Minogue poured more coffee and turned over the Victory Club papers again. Jack Mullen had brought them to his first interview and used them by way of telling his life story. The stuff reminded Minogue of the twelve steps from Alcoholics Anonymous, but loaded with a heavier dose of God. It was also peppered with terms that he, Minogue, had grown queasily averse to. Denial-in denial; empower; self-esteem; grieving; relationships; homecoming; breaking the cycle-something which would have many puzzled Irish men looking for a puncture-repair kit or a set of bike-spanners? No. Unfair, he thought. Irish males-even Irish policemen, middle-aged Irish policemen, middle-aged Irish policemen from the west of Ireland-were not ignorant of the wider world. There had, after all, been a Time magazine spread several years ago on men, film stars included, going into the woods in America to share their feelings with other men. Mullen had said several times that he wanted his life back, that he wanted his family back. He wanted to start fresh. The wife obviously hadn’t been impressed with fresh starts and she still didn’t want anything to do with him, sober or not. And if Mary hadn’t wanted anything to do with him? Didn’t want to be ‘recovered’?
Minogue was beginning a second reread of today’s update of the forensic findings from the State Lab when the phone went. He watched Eilis’s expression as she put the phone to her ear. She slowly sat upright and stared at her monitor for several moments. He sat forward in the chair, placed his hand on the extension and waited. Is that him, he mouthed. Her eyes came back to focus on his. She nodded. He picked up the receiver and pushed for the call.
“Matt Minogue speaking, hello?”
He listened for street noise on the other end. Someone breathed.
“You’re a cop, right?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you a cop, I said!”
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you, a sergeant?”
“Inspector. I’m-”
“Well, I know you’re not the only one on this. So don’t try to lie to me!”
Minogue said nothing. Kilmartin had emerged from his office.
“Did you hear me?”
“Go ahead there now. Liam, is it?”
“Fuck you and your ‘Liam’ stuff! Shut up and listen! I didn’t do nothing. You’re chasing an innocent man. Totally innocent! Yous’re too stupid to go after Bobby Egan and them! Or yous’re too chicken. That’s what I’m telling you!”
Minogue listened to the sharp intakes of breath. Leo Hickey was holding his hand around the mouthpiece. Kilmartin was tiptoeing toward him. Eilis, he noticed, had a line ready for the call from Communications.
“Hey! Are you listening?”
“I am indeed. I thought you wanted-”
“You think I’m going to take this shit lying down, man? I been framed! So get that!”
Minogue tugged at his eyebrows. Kilmartin was staring at him. The phone hadn’t been sourced yet. How long did it take them, for God’s sake? Weren’t they talking about fifteen seconds from the reverse directory computer now?
“I hear what you’re saying there. If you’d just-”
“I’d never harm a hair on Mary’s head, so I wouldn’t! Did you get that? I don’t know what crap yous’ve been told but you can’t believe it.”
“Well, why not meet me and we can have a chat-”
“Shut up! I knew yous’d try that!”
High, Minogue wondered, but the voice was clear.
“Oh, yeah, sure! I come in and yous nail me. Oh, very smart. Yous stick me in a cell somewhere ’cause you don’t like what I’m saying. Right? And what happens then? I get it from the Egans! Even if I get remand, they can get in. No way, man! That’s a death warrant!”
“We can protect you, Liam.”
“Like hell you can! I walk back out on the street and it’s worse even, ’cause you’d put it out that I’m a stoolie or something! Yous do it all the time!”
Kilmartin was waving. He began jabbing his forefinger into the desk-top.
“Listen, Liam, you’re upset-”
“You’re bleeding right I’m upset! Here, I’m jacking this in!”
“Just a second. Please! Give us where you were that night. We can check it. If it’s sound, what have you to worry about?”
“Are you deaf or something? The Egans! Everyone thinks I done for Mary too!”
“Do you know what an alibi is, Liam? Give me an alibi I can check. We’re not interested in any other stuff you’re into.”
