by John Brady
He got up slowly and walked to the far side of the tree. He kept strolling around the trunk, trying to think. Within a few minutes he realized that he was circling the tree. Soon he settled into a rhythm. He heard himself whispering, swearing. The whisper turned to a murmur and he began to repeat the words: a matter of time… wherever you go… He stopped and looked out toward the Main Road again. The lump in his throat was gone. He was thirsty again. He scratched the handle of the knife with his thumbnail. There were bits of dried clay in the hinge now. He looked down at the knife and then dropped it into his pocket. He had started something with that phone call, he realized. He couldn’t just stand here. It was late enough. He was going back into town.
Malone’s lower lip was still swollen. He fingered the Elastoplasts on the knuckles of his right hand and stared at the passing traffic. Minogue was still surprised that Kilmartin hadn’t fired a few jibes Malone’s way when he’d seen him. Just a look, he recalled, a look a zookeeper might give an ape who had unexpectedly pinched him as he was delivering the day’s food to the cage. The two detectives were parked across from the offices of Kenny, Doody Chartered Accountants. They were waiting for Kilmartin’s call. The Chief Inspector needed time to dig up any muck on Kenny he could before Minogue and Malone walked in. Minogue didn’t ask Kilmartin what he could unearth beyond what he had himself seen looking back at him from the computer monitor: no criminal record. He suspected Kilmartin could filch credit info from one of his cronies in the bank.
“Yeah,” said Malone. “That’s about the size of it. Hickey knows the score the same as anyone else coming from his side of the street would. Sees the likes of the Egans running the show, Guards or no Guards.”
He took a swallow of the can of 7-Up he had brought with him from the squadroom and grimaced.
“You have to live in the place to know what I’m saying really. It’s no good talking in the abstract and stuff. If you’re in a neighbourhood and it’s run by gangs, I mean. You can’t move out, you don’t have a job. You can’t go crying to the Guards because they can’t protect you in the middle of the night. You know what I mean?”
Minogue glanced over at him. Yah know whar ah mee-ann? He had missed Malone, his Dublinisms.
“Two generations of men unemployed where I grew up. Nothing to lose, the young fellas. Rob a car, get a thrill. Joy-ride it, torch it. Get pissed and start a fight. Bang up. Do time. Me, I was a skinny little bollocks, so I was. Very much the Mammy’s boy. So I got into the boxing. Now, with the boxing club, I tell the kids to save their best for the fellas coming by with the needles and the dope. I tell them to beat the living shite out of them and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Minogue gave a breathless laugh. Malone swished more 7-Up around his mouth. He gave the Inspector a rueful look.
“Not the official line there, don’t you know.”
Malone seemed to be suddenly distracted by the traffic. He began tugging gingerly at his lip. Minogue looked at his watch. They’d been waiting ten minutes now.
“So what are we going to work on this Kenny fella with?” Malone asked. “Mr. Accountant. The fact that a barman or bouncer working there saw him talking to Mary a couple of times over the last few months?”
“It’s a start. Dropping the name of the Squad is a good opener.”
“I noticed.”
“Him seeing how serious we are when we ask him for the car too. Watch him.”
“What if it pans out into just a client thing? You know, Mary doing a call-girl or escort type thing with him?”
“We work another angle. Follow other, ahem, lines of inquiry. Leads.”
“That’s it?”
“That might be it for the Mercedes thing. We have Hickey to find, don’t forget. We need to go back over Jack Mullen and his timetable again. There’s Lenehan-he might crack. The teams might pick up something more from the door-to-door. Maybe we’ll turn up an associate we haven’t seen yet. Just go at it again.”
“Huh.”
Malone suddenly crushed the can in his fist. Minogue looked down at the knuckles and back up at Malone’s frown. The detective continued to stare at the top of the can. Minogue decided to wait for Kilmartin’s call no longer.
The phone went as Malone was locking the car.
