A Kind of Drowning, page 16
Crowe smiled,
He dialled the number,
“Can I order a taxi for tomorrow? Roscarrig to Dublin City. 8am. My mobile is…”
He showered, shaved, and spent the evening trawling through Netflix without settling on a programme. The Dragon Inn’s menu had expanded its repertoire to Thai cuisine and for the first time since April, he didn’t down a few cans as an accompaniment.
Green tea was the devil’s piss he thought as he sipped it.
His phone chirruped a notification; A statement from An Taoiseach live from Government Buildings: “After consultation with the HSE and the NPHET, it has been decided that a Phase One Lockdown will commence with immediate effect from tomorrow at midnight,”
Christ, he thought.
He didn’t sleep that night.
27
It was Crowe’s kind of ride, neither he nor Abosede spoke. The windscreen wipers fought with what sounded like a month of rainfall drumming on the roof. The adhesive 3-D Jesus stared back at him, frozen in absolvement. The thick-beaded wooden rosary swung lazily from the mirror at every turn. Abosede was resplendent in green.
He remembered what she had said as he arrived in Roscarrig; “Believe in the Lord Jesus and you will be saved,”
Hadn’t Jesus walked on water? thought Crowe. Though if he had spent a summer in Roscarrig, Christ might have failed the challenge.
It wasn’t until the lines of greenhouses amid large tracts of grass and ragwort were in the rear view mirrors that Abosede spoke,
“I remember you now, the blessed stranger in that nowhere town,” she said, “You pay good. Pay like a top boss man,”
Her voice was rich and deep. She spoke with absolute assurance.
“I’m flattered,” he replied.
She turned her flawless profile,
“You still look done in, man. Good suit though.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied.
“You police?” she asked.
“I’ll know later today,”
Abosede grinned “Ah! I knew you were police. Crowe. The man all over the news.”
It sounded like “Crouwe.”
“Pius John Crowe, the same,” he replied.
“Old news now,” she said.
The cab smelled exotic. The AC was set to tropical. He remembered the gold watch. It glowed on her ebony skin; the crystal was still cracked, and the face had gold numerals. He looked at his wrist, he needed to get a watch.
He needed to smoke,
“May I?” he asked producing a packet of B&H.
Abosede tapped a gloriously painted nail at the no smoking sign.
The motorway appeared. The rain had finally stopped, and the thunderheads rolled south.
“There were checkpoints in Dublin this morning, man. Terrible,” said Abosede.
“I hear there’s a lockdown coming,” said Crowe.
“You lucky I could collect you. People afraid to go out. LUAS, DART stopped – only buses running Sunday timetables. Pity ‘cos the city is money, now no money. Now no city,”
She turned on the radio. Crowe watched the stations scroll on the dashboard,
“… and that was ‘DoubleFace’ by the Notorious Dubs Setanta and Fionn, aka NDSF. Check out their latest Instagram story on life in Spain…” trilled the DJ on an entertainment station.
“Anything else? A news station please?” said Crowe.
Humming ‘DoubleFace’, Abosede settled on a local news station. The programme faded in and out on the bandwidth. The white lines of the motorway flowed before them. There were few cars. Morning rush hour and hardly a vehicle. Abosede floored the accelerator.
Avian Flu crisis was the headline. With infection rates climbing, people were requested to work from home. Avoid all unnecessary travel. The newscaster was in the middle of an interview with a spokesman for civil rights. The line was poor, but the strident tone of the spokesman cut through it. An excuse for a Garda clampdown on ordinary citizens was the main concern.
“Any station playing classical?” asked Crowe.
With a sigh, Abosede searched for a light classical station. Debussy drifted around the cab.
“The end is nigh, you mark my words,” said Abosede.
“That’s a cheery thought. Am I right, your brother is a preacher?” said Crowe
“That is correct, he have a church on Dawson Street,” replied Abosede.
“Business must be good?”
