The Coast Road (Matt Minogue Mysteries)

by John Brady

“I know what that means, that ‘thanks.’”

  “Jim, I’m on me back foot here. We are, that is. I haven’t read a quarter of the case yet. Okay? We won’t be seeing daylight in this for a while.”

  “It’s a woods and trees situation, Matt. Adjust your perspective here.”

  “Perspective how?”

  An ominous tone of whimsy replaced the urgency in Kilmartin’s voice.

  “A lot of birds turn up in odd places in this country. Did you know that? Yes, it was a nature thing on the telly, how oddball birds get blown off-course here, and end up in places like Kerry, God help them.”

  “Birds,” Minogue said. “Why are we talking about birds?”

  “I’m getting to that. There’s one particular bird not native to our shores, one lad you won’t see blown here on the wrong wind. Not in all your life. Know which one?” “The jackdaw? Or the cuckoo, maybe?”

  “Very droll. No. None of the above. The bird I am referring to is the ostrich.”

  Chapter 20

  Cuticle, cortex, medulla. Saying it a few times brought a rhythm to it.

  He let the folder close on itself. “Heavy going there, boss?”

  Malone hadn’t looked up from his own reading.

  “We had a saying at home: Don’t be kicking the dog to see if it’s awake.”

  Malone arched his back and stretched. He had stacked up his finished files in a low pile on his desk, and there they waited for Minogue to exchange for his own.

  “Way too deep for me. I was only wondering why you were talking to yourself.”

  “I’m sinking deeper into the gripping saga of…Hair Analysis.”

  “Fabulous. You done the shoes yet, the patterns?” Minogue shook his head. He had no urge to correct Malone’s grammar.

  “Not yet. I’m saving that one.”

  He looked at his watch. He still couldn’t concentrate. He rose, his joints reproaching him all the way, and made his way to Malone’s stack, and fingered through the folders until he came to shoe print analysis. He pretended to study the SICAR copies.

  “You okay there?”

  Minogue glanced up from the diagrams. Malone was tapping a biro on his knuckles.

  “I think so.”

  That didn’t seem to satisfy Malone.

  “No offence, but you look a bit, well I’m not going to say it.”

  “Go head and say it. ‘You look like shite.’” Malone waited.

  “That phone call…? Not that it’s any of my business. Wasn’t bad news, I hope.”

  Minogue wondered if Malone noticed that he’d been re-reading the same page.

  He waved the folder that he had picked up.

  “Is this one going to wake me up?” he asked. “Shoe prints?” Malone hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” Minogue said. “Relax on protocol for this one. I won’t tell on you.”

  “Okay, boss, on your say-so. That partial on his right temple? The rock did away with anything decent out of that. Can’t get a sole pattern, can’t get DNA. And the bruising on the body? That’s stuck at exclusions. Boots are out. Leather-soled shoes out. A few others out. But nothing on a number for assailants.”

  He slid back his chair.

  “I’ve been thinking about something else – time of death estimate. The famous eighteen to thirty-six hours.”

  “You know they can’t do miracles with that. What’s the issue?”

  “I don’t have an issue, issue. The team ended up leaning more on late afternoon, early evening. It’s June, it’s nice and bright, there’s still hours and hours of daylight left. That’s why he’s dragged into the bushes. There’s people around.”

  “And the lack of witnesses, or shouting or that?”

  “It’s tea-time. People are at home. Thing is, Larkin was drinking, right up to when he was done. So says the Lab.” “So who was up there drinking with him?” Malone closed his eyes and rubbed at them.

  “You want Theory A or Theory B…to Z?”

  “Go with the alphabet.”

  “Okay,” said Malone, opening his eyes suddenly and gathering himself in the chair. “Here’s Theory A: we find holes in the alibis for those fellas at the drop-in. Walshe, and the McArdle guy. When we can do that, we put them in the Park that day, that afternoon. So the situation could start out, there’s two there – Larkin, and one of the two. I’m going for McArdle there first. And at a certain stage in proceedings, two becomes three – crazy-man Walshe shows.”

  “And was this planned ahead of time?”

  “Let’s say arrangement,” Malone replied. “Did McArdle tell Walshe to show up? Don’t know. Did he entice Walshe out there, with a yarn about Larkin having something worth robbing – prescription, booze, money? Don’t know that either. Or did he just say, by-the-way like, that Larkin and him’d be up there drinking? So Walshe is sitting on this awhile, brooding, building up a head of steam over it.”

  “How about McArdle just wants Walshe included in a boozing session?”

  “Or Walshe put pressure on McArdle to get him in on it,” Malone countered.

  “All right. A boozing session gets out of hand when Walshe shows up?”

  “Right. Walshe, he loses it at the drop of a hat. So, no way is Larkin going to want him around, is he. Especially if what’s-his-face, McArdle, has to hold up his end of the bargain, the booze situation, with a bit of you-know-what. Perform certain services.”

  “Sex, you’re talking about, are you?”

