A Carra King (39 page)

“I'll pass it on to them, boss.”

“Any life on the phones?”

“Nothing.”

Minogue released the Biro he'd been bending.

“When's the PM scheduled, John?”

“Hers? There was a phone call in from Donavan's office to notify for attendance. He can do it this afternoon or early tomorrow. Who will we send?”

Malone, that's who, Minogue had to conclude.

“By the way,” said Malone. “Now that I think of it, when are we ever going to pick up your hardware?”

“What hardware?”

“Come on, you know. We were issued, remember?”

“Not now, anyway.”

“Why not? Didn't you tell me that fella Kevin Whatsisname passed on something, something about the Smiths?”

Minogue stared at the clock on the dashboard, willing it to change its numbers. He shouldn't have mentioned what Kevin Kelly had told him in Bewleys.

“Is it the Smiths blathering has you thinking about this again?”

“Maybe,” Malone said. “What about back when you and the Killer were up against a crowd down from the North? When was that, seven or eight years ago? There was bullets flying then, wasn't there?”

“Seven years, yes,” said Minogue. “The time of the Christmas bombings.”

“Did you then?”

“No.”

“Why the hell not?”

Minogue studied the tips of his shoes. More than scuff there now. They'd go in a few months.

“Well, I wouldn't have one in the house, Tommy. That was all.”

Malone jammed the gearshift into second and floored the accelerator. Minogue heard him swear under his breath.

“I don't get paid enough to try to talk sense into you,” Malone said. “Why don't you just sign it out and park it in the cabinet then?”

“It's still optional, Tommy.”

“They should make you.”

“They can't make me bring a gun into my home. And that's that.”

“Even if it went to compulsory issue?”

“They've never made us. We call in the heavies if we think there are guns.”

“You think Larry Smith's mob doesn't have guns?”

Minogue studied his shoes again.

“There's seventeen holes in that squad car,” said Malone. “I'd say that's a serious message.”

Maybe they should really send the bill to Gemma O'Loughlin, Minogue thought. Printing that drivel about the Larry Smith solution from a lubricated, giddy Kilmartin showboating for his cronies at the Garda Club.

“They'd know where we live, you know,” said Malone.

Minogue couldn't disagree. He'd heard enough over the years of the open threats delivered one-on-one to Guards by the Smiths. The names of their children, even; where their parents lived.

“Hold the horses there,” he said. “Are you going to tell me it's at home I should be strutting around with a gun in me apron and me doing the dishes?”

“Apron is right,” said Malone, and looked away. Minogue let the silence hang.

“I can't win this one, can I,” said Malone at last. “You get that thick culchie head of yours down and you won't budge.”

Minogue let the silence hang. He thought of Mick Fahy's half-hearted attempt to convince him when they were signing out Malone's at the armoury. It's not the old days, Matt: they all have them and they use them; there's no respect for the uniform any more. He thought about Trigger Little, the heaviness in the air around him. Wife and three kids, separated. Did Malone himself actually like guns, he wondered. And why did he not know this about a man he'd worked with for over a year. Driving around Dublin with an automatic pistol in the back of your pants, now that was progress.

“Back to the case, Tommy.”

“What about it?”

“If the airport is beginning to dry up, well that's not the end of the world. We have a couple travelling together and two cars waiting to give us leads. It takes so long though, that's the frustrating part.”

Malone turned into the Coombe. Minogue returned the stares of two nattily dressed men leaning on a silver BMW. One of the men looked away.

“Want to bet how that was paid for,” Malone said. “That Beemer, with the two music video charlies lying up against it?”

He rolled down the window and spat out a piece of a nail he'd been nibbling on. The air smelled of decaying fruit and exhaust smoke. A pound shop was playing “Only Starting” from the Works' first CD. One of the speakers seemed to be blown. A tweeter.

Malone seemed to be changing gears just for something to do now.

“We might be getting out from under Smith and Company,” Minogue said.

“What, a gouger who's going to cough up the fellas who did for Larry Smith?”

“There's a chance,” Minogue said. “Just today, it came up in a court recess.”

“Huh. Jases, I'd sell anyone, anything, if I was up against a ten-year term. And if I was a junkie? If I was a junkie with bills that could get collected the wrong way in jail, I'd rat on Mother Teresa, so I would.”

There'd be no pleasing Malone now, Minogue decided. He studied the half-built apartments beyond Christchurch. Bow windows, wasn't that something. Cubicles for yuppies. Then it struck him that Malone could be edgy because he'd been told to attend on the PM for Aoife Hartnett. Minogue decided to waive preliminaries.

“The PM's not going to be that bad, Tommy. Pierce knows you don't need the full chapter and verse during.”

“It's all right,” Malone said.

“I can phone him, leave a message.”

“'It's okay boss. No big deal. All right?”

