The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “Did they say they were from the Egans?”

  “No. But I knew. I’d seen them years ago. They’d grown up together. Around the corner from where we-where I lived. When we were together.”

  “You didn’t report it.”

  Mullen’s forehead lifted.

  “This is the real world. Who am I going to report to? Lodge a complaint with the Guards? No way. I knew enough about them over the years. You’d hear people talking about the Egans. The fellas who did the work for them. They can do pretty well what they please.”

  “They told you to…?”

  “Keep me nose out of Mary’s business. To stop pestering her.”

  “In so many words?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They used those words?”

  “No. They used, well, you know yourself.”

  “Nothing physical.”

  “No. ‘Mary doesn’t want you hassling her.’ ‘You can’t drive with broken legs.’”

  Minogue looked at his watch. Nearly three. The heat was putting him to sleep.

  “I know I’m under suspicion, you know. And I don’t blame you.”

  “I’m not persecuting you for your beliefs, Mr. Mullen.” Yet.

  “You’ll probably try anything to make me say I killed my own daughter. Right? You took my car away and I can’t work. I just sit at the table and think about everything. And pray. I thought about drinking more times today and yesterday than I thought about it for weeks, probably. You think that’s easy? You-well, the other fellas earlier really-run down my beliefs. Call me names, right? Wife-beater. How am I going to persuade you that I’m innocent?”

  “You’re not going to persuade us. We’re going to decide that for ourselves.”

  “But haven’t I got the sheet of me fares for the night, addresses even?”

  “It’s incomplete, Mr. Mullen. You know better than I do about switching off a meter.”

  “So if I can’t account for ten seconds that night, then I’m still on a list or something?”

  Minogue hauled his legs in under him. He put his watch back on.

  “We’ll be talking to you again, Mr. Mullen. Look, I hope you last it out with the drink thing. Get together with someone, can’t you? Your, what do you call ’ems, mentors?”

  Mullen rose to his feet.

  “Look, let me just tell you one last thing. I don’t like this way you treat me. But I accept it because I’m depending on you to find whoever did this. Being treated like I am is a part of my penance for the past, isn’t it? You see, I’m not one of those people that thinks anything goes. Right? Even in the Church, you get a lot of do-it-if-it-suits-you kind of morals. I lost my daughter to that world out there. That’s my hell. And you are part of that hell because you don’t understand.”

  Minogue nodded at Malone. Mullen looked out the doorway and then turned to the Inspector. The words came out in a monotone.

  “Nothing just happens, you know,” he said. “There’s a reason for everything.”

  “Jesus,” said Malone.

  “Not quite, Tommy. Just one of His more vocal supporters.”

  Malone looked over.

  “Okay. A looper, then.”

  “Well. Did you take all that in?”

  “Haven’t met many of him, I can tell you that.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Malone gnawed the inside of his cheek while he piloted the Nissan through traffic. Minogue wondered what shape Patricia Fahy would be in for the hard questions.

  “Don’t know yet. Fella I knew went religious after a car accident. Oh, yeah. Before the crash it was ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ Then I’d bump into him and him hobbling around on crutches. ‘God bless,’ ‘salvation,’ ‘love’ was all I got out of him then. Told me he woke up in the hospital and God was floating on the ceiling. What about the fifteen pints, I said. Ha, ha, like. No. Not funny.”

  “Why?”

  “Preferred the old way. You knew where you stood. Must have got brain damage, like.”

  Minogue shifted in his seat. The small of his back prickled with heat. Tiny pieces of grit seemed to be stinging his eyes at regular intervals. The traffic was at a standstill for three minutes now.

  A short fat man in a fluorescent vest waved a reversing lorry out ahead of them. Minogue studied the nearly completed block and counted eight stories. The sea-green glass reflected the sky as grey. A crane was lifting more windows up the outside of the building. The load turned slowly as it rose and the sun caught the glass.

  “Jases,” said Malone and raised his hand over his eyes. He inched the Nissan around a forklift and turned into East Wall proper.

  “Those windows’ll be a right target for young lads around here. Boom.”

