Chapter 3 bad day

The "Saint Kilian" ferry from Le Havre, France sailed into an oncoming sea area, and the huge hull gradually approached Ireland.On Deck A, driver Liam Clark leaned over a rail and tried to make out the hills in County Wexford that were getting closer. In another twenty minutes, the Irish Intercontinental Line's ferry will dock at the small pier in the port of Rosslare, completing another trip to the European continent.Clark glanced at his watch: one forty in the afternoon.He hopes to catch up and have dinner with his family in Dublin. Once again the ferry came in on time.Clark left the rail and returned to the cabin to pack his travel bag.He didn't feel the need to wait any longer, so he descended to the third car deck, where his heavy goods vehicle and everyone else's cars were parked.It would take another ten minutes for the passengers in the car to disembark, but he thought it best to sit in the cab and wait.He was tired of watching the lively scenes of ships docking at the pier. Compared with the racing pages of the Irish newspapers bought on board, even if they were yesterday, they were much more interesting.

He climbed into the warm and comfortable pilothouse, sat down and waited for the big hatch at the bow to open, allowing him to sail up to Rosslare Dock.A neat stack of customs papers was tucked in the visor in front of him for inspection at customs. At five minutes to two, the "St. Kilian" passed the harbor breakwater.At two o'clock sharp, the hatch opened.The car deck below roars with roaring noise as eager tourists crank up their engines.They are always so anxious.More than a hundred exhaust pipes were emitting exhaust fumes, but the heavy truck was in front and disembarked first.After all, time is money.

Clark hit the start button and the gigantic Volvo's engine revved up.He was third, and when the sailor waved, they drove forward.The first two trucks spluttered up the rumbling steel ramp to the pier.Clarke followed, and from the soundproof cab he heard the hiss of the hydraulic brakes as they disengaged and drove up the steel ramp. The roar of other vehicles, and the creak of the wheels beneath him as they hit steel plates, prevented him from hearing the sharp cracking sound from the back of his truck.From the cabin of the St. Killian, he drove along the two hundred yards of cobblestones and into the dark interior customs shed under the great vault.Through the windshield, he saw a customs agent waving for him to pull into the parking space next to the truck ahead, which he did.After entering the parking space, he turned off the engine, took out the stack of receipts from the sun visor, and got out of the car.As a frequent visitor, he knew most of the customs officers, but he didn't know this one.The man nodded, reached out to take the receipt and began to flip through it.

It took only ten minutes and he was pleased to see that the formalities were in order: licences, insurance, cargo manifests, duties paid, permits, etc.Even within the European Common Market, this is obviously the full set of procedures required to move goods from one country to another.He was about to return the receipt to Clark when he suddenly saw something. "Hey, what's that?" he asked. Clark followed his gaze and saw a pool of oil that was expanding under the cab of the truck, leaking from the area near the rear axle. "Oh my God," he said desperately, "seems to be a problem with the differential case cover."

Customs agents called in a senior customs official whom Clark knew.The two bent down to see where the oil was coming from.Already over two pints of oil have spilled onto the shed floor, and the other three pints will come out as well.The senior customs official stood up. "This car can't drive," he said, before turning to his colleague. "We let the other cars go around." Clark ducked under the cab to get a closer look.A chunky driveshaft connecting the front engine smashed through the differential's cast-steel housing.Inside this housing, the rotational power of the drive shaft is transmitted laterally to the rear axle, which propels the truck forward.These are all accomplished by a set of complex gears inside the housing, and the gears must be soaked in lubricating oil at all times to operate.Without this oil, the gears would snap to death very quickly.Now the oil keeps coming out.The steel cast case was cracked.

The winch is on top of this shaft, and the loaded trailer part is attached to it.Clark came out from below. "It's all gone," he said. "I need to report it to the company. Can I use your phone?" The senior customs official tossed his head toward the glass-walled office and went off to inspect the other trucks.As Clark walked to the phone, several drivers leaned out of the cab and hurled foul words at him. There was nobody in the company in Dublin, they were all out to lunch.As the last tour vehicles left the shed and headed inland, Clark was still pacing sullenly inside the customs shed.At three o'clock he finally got in touch with the general manager of the Tara Transportation Company and explained his troubles.The man cursed a few times.

