Crowe took in a blur of faces and handwritten notes as she scanned row upon row of sheets of paper. The i2 charts covered two walls: a roll-call of the great and good of gangs in the area.
She honed in on the central chart on the wall opposite her, the principal suspect in the Canal Gang. The thumbnail picture in the middle of the sheet revealed a man with a bald head, and a smug curl to his lip. Lock Man, it said. Position: Leader.
Like a wheel of a bicycle, the other players spoked away from him, each with their own thumbnail. Slammer (Security), Ghost (Distribution) and Cracko (Collection) formed an inner circle. Crowe wasn’t sure which of them looked the scarier fucker. More spokes led out to a third circle, dotted with two dozen faces, mainly young. They struck hardman poses, puffing their chests out and staring defiantly at the camera. These were members of the various street crews and associates of the network in the area. Maggot was one of these. A fourth circle contained thumbnails of even younger children, used as couriers, scouts and the like. Jig was on this circle.
Other gangs in the area were to be hit too. Each target had assigned officers.
Crowe stepped back. On either side of the main sheet were separate i2 charts for each target or linked targets being hit. The sheets listed full details: position; name; alias; addresses; Pulse Identification Number; partner; ex-partners; family; associates; car registration; mobile phone numbers; phone call activity on the day of the murders; location on the day and other relevant notes from their criminal intelligence file.
Crowe looked behind her, to a third wall, thick with maps and charts from her team. They documented what was known about the movements of the BMW that day, from Phoenix Park, where it was first picked up, to Philip Road, where it was last spotted.
There were a few blown-up photographs of the BMW, but none were clear enough to give a glimpse of the occupants.
Another map showed one sighting of the vehicle from the ANPR cameras on a traffic corps vehicle. And as well as that, local authority traffic cameras captured the truck twice, once on the Naas Road and again on the M9. After that, the trail went cold. Crowe was still working on its possible routes.
The registration plates on both vehicles were cloned and inquiries went dead.
Crowe numbered her maps and supplied text for all of them, typed up and printed. She looked at her work, and that of her investigation team, with a sense of pride. It was the culmination of two weeks of round-the-clock work. It seemed longer. It had blurred into one never-ending day. Her bones ached from the hard floors and makeshift cushions. The few nights she was home made little difference. She couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t spoken to Tom properly in ages. Whenever they had an opportunity, and Tom tried, her mind was elsewhere.
The incident room had filled in the last few minutes. Bodies heaved and jostled for space.
The DI pushed himself up from behind the desk. The word had come down from HQ that the commissioner wanted to see doors kicked down, soon after the funerals were over. Crowe shook herself at the images of those funerals, occurring on successive days. She still couldn’t believe she’d never see Grant’s face behind the public counter again.
‘This is to run like clockwork,’ Tyrell said loudly.
Crowe got up on her tiptoes to try and see past the men, shifting on their feet in front of her.
‘We are going to hit them hard, let them know who is in charge,’ Tyrell said. ‘Put them on the back foot.’
This was a massive shakedown of gangs in the area, the Canal Gang in particular, Crowe told herself. They were coming in on suspicion of withholding information about the murders, not on suspicion of the murder itself. Two separate offences, two distinct powers of arrest. Arrest them for murder now, their chance would be spent. They wouldn’t be able to arrest them again, unless they had new evidence. This was about sitting on them, sweating them. It would help boost the morale of gardaí too. If truth be told, it was a PR exercise – a show of strength to the public, and the media.
‘Most of these lowlifes,’ the DI said, waving his arms at the walls, ‘have been expecting us to break down their doors. They will be prepared. Each of you knows your targets and you know which station you are bringing your prisoners to. You have been broken down into interviewing teams. Let them know before we bring them to the interview rooms that, if they don’t give us something, we have clearance from the DPP to immediately press outstanding charges against them. Remind them their little drug business is going to be on hold as we continue to sit on them. And feed their paranoia about rats in the camp.’
Crowe thought Tyrell’s stoop was more pronounced than usual. She didn’t think he had left the station since the shooting. It was generally known there was no one at home; his marriage had broken up years ago and his daughter was grown up.
The morning chorus greeted Crowe as she exited the car. Silhouettes of birds stretched out along the wires, beaks pointing up, chirping away.
She clutched the warrant. Intelligence told them that Maggot hadn’t turned up anywhere since the shooting.