  Minogue grinned. This area east of the city centre and north of the Liffey had been the toughest beat for a century. The adjoining docklands were being redeveloped as Ireland’s new international financial centre. The glass-clad buildings which had recently sprung up there were epic exercises in New Brutalist style, so far as Minogue could make out. Hope springs infernal.

  “A bit hard on the Dublin crowd, there, aren’t you, Tommy?”

  Malone stood on the brakes as a motorcycle shot through a gap in traffic ahead.

  “Ya fucking bollicks!”

  Minogue caught a glimpse of the driver. A helmet covered in front by dark plastic, a radio strapped next to his chin.

  ‘“Scuse the language there, er… Those fu- those couriers. I must be a bit edgy.”

  “Don’t be worrying. This is your first case.”

  “Ah, that’s not what has me so jumpy-Whoa. Number 27. Here we are.”

  Malone pulled in abruptly, switched off the engine and rolled up the window.

  “What has you so jumpy?” Minogue asked.

  “The brother.”

  “You expect Patricia Fahy to give you more slagging about him?”

  “Yeah. And I’ll probably get no end of slagging when you-know-who finds out.”

  “Jimmy Kilmartin? Sure he knows about it already.”

  “Yeah, I know that. It’s a new page in the story though.”

  Malone’s voice had fallen to a murmur. He rubbed his forehead hard with his thumb.

  “Terry’s time is up. He’s getting paroled. Yeah. Terry hits the streets tomorrow.”

  SIX

  He slipped off the bus, and lit his second-last cigarette. He watched the bus turn out of sight down the road. He’d have a bit of something to eat, have a wash-up and head back into town. He’d try the pubs along Leeson Street. Dwyers, O’Brien’s, that Unicorn kip. She might have gone to that club, Stella’s. Wash his hair and put on something sharp so’s he wouldn’t have the bouncer at Stella’s looking down his nose at him. But if he had to go to Stella’s to look for her, that’d mean money. A fiver cover charge! And she might be sitting with one of the Egans. Christ! He looked up and down the street. She’d throw a bleeding fit if she thought he’d come looking for a freebie.

  He drew hard on the cigarette. The steady pulses over his eyebrows were getting stronger. There was a headache on the way, one of those killers. Then his stomach’d go wormy, about the same time he’d get that freaky feeling, like a thirst all over his body. He’d start to think of doing anything. An oul one even, with her shopping bag and a cane, and he’d see himself kicking her in the face just to get her bag. One of these days it’d happen. It was like he couldn’t stop it happening the way he had seen it going to happen, like it was somebody else with his face doing it. What was a fella supposed to do, for Christ’s sake? Kill someone to get a bit of help or money? His chest heaved with the first impulse to cry out. It frightened him. Was he that close to losing it? This is what a bit of blow does to you? He’d heard stuff but didn’t really believe it. The ones that cracked up had their own problems. No willpower. It was just lighting the fuse for a lot of them. Headers. It didn’t take much to put them right over the wall.

  He had often tho
ught about getting his hands on a gun. Noel O’Rourke had told him he’d get him one for seven hundred quid. Noelie thought he wasn’t smart enough to cop on that any gun he’d come by was probably dirty. Maybe even a cop getting shot with it. A gun’d do it, though. He could freelance for a few jobs. The Egans’d look at him different if he carried a gun. No one would dare fuck with him. No way: boom. You won’t do that again, you stupid…

  He headed for home. He had it all worked out now. Mary had always seen the good side of him, the paintings and drawings he’d done. She liked that stuff. He’d bring her the one of the people with animal heads. Maybe if she was in a good mood, he’d try to suss her out about the chances of selling his stuff to that gobshite she had on the side. Mister Money, whatever the hell his name was Tony something. Alan? Alec? Him and his mates were the types to buy art, weren’t they? If she’d just level with him about what she was up to. How would he say it: Don’t you trust me, Mary? Let me in on it. I’ll be your back-up.

