The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “Huh. What’s going to stay standing in this fella’s statement then?”

  “Mr. Byrne believes he saw something white. A swan, perhaps.”

  “‘A swan,’ ” said Kilmartin. “Jases, he has you codded! Why not a Martian spacecraft with the clooracaun at the wheel, and-”

  The Chief Inspector let down the remains of his sandwich, nodded at Minogue and picked up the receiver.

  “Technical Bureau, C.I. Kilmartin.”

  Minogue watched the Chief Inspector’s expression slide into a scowl.

  “I’ll get him for you,” he drawled. He hit the hold button hard and held the receiver out toward Minogue.

  “Voh’ Lay-bah. He wants a word with you.”

  Minogue gave the Chief Inspector a glare. He took the extension by the window.

  “Tommy,” he said. “Howiya.”

  “I’m all right. Just to let you know I’m coming in. Give me half an hour, all right?”

  “You, em, sorted out the issue at home, I take it.”

  “Not what you’d call sorted out. Terry got out in the morning but he never showed up at the house until late. Arrived in steaming drunk. We had a row.”

  Minogue looked about the squadroom for something to say.

  “Do you want to book off a bit of sick leave, Tommy? It sounds like you need to set things straight a bit. Are you all right where you are, what you’re doing?”

  “I’m trying to decide what to do. Terry’s sleeping it off still. Yeah. The Ma’s in bits. She’s no match for him, like.”

  “Is it any use getting him in treatment or anything? He’s on probation, isn’t he?”

  Malone didn’t reply for several moments.

  “I’ve half a mind to get him for breach, yeah. I don’t know. I don’t want to do it. I’ve an idea he kept a habit going in the nick. If I send him back, he might go under even worse.”

  “Is that what…?”

  “Pretty sure. He was really throwing shapes. Anyway. There’s something I have to tell you. This might throw a spanner in the works. But I have to. It affects the case, like.”

  Minogue watched Kilmartin tearing the crust off the last of his sandwich.

  “Terry gets out, right?” said Malone. “So guess where he goes first? They were waiting for him outside, the car, the reception committee. Welcome back and all…”

  “The Egans?”

  “Right. They gave him some freebies and set him off. He came in the door looking for me. ‘Bobby says hello.’ Thinks it’s funny. They’d set him up to get at me. And he thought it was funny. That’s when I clattered him.”

  “You…?”

  “Right in the snot. Nearly broke me bleeding hand. He wasn’t that out of it that he didn’t get up off the floor and go after me though. He connected a few times. The neighbours came in. Joey Cuniffe next door. He’s a brickie. He had to sit on Terry. Jases.”

  “The Egans,” said Minogue. “Bobby Egan.”

  “That’s them. The fuc-the Egans. Their idea of a joke or something. Terry said they knew about Lenehan, Lolly Lenehan, getting picked up. And they knew it was me involved in that too. Says Terry, ‘They’re going to look after me. They’re going to give me a job.’ Christ. They’ll probably try to get him in on some muscle job or take up some of the slack from bloody Lenehan. It’s sick, man.”

  “Setting him up, just to get back at you, you’re saying.”

  “Yeah. I’ll fucking kill them, so I will.”

  Kilmartin was eyeing him now. Minogue focussed on stains on the window.

  “Nice, Tommy,” he murmured. “That’ll come out very clear on the replay.”

  “Sorry. I’m seriously pissed off. Hey. Did you mean that about the tape?”

  “Just keep those comments to yourself.”

  “Okay. But I’ve bollicksed my first case, haven’t I? I have to get off it now, won’t I?”

  “Let me think about that. What are you going to do?”

  “Dunno. I don’t want Terry back inside. He’d do something really stupid. But I don’t want him falling into the Egans’ hands either. And I can’t watch him every day, can I? Jases, such a mess! Those fucking- excuse me. Am I screwing everything up?”

  Minogue didn’t want to answer. He met Kilmartin’s mocking eyes across the room. Molly Malone screws up big time. The Dub’s a dud: told you so.

  “I swear to God,” Malone went on. “If I’d a thought Terry was going to go ape-shit, I mightn’t have been so bloody keen to apply for the posting on the Squad and everything. But now here’s Terry going around like an unexploded bomb. And he’s taking me and my career down with him. The Egans know that too, I know they do. The bastards!”

