Kilmartin had gone home. Minogue perused the note the Chief Inspector had left him. Jack Mullen was now down to one twenty-minute span-trouble was, the time was around nine o’clock. The note from Eilis was cryptic but complete. GTI-Br. in A.-yes. Brothers in Arms was the title of the tape. Hickey was closer to being in the clear. Now, how the hell was he supposed to get back on board if Hickey turned out to be going nowhere?
Murtagh was reading the evening paper. The Inspector saw no sandwich but he could smell onion somewhere.
“Well, John.”
Murtagh looked up. Minogue became suddenly baffled. What had he wanted to tell Murtagh, that it looked like he was going to be a grandfather? Iseult had rebuffed his pleas to come to Kilmacud for the night at least. No amount of talk about croissants, hot baths, sitting in the garden, doing nothing or catching up on her reading persuaded her. He had left her at her studio. She had not asked him in. He had nearly clipped the end of a van coming down through Kilmainham, a place he shouldn’t have been in but which he couldn’t remember turning into. Was this the same as being drunk?
“Well, boss?”
Murtagh was still looking at him.
“Sorry, John.”
“Are you all right there?”
And what did that mean? Giddy. Everything so vivid and changed as he’d driven through the streets.
“I think so. Yes. You’re er…?”
“I was going over the timetable again, looking for cracks.”
Minogue looked up to the notice-board. Kilmartin had updated the line for Mullen. The gap began with “20:45?” and the thick green line resumed with “21:20 (log).” He walked closer, looking down the names. Lenehan filled in completely, three names to account for him. One, a J. Mahon, did not have an X for criminal record. His eyes slid down by the Egans to the orange line leading out from Leo Hickey’s name.
“Still no word on Hickey?”
“Nope,” said Murtagh. “He did a natty disappearing act after the call, and that’s a fact.”
“Talk to anyone about him recently?”
“All the patrol units have the description. The Killer got Central to leave two cars set aside. They’re out there until midnight.”
He let down the paper, stretched and scratched at the back of his head.
“What’s the world coming to?” he sighed. “No United in the cup. The first time in five years.”
Minogue flopped down at his desk and stared at the notepad he had left. Ryan-photo files; Alan Kenny-he looked back up at the notice-board. The gaps for Kenny remained but the alibis had names now. He recognized the names of the two pubs in brackets. Upmarket, he believed, all the rage in the lotsamoney eighties. Weren’t they too bloody busy in those pubs to reliably keep track of the likes of Kenny? Murtagh was looking at him.
“Yes, John?”
“You’re, er, well, you’re sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“That you’re okay, like?”
Minogue blinked.
“You’re gone kind of red… Is it sunburn, maybe?”
Minogue began moving the folders and papers about. Murtagh took up the paper again. Would Iseult’s baby be a few lines in the Births, Marriages and Death columns early in the new year? His eyes stayed on the headline over the photo of a sweaty headed player holding his head in his hands. ‘The Good Life Over.’
“What’s that good life they’re talking about being over, John?”
Murtagh smiled.
“Ah, United had their name on the F.A. Cup this last few years. Injuries done them in this year but. They’re out of the running now.”
“Since?”
“Last night really. Ah, sure it was time for them. They were in trouble from last month when what’s-his-face got a broken ankle. Brown. Downtown Brown? He was the heart of the team. Should have seen the tackle that brought him down. Oh, yes. That’ll go down in history books, so it will.”
“When was that?”
“Last Thursday three weeks. It was about seven minutes to go and… What? Did I say something?”
“How do you know it was seven minutes?”
Murtagh smiled.
“Taped it, didn’t I.”
“I didn’t know that this soccer mania had taken over in the Guards too.”
“Are you, er, finally going to break down and take an interest in the oul soccer, boss?”
Minogue remembered Murtagh’s good-natured jibes at the height of last year’s hysteria when Ireland looked like making it to the semifinals in the World Cup. Dublin had closed down on the days the Irish team played its matches. Novels were written around the World Cup fever which gripped Dublin. Housekeeping money disappeared into pubs. Newspapers reassigned staff-even their luminary pundits normally only content in their great task of reprobating everyone and everything-to issue pensees on the skills, accomplishments, history, status and future of Irish soccer. Pubs became choked with guff about whether one player’s ankle was up to par, another’s knee. Had Eddy Gagan, our glorious full forward, looked a bit peeky on his last outing? What about that Danish striker, the one who had destroyed England’s defence? Well, the Irish would show that fella a thing or two about defence: offence too, for that matter!
