The Going Rate

by John Brady

  Cully’s half-smile returned and then dissolved.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on her there. You and her wouldn’t be fighting if neither of you didn’t care, would you.”

  “It’s hard to remember that when you’re in the middle of it.”

  Cully nodded, and yawned.

  “So we’re okay then,” he said. “You and me.”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Even after you read the papers, or whatever you writer people do every day.”

  “Right.”

  “Because, sooner or later, you’ll come across something, and you’ll wonder,” Cully said. “Sooner, rather than later.”

  “There are a lot of those kinds of things in Dublin,” said Fanning. “What happened there, with that guy. It probably won’t make the papers.”

  “Well there’ll be something,” said Cully. “I’m pretty sure about that. Just want you to think about that.”

  “I gave you my word.”

  “They have the car by now,” said Cully. “Doesn’t take much, obviously.”

  “The car. What car is that?”

  “Murph’s car.”

  “A lot of joyrides end up like that. I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Leave it to Murph to worry, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well he’s not worried.”

  “That’s good,” said Fanning. “I suppose?”

  “It’ll take them a couple of days though,” said Cully. “On account of the petrol.”

  “Well I could phone him and tell him if you like,” said Fanning.

  “That’s a good one. I like that. Nothing wrong with a sense of humour, is there. Sign of that creativity thing, isn’t it. That’s what they say.”

  They looked at a lone cyclist on a racing bike heading out toward the Scalp and Wicklow.

  “Wants to get out before the rush hour,” Cully murmured.

  Fanning felt the weight begin to ease.

  “So…?”

  Cully looked over.

  “I’ll give you a lift then,” he said. “You were making a run for it, weren’t you?”

  Fanning froze, but saw that Cully was putting him on.

  “From the missus,” he added.

  “I was going to go into town, see if someplace was open, I could get a cup of something. Think things over – with her, I mean.”

  Cully started the engine.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Fanning allowed himself a bit more room to stretch.

  “Don’t forget your belt there,” said Cully. “Don’t want a fine now.”

  He pulled out slowly onto the road.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Fanning.

  “Falluja,” said Cully. “Let me guess. That’s another story. But not now.”

  “No, I wasn’t thinking that. More like, why you’re interested in this stuff. What I’m doing, I mean. Scriptwriting is not that exciting, you know.”

  “Oh I don’t know about that. But to tell you the truth, I’ve always been interested in films. I mean who hasn’t.”

  He looked over at Fanning.

  “Larger than life, and all that? Better than the real world, and that’s no joke. Right?”

  Fanning was not in a mood to disagree.

  “Money, of course. There’s money in making films, isn’t there?”

  “Not enough,” said Fanning. “From my end anyway.”

  Cully had dropped something down between his seat and the door. He stopped fumbling for it to change into third gear.

  “Never quite realized the impact of a camera,” said Cully, and began fumbling again. “But, like I mentioned there, you see things.”

  “What place is that?”

  “Falluja. Actually not in the place itself.”

  “I thought it was an expression of yours, you know, I’ve got a pain in the fallujia, or something? Like a cockney expression or something?”

  “Cockney?”

  Fanning saw that he had stopped fumbling.

  “Just a guess,” he said to Cully. “It’s not important.”

  Cully looked over at him. His face had taken on the blank expression that Fanning remembered from the dog fight.

  “I’m Irish,” said Cully. “People don’t seem to think that’s proper, or something.”

  “No offence,” said Fanning. “Really. Look, at this stage, I’m just babbling, I’m so knackered. Just stupidity. I’ve been saying stupid things all night. But I’m going to fix that. Starting with Bríd. She’s right, you know.”

  “They’re always right,” said Cully, absentmindedly, and returned his attention to the road. “Aren’t they.”

  Fanning closed his eyes to yawn. Opening them, he saw lights in the mirror, a car turning onto the road behind them. An early shift, he thought; nurse maybe, bakery or the like. Cully had noticed it too.

  “Much more practical,” said Cully, glancing in the rearview mirror again. “Women. Wives.”

  Something was working its way into Fanning’s mind now, and it suddenly loomed.

  “They say that men are the facts people, but it’s not true,” Cully said. “They make things up more than the women, I tell you.”

  He turned in his seat to look at Fanning.

  “They lie more too.”

  “Wait,” Fanning said loudly, the terror already engulfing him.

  He saw Cully’s hand come up, and the flash that came at the same time as the explosion. The belt cut hard at his neck. There was another flash but he did not hear any sound this time.

  Chapter 47

  “JAAAY–ZZUS,” said Malone, and pocketed mobile. Minogue hadn’t even tried to pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping.

  “They had a row, you say,” Minogue said.

  “They did all right.”

  “Over what he was doing, she said?”

  “Or not doing,” replied Malone. “But, man, she’s upset now, I’ll tell you.”

  Minogue spotted the Toyota coming around the bend at speed.

  “Her mother, I think,” said Malone. “I got her to phone them.”

  “Well it’s father driving, I think.”

  Malone climbed slowly out of his car. Minogue half-listened to the hurried conversation with Bríd O Connor’s parents. The mother had been crying. The father looked angry and frantic, drilling a stare into Malone as though to extract something from him.

  Malone was patient for a man who had been up all night. Minogue heard him say something about all avenues. He hardly means the roads around here.