Minogue heard a horn from Hickey’s end.
“Alibi? What if I don’t have one?”
“Well, try me.”
Minogue tried to read into the few seconds’ silence.
“I fucking can’t!” Hickey blurted out at last.
“Look, Liam. We’re not going to come on heavy on any minor stuff you’re into. Come on, now, put yourself in the clear.”
“I was out that night.”
“Who with?”
“On me own-aw, fuck, this is stupid, I’m-”
“Just give us a chance, Liam.”
“I was doing cars! Don’t you get it? That’s why I don’t have a fucking alibi!”
“Where then?”
“Yous’d only use it on me anyway…”
The voice trailed off.
“That’s nothing compared to murder, Liam. Don’t let it-”
“Don’t give me that! Yous don’t give a shite about the likes of me! You think I don’t know yous’re after the Egans. And that you’ll use me to get them! And now you’re trying to keep me talking so’s you can corner me here!”
“Liam! The street, the time, the car-anything. You name it.”
“Liars! You’re trying to get me to wear the murder or else use me to take down the Egans! I’m not stupid, you know, I know what’s going on, you know!”
“No, no, Liam. Give us anything. What street? What type of cars, do you remember?”
“Ahhh… Mount Street. I done a Golf, a GTI. There! I got a camera and stuff. Leather jacket. Ah, fuck!”
“Where did you fence the stuff?”
“Go to hell. What if I did?”
“If it checks out, Liam, then-”
“I’m gone, man! I already said too much!”
“Call again, Liam. Give me time!”
The line was dead. Minogue released his grip on the receiver. Kilmartin threw his jacket over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he said. “The stand-bys are up and running already.”
“Where is he?”
“Up the road,” said Kilmartin. “A phone box in Cabra. Come on, for the love of God!”
“Will you get that off the tape, Eilis, the car make?” Minogue called out as he rose. “And see if it fits? But work any address in Cabra belonging to family or associates of Hickey first, will you?”
They took Kilmartin’s Nissan.
“A bit of a dogfight there, pal,” said Kilmartin. He accelerated around a slowing bus. “But you got him handy. Minute and a half he jabbered on. We can land the bugger!”
The breeze in the window of the speeding car fanned grit into Minogue’s face. He rolled up the window halfway and pulled his seat-belt tighter over his shoulder.
“If he’d put another ten pence in the phone, he could have put a bit of weight in that alibi he pitched at me.”
“Alibi, is it?” snapped Kilmartin. “Ah, Jesus, man. One of his cronies did it and fed him the details.”
Kilmartin was late on a red light turning onto Infirmary Road. A van driver gave him the finger.
“Wait’n’you see, Matt. It’ll fall asunder in ten seconds flat when we have him sitting across the table.”
He looked over at his colleague.
“Come on, now. Don’t get to thinking we’re chasing a shagging genius here. Sure, look what he let slip! Mount Street, he says he did that car. Bloody Mount Street is only a stone’s throw from the canal, for God’s sake! Hickey’s just stupid. Smashed, maybe. He probably doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying, man. Sure isn’t he a junkie?”
“Stupid is too often the sorry hallmark of the truth, James.”
“Oh, will you listen to frigging Aristotle here. Stop worrying, will you. We’ll get him.”
They didn’t. Guards were still going door to door in the streets around the phone box an hour later. A shopkeeper came up with a jittery young man close to the photo. Hickey had bought a Coke and a packet of Major cigarettes there. That was a half hour before the call had even been logged. Kilmartin and Minogue cruised the area until three. A scene-of-the-crime technician had taken prints, many prints, from the phone box. Kilmartin pulled in beside it.
“Well,” said Minogue. Kilmartin ran his hands down his cheeks. His face had gone puffy in the heat.
“The bastard,” he grunted. “Either he legged it into the Park to hide out with the bloody monkeys in the zoo or he had some class of an out ready here. Still none of his pals have a flat here in Cabra?”
Minogue shook his head.