Minogue had watched and wondered while Ireland suffered and enjoyed another of its galvanic spasms of underdoghood: weren’t we great, our gallant little country taking on the world? Soccer had floated the entire nation on a rising tide of hope and pride. He had heard Kathleen detailing scores, moves, prospects and hopes at great length on transatlantic calls to Daithi. Unwise enough to query what all the fuss was about, Minogue had staggered into a blitzkrieg of taunts from Kathleen and Iseult alike: Stuffy! Snob! Culchie! Begrudger! Cynic! Get wir’ it-soccer’s bleedin’ brilliant!
“Have you got a copy of the press release we fired out the day after the murder?”
Murtagh yanked open a drawer and began flipping through files. Minogue phoned Kathleen.
“You’re serious, I take it,” was her reply to his request.
“As ever.”
“You sound a bit odd, that’s why.”
“Odd?”
“Something in your voice-ah, don’t mind. Look, try and get to bed early. You want newspapers for the night this girl was…?”
“Exactly.”
“They’d be gone, Matt. Sure bin day was yesterday.”
“Would you forage around there with the Costigans or somewhere?”
“Tell me again.”
Murtagh laid the copy of the press release on Minogue’s desk. Stapled to it was a clipping from one of the evening newspapers.
“I want to know about a soccer match on Monday night.”
“What match?”
Minogue tossed the file papers to find the copy of Tierney’s statement.
“Hold on a minute. Here. Everton were playing Spurs. Did I say that right?”
“Yes.”
“When it was on, when it was over, etcetera.”
“All right, love. Listen, were you sitting in a draught or something? Your voice, well-are you a hundred percent?”
Minogue was trying to find the times in Tierney’s statement.
“Draught,” he said.
“Oh, don’t mind me! Listen, did you get ahold of you-know-who?”
“Who’s you-know-who?”
“Je-! God forgive me! Who do you think!”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. She was working in the studio, so she was. She’s going home to the flat tonight.”
“And how is she? Is she going to at least visit us in the next fifty years?”
Only once, he recalled, had he found himself imagining the baby. Not as a boy or a girl, just as a toddler learning to walk.
“Probably.”
“And how does she look?”
“Never looked better, I thought to myself.”
“You mean she’s over the row with Pat?”
“Not quite. She still wants to claw his eyes out so far as I know.”
“Well, how do you mean she never looked better, then?”
Minogue groped for decoys.
“Well, you know how she is when she’s talking about something she feels so strongly about, how she’s so full of life.”
“Full of life? She’s supposed to be depressed, if you ask me.”
He let her words drag about in his mind.
“Can we talk later, love? I’m a bit addled here. I only stayed late out of guilt really. John Murtagh’s been here every evening since, and I was gambling that maybe a suspect would be picked up earlier on in the evening.”
Minogue put down the phone and sat back.
“Highlights, John.”
Murtagh swivelled around in his chair.
“The football?”
“Yep. There’d be highlights on the news or the sports part of the news, wouldn’t there?”
“Yep.”
“More than the one station?”
“Oh, sure.”
Minogue sat forward, elbows on his knees.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Murtagh was still looking at him.
“Thanks, John.”
He pulled his chair into the desk and grabbed the phone book. It might take a while. He could probably get the numbers of the British stations from RTE anyway.
Five pints he’d had, not four. He belched again. And only the crisps for grub. What time was it? He moved his arm about to get enough light from the lamp at the end of the lane-way. Half-nine. He shifted his stance. Something broke underfoot. He stared down and saw bits of glass. A needle. Christ! He moved off into another doorway. The sheet metal felt good under his palms. He lit a cigarette. Maybe the guy’d have a stash with him too. He’d have to remember to hold the knife away from him, against the blade. No, no, no: this was stupid. Just score, pay up and split. He could phone his ma then. She’d have an idea. Maybe there was some relative she had that he had never been told about, someone in Australia or something. How long did it take to get a passport?
There was that whistle again. He leaned out and looked down toward Mary Street. That was him all right. He could tell by the shape of the hair-do. About bleeding time too. He stepped out into the lane-way.
“How’s it going, man?” The guy nodded.
“You still want that stuff?”
“Well, yeah. I’m waiting long enough. Where were you? I could have gone off and sorted it out in a half a dozen other places, man.”
The guy wasn’t more than eighteen. He’d followed him into the jacks back at the pub. He wouldn’t be a narc if he was eighteen. Sure, he’d said. He needed ten minutes to sort it out. Friend of his, etcetera. Meet him down Jervis Lane there. Pimples and an attitude; big shirt, baggy pants, high-tops.
