A Carra King (40 page)

“Heard that,” said Malone and parried Minogue's attempt at a shove.

“I give up,” said Éilis.

“Nail him one in the chops, there, you,” said Murtagh.

“Who?”

“Any of yous. I don't care who.”

Malone let Minogue push him away.

“That'll learn you,” he grunted. “Fifteen pints and the hiding of your life, you sodbuster.”

“Do you want your messages,” Éilis called out. “Or do you want another round to knock the shite out of one another?”

“Éilis!” said Murtagh. “The bleeding language . . .!”

“Not you,” she said. “His honour here. A personal and a call from the quare fella what's with Leyne. Freeman. He's a Yank.”

Minogue straightened his shirt collar.

“Whyn't you tell me on the cell phone Éilis, when I was over beyond at Aoife Hartnett's crowd?”

“He phoned a quarter of an hour ago only. I told him I could raise you and conference you through to him if it was urgent.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if it was a cell phone. I said it was. He said he'd wait so.”

Malone exchanged a frown with Minogue. The Inspector took the slips from Éilis's outstretched hand. Kathleen first. Today was her half-day. He'd forgotten.

She was eating something when he phoned her. Iseult had a plan, she told him. She had consulted her conscience before phoning with the news that she'd be going out for a swim in Killiney Bay. Orla's father had a boat, remember. Iseult didn't want them worrying, that was all. Wasn't that nice? He rubbed at his eyes and held in a sigh. His knuckles ached when he tried to switch the receiver to his left hand. The office had gone quiet. He turned to see where Murtagh was.

Purcell had come out of Kilmartin's office. He'd nearly forgotten about him being here, Minogue thought as he listened to Kathleen's arrangements. Iseult didn't mind him coming out in the boat with Orla's father. In fact, she wanted it. Didn't things work out well there? Minogue nodded at Purcell. Then he stared at the phone cord until his eyes went sandy. Purcell had sidled over to Murtagh who was ignoring his questions.

Minogue said goodbye to Kathleen and let the phone down slowly. Purcell tried again with Murtagh. Murtagh looked him up and down.

Minogue studied Purcell's face. Curious, suspicious.

“Heard the news on the Smith thing?” Purcell tried. He looked from face to face. Malone stopped rubbing his nose and looked over at Purcell.

“It might be the clincher,” he said. “Home free. That'd be great.”

Minogue studied the phone number Freeman had left.

He stood and stretched. Purcell fingered his lip and watched his approach.

“Matt.”

Purcell had scaly skin, redder when he was bothered.

“Matt. You know I think the same thing. I'd only be delighted to walk out of here. We're only here to assure administration that the case is gone as far as it could go for now, that the Smith file is jammed for good reason. We can't have people thinking that the squad's just sitting on it.”

Minogue searched the sparse hair Purcell had recently combed down. “That's as far as it goes,” Purcell said. “We all agree on that, I think.”

“Smith's file is active, Seán,” said Minogue. Purcell nodded, looked at the wall. “We review in short every month, going back eight years to a stabbing in Fairview even. We reassign in full every three months to get the new eyes on it. It's always moving. Always.”

“You know that, I know that, but it's been reviewed independently.” Minogue looked at Kilmartin's clock.

“You know,” said Purcell. “I never get pally when we go in like this. Never. I shouldn't even be talking to you probably. It's just that, well, this isn't some hooligan getting his arm broken in a squad car, this is a case of the best we have here. No one seriously believes what that bitch said in the paper. She parroted anything the Smiths said just to sell papers.”

Bitch, Minogue reflected. Well, now. Purcell should move on to a different department. A different job, maybe.

“Nobody in their right minds could believe what she was letting these gangsters say through her column. Really, I mean . . .”

Minogue said nothing. Purcell finally shrugged and looked away.

T
WENTY
-T
WO

M
inogue watched Murtagh checking the levels on the cassette recorder by the phone. He lifted the phone and got a line several times, listening.

“Go ahead,” said Murtagh. “Anytime now. It's line one, don't forget.”

Minogue glanced down at the phone number for the Aisling Hotel. The receptionist had an odd accent. Like the ad for that new detergent. He didn't get a chance to thank her before he was switched. Two rings. Gone, was he — “Yes? Hello?”

“Jeffrey Freeman?”

“Yes. Hi. Is this Officer Minogue?”

Officer, Minogue thought: that'd do nicely.

“It is, indeed. You phoned me.”

“Can we meet? Soon?”

None of this Thank You For Returning My Call? He let the pause linger.

“Why?”

“It concerns the Shaughnessy Case.”

“The Shaughnessy Case. You better explain where you fit with that now, like a good man.”

“Okay. I can give you background but we really should meet, personally.”

“Talk for now, Mr. Freeman.”

“You know about Mr. Leyne, right?”

“What have I been told about Mr. Leyne?”

“I understand you were informed he's on a life support system at the . . .”

“The Blackrock Clinic, yes.”

“Your Commissioner, right?”

“He didn't put him there, Mr. Freeman. He only told me about it.”

“And that it is absolutely confidential?”

“Words to that effect, yes.”

“You haven't told anyone about it, have you?”

Minogue looked across at Malone.

“Mr. Freeman — ”

“Jeff, please — ”

“Jeff. I have two phones here on my desk. Tell me why I shouldn't lift the other one and call in a squad car to go to your hotel room and drag you out here?”

“What? I mean excuse me? Is this some kind of,
intimidation
, I'm hearing?”

“It's notice of intent.”

