The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “Well, did you phone him then?”

  Kilmartin’s eyes opened wide.

  “I could as easy have a nice chat with Tynan as my wife could walk by a shoe shop.”

  Minogue looked down at the names again.

  “Well, let’s pluck these fellas then.”

  He flicked a glance at the boards. Kilmartin looked at the names.

  “Doyler put them in order of severity. John’s got their haunts. Start with Balfe there?”

  Kilmartin guffawed.

  “‘Painless.’ Christ.”

  “I’d like a poke at him too,” said Malone. Kilmartin and Minogue looked over at him.

  “What class of a poke had you in mind there, Molly?”

  “I knew him years ago. He’d remember me. Maybe I can get somewhere with him.”

  Malone spoke with no trace of humour.

  “Painless is an animal. The other one is a total loop in his own right too. Lollipop Lenehan.”

  “Why not, Tommy,” said Minogue. “Will you arrange the pick-up then?”

  Malone nodded, looked at Kilmartin and picked up the phone. Minogue stretched.

  “God, the air in here,” he groaned. “I have to go out for a bit of fresh air.”

  Kilmartin followed him out to the car park.

  “Listen, Matt. Don’t let Molly off the lead so quick now. Here he is asking his pick of — ”

  “He’s volunteering, Jimmy.”

  Kilmartin grimaced.

  “I’m saying he’s inexperienced. I don’t want this case banjaxed due to a trainee dropping the ball. It’s bollicky enough yet with all the blanks we have to fill in.”

  “Ten-four, James.”

  “Here-why’d he ask to see this Painless fella anyway?”

  “Maybe Balfe knows the brother-Terry.”

  “The Squad that used to be all business seems to be a holding area for comedians. If you ask me-”

  Minogue didn’t. He held up his hand to be sure he had heard Eilis’s summons to the phone.

  “Da.”

  “Hello, love.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “A minute ago, I was looking for the jacket I never brought with me this morning. The heat has me addled.”

  “Don’t be talking,” said Iseult. “I put paper on the windows here to keep the sun off.”

  Minogue remembered that the window frames in Iseult’s studio were old metal ones. He had seen a crust of frost on them just after Christmas. Winter meant air thick with the smell of a gas storage heater and the sundry oils and dyes, the wood shavings and stains, the scents of hemp and paper. He had held off opining about the place as a health hazard. Iseult shared the studio with several others. He had been bewildered to find her working with chisels and awls last month, helping one of her fellow tenants to finish a wooden construction which looked, in sketches at least, to be a tank trap from a Normandy beach.

  “Well, how are you anyway?” she asked. He forgot the ache in his back, the stale smell of sweat that clung to his shirt. Iseult wasn’t in the habit of calling him at work.

  “For my age, do you mean? Or my occupation?”

  “In general like.”

  “Oh, as ever. Happy-go-lucky. Early dotage maybe…”

  “Fibber. Are you working late?”

  “It’s hard to know. The usual. Waiting, checking, talking, thinking, cursing…”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “Well, if I had known you were in the market for tea, now.”

  “It’s all right.”

  He waited for another hint. Malone waved at him, stepped over to the boards and tapped his marker against a name. Painless Balfe. Minogue put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “We can pin him, Tommy? Right now?”

  “Surveillance at Egan’s shop saw him go in five minutes ago. They called it in for us.”

  So Kilmartin had bargained something out of Serious Crimes then, Minogue reflected.

  “Okay. Pick him up-only when he comes out though.”

  “Here, I’ll leave you,” said Iseult. “You’re busy enough.”

  The brisk tone made him even more alert.

  “Busy? God, no! Where do you want to meet?”

  “I don’t want to, you know, get in the way now.”

  “Well, I do. What’s that black and silver place in George’s Street? Music from the Andes, the stuff on the walls, avant-garde and what-have-you?”

  “‘Back Then’? Are you sure? It’s gone completely vegetarian, you know.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “A quarter to six?”

  “Done,” he said. “Will you be on your own?”

  “To all intents and purposes. I’ll see you, Da.”

