A Carra King (22 page)

O'Leary had kept him on hold for two minutes.

“It's all right, Tony. I don't need to bother him if that's the case.”

“Are you in town?”

Minogue slapped Malone's arm. He'd kept jerking the stalk to get more windscreen fluid on the glass. The wipers squeaked. Minogue flicked them off.

“Nassau Street, Tony. I'm on a cell phone.”

“He'd like you to come by then. Soon as you can.”

“I've nothing, Tony. We're still clearing a path here.”

“He's in a meeting. He wants you in on it. So: will I tell him you're on the way, Matt?”

Brusque for O'Leary. Minogue studied the raindrops on the bonnet.

O'Leary said, “Concerns your case, says to tell you.”

“What can I tell him that I didn't tell him two hours ago, Tony?”

“It's different. There's people pushing info here. The father, Leyne, is here. There's a meeting, in the Commissioner's office.”

Malone drove along Andrew Street. He barely stopped at the junction of Wicklow Street.

“Is this a regular gig or what?” he said to Minogue.

The Inspector had been thinking of a hot whiskey.

“What gig?” he said.

Malone accelerated hard up South William Street.

“Well, I don't recall any get-togethers between Tynan and the Killer, do I.”

“Really.”

“Well, a fella might think, you know.”

“A fella might think what?”

Malone raced through a red light by York Street flats.

“That you have the inside track here with the Iceman. Mr.
Excitement
.”

Minogue looked at the parked cars. An Irish Coffee would do it. For the taste, not for the bite from the whiskey.

“A fella might get a puck in the snot,” he murmured. “For insinuating.”

Malone waited for a lorry to move out of the junction by Kevin Street.

“Why are so touchy about it, then?”

“I'm not.”

“See? I told you you were.”

“There's no inside track. It's social with him.”

“How could it be social only?”

“Because I say so. Because it can't be any other way.”

Malone looked over. The hooded eyes, the tightening to one side of his mouth, could only be Dublin, Minogue knew.

“That a fact, boss? Twice today we've been bounced around.”

“It's part of the investigation. There's pressure. Don't you be adding more.”

Malone's eyebrow stayed up. He dropped a gear and raced the engine.

“Get used to it,” Minogue said. “There'll be others looking over our shoulder on this one. Ask Jimmy about his digestive system when he gets back.”

“Is that the one about the surgeons being able to make a map of his guts based on the big cases he'd run?”

“That's it. So don't be picking on me. I'm only an innocent countryman up here in the Big Smoke trying to get by.”

“Me arse and Katty Barry to that,” said Malone.

Minogue couldn't but laugh. It turned to a cough. He tried to volley back with his own concocted Dublin accent but he lost it halfway. Malone kept correcting him on how to pronounce
bollocks
, à la East Wall. Minogue started laughing again. “Owney a culchie,” Malone said. He kept jabbing the Inspector all the way up Camden Street. Sodbusters. Sheep shaggers.

Minogue hadn't realized just how good a mimic this gur-rier colleague was. Cork met Kerry, Kerry met Mayo and even Clare. Malone got better the more he said. Minogue heard Kilmartin, his own throwaway expressions, even Sheehy's aggressively laconic tones.

Malone didn't let up until he had pulled in by the checkpoint at Harcourt Terrace. Beads of rain flew off the car when Malone slammed the driver's door. He looked over the roof at Minogue. The same look an opponent would get as the bell rang to start the round, Minogue decided.

“I'll wait here,” Malone said. “Polish the car or something while I'm waiting.”

“Don't start up this again, Tommy. For the love of God, man.”

Malone held his coat tighter.

“Hey, don't get me wrong, boss. I like the variety et cetera. But I'm not a fucking gofer here.”

“It's part of the case here, man.”

“Oh yeah? Isn't the whole idea to get out of our way, let us do the job?”

“Course it is. We get the staff, the O/T. The lab priority, the carryovers from the other branches, Intelligence — ”

“— Then how come we're heading up to talk to the Big One here?”

“Call it an education then, Tommy.”

“Me bollocks. We're on a leash, I say.”

“Tell him then. Don't be annoying me.”

Malone cleared his throat, looked around and spat. He followed Minogue at a distance. O'Leary met them by the door to the Commissioner's office. He ignored Malone's glare.

“Poxy out,” he said. “Isn't it?”

“Good for the greens, Tony.”

“Ah. A sign you're finally coming around?”

“I can't take it seriously, Tony. Sorry and all. It's the clothes basically. Himself is free now?”

“In a manner of,” said O'Leary. “He's with those people.”

O'Leary's face betrayed nothing. Minogue understood again that he couldn't help liking this how's-it-goin'-drop-dead Garda Sergeant. Wasn't shy of a dust-up; loyal, quiet.

Still waters, et cetera.

Tynan had told Minogue about several incidents involving O'Leary while he was doing his stint with the UN. O'Leary had knocked down a fellow UN policeman, a Dane he had become friendly with, for becoming the heavy when a food riot was feared in a godforsaken village in Ethiopia. Self-preservation had been O'Leary's explanation. A mob had been restless and then angry after a badly parachuted mess of supplies had fallen on fresh graves where mostly children had been interred. The golf course that O'Leary had made was rumoured to still exist and be maintained. It had been play a bit of golf or go off the deep end, he had told Tynan. The Dane visited Dublin almost yearly. O'Leary was said to know every bar in a particular part of Copenhagen.

“So,” Minogue said. “Leyne. Who else is in there?”

“Billy O'Riordan. There's a handler too, a Yank. A lawyer fella, I think.”

“Freeman?”

“The very one.”