"I don't have a spare here," he told Clark. "I have to get a set from a Volvo Trucks dealer. Call me in an hour." At four o'clock still no news.At five o'clock, the last ferry of the day had arrived from Fishguard, and customs officials were about to close.Clark called again, telling the other party that he would spend the night in Rosslare and contact him in an hour.A customs employee who was driving kindly dropped him off into town and pointed him to a budget hotel.Clark went to check in for accommodation. At six o'clock, the company headquarters told him that they would get the differential case cover at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, after which a repairman from the company would bring it in a van and was expected to arrive at twelve noon Clark here.Clark called his wife and said he would be home a day late.He then went to drink tea and went to the bar.Three miles away in the customs shed, Tara's distinctive big green and white truck was parked alone, with a large pool of oil underneath.

The next day, Clark slept late and didn't get up until nine o'clock.At ten o'clock, he called the head office.He was told by headquarters that the replacement parts had been loaded into the van and that it was leaving in five minutes.At eleven o'clock, he hitchhiked back to the port.The company kept its promise, and the repairman drove over from the pier in a minivan and drove into the customs shed at twelve o'clock.Clark was waiting there. Clark heard the jovial mechanic slink under the truck like a ferret, and Clark heard the man click his tongue.When he came out, his body was covered with oil.

"The lid of the shell," he said, "is cracked all over." "How long will it take to fix it?" Clark asked. "If you come to help, I can get you on the road in an hour and a half." It actually took a little longer.They had to wipe off the oil first, and it took time to get five pints of oil off.The mechanic then grabs a heavy-duty wrench and carefully unscrews the ring of bolts that attaches the main housing cover.Once he was done, he removed the two half shafts and started loosening the propshaft.Clark sat on the ground watching him, occasionally handing tools as ordered.Customs officers watched them both—they had nothing else to do when no ships were docking.

Just before one o'clock, the broken shell was removed.Clark was hungry and wanted to grab some lunch at a coffee shop by the road, but the mechanic wanted to get on with it.In the distance, the ferry, the St. Patrick, a smaller sister ship of the St. Killian, was heading back to Rosslare. The mechanic started the process in reverse: a new housing was installed, the drive shaft was fixed, and the two half shafts returned to their original positions.At half past one, the St. Patrick was clearly visible to anyone watching. Murphy is watching.He was lying in the dry grass on the high slope behind the pier.No one could see him a hundred yards away, and certainly no one was looking at him.He held the field binoculars in front of his eyes, watching the approaching ferry.

"Here it is," he said, "on time." Brandon snorted.He was physically strong and was lying on his stomach in the long grass next to Murphy. "Do you think it will work, Murphy?" he asked. "Of course, I made the plan like it was a military operation," Murphy said. "There's no way it could fail." More sophisticated criminals might have warned Murphy that such crimes were beyond his tolerance for a businessman who dealt in scrap metal and occasionally got some old cars of unknown origin as a sideline.But he has spent thousands of pounds planning and preparing for this operation, and there is no way he will do it halfway.He continued to watch the approaching ferry. In the customs shed, the repairman screwed the last nut on the new shell cover, got out of the car, stood up and stretched his body. "There," said he, "now, we'll get five pints of oil, and then you'll be on your way." He unscrewed a small flanged nut on the side of the differential housing, and Clark went to the van to fetch a bucket of oil and a funnel.Outside the shed, the "St. Patrick" slowly entered the berth, tightened the cables, opened the bow hatch and lowered the gangway. Murphy gripped the binoculars tightly, staring at the dark hatch on the bow of the St. Patrick.The first trucks to come out were tan and had French markings on them.The second car, driven into the afternoon sun, was white and green, with the word "Tara" written in huge green paint on the side of the trailer.Murphy breathed a sigh of relief. "Come on," he gasped, "this is our goal." "Shall we go now?" Brandon asked.Without a telescope, he couldn't see clearly and was getting impatient. "Don't worry," Murphy said, "let's wait for it to come out of customs first." The mechanic tightened the nut on the filler cap and