  The connection was lost before Minogue could utter a word. Was that humour he had heard in her answer? He replaced the receiver and gave a sigh. Phone Kathleen. Tell her that Iseult wanted to see him. Him alone? How would he manage this one, he wondered.

  The straps of the plastic bag had cut deep into his fingers again. He stopped to change the bag to his other hand and looked through the grove at the cars passing in the distance. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and lowered the bag to the ground. Did it get cold at night this time of the year, even with a heat wave? If he found some newspapers, that’d help. He sat down and rested against a tree trunk. Something had come between that world of busy commuters and the trees about him. He looked up into the canopy and imagined a tree house there. The chestnut leaves overhead were so dense that he found no bit of sky at all. Like a roof, he thought. Even if it rained, the trees would shelter him.

  His hand searched out the bag but it landed amongst pieces of metal. There were beer cans all mangled up under the grass, cigarette butts. He moved over and took out the biscuits and the Coke. They didn’t taste as good as the first time. They had lost that magic which had brought him by the back of his tongue to the age of nine again. He stopped chewing. The bastard could have given him the money, the loan of money, without acting the bleeding Rambo about it. It’d been a long time since Jammy had been that mad at him.

  Jammy was scared. Mary. Small pieces of biscuit caught the back of his throat. It began to tighten. His eyes prickled. What a mess, what a fucking mess. The crushed biscuit turned to paste as he cried. He tried to gather it at the front of his mouth to spit it out. Everything was stacked against him no matter what he did. He imagined going into a Garda station and yapping his head off, trying to do a deal to keep him on his own. They’d find out soon enough that he had nothing to do with Mary’s… Mary getting killed. They’d nail the bastard who’d done it. Then he’d be all right.

  Even as that hope rose in him, he felt himself falling deeper into something. He swilled Coke around his teeth. Didn’t matter what he’d done or hadn’t done, nobody believed him, not even Jammy. The cops would use him and if he got nailed by any of the Egans, they wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it. He squeezed his eyes tight and sucked in air through his teeth. Fucking bastards, the lot of them. Whatever Mary had been into had left the Egans pissed off. Maybe she had told them some yarn about him just to buy time or something and they had done her in then…

  He stood and took a few steps into the grove before peeing. The panic came back to him in an instant and it swept all hope away with it. He’d never make it, not tonight out here in the Park, not tomorrow- never! He’d been too cocky about using, even bragging that he could go weeks without a hit. Sure, he had once, but he had been climbing the walls. Junkie; user; scumbag; addict. He still had nearly a hundred and fifty quid. Go down to the Bell and score off Brannigan. Then what? Stay in the pub and blow more money? He could pick out a boozer and knock him outside when he left the pub. He slapped at the tree branch. If only he could talk to one of them, one of the Egans, without any danger he’d get done in, he could explain. He leaned against the tree. Bird-song erupted above. What the hell was he going to do here all night? The foliage seemed to look back at him, to draw
him in.

  “You fucking iijit,” he heard himself say. What time was it? He wasn’t hungry. Was he going nuts? Here in the middle of Dublin, in the six hundred acres of the Phoenix Park, he’d never felt so lost.

  “Well, look at that,” said Painless Balfe. “The Kremlin.”

  Malone looked around from the passenger seat. Balfe sat with his hands on his knees between two CDU detectives. The Nissan turned into the car-park of Harcourt Square.

  “I’m going to miss you, lads,” he added. He looked from one to the other. “We’ve grown very close.” Malone turned back as the barrier came down behind the car.

  “Do I get the chauffeur treatment on the way back too?”

  “You lead, will you,” Malone murmured to the driver. “I still don’t know my way around here.”

  A Garda in uniform met the car at the entrance to the lift.

  “Any word from my solicitor?” said Painless.

  “What do you want a solicitor for?” asked Malone. “Are you in trouble?”

  Balfe’s expression didn’t change. The Guard held the door open.

  “Hey Tommy,” said Balfe.

  “Say hello to the brother for me, will you, Tommy? I hear Terry’s taking the air tomorrow.”

