The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “No needle tracks.”

  Kilmartin scratched the bristles on his chin.

  “How soon before the first toxicology?”

  “Three, four o’clock,” said Murtagh.

  Minogue stretched out his legs. There was a check-mark and a (P. St.) beside Jack Mullen’s name on the board. It took him a moment: Jack Mullen’s statement was being taken in Pearse Street Garda station.

  “We’re definite on the cause of death, John?” Murtagh looked over at him.

  “Yes. She was unconscious when she went into the water.”

  “And that bruise again?”

  “He said we should consider it very possible that her head was slammed against something.”

  “How hard?”

  “Enough for a concussion. The cheekbone has a hairline fracture in it. No bruises or pressure marks anywhere else.”

  “Not even her arms? She didn’t resist?” Murtagh shook his head.

  “She knew him,” said Kilmartin. “Proceed as planned.” Minogue looked up at Mary Mullen’s picture on the board. A punch, he wondered. Facing her. Nothing on her nails, her hands. Unexpected.

  Kilmartin elbowed away from the wall and began a slow, measured prowl of the squadroom.

  “We have Harcourt Street station doing the banks again,” he said. “Along with Sheehy and two Scenes men. God help them. I was able to get him a half-dozen from Donnybrook too. He’ll need them. Did you see the place in daylight? Christ, what a mess. And the stink! Dear Old Dirty Dublin, my eye. A slurry pit is what it is. Anyway. The lock-keeper-what’s his name?”

  Malone glanced up at the noticeboard.

  “Kavanagh,” said Murtagh.

  “Him, yes. He’s a hundred per cent certain. Nothing went through there after lunchtime.”

  Kilmartin paused and looked around at the three policemen. Minogue thought he recognized the look: the Chief Inspector’s chronic flatulence was about to score again.

  “Who’s taking Jack Mullen’s statement?” Minogue asked.

  Kilmartin looked at his watch.

  “Conor Madden,” said Murtagh. “And the other fella. Larry Smith. Used to be in Store Street. Yes. They took him in an hour ago.”

  “Any word yet?” Murtagh tossed his biro into the air and caught it.

  “Well, I’m going to phone,” said Minogue.

  He dialled, asked for Madden and watched Malone while he waited. Malone was writing, frowning at what he had written, underlining, staring at the boards, grilling Murtagh.

  “Matt, oul son. How’s things?”

  “Holding my own, so I am, Conor. Warm, don’t you think.”

  “Hot as the hob of hell. But sure, what harm? We’ll be long enough without it.”

  “Ah, don’t be talking. Now. You’ve had time with Jack Mullen.”

  “I did that. Will one of yous be by to go at him proper soon?”

  “I will indeed. How’d he strike you first?”

  “Well, he knew already. The wife had left a message at his job. ‘First time she’s gotten in touch with me in a year and a half,’ says he. ‘And it had to be this.’ ”

  “How does he look to you?”

  “So far, he seems sound,” said Madden. “Broke down a few times. Genuine enough, I thought.”

  “What’s his alibi looking like?”

  “He was working that night, he says. The taxi. Day shift, but sometimes fills in on an eleven to seven if he’s asked. We can get a log of the fares he had. There are times on it too, a computer printout.”

  “Does he own the car or just drive it?”

  “He owns it, but he works for Capitol.”

  “How’d he pay for the car?”

  “He got a settlement from a back injury when he worked in England. He was on the buildings. To make a long story short, he came back to Dublin. He messed up everything with drink but then he was able to beat it. Finally he was able to get an in with the taxi business. There’s a kink in him now, I should tell you. He’s some class of a born-again. It has to do with being an alcoholic, he says. A club called the Victory Club.”

  “The Victory Club? Salvation Army? What is it?”

  “It’s kind of like the AA. He shares a place out in Ballybough with two other fellas. They’re ex-alcoholics as well. They’re all part of this Victory Club. The idea is, as I understand it so far, that these fellas have to put themselves back together again. They stay together so as to buck one another up against relapsing.”

  “So it’s a recovery group,” said Minogue.

