Dead Men Whistling, page 39
They reached the Maxol garage and parked outside the warehouse in the back. When he had climbed out, the man with the shotgun hid his weapon under his coat and took a look around the filling station forecourt before he tapped with his signet ring on the Mercedes’ rear window to indicate that it was all clear for the rest of them to follow him.
He knocked seven times on the warehouse door, and it was opened up by one of Seamus Twomey’s gang with dyed orange hair and a silver ring through his nose. Hoggy pushed Katie inside and she could immediately smell cigarette smoke and weed.
She could hardly believe the crowd that was gathered here. There must have been forty gang members here at least, with some of them sitting on top of piles of storage boxes to give them a better view. As she was pushed to the centre of the warehouse and looked around, she saw Seamus Twomey and Douglas Quinn, and Gwenith, too, and a few other petty criminals she recognized, but what shocked her was that Gwenith was arm-in-arm with Michael Ó Doibhilin.
Michael looked white-faced and strained, and when she turned to him he stared back at her as if he were trying to tell her something desperately important. He mouthed a few words but she couldn’t understand what he was saying, and of course she couldn’t go over and ask him what he meant. What was he doing here, with Gwenith Twomey of all people? Had he come here because Gwenith had forced him, or had he come here to enjoy seeing his detective superintendent executed? His behaviour after he had been rescued from his abduction had been so out of character – refusing to give evidence against Farry or Vincent or Seamus Twomey. Maybe they had brainwashed him into joining their gang, like a young Muslim being radicalized to join Isis.
The man with the shotgun laid down his weapon on one of the packing cases and then he went over and joined Seamus Twomey, pulling off his balaclava as he did so. Hoggy and Patrick took theirs off, too, and all three of them lit cigarettes.
‘Good man yourself, Christy,’ said Seamus. ‘I’d say the Head Honcho owes you a bonus.’
‘It’s kind of a shame,’ said Christy. ‘She might be a holy Joe but she’s a beour.’
Seamus Twomey came up close to Katie with a smile that was half indulgent and half contemptuous. He was only about the same height as she was, but his bald pink head was disproportionately large and it reflected the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. His citrine eyes made Katie feel that she was being confronted by a reptile, or an alien, rather than a human being.
‘You made a fecking hames of this one, didn’t you, Detective Superwoman Maguire?’
‘I’ve already told your man that I’ll drop my disclosure if that’s what you want. I don’t know what else I can offer you.’
‘It’s too late now, darling. You know who we are now, and how we’ve been dealing with all them other whistle-blowers. Myself, I don’t give a tinker’s shite if you shades want to sneak on each other. Christy there, he takes all that loyalty malarkey kind of personal, but then he’s a shade himself, so he would do. But so long as you mind your own beeswax and leave me alone, I’m easy. I’m only in this for the grade.’
‘So who’s paying you?’
‘You don’t want to know that. For starters, you don’t want your last minutes in this life to be filled with disappointment, do you? You should be thinking of the good times you’ve had, do you know what I mean, like? You’ve had happy days, haven’t you? Holliers, birthdays, Christmas – the first time some boy kissed you. Think of them!’
‘You’re sick,’ said Katie. ‘That’s the only word I can think of to describe you. Totally, utterly, sick.’
Seamus pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Detective Superwoman Maguire. It would have been grand if you and me could have been buddies. But I suppose, under the circumstances, there’s not too much chance of that.’
Hoggy called out, ‘Gangway!’ and the gang members who were standing in a semicircle behind Seamus suddenly stepped aside, so that Hoggy could come forwards with his chainsaw.
Katie closed her eyes. Inside the darkness of her mind, she asked God silently to forgive her for all of her sins – for all of the times she had lost her temper, or told a lie, or acted lustfully. She had already confessed how coldly she had treated her lover, John, after he had become disabled, and how she and Conor and Kyna had spent one passionate night together in a threesome, but now she confessed those sins again. She also confessed a sin she had never admitted to anyone, even God – that she had stolen Bláthnaid Byrne’s charm bracelet when she was in high babies.
