The Coast Road (Matt Minogue Mysteries)

by John Brady

  The dog’s eyes rolled wildly, and it trembled. Rhiannon wondered if it might bite.

  “A person,” said the husband. “Yes, it looks like a person. What?”

  He gave Burberry Lady Claire a forebearing look. “No, he’s not sleeping. He looks, you know.” Burberry Lady Claire’ eyes had gone wide. She seemed to want to say something but was waiting for the right words. Didn’t she notice that the dog was licking her face? “Jesus,” Rhiannon heard her say then.

  “Well yes,” Tony Meehan said, his voice going reedy. “I’m no expert, am I? But, Jesus Christ, it sure looks like that to me.”

  His unfocused gaze slid from Burberry Lady to Rhiannon and back.

  “Look,” he said, and Rhiannon was sure he was interrupting someone at the other end now. “Look – listen: can you just send someone? Please?”

  Something was settling on Rhiannon now. It reminded her of the strange, chill gravity that pulled on her when she stepped out of the bath. The strap of the camera bag was beginning to bite. She was so close to Burberry Lady now that the dog was reaching toward her, trying to nibble at the hand she had raised to her mouth.

  Tony Meehan’s impatience was turning to agitation, anger even.

  “Yes! Me, my wife. And a girl. Jesus – I don’t know! Out for a walk, I suppose.”

  Burberry Lady’s nostrils were going in and out.

  “I’m Claire,” she said, in a strange, choked voice.

  “I know that,” Rhiannon said. It sounded – and it was – a stupid thing to say. She found that she was taking steps now, getting closer to Burberry Lady. “I know.”

  Chapter 3

  Minogue and Kilmartin had gotten to Ryan’s pub early. It was quiet enough. The prospect of a session had Kilmartin in high gear. He had been through a good number of his ritual disparagements already: government ministers, French rugby; Guards and their collections of ‘patches’; the legal profession, tour-bus drivers; environmentalists.

  “Well, are you sure Malone actually got off this morning?” Minogue knew better that to rise to the bait. He had been at the Ombudsman’s office on Abbey Street this morning when they’d handed down their finding on Malone. Seen Malone emerge into the foyer afterwards with a flinching smile. Waited through the awkward moments with Malone staring out the window at a tram rumbling by.

  Kilmartin sauntered to his old spot, and eased his shoulder onto the partition.

  “Whiskey, Liam, in the name of God. And something for this oddball beside me.”

  Minogue made a survey of the pub while Kilmartin checked his mobile. Ryan’s was long a favourite with staff from the Garda HQ nearby. It had deflected the Celtic Tiger a good bit with window boxes and a restaurant, but here, a stone’s throw from a still-tidal River Liffey, it had managed to stay a pub. “Celebrating, are we, gentlemen.”

  Liam had been a barman here since the Vikings had found a way across the river. He lived in an invisible fog of skepticism, one that rarely slid to outright scorn. A working-class Dubliner, Liam’s questions were usually rhetorical.

  “Yes and no, Liam,” replied Kilmartin. “Tonight’s two-for-one. There’s a financial crisis, did you know? We’re doing our bit with a wee stimulus package here.”

  Liam’s baleful scrutiny didn’t budge from a pint of Guinness that he was filling.

  “Just what the country needs,” he said. “Well played.” Kilmartin made a vague gesture in Minogue’s direction. “Head-the-ball here is starting a new gig. And to top it off, we have another lad out from under a cloud today.” He waited until Liam left before leaning in to Minogue. “Straight to business,” he said. “One question. Did he or didn’t he? Malone.”

  Minogue had half-expected this. He kept his eye on the door out to Parkgate Street.

  “That was decided this morning. Have you heard of the Ombudsman?”

  “Go away out of that. They never found any black box on this Kelly character, did they?”

  Minogue had heard that one too often already. Kilmartin cocked an eye at him.

  “Those Ombudsman feckers decide nothing in my book. Nada. The Book of Reality, that’s my book. So: did he heave that Kelly lúdramán off the roof? Yes or no.”

  Minogue mulled over whether he should admit that he still wondered too.

  “Ask him yourself,” he said instead. This drew a mock scowl from Kilmartin.

  “Hopping the ball as usual you hoor, you. What did I expect, I wonder.”

  Liam placed Kilmartin’s whiskey and a jug of water on the counter, and returned to slow, enigmatic notations in his copy of The Irish Field.

  Kilmartin had his usual insider info to impart. Somehow, he had gotten his hands on a transcript of records from Kelly’s mobiles, and even the mobile Chan was carrying.

  “A who’s who of blackguards,” he said, his voice down to a murmur. “A gold mine entirely. Dublin, London – even off in fecking China, if you please. China...!” “I know what China is.”

  “Well you know what a triad is then, don’t you? And I’m not talking about our precious national three-leafed clover, am I.”

  Minogue said nothing. Kilmartin’s vacant stare floating around the counter told him that some matter was far from settled.

  “Ever wonder,” Kilmartin asked then, a flinty smile taking over his face. “Ever wonder why the only girl that Malone falls for, she has to be Chinese?”