turned to Clark. "Well," he said, "it's open. I'm going to wash up and probably pass you on the way back to Dublin." He put the oil drum and the remaining tools in the van, took a bottle of washing liquid and walked to the bathroom.The big truck from Tara Transport was already rumbling from the wharf through the entrance and into the customs shed.A customs officer waved him into the parking space next to his companion.The driver climbed out of the truck. "What's the matter with you, Liam?" he asked. Liam Clark explained it to him.A customs officer came over to check the new driver's papers. "Can I drive away?" Clark asked. "Come on," said the customs officer, "you've made this place dirty long enough." Twenty-four hours later, Clark climbed back into the cab, started the engine, and shifted into gear.He waved to his colleagues in the company, let go of the clutch and drove out of the customs shed into the sunshine outside. When he saw the large truck appearing on the inland side, Murphy adjusted the binoculars in his hand. "He's out," he told Brandon, "no trouble, you see?" He handed the binoculars to Brandon.Brandon climbed to the top of the plateau and looked down.Five hundred yards away the big lorries were turning away from the harbor and onto the road to Rosslare. "I see it," he replied. "There are seven hundred and fifty cases of fine French brandy in the car," said Murphy, "that's nine thousand bottles. The market retails for more than ten pounds a bottle, and I get four. What do you think?" "Lots of wine," Brandon said wistfully. "That's a lot of money, fool," Murphy said. "Okay, here we go." The two of them climbed down the high slope and ran to the car parked on the sandy road below. They drove back to the junction of the pier leading to the county road and the dirt road, and only waited a few seconds before seeing the driver Clark driving a large truck rumbling past.Murphy followed the big truck in a black Ford Grenada he had stolen two days earlier and now had fake license plates. Clark wanted to get home quickly, without pausing.As he crossed the Slaney River Bridge, left Wexford, and headed north on the Dublin Highway, Murphy decided it was time to make a phone call. He'd noticed the phone booth before, and had removed the earpiece membrane in advance to make sure no one was using it when he came.There was no one in there right now, but someone might have gotten annoyed with the useless contraption and snapped the wires from the base.Murphy cursed and continued to drive forward.He found another telephone box next to a post office northwest of Ennisco.After stepping on the brakes, the big truck in front gradually faded out of his sight with a roar. He called another phone booth on the road north of Gorey, where two of his accomplices, Brady and Keogh, were waiting. "Where did you die?" Brady asked. "Keough and I have been waiting here for over an hour." "Take it easy," Murphy said. "He's on his way, right on time. You just have to hide in the bushes at the parking lot and wait for him to get off." He hung up the phone and continued driving.With the advantage of speed, he caught up with the big truck before reaching Ferns Village, and then followed it on the open road.Near Camerin he turned to Brandon. "It's time to transform into a legal guard." After speaking, he drove off the road and entered a narrow country dirt road that had been reconnaissance in advance.There was no one there. After the two got out of the car, they took a handbag from the back seat and unzipped it. Inside was a blue shirt and black tie of a regular police uniform.The two had already put on black shoes, socks and trousers in advance, and they only needed to put on the two uniforms in the handbag to complete the disguise.Murphy's uniform has three stripes and is a sheriff; Brandon wears a normal police uniform.Both wore the badge of the Irish Police and large caps they had previously stashed in their handbags. The last items in the bag were two rolls of black plastic tape.Murphy pulled off the tape, peeled off the interlining, carefully pulled it off and pasted a strip on each side of the front door of the Ford Granada.The black tape blends in with the body's black paint, and the white "Police" lettering on the tape stands out.When stealing the car, Murphy specifically chose a black Grenada because it was the most common police patrol car. Brandon pulled the last piece of equipment out of the trunk, a two-foot-long, triangular-shaped thing.Strong magnets are installed at the bottom of the triangle, which can be firmly attached to the car roof.The other two sides are all glass with the word "police" painted on it. There are no lighting bulbs inside, but who cares in broad daylight? The two got back into the car and backed out from the path.No matter how you look at them, they