by John Brady
“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?”
TWELVE
Arms 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.
Leyne’s greeting was a raised hand quickly dropped back onto the table. Minogue took in the watery eyes, the open shirt, the ashtray half-full in front of him. Fianna Fáil, he thought: bagman, fixer. Leyne waved at a half-standing Freeman.
“You met Jeff here,” he said. He looked up sideways.
“What are you now, Jeff? What do we call you?”
“On our good days, Director, Management Support Services.”
Minogue noted the attaché case on the floor behind Freeman. Leyne tapped his cigarette on the ashtray.
“You may know Billy O’Riordan.”
Minogue nodded but O’Riordan extended his hand. Minogue turned to Malone. His colleague had jammed his hands in his pockets.
“Garda Malone here’s a principal investigating officer on this case.”
Tynan was first to sit down. His thumbs and forefingers joined and slowly separated over the table. A glance at Tynan’s face confirmed Minogue’s suspicions: wound up, calmly annoyed — a manner that Kilmartin mocked and feared.
“So what’s the news?” said Leyne.
Nooz, Minogue heard. He flipped open his notebook and let it rest on his knee. Malone had pulled a chair out from the table. He sat almost behind the Inspector. Minogue took out the bag of paper hankies and separated two.
“You took the words out of my mouth, Mr. Leyne.”
He watched Leyne draw on a cigarette. Freeman sat the way only Americans sat: the ankle over the knee. Minogue blew his nose, crumpled his hanky into a ball and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Now he could smell the sweet sour whiskey breath.
“Okay,” said Leyne. “Patrick screwed up plenty of times. There.”
“Could you be more detailed, please.”
Minogue noted that Tynan’s finger and thumb motions had stopped.
“I’m on the level here. Whatever he did or didn’t do, he didn’t deserve this. Dumped at an airport in the trunk, in the boot, of some rented car.”
Minogue turned several pages back in his notebook. He looked up at Leyne.
“Your last contact with your son, Mr. Leyne?”
“A phone call the day before he left.”
“He phoned you.”
“That’s right. I hadn’t heard from him for weeks. I was in Palm Springs. We, I, have a place there. A friend of mine. Patrick was barred from visiting.”
“Barred.”
Leyne gave Minogue a glance.
“I kicked him out last year. He got mouthy, rude that is, with Pauline. Pauline and I are what you call an item. We’ve been friends for some years.”
“Pauline’s surname?”
Leyne’s look fixed on Minogue for several seconds. The Inspector did not look up from his notebook. He heard Malone shifting in his chair.
“Olson. Pauline Olson.”
“O-L-S-E-N?”
“O-N,” said Freeman. There was a tint in the glasses, Minogue decided. He returned Freeman’s fleeting smile with a dull stare.
“Your ex-wife, Mr. Leyne. Her residence currently?”
“Geraldine lives in Boston,” Leyne said. “We get along fine. We’ve gone our separate ways. I go to Palm Springs five, six times a year. Pauline’s there most of the time. She’s trying to be a movie star. She wants to do screenplays too. Her and a hundred million other people. Anyway, Patrick phoned. He came by the office pretty regularly, I’d have to say. Which was fine. I didn’t want to have to guess what the hell he was going to do there. In the office I could deal with him.”
“Where did he live again?”
“Well, he’d had his own room with his mother, Geraldine. She kept it for him. In Boston. That’s where he grew up, well from age ten anyway. When we split up. But he has . . . he had, his own place, since, well he was nineteen or twenty. His own apartment, I mean. That’s how he wanted it. He’d call by Geraldine’s a lot though. She’s tremendou
s. She’s a hundred times better parent than me. No secrets on that score there, er, Mike.”
“Matt’s fine.”
“I’m an open book here, Matt.”
“That conversation you had, the phone call. What did you talk about?”
Leyne coughed and lit another cigarette. He spun his lighter several times on the table.
“News, that kind of thing,” he said.
“News? Does anything stand out? He told you he was going to Ireland?”
“Oh sure. Was there anything I wanted. As if there was no other way I could get it, you know?”
“Being . . .”
Leyne grabbed the lighter and stood it up.
“Christ, who knows? A souvenir or something? Ah, he was trying to make himself useful, I suppose. What’s that word, ingra . . .?”
“Ingratiate?”
“That’s it. To make up. After his carry on. Trying to, well I suppose you’d say, be considerate?”
Freeman too was studying Leyne’s work with the lighter. Leyne suddenly stopped.
“Trying to suck up, is a way of saying it too. Right, Jeff?”
Freeman opened his hands, shrugged and looked at the lighter again.
“Doesn’t sound very nice, does it?”
“Your son had been through a bad patch, Mr. Leyne?”
Leyne snorted and he drew on his cigarette. He squinted at Minogue while he sucked on it. Never the patrician, Minogue decided, for all the money.
“That’s what I like about here,” Leyne said. “About coming home. No, not home. There’s no going ‘home.’ It’s hearing the way things are said here. ‘A bad patch’ or ‘I’m sorry for your trouble’ or ‘God bless you.’ It’s not that they’re beating around the bush or trying to pull a fast one on you — no. It’s just that way of saying things. A ‘bad patch’ — and you’re the cops too, the real McCoy too, the tough guys. Right, Jeff?”
Again the shrug, and a perfunctory smile from Freeman.
“I’m only standing in for the boss,” said Minogue. “He’s on leave.”
“Huh. A bad patch . . .”
Leyne sat forward, his elbows pressed hard into the armrests, and stared down at his cigarette. Minogue wondered if he was trying to keep from crying.
“. . . A bad patch. Right. Well, it was more like a fucking quilt. He’d been to Brentwood. That’s a clinic, a treatment centre down in New Jersey. A kind of last resort. That was last year. He’d kicked, he told me. Even the booze, but he could take a glass of wine and then stop. According to him anyway, he’d beat the whole thing.”