Up until this morning, she was just on the cameras. Now she was in on the raids and the interviews. And Tyrell had given her charge of Maggot, if he was there, and Jig. She smiled at the poisoned chalice, but loved being in on the action.
Three ERU officers were ahead of her, all of them pictures of moving darkness, covered head to toe in black combat gear. She eyed their arsenal: a Heckler & Koch MP7 machine gun, smoke bombs, a Taser along with the standard issue Sig. Two brandished their MP7s. The third was holding the red hammer. The threat level was rated medium. They didn’t expect firearms, but there could be resistance. Not least from the deranged ma.
Crowe glanced at her watch: 6 a.m. on the button.
She watched the red hammer slam just above the handle, catapulting the door back. The ERU man left the hammer down and grabbed his weapon and followed his colleagues in, firearms poised. The ERU’s ‘shock and awe’ approach was impressive, if slightly scary, Crowe felt.
She and the others waited at the door, listening. There was shouting and roaring and a clatter of bodies.
Crowe felt the weight of the Sig on her waist, a reassuring sensation at times like this.
The birds continued to whistle as order was enforced. One of the ERU men came back down and checked each of the downstairs rooms.
He walked back towards Crowe.
‘Secured. No sign of Maggot.’
She nodded. No surprise. She strode up the stairs, avoiding getting tangled in random clothes and bags.
Crowe squinted at the bright bulb on the tiny landing, no more than two-foot square. She scrunched her nose at the smell of piss from the toilet.
‘Go on, point that weapon at me,’ the ma snarled from inside her room. ‘I fucking dare ya, ya prick.’
Crowe looked in. She and Hunter were lying face down on their beds, their hands cable-tied behind them. So, they had put up resistance and the ERU guys had to restrain them. A second ERU man stood facing them, his gun poised. In Jig’s room, she could hear the third ERU guy ordering the boy to put some clothes on.
‘I fucking knew ya be behind this,’ the ma shouted on seeing her.
‘This is the warrant to search the house and arrest Jig and Darren,’ Crowe said as she stepped in and placed it beside the mother’s head.
‘Fuck ya, ya culchie bitch,’ she shouted at Crowe. ‘I’ll be on to the radio about all this. This is fucking harassment, State fucking oppression, it is.’
But Crowe ignored her and went towards Jig’s room, just as he was pulled out. He was dressed in tracksuit bottoms and top, his hands cable-tied behind him. There was shouting from the younger children in the room.
‘Mr and Ms Hunt,’ Crowe said, turning back into their room. ‘When I release you, if you interfere with our search you will be arrested. Is that clear?’
She could see them biting their tongues.
She cut the cables. The ma jumped up and jostled against her.
‘Back down, Ms Hunt,’ Crowe said firmly, not giving ground.
The ma pushed past her and entered Jig’s room.
‘Mr Hunt,’ Crowe said, looking at him as he sat up, ‘we will need you to accompany your son for questioning. Are you going to come peacefully or will we have to arrest you too?’
Hunter looked up at her, as if he was considering ripping her head off.
‘Youse are wasting yer time,’ he scoffed.
The baby started crying behind him.
‘Get dressed,’ Crowe said, squaring her shoulders. ‘And follow Jig down. Bring the baby with you.’
The dad grunted, but complied. The ERU officer escorted him down.
Crowe looked into Jig’s room.
‘Wayne, Crystal, are youse okay, chickens?’ the ma was saying from inside.
Crowe kept an eye on her as she gathered them up.
‘Ms Hunt, I suggest you take them down to the kitchen while the search continues.’
But the ma just turned to Crowe and spat at her.
‘Bitch,’ she said.
Crowe twisted as gob hit her on the chin. She wiped it away with her sleeve and rubbed her chin hard.
Christ, I’d love time with you on my own. Out of sight of anyone.
She battled the rage inside: part of her told her not to lower herself to their level; the other part said fuck it.
The boy, Wayne, looked at her. ‘Bitch,’ he said. The girl twisted her face at her.
Great, the next generation of Maggots and Jigs.
After they trundled down the stairs, Crowe realised she was shaking, but it was more adrenaline than nerves. She followed them and paused at the doorway. The birds had stopped singing.
Things were different now, she said to herself.
I’m not going to be intimidated any more. I owe it to Grant and Peters and the little girl: to stand up for them and show these scum the line has been crossed.