Here, get up. It’s nearly ten o’clock.” His eyelashes had stuck together. He panicked for a moment and began rubbing hard at them. He had been crying last night, he remembered. Was it a dream, or had he heard someone moving around in the night? He looked up into the lamp shade overhead. He remembered yesterday and stale fear broke through his bewilderment. Jammy Tierney was still standing in the doorway.
“Thanks, Jammy. Great. I’m okay now, man. Yeah.”
Tierney stared at him. What the hell was up with him?
“I’m going out,” said Tierney. “You can’t stay. You might rob the light bulbs or something.”
Very smart, Jammy. He rolled to the side of the sofa and sat up.
“You look a right knacker and you sleeping in your clothes.”
“Jammy?” He cleared his throat. “Could you loan me a bit of something? You know…?”
“What? What bit of something?”
“A tenner, maybe?”
Tierney folded his arms.
“Fiver? I’ll pay you back. All I need is…” He stopped then. Jammy had that weird grin.
“A fiver,” said Tierney. “Only a fiver? You fall in the door here at eleven o’clock last night, looking like you been through a lawn mower. No explanation, don’t want to tell me what has you wrecked. I hear you poking around here last night when you’re supposed to be sleeping. In the fridge. Opening drawers. Snooping. Now you want to sponge money off me?”
“Wait, Jammy, that’s not the way it is, man-”
“You must be joking. Go home and tidy yourself up. Get a job.”
“Hold on there a minute, Jam-”
“And then go to a clinic and start telling the truth! For once in your life, Leonardo.”
The urge to scream in Jammy Tierney’s face welled up in him. Mr. Fit, with his motorbike and his nixers and his pool sharking. They’d been friends all these years but all he’d done this last while was preach to him about drugs.
“Jammy, I swear to God, man! I don’t do drugs. I don’t! Not the way you think. I mean, man, I wish I could be like you, you know. Really! But a joint never hurt anyone. Takes the sting off things, you know? Christ, you know what it’s like out there! But I’m tired of that scene. Really I am.”
Tierney gave him a bleak look.
“Jases, Leonardo. Always that hurt kid look. I don’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I’ve only got you, man. I’m sorry. I’m going to turn things around, I swear.”
“What happened to you last night then? You weren’t pissed.”
“I ran into a spot of bother at home, like. You know? The ma’s giving me stick and all. I just couldn’t handle it last night. I had to get out.”
“You had to get out, did you.”
This bastard, he thought. Leaning against the doorjamb, putting him through this. So bloody smug, so much better than he was. He thought he was doing him a favour lecturing him. He met Tierney’s eyes for a moment. He imagined giving him a kung-fu leaping kick right in the snot: boom!
“Promise me what I give isn’t going into some dealer’s pocket.”
“Honest to God, Jammy. I’ve had it, man. I know I need to change.”
“How much?”
“Get a job, the whole thing-”
“How much money?”
“Oh.” He tried to laugh but couldn’t.
“A hundred?”
He followed Tierney through the doorway into the kitchenette. Christ, even this place was spotless. Maybe Jammy did it to to impress his mot. Her stuff there in the bathroom.
“Fifty, Jammy. Fifty?”
“What for?”
“Bus fares. Some to the ma. A shirt maybe. To do interviews?”
Tierney picked up his helmet.
“I don’t have it.”
“Twenty then-”
“Shut up. I have to go into town anyway. Come on.”
He’d been leading him on. He looked around the room. Bloody snob, that’s what he was. Always talking of making something of yourself, moving up. It was a bit like Mary, but with her, you knew that she could do it. Jammy Tierney wouldn’t. He’d just have the attitude, looking down his nose at the people he’d grown up with. But he’d never be any better than them.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes.
“I’ll get you something,” Tierney murmured.
“Jesus, Jammy!”
He clapped Tierney’s shoulder.
“Great, man! I knew you wouldn’t sell me out!”
Tierney glared at him. He was about to say something but he let it go. Weirder and weirder, he thought. Too much health did that to you. Too wound-up, too perfect.
“The back of Charley’s, the poolhall, do you know it? Around twelve.”
“That’s great, Jammy. Brilliant, man!”
