by John Brady
“I know, I know,” said Wall, and tugged at his tie again. “You don’t see that much anymore. I was one of eleven. ‘The Irish Family’ is gone, but, isn’t it.”
Should have known, Minogue scolded himself. The tweed tie, the grooming.
“Yep,” said Wall. “When that goes, well anything goes.”
He turned to Minogue with a kindly smile.
“Take God out of the situation like we’re doing in Ireland, and you can expect things to slide. Common sense.”
Minogue’s irritation snowballed. He eyed the kettle and the Mikado biscuits next to the printer. A peace offering was his way out.
“My turn I think, Ciaran,” he said rising.
He filled the kettle slowly from the tap in the tiny lunch room, and plodded back to the caseroom. Wall was on the phone.
“The Twomey lad’s on his way up,” he said to Minogue. “Mossie’s taking him in.”
There was a spark from the plug of the kettle as he pushed it into the socket. Unused Styrofoam cups stood stacked in a corner. He’d forgotten the milk from the fridge. He might as well have washed the damn mugs — and that manky-looking tray along with it. He’d better call Kathleen and tell her the case had started to move. His mobile signal was down to half strength in the lunchroom. She answered halfway through the first ring.
“Back on board the time machine,” she said after his explanation.
“Short-handed,” he said. “But it’s no hardship on me. Is it on you?”
“What’s that sound? Don’t tell me you’re in the toilet.”
“I put it on speaker phone. Multitasking, with dishes.”
“Can other people hear our conversation then?”
“No. I’m in a cubbyhole here in Fitzgibbon Street station.”
“And you’re enjoying yourself. Go on admit it.”
“I admit I am enjoying myself. Somewhat. Not overdoing it, of course.”
“‘Happy days are here again…’ Go on, you might as well say it.”
“It wouldn’t be true. Totally.”
“Ah,” she said with gentle scorn. “But if you-know-who was there with you it’d be perfect entirely.”
“You’re determined not to believe me.”
“Guilty as charged,” she said. He could tell that she was smiling.
The printer came to life beside him, drawing a paper in with a lisp. He watched it issue out.
“I have a question for you now,” Kathleen said. “About you-know-who. A certain person phoned me, and she asked for advice — listen, are you sure no-one can hear you there?”
“Are we referring to the same you-know-who we were referring to a minute ago?”
“Oh come on. It was Maura Kilmartin phoned.”
“Do I need to know what ye were gostering about?”
“Don’t be like that. Listen to me. This could be the start of something. Are you ready? She said that Jim put out an overture to her.”
“Fortissimo?”
“Stop that, I said. Through a friend of hers. An overture, you understand.”
“It’s a tin ear you’re talking to, pet. I don’t do overtures.”
“Don’t act the iijit with me now. Give me your take on it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“All right. What harm could it do. That’s my considered take.”
“Go on.”
“That’s all. Look, I have to go.”
“So you’ll do it then?”
“Do what?”
“She says she’d feel secure if we were there, an outing or something.”
“You’re having me on.”
“And Jim will feel more secure too.”
“Jim would, I suppose. If that were ever to happen.”
“What evening will we do it?”
“I’m not in the marriage counselling business.”
“Who asked you to be? All you have to do is sit there, have a pint, and smile every once in a while. Do you think you could do that?”
The conversation was soon over. Minogue squeezed the power button as hard as he could.
He brought the cups back to the caseroom. Wall had made the tea. Its aroma calmed Minogue.
Wall sugared his after it had been drawn, and he put in a bit of milk to colour it.
“I’ll take mine in with me,” he said. “Okay with that?”
“To be sure. Now, the interview room’s set up for recording, I take it.”
“It is that. The controls are in the top drawer of the desk. A digital recorder there too; you can take the data home on a stick.”
Data, a stick going home? Minogue was lost for several moments. Then he remembered USB sticks, and the circulars on their use and abuse that had been repeated several times over the past few months. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and he headed downstairs after Wall.
A corridor leading out from the main office led to a short hall that was chicaned by a photocopier and a newish vertical file folder. Wall’s small tics seemed to be more apparent as he walked: straightening his jacket, gently tugging his shirt collar, spreading his fingers over the knot of his tie. The communications room door was open and Minogue got a glimpse of a uniformed Guard with his headset, stretching. Somebody had farted here recently. Wall pulled the communications room door closed and he approached the first of three doors. He turned and nodded at Minogue and then opened the door.
Minogue waited until the uniform left the room, and then he entered.
Twomey’s face was pale and he frowned so much it looked like a permanent grimace. He kept eye contact with Wall as the detective moved two chairs.
“You’ve decided to help us with our inquiries then,” said Wall.
“Are you bleeding joking me?”
“No, I’m not. Merely inquiring.”
“Those two cops, the two Guards, at the house said I was under arrest. That’s against my rights. No bleeding way am I here voluntarily, I can tell you.”
Dublin accent, Minogue reflected, but not one that would scrape your eardrums. He was already storing impressions: acne; sweat by his hair; a smoker; trying to look confident and much put upon; fidgety. Scared.