are a pair of policemen patrolling the highway.Now Brandon was driving, with "Sheriff" Murphy sitting next to him.They found the big van waiting for a red light in Goree. There is a new four-lane road north of Goree, between the old market town and Arklow.There was a roadside stop along the road northbound, and that was where Murphy had chosen for the ambush.When entering the two-lane highway, the drivers of a long line of cars following the big truck happily overtook the big truck.Murphy watched all of this.He rolled down the window and said to Brandon, "Do it." The Grenada smoothly pulled up to the truck's cab and drove alongside it.Clark looked down to see a police car next to him, with a sheriff waving at him, and he rolled down the window. "You've got a flat rear tire," Murphy yelled into the wind. "Go to the front parking lot." Clark looked ahead and saw the large stop sign on the roadside sign.He nodded and started to slow down.The police car pulled ahead, pulled into the parking lot and stopped.The big truck stopped behind Grenada.Clark got out of the car. "Behind," Murphy said, "come with me." Clark followed him obediently around the front of his truck and along the green and white sides to the back.He didn't see the flat tire because he never had a chance to.Brady and Keough jumped out of the bushes in overalls and hoods.A gloved hand covered Clark's mouth, a strong arm wrapped around his chest, and another pair of arms wrapped around his legs.He was picked up like a sack and disappeared into the bushes. Within a minute, his smock with the Tara logo on the breast pocket was removed and his wrists, mouth and eyes were taped.Under the cover of the huge truck body, passing drivers could not see this scene at all.He was stuffed into the back seat of a "police car".A hoarse voice told him to lie still on the ground, which he did. Two minutes later, Keogh emerged from the bushes in his "Tara" overalls and approached Murphy by the cab door.The bandit chief is checking the driver's license of the hapless Clark. "Everything is under control," Murphy said. "Now your name is Liam Clark, and these shipping documents are complete. Didn't you pass through customs at Rosslare less than two hours ago?" Keogh worked as a truck driver before serving time at Mountjoy State Prison.He snorted and climbed into the cab of the truck to look around. "No problem," he said, and put the stack of papers back on the visor. "See you at the farm in an hour," Murphy said.He watched as the hijacked lorry rejoined the traffic north to Dublin. Murphy returned to the police car.Brady sat in the back with his feet resting on Clark, who was lying on his side, blindfolded.He had taken off his overalls, his hood, and a tweed jacket.Clark could have seen Murphy's face, but only for a few seconds, and Murphy was still wearing a police cap.It was impossible for him to see what the other three looked like.In this way, even if he accuses Murphy, the other three will give Murphy an unassailable alibi. Murphy glanced at the road.No cars, empty.He looked at Brandon and nodded.The two tore off the "police" sticker on the door, huddled up and threw it in the back of the car.They looked around and saw a car speeding by, but they didn't notice anything.Murphy tore off the police light on the roof and threw it to Brady.On another look, there were no other vehicles.He took off his police uniform, threw it to Brady, and put on his trench coat.When the Grenada pulled out of the parking lot, it was just an ordinary sedan with three civilians in it. They overtook the lorry north of Arklow.It was Murphy who was driving now, and he gave a soft honk as the Granada overtook the big truck.Keogh held up one hand, thumbs up, in a "no problem" sign. Murphy continues north as far as Kimah Canog, then turns into a trail called the Rocky Valley, which leads to the untouched Kalali Swamp.He had found an abandoned farm there before, with a big barn big enough to hide the big truck for a few hours, just what they needed.There is a muddy dirt road leading to the outside of the farm, and there is a clump of pines and cypresses as a shelter. They arrived before dusk, fifty minutes before the big truck and two hours before the agreed time with the Northerner and his four vans. Murphy is quite proud of making this deal.It is not easy to deal with these nine thousand bottles of brandy in the south.The wines are bonded, each case is numbered and each bottle will be found sooner or later.But in the war-torn north of Ireland, things were different.The place was lawless, full of speakeasies and unlicensed bars. The underground taverns are strictly separated by the Christian sect and the Catholic sect, and they are all firmly controlled by the underworld.The underworld has long been taken over by the so-called patriotic elites who fled