The Storm Protocol (26 page)

‘
This is more like it,’ he said to himself. ‘This is what I remember. This is the American legacy abroad; shopping centres.’

He walked slowly back the way he had come. He paused halfway across the bridge that spanned the river; the Lee they called it. He watched as the silvery blackness of water roared through the arches of the bridge. It was like a metaphor for his job, the river. You could stand in it with your hands out in front of you and push with all your might, but it would find a way to flow around you. Drugs, like water, would always find a
way.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts, that he almost tripped over a couple of homeless guys, pathetically jangling empty coffee cups full of coppers. He caught sight of the familiar paraphernalia. One of the men was watching
the direction of his gaze, and flicked it out of sight under a blanket. He nudged his companion and whispered something. Dale shrugged and moved on.

He often wondered
, in idle moments, where the huge demand had come from. The liberals would have you believe it was all down to the marginalisation of society; the evils of capitalism creating a multi-layered and multi-tiered society, where the poor were forced into ghettos. Boredom and unemployment made willing bedfellows with experimentation and addiction. It certainly wasn't a new problem; it might have been a different substance in the modern era, but there was still the same desire for escape. Before the widespread availability of drugs, how many previous generations had succumbed to the relative evils of alcohol?

The problem that Dale had with all the theories was not from a liberal bias, not socio-economic, not even socialist. Communism, more so even than capitalism, had shown what a flawed dogma it really was. The issue Dale had was down to pure and simple economics. Drugs, like alcohol before, were not cheap. He couldn’t help but think, naively maybe, that people would have far fewer problems
, if they used their money to actually escape the bonds of poverty, rather than fund some kind of temporary artificial escape. He was too black and white; that was his problem and he knew it.

On impulse, he turned and strode back to the two startled men.

‘They don’t work you know,’ he said, throwing a Euro coin into their cup. ‘My advice; buy yourself a coffee instead. Make this the start of the rest of your life.’

He felt strangely elated on the way back to the hotel, but he couldn't understand why. He asked directions at the hotel reception to the second address. When he realised it was literally up the road, he decided to go into the bar for a quick drink, and then put his head down for ten minutes.

After a slow pint of Guinness, the waves of tiredness threatened to overwhelm him. He thanked the barman, put it on his tab, and headed for the room. The last thing he remembered thinking was that he must remember to set the alarm. His internal body clock was scrambled.

He woke up with a guilty start. It took a couple of minutes for full consciousness to return; before he realised
, with rising panic, that he’d forgotten to set his alarm. He looked at the clock radio. It was ten minutes past three in the morning. He glanced down at himself; he didn’t even have to get dressed, he’d fallen asleep fully clothed.

He saluted the night watchman
, as he walked out the front door. The man looked at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Can't sleep,’ said Dale, feeling he had to justify himself.

The city streets were eerily silent. The only cars on the roads were taxis, most of them with their signs illuminated; obviously a slow night tonight. As he headed off the main road towards Grattan Hill, the predominant sound was the click of his heels on the pavement. He had memorised the address, and as he walked, he repeated it like a mantra. He didn’t know why; maybe to convince himself that he wasn't alone.

He turned in to Grattan Hill, cursing his shoes
, as the sound of his footsteps echoed off the solid stone walls. As he neared number thirty, he realised lights were blazing in the front room. At least someone was home.

He approached as cautiously as his shoes would allow, cursing his decision not to change into his trainers. As he
got closer to the house, he noticed movement and shrank back beside the frame of the window. He peered around slowly; a body was lying amongst splintered shards of wood. There was a man with his back to the window. Dale couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but he was bent over the prostrate body.

Dale’s heart rate quickened; he didn’t know whether the man on the ground was alive or dead, but he knew he needed to involve
the local authorities as soon as possible. He extracted his phone and started to dial, but then froze with shock, as the man got up quickly and spun towards the window.