“Very. Very good. He preaches twice every day. You’re welcome anytime,”
Crowe was about to respond when she decelerated suddenly. A Garda checkpoint appeared closing off all the lanes. A tall guard wearing a black face mask guided them into a siding on the hard shoulder.
He walked toward the taxi. Crowe knew the type. Hard. Kitted out for a riot.
Abosede rolled down the window.
“This man must get to Dublin, Guard. Very urgent.”
The Guard looked at them both. His eyes were cold and penetrating above the mask.
Crowe released his seat belt and reached into the suit. He pulled out the letter and handed it to Abosede. She practically shoved it into the Guard’s face.
He read it. Droplets of rain water fell off the peaked cap. He handed the letter back to her,
“Thank you, Guard,” she said.
He acknowledged her with the barest of nods and looked in at Crowe, pulling his mask down.
“Good luck, Crowe. You’ll need it,” he said.
Abosede started up the engine and revved out through the road block. The taxi hurtled through the Dublin Port Tunnel coming out along the docks. At the roundabout at The East Link, she turned right, and Crowe began to feel the first twinges of unease. She pulled in sharply at the IFSC Quayside Quarter and snapped on the hazards,
“Want me to wait?” she asked
Crowe looked at the meter. He handed her two fifties.
“No. Thank you, but no. I don’t know how long I’ll be in there. Keep the change,”
“I’ll see you around, Mr. Crowe,” she said.
“I’ll see you around, Abosede. Don’t go back the way you came. That check point clocked you doing 140 in an 120 zone. Don’t give them an excuse,”
Crowe stepped out of the cab and straightened his suit. Abosede launched her cab like a Formula One race car out of the pitstop. Her brake lights flashed a couple of times and then she was gone.
Harris the union rep was waiting for Crowe on the steps of the HR Offices. Dublin’s pavements were a sheen of puddles reflecting the early morning sun.
“You’re looking well, Podge,” said Harris.
The collar of Crowe’s shirt was too tight and its slim-fit cut somehow managed to exaggerate his gut. He left the top button open and the jacket fastened. ‘Stylishly dressed down’ Clodagh called it
“Living by the seaside helps, Harris,” replied Crowe.
Harris nodded. Staring up at the sky, he pursed his lips which made it seem as though his face was collapsing. Cupped in his fist was a crudely made roll-up. His suit had seen better days, thrown on as an afterthought.
“Lucky bastard,” he said.
From his leather zip folder, he handed Crowe a padded envelope. Crowe opened it. Inside was his old phone, the top rust-coloured in dried blood.
“There was a watch with it? A Citizen, black leather strap?”
“Good luck with that,” grinned Harris.
Crowe put the phone in his inside pocket, then crumpled up the padded envelope.
“Hear there’s a lockdown?” he asked.
“Only announced last night, but the department’s been on a crisis footing for a fortnight now. My eyes are cunten square with ZOOM meetings. Excruciating man. Miss the road, getting out of this city.”
Lowering his voice, tilting his mouth up at one corner Harris scanned the passers-by over the rim of his round framed glasses. Sometimes he was known as Lennon or Himmler, depending on who you spoke to.
“That little hit of coke I slipped you, did it help?” he asked.
“It did,” replied Crowe,
“You looked like you needed it,” said Harris.
He rubbed his nose as a reflex.
“Who will it be this morning?” asked Crowe
“Townsend and O’Suilleabháin,” replied Harris.
“Fuck,” muttered Crowe.
“Fuck indeed, Podge. She’s the Minister’s golden girl; Justice Minister Gartland’s attack dog, using the emergency to go after some of our members,”
“Some of us deserve it,” said Crowe.
Harris pinched off the tip of the roll-up, extinguishing the ash, and slid the cigarette into a battered tin box which then disappeared into his jacket pocket, “Let me do the talking. Just smile and nod. Got it?”
Crowe said nothing.
“Schtum,” murmured Harris, “Not. A. Fucking. Word,”
Crowe spied a bin in the lobby and jammed the crumpled envelope in it.
They rode the elevator up to the top floor. Floor after floor of glass panelled offices lay dormant. Occasional blinks from the CPU’s were the only signs of activity.