  In place of a reply, Malone watched the progress of his biro as he let it roll across his knuckles. Minogue found himself staring at it too. Malone let it fall into his palm.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Just how out-of-it is this McArdle anyway?”

  “He wasn’t the full round of the clock from the start, I believe.”

  “Which doesn’t mean he can’t get up to trouble.” Minogue had nothing to offer.

  “How hard would it be for McArdle to con an old nun anyway?”

  “That I don’t know. But you want to go looking at McArdle as capable of murder? Planning one? Actually committing one?”

  “Okay, maybe it’s pushing things a bit. It’s down-and-outs we’re dealing with, I know. Maybe they don’t even know what they’re thinking themselves.”

  Neither man spoke for several moments. It was Malone who broke the silence.

  “Well anyway. I was only thinking of a situation where Larkin was pushing things with McArdle. Larkin had stuff, his booze, a bit of money. He can put the likes of McArdle in a tight spot. Can you see McArdle doing a whinge to somebody about that? To Walshe, say?” “Easy done, I suppose.”

  “But not a word to the nun. He’d keep it from her. Sister Im-ma-cul-a-ta. You think?”

  Malone’s exaggerated version brought Minogue back to Disciples. Taking charge was Immaculata’s default mode. It was in her voice, in her posture even, the cant of her head as she spoke. Nun powers indeed. But had he pushed back hard enough against a reflex of his own, a deference he had brought from childhood? How could he not respect – admire, to be honest – such a selfless woman, a woman who protected outcasts?

  “Boss?”

  Malone was eyeing him steadily now.

  “Are you okay there? I’m getting that ten-mile look of yours.”

  “No, you’re sound. Back to your theory. Inciting Walshe.”

  “Well I don’t know if I said ‘incite.’ The point I wanted to end on was the Walshe factor. Robbery, booze, jealousy – whatever, if we can find even an hour or two in his alibi…? But Walshe is way too good of a candidate. You know?”

  “Push the clock back on the time-of-death estimate, you’re saying.”

  “Yeah. Micro-environmental effects – yeah, I remember my reading. Lividity, that’s what, two, three hours? But it can move to four, five hours, right? And Larkin was running to fat too, wasn’t he? Plus, it’s June, so the temperature thing is going on more. Slowing things, like, the rigor?”

  “You want to push events
back to when?”

  “Late afternoon, say. Walshe shows up, sees whatever Larkin’s doing with McArdle and he goes nuts right away. Right-over-the-wall nuts. He has issues with any gay state of affairs, doesn’t he, some AIDS thing going on in his head, you were saying?”

  Malone paused then, and searched about for something on the table. He picked up his biro again, raised it up close to his face, and studied it.

  “So what could have been a scrap, or a beating, it doesn’t stop at that, does it.”

  He flicked his biro up in the air. Catching it seemed to offer him more satisfaction this time.

  “Anyway,” he said. “Whatever about that, there’s Larkin. He knows he hasn’t a hope, not a hope in hell. He’s not fighting, he’s curled up. And there’s not much padding, is there? It’s our so-called summer. He’s not wearing his regulation two or three coats anymore. The kicking goes on, and on. He’s in a rage, Walshe. It’s that sex thing with him, so he’s…”

  “In a frenzy.”

  “That’s the word. There’s your damage – the hands smashed, forearms. Fingers broken, wrist bones. Comes a point, Larkin’s not even trying to cover himself. He’s unconscious. That’s when you get the kicks in the side, most of them on the left. Cracked ribs, the Adam’s apple fractured, broken nose…that torn, or burst kidney. What else?”

  “Bleeding in the lungs, ‘direct result of high-impact blows to the back.’”

  “Okay,” Malone said, and he paused. “So Larkin’s in a bad way by now. But who knows? Maybe he’s going to make it – if he’s found then and there. So Walshe, or the other lad, decides there has to be a finisher. So he, or they, find a rock. Larkin’s on his side. The rock comes down there on the temple. That’s the finisher. The one would have done it, according to the medical. But he does it for three. Three was what the PM settled on, right?”

  Minogue didn’t want reminding of the photos of Larkin’s misshapen skull.

  “I’m with you. Go on.”

  Malone’s biro resumed its soaring and falling.

  “So now,” he went on. “Who’s going to move a big hefty fella like Larkin into the bushes? It ain’t McArdle, I can tell you. And this rock, what’s he going to do with it? Well, he’s obviously able to lift it, and to use it, so it’s nothing for him to take it away, find a spot, and fire it off the Hill. Are there places up there, maybe you know…?”

  “Plenty,” said Minogue. “Plenty of drop-offs there, not too far off the path.”

  “And there’s a fair bit of height there to that hill, isn’t there?”

  “Four, maybe five hundred feet.”

  “So you throw it, or you roll it, down there, it’s going to keep going. Needle in a haystack situation right away. And now, six months later…?”

  “What about transfer from the killing, the site, to Walshe? Shoes, clothes…?”

