Scalpel (35 page)

Lynch smiled at that.
Whenever I'm caught.

Nobody's going to catch me.

I have an appointment with Death.

I don't know when. I don't know how soon.

But I have an appointment with Death.

First I have some unfinished business to do.

A photograph of his unfinished business flashed on the screen as the report continued.

'Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton is still in a critical but stable condition in the intensive care unit of Dublin's Merrion Hospital.' It was another 'piece-to-camera' report with the hospital in the background, one long lens showing two Special Branch detectives conferring just outside the main entrance, their UZI sub-machine-guns not easily concealed. The report made a big deal about the heavily armed guard surrounding Detective Hamilton. Then came the piece that made Lynch smile, even allowing him a short laugh.

'Reports suggest Dr Dean Lynch may already be out of the country.' There was a clip of the Stena Line boat and offices where a ticket in the name of Dean Lynch had been purchased for the last sailing out of Dun Laoghaire the previous night. Another piece of careful and cunning planning by Lynch had proved fruitful. The report continued with even better news. There had been sightings of him boarding a train to London with another sighting of him hiring a cab to Chester. No cab driver had yet come forward to confirm or refute this report. There had been a number of other sightings and police on mainland Britain were treating these reports seriously and all would be followed up. But they did warn that there could be hoax calls and they appealed to the public not to waste valuable police time. Dean Lynch was a very dangerous and desperate man. The public should be vigilant and alert and report any possible sightings.

Lynch flicked off the remote control, staring at the blip in the middle of the screen. He sighed deeply.

It's time to get ready. It's time for the final push.

He picked up the bottle of hair dye, read the instructions carefully, then inspected the moustache he was letting grow. There wasn't a lot, but enough.

For the next move he wasn't going to use the wig or false moustache, for the next move everything would be
au naturelle.

Just before noon Tommy Malone climbed out of the car outside Lamb Doyle's pub in the Dublin hills, locked it carefully and walked to the opposite side of the road, gazing down at the city below. It was another cold but bright morning. Rain had been forecast for later in the week which would lift temperatures a degree or so, but that day, the day of the big match, the weather conditions were reasonably good. Despite the bitter cold there was a hint of sun through the dark grey clouds.

Malone lit up his last cigarette and picked out the land marks of the sprawling city and suburbs spread out as far
as his eye could see, Howth Head, the chimney stacks at Ringsend, Ballymun Towers. Jaysus, what wouldn't I give to be able to go back and start all over again? Cars passed by, but Malone was oblivious to everything but the view beneath him.

This is me, Tommy Malone. This is where I grew up and fought my way out of the slums and squalor. I can't leave here. I can't leave this city. This is me, Thomas, also known as Tommy, Malone. He flicked the butt into the frost-covered field in front and returned to the car.

There was something Tommy Malone wanted to do. He started up the engine.

Now, how am I gonna get inta town without bein' seen?

The RTE radio one o'clock news carried reports on the continuing hunt for Malone and Lynch. There had been plenty of sightings with raids all over the city and suburbs, even at deserted farmhouses, holiday homes and mobile homes. Anywhere and everywhere. But no arrests had been made. The newscaster reported the government had ordered the army in to help local Gardai comb rural areas. 'These murderers must be caught and brought to justice,' Alice Martin was quoted as saying.

Tommy Malone and Dean Lynch both listened to the bulletin, Malone on the car radio, Lynch on his Sony Walkman as he made his way back to the Stillorgan shopping centre.

He smiled as he walked, laughing occasionally at the thought of the police and army breaking down farmshed doors, city centre shebeens, scouring the country.

For little ol' me.

How
simple
it all was to create such mayhem. I should have thought of this years ago.

Anyway, I sorted out Tom Morgan. And I'll beat Luke Conway too. And that bastard Armstrong.

He walked past a Garda checkpoint at the top of Booterstown Avenue with a tail back of traffic for five hundred
yards, each driver cursing and swearing at the delay. Lynch noticed all this and just couldn't help smiling.