“So, Teflon D’s staring at ten years: possession of an unlicensed firearm, possession of a class A narcotic, kidnap, conspiracy to commit murder, breaches of the jet-ski bye-laws 2006, and assault of a Garda Motorcycle Officer during the course of his arrest,” said Harris, “Heard they tasered Teflon to fuck on the Belfast Road,”
“Those gimp twins fucked off to Spain to be with ‘Their mammy’, though,” replied Crowe.
“We think the Spanish will play ball with us; fast-track the extradition request. Their solicitors are complaining about data protection bollocks, but we think your two recordings will be admissible. You’d want to see the shit DigitalFIRE pulled off the boyo’s laptops scary fucking stuff,”
“Anything like their Spotify playlists?” said Crowe.
“Hilarious. Dark web, identity theft, bitcoin, crypto currency transactions. Their fingerprints were on the Nike, and Hunt’s testimony they’re facing manslaughter,” said Harris.
“what about their daddy?” asked Crowe.
“Criminal Assets Bureau had a field day with poor old Teflon – yacht, houses up for sale the proceeds all siphoned into the National Emergency Fund. They even shot his dog when it attacked them. Vet pronounced it dead at the scene. Job done,”
Harris turned to stare at him just as the elevator stopped.
“You got your shit together, Podge. You got your hands dirty doing some honest graft getting this lot. You did some good.”
Crowe felt some sense of justice had been served for Thea.
But it wasn’t enough.
“Did Thea’s mobile phone ever turn up?” he asked.
“No,” murmured Harris.
Waiting for the elevator doors to open, Crowe slowly counted down from ten.
At the far end of the corridor in a large office were Townsend and O’Suilleabháin, sitting several feet apart, staring out at them stony faced through the glass,
“At least we don’t have to shake their hands,” said Crowe.
“Townsend would rip it off and feed the wet end to you,” said Harris.
O’Suilleabháin as usual, sat rigid, not a button out of place. Stephanie Townsend, severe and crisp in her business attire was talking on her mobile. Her mouth moved slowly; her eyes stared at them. A line of disposable cups, a carafe of water and hand sanitisers stood in the middle of the table. Her laptop was closed. This time, there was no-one taking notes, no recorder or camera.
“Why are we here?” asked Harris. He gave the sanitisers two brisk pumps. He worked the gel in and around his fingers, “This could have been done over ZOOM?”
Crowe used the heel of his hand to squash out some gel. Townsend ended her call and aligned the phone with her laptop and brown folder with measured efficiency.
“No, it couldn’t Mr. Harris - I’ll be brief, Mr. Crowe,” said Townsend, “Minister Gartland has reviewed your case, and your actions during your suspension – now…” she lasered her eyes down the folder’s contents, “…I believe, at four months?”
Her eyes flicked up at Crowe and slid along to Harris. Probing for a response that would never happen, she continued,
“It’s only thanks to O’Suilleabháin, Harris, and Dr. Olivia Cutts petitioning Minister Gartland and the Garda Commissioner that you are even sitting in this room. You are very lucky that the missing running shoe belonging to Thea Farrell was found. A one in a million chance, Crowe.”
Crowe said nothing. He switched glances between them.
Harris spired his fingertips and stared at the neatly trimmed tips,
“Can you get to the point?” said Harris.
O’Suilleabháin cleared his throat.
“We have read your Occupation Health Report,” he glanced down at the opened out folder, his pen tracing over to the salient points, “You have been officially cleared for duty, Garda Inspector Crowe.”
Crowe noted the tone from his superior, like he could suddenly smell sour milk. The hurling scar curving up from his upper lip danced a tic.
“But it recommends on-going counselling sessions,” continued O’Suilleabháin.
He barely contained his smirk.
“Hardly practical in this current climate,” said Townsend. She made her signature derisory snort.