“Just going in there, Jim. Yes. No, I didn’t want to wait any more… For what? Nothing? Okay. Yes. He’s what? I think I remember that one, yes. About a fishing village and a ghost or something? We’ll go ahead with the walk-in. No. Okay.”
He switched the phone back to stand-by and handed it to Malone.
“Seems Kenny is as clean as a whistle. Among his accomplishments are doing the money end for films and theatre. His finances are in good order. Unfortunately.”
“Bet you he jumps on the phone for a solicitor,” said Malone.
“Do you think, now.”
“Yeah. Southside prat, isn’t he?”
“Aha. You’ve been to the night courses on psychology? Okay, let me try you on this. What if Mr. Kenny does not wish to help the Gardai with their inquiries?”
“Give him the chop, boss.”
“Give him the chop,” said Minogue, nodding. “Phone call?”
“From the station. He’ll open the car for us first or he’ll give us his keys.”
“You’re a fast learner there, Tommy.”
“No messing,” said Malone. “Do the business.”
Minogue grabbed the detective’s arm as Malone made to push the plate-glass door.
“Tommy. By the way, like. Perhaps Mr. Kenny didn’t kill Mary Mullen. Okay?”
Minogue took in the glass portico, the metalwork, the polished granite in the foyer. Sharp, no nonsense. A man in his early twenties, with a badge high up on his short-sleeved shirt and a Marine haircut, sat behind a granite-topped console.
“Are you all right?”
Minogue held out his card.
“Grand, thanks-can’t complain. Yourself? The one door at the back, as well as the goods entrance?”
“Er, yeah.”
The man tugged at his tie. Malone was taking in the sculpture next to savanna grass.
“Hey, is this a bust, like?”
Malone turned around, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I don’t know what it is. What’s it supposed to be?”
Minogue smiled at the security man.
“There’ll be no fuss now,” he murmured.
The lift smelled of cologne. The doors opened out onto a peach carpet, black doors, grey walls and more dried flowers. Malone plucked at his shirt under his arms.
“Air conditioning,” he muttered and nodded at the name-plate. The secretary’s ante-room breathed out more perfume. Macintosh computer, black furniture and a leather sofa for gamogs to cool their heels while they waited to be told what the firm of Kenny, Doody could or couldn’t do with their tax messes and their proposals for film funding. Show business, thought Minogue, paperwork: he and Malone, two sweaty detectives, had been beamed to Los Angeles. At least there was a homely layer of dust on the windows outside.
The secretary had a tan, wholly bogus eyelashes and a direct look. She tapped at a dangling ear-ring.
“Hello?”
Minogue smiled.
“Mr. Kenny within?”
“Is he expecting you?”
Minogue drew up his card from his side.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. But I can’t be sure, now.”
Her expression changed to a bewildered suspicion. She reached for the phone.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Minogue raised his hand.
“Prefer if you didn’t, thank you now. As a matter of fact, I insist.”
“He has a client there.”
Minogue smiled again.
“As do we. Kindly do not use the phone for the next couple of minutes or so.”
Behind him he heard Malone open Kenny’s door.
“Yes?” he heard from within. None too pleased, M
inogue detected.
“No,” he heard Malone reply.
“And it’ll be, em…?”
Kenny sat forward, his hands out on the seat to either side. Malone started the Nissan.
“It will not be damaged, Mr. Kenny,” Minogue repeated.
Even with the windows open, Kenny’s stale breath came to the Inspector again.
Malone’s good eye slid around toward the Inspector. Kenny sat back.
“We’ll be passing Over the Top, Mr. Kenny. Just beyond the lights. And there’s Tout des Loups. A grand spot too, I believe. I have a colleague who’s more into the club scene. Young fella, of course. What do you think of the Tout des Loups place?”
Kenny blinked and squinted at the doorways. If he’s sitting in an air-conditioned office all day, maybe he’s entitled to sweat, thought Minogue. Give him a fair trial, then hang him.
“It’s all right. Is that where…?”
“You heard about the case then?”