Minogue put down the phone. He studied the doodles he had drawn while he’d been talking with Toni Heffernan. Triangles; was that anger? He crossed out the i and put in a y. Was it short for Antoinette? Short was right: she had been curt, blunt and short with him. Sister Joe was out on a call. When would she be back? Toni Heffernan didn’t know. Minogue had said he would try again-unless she were to phone him first. He made his way to the kitchen, half-filled the kettle and plugged it in. He was searching for a clean cup when Kilmartin arrived. The Chief Inspector began working on his ear with his baby finger. Minogue opened the bag of coffee beans and inhaled the aroma.
“Any luck,” said Kilmartin.
“I’m trying to get ahold of a Sister Joe. She runs a drop-in centre for kids on the street. She might know Mary.”
“Uhhh.”
Minogue poured beans into the grinder and resealed the bag. He let the grinder run longer than he needed. Kilmartin was still there when he turned back.
“Yourself?”
“Ah, Christ, don’t be talking. Politicking. Phoned Serious Crimes, talked to Keane. ‘We’d appreciate your input’ and all that, says I. Nice to him and all, I was. Still he hems and haws. Huh. Felt like giving him the, well, the you-know-what.”
“In the you-know-where?”
“Exactly. I might have to beat some sense into that mob of his soon.”
Kilmartin rubbed more vigorously at his nose. He stared at the kettle.
“Jack Mullen,” he said, and looked up at Minogue. “He’s hopping the ball, isn’t he?”
Minogue frowned.
“He’s a nutter, Matt, isn’t he?”
“He has a temper, James. That interests me a lot, so it does.”
Kilmartin nodded.
“What’s the name of his outfit again?”
“The self-help group, you mean? The Victory Club.”
Minogue watched Kilmartin lighting a cigarette.
“Victory over the drink, like. Well, I’m sure that’s not a bad thing in itself. Like Al Anon. But as for this sitting around and crying on the next man’s shoulder…”
“It’s not uncommon these days, James.”
Kilmartin coughed out smoke.
“Don’t be talking to me. Sure everybody’s at it. (The psychology racket.”
Minogue poured a third of a cup of milk and placed it in the microwave. The Chief Inspector rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.
“Arra sweet and holy Jesus,” he groaned. “Even me own wife is talking about stuff like that. Everybody’s-a-victim style of thing. ‘Couldn’t help it, Your Honour. Me ma looked sideways at me in the maternity ward. Never got over it.’ ‘Case dismissed. Hire ten shrinks to look after the poor lad.’ ”
“Maura?”
“Yes. Maura Kilmartin. Got a letter from the young lad. He’s in Philadelphia now. Maura got herself in a state about it. I must have put me foot in it somehow. She starts in on this stuff, as if there was something wrong with me-me, the man she married thirty-one happy years ago, bejases! Oh, we’ve had our spats and everything. But sure, who doesn’t?”
Minogue nodded. He recalled Kilmartin’s jibe about the stone he had given Hoey and Aine.
“You probably know the routine. ‘Let’s talk’ kind of shite. Babbling on. All this feelings stuff-they make a religion out of ’em. Everyone’s their own tin pot God now. We’re all victims of one thing or another. Hand out badges, I say. We’d all be millionaires and Shakespeares if only the da or someone hadn’t given them a right well-deserved kick up in the arse. Are you with me?”
Minogue looked in at the revolving tray in the microwave. Kilmartin warmed to his subject.
“Oh, yes,” he resumed. “It was the sixties done us in if you really want to know. We were all softened up: the ads, the self-esteem crowd, taking away the leather from the schoolmaster. Everything is supposed to be perfect now, isn’t it? Everybody deserves everything they want. Want? Demand is more like it! Jesus, we’re taken for iijits. Anyway. I thought that at least that kind of eyewash hasn’t gotten into my house when Maura gives me one of those looks.”
Minogue glanced over.
“Come on now, Matt-you know the ones I mean. Out at a dinner. I’m not stupid, you know. I knew that maybe I was a bit, er, strict and all, but, sure, life isn’t all holidays in Greece and wine and ‘feeling good about yourself’ now, is it?”
Minogue recalled his ten blissful days in Santorini last year. He registered the jibe with a nod.
“That look on her face. Anyway. Right in the middle of eating this very nice bit of dinner, says she: ‘Were you very close to your father, Jim?’ What do you think of that?”
“A tough enough question. Even when your mouth isn’t full.”
“You’re telling me. Ch-a-rist! ‘Not if I could help it,’ says I.”
Minogue unplugged the kettle and poured water into the jug. The two men stared at the coffee maker.
“Even if Mullen has fares all evening, he has the few minutes it took to go by the canal and spot the daughter,” Kilmartin said.