  “Well, I’m no expert. It has to do with finding yourself and that. I didn’t hear him say he’d talked to Elvis or anything of that nature now. Repeated a lot of the same phrases.”

  “Try a few on me.”

  “‘Coming home’?”

  “Okay.”

  “Something to do with a hole. Not the one you dig, now. Making yourself whole.”

  “Holistic?”

  “That’s it. Yep. I thought it was part of the born-again kick, you know. He talks about the time before he gave up the jar as his ‘past life.’ Later on he says, ‘God has decided.’ Yep. ‘God called her home’,” says he. He said that he hadn’t been much of a father to her. Broke down again. He was at it a while. That’s hard to fake right, I figure.”

  Minogue watched Malone patting his crew-cut while he concentrated on something in his notebook.

  “He admitted that he used to tap the wife a bit. I hadn’t even asked and he popped out with that one. Now that’s odd. Like he was confessing his sins.”

  “Beat her, you mean,” said Minogue. “As opposed to a tap.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose. He has a bad back now. He’s still a big buck of a fella. He goes to a fitness club. He does weights and exercises for the back and goes for physio sometimes.”

  “When did he last have contact with Mary, according to himself?”

  “Said he saw her on the street back in March.”

  “What, where?” asked Minogue.

  “Along Baggot Street, the Stephen’s Green end.”

  “Did he talk to her or anything?”

  “She wouldn’t talk, he said. He pulled over-he had a fare-and tried to talk to her, but no go.”

  “Did he know where she lived?”

  “No. Not even where she worked. ‘Well, I wasn’t around when she needed me,’ he says. He gave me the run-down on the last few years with the family. He came back from England with a bit of money. Reunited with the wife, but thought she wasn’t pleased to see him home, that she had her own fella on the side. Formed the opinion that the wife wasn’t a fit mother, that she’d let the daughter go to hell too. Wife’s answer was, ‘Where the hell were you when she was growing up?’ Rows, of course. Went from bad to worse. He thought he could sort things out with his fists. She got a barring order, gave him the P.O. He went back to England.”

  “Drinking a lot, he says? What, five years ago?”

  “Yes,” said Madden. “Then he fell off the scaffolding and was laid up in hospital for a while. Said it was the pain from his back sent the drinking right out of control then. This time he came back to Dublin broke. The wife wouldn’t have him. He lived with a brother for a while but got thrown out. He hit bottom and ended up in hospital here. Then he got counselling and stuck at the sessions. Next thing is he gets awarded a stack of money-compensation-he hadn’t expected. God’s giving him a second chance. That’s when he got religion. ‘Saved,’ says he, and he’s never looked back.”

  Saved, thought Minogue-coming home. Born-again. Didn’t you have to die first?

  “Well, Conor. Thanks. He’s not shy of talking then.”

  “No. We’ll have a ten-page statement out of him if we’re not bloody careful.”

  “Oh, before I go. The fellas he shares the place with. Did you run them through the confuser?”

  “Very much so. One’s completely clean. He even works for a security company. The other one has a record but latest was eleven years back. Brea
k and enter. That one works in a clothes shop, he’s separated and he has three grown-up kids.”

  “All right, Conor. Job well done. I’ll be by within the hour.”

  Kilmartin lit a cigarello. Smokescreen for a fart, Minogue decided. Murtagh opened the door of the photocopier and began clearing a jam.

  “Well?” said Kilmartin.

  “Mister Jack Mullen claims to be on the side of the angels.”

  “Arra, talk sense, man! Separated from the wife and daughter, we’re just after hearing. An alco. God knows what else will come up. What’s angelic about that?”

  “Jack Mullen found Jesus,” said Minogue. Kilmartin chewed a corner of his lip.

  “You make it sound like an affliction.”

  Minogue bit back a comment.

  “Okay, okay,” said Kilmartin, and rubbed his hands together. “Howandever. Go and take him on yourself. Now what about that Fahy girl: will I send a car to take her in for round two?”

  “Give it a little more time, Jim, if you please.”

  “Jases, man, we can’t be sitting on our hands now. She’s had her crying time. She’s trying to cod us that she knew damn-all about what her own flatmate was up to? Friends? Boyfriends coming and going? Didn’t they talk, for God’s sake?”