  Minogue stole another look at the symbol that Liam had just drawn. Horse-worship was Liam’s religion. Form sheets and the Irish Field were his scriptures. From these he divined his signs, and on them he inscribed his own hope. His complex bets encoded the fruits of his devotions. Who cared if ponies were a mug’s game? The study of signs, the assaying of a future, were what mattered.

  “Well?” Kilmartin went on. “Never strike you as odd at all? No? Yes? Maybe?” “Didn’t what.”

  “Chinese girlfriend?” Minogue shook his head.

  “With all you’re privy to in Liaison? In-ter-nash-nal Lee-ehzon?”

  “Why do you always try to make it sound like a girls’ finishing school?”

  “That question answers itself,” Kilmartin went on, breezily.

  “But if anybody knows about Chinamen and triads here, it’d be that very section, wouldn’t you say?”

  It was entirely possible that Liam was listening, and surely relishing, the sort of guff emanating from Jim Kilmartin. Maybe he was writing a book about it all.

  “It’s out there,” said Kilmartin. “This Triad thing? Welcome to the big league.”

  Minogue opted to continue saying nothing. Kilmartin was used to it.

  “Longest river in the world, Matt. Deep and dangerous. Lot of alligators there, making a lot of allegations.”

  “Far as I know the Nile is still in Egypt. Not China, or Macau, to be precise.”

  Kilmartin put out a forebearing grin.

  “Don’t cod yourself. They’re already here. Money money money.”

  Minogue gave him a side glance.

  “What’s the issue here? Tommy’s guilty of dating a noncolleen?”

  Kilmartin’s eyes flickered with irritation, but he came up with a fake smile.

  “Nice,” he said. “Loyal to a fault. That’s great in the abstract, of course. But it’s real life we’re living here, so just remember what I said, and when I said it. That’s all.” He shifted his shoulder against the partition and he sighed. “Anyway. Stay with the Chinaman a minute. The money’s rolling in good-o now to a certain barrister’s office there in the Distillery Building. Can you guess whose?” Of course Minogue could. So he didn’t.

  “Well I’ll fill in the blanks for you. Up popped that lying bastard Connolly, the fistfuls of Chinese gangsters’ money still hanging out this so-called barrister’s pockets, and him firing out writs and claims like cannonballs. Anything from Improper Seizure to Wrongful Arrest – he’s even throwing in the race card, I hear. A new low.”

  “What race?”

  “Not the ponies – the fact th
at he’s Chinese.”

  “Well that’s a fright to God entirely. Terrible times we’re living in.”

  “You don’t want to know, do you? Don’t care?”

  “I like both options, James. Don’t make me pick.”

  He studied Liam’s hieroglyphics again. Liam was a man looking for signs, Minogue reflected. And why not? Might as well look for them in a racing newspaper, or in the churning hooves of glorious beasts, as well as where the devout were looking for their signs these days on holy tree stumps or sun-rings at Knock’s shrine to Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners….

  Kilmartin darted a look to Minogue.

  “I know where I’d put me money if I was a betting man. This Kelly situation, I’m talking about. Accidental death, fleeing arrest. Any contraband in that lock-up? Not a sausage. Was there a tipoff? Go ask the tooth-fairy. So. That Chinaman’s going to walk. What have we got after all this? Zero. Feck-all. Nuttin’. They’re back laughing at us – in China too. But they’ll be back, you can be sure. No slip-ups next time.”

  Liam folded his paper and made his way over to finish pouring the Guinness. Kilmartin slid a twenty onto the counter. Minogue turned the glass a quarter way on the counter, and pondered yet again what a shame it was to ruin its creamy head.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei.”

  Kilmartin tapped him on the arm before he could lift the glass to his lips.

  “Mind your gob,” he said, and then he winked. “That’s blasphemy, man.”

  Passage of the Defamation Act had even Kilmartin rolling his eyes. Was Ireland getting its laws from the alphabet now, went his flat joke, from between Iraq and Israel?

  “You’re afraid God’s going to miss me, and hit you with his lightning bolt.”

  Kilmartin’s show of scorn was a slow, basilisk blink.

  “It’s not that. Do you look at a newspaper these days? The church…?”

  “Is there a new holy tree stump I need to know about? Some new miracle?”

  “What you have,” he said, “they have no cure for. The Commission, I’m talking about, the report coming out next week.” Kilmartin’s voice turned to a harsh whisper.

  “Child abuse? Priests? Dublin diocese? Bishops covering up? Planet Earth…?”

  Minogue took his chance. The foam touched the tip of his nose just as the Guinness delivered its silky chill.

  “How could that happen? A Christian country? With all we’ve been through?”

  Minogue kept the Guinness coming. An earnestness had entered Kilmartin’s voice now, and it brought to Minogue the dismaying thought that a lecture was on the way.

  “The church – the one thing that we had to keep us going. Wasn’t it? Your life could be shite – the landlord evicting you, your children barefoot, gone to America, gone to jail – but by God, you could go to Mass. Even if it was behind an old rock there in the glen, you could be sure that Himself above would listen to you. You had hope. See?”

