The Going Rate

by John Brady

“No one believes Freud anymore,” he tried. “A joke?”

  She reached up suddenly and drew back a strand of hair from his forehead.

  “It won’t always be this way, Dermot.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll get the recognition you deserve. Really. The work you need.”

  Again he tried to smile.

  “I always believed in you,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re a good father.”

  It was almost as much as he could manage. He looked down at the water.

  “So tell me,” she said, her voice gone soft again. “Is this new one the one?”

  For the moment he didn’t understand.

  “Underworld, etc.?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Yes.”

  “Just don’t be getting a crush on one of their molls now.”

  “As if.”

  She pulled on her Belfast Marathon T-shirt, and zipped up the windbreaker.

  “Where did I put the Yellow Peril, Der?”

  “It’s on the back of the door in the toilet.”

  She came back wearing the reflective vest. She closed the door softly behind her.

  He had some forks left at the bottom of the sink and that would be that. He wiped the counter. Moving the germs around, really. He reached down into the lukewarm water and pulled the stopper. He’d seen people washing utensils with sand, on the BBC documentary about the… Touareg – that was the name of Tony’s car, a Touareg. Those three women on the bus could hardly be Touaregs. No way.

  The phone rang softly. He remembered Bríd setting it that way so Aisling wouldn’t be woken up. His fingers were slippery on the plastic.

  “So how’s the script then?”

  “Who is this?”

  “How soon you forget. The script, are you going to use the bit with those two at the pub earlier?”

  “You’re…?”

  “Come on. Has it been that long?”

  Fanning clutched the phone harder.

  “That’s over. I told you. That’s too far for me.”

  “Really? Could have been worse I say.”

  “Look, come on. I’m not involved in this. This kind of thing I mean. I told you, it’s not for me.”

  “We didn’t do it for you, did we. Let’s do more of that research tonight. It won’t take long. Small matter, but you’d be glad you came.”

  Fanning looked around the kitchen.

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “You can’t? No obligation now. Nobody’s saying you’re ‘involved’ kind of involved you know?”

  It was that accent again, with the unexpected sidesteps from Dublin to London.

  “No charge.”

  “I’m sorry but look, it’s over. It’s not what I want. It’s just, well I’m not going to do the thing. I’m going to move on to another project.”

  “Another project? That mind of yours is just going, going, going. I wish I was like that. You know, able to make things up, just like that.”

  Fanning’s grip on the phone tightened. He held his breath before speaking.

  “For every project that gets done, there’s ten others you throw out.”

  “What waste. Tell you what – one last go, one last, what do you call it – audition.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “I can wait. Just you and me. No funny stuff.”

  “No West Ham.”

  “Naw. He was just over for a holiday, you know. Temple Bar. Rah, rah, rah.”

  “No crime. No people getting–”

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. I’ll get in touch then, if I want to go ahead.”

  “Really? How will you do that?”

  Fanning realized with a shock that Cully had been ready for this.

  “Murph,” he said quickly. “I’ll get in touch through Murph. Only so’s I can get in touch with you.”

  “Okay. Like I said, I can wait.”

  An ambulance siren grew louder outside and began to lessen as it passed. When it had passed, Fanning took his palm from his ear. In his earpiece he heard it peak and begin to fade again.

  “How about an hour?” Cully said. “How about that?”

  “An hour? No, there’s no way this evening. I’ll get in touch when–”

  “–What?” said Cully, but with neither impatience nor anger that Fanning could detect. “She’s going to run a marathon or something?”

  Shock ran down from Fanning’s head and erupted in his chest. He found himself walking backward as his knees gave out.

