Private Dublin

Chapter 75

I set off after the men who had come to murder me.

I killed the emergency lights, turning the car back into a standard BMW 3-Series, and tracked the Range Rover through the city, staying three or four cars back, taking streets that ran parallel when I saw them turn ahead of me. They had no reason to suspect they were being followed and the silver BMW was a sufficiently common model not to draw attention.

When we drove out of the city and headed west, I had a suspicion about where they were heading, but I needed to be certain. Following them was made easier by my surmise, because all I had to do was catch a fleeting glimpse of the Range Rover in the distance to know it was still on its predicted route and I was on its tail.

We left the M4 motorway thirty miles west of Dublin and took winding country lanes to the village of Ballagh, leaving me in little doubt about where Chalmont and Farrell were headed.

I stayed well back now, satisfying myself with a distant view of the black Range Rover’s roof as it sped along country lanes, rising and falling with the folds of the landscape. Finally, I watched the big car turn off the road through the gates of Ballagh House. These men were under the protection of the king himself. I now had confirmation they were all working together, and the seeds of an idea started to grow, filling my mind with a plan for the way I might be able to bring them all down.

I pulled over before I reached the gates and executed a U-turn to take me back into Dublin. I retraced my journey as far as the outskirts and went east. I used my phone to find a hostel on Eustace Street in the heart of the city.

The hostel was a three-story redbrick building next to a pizzeria, and Eustace Street turned out to be a narrow cobblestone alley that linked busy Dame Street with lively Essex Street.

I left the BMW in an underground parking lot on Trinity Street, a couple of blocks from the hostel, and pocketed the key. I had no luggage and was once again reduced to a phone and the clothes on my back, but if that fazed the guy at reception, he didn’t show it. He was grateful for a week’s rent in advance for one of their superior rooms and insisted on showing me my new accommodation himself. He was all eager bows, smiles and friendly chit-chat until he put the key in the lock and opened the door to my room with a “Voilà!”

The superior room made me never want to see a standard one in this place. The bedclothes were threadbare and stained, the carpet too dark to be sure what lingered there, and the furniture — a single bed, chest of drawers and solitary empty bookshelf — was chipped veneer. The bathroom looked as though it had been installed in 1970 and had not been cleaned properly since. The avocado-green ceramic fittings were stained with grime and rust.

“Grand, so?” the receptionist asked.

“It will suit me fine,” I replied, slipping him a 5-euro tip.

He looked at the money in disbelief. “Thanks very much,” he said before leaving.

I shut the door behind him and took my phone from my pocket to call home.