He wondered if he were looking at the man who had killed Tadeusz Klos.
“What size of a shoe do you wear,” he said, staring at Twomey.
“Shoe? What are you talking about shoes for? Jases. Shoes?”
There had been no give, Minogue realized.
“Eleven, I’m guessing.”
“Who are you, exactly?”
“I’m a Garda detective,” said Minogue.
“That’s nice. But how do I know? I need to see some ID, don’t I?”
Minogue downed the tea and then the clipboard and pulled out his wallet.
“You look different than your picture.”
“Better or worse, would you say?”
“I’m not going after that one. As a matter of fact I’m not saying nothing to neither of yous. Talk to my lawyer.”
“Your counsel.”
“Lawyer, whatever.”
“What’s your counsel’s name?”
“Legal Aid, whatever. Whoever. When I make my phone call.”
“What phone call?”
“Don’t try that one. Everyone gets a phone call. Basic democratic rights.”
Minogue wrote the date on his clipboard. He opened the drawer and took out the microphones and placed them within arm’s reach. Stretching his arm, his sleeve slid up, and he saw four o’clock on his infallible wedding anniversary watch.
Minogue ejected the tape, looked it over, and slid it back in again. He closed the lid on it and cued it, and then he hit Record and Pause.
“You’re wasting your time with that,” said Twomey, “I’ve nothing to say.”
“So you were saying.”
Minogue looked up to the corner of the ceiling where the Plexiglas covered the camera.
“You know what that is up there?”
“Of course I do. But you won’t be needi
ng it.”
“It’s to help safeguard your rights, Mr. Twomey.”
“I want my phone call.”
“Detective Wall and I have some questions for you. Detective Wall will start, I believe.”
Twomey folded his arms, slouched deeper in the seat, and looked away.
“We have a sworn statement from a person who was with you on the night of the fourteenth of this month,” said Wall, “so be aware that we already have information concerning your actions that evening.”
Both detectives waited for a reaction. Minogue sipped at his tea and glanced down at the tape travelling through the spools.
“You were on Amiens Street, at eleven p.m. or thereabouts in the company of three other parties — people. Do you dispute that or can you confirm that for me?”
Minogue held the mug close to his mouth and watched Twomey’s face.
“Do you dispute the statement that says you were in possession of cannabis resin that evening? Furthermore, that you were trafficking in same?”
“Lawyer,” said Twomey.
“You’re aware of the penalties for drug trafficking, Mr. Twomey?”
“Lawyer,” he said, “phone call.”
“And you’re aware that a search warrant has been executed on your home, your family home, looking for evidence of this and further crimes?”
Twomey pursed his lips, drew in a deep breath and let it out noisily through his nose. Then he crossed his legs at the ankle and started studying his shoes.
“You may want to consider what forensic science can learn from even the most minute items,” said Wall.
“My nute?” Twomey asked.
“Small,” said Wall. “Tiny.”
Wall exchanged a glance with Minogue.
“These drug charges are a start,” he said to Twomey then. “We’ll move on to child exploitation. Do you know what the age of consent is?”
“Lawyer,” said Twomey and sighed, “phone call.”
Minogue shifted in his seat. Wall took the hint and he sat back. Minogue let the quiet last. Twomey looked up after a count of twelve.
“So can I go now?”
“You can stop the performance,” said Minogue, “if that’s what you mean.” “Good cop, bad cop? I get it.” “You got your caution when you were arrested,” Minogue said. “Fine and well if you want to play the sound citizen. You’ll get your counsel. But as for ‘my phone call’ you’ll only get that on the telly.”
“I can sue you for this.”
“Sue all you like. You have that on tape too. You’ll have plenty of time on your hands to start your career as a hob lawyer.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Me,” Minogue said. “I’m going to talk some more. You can listen or not.”
“I don’t need to be here to listen to you talking. So let me go.”
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Twomey.”
“If I’m under arrest I want a phone call. Not to listen to you talk, or threaten me.”
“What I’m giving you is information. Your paranoia’s your own business.”
“You have nothing, you’re just trying to-”
“-First thing is, we’re not in a play here. Nobody’s acting here, except you. Nobody’s trying to cod you, or put one over on you.”
“Will Santy Claus be coming soon? With toys…?”
“We have plenty to do instead of listening to you, whinging about your rights. My job here is — was for many years — murder investigations. That’s why I’m here. I think you need to know that.”
Minogue mentally checked off a few signals from Twomey: the gaze stayed up to a corner of the ceiling, the forced attempt to stillness, the swallow.
“I’m assuming that you’re listening and understanding. Will Detective Wall confirm that?”
Wall sat up a little and turned toward one of the microphones.
“Mr. Twomey is alert and can hear my colleagues’ words.”
“You need to know that this is about you going to jail for drug offences and exploitation of a minor. There won’t be bail. Your pals are going to drop you like lightning. You’re going to get slagged something fierce for going out with a fourteen-year-old child. There are people who really despise that to the point they’d want to show you in no uncertain terms. You might meet these people. You might hope and pray that the likes of me are there to protect you.”