  Chapter 28

  BY NINE O’CLOCK, Minogue and Wall had A Matthews parcelled on a timeline for the night of the murder. Matthews had turned out to be the smarter of the pair. Where Twomey sweated and argued, Matthews turned inward, his voice often so low that they had to ask him to repeat what he had said. He seemed to want to lose his words, his voice even, in the small goatee – or whatever they called those preposterous half-beard experiments they went for so much now, Minogue reflected sourly – that he kept fingering. A shorter as well as a smarter man than his friend Twomey, Matthews had gotten Minogue’s antennae quivering early on. As subdued as he looked here, this off-again on-again sheet-metal apprentice might well conceal an explosive temper.

  The same Matthews was gone very pale now. His bottom lip had gone dry and he made the error of picking at it until it bled. Even when he spoke he spent a lot of time staring at the tabletop.

  Minogue was in familiar territory now, and it wasn’t his favourite. He had felt the dip coming, when his belief that these two were the warp on the murder began to slide. It surprised him a little, because he could not recall why he had begun to think this, or rather, to feel this. It left him dispirited but also grimly satisfied that his unease at what looked like good fortune and timing could now have its way.

  As the hours went on, and the time was closing on the legal rights of the two men to be left sleep, he wondered now if he’d be taking home his secret with him tonight, that neither Aidan Matthews nor the others had killed Klos. Neither Wall nor Duggan need know his intuition until they too had faced up to the unease they were surely beginning to feel now too. It would take them longer, that was all. More importantly, Minogue could be dead wrong about the two men, and Duggan and Wall should be left to run their minds freely without the undertow of Minogue’s skepticism.

  Still, Minogue continued to press Matthews on the times. Twice he had left with Wall and they had had a confab with Duggan in the hall. Duggan was exasperated, but kept good self-control in the interviews. He had roped in a Garda in civvies, a keener, to fill out the interview room, and to do the silent glare routine.

  “Okay,” said Wall. Matthews glanced up.

  “Let’s run it again. Eight o’clock, you and the two girls and Twomey are down in this car park place, the steps. Is that so?”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “Tell me the time you were there with Twomey.”

  “Around eight.”

  “You were there before the girls.”

  “Yep.”

  “Nobody else around.”

  Matthews sighed.

  “No.”

  “But you said people knew about this hidey hole.”

  “Yeah. But it’s not crowded like. I mean it’s cold at night. The summer, there’d be more people.”

  “So you and Twomey are down there and you have your paraphernalia.”

  “It’s not paraphernalia.”

  “Drugs.”

  “A joint? That’s not ‘Drugs.’”

  “You and Twomey are there for how long?”

  “I don’t know, I told you.”

  “Was it ten minutes, quarter of an hour?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Minogue drew a line through eight-ten and wrote eight-fifteen beside it.

  “You’re already high though,” Wall said.

  “A buzz. Not high.”

  “You smoked
up there while you were waiting.”

  “No.”

  He raised his head to look at Wall.

  “That’s what I’m saying. Two joints is all we had. So how is that dealing? Dope is nothing.”

  “You left the hard stuff at home, did you?”

  “What hard stuff? There’s nothing, I’m telling you.”

  “So the search of your house, of your bedroom, is going to show up?”

  “It’ll show up nothing, that’s what.”

  Wall looked at his watch.

  “Well we should know in a little while,” he said.

  “What? Now? Don’t you need, like, a search warrant.”

  “Of course we do,” Wall said, “but murder investigations tend to be at the top of the list here.”

  Matthews shook his head and breathed out hard. He rubbed his face with his right hand and he resumed his slump.

  “Twomey is saying that you’re number one,” said Wall.

  “You said that already. But I still don’t know what that means.”

  “It means you’re the one with the goods, with the contacts. You’re the supplier. Right?”

  “That’s rubbish.”

  “Well at least you know he’s ready to say anything to get out of this.”

  “I never heard him say anything, did I.”

  “He’s the kind of fella who is more of a follower. The kind who caves in sooner than later. I think you know that. Don’t you?”

  Matthews said nothing. Wall waited and then exchanged a look with Minogue. The inspector nodded toward the clock.

  “Okay, it’s half eight,” Wall said.

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s half eight – that evening I mean. The two girls have showed up. You’re sitting there on those steps. Right?”