“So? How much’d you want?”
“Gimme two. Twenty right?”
He watched him rummage in the deep pockets. It was the scuffing of the shoes behind which alerted him. The other fella was running fast.
“Hey!”
He had his hand on the knife but the guy with the top knot had already hit him. It didn’t hurt but somehow he was against the wall now. The second guy came right at him, kicking. He turned sideways and took a kick on his leg. Did they have knuckles?
“Fuck off!” he shouted. “Or I’ll do you!”
He kicked back but missed. The first guy had taken something out of his pocket and he was swinging it. A stick? Looking down at the hand for that moment cost him. The kick came in just above his hip. The lane-way went suddenly bright with the pain. He couldn’t stop himself staggering and sliding along the wall.
“Stop! I’ll give you what I got, just don’t…”
It was a chain, he saw.
“Turn ’em inside out then!” the second guy was shouting. What? Pockets. He had a glimpse of the second face as the guy circled around. Twenties, no pushover.
“Fucking do it, man, or you’re gonna die right here!”
If he let his hand down, they might come at him again. He couldn’t stand straight. If they’d only stop moving around him…
“Okay, okay, I will! Just don’t fucking-”
“Drop everything you got there, man!”
He scattered the money on the ground and pulled his pocket out.
“The other one too, you bastard! Come on!”
Where were the cops? Where were the million people who lived in this bleeding city? If he hadn’t stayed in that kip and had all those pints… He should have just bought cans or something and gone back to the Park to have a think. Christ! He thought of the shadows in the grove of trees, the fields…
Hair-do was on him and he was trying to knee him in the nuts. He saw the older guy coming in now. The knife slipped out cleanly and he had the full swing of his free arm. It ran along the shoulder and the kid started screaming. He fell back, tottered and looked down at his hand.
“He’s got a knife, Andy! He’s after cutting me, man! I’m bleeding like fuck, man!”
He couldn’t take his eyes off the kid. He watched him reeling away down the lane holding his shoulder. Was it that easy, he thought. What if he’d cut across the kid’s neck. There were drops falling from the kid’s elbow and he watched them. The screaming turned to groans and wails.
“Andy! Man! I got to get to a hospital! It won’t stop!”
Too late he realized that the older guy hadn’t been taken up watching his mate staggering around like he had. The kick cracked against his cheekbone and he went over. He felt the concrete of the lane-way on his cheek now. There was a noise like running water all through his head. He knew he had to get up. The guy was calling him names now. The next kick caught him under the armpit and his arm buckled under him. He held on to the knife as he rolled and tried to get his knees under him. The groaning and crying was further away. He got one knee down but everything exploded when the boot connected with the side of his head. This is it, he thought, this is the end of it. He couldn’t see now but he knew he had let go the knife. He felt around for it on the pavement. A kick caught him in the shoulder. The kid was back to shouting now.
“It won’t stop, Andy! It’s bad, it’s really bad! You got to help me, man! It’s all over the place.”
He had to keep the other guy from getting the knife at least. His fingers closed on it at last. The boot came down. It was his own screams he heard. The boot turned and he felt the skin being torn by the cement. The guy was screaming at him now. He twisted and grasped the guy’s leg with his other hand. The boot came up. He tried to roll away. The kick caught him in the head again. He couldn’t take it. He shouted but it wasn’t words now. Another kick. He felt the money under his face now and he grabbed it and flung it into the lane-way. There was a whistling sound all around now, like wind around the house. He wriggled away, drawing his arms up about his head. No kick came. Footfalls next to his ear, the sound of the bills being picked up quickly.
“Andy! You’ve got to, man!”
Footsteps again, in a hurry. Was the guy going away? They stopped.
He rolled around again. The kick seemed to stop everything. Colours, noise, the stink of his own sweaty clothes. His mother’s face when she’d be asleep in front of the telly. The trees in the Park. He was falling now, and there was nothing he could do.
“Well, you seem to know what you want,” said Kathleen. He eyed her.
“We’re having a heat wave, Kathleen. And it’s a celebration.”
“Any excuse.”
Minogue nodded to the barman. The Minogues were in Gerry Byrne’s pub in Galloping Green. Minogue liked the place a lot less since the management had banished darts from the bar. With the darts had gone the working-class clientele. Bar and lounge alike now routinely housed clutches of men in golf sweaters.
“You’re taking it very well,” he observed.
“What choice do I have? I often thought it’d lead to this. Her and Pat. Their arrangement.”
He pushed his empty glass with his forefinger.