What fun.

He now had a full head of jet black hair, thin black moustache and looked quite bulky again inside his four thick sweaters underneath thick, black anorak with hood up. He was wearing his clear-lens glasses and didn't look at all like the man whose photograph was on every TV news bulletin and splashed across the front page of every newspaper.

Tommy Malone drove down Ballinteer Road, taking short cuts through various housing estates to avoid the main roads. He couldn't help but notice people going about their daily chores, putting out rubbish bins, collecting groceries, walking the dog. Life was going on all around him and people were living normal lives. The stark contrast between his day and theirs tore at his spirit. He came out along the Sandyford Industrial Estate in South Dublin where there were no road blocks and the traffic moved smoothly. He cut down towards Stillorgan, swerving sharply into the shopping centre overflow car park when he spotted a Garda car pulled across half of the road ahead, all faces in the slow moving queue being carefully scrutinised.

Don't draw attention to yerself. Don't draw attention to yerself.

He stuffed the duffle bag under the passenger seat, got out of the car and pulled up his coat collar. It looked natural enough, everyone was going around like that, shielding themselves against the cold. He walked around the Stillorgan Centre like any other shopper, accidentally bumping into a small, bulky looking man who seemed as preoccupied as himself. They grunted a 'sorry' to one another, each noticing the other had barely lifted his head, both sets of eyes fixed firmly on the ground. The smaller man paused only to adjust his glasses higher on his nose.

The small, bulky man with the hood pulled over his jet black hair and tied across the lower half of his face so that his thin, black moustache was also hidden, made his way
into the Quinnsworth Life and Leisure store where there was a photo booth. He sat down, adjusting the seat to the right height, and checked no one was waiting before beginning.

The hood was quickly pulled down, the anorak slipped off, the glasses removed. All four jumpers were pulled over his head within a minute. Then he slipped on his old Central Maternity Hospital white doctor's coat over his new plain white shirt. He wore a grey, muted tie.

He inspected his reflection and smiled. You look the part of a doctor again.

He thrust a comb through his gelled hair, giving a neat parting, combed to the right. He inspected the result again and grunted his approval. He slipped the glasses back on, fed in the money and waited.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

As quickly as the flashes were over, he was back inside his sweaters, anorak with hood up again. He glanced past the curtains around the booth entrance, there was no one waiting. He counted the three minutes on his watch, noticing for the first time how loose it now hung off his wrist. I've lost a lot of weight. A lot. An awful lot. And I don't feel hungry. I couldn't be bothered to eat, the very thought of it makes me feel sick.

The strip of four photos which finally dropped out showed a thin-faced man with strong head of dark hair and moustache, wearing glasses.

He went across to the pharmacy opposite and bought four packets of Ensure Plus, high-protein, high-calorie complete feeds, to get some strength. I must get some nourishment into me, I need all the strength I can get.

For the final push.

Tommy Malone went back to the car and headed away from the Garda checkpoint, pulling into Mount Merrion and down Trees Road until he met the Stillorgan dual carriageway. He planned to head for the city centre that way but decided to cut into Merrion Avenue. He was only
halfway down when he spotted another Garda checkpoint, only about fifty yards ahead. Now he was stuck in a queue, unable to get out of it without the people in the car behind wondering why. A young Garda ahead was checking up and down for anyone trying to sneak away. Out of the corner of his left eye Malone noticed a car pull out and over to the big off-licence on the left, McCabes. That's it!

He waited for a minute and followed.

People were streaming in and out, stocking up to watch the match at home, planning a few beers in front of the telly, fire on and a great night in watching their lads knock the stuffing out of England. Tommy Malone parked the car halfway up on the pavement, lifted out the duffle bag and strolled as casually as he could inside.

