Wonderland: An Inspector Matt Minogue Mystery (The Matt Minogue Series Book 7)

by John Brady

  Wrong about the solicitor bit, Minogue thought. A doctor, a pharmacist maybe.

  “Okay.”

  “He didn’t get a good impression of the others, I must tell you. The other Guards.”

  Minogue nodded.

  “He said that the Commissioner would be sending out someone though.”

  He examined a painting that had no frame, something with sea in it.

  “Colm knows him socially, you know. Commissioner Tynan.”

  He gave her a quick glance.

  “Do you think you could let your brother know that I’m here?”

  There was a pause before she turned toward the door, but he didn’t take his eyes off the painting. A bit of the actress then too, he decided.

  “Do you drink tea, Guard,” she said then, leaving.

  “Only coffee,” he said. “But thank you.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  Would it always be like this, he wondered. Even with the changes, would he always be the mucker standing in the ditch, and the likes of Úna Fahy, MD or LLB or whatever, be the townie. His Ireland was still improbably small scrubby fields you fought with to rear a family, only to watch them leave; theirs, music lessons and boarding school, future solicitors and doctors and pharmacists. The very ones that Iseult scorned, but hoped would show up at her exhibitions to buy her work. No, no, no: this couldn’t be, he decided. Silly to still think like this. That was all gone by the board; it had to be.

  He looked over when the door of the kitchen was yanked firmly open. Here was Mr. Colm Kenny then, angry, half-mad, demanding, stricken father. But the same Kenny had felt it kick in by now, Minogue knew as he took in the ravaged face of Niamh Kenny’s father. She wouldn’t be coming home; this really had happened, it was still happening; this couldn’t be stopped, denied, ignored, shouted down.

  So this was it, Minogue knew, and the glam Euro job and the nine to five and the rest of it wouldn’t measure up. What mattered was going with this man and his wife, people he would never have met otherwise, strangers almost, and trying to do something that he had never been able to put words on—certainly not help—but a settling of some kind, with an unspoken promise that made no sense really at all, to somehow fix things.

  Kenny looked like he was wavering a bit on his feet. The voice was a whisper.

  “Are you the one they said they’d send?”

  “I am,” Minogue said. “I suppose.”

  Foremost in Our Minds

  It was the way Kenny spoke too. He must lecture or something, as well as the architect thing, Minogue decided.

  “You have to understand,” Kenny said again. “This is not some accident. It’s not misadventure.”

  Minogue came up with a thoughtful nod. He continued his leisurely, covert inventory of the room. Paintings he thought he recognized, the style or artist at any rate. A startling metalwork thing that looked like a Famine thing. High up were the skylights filled with branches and leaves.

  “We need to keep that foremost in our minds, right?”

  Minogue nodded again.

  “Because I know, I know, just how expectations shape a thing, right from the start. Yes? And if you, I mean we, go in to something with preconceived notions, well you know what happens then.”

  “That’s in your line of work, is it, Mr. Kenny?”

  “In any line of work that requires thinking.”

  Minogue had discovered a spider web in the corner of the ceiling.

  “You know what I mean don’t you, about the power of the subconscious?”

  “To be sure,” Minogue said. “Could we talk a bit about Niamh’s mates?”

  Kenny blinked several times. In a trance, Minogue thought. He’d noted the twitch in his eyelid earlier, wondered when it’d be back. Kenny let his stare sink slowly down to his hands.

  “I know the last fellas here, the other Guards, didn’t have much time for this. No doubt you know that already.”

  Minogue waited for him to look up before he replied.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Kenny.”

  “What’s okay? What do you mean, it’s okay?”

  “There’s no one can tell anyone else what it’s like, that’s what I mean. You can say what you want. I don’t keep score, or anything.”

  Something changed around Kenny’s bloodshot eyes but Minogue couldn’t decide. He wondered what it was like to grow up around a father like this, the intensity of him.

  “I could tell right away,” Kenny said. “The Guards, when they came in. The very first time. What they expected, what they assumed. People notice, you know. They might not be aware of it, but people take in stuff.”