  “Throws them out, cleans them – who knows? He’s used to scrounging and that.”

  Malone whisked the biro out of the air. He hadn’t even tracked it, Minogue noticed.

  “Would have been nice if there were forensics done on his gear right away – Walshe’s I’m talking about. Don’t you think?” The raised eyebrow told Minogue enough.

  “Is that it for your A Theory so far?” he asked. “Had you maybe thought of a mob situation there? A Clockwork Orange type of event?”

  Malone cocked his head before answering, and squinted at a corner of the ceiling.

  “Yeah, I’d thought about that. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Nice, how?”

  “You know, videoing with their mobiles. Ever seen any of those happy-slap ones?”

  “I thought that fad had had its day a while back.”

  “Yeah, but remember the one from George’s Street last year? The brain damage one, where it got to YouTube for a few hours?”

  Minogue could remember. A link had been flying around by email, but the video was gone before anyone got to it. The DPP got a copy however, and even with the ritual plea-bargaining litany about deprived backgrounds, three yobs had gotten serious time.

  Malone spoke slowly, one eye narrowed.

  “Nah,” he said. “It just doesn’t feel right. Way to hell up there in a park? I don’t see skangers falling out of pubs and then climbing all the way up there. I’m no gom either: a fella I know from the gym works the Southside and he has stories. Stuff the brats out here get up to?”

  “How about they knew Larkin was up there, and made the trip up for the purpose, but it got out of hand?”

  Malone shrugged.

  “Still can’t see it. For me, it comes down to leakage. Six months, and there’s nothing? Not a sausage. Where’s the kid who can’t sleep and finally spills to his Ma? Where’s the weak link, the one who can’t take it anymore, waiting for coppers to knock on his door? So for me right now it’s leakage – as in lack of.”

  “So are we drifting into the wrong-place, wrong-time theory? Happenstance?”

  “‘Happenstance’? Did you just make that up?”

  “Bad luck. Karma. Larkin bumps into someone there. Something as simple as a comment, a look even, could have set it off?”

  “It happens,” said Malone. “Doesn’t it? People are on edge these days. Say, a fella lost his job. Can’t pay his mortgage, things are bad at home. So he’s out for a walk, just to get away from things. And bang – he loses it, for whatever reason, and takes it out on Larkin.”

  With that, he let his head back to study another part of the ceiling. A voice, and then laughter, resonated from somewhere downstairs.

  “Okay,” Minogue said then. “We’re in happenstance territory.

  Say Larkin sees something, walks in on something. Witness to a crime in progress. Drug deal?” Malone grimaced.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s bit wide for me, I have to say. Who’s going up there in the woods for a deal? Some gobdaw buying a few grams for the weekend? Nah. I just don’t see it. We’re talking about a five-second handover in a doorway here. And if it’s a real junkie, is he going to be making his connections all the way up some hill? No way. The call is made, the place is set, the buyer shows. Straight cash, hello, bye-bye.”

  “I could see him stumbling on a pipe session maybe,” Malone went on after a few moments. “But you know, maybe we’re making it complicated, too complicated.”

  “Complicated like…?”

  “Why not just a Peeping Tom thing? Any sign of him doing that in the past?” Minogue shook his head.

  “That’s not to say it wasn’t in his repertoire,” he said.

  “Okay, yeah, right,” said Malone. “Doesn’t make much sense. There was rain that day, wasn’t there?” “Yes, there were showers that morning.”

  “Right,” Malone said, with a grunt. “Nearly forgot. It rained the whole shagging summer, didn’t it? But let’s say Larkin’s a flasher then instead. So there he is, waving his mickey around, and doesn’t see that the woman is with someone. Her fella goes ape. When this guy cools off, he sees he can’t leave Larkin the way he is. So he drags him out of sight, comes back in a bit and brings a rock with him. But he never lets on to the girl friend though.”

  Malone’s frown reappeared.

  “Naaah,” he said, and he wagged his head side to side. “Like she’s never going to cop on that her fella killed Larkin? She can’t be that thick. And is she going to keep quiet about it forever?”

  “Maybe not forever, forever.”

  “Okay. We push it out on CrimeCall again then, with a decent video of the place?” “Sooner than later, you’re thinking?”

  “Why not,” Malone replied. “Do a re-enactment of that angle even, like we know about it already. That’d shake her up, and—”

  The ringtone was muffled, but Minogue recognized it right away: the Little Richard screech that Malone had played in the pub. Malone drew out his mobile, eyed the screen. The cleft between his eyebrows deepened.

  “I’ll phone you back,” he murmured, and end
ed the call. He pocketed the phone gingerly. His face had a clouded, almost plaintive look now. “Just a couple of minutes…?” Minogue tried harder to look indifferent.

  “Go ahead,” Minogue said, and quickly turned away. The door closed behind him.

  Chapter 21

  The footfalls creaking closer in the hallway had to be Malone’s. Minogue had enough time to pretend to be deep in the forensics again.