Cold Steel (29 page)

39

5.15 pm

Jim Clarke spotted the Lincoln first. Moss Kavanagh had screeched away from Sandymount Park at breakneck speed, siren blaring, beacon flashing. He broke red lights, overtook on pavements, caused traffic chaos as he crisscrossed lanes. He finally skewed to a halt beside the railway station on Sydney Parade Avenue. Clarke knew immediately they were too late. The platform was deserted, the nearby roads quiet. He was climbing out to check with the ticket collector when he noticed a black, powerful-looking car edge out ahead. The car shot dangerously across the main road, forcing a motorcyclist into a hedge. Everything about the car fitted Danny Carton's description. Clarke knew he had his man at last. 'Quick, Mossy, move.'

They caught up with the Lincoln in a long queue on Merrion Road in south Dublin. It was no more than ten cars ahead, dodging and weaving, lane-hopping. Horns were being sounded by angry drivers, fists shaken. Kavanagh contacted headquarters, describing the target. 'We'll get him, boss. He'll get stuck somewhere.' Suddenly the Lincoln veered sharply onto a smaller side road. Kavanagh pressed the accelerator and flicked on the siren, whoo-whooing the immediate traffic away. He turned right in time to see the black tail veer over a small hump-backed bridge. It then spun left towards the
big football stadium on Landsdowne Road and out of sight.

'There he is.' Clarke had pushed against the front seat. He shook Kavanagh's shoulder. 'To your left.'

The Lincoln had found a parallel road and was scorching along, forcing oncoming traffic onto the pavement.

'Take a left, for Christ's sake. He's spotted us.'

Siren blaring, Kavanagh overtook on a narrow stretch and grabbed the next left turn before a coal truck. He ignored the startled white eyes behind blackened faces. The squad car was hemmed in by a struggling '91 registered Toyota, smoke bellowing from the exhaust. 'Fuck it, we've lost him.'

By the time a space opened up the Lincoln had disappeared. Kavanagh skidded the car to a halt. Clarke shoved the back door open and struggled out. Kavanagh started to say something but an angry wave silenced. They were along a quiet side road. The area had been recently developed, new expensive apartment blocks cheek-by-jowl with old red-bricked terraced houses. An ugly multistorey car park offering cheap all-day rates was to their right.

Clarke listened, every sense pinging. Then he heard the screech of tyres, an unusual engine. 'He's in the car park.'

Kavanagh gunned the engine and arrived at the entrance ramp. A red-and-white striped barrier blocked until a time-stamped ticket was pulled. Beside the barrier was a green portacabin booth. Inside a bored youth stared at a battery of TV monitors.

Kavanagh swerved the car to a halt and leapt out. 'Police,' he shouted, flashing his badge. The young attendant stuck his hands up in the air. 'The big American car that just came in?' The youth shook his head vigorously. 'Where'd he go? Quickly, which level?'

The attendant turned to a row of monitors and began pressing buttons. His hands shook, he was speechless with fright. Different views of the parking lot flashed.
Kavanagh took over and flicked faster. Breathless and agitated, Clarke looked on. One view flicked up, then disappeared.

'Go back.' The grainy grey-black image showed a row of cars, some front end forward. There was no movement along the rows. 'Can you close in on any of those?' Kavanagh snapped.

The attendant pointed towards a joystick. Twisting and turning, the camera was directed towards an awkwardly parked car near the end of one row. Kavanagh zoomed as close as the lens allowed, then steadied the view. Nothing seemed unusual, there was no movement. He was about to shift again when the merest hint of a shadow appeared, then disappeared. Clarke stuck a finger at the monitor and Kavanagh squinted closer. The car rocked slightly, the shadowy figure moved again.

'We've got him.' Kavanagh drew his handgun and ran towards the ramp. 'What level is that?'

'Basement, two down.' The young attendant's eyes were out like stalks.

Clarke grabbed the phone in the booth and ordered a back-up team. Then he followed.