“His taxi is nearly done, is it,” said Minogue. Kilmartin nodded. He pushed away from the counter and pointed his cigarette at Minogue.
“This bloody Victory Club I’m reading up on. Gentle Jesus and all that stuff tagged on to it. ‘Charismatics,’ yippy-eye-ay kind of stuff. Crying and shouting and floating off the ground? Waving their hands around and singing? These bloody group talks often ended up with his pals telling him he needed to find his daughter. I’ll tell you what ‘find’ meant to Jack Mullen, will I?”
Minogue thought of Iseult.
“I don’t know, Jim. The social worker fella that sits in on their meetings says it’s all part of the recovery deal.”
“Huh. Social workers-oh yeah, I forgot. They’re in charge of everything now. What does that mean anyway, according to him?”
“‘Find,’ meaning build a proper relationship with Mary.”
“Me arse and parsley, man. I know English better than these frigging social worker experts seem to: ‘find’ means go out and get her. Get her. That’s plain English as she is spoken.”
Minogue prepared the plunger at the top of the jug of coffee. Kilmartin mightn’t be far off the mark, he reflected.
“What did Mullen say again about God lifting her or something like that?”
Minogue thought for several moments.
“‘God called my daughter and lifted her out of her dejection.’”
“My God, how you remember stuff like that. Holy Joes.”
Kilmartin held out his hand and shook it in a manner which reminded Minogue of farmers at a mart ready to settle on a price. He plucked at his little finger first.
“Let’s talk about the real world. One, he has a history of threatening the daughter. Two, he broke up with the wife. He used to beat her up too. Three, he’s taken up with a cult-ah now, don’t go interrupting me. I know about this ‘recovery’ stuff. Four, he gets the idea-here, I’ll use a big word just to keep you happy-an obsession: he has to save the daughter.”
“Saved in Jesus?”
“No need to be disrespectful there now, pal. But yes. He tracks her over time, he finds a pattern. He doesn’t need to be James Bond to do that, now, does he. He follows her that evening, tries to talk her into the car or the like. She gives him the P.O. He loses the head and clocks her. Rolls her into the water. She never goes near the taxi.”
Minogue pushed the plunger slowly, watching for grounds escaping around the rim. Kilmartin drew on his cigarette and studied the operation.
“So?” said Kilmartin when Minogue had poured coffee into the cup.
“I don’t know, Jim. A bit early, let’s remember.”
“But bear it well in mind, that’s all I’m saying. Stick with routine. Pin the alibi to the clock. Wait for the finals from the taxi. Check the site again. Go door-to-door with Sheehy and company if you’re too jittery waiting. Pull Mullen in again tomorrow and throw the same stuff at him, compare it with this statement and the tapes. I’m going to give serious thought to a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Mullen for the next week, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Minogue nodded. Kilmartin blew smoke at his shoes.
“All right there? Look, I’m game if you want to stick it to Mullen hard later on, the three of us. Object lesson for Molly in there.”
Minogue’s tongue moved to his front teeth. The coffee was stronger than he had planned.
“‘One a year,’ Matt. Hate to say it, but it looks like one. Do you think?”
Minogue looked up at Kilmartin.
“Well, why don’t we just sign it over to you?”
“Nice try there, pal. Like hell you will. Haven’t I given you Tonto to help you on this one?”
Minogue returned to sipping coffee. Kilmartin’s axiom was that at least one murder case per year turned out to be the most frustrating, difficult and head-banging case the Squad had ever handled. There was little point, Minogue knew, in reminding his colleague that this case looked like becoming about the seventh or eighth “one-a-year” this year. James Kilmartin claimed that these cases brought progress and improvement to the Squad’s procedures. This they did, he explained, by extending the rigorous use of police science and its sundry ancillary support services. He was easily wily enough to turn “one-a-year”s to good account by transforming them into Trojan horses for departmental budget claims. Over a pint, however-over several pints-the Chief Inspector usually lost little time in putting Police Science in its place: “All very well and good, but a man needs to know when to put it in the P.F.O. file.” It was one thing for Squad officers as adepts of police science to methodically take everything about a murder case into account; it was quite another to understand what to discount.
“Seven weeks pregnant, Jim. I’m hoping she tried with this drop-in centre.”
“Short of money for going to England to get the, you know, the job done?”
“The father.” Minogue looked up from his cup. “Patricia Fahy has to know him. She must.”
Kilmartin stroked his chin.