She continued “Mr. Moore, the football coach you hospitalised, has dropped all charges against you and An Garda Siochana. Seems he made a fraudulent claim for a car accident that was challenged and upheld in favour of the insurance company during his convalescence.”
Her cold eyes looked up from the dossier and bored into Crowe.
“I hope we’re not going to see any more of these incidents, Garda Inspector?”
Harris held a hand up before Crowe could find his voice,
“We would need a written guarantee that this is the end of the matter. That my colleague here is reinstated to his full rank and his salary back-dated,” said Harris. His voice had lost its reedy twang and now rumbled across the table.
“And that all records of this investigation and disciplinary action both hard and soft-copy are quashed and purged. Otherwise we get up and walk away,” he continued.
Who’d have thought Harris had grown a pair of balls, thought Crowe.
O’Suilleabháin’s expression gave nothing away.
Which meant he had something. Some titbit of information; an ace in the hole.
“Without doubt, Inspector Crowe’s actions were instrumental in bringing a serious criminal to justice. His actions too have brought Ephraim Hunt and his activities into the frame. CAB have indicated the proceeds from Cosgrave’s operations alone yielded over €20 million, as well as cocaine, heroin, and cannabis resin with an estimated street value of €25 million. Considering what we found at his residences which included a collection of bespoke Gränsfors Bruk throwing axes in one of the basements, we took a particularly sinister yahoo off the street.”
“Will he be prosecuted for the murder of Thea Farrell,” said Crowe, “He called her ‘collateral damage’,”
“That’s for the Director of Public Prosecutions to decide on,” replied O’Suilleabháin, “Take some heart from what we uncovered thanks to you,”
“What about Hunt? The prints we pulled from the cigar tube?” said Crowe.
“He’s co-operating with us, he admitted he was on the island though his testimony is weak due to his mental state at the time. He did confirm when cautioned the information about Cosgrave and his sons. Garda Technical found traces of his DNA near a mooring post, blood, that put Hunt on the island recently,”
“…and?” began Crowe,
“We’re working on Desmond Cosgrave and awaiting an extradition deal from Spain,”
Fuck you, O’Suilleabháin, thought Crowe. His jaw clenched and unclenched,
“With respect, sir, that’s a fucking betrayal to the Farrells,” said Crowe, “Those clowns do time for unrelated crimes even though they murdered a nineteen year old woman,”
“Sometimes the bad guys win, Crowe. You know that” said O’Suilleabháin.
Crowe stared ahead now. He could feel his temples beginning to coil.
Townsend leaned forward, the harpy at his dinner,
“That’s all well and good, but when stacked up against the damage to the reputation of the force, the Minister feels we behaved correctly in suspending Garda Crowe. We will not expunge the records or back date your pay. However, due to the national crisis we are facing; under ‘The 2020 Health Preservation and Protection and Other Emergency Measures in the Public Interest Act’, Inspector Crowe is required to return to duty. It’s all hands on deck, gentlemen. The government has reactivated the ‘1947 Health Act’ and we have an obligation to the safety of the public on this island. The suspension is lifted due to exceptional circumstances, but no, Mr Harris, his pay will not be back-dated, nor the record purged. He is in effect on a one-year written final warning.”
She closed the folder with swift finality.
“One more infraction and you are out, Crowe. Now, any other questions?”
Crowe knew it. Harris knew it and O’Suilleabháin knew it too. THE BIG MACHINE had spoken, and a backlog of six months of cases beckoned.
“No. No other questions,” said Crowe.
“Well, Garda Inspector Crowe,” said O’Suilleabháin’s, “let’s get back to work, shall we? IT will reinstate your passwords and unlock your computer, you’re back on duty day after tomorrow.”
“Yes, Chief Superintendent,” replied Crowe.
As he left the room, something occurred on him, something omitted.
“Cosgrave was carrying a concealed weapon. A Walther P99. Was it recovered?” he asked.
“No weapon was recovered during his arrest, Crowe. Now, I’m sure you’ll all agree, I think we’re done here?” said O’Suilleabháin.
“We are, Chief Superintendent,” replied Crowe.