“Ah, Christ,” sighed Kilmartin. “Our stuff is out of date, I bet you. They move, these people… Bloody nomads.”
“I checked with Eimear at the lab though,” said Minogue.
“Majors he bought, right?”
“They’re the ones. Four of the butts from the canal bank were Majors with the names still on them. There are still thirty something awaiting analysis.”
Kilmartin smacked the steering-wheel and looked over at his colleague.
“Ah, he’ll phone again,” he declared. “The bollocks. But when though, that’s what-”
The phone interrupted Kilmartin. Minogue was pleased to hear Tommy Malone’s voice. Minogue stared back at Kilmartin while he listened to Malone.
“Great,” he said when Malone had finished. “We’ll be back in ten minutes. Thanks.”
“Molly’s back on board?”
“None other,” replied Minogue. “He just fielded a call from Fergal Sheehy. One of his got ahold of a fella who works in a club in Leeson Street. Over the Top is the name of it. Fergal’s been plugging the Alan thing and a Mercedes that Patricia Fahy coughed up the other day. He might have an Alan from one of the barmen at a club.”
“How so?”
“A fella came back from his holidays yesterday. He knows an Alan who comes to that club, or used to go clubbing there. He wasn’t sure about the surname. Kenny, Kelly, Keneally. Something with a K in it. Drives or used to drive a Mercedes.”
“Has anyone attacked the computer with this?”
“Tommy got a search and showed up an Alan Kenny. Mr. Alan Kenny drives a Mercedes.”
Frigging Guards! Because they were thick culchies, they thought people from Dublin were all stupid too. Gobshites! As if he’d never heard they could trace a phone call, for Christ’s sake! He stabbed hard at the earth between his knees and let the knife stand for several seconds before he yanked it out.
He shifted his spine away from the tree trunk and finished the cigarette. The smoke seemed to give up on trying to go anywhere and hung in the air instead. Midges’ and flies’ wings glittered in the sunlight. The blot of shadow he sat in was within sight of the Garda Headquarters. Funny if it wasn’t so stupid and serious. What the hell had brought him back down here to Phoenix Park again anyway? He thought back to waking up in the laneway. Wrapped up in cardboard and bits of paper, right in the middle of Dublin, and he’d slept until bloody eight o’clock! He might have slept even longer if that delivery van hadn’t come down the lane. No hangover, even. He’d probably puked everything up. Mental, he was. But what was he doing back here? It was the clothes, right, a change of clothes. Or was it something else? He remembered that creepy kind of feeling he’d had when he’d stepped off the bus next to the Park this morning and looked at the trees hanging over the wall. They’d looked like they were waiting for him or something. It had taken him a while to scout out a good phone box he could use.
Meet, said the cop. Have a chat. And that smoochy kind of voice, like a priest or a teacher fobbing off advice on you. If that cop ever got ahold of him, it’d be a hell of a different story. They’d batter him around until he signed a confession. He stared at the cars passing along the Main Road through the Park. He couldn’t hear any one of them over the background murmur of the city. His eyes moved from the far-off traffic to the branches overhead. The leaves had rusty spots and little holes. He thought of the conkers he used to gather and carry home in bagfuls as a child. Treasures. What had happened since then? The waste. His throat suddenly hurt. He tried to swallow but he couldn’t.
The traffic looked like it was floating over the grass. He imagined one of the cars turning off the road and drifting over the grass toward him. His stomach tightened when he thought of the car chasing him the other day. He felt his bladder turn weak. A bird swooped down out of the tree and landed near him. He stared at it, willing it to step nearer. It could just fly off in a flash and be above the trees in a few seconds, flying over the whole city and looking down at all the iijits sweating it out there.
He got up slowly and walked to the far side of the tree. He kept strolling around the trunk, trying to think. Within a few minutes he realized that he was circling the tree. Soon he settled into a rhythm. He heard himself whispering, swearing. The whisper turned to a murmur and he began to repeat the words: a matter of time… wherever you go… He stopped and looked out toward the Main Road again. The lump in his throat was gone. He was thirsty again. He scratched the handle of the knife with his thumbnail. There were bits of dried clay in the hinge now. He looked down at the knife and then dropped it into his pocket. He had started something with that phone call, he realized. He couldn’t just stand here. It was late enough. He was going back into town.
