A Carra King

by John Brady

  “You mean is there more? I don’t know.”

  “What’s the count there again?”

  “Twenty . . . seven.”

  “And the latest stuff in?”

  “Four days back.”

  Minogue stepped around Paddy Mac and pulled at the catch on one of the boxes. Bose — he’d heard of that. There were five pop-up latches. The third one wouldn’t budge. Paddy Mac took out a tool from his belt and held it out to Minogue. The Inspector didn’t know which way to hold it. He looked at the screwdriver head, the jemmy edge next to it, the small hammer head.

  “Here,” said Paddy Mac. “Let me do it. You’d only break it.”

  Minogue helped him lift the lid. Coiled electrical wires as thick as his finger; knobs, a grille, sockets to plug in leads.

  “Amplifying stuff,” said Paddy Mac. “I don’t know.”

  There was a hiss and a whirr outside the cage, a whistle. Minogue looked around Paddy Mac at the forklift operator. Paddy Mac stepped out. Minogue turned back to the boxes. He listened to Paddy Mac’s drollery with the driver. A dry run for the new spot checks, Minogue heard: customs, an EU effort, no warning, such a fuckin’ crowd, yeah? The forklift squealed away. Malone wedged himself in-between boxes. He used his knees to lever two stacks apart. The squeak as they moved cut right through Minogue’s ears.

  “The most recent ones here at the front, Paddy?” Minogue asked.

  “That’s the general idea. Yeah. Hey, how are yous going to get into them without a lift?”

  Malone looked up at the top of the stack. Paddy Mac sighed.

  “One a them’ll fall on you and I’ll wind up in the dock for it, or something.”

  “Jailhouse rock,” said Malone.

  “You’re a scream. Here — I’m going to get a lift.”

  Minogue watched Paddy Mac’s walk, the toes outward. The divinity that shapes our ends, he thought, and people became like their —

  “Any of the lads come by,” Paddy Mac called out over his shoulder, “give them the Customs and Excise spot-check line. We’re only starting them next year to fall in with the EU regulations. Dry run, tell them.”

  Minogue leaned around a box to look for a label. He stooped and looked through a gap toward the boxes in the middle of the stack. Malone climbed on one and began trying to slip the cables on another. Minogue heard Paddy Mac’s voice echo, the words of his call lost somewhere at the other end of the warehouse. Someone laughed. A door slid open, squeaked and opened faster until it hit the end of its line.

  “Wires,” said Malone. “Big, fat leads. Speakers. Woofers. Tweeters. More wires.”

  Minogue squinted in at the cases. Malone closed the lid and clipped the catches. Minogue stood up when he heard the scratching as Malone shoved a box. He heard the forklift rattle and hum as it approached.

  “Wait there Tommy, will you.”

  Paddy Mac behind the wheel was a man possessed. Minogue stood outside with Malone watching. He wondered what Paddy Mac was saying to himself as he reversed and shot forward, swept in tight circles with inches to spare, dropped the boxes almost to the floor before braking and then lowering the loads soundlessly to the floor. Minogue waved to him. Paddy Mac reversed over and stopped. Minogue pointed to the boxes that had been uncovered. Paddy Mac leaned his forearms on the rim of the steering wheel and watched as the two detectives edged their way through the cases toward the back of the set of boxes.

  Minogue lifted the catches on a long box. Smells of rubber and dust rose around him. Lights? He lifted the edge of one and saw cables and filters. He remembered watching the goings on at a film shoot in Kilmainham last year. The miles of cable, lights, everything up on stalks. He shoved the cable aside and examined the clamps and holders. One of them would be the bees knees entirely for holding joints to be glued on that bloody antique table Kathleen wanted.

  “Here, boss. Come here.”

  Minogue laid the clamp down and closed the lid.

  “Come up here and have a look.”

  Minogue worked his way around the lid. Malone had pulled out a console covered with sliding buttons. Minogue eyed it for an instant as he manoeuvred around the cables. He heard Malone breathing hard in his nostrils from the exertion. He looked down. He felt no surprise. He wondered why: was he in some weird state, drifting along after the shooting, disconnected somehow. And when he woke up?

  It looked so familiar. Maybe it was because he was so used to seeing pictures of things like this over the years. The outlines of the face were shadowed but he’d seen eyes like that before. It had struck him before that children drew eyes the same way as those forgotten and unknown carvers in ancient Ireland. And modern art, whatever that was, did the same. He followed the lines until they met. Whose hands had worked this so long ago, what efforts had gone into it, with their tools and their faith.

  He crouched and pulled the cloth back further, tucked it down between the edge of the stone and the side of the box. He ran his hands across the lines. A collar, he guessed, a necklace maybe. Royalty? Malone was muttering something.

  He glanced up at him.

  “You’re magic, boss,” he whispered. “Fucking magic.”

  Minogue looked down again. There were sharp edges in places on the granite. He dropped to one knee and let his hand down the length of the stone. Something which could be excitement, or awe, or even some kind of fear began to leak into his mind.

  “What in the name of Jases is that?”

  He hadn’t heard Paddy Mac walking over. His knee was locked now, but the ache from the graze was gone. He watched his own shadow stir on the stone as he laboured to get up. Paddy Mac was scratching hard with his nails in his sideburns.

  “A prop or something?” he asked. “All that stuff they haul up on stage, the oul plaster casts and the bits of cars?”

  “No,” said Malone. Paddy Mac turned to him.

  “What’s it, then?”

  Minogue didn’t know whether Malone had been waiting to get in the dig.

  “That,” Malone said. “That is the king.”

  Minogue had been dozing. The chimes and flight announcements had lulled him. Airports, waiting, dentists, hospital — they all made him drowsy.

  “Here they are,” said Malone again. “Hey. Boss?”

  He opened his eyes slowly. There were three dozen people or so by the arrivals gate, four Guards in uniform. He was locked up tight, from his shoulders down his back to his legs: stiff as a board. Malone watched him lever himself upright.

  “Give Fergal the word then,” he said to Malone.

  He’d have to take the next bit handy, the getting to his feet. He ran his hand down to the rip in the knee of his trousers: wasn’t that big, really. He had been dreaming of pigeons. It was a Magritte painting too, he was sure, the one with the bird-cage in place of the man’s chest, under a cloak. He should look for it in Hanna’s bookshop. As well as getting some scientific answer for how pigeons, and other birds for that matter, found their way from so far off.

  He stood slowly, made his way over to the railing. There were three girls arguing with a Sergeant. One of them shrieked. The Sergeant eyed her. She covered her mouth in embarrassment. He made a space for four photographers. Others pressed forward. A cheer started at the far end of the railing. The Guards walked to the glass doors. Minogue wondered how could anybody see anything. People began to drift over from the pub, glasses in hand. Malone pocketed the phone. Two of the girls were hopping now. The doors slid open.

  First out were two APFs. Cortina Byrne came next, smoking and laughing. He threw his arm around a woman with a blond stubble on her head. She was somebody famous, Minogue realized. He couldn’t place her. She wore one of those plastic shiny jackets, the ones that looked like they were made in a doll factory in 1962. The flashes began to go off.

  Then Daly looked warily up and down the passageway the Guards had cleared. The shoulder bag was the size of a suitcase. Soft leather, and one of those purses —

  “Jee-zuzz
, Jimmy!”

  Minogue recoiled at the scream and glared at the girl. The screamer had a white face and a lot of metal around her face.

  “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 memb
ers 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?”