A Carra King (49 page)

“Come here, I want you!” she shrieked.

Two more girls came tripping over.

“Come on home to Artane will you!” another shouted.

Daly looked over to the scream. His eyes settled on Minogue's for a moment and then returned to a darting survey of the crowd. Minogue elbowed Malone and took out his card. Daly eyed him again as Minogue moved around the Sergeant. A chant started.

“
In the future
. . .”

One of the girls elbowed Minogue. He tried to get around her but she shifted and elbowed him again. She got by him to the end of the railing. The Sergeant had seen her.

“
We'll have freedom
.”

She tried to wiggle by but the Sergeant jammed his knee against the upright.

“
In the future, we'll have love
.”

“Mr. Daly,” he called out.

Daly had heard him all right. He lifted the overnight bag on his shoulder and turned to look back at the band.

Minogue walked alongside him.

“Mr. Daly, I need to talk to you.”

“What?” said Daly. He looked at the Guards who had made way for Minogue to get to him. “Who are you?”

“I'm a Garda Inspector. But I don't want to be waving me card here now.”

Daly slowed and frowned.

“Yeah,” he said. “You were here before, weren't you?”

He stopped and turned and called out to the band. Minogue looked at the outstretched arms, the pieces of paper waving. How could anybody hear anything back there?

“
In the future, we'll have freedom
. . .”

Two of the band began to grasp some of the papers and sign them. Malone edged by Minogue. He had his notebook open. He was flapping it gently on the back of his sleeve.

“I have to ask you a few things, Mr. Daly.”

Daly turned back.

“What? Now? You can't be serious.”

“I can wait until your outfit has gotten through here, yes.”

“What? I can't hear you.”

Minogue leaned in.

“I said I can wait a few minutes, but.”

“Ah come on you're joking me,” said Daly. “Look at this. This is all happening, Christ, this has to be done right. We came in the terminal, to try and undo the bad rap we got for sneaking out of the country there, you know? There's been enough fu— enough crap over the other thing. The scrap with the fans and those people from the Indonesian embassy . . .”

Minogue watched Cortina Byrne disentangle himself from one of the women leaning over the railing. She leaned back into the crowd, her hands over her face. Byrne spotted Daly and then the two detectives. His eyebrows went up.

“Just me?” Daly asked.

“For now, yes.”

“Why, what about?”

“It's too noisy here. There's a quiet spot over there behind the pub. An employee lounge.”

Daly turned away. He waved at a thick-set man in a suede jacket by the door. The cheering was broken up now. The chanting was getting louder. Cleaners and restaurant staff were in the crowd now. Minogue watched Daly shaking his head as he spoke into the suede-jacket's ear. Byrne had grabbed his girlfriend again. He was laughing and waving. He stopped by Daly and listened in. The girlfriend looked at Minogue. The Inspector nodded. Wasn't she that actress one? Maybe not. Byrne was eyeing Malone now. He resumed his journey. Malone held up his notebook. Byrne hugged his girlfriend tighter. She looked like she hadn't slept. There was a tiny jewel in her nostril.

“I know you,” said Byrne. Malone nodded and held out his notebook.

“This for the ma again?”

“Yeah.”

Byrne let go of the girl and took Malone's Biro. The scribble and the droopy one-eyed smile up at Malone was almost a leer. Minogue looked at the girlfriend's face again. A flash went off behind Minogue.

“You're the fella with the sister's blouse thing.” He threw his arms around her shoulders.

“These are Guards, love,” he said to her. “Our police, yeah? This one here has a part-time job, a nixer. He's a comedian.”

Minogue couldn't make out a K in the scribble but the F and the U were unmistakable.

“Is this like a slap on the wrist maybe?” Daly asked.

“No. Why?”

“You think I dissed you the last time? When we were trying to get our flight?”

Minogue glanced at Malone.

“Disrespected,” said Malone. “Dissed, like?”

Minogue frowned.

“Because I made some calls,” Daly added.

“God, no,” said Minogue. “The head of the MCC, the fella in charge of the response, the Mobile Communications Centre, well he was annoyed. But that's history now, as they say.”

“Okay,” said Daly. “Well, should I be sitting here being polite or picking up a phone?”

“Your choice, Mr. Daly.”

“If I knew what you seem to think is so bloody important that you can't wait until I get the lads on the road out of here.”

The lads, thought Minogue. The chanting had stayed in some recess of his brain.
In the few-chur
. One of their anthems now.

“Oh, it's just that we were out here anyway,” said Minogue. “We heard ye were coming in. So we thought, just a few minutes, you see.”

“Go ahead, then,” said Daly. “Number one: what's this all about?”

Minogue let the pause last.

“We found a body here. The day you left.”

Daly nodded and looked from Malone to Minogue.

“I heard later, yes.”

“So we're trying to find out who did it,” said Malone. “And catch them, like?”

The dry tone didn't seem to register with Daly.

“What?” he said. “But why me? You want to question me?”

Minogue uncrossed his legs. So what if Daly noticed the rip in his trousers.

“Photographs have come to light, Mr. Daly. The murder victim appears in them, as do members of your band and yourself.”

Daly frowned. He looked down at his cell phone. Malone wouldn't stop tapping the end of his Biro on his notebook. Minogue wanted to shout at him.

“You're nuts,” said Daly. “The both of you. You're fucking nuts.”

The tightness across his chest suddenly alarmed Minogue. He'd forgotten about the bloody gun again. He shifted in his seat and tried to ease the pinch of the strap under his arm.

“Go ahead and phone all you want,” he said to Daly. “If you think you need to, like.”