“Child,” muttered Twomey, “what do you know about ‘child’? Christ.”
“Who cares what I know? What does the law say? We interviewed your girlfriend today. Two hours ago.”
“And you believe what she says?”
“Let the court decide. To me, it’s evidence.”
“Not if you treated her like you’re treating me. Refusing me my rights here. That’d be thrown out.”
“Well now,” said Minogue and sat back, “you’re just full of bad ideas here.”
“It’s the company I’m keeping,” said Twomey, with a sniff.
“You’re determined to be your own worst enemy with your lawyer. I’ll let you in on a few details then.”
“Very big of you. But what’s this story got to do with me? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing. No thing.”
Minogue waited a few moments.
“This girl was in the company of her mother when she was interviewed. Being as you’re one for contesting the law, you might already know how it works, a minor giving an interview through the care and consent of her parent or guardian. Have you come across that in your law studies?”
“That’s bullshit. You’re making it up.”
“You hope I am. But I doubt you’re thick enough to believe your own propaganda here.”
“Charge me. Let’s see who’s bullshitting now. Charge me, or let me go.”
Minogue pushed his mug to the side of the table and he slid his clipboard near. He didn’t look at Twomey when he spoke.
“You were arrested on a charge of possession of illegal drugs, cannabis resin to be correct. I’m expecting the search would yield further evidence to that crime and other charges. You are also being investigated for child exploitation. You are being the least cooperative when you should be the most. We haven’t even gotten to the one that will surely have you really roaring and shouting for your counsel. Small blame to you, I’ll be thinking too, because that’s what I would be doing too. Yes, Mr. Twomey, there’ll be wigs on the green shortly.”
“Wigs on the green? My granny used to say that.”
“This is the end of my peroration, you’ll be glad to know. After these few words you’ll be getting your phone call and your list of Legal Aid counsel. We are shortly going to charge you with murder.”
“You’re mad,” said Twomey. “Totally off-the-wall, raving bonkers.”
“You’re not alone in your predicament,” said Minogue.
“What does that mean? I’m not alone?”
“You know who. He was there that night too. He’s in the same boat.”
“What? This is just absolutely ridiculous, stupid. I don’t believe this. I mean, you two are completely full of- Why are you doing this?”
Wall stood up slowly.
“Take a while to think things over,” said Minogue. “Let me go downstairs and get that list of counsel. Then the system takes over.”
“Wait ’til the papers hear about this,” Twomey said. “The television, everything. This is crazy, unbelievable.”
“Was it worth it?” Wall asked.
Twomey glared at him.
“Like what did he have on him? Twenty Euro maybe? Thirty?”
Twomey said something under his breath, shook his head, and turned away.
“Inspector Minogue is leaving the room.”
Minogue held the door for the Guard.
“Garda O Keefe entering,” he heard Wall say in the room behind him. “Interview concluded at 4:17 p.m. Garda O Keefe remaining in the room.”
Chapter 25
Fanning caught the 11A on O Connell
Street Reflexively, he stayed on the lower level of the bus, and headed down the aisle toward the back seats. Sitting down, he had the sensation that he was actually falling in upon himself, even collapsing. It was as though his frame had been unhooked and he was now tumbling into a collection of limbs and aching joints. The ache in his neck and his shoulders was like a big bruise.
How often he had sat into a bus, all his life practically, and let the familiar streets and buildings go by the windows. There was a different quality to what he saw now, some strangeness about things that unsettled him. A fever, he thought. Food poisoning, the flu? Images flared insistently in his mind — the fear in that man’s face, the way that West Ham calmly and savagely went about his business.
He distracted himself by checking his mobile. There was nothing. Again he considered phoning the Guards. They could track mobile though, couldn’t they? He wished he knew more about that technical stuff.
He felt the phone slide from his fingers and knew he couldn’t catch it. It slid down his lap and stopped on the seat. He wiped his palms and his fingertips on his trouser leg. The bus lurched and righted itself, the traffic slowed. His hands were sweaty again. He took out his notebook, but before he opened it, he tried to settle his mind by planning the evening ahead. That was the only way to get through this.
He had the fish thawing out in the fridge, yes. Broccoli — yes again! — and mash the spuds from yesterday. Milk? Had it — oh: yogurt for Aisling, the raspberry. She’d have her noodles as usual, and then he’d bring her out in the buggy. Brid could decompress, have a bath, a cup of tea on her own — whatever she wanted.
Three women got on just as the driver was about to close the doors and drive off. They were breathless and smiling after their dash, and like sailors in rough seas, the three made their way down the passageway. The one with the head-scarf didn’t look Arab at all. She looked more, well, white, he supposed. The other two had frizzy hair and glowing, muddy-coloured skin. They giggled and sat, and they began speaking in French. Fanning decided they were North Africans, and words cartwheeled gently through his thoughts: Sahel, Berber, Toureg.
… One laughed, revealed gums over snow white teeth before she covered her mouth with her hand.