Crowe pushed through a swarm of reporters, photographers and camera crews outside Canal Road Garda Station. They cast fleeting looks in her direction, their eyes betraying a desperation for some scrap of information.
She took the steps in twos, drawn by the noise and sounds coming from the incident room upstairs. There was no way she was not going to be at the heart of this investigation. She knew she should have been more professional with that boy, to get whatever information he had. But her emotions got the better of her.
Her phone vibrated as she approached the open door. She glimpsed at the mass of bodies gathered for the case conference. A third text from Tom, asking her, again, was she okay. She hadn’t replied to the others. She punched in ‘fine’ and squeezed her way through.
The room was packed. Detectives from nearby stations and national units swelled the numbers. She scrunched her nose at the smell of sweat the further she pushed down.
Faces were hard and tense, ready for action, but, Crowe sensed, needing direction. She neared the top table, halting at the line of rank sitting there, facing her. There was Commissioner Harte in full uniform, flanked by the assistant commissioner for Dublin and the senior divisional officers. Tyrell met her eyes and gave a brief nod.
Silence descended as the Chief stood up. He shoved his thick arms out for attention.
‘The commissioner will lead us in a minute’s silence.’
The commissioner rose. He bowed and clasped his hands. All the officers stood. Crowe sensed sinews tighten. Background noises, of the street and the reporters milling outside, sharpened then faded. She scanned the faces of the top brass: the lined foreheads, the furrowed brows, the tight lips.
The commissioner coughed, ending the silence. Then he spoke.
‘This is the worst of days,’ he intoned. ‘Some of us have seen these times before. For many of you, this is the first.’
Crowe swallowed the lump in her throat.
‘This division has the finest of reputations when it comes to solving serious crime, including murder. I remember being here when young Garda Murphy died, ten years ago now. The gang who did that were caught, and prosecuted. I have no doubt the same will happen on this occasion. And every resource will be made available to ensure that.’
And, with that, he sat down, upright in his chair, staring forward resolutely at some invisible spot.
The senior officers sat back down too. The Chief nodded to Tyrell, who stayed on his feet, to take over. Really, on a case this big, the detective superintendent should be the senior investigating officer, Crowe thought. But that post had been vacant for months and there was no sign of any replacement. Which meant an even greater strain on the DI.
‘This is what we know so far,’ Tyrell said. ‘At 8.02 p.m. Garda Grant and Garda Peters pulled over a car on MacBride Road, just past the junction with Canal Bridge.’
Crowe scrambled through her bag and pulled out her little notebook and pencil.
‘Why, we’re not sure,’ Tyrell continued. ‘We believe a single shot was fired. The post-mortem may tell us if that shot hit Garda Grant.’
Crowe tried to focus on writing, rather than think of Grant being shot.
‘The preliminary post-mortem suggests that Garda Grant died from catastrophic head injuries suffered as the result of a moving car.’
The point of Crowe’s pencil snapped with the pressure she put on it.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ she muttered.
Gardaí shuffled on their feet, brushing against each other. Crowe twitched at images of Grant’s head under the wheel of the car.
‘I know this is difficult,’ Tyrell said, looking across the room, ‘but you need to know. Better you hear it from me than the press. In relation to Garda Peters, he has suffered severe spinal injuries which we believe was the result of being hit by the car and driven against a metal pole. He is in a coma.’
Crowe rummaged for another pencil in her bag.
Fucking bastards.
‘We do know the bullet that was fired struck a girl, Taylor Williams, in the head across the road, on the path along the canal. Those injuries were fatal. She was just ten years old.’
Crowe halted as she finished writing ten. She was so obsessed with Grant, and Peters, the full horror of the child’s death hadn’t registered yet. She was Jig’s friend, Shay had said.
‘The car sped off up MacBride Road and a 999 call came in at 8.05 p.m. We have a partial description of the suspect car. It’s a BMW, 95 reg, possibly 3 series, red in colour, pretty battered, according to a witness. Sightings of three males inside: a guy with a green hoodie in the back, a big lad driving, described as youngish, and another in the front, possibly wearing a cap. I’ve allocated tasks from the Jobs Book for all the detectives.’
