by John Brady
“Wannabes, the pair of them are,” said Wall. “My fella doing this ‘yo yo yo’ thing with the fingers like a rap star. Pulling on his trousers, and his willy even. He must think he’s on MTV.”
“Yo yo yo,” said Duggan, and struck a pose.
“My homeys in the hood,” said Wall.
“New string, same yo-yo,” said Duggan.
Any second now the kettle would pop.
“Swap over I’m thinking,” said Minogue.
“More pressure?” Duggan asked. “Are we ready?”
“Fair enough,” said Minogue. “Time to put a bit of torque into it.”
“We go the sexual exploitation route now?” Wall asked. “The young ones?”
Minogue nodded.
“Tell them the girls are back in for their second interviews,” he added.
“Ah,” said Mossie. “So it’ll all come out tomorrow.”
“No,” said Minogue. “Tonight. I’m after calling the girls’ parents.”
Wall looked at his watch.
“We need to,” said Minogue. “So just out with the goods, tell this pair. And tell them they’re out of time. They need to straighten their heads now and tell us what we need to know.”
“Push on,” Duggan said.
Minogue nodded. The kettle popped. Minogue got up slowly.
“I’ll be moderately keen to find out how that Tara Lynch’s mother, how she’ll react,” he said, “when it gets to her daughter having sex with Matthews.”
“Begob,” said Duggan. “Blood and snots flying. See wuzzup then, homey.”
Minogue poked about for anything beyond tea. Though the room was warm enough, he shivered as he looked through the cupboard. There was granulated coffee, cup-o-soup stuff, sugar. He ended up making a pot of tea. Duggan was explaining to Wall that hip-hop was a lifestyle, but rap was only music actually, when the phone rang.
Minogue didn’t try to eavesdrop. His guess was accurate enough. Soon enough Duggan put down the phone. Slowly, thoughtfully, and a little wryly, he eyed Wall.
“The other girl is downstairs now,” he said.
“Good,” Minogue said. “I’ll do it.”
“Her, ah, father is with her this time too,” Duggan said.
“Grand.”
“Maybe not. He’s on the boil apparently. Big fella. One of the heavy equipment lads who dug the Port of Dublin tunnel. Dec Ahearne below says he might start throwing shapes any minute.”
“Vexed?” Minogue said. “Great. We’ll add that to the pot.”
“You mean tell the boys inside?”
Minogue nodded.
“Watery, or real tea?” he asked.
“All the way,” said Duggan. “Him too.”
Minogue dropped in three bags and put the lid on the pot. He studied the stains on the table.
“Whose girlfriend was the Tara one again?” Wall asked.
“Matthews’,” said Minogue. “The other one, Ali what’s-her-name. She won’t be fourteen until the end of the month, I found out.”
“Thirteen years of age,” said Wall and shook his head. “What are we coming to in this country?”
With that, the room fell quiet. Even the wail of an ambulance nearby seemed to leave the stillness intact. Lost in thought, Wall stroked his neck. Praying, Minogue wondered. Praying for the souls of Ireland. Duggan had his feet stretched out, almost pulling him down from the chair where he slumped, his elbows crossed jammed on the armrests. His hands joined at the fingertips only. This time the phone was painfully shrill. Wall was closest.
“Thanks,” he said after a few moments and put back the receiver.
“The Lynch clan,” he said. “The mother and the daughter only. Floods of tears apparently.”
“I’ve an idea,” said Duggan, grimacing as he hauled himself upright in the chair.
“We put the two girls’ families in a room with those two fellas. Let them do the work for us. How about that?”
He stood up slowly and stretched.
“Jesus,” he said with little feeling. “Oops, sorry there, em, Stoney.”
Wall issued a tired grin.
“Slips out,” said Duggan quietly.
“As my mother used to say,” said Wall, “God is patient.”
Duggan shot a brief, rueful look Minogue’s way.