Minogue gave up. He thought about putting more life into tracing the missing stuff from Shaughnessy's car. Somebody doing their job right in Dublin Garda divisions had to have an ear with fences and gougers. Her purse was gone. Access card at least. Shaughnessy's cards, his camera. Other paraphernalia. And what about all the people at the dos that Shaughnessy or Aoife Hartnett had been at?

Full of questions, Minogue strode into the squad room. He was dimly aware of, and indifferent to, the fact that he was annoyed. The job, he thought, osmosis of Kilmartin's personality. Maybe it was Malone nagging him about signing for a gun.

Murtagh kept his head down for most of the questions. There were still eighteen cars that needed following up at the long-term car park. Minogue told Murtagh to phone the family of whoever's name was on the car and find out when the hell he or she had parked their bloody car there.

If Fergal Sheehy was down to the last few interviews then he'd better start finding more: widen the net. A weapon — search the whole damned airport top to bottom. Get Farrell to start right away even. Decide on the motorway even — maybe the weapon was fecked out the window in a panic. And warm up the appeal and put it out again. Specifics: roads in Mayo, personals missing. Did Shaughnessy have a camera when he'd arrived in Ireland, or did he bloody well not? Still trying to figure that out, was Murtagh's reply. Where were his credit card receipts then? Murtagh pointed to a copy pinned on the boards. Minogue saw Murtagh's eyes dart to Malone's as he walked over.

“He paid the hotel here on, what's this, Mastercard?”

“The last one they have is for the hotel, yes.”

“Are they saying that he didn't use it afterward or that they don't know yet?”

“My new pal, Debbie, in the States says that's it. They'd have it recorded inside of two days now.”

Minogue looked up from the copy at Malone.

“Other cards?”

Murtagh didn't quite carry off the southern accent on the vowels.

“She done told me she'd run a credit check on heem. He was done flagged bad for priors.”

“What kind of prayers?”

“Naw,” said Murtagh. “Pr-i-ors. He went to hell on an American Express and some other cards a few years back. They nixed him. He only got back on the books a few months ago. There's a low limit on his new one too.”

“Cash then,” Minogue declared. “Bank records. He must have been carrying, for the love of God.”

Murtagh chose his words carefully.

“I'll put priority on it so, boss.”

Minogue couldn't miss the tone. He turned from the boards again and gave Murtagh the eye.

“Thank you,” he said, just as deliberately.

Murtagh closed a folder and looked up brightly at Éilis.

“Any word from our leader beyond in Boston, Éilis, oul stock?”

“Not yet,” said Éilis. “Quiet for him, isn't it now?”

“Be nice to get him back,” said Malone. Minogue wasn't going to ignore this.

“I'll maybe phone him tonight,” he said to Malone. “I'll tell him you were asking for him. He'll like that.”

“Me too,” said Éilis. “Tell him I miss him. His quiet ways. The subtle wit.”

“He'll be touched, Éilis. It'll be news to him too, I'd venture to suggest.”

“Don't forget me,” said Murtagh. Minogue turned his glare back on him.

“I suppose Sheehy and the crew, too?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Malone. “Definitely. They asked me to tell you.”

“He'll be deeply moved, then.”

“All the mob in Serious Crime too,” said Murtagh. “I was at a do there and they were asking after him.”

“Did the President send her wishes too, Éilis?” Minogue asked.

“Oh,” she murmured. “I forgot to write it down. Thanks for reminding me.”

“What about filling in for him over at Keagh's pub?” Murtagh asked. “He foots the bill for a few rounds. Did you forget?”

Minogue pinned the copy of the transaction record back on the boards.

“Enough,” he said. “I hear ye. Loud and clear. Wait till I get paid, at least. I'm skint.”

“Ah, you're always skint,” Malone said.

“Mine's brandy then,” said Éilis. “Brandy'll make up for it.”

“I'll go easy on you,” said Murtagh. “Three pints.”

“One for each day since Jim left, right?”

Murtagh beamed.

“What about you, Tommy?”

“Same as John Boy there. Fifteen pints or so.”

Minogue looked over at the message board. The slips were green this week, were they. Where the hell did Éilis dig up those memo pads? He gave Malone a thoose on the arm as he walked by.

“Just gimme the money instead of the pints then,” said Malone.

Minogue saw that his partner was losing the battle to hold back a grin. Malone dropped his head, pushed elbows out and jabbed at the air with open hands.

“Won't work,” Minogue warned him. “I have the reach, pal.”

“You better reach into your shagging pocket when payday comes so.”

Minogue put his arms out but Malone was on him too fast. He felt Malone's arms clamp his as he was shepherded to the wall.

“Yous culchies,” muttered Malone. He feigned a left hook.

“Corner boy,” Minogue said.

Éilis shook her head and lit another cigarette.

“Men,” she said to no one. “The more they begin to cop on how useless they are, the more of a bloody racket they make.”