  “Ah,” said Minogue. “Now you’re talking my job description.”

  He took out his Biro, hoping Kenny would get the hint.

  “They saw well-to-do people,” Kenny went on. “Busy career parents. Kids who got overlooked. Spoiled, I bet they thought.”

  “Oh, I don’t know now.”

  “Rich people getting their comeuppance. I could feel that coming from them.”

  Minogue wrote today’s date carefully. That seemed to be working, he understood: Kenny’s eyes were following the movement of the Biro now.

  “Like we deserved this, somehow.”

  “That’s an effect of the shock, Mr. Kenny. That feeling—”

  “—There’s a word for it, if I can remember it. I really have to rest, I know. I don’t think I can though. I can’t stop, you know.”

  “Schadenfreude,” Minogue murmured.

  “That’s the word,” Kenny whispered. Minogue smacked himself for the vanity.

  “You said that all the stuff from Niamh’s locker was delivered here this morning?”

  Kenny didn’t seem to have heard him.

  “I’d like to have a look at those items, please.”

  He waited for Kenny’s eyes to focus, to find his. The man’s eyes turned toward Minogue eventually, and even returned the contact, but to Minogue the empty look remained.

  Back to Civilization

  Quinn let the phone ring six times before he gave up. Catherine was gone out to the shop or something. Tonight he just wanted to sit with her, just like the old days. Whatever she wanted, well that’d be fine, even if it was a curry thing out of a package. His stomach hadn’t been completely right since his time inside; it was the only thing that had given out on him, and he had never talked about it even to Catherine.

  Or they could go into town, one of those places down the Temple Bar. Then they’d go for a few jars in that place she had talked about last week. Maybe even Brittney could go over to Catherine’s sister for the night, stay with her cousin Samantha. Yes, he thought: Mammy and Daddy are going out on a date.

  The clouds had come back, swiped the sun that had cheered him only a half an hour ago. From the mouth of the alleyway he watched a lone van coming along the seafront, dipping the odd time to slough water from the puddles. The place here actually felt greasy: the air, the wet roadway, the leftovers of the rain still darkening the gables on the older houses along the promenade. Light ragged surf, broke beyond the railings. The pinks and baby-blues on some of the walls made the place look like a big toy, like melted ice cream dropped in the gutter.

  Quinn didn’t like standing around here, but he was damned if he was going to stand inside the arcade at Wonderland while Canning shovelled money into his stupid shooting-game things in there. He watched seagulls circling over the beach.

  He could just go ahead and book tickets to Portugal and surprise her. And if she came up with the what-will-I-say-at-me-job, or I-hope-you’re-going-to-include-Brittney? Ah, she wouldn’t, things weren’t that bad. He’d tell her that this trip was very important for them as a couple. He wondered if she’d read the horoscopes lately too, if she had seen what he had seen as a common thread behind them: reconnect with your loved ones, get back in touch. The one in yesterday’s Sun said it all, actually: get your priorities right, Cancer, you’ll always have a career, but you m
ight get laid off by your family. A bit harsh, what?

  It was going to rain again.

  The weariness came down on him again. He headed back to the arcade. The same fella with the dog he’d seen on his other trips was still hanging around. He gave him a nod. Quinn ignored him, tried to peer into the arcade instead. The noise was actually getting into his teeth. It took ages for his eyes to adjust. There was no sign of Canning here where he’d last spotted him. Quinn made his way through the arcade, by the motorbike games to the shooters that Canning liked.

  Then he spotted him, the shape of him at least, in silhouette, yapping to someone over near the dodgems. The other fella was showing Canning something, moving it around, pointing to it. He stood facing them but Canning didn’t notice him.

  Quinn sized up the other man as he made his way over. A ring in the ear, a tattoo, the hair almost shaved. Hundred-quid sneakers, but he smokes. Another one of the local stars, right.

  “Come on, he called out to Canning. Let’s go.”

  “H-h-here,” said the other man. “Let me s-s-show you then.”

  Quinn looked at the small box, the wire that looked like on the mobiles.