“I'll go one better,” said Daly. “I'll get myself and my stuff and get to hell out of here.”

“So you heard of the murder.”

“I heard someone had been found, yes. I'm in touch two or three times a day with the office. They told me a bit about it. An American, I heard. Right?”

Minogue nodded.

“He appears to have had an in with your lads. The photo —”

“Wait there now. ‘My lads'? This kind of dig, or innuendo, is this P1 of the manual: ‘provoke and annoy the shite out of someone'?”

“I'm asking you if you know this man.”

Minogue slid the photocopy across the table.

“Is this the fella that was murdered?” Daly asked.

“Have you seen him before?”

“No. Or if I did, it didn't register.”

“You attended an art exhibit,” Minogue went on. “Óisin Hogan's, a fortnight ago. Along with Cortina Byrne and others.”

“Sure I did. Óisin's one of the lads grew up around the corner from Cortina. They're pals. Yes, I went. Why?”

Minogue glanced at Malone. His colleague was now hopping his pen on his upper teeth. He seemed to be studying the top of Daly's head.

“Do you recall this person at all? Talking to you? Talking to members of the band?”

“No, I don't. Do you know how many people claim to be personal friends of the lads in the band? Long-lost cousins, friends of the family? Half-brothers?”

Minogue looked down at the phone. You could use these ones on the continent now.
Seamless service
, was that the term?

“I don't know what they told you,” said Daly. “But you're barking up the wrong tree.”

He raised his hands.

“I know yous have your job to do and all and fair play to you, but someone's been selling you a line. Sorry.”

“Who?”

“What do you mean ‘who'?”

“What they've been telling you,” Daly said. “Someone's selling you a line.”

“I see,” said Minogue. “We're being codded, is it.”

“I think you have,” said Daly. “And maybe it's someone just starting rumours or trouble-making. Sour grapes, you know?”

“Oh, like people who'd not be pleased with your success?”

“Exactly,” said Daly, with that light inflection Minogue remembered of impatient teachers. “Now you've got it. Begrudgers. The old story here.”

Daly was looking from Minogue to Malone and back now. Lesson over, Minogue thought, even for the dunces who were slow to catch on. Plodders.

“Okay?” Daly asked. “I'm off, all right? Here, take this card.”

He waited for Minogue to say something.

“Sorry now,” Daly went on when he saw that neither detective seemed to have more to say. “I don't mean to come across too heavy on this but I've nothing for you. If you're really serious here, phone and I'll be happy to sit down with you.”

Minogue smacked the tabletop lightly with his hands. Daly made to stand.

“You're headed for the States now in what, three days?”

Daly rose slowly from his crouch over the chair.

“That's right.”

“The murdered man was American. You know that, of course.”

Daly picked up his phone and began swapping it from hand to hand.

“Spell that one out, will you?”

“One of our lines of enquiry is that this person may have involved himself in illegal activity, here in Ireland.”

“What illegal activity?”

Daly seemed to grasp an answer before Minogue had offered. He smacked his forehead with his palm and closed his eyes for a moment. He spoke slowly then, his gaze on the table at first.

“Come on, you can't be serious,” he said. He looked up at Minogue. “You're not going to try a drug thing on us, are you? What is this, a shakedown?”

“Listen now, Mr. Daly,” said Minogue. “That's exactly the wrong thing to say.”

“Listen you,” Daly shot back. “If this is a shakedown it's the lamest, stupidest effort I've ever seen.”

He used his phone to point to the two detectives in turn.

“What do you know,” he said. “If you had ever consulted with your pals back in Harcourt Street, you'd know just what's involved in running a phenomenon like Public Works.”

“What's that got to do with Harcourt Street, or Guards?” Malone asked.

“This is an
industry,
” Daly said, “a valuable export
industry.
Do you know how may blackmail attempts we get in an average month? Pregnant sixteen year olds? The most disgusting stories about drugs? Fellas phoning up who want ten grand so's one of the band doesn't get his legs broken? We've had it all.”

“That bad, huh,” murmured Malone.

Daly glared at him.

“Yes it fucking is. Excuse me. But I'm not complaining. There are gobshites everywhere. Let me tell you something: we have the best security in this country — well maybe not like the British Ambassador or them but that's a different — ah, what's the point . . .”

Minogue watched Daly sling his overnight over his shoulder.

“Before you take your leave, Mr. Daly.”

“What? ‘It's a mistake'?”

“No,” said Minogue. “Hardly that. We'd like to close off this, er, line of enquiry. The possibility that your band was being set up as transport for material being taken out of the country. Illegally?”

Daly said nothing. Minogue watched the scorn change to anger on his face. It quickly became bewilderment. Daly put the phone in his pocket and rubbed at his face. He let the overnight bag down on the back of his chair. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Am I hearing you right, you're saying that . . .?”

“Nothing is watertight,” said Minogue. “The band takes pretty serious amounts of gear when they go on tour, am I right?”

Daly sat back. His frown deepened. Minogue rubbed at his elbow again and tried to straighten his arm.

“Jesus,” said Daly. He sat down slowly, looked across at the detectives. “My God. Now I see where you're coming from.”

T
WENTY
-E
IGHT

“M
ules,” said Daly. “That's what you're gettin “How do you mean?” Minogue asked. He'd been thinking of Paddy Mac: the hair like a crop, his pigeons hurtling hell-for-leather through the air for home. Pigeons could hit sixty miles an hour.

“You know,” said Daly. “Carriers? Dummies, who wouldn't even be aware of what they were doing.”

“I suppose,” said Minogue. “Yes. Mules.”