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

by John Brady

“Was he talking to you?”

  “Jesus, we’re married, Bobby, you know.”

  “I mean, about work. Only that.”

  “I’m going to tell you something, Bobby. Maybe I shouldn’t though.”

  “No—Jackie, you can tell me anything. Really. I don’t mind.”

  “Okay. . .. He’s kind of, fidgety. A bit jittery lately, like restless? He gets like that—you probably know better than me.”

  “But that’s easy fixed, Jacq—”

  “Well, maybe. But I don’t know. He’s not happy in himself. Things aren’t going his way, like. And he wants his own thing. That’s what it comes down to, Bobby. I mean, don’t get me wrong.”

  “Right,” he said. A coiling, like acid, was going on in his guts now.

  “He doesn’t have the patience maybe he had, Bobby. It all catches up on us, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re right there.”

  “So that’s the drinking too, that’s a sign. He went off early, and I smelled it off him before he left.”

  “He just needs a chat, Jackie.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Bobby. It’s very personal with him, you know?”

  “He wouldn’t want you worried, Jackie. It’s between me and you here.”

  Quinn wondered if it was a sob or a sigh he heard then. Her voice was more pinched now, higher.

  “He doesn’t like the other people involved, Bobby. Doesn’t trust them. In work, like. He’s not comfortable with them.”

  “We can work on that, Jackie. I know we can. It takes time, right.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Tell him if he asks, okay? Tell him that you think Bobby’s forgetting to do things right by him. To include him? Everyone takes their mate for granted at some point, right?”

  She swallowed and he knew she was trying not to cry now.

  “It’ll work out,” he said. “But Jackie, you have some idea where he goes when he’s out of sorts. Right?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “He just said, well he said he was going to see a fella. Some idea, some new idea he could work with, his own thing.”

  “Did he say who?”

  “No, no. He just said he’d be glad to get out of the city for a bit anyway.”

  “He didn’t mean going on the lorries again, did he, you know the fruit limo down to the culchies?”

  He could tell she was trying to rally now.

  “Ah, no. But he did enjoy that, I remember, back at the start anyway. He did. No, he didn’t say that. He just headed out, hardly said a word. I says, will you be home for the tea - and he says nothing. Then he says . . . what did he say again? Something to do with bumper cars. ‘I’m going on the bumper cars today,’ he says. What bumper cars, I says.”

  “The dodgems?”

  “That’s what they call them isn’t it? Where you go around crashing into other fellas?”

  Quinn’s thumb was beginning to cramp. He changed hands on the phone.

  “Where would he go for that, Jackie?”

  “God, I don’t know. Don’t they have them here in town?”

  “You said he’d be aiming for getting out of town for a bit.”

  “Well, I suppose. You know something? I meant to tell you, but I had this same conversation already today. Another fella. Well, sort of like this one.”

  Her laugh was fake.

  “What,” he said. “What other fella?”

  “Ah, I’m addled here. No, it’s just funny, sort of. I sort of just assumed it was whatever fella he said he was going to meet.”

  Quinn was holding his breath. He turned the mouthpiece up, away so she wouldn’t hear his breathing. A cop, he thought, maybe even a few of them, like Grogan said. On the payroll. No wonder the bastard was coming apart at the seams.

  “I just told your man the first thing that came into me head,” she said. “Just something in his voice so irritating, you know? I was in a bit of a rush, the phone’s ringing, I’m late, the kitchen’s like a bomb hit it and I’m heading out the door, see?”

  “Who was it Jackie, who phoned?”

  “I don’t know, I’m telling you. He said he was supposed to meet Beans today, but Beans hadn’t said where exactly. He asked me where he’d be, ’because he didn’t go to work, right?”

  “He didn’t say what it was about, did he?”

  “Well, I wasn’t in a humour of dealing with him, especially seeing as he was so, well, sarcastic—”

  “How’d you mean sarcastic?”

  “Like, sarcastic.”

  “What was he cursing or slagging you?”

  “No, no. It was just the tone. Says he, ‘Would I be correct in assuming then that Larry will be absent from the office today?’ ‘The office,’ Jesus. You know.”

