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

by John Brady

  And nobody knows, he couldn’t stop thinking. Nobody here knows except Roe and himself. There was no one to turn to; there was no help. Grogan had left him swinging now. Somewhere around here Beans Canning was lolling about, on the piss maybe. Playing bloody video games, probably trying out this spy camera stunt that that bollocks had been trying to palm off on them the last time they were out.

  Quinn stopped. He massaged his eyes, pushed them gently back in their sockets. It brought him no relief. He couldn’t keep thinking like this. It was more of those bastards and their scheming up there again, Grogan’s mob. That’s how they operated, setting people against one another. He thought about trying Grogan’s number again. Maybe someone had robbed his mobile. Right—Grogan had left it somewhere by mistake.

  Foreign students, the place was full of them. They didn’t talk, they babbled and they shouted and they screamed while they barrelled down the footpaths and out on to the roads even. He grasped the rolled-up jacket tighter, imagined it going off. But no way was he going to check the safety again.

  The place was packed, just packed. Teenagers everywhere, a few oul wans on the bandits, a family there annoying the mother and father for money for The Claw machine. The racket from the arcade began to separate from the noise of the music in the shops nearby. He recognized the thump and squeal of bumper cars drifting over the video games every now and then.

  The lookout with the Doberman was here again, complete with shades. His head turned toward Quinn, and then down to the dog. He wrapped the leash, secured it, and said something to the dog, who sat. He started to head over to where Quinn had stopped to suss out the place.

  “The Law’s here,” said the man with the dog. “Plainclothes. They went out again.”

  “When?”

  “Only a minute ago.”

  “Anyone with them, coming or going?”

  “Well, I seen them talking to a fella.”

  “What fella?”

  The man hesitated. He looked back to his dog leashed to a lamp pole. People were giving the dog a wide berth.

  “You’d be doing me a favour here,” Quinn said.

  “Well, it was Bren they were talking to.”

  “Bren, who’s Bren?”

  “Bren Gannon. The bumpers and that stuff. He does them.”

  “Gaga?”

  “Yeah. People call him that.”

  Quinn examined the man’s face, tried to see through the tint in the glasses.

  “So you’re a friend of his, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really,” Quinn repeated to himself. No, why would you be. It was every man for himself out here, everywhere now, wasn’t it.

  The man with the dog was waiting.

  “Does Gannon have his own thing on the side here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Tries to fence, to move stuff?”

  “Maybe.”

  Quinn looked over at the dog. The bugger was watching everything they did. Very protective, Quinn half-remembered. He reached up quickly and plucked the shades off the man’s nose.

  “Are you on the make here,” he said. “Are you a two-faced lying bastard, strung out on something, would sell his mother down the river for a hit? Are you?”

  The eyes were a bit bloodshot. He said nothing, but didn’t look away. The dog had stood up, Quinn saw now, and was scratching at the cement.

  “Well then. Do you know everyone here then?”

  “A fair few. A fair few.”

  “Do you know me?”

  He nodded. The eyes were moist and red-rimmed. He needed more than a few nights sleep for whatever got him this way, Quinn decided.

  “How?”

  “The day before yesterday, you were here. With another fella.”

  Quinn stared at him.

  “A short fella, gold bracelet. Likes to play on the games here sometimes.”

  “What time of day was that, then?”

  “A quarter after two.”

  He made a signal to the dog, which cocked its head to the side. He signalled again, and the dog backed to the pole and sat. The man was slow to bring his eyes back to Quinn’s.

  “You’re a nosy bollocks,” Quinn said. “You know that?”

  He shrugged.

  “That could get you into a lot of trouble. You hear?”

  “More for you, I’d say.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  Quinn grabbed his collar. The man seemed to have expected it. He kept his eyes on the crowds.

  “You have some mouth on you.”

  He glanced at Quinn for several moments. Quinn let go of the collar slowly.

  “If I find out you’re trying to wind me up, I’ll do for you. You hear? Today—right here. You hearing me?”

  “I know what I seen. Why would I make up stuff? I gets paid to keep me eyes open.”