  He rounded the corner walking faster. It was when he’d sit down at home, when the Ma would give him that look or start nagging, that he’d have to keep a cool. Another couple of hours, that was all. He could handle that. As long as he was doing something, he was okay. Exercise or something. Running. When he got that stash started up, he’d get a motorbike like Jammy-no, a car. Yeah! No. The stuff about a car was all shite. He’d buy a bike and get fit and everything. They’d laugh at first but then they’d see how organized he was, how he was his own boss. He’d eat right too, then there’d be no stopping him. Basically he was very healthy. It wouldn’t take much to get fit-

  He saw the Escort a long way off. It was parked five or six houses down from his. It was the souped-up model, new, with fancy wheels and spot lamps. He didn’t remember seeing it here before. Maybe it was a robbed car. There was someone in the passenger seat. The back of his neck became itchy. He slowed. There was something familiar about the fella getting out of the car. Two cars passed on the road between them. He was a hundred yards from home. A shortish guy, bulky, with a green polo shirt. Where had he seen him before? Light caught on an ear-ring. The man skipped across the street onto the footpath ahead of him. He stopped as he approached the laneway between his home and the back of Carrick Gardens. The man’s hand moved down by his pocket. A signal he didn’t want anyone to notice. Something came from around the corner where he was walking by now. Cigarette smoke The man’s eyes met his for a moment.

  Which came first, him running or the guy in the denim shirt coming around the corner of the laneway, he didn’t know. The panic was like an electric shock. A shout fell in the air behind him. He gathered speed, the balls of his feet bouncing off the pavement. By the bus stop and around the shops he sprinted. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that only the guy in the green shirt was after him. He had to get off the street: the car would be barrelling after him any second. He dashed across the road and leaped the parapet into the playground. He ran by a group of children down into the park. He was putting more distance between himself and the guy chasing him but he was getting a stitch. He heard the shriek of tyres and looked back. The driver of the Escort jumped out and leaped over the parapet after his mate.

  His throat was burning when he came out of the park. Still he kept up his speed. Even in his terror he felt a glow of pride at being able to leg it like this. He remembered the races he had won in school, the only part of the bleeding school he had liked, the teacher who had tried to con him into staying on so he could go on for real training. He spotted the bus taking on its last passenger by Traynor’s shop. The indicator was already on before he made it across. He ran in front of the double-decker as it pulled away. The brakes squealed and he ran to the door.

  “You stewpit iijit!” The driver reminded him of his uncle Joe. “Where in the name of Jases are you headed? Glasnevin cemetery?”

  Patricia Fahy’s father kept rolling the cigarettes until he had ten made. He worked slowly, pretending to be intent on the paraphernalia in his lap. Minogue looked over at intervals. Fahy’s daughter hadn’t opened up, the Inspector reflected, and he was still undecided as to what to do about this.

  “So she didn’t even mention a boyfriend,” Malone said. “Not even once?”

  Patricia Fahy’s face looked grey against the glare on the wall outside the kitchen window. Minogue heard children yelling on the terrace.

  “No.”

  “You mean she had no fellas?”

  “That’s what she said,” said her father. He moved his head from side to side as his tongue ran along the cigarette, but his eyes remained fixed on Malone. Neck like the trunk of a tree, thought Minogue.

  “Let Patricia answer for herself, Mr. Fahy.”

  “She did answer. It’s just you weren’t listening.”

  “We’re doing our best here,” said Minogue. “We need Patricia’s help.”

  “She’s in no condition to be interrogated.”

  “She’s not being interrogated.”

  “Then what the hell are two cops doing here in me kitchen?”

  “Mr. Fahy,” said Minogue. “We’re not keen on this.”

  “Keen on what?”

  “You pitching comments around when we’re trying to conduct an interview on a murder investigation.”

  “Too bad then, isn’t it? Why don’t you leave? And take Hair-cut there with you.”

  “You’re here as a concerned parent worried about his daughter,” said Minogue. “Great. Now shut up, like a good man. Otherwise we’ll be conducting interviews on our own premises.”

  Fahy stood.