She heard Hoggy tugging at the chainsaw’s pull cord and she opened her eyes. The expression on Michael Ó Doibhilin’s face was one of absolute horror, but next to him Gwenith was grinning fatly, and every now and then she tugged him closer to her.
‘You’d find it a whole heap more comfortable if you was to kneel down,’ said Seamus. ‘You could pretend to yourself that you were at Mass, now couldn’t you – having a last final pray?’
Katie remained standing, so Seamus leaned closer to her and said, ‘If you don’t kneel down voluntary-like, we’ll have to force you down, and we don’t want to be looking like bullies now, do we?’
‘Tell me who told you to do this,’ said Katie. ‘Even if I can’t tell anyone here on Earth, I’ll tell God, so that He never allows them into Heaven.’
‘That’s fierce vindictive of you,’ said Seamus, in mock disapproval. ‘If that’s your intention, then I’m not going to tell you for sure. Christ on a camel!’
Abruptly, the chainsaw started up, drowning out whatever he said next. Hoggy came up to them, holding the chainsaw at a forty-five-degree angle, and letting it run at a burbling idle.
Katie knew now that there was no escape. All her life, this was the way she had been fated to die. Because she had worshipped her father so much, she had joined the Garda, and because of her dedication to the force, she had been promoted to detective superintendent. But every day of her life, every time she had climbed out of bed and dressed and gone to Anglesea Street, every time she had arrested a criminal or laughed at a joke or gone to lunch or kissed Kyna, it had all been leading to this.
She got down on to her knees, and pulled down the collar of her sweater. If she couldn’t escape it, let it be over as quickly as possible. She had wondered if it would hurt, having her head cut off, and now she was going to find out.
Seamus laid a hand on her shoulder and over the sound of the idling chainsaw he called out, ‘Mick! Here – Mick the Dick!’
Michael said, ‘What?’ and pointed to himself like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.
‘C’mere, Mick! I think you should be doing the honours here, since you’re a dick, and this lovely lady is the superdick!’
There was laughter around the warehouse, and several of the gang whistled their approval and kicked their heels against the packing cases they were sitting on.
Michael vehemently shook his head. ‘No! No!’ he said. ‘Not her! I couldn’t!’
‘Come on, Mick! What do they call it? Poetic justice, that’s it! This is your chance to get your own back for all the times she made you stand out in the rain doing some crappy job that came to nothing at all! Don’t tell me she didn’t make you do that!’
‘No,’ said Michael. ‘I just couldn’t.’
‘But you’re practically an expert now, Mick! The way you topped that bonner, that was savage!’
Hoggy revved up the chainsaw, grinning at Michael, and it was then that Seamus went over and nudged Douglas Quinn.
‘I couldn’t, honest,’ Michael repeated, holding up both of his hands. But Douglas drew out his black Czech automatic pistol and pointed it at Michael’s head.
‘Your choice, Mick,’ said Seamus. ‘This’ll prove how loyal you are, no question at all. If you do this for us, you’ll be a fully fledged one-hundred-and-ten per cent member of Fola na hÉireann.’
‘I thought I was already, Seamus. Jesus.’
‘Let’s say that you were a probationary member. Now – if you take off Detective Superwoman’s head – there won’t be any doubt at all. Patrick! Do you have that tin whistle, Patrick? You’d best not have lost it!’
Patrick came forwards and produced a shiny low-D tin whistle out of his jacket. Seamus took it and held it up. ‘There, Mick! I’ll even let you stick this down her neck! I bought this myself this morning – yes, bought it, and they’re fecking dear, too, these whistles! Nearly a hundred yo-yos that cost me! I couldn’t hobble it because the fellow in the shop was keeping such a close eye on me.’
Douglas continued to point his pistol steadily at Michael’s head, his left hand supporting his elbow. Michael turned around to appeal to Gwenith, but Gwenith said, ‘G’wan, boy! You can do it! If you do, I’ll give you the time of your life tonight, I promise you!’
Michael hesitated for a moment, and then he held out his hands so that Hoggy could pass him the chainsaw. He revved it once or twice, without turning to face Katie, but then he squeezed the throttle to run it at full speed, and stepped up close to her. She glanced up at him only once, and then she leaned sideways a little so that she could see Douglas standing behind him, with his gun against the back of his head.