Dale
breathed a huge sigh of relief, as the curtain was roughly pulled across; looked like he’d got away with it. He continued with what he was doing. He hit the dial button and got a strange triad tone, each note higher than the last. He looked at the number he had dialled; it looked right.

He didn’t see the blur of silver-grey as he started turning; didn’t hear the swishing sound
, as it moved through the air like a crack of lightning. He barely felt the impact before his eyes rolled up into his head, and he hit the path with a thud; knocked out cold.

In his unconscious state, he was o
blivious to someone grabbing him around the ankles, and pulling him none too gently up the steps and into the hallway of the house. He was oblivious to being roughly manhandled into a prone position on the ground. He was unaware of the nylon washing line, as it was lashed around his arms and legs, binding another victim. He was oblivious to the gag, as it was securely fastened into place.

The sole conscious occupant of the room threw his
gun onto an easy chair. He checked Dale’s phone; the guy had tried dialling the emergency services, but had added an extra digit in his haste.

One thing was certain
, anyway. Street chuckled, before throwing the phone onto the chair next to the gun. Dale would have one hell of a headache when he woke up.

17
th
May 2011 – Seven days after the Storm.

Thirty spokes converge on a hub. But it’s the emptiness that makes a wheel work. – Lao Tzu.

Roussel copied his companion and watched with interest as the cream coloured liquid slowly settled and separated; until the bottom of the pint was jet black, with a white unblemished head.

‘Slainte,’ said James, clinking glasses
, before taking two big gulps.

‘Whatever you said,’ said Roussel, doing likewise.

‘It means cheers, good health,’ explained James.

‘They say
cheers
where I come from,’ said Roussel, with a hint of devilment.

‘And where is that exactly?’ asked James interestedly. ‘I mean I know America obviously, but whereabouts. Would you be a Yankee
, for instance?’

Roussel smiled
.

‘Definitely not a Yank
ee,’ he replied. ‘No, I’m from the south; I suppose you could call me a son of Dixie. I went north in search of my fortune, only to discover how deeply rooted in the south I really was.’

‘So, Lynyrd Skynyrd then,’
said James. ‘Sweet home Alabama, Dukes of Hazard and all that other stuff.’

‘Pretty close,’ said
Roussel. ‘What about yourself?’

‘O
h, I’m from the south too,’ answered James. ‘But we’re talking different sides of the same city, rather than country; the other side of the Lee.’

‘Do you have the same divide?’ asked Roussel interestedly.

‘Not really,’ said James. ‘It’s a bit like America, only you call them states and we call them counties. Where I’m from, we regard ourselves as infinitely better than the Jackeens, the Dubs. Cork is the real capital of Ireland; don't believe any of that other crap you hear.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Roussel.

They paused to take another couple of swallows.

‘So
, are you married?’ asked Roussel.

James shook his head.

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Working on it,’ said James with a smile. ‘In fact, I’ve got a date next Saturday.’

‘Good luck,’ said Roussel, with a twinkle in his eye, taking another sip.

The Guinness was growing on him. It seemed he had a penchant for Irish alcohol.

‘What about yourself?’ asked James. ‘Do you have a wife or Girlfriend?’

Roussel shook his head.

‘Never seemed to happen for me,’ he said. ‘Too busy doing other things.’

‘Funny how that happens when you’re a policeman,’ said James.

This time he wasn’t smiling. Both of them knew why, and they could feel their collective spirits sinking a little.

‘What kind of music do you like?’

The question from James came suddenly from left field; a concerted effort to brighten the mood.

Roussel blinked. He
’d been expecting another type of question.

‘Anything
and everything really,’ he replied, thinking about it. ‘I’ve got pretty eclectic taste, as it happens.’

‘Give me a band,
’ said James. ‘Think of your favourite one. I'd personally say you are a Black Crows, Doobie Brothers kind of guy.’

He smiled
, to rob the statement of any perceived offence.

‘You’d think so wouldn’t you, me bei
ng a southern boy an all,’ said Roussel, heavily accentuating his accent.

