The little circles of green light running down the middle of Millennium Bridge distracted Crowe from her thoughts. She skirted around a paper cup in front of a hunched body and thought of that joker, Stoner, again. She’d got a call a few days ago, and knew it was him.
‘The G Man is back, back in the game, still the same,’ he rapped, before hanging up.
And there Ghost was, just the other evening, on the sideline. Back to normal.
Waiting at the pedestrian lights to the Italian quarter, Crowe looked down towards her apartment block, partly obscured by two big posters on a lamppost. One screamed ‘Burn the Bondholders’, advertising a march to mark the second anniversary of the Bank Guarantee. The other proclaimed ‘Jesus Lives’, beseeching sinners to repent. She flicked between the two posters, only noticing the beeping of the pedestrian light as it slowed to a stop, then she ran across the road.
Crowe thought Shay was acting odd at the match: as if he was a bit distracted, shifty even. It was the way he kept glancing away from the game, in Ghost’s direction. And then he marched off at the end.
There was only darkness and silence when she opened the apartment door. She hit the main light and stood in the sitting room with her hands on her hips. It was almost as if she was in someone else’s home. The feeling unsettled her and she fought an urge to head back to the station. She stepped into the kitchenette and dropped her bag on the counter. There was no sign of food, just hardened cheese and cans of beer in the fridge. Plates and cups cluttered the sink. All she could find was a tin of beans. She hacked at it with a dodgy opener and emptied the contents into a pot.
After a search, she found the TV controls. If anything, she just wanted the noise to cut through the silence, and distract her from thoughts of where Tom was spending all his time.
‘Sorcha, this government is not going to allow terror gangs, as I would call them, to do as they want.’
Crowe opened the fridge again, half looking at the news. The beer called to her.
‘We saw the depths of depravity they went to only months ago when they gunned down one of our children and one of our guards.’
‘Yes, Minister, but these new laws being considered that were leaked to a newspaper . . .’
‘More laws. That’s what we need alright,’ Crowe said, stirring the pot. ‘Not more actual guards and overtime to sit on these fuckers. Ask him why Operation Swamp was quietly axed.’
‘They will reportedly allow gardaí to apply to the Special Criminal Court to hold specified individuals in preventative detention. Myles Caufield of Lawyers for Civil Rights said this is contrary to European law.’
‘Sorcha, the civil rights people are great at talking about protecting criminals, not about protecting society.’
‘But is it not just internment, Minister? We had that in the North.’
‘Sorcha, this is premature as we have not brought forward any such proposals. But speaking hypothetically, any such law would be targeted. If gardaí had intelligence that individuals were planning a shooting, or a tiger kidnap, they could present their case to the courts, requesting they be detained, for a short period. Only in these situations.’
‘Myles?’
‘Sorcha, I have already laid out the legal and human rights reasons against any such move.’
‘You really know what it’s like on the streets, Myles, I’d say,’ Crowe said, taking a long swig from the can.
‘Groups other than ours, such as garda associations and community groups have said the way you beat this is by good policing and investment in local services.’
Crowe took another gulp. God, she was gasping.
‘You don’t do it by slashing garda overtime in units tasked with tackling these gangs. And you certainly don’t do it by cutting funding to drug projects, employment and youth groups.’
Crowe was agreeing with the lawyer now.
‘Minister?’
Crowe poured the beans on a plate and curled up on the couch. She zoned out from the minister’s meandering response and heaped the beans into her. She didn’t realise how hungry she was. Cleaning her plate, she turned down the volume.
The minister’s reference to the murders brought her mind back to the investigation. She went over to the counter, carrying her can, and pulled out a notepad from her bag. She sat on a stool and scribbled down words.
No car. No weapon. No CCTV. No sign of suspects. No sighting of truck. BIG FAT NOTHING.
She circled the last words.
There was no more on the movements of the truck. She had contacted hauliers, garages and trucker pit stops. She sent them images of the truck, but to no avail. The thing seemed to have disappeared. But she would keep going. Something might turn up, eventually.
The best the rest of the investigation team could get after almost four months was a file on Cracko for assaults and drug charges against some kids street dealing.
Crowe didn’t think the DPP was going to take the cases against Cracko. Few of the witnesses who gave statements would actually give evidence in court. Even if they did, they weren’t reliable, as they were all addicts. Some of the statements were made as they were coming off whatever cocktail of drugs they were on. Other statements were made under duress. Most of the addicts were facing charges themselves. Make a statement or we’ll prosecute you, they were told.
Some of the street dealers got a few digs, in the toilets and stairwells, and in the garda cars, out of sight. Crowe had heard the roars and saw the prisoners clutching their ribs afterwards.
She stared blankly at her can.
She baulked at the behaviour of some of her colleagues and thought about going to Tyrell, the Chief even. But she knew they wouldn’t appreciate her bringing her precious concerns to them. Attitudes had hardened, lines had become blurred. She never would have accepted such behaviour when she joined.
She swished the remnants of the can around, pondered how things, how she, had changed, then swallowed the dregs.