  Minogue bit back any words of consolation. Malone remained silent.

  “Don’t be getting ideas about the Egans, now. You have to cool off.”

  “Okay.”

  Minogue replaced the receiver and looked down into the yard. No Iseult sitting in the passenger seat waiting for him. He couldn’t tell her how much he liked having her at home again. Kilmartin was standing behind him.

  “What’s with Molly?”

  Minogue didn’t answer him.

  “It’s the brother, isn’t it? Trouble, right? Didn’t I tell you? The genes, man.”

  Minogue turned and opened the file on Jack Mullen.

  “So it is the brother,” said Kilmartin. Minogue glared at him.

  “Amongst other things, Jim, yes.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Minogue poured more coffee and turned over the Victory Club papers again. Jack Mullen had brought them to his first interview and used them by way of telling his life story. The stuff reminded Minogue of the twelve steps from Alcoholics Anonymous, but loaded with a heavier dose of God. It was also peppered with terms that he, Minogue, had grown queasily averse to. Denial-in denial; empower; self-esteem; grieving; relationships; homecoming; breaking the cycle-something which would have many puzzled Irish men looking for a puncture-repair kit or a set of bike-spanners? No. Unfair, he thought. Irish males-even Irish policemen, middle-aged Irish policemen, middle-aged Irish policemen from the west of Ireland-were not ignorant of the wider world. There had, after all, been a Time magazine spread several years ago on men, film stars included, going into the woods in America to share their feelings with other men. Mullen had said several times that he wanted his life back, that he wanted his family back. He wanted to start fresh. The wife obviously hadn’t been impressed with fresh starts and she still didn’t want anything to do with him, sober or not. And if Mary hadn’t wanted anything to do with him? Didn’t want to be ‘recovered’?

  Minogue was beginning a second reread of today’s update of the forensic findings from the State Lab when the phone went. He watched Eilis’s expression as she put the phone to her ear. She slowly sat upright and stared at her monitor for several moments. He sat forward in the chair, placed his hand on the extension and waited. Is that him, he mouthed. Her eyes came back to focus on his. She nodded. He picked up the receiver and pushed for the call.

  “Matt Minogue speaking, hello?”

  He listened for street noise on the other end. Someone breathed.

  “You’re a cop, right?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you a cop, I said!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What are you, a sergeant?”

  “Inspector. I’m-”

  “Well, I know you’re not the only one on this. So don’t try to lie to me!”

  Minogue said nothing. Kilmartin had emerged from his office.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Go ahead there now. Liam, is it?”

  “Fuck you and your ‘Liam’ stuff! Shut up and listen! I didn’t do nothing. You’re chasing an innocent man. Totally innocent! Yous’re too stupid to go after Bobby Egan and them! Or yous’re too chicken. That’s what I’m telling you!”

  Minogue listened to the sharp intakes of breath. Leo Hickey was holding his hand around the mouthpiece. Kilmarti
n was tiptoeing toward him. Eilis, he noticed, had a line ready for the call from Communications.

  “Hey! Are you listening?”

  “I am indeed. I thought you wanted-”

  “You think I’m going to take this shit lying down, man? I been framed! So get that!”

  Minogue tugged at his eyebrows. Kilmartin was staring at him. The phone hadn’t been sourced yet. How long did it take them, for God’s sake? Weren’t they talking about fifteen seconds from the reverse directory computer now?

  “I hear what you’re saying there. If you’d just-”

  “I’d never harm a hair on Mary’s head, so I wouldn’t! Did you get that? I don’t know what crap yous’ve been told but you can’t believe it.”

  “Well, why not meet me and we can have a chat-”

  “Shut up! I knew yous’d try that!”

  High, Minogue wondered, but the voice was clear.

  “Oh, yeah, sure! I come in and yous nail me. Oh, very smart. Yous stick me in a cell somewhere ’cause you don’t like what I’m saying. Right? And what happens then? I get it from the Egans! Even if I get remand, they can get in. No way, man! That’s a death warrant!”

  “We can protect you, Liam.”