James waited patiently.

‘Steely Dan, they would be the band for me.’

‘Reeling in the Years,’ said James, nodding appreciatively. ‘Good choice.’

They spent another few minutes drinking in the bitter black liquid and the early evening atmosphere.

‘So
, how did you get into this game?’ asked Roussel.

It was
more for something to say than genuine interest.

‘Family t
radition,’ answered James. ‘My father was a Garda, my grandfather was a Garda. There were no choices in my house, only expectations.’

He paused for a second.

‘And yourself?’

‘I originally wanted to be a lawyer,’ said Roussel.

James grimaced.

‘I know, bloodsucking vampires,’ said Roussel. ‘But as I said before, when I realised that I was being treated as little more than an object of Yankee amusement, I decided to pursue other alternatives.’

‘Any regrets?’ asked James.

‘Not yet,’ said Roussel. ‘Ask me in thirty years.’

A thought suddenly occurred to Roussel; something that had been nagging at the back of his mind.

‘Did you get anything on the number?’ he asked James, who looked a
t him questioningly. ‘The last one that we forwarded you; the cell phone that sent the text to Scott Mitchell's mobile; when the evidence clerks were bagging and tagging the phone.’

James face cleared.

‘Ah, the
phone
number,’ he said. ‘Well, we had mixed results on that one. I can tell you that it was definitely sent from Cork, but that's about all I can tell you. It’s a pay as you go; one of those unregistered to a specific individual. There is no billing system address database to tie back to.’

‘So
, no way to tell definitively who owns it?’ asked Roussel.

‘We can only track it as part of an active high profile investigation,’ said James. ‘But I would need to get some serious sign off to do that. I don’t think we are anywhere near that stage yet, do you?’

Roussel shook his head.

‘I think you’re probably right.’

James drained the remainder of his pint.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we are going to check this guy out we had better move now.’

They drove in companionable silence, Roussel laughing inwardly as the local radio station played
Ricki don’t lose that number
.

‘That’s Steely Dan, right?’ asked
James, with a chuckle.

They pulled into Grattan Hill. All lights were off at number thirty.

‘Looks like it will have to wait till the morning,’ said James, turning the car around.

As he pulled back out onto the road, he was unaware of his licence plate number being written down.

When they got back to the hotel, James declined Roussel's offer of a Guinness for the road. As he drove away, he shouted out.

‘Be ready at nine thirty tomorrow morning!’

Roussel looked at his own watch. There was just time for another pint of Guinness, before catching up on some much needed sleep. He ordered his drink, and also a burger and fries; memories of home. He took them both up to his room on a brown tray.

When he had finished eating, which didn’t take very long, he was shocked to belatedly discover how hungry he’d been. He sat on the bed and started flicking through the hotel TV channels. Coming from the US, he was amazed to discover there were only six in the hotel. As he surfed, he didn’t register that his eyelids were getting heavier
, and eventually his eyes finally closed altogether, and the remote control slipped from his unconscious fingers.

He awoke with a start; an explosion from an old rerun of
the A team
had jerked him awake. He shivered; he had literally slumped to the side of the bed in his clothes, and the hotel heating had long since switched off. He checked the bedside alarm clock and then his watch; according to both it was four am. He pulled down the bedspread and got into bed. After ten minutes of fruitless tossing and turning, he cast aside the quilt in frustration; he was wide awake now.

He swung his legs out of bed, re-laced his boots and shrugged himself into his leather jacket. He’d committed the address to memory
, so it was the easiest thing in the world to type it into Google maps and hit
get directions
.

Before he left
the hotel foyer, he phoned the captain.

‘Hey
Charlie, what’s up?’ asked the captain.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Roussel. ‘I figured you'd still be up.’

‘The night is young, Charlie Boy, it’s only ten thirty here,’ said the captain.

‘That’s kinda what I figured,’ said Roussel.

‘Any developments?’ asked the captain.