In the time it took to call headquarters, the two men lost contact. Clarke hobbled down one ramp and spotted a large white-on-black sign: LOWER GROUND. He stopped and listened. The only sound came from his thumping heart. He started towards the next ramp and reached for his revolver. The free hand searched one side of his waistband, then the other. He suddenly remembered he'd left it at home in the biscuit tin in the crockery cupboard. Fuck. He leaned against a car bonnet. I'll wait for the back up. No point risking your life with no firepower. They'll be here in minutes. I'll wait.

He wiped at his brow. Then he heard a sickening thud. Without thinking he followed the noise. His leg dragged badly, his crutch tapped against concrete. He stopped and listened. Nothing. He moved another few feet down the
ramp, now almost halfway. Stopped and listened. Nothing. He was about to move again when he heard a bumping, rocking movement. Crouching on both hunkers he peered into the gloom. The American car was obvious. He wanted to shout 'Mossy', but knew that was senseless. Kavanagh could be chasing ahead two levels up, even out on the road. I'll go back. The young fella must have seen it on the screen, he'll know what's happened.

He made to stand when the rocking movement came again. Apart from a distant dripping it was the only noise in the basement. Back on his hunkers, Clarke squinted at the car. Nothing. Suddenly the 'looney-tunes' jingle of Kavanagh's mobile phone broke the silence. It rang and rang. Clarke slipped his jacket off for a freer movement. He felt along the crutch handle for twin bolts, pressed and turned. The handle moved. He turned until he sensed another quarter-inch would disengage it from the main frame, then checked. The mobile phone stopped, plunging the basement into an eerie stillness.

Clarke held his breath and listened. Nothing. He took two hesitant steps and reached the last level. He spun left and right, as if an attacker was upon him. Nothing. He let his eyes drift along the cars until they reached the large dark model. No movement. He was about to turn when the rocking started again. He twisted in time to see the Lincoln shift slightly. Sweat formed on his face and forehead, dripping so fast it blurred his vision. He wiped it away. An unusual scraping, rustling noise sounded. He started slowly towards it, looking over his shoulder. He was within ten feet when he spotted a fresh pool of blood. He knew it was fresh, knew the blood was still oozing. The pool was widening as he watched. It curled around the tyre of a grey Mercedes. When he reached the gap between it and its neighbour Clarke discovered Moss Kavanagh. The big man was slumped awkwardly between the vehicles, one arm jammed in a door handle. His legs had crumpled, his head lay on his chest,
m
otionless.

The Lincoln moved again, this time with a thud. Clarke looked straight at it, hardly daring to breathe. He limped closer, clutching his crutch hand grip firmly. Two steps and he was right behind the metallic black monster. He glanced along both sides. Nothing. The boot thumped, this time two dull thuds. He heard a moan. He eased himself along the right-hand side where there was more space. The doors were locked, the buttons firmly down. The back rocked slightly. He sensed movement between the vinyl of the back seats.

He bent closer, rubbing at the window. The tip of a finger was wedging itself through. It wiggled, like a worm emerging from earth. He moved his head staccato-like to the right and felt a sudden rush of wind. The side window shattered and a heavy, thickening blow hit off his right shoulder. Staggering from the impact, he struggled to keep upright. A boot crashed into his leg, the searing pain making him screech. He tried to turn and face his assailant but couldn't move. He slipped, one hand desperately groping, the other grasping the crutch hand grip.

'You just don't give up.' The Goon was standing over Clarke, a bloodstained baseball bat swinging in his right hand. He let it drop heavily on Clarke's leg, the pain boring up to hip level. 'You're a real fucking nuisance.' Clarke tried to push himself back but found his strength ebbing. The Goon kicked out viciously. 'You're trying to ruin my big day…' kick '…you miserable…' kick '…bastard.'

The pain suddenly eased in Clarke's tortured leg, only to be replaced by a warm wetness. He was half in and half out of consciousness. He turned the hand grip a final quarter inch, freeing it from the frame.

The Goon spun the baseball bat in the air and swung it down. Clarke moved his head and the bat thudded an inch from his right ear. He felt the vibration along the cold concrete.

