The going rate imm-9

by John Brady

  He shifted, tugged his jacket down, and closed his eyes again. He let himself wander again, and his mind took him straight to Graz and its lanes, where he had strolled with an Austrian copper and a French expert in counterfeit documents at a conference last year. Cobblestones, smells of ground coffee and sausage, violins on the street, trams and pedestrians in fine harmony, his own bewilderment that anything bad could have ever happened in such a beautiful city Footsteps outside the door: the door opened, cautiously; a shaved head, a moustache, huge frog eyes.

  “Ah, Matt?”

  Minogue sat back again. He hoped it didn’t show on his face that he believed this detective looked more like a pirate than a Guard.

  “I was listening to Twomey lying in fifty-two different ways, and I realized, Jesus, I hadn’t introduced myself.”

  “Good man.”

  “A complete pain in the hole, I’m telling you.”

  “Twomey, you mean, I take it.”

  Duggan had a manic smile. A bit of the Mr. Bean about him, thought Minogue, but with longer arms and a looser way of moving about.

  “Hughsie is on the mend, I hear,” Minogue said.

  “Worse luck, the fecker,” said Duggan. “A slave driver.”

  “Really?”

  “Ah no. I’m only slagging.”

  Minogue returned the smile.

  “Me and Hughsie go back these years. A fierce hard goer, Hughsie. But he forgot to take care of himself, I told him.”

  Minogue watched Duggan untwine his arms and begin to rotate his head and neck. He seemed so loosely put together that an extremity might fall off.

  “This Twomey is cut from the same cloth as the Matthews lad. A bollocks, a complete fu-”

  Minogue watched a mischievous expression come over Duggan’s face.

  “Stoney wouldn’t appreciate that language,” Duggan said then. “You know?”

  “‘Stoney’?”

  “Stone wall…? He has a way of sticking to his guns, like. But not in a bollicky way now. Very, how would I say, very decent.”

  “Good-living, you’re saying.”

  “Doesn’t wear it on his sleeve now,” said Duggan. “No Holy Joe stuff.”

  “Good. I like that in a man.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s just that you don’t meet many, er. These days.”

  “Actual Catholics?”

  “Oh more than that. Real believers, I mean, I suppose. No offence now. Are you, er, yourself, er..?”

  Minogue shook his head.

  “Oh, Church of Ireland?”

  “No, Mossie. Pagan. Merely pagan.”

  Minogue felt sorry for Duggan’s sudden awkwardness.

  “But I’m well disposed,” he said. “In general, like.”

  Duggan’s face eased again.

  Minogue let it go with a non-committal shrug.

  “So,” said Duggan. He looked at his watch. “No let up, no release?”

  “And no bail,” said Minogue. He decided to try a Kilmartinism. “We hang tough, I say.”

  “Fine by me. But Twomey’s counsel is digging in his heels. That’s why I left for a while — get away from it.”

  “That’s the way I’d play it. Let him sit and think, argue with his counsel.”

  “Saves me going ape on him, I suppose. Giving him a clout.”

  “You’d be tempted,” Minogue allowed. “Wouldn’t you.”

  Duggan stopped unwinding himself, and sagged into his chair, his arms now resting on his lap. His knuckles almost reached his knees.

  “Well, your timing was spot-on,” he said to Minogue. “We were wondering, you know, but then comes that phone call. The girl’s mother.”

  “The way of the world,” said Minogue.

  Duggan asked him about the Murder Squad, and how long he had worked to solve a case. Minogue answered with calculated vagueness. Duggan got the hint. Soon desultory, the talk wandered briefly through the credit crisis, and somehow to free-range eggs, before it eventually lapsed. Minogue wondered if he’d find a second wind soon. Matthews and Twomey could go on as long as they liked being bastards. It’d likely be those two girls who’d be the key in the lock eventually. What lay behind the door was another matter.

  He had a minute of mind wandering before Wall showed up. There was a fragment of food in the corner of his mouth.

  “On the last lap, lads?” he said. “Think we’ll have charges tonight?”

  Minogue shrugged.

  “Twomey’s doing his shut-up routine,” said Duggan.

  “Asking about his mate down the hall yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Duggan. “He knows he’s in a mind game with us. Left him simmering there a few minutes ago. As per plan.”

  Minogue, who didn’t work by plan, didn’t take the remark as a dig. He watched Wall looking for something in a drawer. Duggan unravelled his arms yet again and began pulling back the cuticles on his nails. He held his arm out every now and then, hands bent at the wrist, his head moving from side to side like a painter checking his canvas.

  A Guard tapped at the door and entered.

  “The solicitor in room fourteen says they’re ready.”

  Wall was up out of his chair first.

  “Come on with us,” Minogue said to Duggan. “Give yourself something to raise the temperature on Twomey.”

  Mahon met them in the hallway. He was holding a package of Major, tapping it softly. A smoker? Minogue was stunned

  “Has to be outside with the smokes,” he said to Mahon. “Sorry.”

  Mahon pocketed the cigarettes. He looked at his watch.

  “Do we have something to work with now?” Minogue asked.

  Mahon looked from Wall to Duggan.

  “Do you plan on laying charges tonight?” he asked.