  “Like hell you can! I walk back out on the street and it’s worse even, ’cause you’d put it out that I’m a stoolie or something! Yous do it all the time!”

  Kilmartin was waving. He began jabbing his forefinger into the desk-top.

  “Listen, Liam, you’re upset-”

  “You’re bleeding right I’m upset! Here, I’m jacking this in!”

  “Just a second. Please! Give us where you were that night. We can check it. If it’s sound, what have you to worry about?”

  “Are you deaf or something? The Egans! Everyone thinks I done for Mary too!”

  “Do you know what an alibi is, Liam? Give me an alibi I can check. We’re not interested in any other stuff you’re into.”

  Minogue heard a horn from Hickey’s end.

  “Alibi? What if I don’t have one?”

  “Well, try me.”

  Minogue tried to read into the few seconds’ silence.

  “I fucking can’t!” Hickey blurted out at last.

  “Look, Liam. We’re not going to come on heavy on any minor stuff you’re into. Come on, now, put yourself in the clear.”

  “I was out that night.”

  “Who with?”

  “On me own-aw, fuck, this is stupid, I’m-”

  “Just give us a chance, Liam.”

  “I was doing cars! Don’t you get it? That’s why I don’t have a fucking alibi!”

  “Where then?”

  “Yous’d only use it on me anyway…”

  The voice trailed off.

  “That’s nothing compared to murder, Liam. Don’t let it-”

  “Don’t give me that! Yous don’t give a shite about the likes of me! You think I don’t know yous’re after the Egans. And that you’ll use me to get them! And now you’re trying to keep me talking so’s you can corner me here!”

  “Liam! The street, the time, the car-anything. You name it.”

  “Liars! You’re trying to get me to wear the murder or else use me to take down the Egans! I’m not stupid, you know, I know what’s going on, you know!”

  “No, no, Liam. Give us anything. What street? What type of cars, do you remember?”

  “Ahhh… Mount Street. I done a Golf, a GTI. There! I got a camera and stuff. Leather jacket. Ah, fuck!”

  “Where did you fence the stuff?”

  “Go to hell. What if I did?”

  “If it checks out, Liam, then-”

  “I’m gone, man! I already said too much!”

  “Call again, Liam. Give me time!”

  The line was dead. Minogue released his grip on the receiver. Kilmartin threw his jacket over his shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “The stand-bys are up and running already.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Up the road,” said Kilmartin. “A phone box in Cabra. Come on, for the love of God!”

  “Will you get that off the tape, Eilis, the car make?” Minogue called out as he rose. “And see if it fits? But work any address in Cabra belonging to family or associates of Hickey first, will you?”

  They took Kilmartin’s Nissan.

  “A bit of a dogfight there, pal,” said Kilmartin. He accelerated around a slowing bus. “But you got him handy. Minute and a half he jabbered on. We can land the bugger!”

  The breeze in the window of the speeding car fanned grit into Minogue’s face. He rolled up the window halfway and pulled his seat-belt tighter over his shoulder.

  “If he’d put another ten pence in the phone, he could have put a bit of weight in that alibi he pitched at me.”

  “Alibi, is it?” snapped Kilmartin. “Ah, Jesus, man. One of his cronies did it and fed him the details.”

  Kilmartin was late on a red light turning onto Infirmary Road. A van driver gave him the finger.

  “Wait’n’you see, Matt. It’ll fall asunder in ten seconds flat when we have him sitting across the table.”

  He looked over at his colleague.

  “Come on, now. Don’t get to thinking we’re chasing a shagging genius here. Sure, look what he let slip! Mount Street, he says he did that car. Bloody Mount Street is only a stone’s throw from the canal, for God’s sake! Hickey’s just stupid. Smashed, maybe. He probably doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying, man. Sure isn’t he a junkie?”

  “Stupid is too often the sorry hallmark of the truth, James.”

  “Oh, will you listen to frigging Aristotle here. Stop worrying, will you. We’ll get him.”

  They didn’t. Guards were still going door to door in the streets around the phone box an hour later. A shopkeeper came up with a jittery young man close to the photo. Hickey had bought a Coke and a packet of Major cigarettes there. That was a half hour before the call had even been logged. Kilmartin and Minogue cruised the area until three. A scene-of-the-crime technician had taken prints, many prints, from the phone box. Kilmartin pulled in beside it.