'Missed that time.' The Goon spat into both hands,
preparing for a better grip. 'But I won't miss again.' He lifted the bat.

Through the pain and gloom Clarke could still make out the bulky frame above. Smash. The baseball bat swung into Clarke's leg. Bone and cartilage splintered. The pain scorched. The bat was in the air again, twirling. The Goon's face was twisted with rage. He swung it downwards in a vicious arc.

'You can go to hell, you bastard.' Clarke pressed the buttons on the hand grip and lunged upwards. He heard the 'shush' of steel as blade shot out, heard a startled grunt as it pierced flesh. He felt a sudden wetness, warm and profuse, against his face. As his own blackness swamped, Clarke twisted the knife inside the soft opening, forcing it deeper with every fading ounce of strength.

Blackness caressed his pain. He slumped back and welcomed it.

40

5.37pm

The multistorey car park was swamped by armed detectives. They crawled along ramps, between automobiles and over trucks, down air shafts. Tony Molloy lead the pack, revolver drawn, panting from the effort. They knew exactly where to go, everything had been followed on the security cameras by the startled attendant in the portacabin. They found Clarke moaning and barely conscious. The heavy frame of the Goon lay motionless beside. Blood pooled in patches beneath him. Moss Kavanagh was in a coma. They laid him in the recovery position and loosened his clothes. They were all stunned at the scene of carnage and gabbled excitedly. Molloy cursed at being too late. In the distance an ambulance siren came closer. The young attendant had kept his wits about him enough to order one.

In the agitated babble the group almost missed the muffled shout from inside the Lincoln. Molloy held up a hand. The basement was plunged into silence once again. The big black car rocked slightly. Dull thuds came from the boot. Another moan escaped. Three UZI submachine-guns and four .459 Smith & Wesson barrels trained on the back. Molloy searched the Goon's bloodstained pockets and found the car keys. He pressed the alarm pad and the door locks popped. The boot lid opened slightly. Inching closer, revolver held in front with both hands, he tipped up
the lid. Joan Armstrong's terrified eyes stared out at him. Molloy stumbled back. 'Jesus Christ.'

As soon as the girl's tapes were cut she started screaming hysterically. It took five minutes to calm her. The ambulance came screeching down the ramps and skidded to halt. Four white-coated paramedics leapt out and began fussing. Molloy wrapped Armstrong in a blanket and lead her away. Her body shook violently, she was still sobbing. Her shoulders heaved. Molloy was double-checking the boot of the Lincoln when he spotted the Manchester United soccer scrapbook. It was wedged in one corner. He flicked it open, then stopped at the inside front cover. Even in the gloom of the car park he could make out the childish scrawl:

Martin Clancy aged 8 years

14 Greenlea Road

Clontarf

Dublin

Ireland

Europe

The World.

DO NOT TOUCH UNDER PAIN OF DEATH.

ARSENAL STINKS.

He stopped and thought. He looked around. The body of the Goon lay where it had been discovered. Yellow incident tapes were being set up to protect the scene. The paramedics had Clarke and Kavanagh in the back of the ambulance and were connecting drip sets. Joan Armstrong was crumpled inside the blanket, supported by one of the detectives. She was shivering. Molloy read the address again, remembering the earlier alert about a missing family. He connected the names.

'Where was he taking you?' He stood squarely in front of the trembling schoolgirl.

She looked up. 'To Mo.'

Molloy inspected her closely. She looked like someone
who'd been to hell and back.

'Where does Mo live?' He knew already. He just needed to hear it confirmed.

Armstong's lips started quivering, her eyes brimmed with tears. She began to shiver.

'Where does Mo live?' The ambulance siren started up, deafening everyone in the basement.

'Where does Mo live?' shouted Molloy.

He stuck a pen and notebook into her hands. Shaking fingers scribbled three lines. Molloy checked them, then stared at the girl. She was crying again. Molloy couldn't decide if the tears were for herself or Mo.