“How long can they keep this up,” he murmured, “before even they cop on they’re going nowhere?”
Minogue took three Styrofoam cups off the pile.
“‘We only found him there, we didn’t do it!’” Duggan went on, in a poor version of a Dublin accent. “‘We thought it was a hit and run!’”
Minogue held the lid on the teapot and he poured.
“Thanks,” said Duggan.
“Who’s good downstairs at interviews?” Minogue asked.
“Dec,” said Wall. “Declan Ahearne I told you about. I know he’s on evenings. Fin Flaherty’s good too. Plainclothes.”
“I saw Fin earlier on,” said Wall.
“Big hefty fella, Finbar Flaherty,” said Duggan. “Very intimidating but he’s as mild as milk.”
“Have they any doings with this case yet?”
“They do,” said Duggan. “They were door-to-door for a few days, and they did some city-centre work with the notices and the photo circulation. They’re on call for this when we need them.”
“Can yous get them up to speed then,” Minogue asked, “on the situation with Matthews and Twomey? Ten-minute chat say?”
He looked up in time to see the two detectives exchange a glance.
“They’d be taking over then?” Duggan asked.
“Not a bit of it,” said Minogue. “We’re just going to shift the goalposts a bit. Let’s bring them in as specialists.”
Duggan’s eyebrows went up under his bedraggled hair.
“Specialists in what?”
“Sex crimes, let’s say,” said Minogue. “That ought to do it.”
“Well now,” Duggan said slowly. “I like it.”
Wall lowered his head a little and looked at his colleague before turning to Minogue.
“Wouldn’t last long on remand up on Mountjoy,” he said. “Would they?”
Minogue looked in the next cupboard for hidden biscuits.
“That might be of some concern to the pair of them,” he said.
“Jesus,” said Duggan quietly. “Ah sorry, Stoney. Sorry about that.”
“Jesus what,” Minogue said, suddenly exasperated with the enforced piety. “We have two fellas stonewalling us.”
He tried not to read any reproach into the pause that followed. Still, he felt a silent reproach from Wall for his use of the Holy Name.
“What about consent?” Duggan asked then. “These young ones are fierce… you know? These days?”
“A bit wild maybe,” Minogue agreed. “But I don’t see a thirteen-year-old girl consenting to sex, do you? I doubt her father would either.”
Neither detective said anything.
“Will you doctor your own tea lads?” said Minogue. “There’s only that lousy whitener stuff apparently.”
“Thanking you,” said Wall.
Minogue saw that Duggan was still thinking about it.
“They might be able to laugh off a trafficking charge,” he said to Duggan. “But if either one of them has a titter of wit about them, they’ll know it’s time to deliver.”
Duggan’s face took on a fixed expression.
“I like it,” he murmured. “Yes I do. I like it.”
Chapter 32
“Idon’t see him” said Fanning. “He didn’t come out of the house.” Cully was looking through the menus on his mobile.
“Take it easy,” he said. “He’ll show.”
Fanning was sure that Cully sensed that he was on the edge of panic. He tried to breathe through his mouth calmly. The rubber tang from the stick-ons was making him nauseous.
“He’s late,” Fanning said. “Call it off.”
Cully looked ove
r.
“You need to be patient,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”
“This makeup stuff is the worst, I feel like puking from the smell.”
“Ain’t you been around that stuff though? Your books thing, films?”
Fanning ran his fingers around his cheekbones and his forehead again. The stuff felt like scabs.
“I wouldn’t know you now,” said Cully. “I swear.”
“That’s ironic.”
“Ironic?”
“Coming from you, I mean. I don’t know you, do I?”
“That’s funny,” said Cully. “I like that, yes. Funny.”
There was that English accent slipping in again, Fanning noted. He pulled the mirror open at the back of the visor. The interior light of the car was yellow.
“See?” said Cully. “You’re a natural. It’s aged you ten, twenty years.”