Malone’s lower lip was still swollen. He fingered the Elastoplasts on the knuckles of his right hand and stared at the passing traffic. Minogue was still surprised that Kilmartin hadn’t fired a few jibes Malone’s way when he’d seen him. Just a look, he recalled, a look a zookeeper might give an ape who had unexpectedly pinched him as he was delivering the day’s food to the cage. The two detectives were parked across from the offices of Kenny, Doody Chartered Accountants. They were waiting for Kilmartin’s call. The Chief Inspector needed time to dig up any muck on Kenny he could before Minogue and Malone walked in. Minogue didn’t ask Kilmartin what he could unearth beyond what he had himself seen looking back at him from the computer monitor: no criminal record. He suspected Kilmartin could filch credit info from one of his cronies in the bank.
“Yeah,” said Malone. “That’s about the size of it. Hickey knows the score the same as anyone else coming from his side of the street would. Sees the likes of the Egans running the show, Guards or no Guards.”
He took a swallow of the can of 7-Up he had brought with him from the squadroom and grimaced.
“You have to live in the place to know what I’m saying really. It’s no good talking in the abstract and stuff. If you’re in a neighbourhood and it’s run by gangs, I mean. You can’t move out, you don’t have a job. You can’t go crying to the Guards because they can’t protect you in the middle of the night. You know what I mean?”
Minogue glanced over at him. Yah know whar ah mee-ann? He had missed Malone, his Dublinisms.
“Two generations of men unemployed where I grew up. Nothing to lose, the young fellas. Rob a car, get a thrill. Joy-ride it, torch it. Get pissed and start a fight. Bang up. Do time. Me, I was a skinny little bollocks, so I was. Very much the Mammy’s boy. So I got into the boxing. Now, with the boxing club, I tell the kids to save their best for the fellas coming by with the needles and the dope. I tell them to beat the living shite out of them and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Minogue gave a breathless laugh. Malone swished more 7-Up around his mouth. He gave the Inspector a rueful look.
“Not the official line there, don’t you know.”
Malone seemed to be suddenly distracted by the traffic. He began tugging gingerly at his lip. Minogue looked at his watch. They’d been waiting ten minutes now.
“So what are we going to work on this Kenny fella with?” Malone asked. “Mr. Accountant. The fact that a barman or bouncer working there saw him talking to Mary a couple of times over the last few months?”
“It’s a start. Dropping the name of the Squad is a good opener.”
“I noticed.”
“Him seeing how serious we are when we ask him for the car too. Watch him.”
“What if it pans out into just a client thing? You know, Mary doing a call-girl or escort type thing with him?”
“We work another angle. Follow other, ahem, lines of inquiry. Leads.”
“That’s it?”
“That might be it for the Mercedes thing. We have Hickey to find, don’t forget. We need to go back over Jack Mullen and his timetable again. There’s Lenehan-he might crack. The teams might pick up something more from the door-to-door. Maybe we’ll turn up an associate we haven’t seen yet. Just go at it again.”
“Huh.”
Malone suddenly crushed the can in his fist. Minogue looked down at the knuckles and back up at Malone’s frown. The detective continued to stare at the top of the can. Minogue decided to wait for Kilmartin’s call no longer.
The phone went as Malone was locking the car.
“Just going in there, Jim. Yes. No, I didn’t want to wait any more… For what? Nothing? Okay. Yes. He’s what? I think I remember that one, yes. About a fishing village and a ghost or something? We’ll go ahead with the walk-in. No. Okay.”
He switched the phone back to stand-by and handed it to Malone.
“Seems Kenny is as clean as a whistle. Among his accomplishments are doing the money end for films and theatre. His finances are in good order. Unfortunately.”