5.48 pm

Frank Clancy was in the back of a squad car en route to Clontarf police station. He'd been detained at the bottom of the steps of the Air France when it landed at Dublin Airport. The three officers in the car were giving nothing away. 'We're to take you straight to the station,' one of them said. 'Everybody wants to talk to you.' Clancy pleaded for more information. 'Is there any news on my family? Are they still missing?' His questions were met with a stony silence. The car was caught in a tailback of traffic trying to negotiate past a broken-down bus blocking two lanes. The radio suddenly crackled into life. Clancy couldn't make out what was being said over the static. He noticed one of the policemen crouch forward and pick up a headset. He could see the man squeezing it tightly against his right ear. A hand tugged the driver and the car was swerved to a halt. The front-seat passenger leapt out and immediately stopped all movement on the road. The driver did a three-point turn and criss-crossed two lanes. The passenger door slammed shut, the siren was switched on. The car sped forward, tyres screeching. 'What's wrong?' he asked. He felt frightened. 'What's happening?'

No one answered. The car swerved past trucks and buses, careered along bicycle tracks, lane-hopped and broke every red light. Frank Clancy had a sense of foreboding. He wanted to vomit from fear and wound down the side window for air. He hadn't eaten for so long he felt weak. As he leaned his cheek against the ledge, blurred images flashed by. People were going about their daily chores, sweeping streets, selling newspapers, window-shopping. Life was normal for everyone except Frank Clancy.

They're dead, I know that. Anne, Michael, little Laura. They've been killed. All because of me. He looked up, noticing the car had crossed the River Liffey and was heading eastwards along the quays. 'Where are we going?' he shouted. The passenger-seat police officer turned slightly. He was grim-faced. 'You'll know in a minute, we're nearly there.'

6.02 pm

Tony Molloy stood outside the two-storey-over basement, end-of-terrace house in Fitzhill Square. The square was three miles from the fashionable southside centre of Dublin and close to a major business district. It was a small group of Georgian houses cramped around a central green. There was a mixture of residential and office use. The pavements were tree-lined and in full leaf, the central green sealed off by ornate railings. There was on-street parking, disc display for residents only. Molloy waited anxiously outside number five. It was painted bright yellow with a red Georgian panelled front door. A clematis in full bloom twined itself along an outer corner.

Molloy had rung and knocked. There was no reply. He'd then contacted the police commissioner, Donal Murphy, and explained where he was and why. The commissioner was stunned. He'd already heard of the bloodbath at the
multistorey car park. Molloy's information rocked him totally. 'Go in,' he ordered finally. 'I'll take full responsibility.'

But all the basement and ground-floor windows were protected by security bars. The only way in was through the front door, and it was massive. It seemed reinforced. There had been a delay while a 'break-in' team was summoned. They arrived just as Frank Clancy's squad car pulled up. Clancy was taken out and bundled across to the group collected at the front door.

'Who's this?' asked Molloy. Clancy was identified. Molloy looked him up and down. 'You're the guy with the missing family?' Clancy nodded. His mouth was so dry he couldn't speak. 'Wait in the car. And keep your fingers crossed. I think they're in here.' Clancy was thunderstruck. He stepped back to get a better look at the house.

A transit van pulled up and four heavily built men in black tracksuits leapt out. They carried a battering ram. Residents and office workers crowded nearby windows to watch. With five powerful back and forward thumps the red Georgian door crashed off its hinges and six armed detectives scrambled into the house. Molloy was at the lead. Within minutes they discovered the basement door. It was bolted from the outside but not locked. Inside they found Anne Clancy curled up against her two children. All three were shivering and freezing cold. They were whimpering from fright. Beakers lay scattered around, pools of water along the floor.

Molloy left men with them and rushed upstairs. The team had scouted every room until they reached the top floor. There they came upon another locked door. Molloy noticed three Chubb bolts protecting: The battering ram burst through them with four strong thumps. Molloy clambered over the splintered wood, revolver at the ready. He waved away those following and they stood outside.