  “Who pays you?”

  “Management.”

  “What, are you running a thing here? Who are you with?”

  “No. It’s legit. I know everybody. They don’t want hooligans or knackers ruining the place.”

  “Just you?”

  “Me and the dog. That’s all.”

  The ache rolled relentlessly back into Quinn’s forehead.

  “Okay,” he said. “The cops are gone, you said?”

  “One of them came out this way. He says how-do to me. He knows, right? Then he went up the lane there, the lane leads up to the shops.”

  Quinn watched a young couple leaving Wonderland. The girl was arguing with the boy. He reached up to hit her it looked, but stopped. He shouted at her, but she didn’t back off. She called him a name, and he stormed off.

  “So I’ll keep an eye out then, will I, Mr. Quinn?”

  Quinn stared at him. Brazen.

  “Okay. Are you going to try and charge me for that?”

  “I’ll take what you give me.”

  “You’ll get a damn sight more than you expect if what you told me turns out to be wrong too, let me tell you. You and your dog here.”

  “Mr. Quinn.”

  Quinn turned back.

  “The fella who was with you the other day.”

  “What about him?”

  “The cops weren’t talking just to Bren.”

  Quinn thought about just swinging the gun up and clobbering him.

  “Don’t say that,” he said. “I don’t want to hear another bleeding word out of you, you lying bastard. I’ll deal with you later for that. You know who I am, what I— What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “He’s here.”

  “You’re sure? Where?”

  He nodded toward the bank of consoles.

  “In there?”

  “I didn’t see him coming out either, not this way, in anyhow.”

  “You’re sure? I swear to God, if you’re playing games . . .”

  “I’m sure. I don’t make mistakes like that.”

  Quinn looked into the gloom.

  “That should be worth something, maybe,” the man said.

  Quinn jabbed him in the chest twice, slowly.

  “You be here when I come out. Don’t move an inch. We’ll see what it’s worth.”

  He brushed against a trio of teenagers hanging off the back of the seats for Grand Prix. The engine sounds were so loud here they were coming up through his shoes. The woman at the counter, Valerie or whatever she called herself, had spotted him. She’d have seen Beans too, she was no dope, he decided. He headed her way, trying to blot out the racket and the heat and the pain like a bar pressed in over his eyes. He was a couple of steps away from her, and she was waiting for him to speak, when he saw the man stepping out of the jacks.

  What he knew now didn’t have to do with the man’s face, which he didn’t see anyway, or the fact that he wasn’t a kid. It wasn’t even the way he walked, the familiar stride that he couldn’t place, the way he was in a hurry but trying to not let on that he was in a hurry. The Ad
idas bag was in the left hand, like before, like he was going to a game, or to the gym. It wasn’t just the way the man moved. It wasn’t even the fact that he wasn’t one of the million teenagers here. Not even the moustache, although there was something about it, or the hair. What it was, was a few things together. Mostly it was a tiny thing going on in Quinn’s mind, like why is a bloke that age carrying a rucksack here, he’s not a kid coming home from school, is he, and there’s no school anyway. And why is he in a hurry but trying to not let on that he’s in a hurry. Why is the packsack new anyway; a warm summer’s afternoon; an arcade full of kids. It was something else yet scratching at his mind, and he couldn’t ignore it. What was it about the guy that felt familiar?

  “Roe,” he yelled through the noise, and he pushed away from the counter and headed down the other side of the consoles toward the front door. In a space between two games he saw the man brush by a kid, the kid calling after him. Quinn pushed a girl aside, ignored a teenager’s “hey, watch it you gobshite” and made it to the end of the row. The man with the rucksack had been slowed by a bunch of kids, but he was nearly out. Quinn moved to the middle of the passageway, shouted again. The man glanced over this time. He turned and began making his way back.

  Quinn felt his arms go weak, a tremor in his legs. He took a step down the passageway, knew he might be hurting kids as he pushed them hard to the side. He clutched his jacket tighter. The man with the packsack had skipped beyond the crowd.