  “Will you now? Your mug on a card doesn’t get you anywhere here, sunshine.”

  “Da! Give over, Da, will you?”

  Her father didn’t hear her. His hands came into play. One pointed at the door.

  “Cops don’t come around here without an armoured car, pal. Hair-oil here should know that, even if you don’t.”

  “Da! Stop it, for God’s sake! It’s only making it worse!”

  Patricia Fahy stalked out of the kitchen, sobs tearing at her breath. The Inspector turned back to Fahy. He seemed unable to find the words he wanted. His hand moved around the air instead. He sat down again.

  “Phone calls,” he grunted. “Four or five of them the past couple of days. Two different fellas’ voices. Then there was a car. Did she tell you about the car?”

  “What car?” asked Malone.

  “She’s in shock, isn’t she, I mean to say. Last night about half-ten. It was parked up at the head of the street. Blue, it was. Stripes, the fancy wheels. New car, I’d say. A telephone thing sticking up out of it.”

  “You’re worried that we can’t protect your daughter from the Egans,” said Minogue.

  “Who said anything about the Egans?”

  “Why are you so scared of them?” asked Malone. Fahy’s brows dropped.

  “Fuck you, Hair-cut. I’m not afraid of any man.”

  Malone set his jaw.

  “You didn’t see the registration plate?” asked Minogue.

  “It was dark last night, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “But you saw it was new. Colour, fancy wheels. You saw it had a phone aerial.”

  Fahy maintained his stare but his eyebrows moved up. He licked the edge of a cigarette paper.

  “All right, Mr Fahy. You win. We’ll decamp. We’ll be off down to Store Street station where we can talk to Patricia in peace. ”

  Fahy was up out of the chair fast.

  “Like hell you will. You’ve no warrant to be in my house. ”

  Malone stood slowly, as did Minogue.

  “This ain’t Hollywood, brother,” said Malone. “Get a grip, there.”

  Fahy nodded in Minogue’s direction but he kept his eyes on Malone.

  “Take Junior for a walk there, Kojak, or he’s going to be part of the scenery. Rapid, like. Cop or no cop.”

  “You and whose army,” said Malone.

  “I’ll set your head singi
ng before my daughter is-”

  The door swung open again. Patricia Fahy looked over her hanky from face to face. Tears had left streaks down to her jaw line.

  “God, Da! Go out and get stuff for the tea or something! Jesus! Ma left a list there in the hall.”

  “I’m going nowhere until these two get to hell.”

  “Well, go in the kitchen or someplace then!” Fahy looked from his daughter to the policemen and back. He shook his head and made for the door. He paused in the doorway and his face darkened again.

  “Don’t you try anything,” he growled. Minogue looked at the photos over the table while he waited for Fahy to go. A wedding, a woman who looked like Patricia Fahy. A sunburned couple standing on white sand, an apartment or hotel in the background. Pennants for Spurs and last year’s Irish World Cup team. He heard Fahy swear and then the kitchen door slammed.

  “The Egans, Patricia,” he said. She leaned against the cooker and folded her arms.

  “What about them?”

  “They’re on your da’s mind a lot.”

  She narrowed her eyes and dabbed at her nostrils again with the tissue.

  “He doesn’t know them,” she said.

  “What would they want with you? What did they want with Mary?”

  “Who says they want anything with me? Or Mary?”

  “Ah, Patricia, come on,” said Minogue. She pivoted and took a packet of cigarettes from the counter. Her hands were steady as she lit one. She took a hurried second drag down deep in her lungs. Her words came out quickly with puffs of smoke.

  “Mary was on the game, wasn’t she? Maybe that was it. I don’t know.”

  “What about you, Patricia?”

  “What about me, what? You’d know if I was. Same way you’d know Mary was, wouldn’t you?”

  “We’re not here to make speeches, Patricia,” said Minogue. “We need to know Mary so’s we can find out what happened to her. Don’t you want whoever did this to get caught?”

  She frowned behind a ball of smoke.

  “I can’t get over it,” she murmured. “Your brother. Jesus! One’s the cop and the other’s the-”