“It sounds like a threat — ”

“It's not a threat,” Minogue broke in. “Threats are about the future. What I'm keen to do would take all of about seven minutes.”

Malone had made his way over. He raised his eyebrows at Minogue, held up his hand and clamped his fingers on his wrist. Minogue shook his head.

“You're serious, I do believe you're being serious. This is unbelievable.”

“If I believe you are a threat to public order or you're trying to obstruct a murder investigation, there'll be a half a dozen coming through your door.”

“Well, let me relay that news to the embassy. They'd be interested, I'm sure. Then your Commissioner.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Freeman. You'll be coming here in person in about a half an hour to see for yourself just how mistaken you are.”

“Wait! Look — let's take a step back from this. I'm a visitor here. Maybe I haven't come across the way people here are used to.”

“You're going to be a resident here if you don't get smart. You've got about ten seconds.”

“My client here — ”

“Your employer, you mean. Play by the rules. To me you're a person obstructing a murder investigation.”

“Okay,” said Freeman, “say what you like, but I have a legal obligation to my client. I'm telling you that I have to respect it. I can only do that by meeting you in person. And I don't want any police, Garda I mean, tail this time.”

Minogue sat in tighter to the desk.

“What do you mean, this time?”

“Let's not waste time on that one. Please? I was told you were in on everything. So: we don't need the ‘escort.'”

Minogue said nothing.

“Okay? So we can get together on this? I'll hand over what I'm supposed to and then we can proceed whatever way you like.”

“Take a taxi here then. Or I can have you picked up.”

“Please. Mr. Leyne directed me to deal with you. You only.”

“Me?”

“Mr. Leyne doesn't have confidence in the authorities here,” Freeman said. “You're known. So is your boss, the one on vacation. He was very specific.”

“Was?”

“‘Is,' ‘was.'” Freeman's voice dropped. “I need your assurance that what I tell you stays confidential?”

“Why?”

“I have to execute Mr. Leyne's instructions,” he said. “When he becomes, well, when he becomes incapacitated.”

“I'm a policeman, Mr. Freeman. Get serious now, or — ”

“Do you know much about Leyne's Foods? How stock markets work?”

Minogue's Biro broke through the paper.

“Look,” said Freeman. “Mr. Leyne's son telephoned from Ireland. I have a signed statement from Mr. Leyne here stating the substance of their conversation.”

“What did he say?”

“I'm afraid I have to repeat that my instructions are to contact you in person and deliver the material to you.”

Minogue caught Malone's eye.

“Enough of this trick-of-the-loop play-acting. I'm bringing you in.”

Malone pointed down at Freeman's name. Minogue nodded.

“Wait,” said Freeman. “This won't help. It's a goddamn mess already.”

“Do you think so, now,” Minogue said. “Well, it's only starting for you. You're about money, mister; I'm about crime.”

“If you give me a chance,” Freeman said.

“You should have handed this over when your boss dragged in those reports, the private-eye stuff on Shaughnessy.”

“Believe me,” Freeman said. “We're acting in good faith here. Please.”

Minogue let down his arm, held his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Throw him out the window, boss?”

He looked up at Malone. Murtagh was slowly nodding. But Freeman didn't need to phone, he realized. And this “You're known”? Leyne's bluster in the car coming in from the airport, he'd known about Minogue all along. There had been a broad enough hint, with Leyne's happy disdain for the “researchers” he hired. How Leyne got himself those copies of police investigation records involving this wayward son of his back in the States, that said something about his reach, too. The personal touch, insiders. Now this Freeman fella was holding his nose, for a fine fee, too, no doubt, and trying to engineer another inside track for Leyne to get to Inspector Minogue.

He closed his eyes for several seconds. He saw Leyne's sallow face again, the strain as he laboured out of the car. Damn! He shoved the phone back on his ear.

“Listen,” he said, “I'm coming over.”

“I really appreciate it, and so will, so would — ”

“Well, I don't, let me tell you. Give me everything you've got. I want a statement from you. I want whatever documents and records you have. I want your utter and undivided attention. I don't want to hear name dropping or flag waving or client privilege talk. Leyne picked you for something, I don't know what, but I hope for your sake he picked right. Are you with me on this now?”

“I hear you. It's all above-board.”

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Fine. Oh, you can tell your guy in the lobby or wherever he is, that I'm not going anywhere.”

Tynan, was Minogue's first thought: he had left him in the dark on purpose.

“I don't know anything about that,” he said.

Malone glanced over before racing from the lights at the head of Dame Street. The Audi he had raced kept beeping.

“How much again?” he asked Minogue.

“I heard two hundred million.”

“Dollars or pounds?”

“I can't remember.”

Malone turned sharply around two cyclists.

“So he says one of ours or some of ours are on the prowl.”

“He, she or it is not one of mine, Tommy.”

“You don't care? I still think you should check with C3.”

Minogue bit his lip. He really should get advice on how to give Freeman some serious grief. An American lawyer executing a brief for his client in Ireland. He doesn't trust the authorities. . . Had Leyne known he was on his last legs?

“'Cause you'll find out Tynan has us on a string.”

“Be quiet, can't you. I'm thinking.”

“Collar him,” Malone declared. “The whole shebang: drag him out of the place, shove him into the back of the car and bring him around the corner to Pearse Street. Take him apart. What's the big fu— what's the big
deal
here, like?”

Minogue didn't answer. He'd been thinking about the computer screen, the pictures fading and returning, the drums and the talk of time before the pharaohs.