  Quinn cleared the end of the passageway and hurdled the wooden barrier for the bumper car arena. Gannon, the thick who’d gotten Canning out here, was out on the floor fiddling with one of the cars. A guy at the controls had jumped out on the floor, shouting. He got close to the running man, and made a grab at him. Quinn got around three stalled cars, and saw the dodgem fella take a step back, with his arms up at his shoulders. Gannon stood with his mouth open. The man with the moustache was pointing something. Then he lowered his arm, and the gun, and ran.

  Someone was screaming now, a girl. Quinn felt in his jacket for the pistol, thought how stupid this was. His legs were almost cramping as he stood rooted to the floor, unable to decide. He studied Gannon’s open mouth, tried to guess what words he was struggling to say. All this might not be actually happening, he thought. A nightmare, or he’d been in some accident. A heart attack or a stroke or something?

  A girl fell as she tried to get out of one of the stalled bumper cars. People were rushing around him. Gannon was coming over his way. The other fella who ran the bumpers was half-walking, half-skipping back toward him too, looking over at the door out into the laneway. Quinn thought of Canning, the man with the bag leaving the toilet. He knew in some part of his mind that wasn’t working right now that he had to get out of here. They’d do anyone, they would. Maybe it was too late.

  Just Let Me See Him

  Minogue watched Malone biting his nails. He thought that Malone had broken the habit a while back. The turning hand reminded him of someone sewing. The air in the laneway seemed to be holding a smell of chips and vinegar and sugary flavouring in front of his face.

  A young man and a girl with the sideways look and freckled, ruddy faces came up the lane, arguing. The jaunty “How’s it going boss” from the man as he passed, the wink that told Minogue he’d been made as a Guard, said tinkers to Minogue. Traveller, he should say. Whatever, as they said on the telly now. Whatever. Iseult had lit into him a fair bit not long back about that. The girl resumed swearing at the man over money before they were gone ten feet farther down the lane.

  A new disco racket began pouring out of the speakers now. Abba was back, again, again? Minogue examined the speaker set down by the door to the arcade to see if it was actually vibrating on the cement. He could kick the wire loose handy enough without electrocuting himself. He went back to the photocopy of Doyle’s tattoo again. He tried to remember more from Niamh Kenny’s painting.

  “This is stupid,” he heard Malone call out over the music. “I’m going in and pull him out. I’ll bloody-well Gaga him, I can tell you, if and he’s done a bunk on us.”

  There was a shriek from somewhere close by. Minogue looked down the lane. Malone looked over at him, and turned toward the door to the arcade. The man running out had one of those sports bags in his hands. Not a young fella, Minogue saw. But pickpockets come in all shapes and sizes, didn’t they? And tinkers worked in gangs, didn’t they? This one was a butty of one of the pair that had just gone up the lane?

  “Oi there,” he heard Malone call out. “Oi you, stop it right there.”

  The man was breathing hard. He looked up and down the laneway. He was holding something in the bag. “Red-handed,” Minogue muttered. Malone stepped out to block the laneway now. Right at two Guards. And the odd-looking hair had to be the crappiest disguise. A true pro, by God.

  “What’s your hurry there pal,” he said.

  Minogue saw the man pull something up from the bag. Ditching whatever he’d robbed, was his first thought. Then he waved something at Malone.

  The panic that grabbed Minogue seemed to be noise, a great roar about his ears. Malone had gone into a crouch and he was backing across the laneway, pulling at his own jacket. Minogue let himself fall sideways toward the wall across from the door to the arcade, heard his own knee crack as he went down. The cement was uneven under his hands, greasy, and luke-warm. He kept his eye on the barrel of the pistol as it wavered, and he saw the man’s hand snap as he let off a shot. Kilmartin was right, he realized again: a suppressor made a sound like a mallet.

  He knew it was Malone shouting now but he didn’t know what Malone was saying. He pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around his head, felt the wall at his back. Malone let another roar out of him again. He heard an automatic going off again and again, counting five, then six. There was a sound of a shoe scuffing nearby, the jarring slap of a bone on cement. How often he had heard it when kids fell, the shocked second before they began to wail with the pain and upset.