He looked down at the book on the desk.
‘There are thirty-five jobs. I’ll give them out at the end of the conference. Command and Control blocked off the main routes within ten minutes of the shooting being reported,’ he said, looking up. ‘These fuckers,’ he said, sharpening his tone, ‘either slipped out before then or are lying low.
‘We have a blank page on suspects,’ he continued. ‘We have several gangs in the general area, but it could also be an outside gang on their way to carry out a local hit. We need to tap each and every source we have. This is bad news for local gangs as it means heat on them. Tell them if they don’t cooperate on this one, we will bring them down. I want names of suspects nominated for tomorrow’s conference.’
Crowe liked keeping her notes clean, but struggled at the speed Tyrell was speaking.
‘Anyone not cooperating, tell them you’ll be bringing them down to the station for withholding information, through the front door, past all the cameras. That might concentrate their minds. Dust off what charges they have coming to them and tell them we’ll be going hard on them in court. Intelligence will work the covert informants. We have colleagues from the national units here to assist us. Security are doing checkpoints and patrols. A lot of people we’re looking for will have gone to ground. We need to dig them out.’
Tyrell sat back down. There was a collective exhaling of breath. People wanted to get their job and go to work. The Chief stood up and stretched his arms out again, as if to gather his gardaí in and calm the restlessness.
‘Garda Grant was special,’ the Chief said, letting the words penetrate. ‘Those of us who worked here know that.’ He nodded solemnly as he said the words. ‘She was a bundle of positivity. Her loss will be great.’
Emotions welled up inside Crowe. The fact it was the Chief, the rock of authority in the station, the father figure, saying these words hammered it home. She pulled out a tissue and held it to her eyes.
‘Our thoughts are with Garda Peters and we desperately hope for the best. And while they are our colleagues, our friends, we must also remember a child has been murdered. A girl just out walking her dogs, her life brutally robbed from her.’
The Chief heaved a long breath.
‘There will be time to mourn the deaths and unburden ourselves,’ he said, his voice strengthening, ‘but now is not the time. Now is the time to focus on the job at hand. And to do that, we must set our personal feelings and emotions aside.’
Adrenaline surged through Crowe.
‘You all know how important the initial hours and days are,’ he continued. ‘There are no overtime restrictions. We will work round the clock.’
Crowe glanced at the commissioner. His tight face twitched.
‘We need information, accurate information quickly on the bastards who did this,’ the Chief said. ‘But I need your brains as well as your balls. No point running out there and kicking seven shades of shite out of every scrote on the street.’
He paused, his cheeks turning ruddy. ‘I do not want to be wasting time responding to allegations of police brutality.’ He spat out the last word as if it was poison. He looked around the room. ‘Let’s get to work.’
And with those final words, the mood changed. Faces sharpened with determination and purpose.
Crowe put her notepad and pencil into her bag. She stepped over to Tyrell, his hands spread across the big register on the table. Each job was numbered on its own page, with a copy of each page. Tyrell pulled out her copy. She nearly dropped it when she read the job ‘Harvest CCTV’ with her name on it and date.
‘You must be,’ she said, leaning in closer to Tyrell, ‘joking.’
She glanced furtively around in case anyone heard. Tyrell spoke as he handed out the other jobs, his eyes on his task.
‘This is too close for you, Crowe,’ he said, quietly. ‘There are detectives here who don’t know Grant, or Peters. They will handle the scrotes, the raids. Some of it may be a little unpleasant.’
That felt like a slap in the face.
What, I can’t handle it? Fuck you.
She felt her neck grow warm.
‘I need the best person I have on cameras,’ Tyrell added. ‘You don’t cut corners. You have a sharp eye and a good instinct on what to follow up. I can trust you on this.’ He looked at her. ‘And that car could be key.’
But Crowe wanted to be in on the action.
‘What about Jig, his mother, Shay and Father Keogh?’ she pleaded. ‘I have an in with them.’
But she knew the DI had made up his mind.
‘You have five uniforms to help you,’ Tyrell said. ‘Find something.’