  “I was just s-s-showing your mate this thing, it’s brilliant, it’s a camera.”

  “Get lost,” Quinn said.

  “But you don’t even kn-n-now what I’m going to show you.”

  Quinn flicked his head toward the door.

  “They’re all u-u-using these now, did you kn-n-now that?”

  Quinn headed for the door. The man came with him and tapped him on the arm.

  “Don’t do that,” Quinn said.

  “What? I can’t hear.”

  “I said don’t bleeding do that. I’m not interested.”

  “What, you don’t want to kn-n-now what this beauty can do?”

  “Shove it, pal. Are you deaf?”

  “Oh, ignore a p-p-perfectly good suggestion. Tells you who’s serious then, doesn’t it.”

  The cheek made Quinn stop. He turned. Canning had caught up with them.

  “What are you on about? Do you want to get yourself a going-over here?”

  The man glanced over at Canning.

  “You, you bollocks, why’d you tell me he was interested, you—”

  Quinn shoved him in the chest and stepped after him. The girl in the booth looked over. Canning’s hand was on his arm now, pulling.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “Yeah, I do. Bobby Quinn, right.”

  The man hadn’t tried to move Quinn’s hands off his shirt.

  “Show a bit of respect there,” Canning said. Quinn wanted to tell him it was a bit late to put on this act now.

  “Do you see me arguing,” he said, “do you? All I’m saying is have a l-l-look at this. This is what the Russians and them use, you know.”

  “What Russians,” Quinn said. “Are you on drugs or something?”

  “Ah come on now, do I need to t-t-tell youse, really?”

  “What did I just tell you a minute ago,” Canning said.

  “But this is so easy!”

  He held up the camera by its antenna. Quinn let go of his shirt.

  “No wires, see? You can w-w-watch from across the street and you can tape it all too. PIN numbers. Yeah? Garages, cash points, shops—anywhere. It’s b-b-brilliant!”

  Quinn looked down at the man’s lips where he had wrung out the words that were choked by his stammers. Maybe he was high.

  “It’s magic, you know, m-m-magic! And I can get them for you and set them up.

  You can sell the numbers you get on the camera, I mean you d-d-don’t have to do anything else.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Gannon, Bren Gannon. There’s lots I do, you know, this isn’t the only s-s-stroke, you know. Oh yes, I always have me eye out for b-b-business, and opportunities.”

  Quinn looked at Canning. Canning shrugged.

  “Matter of fact,” the man said. “Maybe you’d know me, or me n-n-name, from a mate of mine, you know him.”

  “What mate?”

  “Doyler.”

  “What or who is Doyler?”

  “Come on, you know Doyler.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Quinn said. “What are you on exactly?”

  “What, he does be out here n-n-now and then. See the sights and all—Sunny Bray and all that.”

  “Why is it always pissing rain in Sunny Bray then?” Canning asked. “Ha ha.”

  “Oh that’s a g-g-good one. But Bray’s very popular spot, let me t-t-tell you. It can’t be all that bad here if youse are out for a v-v-visit, can it?”

  Quinn took a step back. The wink, the shuffling feet, the bad teeth, he thought.

  “Gannon, are you?”

  “That’s me, Mr. Quinn. Bren.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “Maybe you can help us out a bit here. Bren.”

  “You want the c-c-camera for a few days, try it out? No bother—”

  “Shut up and listen. Here’s your job. You tell Doyle that when I catch up to him, I’m going to break his arms, and his legs, in a door.”

  Quinn held the man’s eye with his stare.

  “Tell him it takes time to do it that way, but I want it that way because they don’t usually pass out until later on. Got that, have you?”

  Gannon said nothing.

  “Tell him it’s on account of him being a stupid, big-mouth, gobshite. Can you do that for me?”

  Gannon looked over at Canning now.

  “And when you’re finished that little job, I want you to get on your bike and get to hell out of here. Out of Bray, for that matter, and stay out. ’Cause if I ever see you, or if you ever try to walk up to me like you just did once more, or even nod my way, you won’t be using your legs for a long, long time.”