  He moved his elbow and saw the man with the moustache stir once on the ground. Malone was sitting, his back to the wall across from him.

  “I’m hit,” Malone said. “Boss, you there? I’m hit, I think . . .”

  Minogue felt the cell phone in his pocket grinding into him as he slid across the cement. Wrappers, ancient bits of blackened bubble gum he hadn’t noticed before, gritty parts to the cement. He kept his eyes on the fallen man.

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  He wriggled to within arm’s reach of the man and rolled up on to one knee. Then he threw himself on him. He heard a breath, he thought, but there was no push back.

  “I’m on him,” he called out. “I have him.”

  He got his knee between the man’s shoulder blades. He felt the wet soak into the knee of his trousers. He pulled at the right arm that had gone under. Malone was getting up now, his mouth open and his back arched. Minogue looked down at where his knee was lodged. There was red on the man’s jacket there.

  Malone hopped, fell back against the wall, holding his thigh.

  “Give me a line on him, boss, just let me see him.”

  There were faces in the doorway, a shout. Minogue had the man’s right arm at the elbow. The man was slack still. He pulled the arm out, saw the finger jammed, broken even, in the trigger guard from the fall. There were flecks of blood on the man’s neck. Minogue stared at the way the head was twisted, saw the edge of the netting where the wig had slipped.

  He grasped the wrist now and tugged at the grip of the revolver.

  “Hey!” Malone roared then. Minogue looked to where he was now pointing his pistol.

  Quinn’s mouth was open. He crouched, took a step back.

  “On the ground,” Malone shouted. “Put that jacket out there in the ground—drop it! Drop it!”

  Quinn’s nostrils seemed to have disappeared. He let the jacket down on the cement. Minogue pushed down again with his knee and worked harder to get the pistol out
of the fingers. He pulled the hand back and slid the gun over the finger. The wig had moved up on the man’s head. It was probably over his eyes by now.

  Minogue was light-headed when he stood. He kept his thumb on the hammer. He heard screaming start up again from somewhere in the arcade. Malone’s voice had a ragged hoarseness to it now.

  “I want to see your hands,” Malone called out to Quinn. “Flat out on the ground. And folley them down, the rest of you. On your face!”

  Malone squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head once. He pushed himself away from the wall with a grunt. There was blood on the cement where he’d been.

  He dropped plastic restraints on the pavement.

  Minogue pushed off from the fallen man, his eyes on Quinn. His knee was burning now, and he let his fingers run over it, felt the rip in the fabric, the torn skin. He watched Quinn’s arms go up along the cement. Quinn was saying something. Malone told him to shut up.

  “Keep your arms up there,” Minogue said to Quinn.

  He started at the ankles. He pushed down on Quinn’s neck with his left hand.

  “Hey,” said Quinn, “I’m not going to—”

  “Not a word out of you.”

  Malone was wheezing now. He lurched in closer.

  “I have him, boss. Okay. Clip him up, I’m on him.”

  Minogue thumbed off the gun he had taken from the fallen man. He pulled the lead tight through the restraints, and closed the cinch. He tugged at them, felt the weight of Quinn’s arms, and let them down again.

  “Christ,” he heard Malone say. He turned, saw Malone had unwrapped the jacket. Quinn’s pistol was an American .38. Malone slid it out and emptied it, left it open on the cement for Minogue.

  “Who else have you here?” Minogue asked.

  “I swear to God,” Quinn said. “I’m not in this at all, I only came out to stop him.”

  Minogue drew Quinn’s left arm down first. He pulled the retainer tight and secured it. Quinn’s cheek pressed harder into the grit on the pavement, but his eyes stayed on the shoes of the fallen man. Minogue tested the nylon tie and stepped back. Malone hadn’t been able to bend down to retrieve the pistol. Minogue picked it up again, snapped it closed, and put it in his other pocket. Malone let out a low grunt and sucked in air through his teeth. He began to hobble, he stopped, and he leaned on Minogue. Minogue had his phone out already.