Private Dublin

Chapter 59

The emergency operator didn’t take me seriously, and I couldn’t blame her. I told her what I’d seen, but there was no crime in progress to report, just some concerning words and the distribution of weapons. I impressed upon her the fact that I’d seen guns, but she asked how I could be certain and whether they might have been something else. If, in fact, I had seen more than two dozen men being armed in this way, it would require a major police mobilization, and that was something she wasn’t prepared to request on the hunch of an anonymous caller. She said she would send a patrol car to my location, but as I made my way along the alley between the retail unit and the office block, I realized any such response from a single police vehicle would be too late.

There were three white vans parked outside of the retail unit, and the men I’d followed were streaming out of the building and getting into the waiting vehicles. I glanced right and saw the yellow-and-blue roof signage of a taxi making its way north along Beach Road.

When the vans pulled out of the lot and turned left, I ran across the open space to the street, where I hailed the cab.

The driver, a rosy-cheeked man in his fifties, smiled and said, “Hello, nice evening,” as I climbed into the back.

“I don’t know about nice, but it’s interesting,” I replied. “I’m going to need you to follow those vans.” I pointed at the trio of white vehicles that were heading north.

He did a double-take, glancing from them back to me. “You’re serious?”

I produced my billfold and peeled off five 20-euro notes. “Just for the hire. Add the fare on top and there’s another hundred for you if we find out where they’re going,” I said.

“Right you are,” he replied cheerfully, putting his Toyota Avensis in drive and pulling away.

As we went past the retail unit, I saw the two bouncers go inside and lock the front doors behind them.

“My name’s Jimmy,” the cab driver said as we went north onto Bath Street.

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy,” I replied. “Jack.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but I saw him sizing me up in the rear-view mirror.

“So, are you a cop then, Jack?”

“Private detective,” I told him.

“One of the good guys?”

“I try to be,” I replied.

He nodded toward the vans, which were passing the mouth of the cobblestone alleyway near the Night Watch pub.

“And are those the bad guys?”

“Definitely. Very bad,” I assured him.

“Good,” he said. “I like to know how things stand. It’s easier taking money from a righteous hand.”

He didn’t say anything else as we drove north through Dublin, following the vans as they took the Samuel Beckett Bridge across the River Liffey. I called Andi. I felt I had to trust her a little, since I couldn’t convince the Garda to respond to my warning.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Andi, it’s Jack. Don’t ask me why, but I’m following about thirty men in three vans. We’re on Guild Street, heading north, just beyond the river. I think they’re planning serious trouble. They’re heavily armed.”

I saw Jimmy flash me a concerned look.

“Don’t get too close,” I told him.

“Jack, you’re not serious, are you?” Andi asked.

“I am,” I replied. “I’ll text you my location. Tell your Garda friend to have a couple of units ready to respond.”

“Of course, Jack. I’ll get straight on it,” she replied.

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I said, before hanging up.

I sent her a pin of my current location and continued doing this as we travelled further north. We went over another bridge, through a commercial district, then on into a residential neighborhood and over another bridge, before the vans took a left onto Richmond Road. We drove beside a canal for a while before buildings sprang up to our left.

Up ahead, the vans finally pulled to a halt in front of a residential apartment block on the south side of Richmond Road. The building looked to be in a state of disrepair and was surrounded by a high fence on all sides. Jimmy stopped a block away and we watched the gang of men stream from the vehicles. They were now wearing masks and brandishing their weapons, and four of them carried glass bottles filled with fluid, necks stuffed with rag fuses — the unmistakable Molotov cocktail. There was no doubt these men were intent on serious violence.

“Where are they going?” Jimmy asked, and we watched them approach the building with the high chain-link fence.

Six stories high, the place looked like some sort of institution, and sure enough, my eyes soon settled on a sign beside the main gate, which read “Richmond Refugee Centre.”

“Jeez,” Jimmy remarked, when he registered the sign. “These lads mean to cause real trouble.”

The gang used heavy bolt cutters to force open the gate, and as the metal barrier swung wide they surged forward, running into the grounds and spreading out. The four men with petrol bombs lit the fuses and the evil orange flames signaled the start of mayhem.

“Call the Garda,” I said to Jimmy as I got out of the cab.

“Way ahead of you,” he replied, and I heard the ringing tone on his car’s Bluetooth system.

The first petrol bomb arced through the air and hit the side of the building, spreading fire over four floors. The other three Molotov cocktails quickly followed.

As I ran along the street, I saw the fire quickly take hold while the rioting men banged their weapons against the ground and yelled, “Born here. Belong here. Ireland for the Irish!”

When the first occupants came to their windows and saw the hostile force awaiting them and the building ablaze, the screams started.