“This Hickey character,” he muttered.
Boots thumped in the hallway. A tall alien passed the doorway.
“Oi!” Kilmartin called out.
The alien returned. Minogue studied the motorcyclist’s visor.
“Take off the helmet, man!” said Kilmartin. “How do we know you’re not a robber?”
Eilis stood in the hallway behind the Garda motorcyclist. She nodded at Minogue.
“A phone call for you, your honour. A Sister Joe.”
The motorcyclist was a smiling, big-toothed motorcycle Guard in his early twenties.
“Ah,” said Eilis. “And how’s the bold Garda Madden?”
Footballer, thought Minogue. He picked up the jug. Eilis took the envelope.
“Thanks now, Gabriel,” she muttered and attacked the string on the flap. Madden stepped backwards into the hallway to let Minogue through.
“Gabriel?” Minogue heard Kilmartin say. “A messenger? Is this the Annunciation all over again?”
He cut across the car-park and skipped down the alley toward the back door of the poolhall. He felt light-headed, happy almost. He sat on the edge of a window-sill and pushed his back against the iron bars. Sweaty already. He began to calculate again. With the fifty he could get a hit off Ginger down in Parnell Street. With the couple of quid he had left of his own, he’d have forty left. He’d try again later on with Mary. Why hadn’t she told him that she’d jacked it in with that Tresses kip? He looked up and down the alley. Two skins walked by the mouth of the alley and looked in. One broke his stride and slowed to eyeball him. He was moving toward the door of the poolhall when the skins disappeared. He stepped into a doorway and flattened his back against the metal panel. His knees had gone watery.
So what the hell were those two bastards looking for last night anyway? Maybe they’d mixed him with someone else? Narcs? No: one of them looked familiar. You couldn’t tell these days. He thought about the time that a narc who looked like a knacker and smelled like a knacker put the hand on Ginger. In broad daylight, in Stephen’s Green, for God’s sake, Ginger laughing because he was high and didn’t believe it was happening. But those two last night, not a word out of them. They’d just come after him. Why was he shivering, and it like bloody Morocco, for God’s sake? Get the money, score off Ginger; phone the ma, see if she knew what was going on.
Steps. He looked out. Jammy was standing in the alley with his helmet in his hand.
“Jammy! Thanks a million, man! I won’t forget it, I swear! You and me are-”
Tierney’s hand was on his shirt. He looked into Jammy Tierney’s face and saw the contempt. Tierney began to twist his collar.
“You lying fuck, Leonardo!”
Tierney pushed him away and laid the helmet down.
“Jammy! Are you mad? Jesus! What’s with you, man?”
Tierney closed on him. He took a step backwards.
“Jammy! Don’t, man! What are you doing? What have I done? What?”
Tierney wasn’t stopping.
“Tell me, Jammy!”
Jammy Tierney reached out and shoved. The push caught him as he was taking another step back. He fell. Tierney lifted his foot.
“Jesus, Jammy! Man!”
He scuttled back until his shoulder hit a bin.
“Don’t, man! For Jases’ sake, just tell me what I’ve done! Tell me!”
“Get up.”
“I’m not going to get up just so’s you can start in on me, man!”
“Get up or I’ll use me boots on you.”
He elbowed around the bin until he was at the wall. He laid a hand on the dustbin. Jammy Tierney was breathing heavily. He tried to decide which way to run.
“Go ahead,” said Tierney. “Try and run. See how far it gets you.”
A sob almost escaped him. At least Tierney was talking.
“Is it the money, Jammy? Is it? What have I done? Give me a chance here, man!”
“You and your Mary this and your Mary that. I should have known. Your brain is fried, man! It’s gank! You’re a fucking menace, that’s what you are. You drag everyone down with you.”
“What? Honest, man-”
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Get up, you fucking waster.”
He drew himself up until he was on his hunkers. He could get a good start if he went for it. Tierney jammed his hand into his pocket and flicked something at him. Folded paper-money.
“You still going to run?”
“Thanks, Jammy! Thanks! Look, man, whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
There were more bills than there should be. He tried to smile but Tierney kept staring at him. He looked down and thumbed through the bills. There was two hundred quid. Had Jammy made a mistake? He looked back into his eyes.
“So you’re sorry,” said Tierney. His eyes had a weird glittering light in them now.
“Yeah, Jammy, you know…? Whatever it is…”
“What use is sorry to Mary? Tell me that, you fucking bastard!”