  Malone watched the doors slide together.

  “Maybe I’ll be seeing him before you do, of course,” said Balfe. “By the way, he didn’t mention to you about getting AIDS in the ’Joy, did he? Maybe he wants it to be a surprise.”

  “Get yourself a fucking future, Painless,” said Malone. Balfe looked to one of the detectives.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what,” said the detective.

  The group followed the uniformed Guard to an interview room.

  “Hey, there’s a phone,” said Painless. “I could phone him here myself.”

  “Only internal calls there,” said the Guard. Minogue appeared around the door.

  “Sit over there, Mr. Balfe-”

  “Mr. Balfe? Is this going to cost me money?”

  “-and shut up.”

  Balfe’s face suddenly twisted into a look of hatred.

  “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, pal! I’m here because I co-”

  “No sign of an up-to-date tax disc for Mr. Balfe’s Sierra yet?” Minogue asked one of the Guards,

  “Sierra?” snapped Balfe. “Such a shitbox. Only cops drive them. I drove one four years ago.”

  “Do you own a blue Escort XR3?”

  Balfe shook his head. Minogue flipped open a folder and gave the top page a quick look.

  “There’s a discrepancy in your car’s tax book, Mr. Balfe. Who did you buy the car off?”

  “Oh, Christ, here we go. What’s it going to be this time?”

  Minogue sat heavily into a chair opposite Balfe. He nodded at one of the detectives to go to the monitor room. Painless Balfe’s eyes slid around the room before resting on the mirrored glass.

  “Hello, Mammy and Daddy,” he said, and leered at Minogue. “Will this make me a star?”

  Malone dragged his chair into the end of the table.

  “So, Tommy. What are you up to these days, oul son?”

  “Cleaning up the streets, oul son,” said Malone.

  Balfe put up his fists and made a mock feint.

  “Still at the you-know-what?”

  “Matter of fact, I am, yeah.”

  “Not the real thing though, right?”

  “That’s right. It’s only sissy stuff, Painless. I only take on fellas who know how to box.”

  Minogue studied Balfe’s reaction. His face slackened and his eyes became very still.

  “You’re such a fucking smart alec, Tommy. You probably think you’re even funny.”

  “Last Monday, Mr. Balfe,” said Minogue. He sat up and grasped his pencil.

  “Yeah? What about last Monday?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Try. We certainly would appreciate the effort.”

  “Got up. Had a cup of tea. A smoke.”

  “You were at home Sunday night? Twenty-one Oriel Street, Ballybough?”

  “My jases. The fan club’s really up to date. Yeah.”

  “Alone?”

  “With someone.”

  “Theresa Joyce?” asked Malone.

  “You said it. That was fast. I must tell her she’s getting famous.”

  “And?”

  “Well now. Monday. Went into town. Met me friends. Had a smoke. Et me dinner. Went to the bookies, watched the ponies. Played a few games of pool. Had a few jars. Had me tea. Went to the boozer. Oh, I forgot. Had a haircut.” He winked. “The whole thing: shampoo and blow dry. Ever get one of those, Tommy?”

  “Haircut’s a haircut.”

  “Well done, Mr. Balfe,” said Minogue. “Start again now. This time we’ll try the time element.”

  Balfe looked from Minogue to Malone.

  “Who’s Gentleman Jim here, Tommy?”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Balfe. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Inspector Minogue.”

  “You’re not one of my normal fans.”

  “Serious Crime Squad, Mr. Balfe? Oh, no. They’re the tough guys to be sure. I’m much more reserved and genteel really. Murder Squad.”

  Balfe frowned.

  “Murder Squad?”

  “Let’s begin again now, Mr. Balfe. Start us Monday morning and take us with you all the way through until you woke up Tuesday morning.”

  ELEVEN

  Minogue listened to Kilmartin’s rationale. An hour and a half with that head-case Balfe and he was no wiser. The phone slid around in his hand. He pushed Polaroids of Mary Mullen’s trashed flat around the desktop with his biro.

  “What about the other character, the sidekick? Lenehan.”