there.Murphy knew as well as anyone that sectarian killings carried out under the banner of "fighting for the honor of Northern Ireland" were not so much patriotism as protection for kidnapping and ransom. So he strikes a deal with one of the powerful ringleaders.The man was the main supplier to many speakeasies, and the brandy was sold to him without being questioned.The man would meet him at the farm with the driver, pay and deliver.Then they would unload the brandy into his four vans and travel the maze of country roads across the border between County Fermanagh and the Lake District on the edge of County Monaghan to deliver the goods before dawn. into the north. He orders Brandon and Brady to take the hapless driver into the farm, where Clark is thrown onto a pile of sacks in the corner of the abandoned kitchen.The three robbers sat down and waited.At seven o'clock in the evening, a large green and white truck with its lights out drove in the darkness.The three ran outside and opened the dilapidated barn door by the dim light of the flashlight.Keogh drove the truck inside.After the gate closed, Keogh got out of the car. "My job is done," he said. "How about a drink?" "You've done a good job," Murphy said. "You don't have to drive this truck anymore. It unloads at midnight, and then I drive it ten miles away and throw it away. Would you like a drink?" "How about some brandy?" Brady suggested, and they all laughed, and it was a good joke. "I wouldn't open the case just for a few drinks," Murphy said. "Besides, I like whiskey. How about some whiskey?" He took a flagon out of his pocket and everyone wanted some.At a quarter to eight it was dark.Murphy took the flashlight and went to the intersection to lead the northerners.He had given the northerners the detailed driving route, but they still might not be able to find it.At ten past eight, he returned with four vans.After the cars stopped in the yard, a large man in a camel coat got out of the passenger seat of the first car.He carried a suitcase and had a stern expression, without a hint of humor. "Murphy?" he asked.Murphy nodded. "Have you got the goods yet?" "Just off the ship from France," Murphy said, "on the truck in the barn." "If you've broken the customs seal on the truck, I'll check it case by case," the man said threateningly.Murphy swallowed, secretly glad that he resisted the temptation to see the spoils just now. "The French customs seal is intact," he said. "You can check it yourself." The man from the north snorted and nodded to his followers.The attendant opened the barn door.The flashlight shone on the two locks of the back door, where the customs seals were still intact.The Northern Irishman snorted again and nodded with satisfaction.One of his attendants took a crowbar and walked to the door lock.The northerner raised his head. "Let's go inside," he said.Murphy led the way with a flashlight and entered the so-called living room in this old farm.The northerner put the suitcase on the table and opened the lid.Bundles of pounds made Murphy's eyes shine. He had never seen so much money. "Nine thousand bottles at four pounds each," said he. "That's thirty-six thousand pounds, isn't it?" "Thirty-five thousand," muttered the Northerner, "I like round numbers." Murphy didn't argue.He knew perfectly well that it would be unwise to argue with this man.In any case, he was satisfied.Each brother was given 3,000 pounds. After deducting the expenses, he could still net more than 20,000 pounds. "A deal," he said. Another northerner appeared beyond the broken window and said something to his boss. "You'd better come and see," was all he said. Then he left.The big man closed the lid of the box with a "snap", grabbed the handle of the box, opened the door and followed.Inside the barn, the four Northern Irishmen, along with Keogh, Brady and Brandon, gathered around the open door of the truck.Six flashlights illuminated the interior of the carriage.Instead of neatly stacked wooden crates bearing the names of world-renowned brandy makers, they saw other goods. Inside are rows of plastic woven bags, each with the name of a famous gardener printed on it, and the words "Rose Fertilizer" printed underneath.The man from the north stared at the pile of goods without changing the expression on his face. "What the hell is this thing?" he asked scoldingly. Murphy finally regained his composure, and was so shocked that he could not close his mouth from ear to ear. "I don't know," he said hoarsely, "I swear I don't." He is telling the truth.His news is definitely not wrong, after all, he spent a lot of money.He got the correct boat name and wagon information.He also knew that there was only one such truck on the St. Patrick, which arrived that afternoon. "Where's the driver?" the big man growled. "Inside," Murphy said. "Ask