The place was packed, six-packs of beer flying off the shelves. A TV in the corner was tuned to Sky news. Malone started inspecting the rows of wine, keeping his eyes and head down towards the bottom shelves so no one would notice his face. The two o'clock news bulletin came on and everyone in the shop turned to watch.

The newscaster was reporting on Sam Collins and Peggy Ryan being taken from the Bridewell holding centre to be formally charged in court. The clip captured the ugly mood of the people gathered outside the courthouse, with lots of booing as Collins and Ryan were shoved inside for the three-minute hearing, blankets over their heads. They were then seen being dragged from the courthouse after the hearing to a waiting Garda van and then driven away at top speed to Mountjoy gaol. The newscaster reported that Gordon O'Brien was still dangerously ill in the intensive care unit of the Central Maternity Hospital. The mood in the off-licence became as ugly as that on the TV screen with lots of angry mutterings and warnings of what should be done to the bastards.

Tommy Malone listened and worried. He worried a lot. I knew it was bad, but this is woeful. Jaysus, there's nowhere to turn. He picked up a bottle and inspected the label. Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1983. That'll do. He waited
until the crowd thinned, then placed the bottle on the counter, averting his eyes as if he was looking for something else. He gradually noticed the young, dark-haired assistant staring at the bottle.

'That's an expensive one, sir. That's one hundred and twenty-five pounds.'

There was no time to start arguing the cost. I gotta get out of here as fast as possible. 'I'm still takin' it. Gimme a couple of Monte Cristo cigars as well. Number one.' The wine and cigars were carefully wrapped in purple tissue and then gently laid inside a green carrier bag, the bottle wrapped separately inside six layers of mauve tissue paper. 'Gimme a bottle opener and a glass as well.'

'Glass?'

This time the assistant couldn't help but stare at the face that was trying so hard to avoid being seen.

'Yeah, gimme a bottle opener and glass as well.' Malone peeled off three fifty-pound notes and dropped them on the counter. 'Put the change in the poor box.'

'Certainly sir.'

But the young dark-haired assistant couldn't figure this out, there was something about the face that looked familiar. He almost asked Malone if he'd seen him on the telly recently. But Malone was out the door and someone else was pressing for attention wanting a six-pack of Budweiser and a packet of Pringles. In an instant Tommy Malone's face was forgotten.

Malone checked the scene outside and decided it was too risky to drive. Duffle bag in left hand, McCabes' carrier bag in the other, he turned the corner into Cross Avenue. I'll walk to the Dart in Booterstown, like old times.

'I'm sorry, but there's no fault on that line. I can't get a ringing tone either. Possibly the cable's been pulled out of the socket.'

The faults operator on Telecom Eireann was trying to explain to Sharon, Betty Nolan's one and only girl, the reason she couldn't get through to her mother on the phone
had nothing to do with a telephone fault. 'Have you been trying long?'

'All morning. She usually comes over at eleven on a Wednesday and minds the baby for me while I do the shopping.'

'Well, all I can tell you is that the line is perfect into the house and there's been no report of any faults on that line or any others in the area. Sorry I can't help more.'

'Thanks, anyway. I think I'll call over and make sure she's okay.'

'Well if you find the phone's working but not taking any in-coming calls please ring this number back and report it.'

'Will do. Thanks again.' Sharon hung up, nibbling at her nails thoughtfully.

Tommy Malone took the Dart into Westland Row, the McCabes' carrier bag now stuffed into the duffle bag. He stood outside the station for almost five minutes wondering what would be the best way to go. Then he sat in the small cafe beside the station, sipping on a mug of strong tea, deep in thought, trying to decide his next move. He knew which way his feet would eventually lead him, but his mind wanted to go elsewhere. He wanted to walk back along the Liffey, back towards the old Steevens Street flats complex. His mind wanted to feel again the smell of the sea, the rush of the traffic, the noise of sirens as police, ambulance and fire engines rushed along the city centre. His mind wanted to return to his old haunts, seek out a few buddies, maybe have a pint and a yarn. But his mind couldn't control his feet.