“Well, I’m just assuming that you’re pointing it out for a reason,” said Kenny. “You told me you’re investigating the death of a woman called Mary Mullen. Right?”
A woman called Mary Mullen. Kenny might give him a headache yet.
“We believe that Mary frequented that place in the past, the recent past. I have a photo of Mary here now. Take a look at it, why don’t you.”
Malone slipped it out of the folder, turned in the seat and handed it to Kenny. Minogue watched Kenny’s face carefully in the mirror.
“You know Mary, Mr. Kenny. Right?”
Kenny drew in a breath and let it swell his cheeks. Like he’s assessing a prospect, thought Minogue, a balance sheet, maybe. Malone jerked the wheel to avoid a parked van. Keep your eyes on the road, not on Kenny. He glanced at him again as the traffic drew away ahead. He hoped that Kenny would lie outright. Kenny let out his breath.
“Well, I mean I wouldn’t want to say now, I mean, what if I were to tell you something here and you well… You get the idea?”
“Not really.”
Kenny tossed a long swath of hair back up off his forehead. Something he saw in Malone’s face caused him to drop the ironic expression.
“Am I under arrest now, is it?”
“God, no, Mr. Kenny. Why would we arrest you? Have you done something?”
Kenny let go a brief smile.
“You’ve agreed to be interviewed,” said Minogue. “To help us with our enquiries. Which we appreciate.”
“And my car?”
“And a fine car it is too. Like I say, it will be returned in tiptop shape.”
“Was it seized?”
“Borrowed. A routine check.” Kenny flicked back his hair again.
“How many other cars have you applied this routine check to? In this case, I mean.”
“You have the honour of being the second.”
“A forensic study is hardly routine now, is it?”
Minogue looked at Kenny’s tie. Silk? It had little planes on it. To judge by his build, Kenny was no layabout. Tennis, Minogue guessed- no, wait a minute-squash.
“The favourite Irish pastime there, Mr. Kenny.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Jumping to conclusions. Who says your car will be subject to a forensic examination?”
“I read or I heard somewhere about this thing. That’s what forensic is for, isn’t it?”
“For what?” He gave Kenny a dull stare.
“Murder,” said Kenny.
“Amongst other things, yes.”
He watched Kenny’s eyes narrow a little before they turned back to the window.
“I think I’m beginning to detect a certain tone here, Serg-”
“Inspector.”
“A certain tone which suggests, I’m not sure. Pressure? Suspicion? Intimidation? I don’t know. That’s not what I believed, or was led to believe, back at the office when I agreed to help. It seems the closer we get to your, em, headquarters or whatever, the less, well, positive the atmosphere.”
Minogue scratched at his scalp.
“Ah, Mr. Kenny. I’m sure you’re not taken in by the charm here now.”
The breeze had draped Kenny’s glossy mane back down over his eyes. He flicked it back up less often than he could, thought the Inspector. A ladies’ man. Malone slowed for the entrance to Harcourt Square, gave a half-hearted wave to the Guard by the kiosk and started up again. Minogue was out first after Malone parked. Kenny climbed out slowly and looked across the roof at Minogue.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. Well, that’s sure to mean trouble, Minogue almost said.
“And I want to phone my solicitor.”
The Inspector nodded, turned around and rolled his eyes. It had started.
“Certainly, Mr. Kenny. As is your right.”
He strolled around to Kenny’s side.
“But why the rush into the arms of the legal confraternity? You’re not under arrest. Save your money, I say.”
A confused look registered around Kenny’s eyes. Minogue summoned his most avuncular manner.
“I should tell you again how grateful we are that you have offered your help. Of course, I imagine anyone would be a little apprehensive, wouldn’t they? Especially a man like yourself, Mr. Kenny, a man who’s never been in trouble with the law, being in a building-no, a complex-full of policemen.”
Kenny searched the Inspector’s face for a giveaway smile.
