Private Dublin

Chapter 48

“This is mad,” Andi said as we sat with our backs against the side of the truck.

We were in pitch darkness, trying to keep ourselves upright as the large vehicle bounced and rolled its way through Dublin.

“If you want out, I’ll find a way to open the doors,” I said, nodding in their direction even though I knew she couldn’t see me.

“I don’t want out,” she replied. “I just want it noted on the record that I think this is mad.”

“Duly noted,” I said, and we spent the rest of the journey in silence. The stop-starts and sharp turns of the city gave way to long, uninterrupted runs and gentle curves, and I guessed we were on country roads. The rumble of the engine rose above the pounding thump of dance music coming from the cab, which helped mask our whispers and the sounds we made as we struggled to keep from sliding around on the metal floor.

“Do we fight if we’re found?” Andi asked, as the vehicle slowed.

“We have to,” I replied. “These people are dangerous.”

There was a squeal of brakes and the truck shuddered as it went over a cattle grid. It accelerated briefly before coming to a halt a short while later.

The engine stopped and the radio fell silent.

“You get the lift and I’ll open the wagon,” one of the men said.

I heard the two of them jump from the cab and land on gravel. One set of footsteps moved away, while the other came along our side of the truck and went to the back.

A moment later, the rear door opened, letting in the gray light of dawn and a blast of cool, fresh air. Andi and I eased ourselves to our feet carefully as the man in the plaid shirt got busy opening the second rear door. We moved to the very back of the truck, behind the first pallet of boxes.

“Don’t be such an eejit,” the man at the doors said. “Here, I’ll do it.”

He hurried away to wherever his companion was, and I sensed an opportunity.

“Come on,” I said, nudging Andi.

We crept to the mouth of the truck and I peered round the open door in the direction the man had gone. There was a large barn about thirty meters to our left. The double doors were open, and I could see industrial machinery standing idle inside.

To our right was an old redbrick watermill that looked as though it had been converted into a family home, although the twelve high-performance muscle cars in the driveway suggested either the occupants were having a party or there was more than one family living here.

“This way,” Andi whispered, pointing at some lights that were on in one of the first-floor rooms of the converted mill.

I jumped out of the truck and followed her toward the three-story building, which still had a working waterwheel. The sound of the river rushing as it was forced through a narrow channel toward the wheel masked the noise of our advance. We moved along a gangway that ran alongside the house, around the wheel, and then behind the property.

There were more lights on at the back. We approached a low window and peered in to see that the old mill floor had been converted into a narcotics lab. Boxes of the sedative were being turned into a dry powder, and there was a chemical cooking bench where a suspension of the powder was being turned into something else.

“Synthetic opioid?” Andi suggested.

“Or a highly concentrated sedative. Plenty of demand for that on the street,” I replied.

There was no sign of Sam Farrell or Raymond Chalmont, but I was in little doubt that this was the sort of enterprise our targets would be involved in.

I used the camera slung over my shoulder to take photos of the interior of the room, which contained four people in clinical gowns and protective N95 respirator masks. Identification would be difficult, but the photos would be useful as evidence to encourage the Garda to investigate this location.

“Hey, you!” a man’s voice yelled. “Stop right there!”

I glanced at Andi, neither of us in any doubt that he was shouting at us.

“Run,” she said, and we immediately started sprinting back the way we’d come.