  “It is an office, Jackie. It is.”

  “Sorry, yes, but you know what I mean, right.”

  “Sort of Northern?”

  “Yeah. Probably. Well spoken, but in a weird way.”

  Quinn’s scalp began to crawl now. The heat wasn’t registering with him anymore, it was something else.

  “What’d you tell him,” he said.

  “Ah, I fobbed him off—I actually put down the phone on him.”

  “But what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘For all I know he’s off on the bumper cars in Bray or somewhere like—’”

  “Bray? Why did you say Bray?”

  “God, I don’t know, Bobby. It just popped into my mind. Larry mentioned he was out there a few times, you know, work.”

  Quinn shivered once. He wiped his forehead and looked at the moisture on his hand. He thought of Doyle, cursing as he slid across into the passenger seat to get out that moment before he heard the shot. Doyle’s foot kicking up at the door as he was thrown back. He turned and looked at the people walking along the promenade, the cars that had begun to move.

  “It was just to get rid of him, Bobby.”

  He got back into the traffic and took the first turn back into the town that he could. Why was he on the lookout for a van? That’s how his head had gone, just stupid.

  He found a car leaving a spot near the DART station. He probably wouldn’t get closer than this with the car. He turned off the ignition and rolled up the window. Roe wouldn’t have the neck to do it in broad daylight here with crowds around.

  He might.

  He felt for the bag under the seat and tugged at it, thinking of the soft pressure from the magazine spring as he had loaded the clip with ten rounds. He pulled up the bag and wrapped it in his Adidas jacket and laid the bundle on his lap.

  The car felt like an oven now. He was pouring sweat, his face swollen with the heat. He should just turn the key, drive back into Dublin, and do the smart thing: get Catherine and Brittney, go to the airport, and leave. He could do some things by phone from there. It didn’t matter if things fell apart for a week, or a fortnight, or forever, for that matter. Grogan and them weren’t going to just walk all over them here.

  The bundle felt a lot heavier than it should. He remembered when he’d first picked up the gun off in that pub out in what do you call the place, Enfield. CZ, what was that, why wasn’t there proper stuff being sent down to him, he’d asked. The guy who’d showed up was from up there, of course, with a serious sneer. Liam says to take his word for it, it’s a good one.

  His hand went to the door opener but he stopped. Drop the matter, Grogan would tell him. Start the engine and just get out of here.

  He opened the door instead, felt the dread drop into his chest. He stepped out onto the road, the bundle held tight to him. He tried again in his head to talk the panic away. He’d find Beans first thing, just grab him, shove him in the car, and go. Pull off the road in a quiet spot somewhere and give Beans god damned Canning the going over of his life, see if there was even an atom of truth in what Grogan had told him. Give him a little talking-to about loyalty.

  He smelled candy floss somewhere, seaweed or sewage maybe. He checked the doors were locked. He knew he couldn�
��t panic now; a cool head, keep the lid on this. He looked up and down the promenade. Packed, like he’d expected. But why did everything look so weird, so dangerous here now?

  Gaga

  Minogue felt in his pocket for the photocopy. What was it about tattoos, he wondered. Was it really as pat as self-mutilation? It couldn’t be. He looked around the arcade. The fella with the mohawk and the dog had pegged them going in. He squinted back into the glare. Mohawk still hadn’t moved off. No doubt there’d be other lookouts.

  The bass beat of the music was going right through his jawbone. He saw Malone edging his way around clusters of teenagers by a machine that had something to do with dancing. There was a wicket of sorts next to a counter, and next to that a display of gewgaws you could win. The woman behind the counter dipped her cigarette in an ashtray hidden below the counter and took a drink of Pepsi and returned to her Hello! He moved on.

  The bumper car arena had a garage-sized doorway on to the lane at the side of the building. It looked like there were two fellas supervising. Malone too had started eyeing the goings-on the floor here. He caught Minogue’s eye and nodded at one of the two men moving between the bumper cars. That was Gannon then—Gaga: tank top, a wispy goatee, the sunglasses up over his head.