‘Didn’t get as much on the cell p
hone as I’d have liked,’ said Roussel. ‘They have to jump through hoops, paperwork wise, to get a trace, apparently.’

‘Pity,’ sighed the c
aptain.

‘But I
have confirmed something; the address that both of us were given is where our boy is actually living,’ said Roussel.

‘So n
ot a wasted journey,’ said the captain, in amusement.

‘Certainly not wasted,’ said Roussel. ‘I’ve started to get a taste for Guinness
, among other things.’

‘Just be careful,’ responded the c
aptain. ‘If you’re going to question this guy, don’t go it alone. Apart from anything else, you have no jurisdiction; you are their guest and observer, nothing more, you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said Roussel. ‘Take care
, Captain.’

He hung up and then walked straight out through the automatic door, whistling tunelessly, disobeying his superior’s direct order.

The navigation was a doddle; where would modern civilisation be without Google? He found himself at the entrance to Grattan Hill at approximately four thirty am.

Roussel was an accomplished detective. On his first pass
, he strolled past the row of houses nonchalantly, behaving he hoped, like any pedestrian would. He paid no attention to any particular house, noting that the curtains were drawn and the lights were out at number thirty. He didn’t know for certain, but he was fairly sure that houses this old would have a back way in, and at the end of the street he was proven to be correct. He found an alleyway, which led around to a laneway behind the houses.

His first issue was the lack of numbering
in the lane; he had to retrace his steps back along the street, and then count backwards to eventually arrive at number thirty. He tried the gate; it wasn’t locked and had a simple latch mechanism. He opened it gingerly, nodding with satisfaction, as it swung soundlessly inwards on well oiled hinges. Someone was definitely looking after the place.

He briefly contemp
lated heading back to the hotel, but at this stage he was as curious as a cat, and anyway, he was a trained law enforcement officer. There wasn't much he was afraid of.

He moved as silently as he could through the gate. The rear of the property was in darkness, but the moon was full and bright. It was a typical old terraced house with a single storey return. The back do
or was set into the side of a small extension that looked much younger than the rest of the house. He tried the handle; he hadn't expected it to be anything other than locked and he wasn't disappointed.

He extracted his small Mag light and selected the
slimmest beam that he could. Luckily for him, the rear door was half glass, so he could see straight into the kitchen. The internal doors at both ends were closed; presumably one was to the downstairs bathroom and one connected the kitchen to the front room. He flicked the thin beam around the interior briefly, noting how smart and pristine everything was; it was maintained to a very high standard.

He turned his attention to the back door.
There was a large glass panel set into the top half; clear single glazed, rather than the double glazed opaque you would expect. There was also a small animal flap set into the panel in the bottom half.

He clamped the torch between his teeth, knelt backwards with his elbows supporting his body
, and just about managed to squeeze his head through the flap. By moving his jaw from side to side, he could illuminate the area above his head. He could see at least two deadbolts, a chain and two Yale locks. He extracted himself gingerly.

He could break a window. In fact, breaking a window was the only way he would be able to get in, but he had to think of a way to deaden the noise. He glanced around the small yard, his eye taking in the clothes on the line. The pencil thin beam continued its circumnavigation, picking out a small lawn bordered with very large earthenware plant pots.

An idea suddenly came to him. He had probably seen it on
MacGyver
, but it was worth a try. He took all of the clothes off the line and stuffed them through the flap. He spread them out underneath the door onto the cold stone floor of the kitchen, trying to create a small area of sound deadening padding.

He walked over to one of the plant pots. He put his finger in and sampled the soil. It wasn’t too peaty; nice and sticky, the perfect cons
istency. He proceeded to dig out the material, packing the window area with the clay-like soil, until he could no longer see through the glass, and the earth was level with the wooden frame-edge of the door. He wrapped his arm a couple of times with a woollen jumper. Standing with his back to the door, he said a couple of
hail Mary’s
, and then jabbed his elbow backwards into the soil packed pane as hard and as fast as he could.