him," said the big man.Murphy leads the way.The hapless Liam Clarke was still tied and thrown on the bag like a chicken. "What kind of goods are you packing?" the big man asked in a frenzy. Clark grunted angrily behind the tape.The big man nodded to an attendant, who stepped forward and pulled the medical tape off Clark's mouth.The driver's eyes were covered with a piece of tape. "I said what the hell are you packing." The big man repeated, and Clark swallowed. "Rose fertilizer," he said, "it's on the waybill." The big man took a flashlight to the stack of documents he took from Murphy, and then put the waybill under Murphy's nose. "Haven't you seen this one, idiot?" he asked. Murphy took out his anger on the driver. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he said angrily. Although Clark couldn't see who was yelling, the fury made him courageous. "Because I have a goddamn tape over my mouth, that's why," he snapped back. "It's true, Murphy," Brandon said matter-of-factly. "Shut up." Murphy was almost desperate, and he gradually moved closer to Clark. "Is the brandy down there?" he asked. Clark looked clearly unaware. "Brandy?" he repeated. "Why is there brandy? Belgium doesn't produce brandy." "Belgium?" Murphy growled. "Didn't you drive from Cognac to Le Havre?" "I've never been to Cognac in my life," Clark yelled. "I pulled a load of rose manure, made of sphagnum moss and dried cow dung. We export from Ireland to Belgium, and I delivered last week. .After the buyer opened the package and inspected the goods in Antwerp, he thought it was unqualified and refused to accept the goods, so the boss in Dublin asked me to pull the goods back. It took me three days in Antwerp to sort out the documents. That’s right, it’s all on the waybill write." The man from the north has been checking the receipts in his hand with a flashlight, confirming Clark's statement.He snorted in disgust, and dropped the receipt on the floor. "Come with me." He said to Murphy, and walked out first.Murphy followed, arguing that he didn't know. The big man interrupted Murphy's defense in the dark yard.He put down the suitcase, turned around and grabbed Murphy by the front of his windbreaker, lifted him up and threw him into the barn. "Listen, you Catholic bastard," the big man cursed. Murphy didn't know which group of unscrupulous businessmen in Northern Ireland he was doing business with before, but now he finally knows. "You," the big man's deep whisper made Murphy feel cold all over, "you really hijacked a truckload of shit, and wasted money and time of me and my brothers..." "I swear to you..." Murphy's voice was hoarse and he felt out of breath. "For God's sake... it must be the next ship, arriving at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. I can start over..." "Don't bother," said the big man in a low voice, "the deal is blown. You listen to me, if you play tricks like this with me again, I'll send two brothers to come and break your legs. Remember? ?” My God, Murphy thought, these Yankees are a bunch of beasts who only know how to please the British.He knew in his heart that these words cannot be said if he wanted to save his life, so he nodded.Five minutes later, the Northerners and the four empty cars drove away. At the farmhouse, Murphy and a few frustrated accomplices drained the jug of whiskey by the light of a flashlight. "What now?" Brady asked. "So," Murphy said, "we cleared the evidence. Nobody got anything but myself, but they didn't lose." "What about the three thousand pounds we agreed on earlier?" asked Keogh. Murphy thought about it.After the intimidation of the Northern Irish, he didn't want to be threatened by his own people. "It's only fifteen thousand each, brethren," he said, "but you'll have to wait a while until I get the money. I've lost my money on this operation." Even if dissatisfied, they are much calmer. "Brandon, you, Brady, and Keogh, clean this place up. Every scrape, footprint, and mud rut, get rid of it. When you're done, take that car and put the driver Throw it to the curb in the south, throw away his shoes, keep the tape on his mouth, eyes and wrists, so it will take some time for him to call the police. Then turn north and drive home." "I mean what I say, Keogh, I'll throw it in the truck up the hill to Kipple, then I'll walk down the hill and maybe catch a ride on the road back to Dublin. Agreed?" They all agreed and had no choice.The Yankees had smashed the iron locks on the back of the trailer, so the gang had to find wooden strips to hold the latches of the two doors.They then closed the doors of the wagons containing the disappointing cargo.Murphy drove the big truck rumbled out of the farm, returned to the dirt road, and then turned left toward Juss Woods and the Wicklow Mountains. It was just past nine-thirty when