“Tony, I don't want to be giving you grief, now. But we don't work for Foreign Affairs or Industry and Commerce. Much less Bórd Fáilte.”

O'Leary glanced over as Malone crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“I know, Matt,” he said.

“So I want a word with himself before we're dropped into this whatever you call it. This, er, cabaret.”

“I'll tell him.”

Malone stared at the door after O'Leary closed it behind him.

“Fucking golfer,” he said. “Paper boy.”

“Give over, will you, Tommy. He's holding his nose too.”

Malone strolled down the hall toward the lift. Tynan's head and shoulders appeared leaning out of the doorway. For a moment, Minogue didn't recognize the face sideways. What was the name of that header from Monty Python years ago?

Malone came in from the hallway last. Tynan sat on the edge of a secretary's desk. O'Leary stood by the door to a conference room. Malone began to take a keen interest in a postcard on a partition wall.

“Long day for you,” said Tynan.

“It is that,” said Minogue. “But there's plenty more of it left.”

Tynan nodded toward the door by O'Leary.

“There's Leyne, Billy O'Riordan. A fella the name of Freeman. You met him earlier on the way in from the airport.”

Minogue nodded. Malone folded his arms again and leaned against a wall.

“I asked them in,” Tynan went on. “They'd phoned earlier.”

Minogue rubbed at his nose. It was getting sore from wiping and blowing.

“Can we park the badges a minute here, John?”

“Certainly.”

“How much do we have to deal with these people in the near future?”

“As you need them. They're here to talk. It's information and it helps.”

“Talk about what?”

“The deceased.”

“Why are they in here, and not down at the squad?”

“They could and would if I'd told them. If I couldn't have raised you here on the phone while you were in town and handy to here, they'd have been dispatched there. He wanted to get my advice first.”

“The deceased,” said Minogue. “Our case.”

“There's history to him,” Tynan said.

“He has form?”

“It's not a criminal record,” Tynan replied. “He's dirtied his bib. It goes beyond police files, so we can use it.”

“Police files from where?”

“The hat-holder, Freeman, has copies of files from Boston police. There's even an FBI mention. State police too.”

“There's nothing in over our fax,” said Minogue.

“Right. Leyne steered this stuff in here. Technically he shouldn't have access to this information, but he got a hold of it. So he wants us to use it, if it helps at all.”

Minogue stared unseeing at the wall panel behind O'Leary. Malone shifted his weight to his other foot.

“The deceased related poorly to members of the opposite sex,” said Tynan.

“He's gay?” Malone asked.

“Gay men don't go around beating up women,” said Tynan. “Do they?”

“A woman is missing,” said Minogue. “She was seen with Shaughnessy.”

“That's why Leyne's here — so don't be giving me the eye. Tell me about her.”

Minogue sat on a desk and related to Tynan what he had learned about Aoife Hartnett. Malone filled in bits about the photos at the dos.

“So,” said Tynan. “Good career. High up in her job. Socializes. ‘Networks.'”

“We're waiting for word of her passport or travel stuff from her place. A brother-in-law of hers let us in.”

Tynan studied Malone's shoes.

“Well now, Mr. Shaughnessy: four charges, three from one incident. There are arraignments related to assault, both on women. One was in a club or a pub. The other was his fiancée. She dropped the charges then, upset the prosecution.”

“Shorthand for bought,” said Minogue. “Or did he say?”

“Leyne admits to a settlement. ‘A matter of conscience.' So, his son has, had, no criminal record.”

“Well, whaddya know,” said Malone. “Ain't life strange.” Tynan gave him a glazed look.

“The father weighed in to save his neck,” he said. “Leave the hows and whats aside a minute. The father has been detailing the son's troubles with the drink. And drugs.”

Minogue rearranged his seat.

“Recent?”

“He thinks the son went clean this last year. We'll see soon enough with the toxicology?”

“Tomorrow,” said Minogue. “A preliminary.”

“Cocaine, the father's talking about, but highbrow. He was part of a set.”

“What,” said Malone. “Rich prats?”

“That's right,” Tynan said.

“Out of control, was he?”

“The father says no.”

“The father covered up before.”

“I daresay,” said Tynan. “But fathers will do that, I hear. An only child.”

“All his ducks are swans, is that the story.”

“You don't have to be the Holy Family to take that line.”

There was no sting to it, Minogue realized. Tynan's gaze lingered. So he had seen the article on Iseult then. Tynan stood and tugged at his sleeves.

“So are you ready to go in and have a go at him for a proper statement?”

Minogue nodded.

“Another thing then. Leyne appears to be half-cut.”

Lucky man, Minogue almost said.

“So give me a minute,” said Tynan. “And we'll bring ye in?”

T
WELVE

A
rms folded, Malone paced up and down the hall. Each step seemed carefully considered, as though where he so precisely placed each foot was a matter of delicate planning and balance. Minogue asked O'Leary where Shaughnessy's mother was.

“No contact. Leyne said they'd talked it over and agreed he'd come to us.”

What us, Minogue wanted to know, but O'Leary excused himself. Malone kept up his carpet patrol.

“What if we get tired of sitting here pulling our wires, and just split the gaff?”

Minogue looked at Malone's back as the detective passed.

“Ballyhaunis,” he murmured. “Bicycle patrols, Tommy. Rain. Culchies.”

Tynan yanked open the door. The Commissioner waited for Malone before pulling the door closed behind them. O'Riordan rose from his chair first. Younger than he imagined, Minogue realized. Maybe it was because he was used to seeing O'Riordan in a suit on the business pages. A slight smile set off by thick eyebrows raised high in greeting, but something puckish, even adolescent about the face too.