  He heard Canning breathing hard to catch up to him on his way back to the car.

  “Lost the rag there a bit, Bobby, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t you ever get me involved with a little shite like that again.”

  “Don’t you think he might be on to something though?” Canning asked, across the roof of the car. “I mean, I’m only saying.”

  “Don’t talk to me. I told you about stuff like that, didn’t I? So don’t talk to me.”

  Canning sat in after him.

  “What,” said Quinn, “we have every wannabe in Bray thinking they can walk up to us like that, nudge-nudge, wink-wink?”

  “Opportunities, Bobby—”

  “—Did it strike you for one minute that that stuttering bastard could be a set-up?”

  Canning rolled down his window.

  “No need to lose you rag over it,” he said. “Is there.”

  Quinn started up the Opel. He listened to the exhaust. Yes, there was a hole in it somewhere.

  “We should be keeping an open mind though, right,” Canning said. “I mean, there’s no harm, is there?”

  “Keep your eye on the ball, will you. That’s all I want to see, or hear.”

  “What ball, Bobby? Can’t I do a bit of me own thing?”

  “Do what you like, but don’t get me dragged into it. In any way.”

  “Well Jesus, I mean, what’s gotten into you? You’re biting me head off every chance you get. Ease off, will you?”

  “I’ll ease off when I know you’re not some magnet for gobshites like that, fellas that’d bring you down as quick as anything—would bring me down with you.”

  “Ah, it’s harmless enough.”

  “It isn’t—nothing’s harmless.”

  He drove hard back down the seafront and turned under the railway bridge and up toward the centre of town. What a difference a patch of blue sky made. The jitteriness came to him as a kind of breathlessness now. Canning lit a cigarette. He said nothing until they came to the stop sign by the Royal Hotel and the sign to get back out on the N11.

  “Back to civilization then,” Canning said.

  They had a good run after the roundabou
t in Loughlinstown, and got green lights all the way to Stillorgan. Quinn braked and rolled down the window more. Canning was humming along with a tune on the radio. In one ear and out the other, Quinn thought. At least the ache in his neck hadn’t turned into a headache—yet. Yes, he had decided not long after getting out of Bray, he could go to the travel agent before they closed today.

  Canning realized that Quinn was looking at him. He stopped humming.

  “What?”

  “You’re a bollocks, Beans,” Quinn said. “Do you know that?”

  “Takes one to know one, I say.”

  “Keep away from the video games. They’ll only make you dizzy.”

  “Piss off. You’re only jealous cause you’re crap at them.”

  The tiredness hit Quinn like a wave now. His eyes slipped out of focus.

  “What are you thinking about?” Canning asked.

  “Oh, nothing. I could use a bit of a holiday, maybe. A bit of the beach and that.”

  “Well, I got that idea pretty quick, didn’t I. All over your man back there.”

  “That type of a chancer, what’s his name, Gannon—”

  “Gaga they call him.”

  “Well, he is ga-ga. He’d only drag us down. The cops would play the likes of him like a fiddle.”

  “Well, maybe. Maybe.”

  “I’m telling you,” Quinn said.

  “But don’t you think he’s onto something, with that stuff? You know, getting those card numbers and selling them?”

  “Look. If he’s a mate of Doyle, that says it all. Am I right or what?”

  “You got a point. All right. But a camera like that?”

  “Forget that shite? You’re driving me mad with it.”

  Canning looked out at the cars using the filter light to turn off up to Stillorgan.

  Quinn stifled a yawn while he waited for the words he expected; but Canning remained silent.

  Salvage

  Minogue got through to Malone after three. Collins had come and gone in that quiet mole-like way of his. Tunney was somewhere in the building. He hadn’t been too interested after Minogue had told him that the dead girl’s father hadn’t clawed his eyes out. Minogue didn’t feel a need to tell him that he had come away from the Kennys too aware that he was working hard to fight off that feeling leaking steadily into his mind, that Tunney had been right from the start. Misadventure, salvage, had been circling in his brain, driving him bonkers.