  “Well,” said Minogue. Kilmartin ran his hands down his cheeks. His face had gone puffy in the heat.

  “The bastard,” he grunted. “Either he legged it into the Park to hide out with the bloody monkeys in the zoo or he had some class of an out ready here. Still none of his pals have a flat here in Cabra?”

  Minogue shook his head.

  “Ah, Christ,” sighed Kilmartin. “Our stuff is out of date, I bet you. They move, these people… Bloody nomads.”

  “I checked with Eimear at the lab though,” said Minogue.

  “Majors he bought, right?”

  “They’re the ones. Four of the butts from the canal bank were Majors with the names still on them. There are still thirty something awaiting analysis.”

  Kilmartin smacked the steering-wheel and looked over at his colleague.

  “Ah, he’ll phone again,” he declared. “The bollocks. But when though, that’s what-”

  The phone interrupted Kilmartin. Minogue was pleased to hear Tommy Malone’s voice. Minogue stared back at Kilmartin while he listened to Malone.

  “Great,” he said when Malone had finished. “We’ll be back in ten minutes. Thanks.”

  “Molly’s back on board?”

  “None other,” replied Minogue. “He just fielded a call from Fergal Sheehy. One of his got ahold of a fella who works in a club in Leeson Street. Over the Top is the name of it. Fergal’s been plugging the Alan thing and a Mercedes that Patricia Fahy coughed up the other day. He might have an Alan from one of the barmen at a club.”

  “How so?”

  “A fella came back from his holidays yesterday. He knows an Alan who comes to that club, or used to go clubbing there. He wasn’t sure about the surname. Kenny, Kelly, Keneally. Something with a K in it. Drives or used to drive a Mercedes.”

  “Has anyone attacked the computer with this?”

  “Tomm
y got a search and showed up an Alan Kenny. Mr. Alan Kenny drives a Mercedes.”

  Frigging Guards! Because they were thick culchies, they thought people from Dublin were all stupid too. Gobshites! As if he’d never heard they could trace a phone call, for Christ’s sake! He stabbed hard at the earth between his knees and let the knife stand for several seconds before he yanked it out.

  He shifted his spine away from the tree trunk and finished the cigarette. The smoke seemed to give up on trying to go anywhere and hung in the air instead. Midges’ and flies’ wings glittered in the sunlight. The blot of shadow he sat in was within sight of the Garda Headquarters. Funny if it wasn’t so stupid and serious. What the hell had brought him back down here to Phoenix Park again anyway? He thought back to waking up in the laneway. Wrapped up in cardboard and bits of paper, right in the middle of Dublin, and he’d slept until bloody eight o’clock! He might have slept even longer if that delivery van hadn’t come down the lane. No hangover, even. He’d probably puked everything up. Mental, he was. But what was he doing back here? It was the clothes, right, a change of clothes. Or was it something else? He remembered that creepy kind of feeling he’d had when he’d stepped off the bus next to the Park this morning and looked at the trees hanging over the wall. They’d looked like they were waiting for him or something. It had taken him a while to scout out a good phone box he could use.

  Meet, said the cop. Have a chat. And that smoochy kind of voice, like a priest or a teacher fobbing off advice on you. If that cop ever got ahold of him, it’d be a hell of a different story. They’d batter him around until he signed a confession. He stared at the cars passing along the Main Road through the Park. He couldn’t hear any one of them over the background murmur of the city. His eyes moved from the far-off traffic to the branches overhead. The leaves had rusty spots and little holes. He thought of the conkers he used to gather and carry home in bagfuls as a child. Treasures. What had happened since then? The waste. His throat suddenly hurt. He tried to swallow but he couldn’t.

  The traffic looked like it was floating over the grass. He imagined one of the cars turning off the road and drifting over the grass toward him. His stomach tightened when he thought of the car chasing him the other day. He felt his bladder turn weak. A bird swooped down out of the tree and landed near him. He stared at it, willing it to step nearer. It could just fly off in a flash and be above the trees in a few seconds, flying over the whole city and looking down at all the iijits sweating it out there.