  “No sign of him. To get back to Balfe here.”

  “What do you want to do? Put him to the wall or through the wall?”

  “Through the wall, James. Doyler ranks him number one in the bully league.”

  He spun one of the photographs. He heard Kilmartin flicking a lighter.

  “He talks like he has a wallet full of alibis, Jim. I haven’t found a gap yet.”

  “So? You can’t put him near Mary Mullen in the recent past?”

  “Not yet. He said he met her once but that he didn’t know anything about her.”

  “Well, you got that out of him. Fire it back in his face if we find out different later on. The way you talk it’s obvious we need more. This Lenehan fella, he’ll turn up soon enough.”

  “Any word on Hickey yet?”

  “No. Still on the run, it looks like. Look, Matt. Push this clown Balfe on any association with the Leonardo fella. Tire him out, catch him- the routine.”

  “I’ve done that,” said Minogue. “There’s no sign of a giveaway. He didn’t try to dirty anyone. No hint of a deal either. He seems willing to take the hard option.”

  Kilmartin said nothing.

  “I want to pitch him out, Jimmy. I’m tired. We can hammer away at the alibis and his statement on paper and then work from there.”

  “Fine and well then.”

  From the tone, Minogue knew that Kilmartin felt different. He waited.

  “Well,” said the Chief Inspector. “You could round up a couple of lads there from CDU, lads what know Balfe. Then take yourself off for a little walk. Down to Bewleys, your usual shirking zone. Come back in a while and there might be a different tune. Falling down the stairs can do a lot for a man’s tongue.”

  “Come on now, Jim. All those conferences on methods? The tour of the FBI college?”

  “Get smart there, hair-oil. Do you think they never take the gloves off over there?”

  “Balfe knows the routine. He’s been broadcasting about his solicitor since he got here. Either we hold him now and get serious or we call it a day.”

  “Umhhk,” said Kilmartin with a soft belch. “Well, far be it from me, etcetera.”

 
Far indeed, thought Minogue. He trudged back to the interview room. The air was stale. Arms folded, Malone had slid down the chair. He was staring at Balfe.

  “Aha,” said Balfe. “You found a phone that makes outside calls?”

  Minogue glanced at Malone.

  “Okay, Mr. Balfe. That’ll be all for the moment.”

  Balfe gave him a blank look. He blinked and sat back in his chair.

  “Just when we’d got to the interesting bit, huh, Tommy?”

  Malone gathered himself up and stood. Balfe also stood.

  “You think I’m messing, Tommy, do you? Not this thing, the girl who got killed. I mean the psychology thing. Very interesting, no joke. How come you’re the Lone Ranger and Terry’s not?”

  Minogue leaned against the wall. Whatever that was about, the tape would have picked it up.

  “What did she have belonging to you, Mr. Balfe?” Minogue asked.

  “Who?”

  “Mary Mullen. When you went through her flat, Mr. Balfe. Did you find it?”

  Balfe’s eyes seemed to recede a little into his head.

  “You’ll have to do a lot better than that if you want to try stitching me up, pal,” he said. Minogue thought about Kilmartin’s suggestion that he go for a stroll and leave three or four Guards from the Hold-up Squad with Balfe.

  “I’ll show you out, Mr. Balfe,” he heard himself murmur. “That way, next time you’re back, you’ll know the way yourself.”

  Minogue swung around South King Street and turned into Drury Street. He registered the plastic bottles and beer cans lying in the doorways, the pub doors wide open to admit more of the sultry air. Two men in shorts and copies of Ireland’s national soccer team’s t-shirts staggered by. He levered the car into Wicklow Street and parked it.

  Back Then was dark. Hot air thick with the smell of cooking vegetables washed over his face. His eyes began to adjust to the light and he navigated toward a table against the wall. World music came on strong from the ceiling speakers. He ordered a tumbler of water and looked about. The restaurant could pass for a workshop or studio. Bold design with haphazard objets trouves seemed to state that this was a provisional set-up and would remain permanently provisional. Work in progress. Iseult was suddenly composing herself in a chair opposite.