  “Undecided as of this moment,” Minogue said, “We badly need your client’s help to sort things out.”

  “Help?” Mahon said with a smile.

  “He should clear his conscience. If he has any sense at all he knows we’re almost there.”

  Mahon eyed Minogue.

  “You’ll be offering considerations,” he said.

  “Cooperation is always welcome. He knows we have Matthews down the hall here.”

  Mahon’s jaw set. His gaze had turned into a steady stare.

  “‘The prisoner’s dilemma.’”

  “Did you explain to your client that even sexual exploitation of a minor is a five-year sentence? And drug dealing on top of that? There’ll be no concurrent.”

  “We’re having a very odd conversation,” said Mahon.

  “Only you know how bad a spot your client is in.”

  A flicker of irritation now crossed Mahon’s face. He looked down at his shoes again and moved his toes.

  “Are you one of those Guards,” he said to his toes before raising his gaze, “who says that — hypothetically — a person passing a joint to another person is a dealer?”

  “We go by the law as it is interpreted for us.”

  “He’ll give a statement and expects to be released,” said Mahon, evenly.

  “Your client will be held over until noon tomorrow for District Court.”

  “The charges again?”

  “We’ll start with the cannabis, and move to sexual exploitation.”

  “You’re fishing. The judge will know right away.”

  “Well would it help if we could get proper testimony from these two children — sorry, young ladies — to go right to a murder charge?”

  Mahon took a breath and dug his hands deep into his pockets. Someone was cracking their knuckles. Minogue looked over at Duggan. The noise stopped.

  “A word with you in private,” Mahon said.

  “I’ll be telling my colleagues one way or another,” said Minogue. Mahon waited. Minogue was aware that Duggan had folded his spider arms and was staring at Mahon.

  It was Wall who intervened finally.

  “Go out for a smoke, why don’t ye,” he said.

&nb
sp; Minogue led the way. He was a little taken aback yet from realizing that Wall had pegged him as a smoker without ever having seen him actually smoke. They went out the door by the evidence room to the yard. A squad car was just pulling out. Mahon held out his package of cigarettes.

  Minogue took one. He had matches ready.

  “Pretty irregular this,” said Mahon after a long exhalation of smoke. “A big no-no, I’m sure.”

  “Well I’m fairly sure I can quit again,” said Minogue.

  “Not the cigarettes. I meant us talking like this.”

  “Well you’re a bit of a non-conformist.” Minogue queried, “What does non-conformist mean to you then?”

  “You keep on poking,” said Mahon. “Who do you have it in for the most, the accused, or his counsel?”

  Minogue was momentarily spinny from the first drag of the cigarette. He looked at the tip. His second drag on the cigarette was more satisfying.

  “A bit harsh there, aren’t you,” he said.

  Tires squealed somewhere in the streets around the station.

  “We’re not doing so well,” said Mahon. “Are we?”

  Minogue shifted his feet. It was chillier than he’d expected.

  “It’ll work out,” he said.

  “You’re trained to expect murder. That’s a factor here.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Tell me what you want to tell me,” said Minogue.

  “Okay. Show me your ‘reasonable grounds.’ I’ll work from there. My client may wish to cooperate then.”

  “It’s indecently early for pleas. Let’s finish our smokes, head back inside, and not be wasting our time here.”

  Mahon sighed.

  “Fix this in your mind though,” said Minogue, “about your new client and his mate. We believe that they know who took that man’s life, plain and simple. When this man was most lost, and most vulnerable, he was lured. And then, he was murdered.”

  “So that’s the scenario playing in your mind.”

  “Your client should come up with the truth and get in early, as they say. The bus will be leaving on time.”

  “I can tell you don’t have evidence. Not even testimony, the way you’re pumping it.”

  Minogue flicked the cigarette against the wall just to see the sparks.

  Chapter 27

  Brid put on her trackpants after Aisling finally knocked off.

  “I have to,” she murmured. “It’s nearly a week.”

  He watched her take out her earrings.

  “Good going,” he said.

  She pulled off her sweater. He counted two, then three rolls under her brassiere when she bent down to tie her runners. He returned to the dishes, and splayed his fingers over the plates that lay just below the surface of the luke-warm water.

  There was no way you could just stage dog fights for a film.

  Brid stood then.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “I’m grand.”

  “Must have been one of those bugs. That twenty-four-hour bug going around.”

  He came up with a smile.

  “You looked pretty wiped, I have to say,” she said.

  He concentrated on scraping off some of the dried sauce. Brid didn’t move off yet. He looked back at her. She was smiling at him, tenderly.

  “You’re very good,” she said. “I sometimes forget to tell you.”

  He knew that she meant it. He tried to show he appreciated it.

  “You’re on a roll I think,” she said. “You’ve got that look about you, that faraway look. A portrait of the artist.”

  “Are you coming on to me?”

  “What if I am? Remember the Bois?”

  He feigned shock.

  “If your students could hear you.”

  “Actually,” she whispered, “thinking about that makes it even better. But you know that. Come on. You always go for the edge, the danger. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, well,” he said.

  She watched him wash Aisling’s plate. He wondered if his irritation showed now.

  “‘What do women want?’” he said.

  When she said nothing, he stopped.

  “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 Brid 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 th
at 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.