  Matthews nodded.

  “Answer that question there,” Minogue said.

  “Yes, I – we are sitting on the steps.”

  “And you’re…?”

  “You know already,” said Matthews. “I told you twice.”

  “What are you doing there on the steps?” Minogue asked sharply.

  “I am smoking a joint,” said Matthews.

  “I?” said Wall.

  “We are smoking a joint.”

  “That you provided.”

  “That I provided. Sharing. Sharing a joint.”

  “And this is ten minutes after the two girls met Mr. Klos.”

  “Ten? I don’t know. Like I said, it had just happened. They said, Tara said. It was a laugh, see? This bloke wandering the streets.”

  “That’s when you formed a plan then. To go after this man.”

  “No way. No.”

  “Twomey says you did,” said Wall.

  “No he didn’t. That’s because nobody made any plan.”

  “The four of you went down the street. You saw him there, he’s lost. It’s dark. There’s no one around.”

  Wall paused then and watched Matthews shaking his head in slow, steady motions. Like a fiddle-player following a tune, Minogue thought.

  “You know he’s not Dublin,” said Wall. “He’s not even Irish. So: easy mark.”

  “You’re making everything up.”

  “It’s not hard to figure this out. He probably has money. You don’t. You want to go to a hotel. You and your girlfriends.”

  “That is so off the wall. Why am I even listening anymore.”

  “Or were you at it in the stairwell? You and your mate. A foursome?”

  Minogue watched Wall walk slowly up and down, taking each step as though balancing on a curb.

  “You want to go all the way,” Wall persisted. “You’re frustrated. You’re angry. Who was it said it first? Was it you?”

  Matthews rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the tiles on the floor. Suddenly he looked up, and found Minogue.

  “Is he always like this?” he asked. “This fantasy stuff. He should be in the film business. Lord of –”

  “Just answer the questions,” Minogue snapped.

  “Or did he stumble on you,” Wall said, “you and Tara having a wear? Or are you getting it on with a thirteen-year-old child, you and…”

  “Would you shut up about that?”

  Even Minogue started. Wall had stopped his walk and unfolded his arms. Minogue saw that Matthews’ head was trembling slightly with the effort of staying still as he glared up. His tone was subdued again when he spoke, however.

  “You’re all the same. Guards! Yous haven’t a clue. You think you have, but you haven’t. Not a clue.”

  His face wrinkled in disgust, and he looked away quickly.

  “Tell us then,” said Minogue.

  “You don’t care. You won’t believe me. I want my lawyer.”

  “Your counsel.”

  “Yeah I want him.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Minogue. “You’ve had your legal rights respected.”

  “Tomorrow? I’ve done nothing. Nothing.”

  “You’ve sexually assaulted or exploited a–”

  “Shut up, will you?! That is such a load…!”

  Temper, temper, Minogue thought.

  “Well you tell us then,” said Wall. “What don’t we know?”

  “Life. Being young. The scene, you know? Bit of fun? Good times?”

  “Tell us about the scene then,” said Minogue.

  Matthews slid down further in the chair but then drew himself back up suddenly. He breathed out slowly.

  “Girls, they go to you and say anything and yous take that as gospel.”

  “What are we talking about?” Wall asked.

  “About what you don’t know. Girls. They’re always innocent, it’s the fella who’s always guilty. You can’t imagine a girl doing anything serious. You know?”

  “‘Serious’ like a crime?”

  “Well, yeah, a crime.”

  “What did they do then? What did Tara do?”

  “I meant girls in general. You’re not listening to me.”

  “You and Twomey got them to lure this man down there, didn’t you?”

  “That’s so stupid I won’t even think of answering.”

  “It was their idea?” Wall said. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” “I am not. You’re putting words in my mouth. You’re trying to set me up. Now I see it. Yous haven’t a clue who did that fella in, so you just want anyone. Those two lied to you I bet and you gobbled it up like idiots.”