Mother of God, what choice does he have? What would I do, if I were him?
‘Michael,’ she said, although the chainsaw was roaring so loudly that she doubted if he could hear her. ‘Michael, I forgive you.’
She closed her eyes again. She could hear and feel the chainsaw coming nearer, and she tilted her head back so that he would be able to make a clean, fast cut through her neck.
‘Ma’am!’ screamed Michael. She opened her eyes just as Michael dropped to his knees and swung himself around, so that the chainsaw’s teeth tore into Douglas’s right trouser leg and then ripped into his shin. Douglas let out a shriek of agony as the chainsaw cut through muscle and tendon and bone, and he pitched over sideways on to the floor. Blood showered everywhere, and all the gang members who had gathered around to watch Katie being beheaded stumbled backwards, shouting and swearing in shock.
Michael stood up, revving the chainsaw again and again. ‘Who wants some of this?’ he shouted, his voice almost hysterical. ‘Come on – who wants some of this? Come and get it if you’re brave enough!’
Douglas, at his feet, was writhing and keening, his right leg spouting blood all over the floor. Seamus shouted, ‘Mick! Mick! For the love of God, Mick!’
At that moment, Katie saw that Christy had reached into his jacket and pulled out a police automatic. She looked around desperately and saw that Douglas had dropped his pistol when he had fallen to the floor, and it was lying right next to Michael’s foot, glistening with blood. She shuffled herself over on her knees and picked it up.
She was too late. Christy fired at Michael, three times, hitting him once in the chest and twice in the shoulder. Michael sagged and then collapsed on top of Douglas. The chainsaw clattered down beside him, its chain stopped but its engine still running.
Christy clearly didn’t realize that Katie had picked up Douglas’s pistol, because he walked towards Michael, aiming his gun as if he intended to finish him off. Katie aimed at his heart and fired twice. Christy spun around wildly as if he had slipped on a patch of ice, and then fell flat on his back on to the floor.
Seamus shouted, ‘Hoggy! Fecking shoot her!’ But Katie didn’t hesitate, and while Hoggy was fumbling to pull her own revolver out of his jacket pocket, she closed one eye, aimed, and shot him once in the bridge of his nose. He swayed from side to side with a thin jet of blood pouring out from between his eyes, and then he tumbled on to the floor, kicking his legs up before he fell flat.
Seamus was looking around in panic, and Katie saw him suddenly focus on Christy’s sawn-off shotgun, where he had left it on top of a packing case. Seamus started to sidle crabwise across the warehouse towards it, plainly hoping that Katie wouldn’t notice him. Her ears were singing because of the noise from all of the gunshots, and when she shouted out, ‘Stop, Twomey! Don’t even think about it!’ she could hardly hear her own voice.
Seamus must have heard her, though, because he stopped and raised his hands.
Katie looked around and realized how dangerous a situation she was in. Over thirty gang members now surrounded her, and although they were keeping themselves well back for the moment, because none of them wanted to be the next to be shot, they must be calculating that she had fired three times already, and it was unlikely that the magazine in her pistol had more than seven rounds in it.
There was one weapon, though, that wouldn’t run out of ammunition. She transferred Douglas’s pistol to her left hand, and even though it was awkward, and she nearly dropped the blood-slippery pistol while she was doing it, she picked up the idling chainsaw. Holding it up high in front of her, she carried it over to where Seamus was standing.
‘Lie down,’ she ordered him.
‘G’way to feck. I’m not lying down.’
‘Lie down, Seamus, or you’ll be lying down because I’ve shot you and you’ll be dead.’
Seamus looked around at his gang, but none of them yet had the courage to run forwards and tackle Katie. He lowered himself awkwardly down on to his hands and knees, and then he lay flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest like an effigy on a medieval tomb.
‘You’re a bitch, do you know that?’ he spat at her, looking up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve always thought you were a bitch. Detective Superwoman? More like Detective Slag-intendent.’