  He drew up his shoulders and heaved them about. A calmness took over his face.

  “That’s how we prevailed. Eight hundred years. We had hope. And now look?”

  “We’ll rise again” was all Minogue could think to say.

  Kilmartin leaned back, a glint of the old raillery in his eye.

  “You want to know what I heard a fella say? Line ’em up against the wall, says he, and...”

  “Who the Chinese?”

  “Spare me, will you. The clergy who did that stuff, I’m talking about.”

  He nodded several times.

  “But this is what makes me laugh – or not laugh, I should say. Wince – that’s what I do: I wince. The fact is this: I’m a Garda officer sworn to uphold the law, and here I am, hearing citizens issue threats. Counseling others to commit murder.” “Murder, I don’t know. Manslaughter, maybe?”

  “Manslaughter my arse,” Kilmartin retorted quickly, his eyes narrowing. “Incitement puts you close enough to First Degree, boyo, if you want to legal on me here. But the law is the law. So should I do the Three Monkey Routine when I hear people talking about lynching priests or bishops? See no evil, hear no evil and that?”

  “You Mayo crowd can’t be bested in that regard, this three monkey scenario.”

  With that, Kilmartin shifted his stance. Minogue reached for his pint again.

  “Very droll,” he said. “Okay, you’ve heard the rumours, I take it. About Malone?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well that’s odd. Very odd. You must be the only man in Ireland who hasn’t.”

  When Minogue didn’t react, Kilmartin shuffled a little. “Well let me come at it this way then,” he said. “Nice and diplomatic, so’s I don’t upset you now. I’ll paint a picture for you. You ready? A hypothetical copper, working away in the trenches. He’s at the coal face, no let-up. The bad guys are winning. Okay? So this copper gets to wondering about things. He’s no thicko, he’s under no illusions. He’s paid his dues, he knows right from wrong. He sees what the courts do, and what they don’t do. Or what they can’t do, with our stupid ‘rights’ thing here. Still with me?”

  “Sort of. Maybe. Do I get to pick?”

  “There you go again, playing the gám g. What do you think I’m talking about? Law and order, is what. The basics! Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Malone is part of anything. But still and all, you have to ask yourself, you know.”

  “Ask myself what?”

  “Jesus,” said Kilmartin, his face twisting in exasperation. “Are you deaf,or are you retarded? Both, is it? Easy for you to laugh, and you whiling your time away up in Liaison there,with your pals in Brussels and Lyons and the rest of cappuccino land. But I’m talking about the streets of this very city. I’m telling you, people are angry. Don’t mind the banks robbing us,or the developers,or even the gobshites we voted in.Where’s the law, people are asking. Why are those low lifes, those gangsters, still on the street?”

  Kilmartin formed a weak smile, but it quickly faded. “So look. You’re being decent to Malone, getting him this job with you, this cold-case effort. I want to say that first, to acknowledge that.”

  “Will you stop calling it ‘cold-case.’ That’s the television talking.”

  “Okay, okay. Serious Crime Review thing, whatever the exact name is. But don’t try to dodge. I’m saying to you straight out: you’re sabotaging your career.”

  He drew back his head and waited for a reaction. Minogue stared at his hands.

  “What I said,” Kilmartin added, “I said as a friend. But it’s true. It’s a case of self-sabotage you’re looking at here.” Minogue was pleased, even proud of his restraint. “It’s a six-month thing, James, a six-month pilot project. How’s that sabotage?”

  “My point is, it’s nice you went out on a limb for Malone. Very decent, yes. I’ve got a lot of respect for that. A lot. God knows Malone could do with a bit of moral support, the way he’s been left twisting in the wind. By the way, meant to ask you: is it really true there wasn’t a one of them there this morning at the verdict?” “It is.”

  “Bastards. Anyway, here’s the thing. This new gig of yours? A grand stroke. You’re happy now? Good – run with it. Why invite trouble? Like you-know-who…?”

  Minogue took cover in another long, slow drink from the pint. Bits of Kilmartin’s earlier doom-laden pieces of advice about his new posting still clung to recesses in his mind: don’t end up carrying the can for some thicko coppers who messed up on a murder case. Kathleen had said it plain enough: Jim Kilmartin was jealous, plain and simple. Matt Minogue was making a good career for himself; Kilmartin’s had hit a wall. “Are you hearing me at all?”

  The head on the Guinness rested halfway down the glass now. Minogue stopped looking for any patterns on it.

  “I am and I amn’t.”

  “He’s a changed man, is Malone. I don’t think you get that. You think you know him, but you don’t. He’s not the Tommy Malone you and I worked with. So how does it make sense to get thi
s unknown quantity posted to your new gig there?”

  Minogue could only shrug.

  “A done deal, is it?” Kilmartin pressed. “Now that GSOC took a pass on him?”

  “Detective Malone starts tomorrow.”

  Kilmartin slowly shook his head. Then he gave Minogue a stern, pitying look.

  “I’ve got to be blunt with you. The talk about Malone? Don’t ignore it.”