  “I’m not sure how much she knew about Mary’s background, Jim, but she’s scared.”

  “Huh. Scared or not, she’d better buck up. She’s a key in the lock for us.”

  Minogue made a mock salute. Kilmartin yawned and cocked an eye at Malone.

  “All go here, huh, Molly? Getting the hang of where you fit in the big picture?”

  Malone nodded. Minogue imagined Tommy Malone getting up from his corner of a boxing ring, a glint in his eye, to face Kilmartin. The Chief Inspector waved in the direction of the boards. Minogue sat back. Wreathed in smoke, Kilmartin swept his arm, tapped with his knuckles and then lumbered along by the notice-boards while he declaimed for Malone, who sat, arms folded, watching. Murtagh on his hunkers by the photocopier had turned around to watch the performance, a faint smile playing about his lips.

  “We pull it all together each morning and then in the middle of the afternoon-unless we’re on the move on one that’s breaking open. We’ll use anyone and everyone. See that there, Molly? We may find out that Mary Mullen was in tight with the Egans. See that name-Mick Hand? Serious Crime Squad? Resident expert on the Egans. He’ll be along tomorrow morning. Doyler, resident expert on Dublin’s pavement hostesses, will be here. All the uniforms from the scene-Sheehy’s brigade. Plate-Glass Sheehy. You’ll meet him. If we still can’t place Mary Mullen by tea-time today, we’ll start the door-to-door tonight. Pubs, offices, the whole bit. John Murtagh will go on building our file on her as well as chase the PM. Our very own file search is on foot for MO fits and known offenders; incidents logged in the area; probationers, parolees and bailed gougers to boot.”

  Minogue took the phone to the window-sill and dialled Kathleen.

  “I meant to phone earlier. Sorry. I’ve a lot of running around on the menu today.”

  “Will you be working through on this one?”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off his Citroen in the yard. The panels. Wheel covers. Squatting down, waiting to be summoned. He blinked and broke his stare.

  “I don’t know. We’re still trying to get up to pressure here.”

  She told him that she had just put down the phone after a call from Iseult.

  “Tell me now,” he began. “You’re a mother, after all.”

  “Oh, oh. What’s coming up after that class of an opener?”

  “No tricky stuff. Could a mother live in the same city as her daughter but be estranged from her?”

  “Why would you be asking me?”

  Her voice had lost its warmth. Damn, he thought. She thought he was giving her digs about Iseult.

  “It’s a case where a mother maintains she hardly knew anything about the daughter. Really. The daughter ran away from home. She got herself arrested a few times. She did time. The father beat the mother, and the daughter too, probably. The mother tells me she hardly met with the daughter this last year. What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? Broken homes, abuse. Drink does terrible things, you know.”

  A retaliatory dig, he wondered. Kathleen Minogue’s husband was a bit too fond of a drink for her liking?

  “There’s guilt, I suppose,” she added. “Maybe the mother didn’t protect the girl from her husband. Maybe the daughter blamed the mother for something.”

  He was staring at the writing on the notice-boards now. Jack Mullen, Capitol Taxi. Jack Mullen, head-case. Enough, Minogue decided. There were two conversations going on here.

  “Thanks now,” he muttered. “I’ll bear that in mind. How’s Iseult anyhow?”

  “Odd, if you want to know my reaction.”

  “Odd? Of course she’s odd. Doesn’t she have a degree in being odd from the College of Art?”

  “I meant odd, Matt!”

  “Oh. That kind of odd.”

  “She still misses home. A mother’s intuition, call it what you like, but…”

  Minogue rolled his eyes. Iseult had been living in a flat with her boyfriend for a year.

  “Laundry?” he tried.

  “If only that,” said Kathleen. “No. She’s got a look about her.”

  “A look.”

  “Yes. A look that tells me she’s waiting to land something on us.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I mean yes, em. Well, maybe she misses us. Thinks we need a visit.”

  He waited for her to respond.

  “No?”

  “Huh. Just tell me what time you think you’ll be home. So’s I can tell her.”