Murphy was passing through the woods on the side of the Roundwood Road when he came across a tractor.Generally speaking, farmers would not come out with a tractor at such a late hour, and one headlight of this tractor was not on, the other was covered with mud, and there were ten tons of hay bales on the trailer behind it.But this farmer went out in the dark with just such a tractor. Murphy was speeding between two stone walls when he saw the huge oncoming figure of the trailer truck.He immediately slammed on the brakes. While trailered trucks can turn more flexibly than fixed-structure trucks of the same length, they can be dangerous when braking.If the towing front and the loaded trailer are not in line, they bend in a V shape.A heavy trailer would push the front of the car aside and skid.That's what happened to Murphy's van. Fortunately, he was prevented from rolling down by the stone walls that can be seen everywhere in the Wicklow Mountains.The farmer stepped on the gas and rushed through the gate of the nearby farm, while the trailer with the bales behind him couldn't dodge it.Murphy's front end began to spin when the tractor's trailer hit it.The truck's brakes snapped, the load of manure pushed toward him, and the bales burst under the pressure and fell onto his cab, nearly burying it.The rear of the trailer hit a stone wall behind him, bounced back to the road, and hit the opposite stone wall. When the crunch of metal against the stone wall stopped, the farm trailer disconnected from the tractor, skidded ten feet, and stopped straight there.The force of the impact threw the farmer from his seat into a pile of silage; he was screaming loudly.Murphy sat in the dim cab under the straw bales. The impact with the stone wall caused both the wooden bars holding the back door of the truck to snap, leaving both doors open.Some rose fertilizer was scattered on the road behind the truck.Murphy opened the driver's door, and got out of the car by pulling away the hay bales.He has only one thought, which is to stay as far away from here as possible, the farther the better.It was impossible for the farmer to recognize him in the darkness.But when he climbed out of the cab, he remembered that he hadn't wiped off his fingerprints left in the cab. The farmer had emerged from the silage pile and was standing on the road beside the cab of the truck, exuding an odor that no modern aftershave maker could possibly concoct.Obviously, he was waiting for Murphy to come out.Murphy's mind was racing, he would calm down the farmer, he would offer to help reload the bales on the trailer, and then he would seize the opportunity to wipe the fingerprints in the cab and slip away in the dark. Just then, a police patrol car arrived.Police cars are always weird, you can't find them when you need them, but you just wipe off a little paint on the other party's car, and it pops up out of nowhere.The police car had just escorted a minister from Dublin to his country home near Annamor and was on its way back to the capital.When Murphy saw the headlights of the car, he thought it was just an ordinary car, and when the lights went out, he realized that this was the real thing.There is a police station logo on the roof, and it lights up. A police officer with the title of sheriff and a police officer slowly walked around the immobile front and trailer, looking at the scattered straw bales.Murphy understood that he could only lie.In the dark, he can still take the opportunity to escape. "Your?" asked the sheriff, nodding toward the van. "Yes," Murphy said. "Driving on the main road for a long time?" said the sheriff. "Yeah, it's getting late," Murphy said. "The ferry to Rosslare was late this afternoon. I want to finish the delivery and go home to sleep." "Certificate," said the sheriff. Murphy got into the cab and handed him Liam Clark's stack of receipts. "Liam Clark?" asked the Sheriff. Murphy nodded.Documents are consistent.The officer who was inspecting the tractor was now back with the sheriff. “你的一个大灯坏了，”他朝农夫点了点头，“另一个灯沾着泥土，十码外根本看不见这辆货车。” 警长把单据还给墨菲，把注意力转向农夫。农夫刚才还理直气壮，现在开始担心了。墨菲反而来了精神。 “我不想小题大做，”他说，“但警察说得对，根本就看不见拖拉机和拖车。” “你有驾照吗？”警长问农夫。 “在家里。”农夫回答。 “也有保险，对吧，”警长说，“希望都是齐全有效的，我们等会儿去看看。车灯坏了，你现在不能再开了。把拖车推到田野里去，把干草从路面上清理掉，天亮后你再来收拾吧。我们送你回家，顺便也看看你的证件。” 墨菲的精神更加高涨，他们马上就要离开了。警员开始检查卡车的车灯。前灯完全正常，他走过去检查尾灯。 “你装的什么货物？”警长问道。 “肥料，”墨菲回答，“苔藓牛粪各一部分，对玫瑰花很适用。” 警长哈哈大笑起来。他转身去看农夫，农夫正把干草扔到拖车后面去。路面已经差不多清理干净了。 “这车拉了一车肥料，”他说，“可你却栽了进去，淹到脖子根。”他被自己的风趣逗笑了。 警员从大货车的拖车后面回来了。“车门撞开了，”他说，“几只袋子掉到地上摔破了。我认为你最好去看一看，警长。” 他们三人沿着车身走向车尾。 有十二只袋子从洞开的车门掉了出来，其中四袋散了包。月光洒在裂开的塑料编织袋之间的一堆堆褐色肥料上。警员拿出手电查看。如同后来墨菲对他的狱友们所说的那样，人在倒霉的时候，喝凉水都塞牙。 在月光和手电光下，从破损的袋子里露出来的赫然是火箭筒和机关枪。墨菲的胃部翻腾起来。 爱尔兰警察一般不携带手枪，但在执行护送部长的任务时，他们是带枪的。警长的自动手枪对准了墨菲的腹部。 墨菲叹了一口气，这真是一个倒霉的日子。他不但没能劫到九千瓶白兰地，反而截获了别人的走私军火，他心里明白这个“别人”应该是谁。他能够想象出今后两年自己可能会待在哪几个地方，但都柏林的大街不会包括在内。 他慢慢地举起双手。 “我能交代的情况不是很多。”他坦承。