  Gannon had a litheness to him that reminded Minogue of a monkey. The swings from the bars, the fluid landings, bounds and even springs as he moved between the cars were like a ballet routine. He swung up onto a platform, and his mate, a young fella with an almost bald head and the same wraparound sunglasses, slapped a button.

  That, Minogue saw, was when Gannon made him. Gannon turned and said something to his mate, and then he skipped over a partition. But Malone had read him right: he stepped out into Gannon’s path from behind a support column. For a few moments, it looked like Gannon might make a run for it.

  Minogue took his time getting over, slowing to watch two boys blasting people in some American city.

  “Mr. Gannon,” he said.” A word with you?”

  He watched the lips seize to quell a stammer.

  “Yu-yuh-yuh….”

  Gannon stopped and sighed, and shook out words.

  “Your must be joking me.”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Leave me the hell alone, is wah-wah-what I said.”

  “What’s the rush,” Malone said. “Where you going?”

  “I have nothing to say to youse. So youse can sh-sh-shag off. It’s a free country.”

  Minogue looked around Gannon’s face. A boy really.

  “It’s only free if you have the money,” he said.

  “What? Www.. what does that mean?”

  “We’re trying to get in touch with a fella. You know him.”

  “Don’t talk to me. I’m out of here.”

  “Okay,” Minogue said. “I’ll leave the money with the dog fella over there, then.”

  “What muh-muh-money?”

  “Don’t be worrying,” Minogue said and reached into his pocket. “It’s square.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m giving you your wages, is what I’m doing.”

  “Are you m-m-m-mental?”

  Minogue took out two tenners and folded them carefully. The woman at the wicket had caught on now.

  “Should I leave it with the woman over there for you instead?”

  “Shag off the b-b-b-both of you, I know my rights.”

  “I hope she gives it to you later on,” Minogue said.” People these days, you know?”

  Gannon’s face twisted up.

  “Don’t you try that, you f-f-fu-fuh— you bastard.”

  “You have the idea now, do you.”

  “That’s the lowest I ever seen, even from a copper. The l-l-l-lowest.”

  Minogue kept up his gaze at the man at the controls. “How could you see anything in those sunglasses.”

  “Who do you think they’ll believe,” he said. “I mean to say, are there people who believe that a Guard’s going to just walk up and fork over twenty quid to you, for nothing?”

  Gannon shifted his eyes from Minogue to the woman at the counter.

  “You’re a low-down bastard, is what you are.”

  “I’ll meet you over there by the door,” Minogue said. “A couple of minutes, just so’s you can go and explain yourself and look tough with your mates there.”

  Gannon’s eyes narrowed. Minogue wondered if he was going to spit.

  “Go on with you,” Malone said. “Give us a few more hard ones with the bad language too. Play to the gallery, yeah, a bit of the old drama. You git, you.”

  “Screw you too,” Gannon said and he walked away. “B-b-b-bollocks.”

  Minogue did some head-shaking. Malone shouted a parting curse at Gannon.

  “Okay,” Malone said then. “I have to go to the jacks. I’ll be out in a sec.”

  A bumper car hit another hard and hopped. The two girls inside screamed and Gannon swung out to push the car back onto the grid.

  Minogue headed back toward the counter. Malone had stopped next to a bank of video games. He caught Minogue’s eye and flicked his head toward a gaggle of students playing racing cars.

  They were Italian or Spanish, Minogue didn’t know yet, around the three car-racing games. Aftershave galore, olive skin, beautiful eyes. He moved around them and saw the man that Malone meant him to look at. The man was holding a gun at the end of a wire. For a moment Minogue couldn’t remember him. The man shifted into a shooting stance.

  Canning, it was, Bobby Quinn’s fella.

  He edged his way around to see the screen. “LA COPS”: a few cars overturned on a city street, and bad guys leaping up at random from behind things.

  “And you,” Canning said. “You’re a goner too. You bastard.”

  Minogue leaned against the side of a Race Team 2000 pretend motorbike. There were sweat patches down Canning’s shirt. Minogue smelled whiskey breath.