  The tone cut through his thoughts.

  “I’ll aim for eight,” he said. “I’ll leave a message on the machine if I can’t.”

  FIVE

  Go the canal first, Tommy,” said Minogue. “They’ll hold Mullen down at Pearse Street. I want to have another look at the blind spots. The bridge and that.”

  “Okay.”

  Malone was rewarded for his aggressive driving by a succession of red traffic lights. It was a quarter of an hour before their Nissan was turning up from the docks toward the canal. On the canal bank at last, Minogue spotted figures in blue shirts to each side of the canal. He stepped out of the car and stretched. Fergal Sheehy, Sergeant Fergal Sheehy, in waders was perched on the lip of a squad car’s boot. Tagged plastic bags littered the boot. Minogue peered at some. Cigarette packages, a lipstick container. One held a condom. He eyed Sheehy. The sergeant closed his eyes and shrugged.

  Plate-Glass Fergal Sheehy was stationed in Fitzgibbon Street and worked plainclothes. He specialized in street crime. Along with his nickname, Sheehy had gained some notoriety four years ago when he had disarmed a cornered knife-wielding pickpocket by throwing him through a plate-glass window. The pickpocket had very nearly bled to death. He survived to be charged with attempted murder-Kilmartin, Minogue remembered, suggested he be got for break and enter as well-and to initiate a suit for damages against Sheehy. The suit was unsuccessful. At the request of Kilmartin, Sheehy had worked on several cases in the last few years. Kilmartin had even pressed him to apply for permanent posting to the Squad. Sheehy had declined. His reason, the Chief Inspector had confided to Minogue, was that he preferred to leave his work in the office. An eye for detail and a patience which made him appear indifferent and even indolent had marked him as special for Kilmartin. Like many others on the island, the Chief Inspector had learned early in his career that Kerry people were genetically programmed with the ambition to be boss wherever they were and whatever they did. Kilmartin occasionally cited Eilis as proof. Sheehy was to be his pet Cute Kerry Hoor.

  “It’s all been said, Matt,” Sheehy murmured. “Believe me.”

  “That stuck, are we?”

  Sheehy nodded.

  “Un
less you want us to take up all the bike wheels and the shopping carts and the tires and-”

  “God, Fergal, you’re a saint.”

  “It’s staked out in hundred-foot zones from the gates. There’s too much and there’s nothing at the same time. Look at the rubbish all over the kip. A holy show.”

  A Guard stepped up from the bank with a comb. Minogue greeted him and returned his sympathetic nod. The worst site: contaminated, traffic, water. Futile work.

  “But at least you’re outdoors, Fergal. The way God intended.”

  Sheehy squinted at Minogue.

  “There isn’t enough soap in all of Dublin to clean myself off after all this shite and rubbish.”

  Minogue glanced over at Malone who twisted his lip trying to suppress a smile.

  “Two of the lads fell in up to their waists,” Sheehy went on. “Man, you should’ve gotten a whiff off them and they climbing out. And the fucking language out of them! A fright to God.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t here so. Can’t be taking chances at my age. What’ve you got?”

  “Don’t ask. Malaria, maybe. A lot of nothing. All soggy at any rate.”

  Sheehy stood out from the back of the car and pointed down toward the bridge.

  “We did a good long sweep up and down. A couple of places that may be-may be, I tell you, and I’m trying to be nice and polite about it-could have been heels being dragged. Couldn’t tell anything about any scuffle or the like. No effects that could go with her beyond a million bits of rubbish. Still no shoes or bag.”

  The Inspector looked up and down the banks.

  “All right, Fergal. Call it when you’re ready.”

  Sheehy shrugged and shifted his weight.

  “Another few minutes,” he said. “That’ll be that.”

  Minogue walked down toward the bridge.

  “Not like on the telly is it, Tommy.”

  “Tidy and stuff, you mean?”

  “Yep. The gun. The knife. The bad guy in the cheap suit. The good guy with the nice teeth and the winning smile. All wrapped up in time for the end of the show. What do you think?”

  Malone held up his hands.

  “Four days into the job? Me first active case?”