“Jammy, I swear to you-”
“What? You’re always swearing to me about something!”
“If it has to do with, you know, what I said about Mary and me, that was just, well, I suppose I was just spoofing a bit. It’s just a dream, sort of-”
“Shut fucking up!”
“I swear-I mean, really! The truth is, she doesn’t think much of me. You know that. Look, tell you what. I’m going around to see her this afternoon. You know?”
Was Jammy nodding or just shaking?
“She’s going to talk to Bobby Egan, see if he’ll give me a start. Then I’ll pay you-”
“See?” Tierney’s voice rose. “You’re lying again! This morning you told me-You’re such a lying… You just-Ah, Christ, who cares. Get the boat tonight. Stay away.”
“To England you mean?”
“To the North Pole! The Sahara! Fucking Timbuktu, I don’t care!”
“Jesus, Jammy. Why would I want to make a move like that, you know?”
The movement was even quicker than he guessed it could be. It wasn’t a fist, but it stung.
“Because you’ll be fucking next!”
His ear was burning from the slap. He rubbed at it and backed away.
“I don’t get it, man! What are you saying?”
Tierney’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.
“What do you mean, Jammy?” Tierney stuck his face right up against his.
“Mary was taken out of the canal yesterday, you fucking bollicks! Can you fucking hear me in there? She’s dead!”
He studied Tierney’s eyes, the drawn lips, the anger.
“Did you hear me? She’s on your conscience! Whatever you did, you and your fucking messing-whatever you conned Mary into. You got her killed, man! Whatever you talked about, whoever you talked to- you’re poison, man! Fucking poison!”
He couldn’t move. He tried to say something. The whole place seemed to glow. Everything grew sharp and scary. He tried again but only his jaw moved. Tierney’s chest was heaving. He looked up at the sky over the alley. He wondered if he was going to faint.
“This isn’t really happening, is it?” he whispered. “You can’t be serious, man.”
“You don’t think so?” Tierney snarled. He pushed him in the chest.
“Swear to God, Jammy! Don’t make up stuff, man. It’s not funny any more!”
“You’re telling me you don’t know? The Egans think you do. Talk to them about it.”
“How can you…?” His throat closed on the last words. Tierney took a step back.
“You’re so fucking out of it,” he hissed. “I don’t know what the hell stuff you do any more. I bet you don’t even remember your name.”
Jammy had given him a lot of money. That meant… His thoughts rushed back.
“Jammy! She had some fella set up, that’s what she told me!”
“What? What fella?”
“I don’t know! I don’t! She had an in with him. Told me it could go serious. He had money. She was going to take him, you know, like?”
“You don’t even know when you’re lying! It was you hanging around got her-”
“Jesus! If you really want to know, Mary was always giving me the brush-off!”
“Not often enough, you bastard! Not hard enough, either!”
He stared into Jammy’s eyes. For some reason he couldn’t keep them in focus. Smells and sounds and colours kept leaking in somewhere. His head began to feel light. The Egans, he thought. Tierney was still talking to him.
“What?”
“See, you’re out of it again! Don’t you get it? Get to hell out of here! Dublin!”
“What? How do you…? Where was she… you know?”
“How would I know? Here I am like a gobshite giving you a pile of money so as you can piss off out from under the Egans.”
“Jammy! You got to tell them I didn’t! You got to, man! You believe me, don’t you? You know I’d never hurt Mary! We’re mates, man! You’re Mary’s friend too, man!”
“Shut up. You’re making me puke here.”
“But where was she?”
“Read the paper, man, on the boat to Liverpool or somewhere.”
“Come on, man!”
Tierney’s eyes narrowed.
“Listen! There was a time when Mary had a chance. But she got dragged down, didn’t she? And it was you, you were one of the bastards that dragged her under!”
“Come on, Jammy! You know I could never do anything to Mary!”
The anger slid off Tierney’s face. What took its place scared him even more.
“Aw, Jesus, Jammy,” he whispered. “Jammy! You can’t be serious!”
“Do you think it matters what I think? You’re the fella telling me you could do anything. Wanted the Egans to know so’s they’d take you on. You’re the one, man.”
“The Egans? The fucking Egans? Jammy. Man! You’ve got to get the word to them! They won’t listen to me! Jammy? Is the whole fucking place gone mad?”
Tierney nodded his head slowly. This time he didn’t raise his voice.
“Yeah, Leonardo. As a matter of fact, it has. Didn’t you notice?”