“Bet you he jumps on the phone for a solicitor,” said Malone.
“Do you think, now.”
“Yeah. Southside prat, isn’t he?”
“Aha. You’ve been to the night courses on psychology? Okay, let me try you on this. What if Mr. Kenny does not wish to help the Gardai with their inquiries?”
“Give him the chop, boss.”
“Give him the chop,” said Minogue, nodding. “Phone call?”
“From the station. He’ll open the car for us first or he’ll give us his keys.”
“You’re a fast learner there, Tommy.”
“No messing,” said Malone. “Do the business.”
Minogue grabbed the detective’s arm as Malone made to push the plate-glass door.
“Tommy. By the way, like. Perhaps Mr. Kenny didn’t kill Mary Mullen. Okay?”
Minogue took in the glass portico, the metalwork, the polished granite in the foyer. Sharp, no nonsense. A man in his early twenties, with a badge high up on his short-sleeved shirt and a Marine haircut, sat behind a granite-topped console.
“Are you all right?”
Minogue held out his card.
“Grand, thanks-can’t complain. Yourself? The one door at the back, as well as the goods entrance?”
“Er, yeah.”
The man tugged at his tie. Malone was taking in the sculpture next to savanna grass.
“Hey, is this a bust, like?”
Malone turned around, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I don’t know what it is. What’s it supposed to be?”
Minogue smiled at the security man.
“There’ll be no fuss now,” he murmured.
The lift smelled of cologne. The doors opened out onto a peach carpet, black doors, grey walls and more dried flowers. Malone plucked at his shirt under his arms.
“Air conditioning,” he muttered and nodded at the name-plate. The secretary’s ante-room breathed out more perfume. Macintosh computer, black furniture and a leather sofa for gamogs to cool their heels while they waited to be told what the firm of Kenny, Doody could or couldn’t do with their tax messes and their proposals for film funding. Show business, thought Minogue, paperwork: he and Malone, two sweaty detectives, had been beamed to Los Angeles. At least there was a homely layer of dust on the windows outside.
The secretary had a tan, wholly bogus eyelashes and a direct look. She tapped at a dangling ear-ring.
“Hello?”
Minogue smiled.
“Mr. Kenny within?”
“Is he expecting you?”
Minogue drew up his card from his side.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. But I can’t be sure, now.”
Her expression changed to a bewildered suspicion. She reached for the phone.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Minogue raised his hand.
“Prefer if you didn’t, thank you now. As a matter of fact, I insist.”
“He has a client there.”
Minogue smiled again.
“As do we. Kindly do not use the phone for the next couple of minutes or so.”
Behind him he heard Malone open Kenny’s door.
“Yes?” he heard from within. None too pleased, Minogue detected.
“No,” he heard Malone reply.
“And it’ll be, em…?”
Kenny sat forward, his hands out on the seat to either side. Malone started the Nissan.
“It will not be damaged, Mr. Kenny,” Minogue repeated.
Even with the windows open, Kenny’s stale breath came to the Inspector again.
Malone’s good eye slid around toward the Inspector. Kenny sat back.
“We’ll be passing Over the Top, Mr. Kenny. Just beyond the lights. And there’s Tout des Loups. A grand spot too, I believe. I have a colleague who’s more into the club scene. Young fella, of course. What do you think of the Tout des Loups place?”
Kenny blinked and squinted at the doorways. If he’s sitting in an air-conditioned office all day, maybe he’s entitled to sweat, thought Minogue. Give him a fair trial, then hang him.
“It’s all right. Is that where…?”
“You heard about the case then?”
“Well, I’m just assuming that you’re pointing it out for a reason,” said Kenny. “You told me you’re investigating the death of a woman called Mary Mullen. Right?”
A woman called Mary Mullen. Kenny might give him a headache yet.
“We believe that Mary frequented that place in the past, the recent past. I have a photo of Mary here now. Take a look at it, why don’t you.”
Malone slipped it out of the folder, turned in the seat and handed it to Kenny. Minogue watched Kenny’s face carefully in the mirror.