  A warning came on the screen, a timer counting down. Canning shifted on his feet and shot faster. He was drunk, or close enough, Minogue decided. On a bender. Maybe he’d gotten a payout for something.

  The game ended with bullet holes on the screen, and red paint flowing down. Continue, it said. Canning tried to jam the gun back into a plastic holder. He missed once, a second time, and then threw it at the console.

  For a few moments when he turned, Minogue wondered if Canning would just gawk and walk. Maybe he was in the DTs and think he was seeing things.

  “Well,” Canning said. “Well, well, well.”

  Minogue nodded.

  Canning took a step back and tucked a shirttail into his trousers. Minogue heard his breath whistling in his nose. Canning straightened up, but his eyes seemed to still wander.

  “You getting paid for standing there?”

  Minogue nodded again. Canning belched and rearranged his feet.

  “Robbing the taxpayers. That’s what. You’re all the same, you are.”

  Minogue kept up his study. Canning was trying too hard to keep still, but he swayed again and had to move his feet again.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “I’m waiting for my laundry,” Minogue said. “I hear it’s the place to go. When you need to launder things.”

  A sneer spread across Canning’s face and he sniffed loudly.

  “Oh, very funny. Very bleeding funny is what you are. I don’t think.”

  “Are you part of the cast here then?”

  “Cast? What are you saying cast?”

  “Do you scrub the collars, is it, or iron the sleeves here? The laundry, like.”

  “You’re a gobshite, is what you are.”

  Minogue glanced at the LA Cops screen.

  “Did you always want to be an LA cop?”

  “A comedian, beJaysus,” Canning said, louder. “He thinks he’s a comedian. Go and shag off and leave me alone. And not be harassing me. You culchie shit-kicker, you. And your sidekick, what’s his name, Tonto. The Dub.”r />
  “Muhammad Ali, you mean.”

  “Get out of here. You’re in me light.”

  Canning pushed by Minogue and shouldered some students out of his way. Minogue considered trying a Drunk and Disorderly on Canning.

  “Out of the way youse.. youse . . . budgies!” he heard Canning shout over the din. “With your babbling and your gibbersish—out of me way!”

  One of the students made a stand and said something; but Canning didn’t stop.

  Then Minogue saw the bag left under LA Cops. He picked it up and looked down into it. A cardboard box had been hurriedly repackaged. He slid back the tab and pulled out a bubble-wrapped package. Some kind of electronics, a heavy enough box, a thing with a lens. Initials CCD.

  Canning came back barging through the students. He grabbed the bag. Minogue let go of the straps.

  “You thief, you! Look at you. Robbing stuff.”

  He headed back through the knot of students. This time they made way. One of them caught his eye.

  “Loco,” he called out, tapping his forehead.

  Leaving by the promenade door, he saluted the fella with the dog.

  “Isn’t it grand weather now at last?”

  Dogman merely looked away.

  Minogue headed around the corner to the lane. Malone was already there. There was no sign of Gaga Gannon.

  “Guess who or what nearly ran me over coming out of the jacks,” Malone said.

  Minogue didn’t want to spoil it.

  “Canning,” Malone said. “You know, Quinn’s go-for? And he’s maggotty drunk.”

  I Know What I Seen

  Bobby Quinn’s headache came on so fast. It had started just after he had stepped out of the car. Right away he knew it would be a bastard, one of the ones he’d started to get in prison. Two doctors told him it was migraine. Another doctor told him it probably wasn’t.

  The pain had started in his left eye. In no time at all it was in the both eyes, like nails, and the whole thing topped off with one of those ice-cream headaches. It’s the sun, he thought through the fog of pain starting. The lousy sleep he was trying to get by on. This unholy mess he was in.

  He began to forget that he looked stupid and conspicuous, and probably a bit mental, with the jacket over his arm. He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight, but that didn’t slow the pain. It just gave a yellow cast to much of what was around him, a sort of a worn-out look to everything. The sun off a passing windscreen went through his eye like a blade.