edge of the grove.
“The bloody car is after rising up!”
“It’s supposed to, Jim. The suspension-”
“Shag this, man! You’re up to serious messing now, I’m telling you. Stop this circus-”
“There it is.”
“There’s what?”
“His motorbike. It’s parked just off the road.”
The Citroen wallowed but came out of the depression without bottoming out.
“You knew there was something on here. You-”
Kilmartin stopped talking when the beams went on. Two sets at the same time, then more, some moving until he gave up trying to decide how many cars there were. Minogue stopped the Citroen.
“Come on out,” said Minogue. “We can fill a space somewhere.” Kilmartin was staring at the headlights.
“Those are Guards out there,” he said. “Am I right?”
Minogue nodded.
“That’s him,” he added. “And there are patrol bikes in or around here if he tries to leg it over the fields.”
“Who? Who, for the love of God?”
He rose up slowly. He wasn’t sure if his knees would hold him. The words and hoarse pants he had been hearing were his own. The trees, he thought. They’ve staked the motorbike, so head into the trees. Headlights came on as he began his run. Two sets ahead caught him immediately. He stopped and turned. Others came on. The lights which aimed away began to turn toward him. They were all around. Something began to give way in his stomach. Would Bobby Egan have all this stuff? Where was Terry Malone? The bastard. A single light detached itself from the others and began weaving its way toward him. Still he stood, frozen, his lips moving, his breath coming in huge gulps. It was a motorbike. Mesmerized, he followed its passage over rises and bumps. It stopped fifty yards from him. Over the rain he heard engines now. He turned and tried to see where the gaps were. He could take a run toward-
The tinny screech stopped his thoughts. A loudspeaker? It had said his name. The rain was streaming over his eyes now. What, he called out. He heard “Gardai” before the flash. Ducking, he saw the white helmet of the cop on the bike as he too flinched. He sank to his knees in the grass. The rain hit his neck harder. He didn’t lift his head even when he heard them telling him to lie down. They told him again. He sat back on his heels. The motorbike put on blue flashing lights as it approached. Two cars came in. He heard doors being slammed shut and he looked out into the glare. The lights were on the move again, coming closer. The cops walked in front of the beams. Voices shouting at him now, using his name. Lie down. He wasn’t going to lie down. They had been tailing Terry Malone since he got out, that’s what did it. The rain was made up of solid lines all the way back to the clouds, he thought. Like waves across the headlights. He was staring at the rain by his knees when he felt them push him over. The bands on his wrists were pulled tight. They pulled him up. He looked into their faces and saw that they looked kind of scared. More cops walked in out of the glare. A tall one with his hair plastered down over his eyebrows came up. He waved something at him. It caught the lights once before he put it away. Another big cop came up behind him.
“James Tierney,” said the dark-haired one. “I’m Inspector Minogue. I’m arresting you for the murder of Mary Mullen…”
He looked beyond the tall cop to the others. Two of them were already going through the grass with flashlights looking for anything he had dropped. It’s all true, he thought.
“…to remain silent…”
His gaze stayed on the silhouette of one of the cops standing to the side.
“You have the right to consult counsel…”
Why was he on his own?
“Terry?”
“…you will be brought before…”
“Terry!”
“Shut up there,” said the cop next to the one reading him his rights.
“Terry! Over here, man!”
The man turned away. So did the cop who had told him to shut up.
“Do you understand what I have told you?”
“What?”
“Do you understand your rights as I have told them to you?”
The grip tightened on his arms when he tried to see around this tall cop with the eyes boring into him.
“Terry! You bastard! You stoolie bastard!”
“Okay, Fergal,” the cop said. Still he tried to stop them pulling him away.
“Don’t pay that bastard! Yous’re all wrong! He lied! It’s a fix!”
“Out of here, Fergal,” the tall cop was saying. “Before we’re toasted by lightning.”
Kilmartin’s hair reminded Minogue of a villainous professor from a silent film. As though privy to his colleague’s thoughts, the Chief Inspector ran his hands over the wet strands, patting them back over his head.
“You,” he said in a pensive tone, “are getting worse.”
Minogue glanced up at the deserted offices of the Financial Centre as the Citroen glided through the orange light and onto the North Wall. He checked the mirror to make sure the other car had made it through. The Citroen crashed over a puddle.
“You told me that quite a number of years ago.”
“I know I did. I meant it then and I mean it now. Me head’s still spinning with all this. Why didn’t you tell me you had moved on this?”
Minogue looked down at the clock. Half past nine. He felt keen, alert.
“I wanted it to be a surprise. You trust me, don’t you?”
Kilmartin stopped patting his crown.
“I trust you for the next ten minutes. Then your time is up. I want to know everything. That’s the deal.”
“Yes, James.”
“How Tierney got to be there. Where you got the give-away. When. With who-”
“Whom.”
“What?”
“No. With whom.”
“Bugger off trying to show me up! Ten minutes, and counting!”
“Yes, James.”
“This stinks. Worse and worse as the minutes go by.”
“I understand how you feel.”
“The hell you do! Don’t play social worker on me, pal. Who was it decided that I was to have spectator status on this caper?”
“Me. You have Keane and Co. to answer to. All the courtiers. I have to do what I can to make a living.”
“Sweet suffering hand of the divine crucified Je-”
“We’re almost finished, Jim. The world will unfold as it should.”
Kilmartin let out a breath and looked out the side window.
“You bloody well better not be teaching this type of procedure, you know,” he said.
“You’re right. Absolutely.”
“Couldn’t stand up at all if the case gets thrown upstairs at HQ.”
“Well, there’s not much you can do with one arm tied behind your back, is there?”
“Tell that to Serious Crimes and their European pals! Listen. One word I never want to hear about this-are you listening? Not a whisper do I want to hear of it: entrapment. Now or ever. Are you with me?”