“We can’t live in the past, Matt. God is good.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. He had expected fireworks, tears, a call to arms. It was dusk when he had rolled into the driveway. He had hurried her out. For a drive, she had asked? At this time of the evening?
“She’s never had a real job,” he said. “And Pat looks like he’ll stay a student another while.”
“Listen,” she said. “I’ll tell you one thing about Pat. His decision to be married in a church stands to him. He must have known, and that’s why he insisted. Whatever else he’s done, he’s gone up in my estimation, I can tell you that.”
The barman let down a fresh pint.
“She knows how we think anyway,” Kathleen went on. “She can never say that she didn’t. God knows we’ve had enough rows about this and matters like it this last while. Woman’s right to choose and all the rest of it.”
Minogue took his change and a mouthful of the lager. Who would sleep the least tonight, he wondered: Iseult, Kathleen or himself? What about Pat? He took another gulp.
“I want to talk to her tomorrow,” she said. “So make sure you phone her early.”
“Yes, Kathleen.”
“Now! I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I won’t get dug into her.”
“I know you won’t.”
She frowned as she examined some part of his shirt collar. Her voice fell to a murmur.
“She could never do wrong by you, could she?”
He looked down at the stain left by the glass.
“She couldn’t, Kathleen. She could not.”
He looked up from the counter and met her eyes. They were hard and tired. She blinked and looked away again. She reached in under her cuffs. No hanky. She slid off the stool and made her way to the toilet.
“Rain, Matt,” said the barman as he filled another pint. “Can you believe anyone these days-is that yours, that bleeping thing?”
Minogue switched off the pager, unhitched it from his belt and looked at the message. The Squad number. Kathleen passed him as he picked up the phone.
“Have you a twenty pence piece for this thing?” he asked her.
The Guard was a lanky recruit with a recent haircut. He was reading the paper when the Inspector walked in. He stood and dropped the paper on the chair behind him.
“Howiya,” said Minogue. He studied the face on the pillow. One eye was completely closed. Iodine stains all down the same side of his face. The lips were swollen, held together at their corners by dried blood.
“Is he sleeping or is he-”
The eyes flickered but only one opened.
“Ah.” Minogue walked closer. A bandage had been tied under his arm and then across his other shoulder. The bruise seemed to be spreading away from the bandage as he watched. Broken rib or ribs, Minogue guessed. Collar-bone maybe. The one eye was covered in a film but it followed him as he leaned in over the bed.
“Well. They really did a number on you. Any idea who?”
The eye stayed on his face but it remained out of focus. Minogue turned to the Guard. The Guard shook his head. Minogue sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I’m Matt Minogue. An Inspector down at the Murder Squad. We’ve talked before, Liam.”
He scrutinized the eye for a reaction.
“You nearly left it too late there, Liam.”
The eye slid away but the lips moved a little.
“Who did that to you? The Egans?”
The eye travelled across the ceiling, lingered on something and drifted off to the far side of the room. Minogue got up again and motioned to the Guard. They stood by the window.
“Not a word, huh? Well, can he talk? Is his jaw broken or something?”
“He was talking to the lads who found him. He told them he was okay and to leave him alone. He’d had a row with mates of his but it was okay.”
The Guard had halitosis. Minogue held his breath.
“Then he collapsed again?”
“Yep. Hasn’t said a word since. No ID, no money. Kind of pissed. It was Mooney who thought he’d seen him somewhere before. Mooney used to work out of Crumlin. He’d arrested him a few years back. He remembered the last name so he sent it in on the way here to the hospital. Your mob had the name tagged. Is it the fella you’re looking for?”
Minogue had to breathe again. He stepped back and turned to the bed.
“I think so.”
He let his eyes linger on the man he believed was Leonardo Hickey. The eye was still open, staring at the ceiling.
“Liam?”
He could see the effort the man was using not to look over.
“Liam. You won’t make it a second time. Don’t throw yourself away, man.”
The eye began its slow tour of the ceiling again. Minogue took another step back toward the bed.
“They’ll kill you next time, Liam.”
The eye found Minogue.
“You don’t believe me?”
The lips began to move but they didn’t part. Minogue sat on the bed again.
“Tell me about Mary in the old days, Liam. Before she got mixed up in the life. Before you lost her.”
The jaw quivered and the eye closed. A tear erupted from the corner of the eyelid. The hand that came up from under the sheet was heavily bandaged.
“When you were kids, Liam. Before all this trouble. Before all this mess. Tell me about Mary then. The friends you had, Jammy Tierney and them. The things you liked to do.”