It was a large room, about twenty-foot square. In the middle and pushed tight against a wall was a king-size bed.
It had an old-fashioned brass bedhead, rails top and bottom. At the foot of the bed was a tripod with video camera. Two arc lights were pulled back and rested in a corner. There were handcuffs hanging from the top headrails, black silk thongs tied to the bottom. In another corner a wide-screen television and video recorder were secured to a bench top. Beside was a collection of video tapes. Molloy pulled at drawers and discovered a selection of syringes and needles inside their sterile wraps. He found a box of ampoules of sterile water and a methylated spirits wick burner. Finally he uncovered twenty individual clingfilm wraps of heroin.

He sat down heavily on the bed, stunned and shocked with the revelations. He spotted the video tapes again and sorted through them. He noticed one with the letters J.M. scrawled in red biro on the front. He slipped it into the VCR and turned on the television. There was a delay as zigzagged blurred tape ran through. Then images flashed. The camera picked up the bed Molloy was sitting on. He turned to check, recognising the headrails immediately. Sound came through with the voice of a young girl, giddy laughing. Onto the bed rolled the naked body of a black-haired girl. She seemed to be moving very slowly, as if drugged. One arm waved at the camera, beckoning. Molloy noticed what looked like a sticking plaster in the crook of the elbow. The girl turned towards the camera and gave a come-on leer.

Molloy's mouth dropped. It was Jennifer Marks. Suddenly a man's body entered the frame, tall and slim. He had his back to the camera and was in denim jeans but stripped to the waist. The man sat down on the bed and began dragging one of the girl's arms up to the handcuffs. The hand was secured. Then he fastened the other. The man ran his hands slowly along the naked body and parted the ankles. In the fleetest of moments he turned and faced the camera. Molloy froze the frame and stared. There was no mistaking the face.

He ejected the tape and punched at his mobile phone. Within two minutes he was put through to the police commissioner.

'It's him,' he said grimly. 'It's definitely John Regan. I even have him on tape.'

6.1
5 pm

Frank Clancy clutched his wife and children. He squeezed them so tightly his eight-year-old son started complaining. His wife Anne clung to his neck, covering him with kisses. Laura lay stretched across his lap, subdued and sweaty. She seemed limp but struggled to life as she looked up at her father. They sat together on a couch in the ground-floor front room of John Regan's house covered with blankets. Anne was still only in her nightie, the children in their pyjamas, dressed as the Goon had taken them. The door was closed to give them privacy and intimacy for a few minutes. After that they were to be taken to hospital for a thorough check-up. The questions flew and Clancy couldn't answer them all. He was so relieved to see his family alive he couldn't focus on anything. He just wanted to hold them for ever.

'What happened to your hair, daddy?' Laura finally piped up. Despite her fever and lack of food and restricted movement she was rallying. She stared at her father as if he was from another planet.

Martin stood and inspected. 'Yeah, what happened?'

Anne sat back and checked, noticing for the first time the straggling strands, the dark stubble, the haggard face. 'What
have
you been up to?'

Clancy's eyes danced with delight. He looked from one to the other. 'I had a fight with a dragon.'

His wife managed a wry grin. 'Well, whoever she was, she won.'

The door was rapped and Tony Molloy entered. He was
ashen-faced. He called Clancy aside and explained what had been discovered. 'We're going over to lift him now.'

Clancy didn't hesitate. 'I'm coming with you.'

There was an immediate cry of protests from his wife. 'No, Frank, no,' she pleaded. 'This is not your territory. Leave it to the police.'

Frank Clancy clutched his family to his chest again. He kissed them one by one, then turned his wife's face towards him. 'This is my territory, Anne. They were my patients. I've come too far now and there's too much at stake to stop.'

Laura forced herself up, one hand tugging at her mother's nightie for support. 'Mummy,' she said out loud, 'you told me daddy would punch that bad man in the nose. Well, I think he should go and do it right now.'

Frank Clancy glanced at his watch. It was almost six thirty. The press conference would have started.

'Disneyland,' he promised, 'Disneyland. As soon as I've sorted that bad man out I'll go straight out and book the tickets.'

The children cheered. Anne Clancy heaved a resigned sigh.