Fanning tilted his head to see if the grey had streaked or gathered in one spot. Cully reached between the seats and pulled a jean jacket from the floor.
“Look, enough,” Fanning said. “This is not working out.”
“No worries I said. He’ll be there.”
“Is he watching us? Does he know we’re parked here on his road?”
“No he doesn’t,” said Cully. “You have to change into these boots – and you’re using a hat, right?”
“And if he doesn’t show up?”
“He’ll show up. He does what he’s told.”
“Who’s telling him?”
“We’ll talk about that later. Use this.”
He dropped a watchman’s hat on the console.
“Do the boots outside, then we’ll go into the shop. Wear the glasses.”
“I don’t want to wear glasses.”
“These glasses have a tint to them. It shifts your eye colour a bit.”
“‘Shifts?’”
“I don’t know. Just wear them. Every little bit helps.”
Fanning closed the mirror and pushed the visor back. He watched the headlights on the cars passing up the road. When the roads were dry, the reflection of their lights flooded the surface of the tarmac with a dull shine.
“Is this a setup?” he asked Cully after a while.
“What?”
“I said, is this a setup.”
He couldn’t tell if Cully was angry or amused.
“A setup?”
“Right. Are you a Guard? Like some undercover type?”
Cully shook his head.
“And I’m some kind of bait?”
Cully eyed him.
“You want to call it off then,” he said in a flat voice. “Right?”
Fanning imagined himself stepping out into the damp night air, walking by the houses, their windows flaring and glowing with the televisions, and crossing the road to the shop.
“What does this guy look like?” he asked Cully.
“No idea,” said Cully. The abrupt shift to an almost pensive tone caught Fanning offguard.
“Young bloke I imagine. His dad’s in the business, or was.”
“Was?”
“He’s doing time somewhere. Why do you need to know? Oh, right. ‘Background?’”
“You’ve never seen this guy?”
“The dad?”
“No, the one who’s supposed to be at the shop.”
“No. Why would I. None of my business really, is it. I just made the call. Got told where to go. That’s how things work.”
“All to show me how I can get ahold of a gun in Dublin.”
“Right. How easy it is.”
Cully opened the door and left it slightly ajar. Fanning waited for him to look over.
“I’d feel a lot better about this,” he said to Cully, “or at least, I could get it straight in my head, if I knew what was in it for you.”
“What, for me?”
“Yes, for you.”
Cully seemed ready to smile.
“Well you’re going to pay me right? Like Murph. Whatever the going rate for him is.”
Shadows cast on Cully’s face, but the overhead light hit off his eyes.
“Something tells me that you mightn’t be in it just for the money.”
Cully leaned back against the door. Fanning was surprised to see a smile broke out on his face.
“Well I have to say this film business thing interests me a little.”
“I’m only doing research.”
“Have to start somewhere, right? But what I’m saying is, I was always interested in films.”
“Who isn’t,” said Fanning. “Pirates of the Caribbean, right?”
“War films actually.”
“Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’? Are they not good enough? Ever see The Thin Red Line?”
“Okay, so you want to be Colin Farrell. Fine.”
Cully let the quiet last.
“You’ve got stagefright,” he said at last.
“That’s what. Blathering away there. Trust me, you’re safe as a house. He’s not going to make you. And you don’t even have to say a word, do you. Just buy those fags, and let him hear you. Pay for them – we’re not doing robberies, remember. Then you meet him outside, you take the bag – and then it’s pip-pip, over and out.”
“If he wants to talk, or ask me questions?”
“He won’t.”
“Or asks me for money now?”
“Won’t happen.”
The draft of night air flowing into the car carried a faint smell of coal smoke.
“And yes,” said Cully. “I’ll be parked here. Where we said. Promise.”
“Well at least you’re enjoying yourself. Easy for you to sit here.”
Cully spoke in a quiet voice.
“Look. It’s no big thing. Just relax.”
“That’s Murph’s script too: just relax.”
