Page 90 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

Admir obviously hasn’t seen the garda outside as we hear him take a longer run-up and barge with his shoulder through the door. Julia speaks into the radio on her shoulder: “shoot to kill,” she commands.

The hinges of the door buckle and the wood plank Liam had positioned there busts open as Admir flies through. He’s barely one step over the dusty stone doorway into the grass before shots blare out from behind doors of the garda vehicles. His body falls to the ground, blood pouring out of his wounds.

Julia stands and walks over to him. She crouches down and asks, “any last words?”

“Your man here,” he says, “Your man here, he is the head of the human trafficking and it’s your lot who are helping him.” With that, Admir shudders, his legs kicking out before his head lolls to one side, and he’s gone.

“Ciara, tell her. Tell her I have nothing to do with human trafficking.”

“I don’t need her to tell me anything.” Julia says.

“But!” Liam insists.

“A couple of days ago, we intercepted a submarine circling close to Irish waters. It berthed and low and behold satellite images showed girls being led out in handcuffs and headphones and being packed on to fishing boats. Those fishing boats were all paid by ya man Admir. If it wasn’t so ugly, it would be beautiful.” Julia says.

Liam breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Still, with the drug charges and multiple shootings at Guards, it looks like we’ll all ride back to the station as one big happy family. Get in the car.” Julia demands, motioning at her colleagues to bag Admir’s body.

Liam and I were driven back in separate vehicles at my request. I knew if we stayed in the car together. He’d bring up the baby, and that wasn’t leverage I wanted Julia to have over me.

I stare out at the open countryside as Dublin appears on the horizon, a medley of church steeples and brown brick buildings under smoke curling into the darkening sky.

So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. My brain felt like it was on an ultra processing speed, trying to catch up. I wouldn’t be able to dance at Lollipops any more. It was getting more difficult to dance recently. My breaths were becoming shorter and the chest pains were becoming longer.

At the station, I’m met by superintendent Fendley.

“So, Sergeant Oman has been working with these criminal gangs for his entire career. Taking bribes?”

“I know it’s outlandish, but there is evidence. If you follow the money. He has a home in St Tropez.”

“We searched Sergeant Oman’s house this morning. Among his possessions,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose and picking up a piece of paper “they found a gun, thirteen mobile phones and 150 passport-sized photos of himself in different guises. Unfortunately, we’ve been digging through detective Fergus financial transactions, and we haven’t found anything linking him to St Tropez or deposits of any cash he must have pocketed over the years.”

“He’s obviously hidden it well. He knows the system. My bet is you’ll find it in a complex series of shell companies, under one of his relatives’ names.”

“That’s as maybe,” says superintendent Fendley, picking up his cup of tea and bringing it to his lips. The deep etched lines around his blue eyes crinkling.

“We need evidence before we sully a good officer’s reputation, especially the ones who died in the line of duty.” He crosses his arms.

“Interview Liam O’Shaughnessy, he will tell you.”

He sits back in his chair, bringing his cup towards his chest. Only now can I see the inscription on the otherwise unremarkable white cup. It reads: world’s best minigolfer.

“That’s the thing, O’Shaughnessy said, he will only talk to you, no one else.”

“Then let me interview him.”

“It’s highly unusual for an undercover detective to interview the mark she infiltrated. It can be damaging to the criminal’s psyche to see so clearly how they’ve been manipulated.”

“Is there another option, sir?” I ask, straightening my back.

“I’ll give you thirty minutes with him. If you can’t get anything out of him that we can use to pinpoint Fergus’s money, then it’s a no-go.”

“Will he be buried with the honours and salutes of a regular Irish Guard?” I ask.

He leans forward, drumming his fingers on his leather topped desk. “If the public can’t trust the guards. It sends a very bad message’s leading to civil disobedience and criminality. Even when we are aware of guards who have acted immorally, illegally and with absolute culpability. We have to give them the final salute. It’s not fair on his family to make them pay for his sins, nor the communities he was supposed to protect.”

“What about all the innocent girls he forced into a life of sexual servitude, sir?. Don’t they deserve to have his reputation sullied?”

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