“I’m the same myself, Mr. Kenny. I actually can’t stand coming here at all. It’s like a fortress or something. I’d sooner be out on the streets.”
Kenny tried to smile.
“If you only told me exactly why you’ve picked on me,” he said.
“Picked on you?”
“I mean, why you want to talk to me specifically.”
So you can prep your?500-a-day pain-in-the-arse solicitor for when he can come storming in here to hand out migraines, Mr. Kenny.
“All in good time, Mr. Kenny. Will you go a bit of the road with us here? Tea, maybe?”
NINETEEN
M alone kept pulling at the ends of his Elastoplasts. Kenny looked over at him often. “You’re taping our conversation, aren’t you,” he said to Minogue. The Inspector nodded.
“Is that allowed?”
Minogue nodded again. Kenny’s eyes had a dull shine on them now. They weren’t five minutes into the interview. Kenny coughed.
“It could hardly be just the Mercedes now, could it?”
“A bit more, Mr. Kenny. You frequented a night-club that Mary also patronized. Now, we located a person who saw you in conversation with her. Several times, over time.”
Kenny sat back and crossed his legs.
“Did this, er, person see anyone else talking to her? Or me talking to anyone else in the place?”
Minogue rated the performance. Irritated: good. Little bit of hurt dignity, incredulity: good. Can’t a man have a bit of fun, etcetera.
“I mean,” Kenny went on. “People who go there are sociable, I would have thought. By definition?”
Mild enough sarcasm yet, Minogue considered. A bit of condescension toward thick Guards. All to the good.
“You knew Mary Mullen then, Mr. Kenny. Outside the club too?”
“When you say knew her… No, I didn’t know her.”
Kenny’s folded arms lifted and dropped back to his chest.
“From the little I knew of her, she was there with a couple of regulars. I found out that they were, you know, beyond being shady.”
“Shady?”
“Oh, come on now. I think you know. A family called the Egans.”
“How did you know them?”
“I didn’t know them. I heard about them somewhere. Someone told me. In the club, probably. I forget when. You meet all sorts there. There are people who get a kick out of that mix of customers in the clubs. I mean, accountants mixing with artsy types and shady types. It’s all colour, isn’t it? Adds an edge.”
“You like an ed
ge, do you, Mr. Kenny.”
Kenny let out a breath.
“I suppose I do. For me, it’s business too, sometimes. I’m dealing with film people, theatre people, so I go where their scene is. It’s play and it’s work.”
With his elbows on the table and his cheekbones resting on his knuckles, Malone had been eyeing Kenny. He raised his eyebrows now. Kenny stared back.
“Hey, I’m a workaholic,” he said. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I admit it. You know, I work on average about eleven hours a day. In the car even. Two phone lines at home, fax and everything. So I just can’t buy all the moaning and whinging we go on about in this country, about unemployment and all that. Sometimes I’m working until eleven or twelve. It’s crazy, I know. So I go to places like Over the Top to let off a bit of steam. Maybe I’m getting too old for it though.”
He shrugged and looked around the room.
“Oh, to be sure, Mr. Kenny,” said Minogue. “To be sure. The night Mary was killed now. Was that a work night for you?”
“No. Like I said. I was in Tobins. There in the Temple Bar?”
Like I said, thought Minogue. Petulance was making a dent in the performance.
“I had a meal with a client at the Marco Polo after that. I’ll give you his name. He’s actually a film producer, you know. Great guy. Ended up at… Well, you’ve already got that there, don’t you?”
Minogue looked down at his notebook and back up at Kenny.
“How right you are. I do. Slatterys. Then you went home. Eleven. Ms. Julie Quinn.”
“My fiancee, yes.”
“So it was an early night for you then. Considering.”
He glanced up from the notebook again. Kenny’s stare was cool now.
“Mr. Kenny? I need to hear from you on this. We need to fill in the gaps that night.”
“Gaps?”
“By my reckoning, you were in transit a lot that night. Twenty minutes here, ten minutes there. You went from place to place.”