‘Do you think I care, you scummer?’
‘You won’t fecking get out of here alive, I can promise you that.’
Katie pushed Douglas’s pistol into her left coat pocket, but before any of Seamus’s gang could see what she had done, she revved up the chainsaw and lowered it down between Seamus’s thighs. She held the whirling teeth so close to his jeans that they tore some stray threads from his fly, and he jerked himself backwards and upwards and said, ‘Christ! What the hell are you doing, girl? Are you fecking mad or what?’
‘I’m giving you a choice, Seamus, the same as you gave Michael Ó Doibhilin a choice. You can tell me who paid you to kill those five whistle-blowers, or else you can spend the rest of your life talking in a high voice and sitting down whenever you need a pooley.’
‘You’re fecking mad! You’ve fecking lost it!’
‘You’re the one who’s going to lose it unless you answer me after the count of five! Who was it, Seamus? Who’s this Head Honcho?’
Three or four of Seamus’s gang had started cautiously to approach them, but when Seamus saw them he shouted out, ‘No! No! Stay back! Leave her be! She’s going to cut my fecking mickey off, else!’
Gwenith had obviously seen Christy’s Sig Sauer automatic lying on the floor, because she had started to edge her way towards it, pointing her toes like a ballet dancer as if she thought that would make her less noticeable. Katie noticed her out of the corner of her eye and shouted, ‘Gwenith Twomey! Don’t even think about it!’ and she revved up the chainsaw to emphasize that she was serious. Gwenith lifted up both fat arms and stayed where she was.
Katie eased her grip on the chainsaw’s throttle, but she still held it close to Seamus’s fly. She leaned over him and said, ‘I’m giving you no more time, Seamus. If you don’t tell me right now who’s been paying you to murder all these whistle-blowers, that’s it. You’re a eunuch.’
Seamus shivered, and then he lifted his head and gave her a name, although he spoke so quietly that she couldn’t hear him, and she had to tell him to repeat it. When he did, she stared at him in shock.
‘You’re codding.’
Seamus shook his head violently from side to side. ‘Do you honestly think I’d cod you when you’re threatening to chop my fecking mebs off? Get serious!’
Katie looked around again. Seamus’s gang were growing restless, and they were starting to inch towards her. There were three guns that they could go for – Christy’s automatic, lying on the floor beside his body, Christy’s sawn-off shotgun, still lying on top of the packing case, and her own revolver, which was still in Hoggy’s jacket pocket. She couldn’t hold this chainsaw over Seamus indefinitely, so how was she going to escape from this warehouse unscathed?
She looked over to Michael, lying face down on the floor. His eye was open but she could see that he was dead. Douglas Quinn was lying on his side next to him, and he was white-faced and unconscious. If he didn’t receive immediate medical attention to stop his fibular and tibial arteries from bleeding, he would probably die too.
Katie was still calculating how she could drop the chainsaw, pull out Douglas’s pistol and escape from the warehouse before one of the gang shot her, when she heard a tremendous banging at the door. There was a second’s pause, but then it was repeated, and a voice shouted, ‘Armed Garda! Open up! Open up now!’
The gang members panicked, like a roomful of terrified children. Some of them dragged packing cases over to the blacked-out windows, and tried to force them open, although they were locked. Others circled and stumbled around, not knowing what to do.
One of them managed to smash a window with an old steam iron that he had found on the floor, but he was too late. The warehouse door flew open and five gardaí in helmets and black flak jackets came bursting in, two of them holding machine guns.
‘Armed Garda! Armed Garda!’ they screamed, running towards the gang members. ‘Lie down on the floor, all of you! Do it now! Face down, flat on the floor! You! Get down from the window! Flat on the floor!’
A sergeant came up to Katie, pointing a pistol at her. ‘Switch off that chainsaw!’ he screamed at her. ‘Switch if off and drop it! Then lie down on the floor!’
Katie switched off the chainsaw and threw it aside, so that it bounced. Then she lay down flat on the gritty concrete floor, with her arms spread wide. She could identify herself after the officers had rounded up Seamus’s gang and called for an ambulance for Douglas Quinn.