“Really. Well let me tell you something. If Murph said ‘relax,’ then that’s when you should worry. Now when I say it, I mean it. You’re in good hands.”
“How do I know?”
“Murph would have dragged you into a lot of situations. I’m telling you.”
Fanning elected for silence. He tried to ignore the pungent scent of the glue working its way into his nostrils again for another assault on his patience.
“And the thing is,” Cully murmured, “you wouldn’t have known, would you. Until it was too late.”
Chapter 33
ALI ROGERS HAD THE REGULATION TIGHT clothes and half-on blouse over a tank top, and the too-small jeans. She sat hunched over; spoke only in whispers; never looked up; continued to pick at her hair. The kewpie-doll hank of hair tied up on the right side of her head disturbed Minogue. Child or vamp, was the message he was receiving from it.
Her father had a glazed look in his eye, and was breathing hard right from the start. He was often given to staring at her, sometimes breaking his stare to look up at the ceiling and then allowing his gaze to settle back on to the bloated, blotchy face of his daughter.
Mrs. Rogers, Margaret, was intense, and held herself away from the chair back. She was half her husband’s size. She wore the same type of leather jacket as he did. Minogue tried to remember if she were thirty-five or thirty-six. He didn’t know if it was makeup or a sun-bed tan she had.
Another Garda, Maeve Dwyer, had come in for the interview. She stayed in her civvies. The quiet in the room soon became oppressive.
“Tell the man, Ali,” said her father.
The mother glared at him.
“Was it Aidan’s idea?” Minogue asked.
She shook her head.
“Justin’s?”
Again she shook her head.
“Yours? Tara’s?”
This time she made no movement but stayed hunched in her chair.
“Come on love,” said her mother.
The girl’s voice was a little hoarse.
“I said, already.”
“You said nothing,” said the father. His jacket creaked as he r
e-crossed his legs.
Garda Dwyer gave Minogue a glance. For a moment he wondered if Women’s Aid training courses for the likes of Garda Dwyer had included how she should be taking down very large, irate Dublin men like Rogers.
“Ali,” said Minogue. “Can you see where we’re coming from? A man was beaten up, and now he’s dead. Why would he be beaten up and all his valuables just left there, the way you’re trying to tell us?”
“He was,” she said.
Her lips were almost sticking together now with a line of dried saliva.
“He was…? He was dead, are you saying?”
“I suppose, I don’t know.”
“Why did you think he was dead?”
“He wasn’t moving,” she whispered.
“Was he breathing?”
“I don’t know. There was blood.”
She nodded and she opened up her hand to let out a balled-up tissue.
“Because Aidan–”
“No! Stop saying that!”
The father leaned in suddenly with an ominous creak of leather.
“Didn’t I tell you? Stop trying to protect those two fu–”
Minogue raised his hand. The girl’s father stopped and looked down at his wife’s hand with an expression of disgust.
“Leave her, Paddy. Just leave her.”
“I’m not going to sit here and watch her digging her own grave, am I!”
“She’s not,” said the mother, with her effort at patience clear in how she was holding her breath. “Just leave her. We’re here to do what’s right.”
“This is only helping those bastards!”
Minogue wasn’t sure who he had meant. He kept his eyes on the girl. Her eyes moved from side to side but her face remained slack. The red streak and the highlights in her hair kept reminding Minogue of some exotic bird.
“This is a farce,” the father snapped. “A farce entirely.”
“Would you shut up,” said the mother. “Excuse me, but would you just for once? What good are you doing with the carry on of yours?”
“I know what I’d like to do,” he retorted. “That’s one thing I do know. And by Jesus, if it comes to that, no better man.”
The mother rolled her eyes. Minogue saw her chin quiver.
“Mr. Rogers.”
Narrowed eyes turned to Minogue.
“This can’t work if you carry on like that.”
“Carry on? The pot calling the kettle black here, I’d say. I’m not the one dragged a little girl into a police station near midnight, to question her. Am I?”