“You know Mary, Mr. Kenny. Right?”
Kenny drew in a breath and let it swell his cheeks. Like he’s assessing a prospect, thought Minogue, a balance sheet, maybe. Malone jerked the wheel to avoid a parked van. Keep your eyes on the road, not on Kenny. He glanced at him again as the traffic drew away ahead. He hoped that Kenny would lie outright. Kenny let out his breath.
“Well, I mean I wouldn’t want to say now, I mean, what if I were to tell you something here and you well… You get the idea?”
“Not really.”
Kenny tossed a long swath of hair back up off his forehead. Something he saw in Malone’s face caused him to drop the ironic expression.
“Am I under arrest now, is it?”
“God, no, Mr. Kenny. Why would we arrest you? Have you done something?”
Kenny let go a brief smile.
“You’ve agreed to be interviewed,” said Minogue. “To help us with our enquiries. Which we appreciate.”
“And my car?”
“And a fine car it is too. Like I say, it will be returned in tiptop shape.”
“Was it seized?”
“Borrowed. A routine check.” Kenny flicked back his hair again.
“How many other cars have you applied this routine check to? In this case, I mean.”
“You have the honour of being the second.”
“A forensic study is hardly routine now, is it?”
Minogue looked at Kenny’s tie. Silk? It had little planes on it. To judge by his build, Kenny was no layabout. Tennis, Minogue guessed- no, wait a minute-squash.
“The favourite Irish pastime there, Mr. Kenny.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Jumping to conclusions. Who says your car will be subject to a forensic examination?”
“I read or I heard somewhere about this thing. That’s what forensic is for, isn’t it?”
“For what?” He gave Kenny a dull stare.
“Murder,” said Kenny.
“Amongst other things, yes.”
He watched Kenny’s eyes narrow a little before they turned back to the window.
“I think I’m beginning to detect a certain tone here, Serg-”
“Inspector.”
“A certain tone which suggests, I’m not sure. Pressure? Suspicion? Intimidation? I don’t know. That’s not what I believed, or was led to believe, back at the office when I agreed to help. It seems the closer we get to your, em, headquarters or whatever, the less, well, positive the atmosphere.”
Minogue scratched at his scalp.
“Ah, Mr. Kenny. I’m sure you’re not taken in by the charm here now.”
The breeze had draped Kenny’s glossy mane back down over his eyes. He flicked it back up less often than he could, thought the Inspector. A ladies’ man. Malone slowed for the entrance to Harcourt Square, gave a half-hearted wave to the Guard by the kiosk and started up again. Minogue was out first after Malone parked. Kenny climbed out slowly and looked across the roof at Minogue.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. Well, that’s sure to mean trouble, Minogue almost said.
“And I want to phone my solicitor.”
The Inspector nodded, turned around and rolled his eyes. It had started.
“Certainly, Mr. Kenny. As is your right.”
He strolled around to Kenny’s side.
“But why the rush into the arms of the legal confraternity? You’re not under arrest. Save your money, I say.”
A confused look registered around Kenny’s eyes. Minogue summoned his most avuncular manner.
“I should tell you again how grateful we are that you have offered your help. Of course, I imagine anyone would be a little apprehensive, wouldn’t they? Especially a man like yourself, Mr. Kenny, a man who’s never been in trouble with the law, being in a building-no, a complex-full of policemen.”
Kenny searched the Inspector’s face for a giveaway smile.
“I’m the same myself, Mr. Kenny. I actually can’t stand coming here at all. It’s like a fortress or something. I’d sooner be out on the streets.”
Kenny tried to smile.
“If you only told me exactly why you’ve picked on me,” he said.
“Picked on you?”
“I mean, why you want to talk to me specifically.”
So you can prep your?500-a-day pain-in-the-arse solicitor for when he can come storming in here to hand out migraines, Mr. Kenny.
“All in good time, Mr. Kenny. Will you go a bit of the road with us here? Tea, maybe?”