  “The girl lied? Tara?”

  “I don’t know, do I? I don’t know what they told you, but whatever it is, it’s wrong.”

  He grimaced then, and felt for the corner of his mouth where the skin had cracked.

  “So it’s all lies. I’m not going to say another word. Yous are taking away my rights.”

  “What reason would Tara or her friend have to lie?” Wall asked. “Aren’t you and Tara a couple and all that?”

  Matthews said something under his breath.

  Minogue got up. He picked up his clipboard and headed for the door, closing it quietly behind him. The uniform, an older veteran with a grey moustache and a smell of cigar smoke, was reading the evening paper.

  “Thanks,” said Minogue, “we need a bit of time here.”

  The Guard folded his paper and grasped the door handle.

  “Troublesome?” he asked.

  “No,” said Minogue, “no more than usual.”

  Wall came out of the interview room stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “Let’s get Mossie here too. We need to shuffle the deck a bit.”

  Wall nodded. To Minogue he seemed as fresh and alert as when they first met this afternoon.

  “I think we need to talk to those girls again tonight. Shake them up. Minors or not. We need to figure them out better.”

  Wall said nothing. Neither man moved. Then Wall tugged at his nose.

  “Do you wonder maybe?” he asked Minogue.

  “Two girls?” said Minogue.

  “Yep. I know Matthews is pu
shing the line, without actually saying it.”

  “Each of them trying to sell the other one up the river,” Minogue said.

  “But forensic gives us ‘shoes.’ Leather-soled, hard edges.”

  “That’s what they call stomped, isn’t it?” said Wall.

  “Big shoes, big heels? Small shoes, small heels?”

  Wall lowered his head and looked up under his eyebrows at Minogue.

  “Fair enough,” said Minogue, “I’m getting delirious. Let’s check with Mossie. We can all go delirious together.”

  Chapter 29

  FANNING’S EYES WERE ITCHING from staring at the screen. Reflexively, his fingers tapped the Apple – S combination. Then he did a Save As to his memory stick before closing the file. He returned to Google Maps, and zoomed in on the lane where he had gone with Cully and West Ham. No, the image hadn’t changed. What did he expect, that a satellite had passed, taken a photo and it was on the server already? Complete with the five of them in the lane behind the pub? Magical thinking indeed. But that guy with the broken arm must have gone to some hospital or clinic: he’d be traceable.

  He began to compose an email to Breen. Subject: Real Crime Story. While the cursor pulsed on, awaiting his words, he imagined Breen reading this cryptic email that he was about to start. But did Breen junk his email? Did he even check his email? For several moments, Fanning imagined Breen opening the email, but then rolling his eyes and deleting it. Fanning trying to generate some buzz. Fanning trying to show off. Fanning deluding himself.

  Tomorrow for the email, he decided then.

  He closed the lid of the laptop and waited for the sleep light to begin. Then he stood and stretched. He felt no real easing in the tightness at the small of his back, so he moved the chair to get to the rug. It smelled of food and mustiness when he tipped it with his nose, and did his first push-up. He tried to focus on his breathing and to ignore the yammering thoughts. That ache at the bottom of his chest was an adrenaline hangover. He still could not decide if this was from fear or excitement. He rested for a minute, staring up the table legs to the underside of the table, and the ceiling beyond. This Cully character didn’t just beat up people for kicks. And the guy with him…?

  Fanning’s back was still tight. He rolled up and stood slowly, and he poised himself to do a bit of yoga. He focused on his breathing and started into a Greeting to the Sun, breathing loudly to try to still his mind better. It took him a minute or so to complete the routine, and he was soon back on the rug, as flat and still as he could. He listened to his blood coursing by, his own breath whistling slower in his nose. Calm settled on him then, and he could almost see in his mind’s eye the truth coming to rest like a leaf on a sunlit path. Cully was mocking him. He was also daring him. It was a test, Fanning saw, and that made it easy to decide.