  “Hard to know what to tell them,” Malone muttered as he sat in again.

  “You phoned him in officially, did you? Missing Persons?”

  Malone nodded.

  “She’s beating herself up over it,” he said. “Over why she waited. On account she was so mad at him. All in the past now, I can tell you.”

  Both detectives looked over at the house when they heard a shriek. Bríd O Connor clung tight to her mother. The door closed awkwardly.

  “What do you want to do,” Malone said.

  Minogue shook his head. He thought of Matthews, and Twomey, the two girls. Proper little bitches, he remembered the desk Sergeant muttering yesterday evening.

  “Climb back into that poofy new car of yours, and go back to bed?”

  Minogue didn’t bother replying.

  “I actually don’t want to think about this anymore,” said Malone. “That woman in there. And the kid. Bad enough that I’m so wired already.”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side.

  “I’d better do something,” Minogue said. “Those two fellas are up in court at eleven, looking for bail. I have to get my stapler going on the bits and bobs of paper for that.”

  “What about the two young ones you were telling me about, the ones you decided to release last night?”

  “Going to charge them,” said Minogue. “No sexism here.”

  Malone sat up and frowned, and he gave Minogu
e a hard look.

  “Why are you going around wrestling paper for this stuff? Aren’t you case officer for this? Get some of your butties there to do the court appearance and all the rest of it.”

  “So I can do what instead?”

  Malone waited a few moments.

  “So you can see how we do real police work instead. Tracking down these two fellas that Fanning told her about.”

  Minogue thought about it.

  “Nothing’s going to happen without a bit of something to eat,” he said. “A cup of something.”

  Malone knew his way around Rathmines. In spite of the traffic, he and Minogue were seated in The Red Shoes, their fry ordered and coffee before them on the table. Malone had to go outside to take a call from his boss. He came back in just as the plates were put down on the table. He stood by the table, eyeing the scrambled egg and the two shiny sausages as though they held a secret for him.

  “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”

  “We have a bit more from our friends in the quare place,” he said quietly. “The Big Smoke.”

  London, he meant, Minogue realized.

  “And it’s beginning to look like we’re dealing with the same people. Head-cases, I should be saying.”

  Minogue forked some of the egg onto a piece of toast, but much of it fell off when he lifted it.

  Malone went on in a thoughtful tone.

  “What he told the missus. ‘English, probably, gangsters.’”

  “Not all English people are gangsters.”

  “Didn’t want her worrying, maybe,” said Malone.

  “A bit cryptic all the same.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “Mysterious. Like he didn’t make it clear.”

  Malone sighed and launched into his breakfast. His phone went again.

  “Where?” he asked, and he sat up straight. He looked at Minogue.

  “Two of them? How deep is it there?”

  He listened, chewing on the sausage that he had picked up with his fingers.

  “The sooner, the better,” he said. “If they’re asking my opinion.”

  “Two cars,” Malone said after he had hung up. “In the water there, up by the Port of Dublin. Not far from the quays.”

  He gave Minogue a knowing look.

  “They’re starting on it in a while,” Malone added.

  Minogue was feeling full now. He concentrated on the coffee.

  “Any more on the two men?” he asked Malone.

  “One they think is a fella, Kilcullen. Great name for a soldier boy, I suppose.”

  “Irish, though?”

  “Half and half. The mother is. The father, well he shagged off. Mother reared him herself.”

  “No family here?”

  “No. There’s a brother of hers, his uncle. But they’re not on speaking terms. Plus, he’s in the nick. Fancy that.”

  “But this Kilcullen, he’s not a career criminal, according to them?”

  “Huh,” said Malone. “That’s what they’re telling us. But they’d hardly be admitting they get their recruits in jails. I mean, this isn’t any oul regiment we’re talking about.”

  “The Queen Mother’s crowd, I seem to remember,” said Minogue.

  “I never thought there’d be Irish fellas in the British Army, I have to tell you. Shows how little I know.”

  “Well he wasn’t in it that long, was he. Just long enough.”

  “That’s a fact,” said Malone, in a leaden tone. “Teach them how to use weapons, let them loose over there in Iraq. Big surprise they go haywire, isn’t it. Well, some of them anyway.”

  Minogue tried to remember the name of the officer who had given that speech before the fighting started over there. An Irish name, maybe even born here somewhere. Some controversy about him afterwards?

  “Nothing on the second fella yet?”

  “No. Could be anyone. They’ve contacted the regiment, and they’re going through their records. Their list of nicknames, for all I know.”

  “West Ham. I don’t follow the football.”

  “They’re nothing much anymore. But the fans are another matter. ‘The Hammers.’ They have a name for going over the top.”

  Minogue looked down at the cooling smears of grease on his plate. There would definitely need to be more coffee. He switched on his mobile.

  Kevin Wall was at his desk already. He gave no sign he was at all annoyed about Minogue’s rebuff last night. Minogue asked if he would do court, for Matthews and Twomey. No problem, was Wall’s cheerful response, and Minogue believed there was no sarcasm involved. Mossie Duggan would prepare the charges for the two girls.

  Minogue closed the phone and stifled a belch. He thought of phoning that Danute Juraksaitis woman from the consulate. And tell her what, exactly? That they had two iijits in custody, and two more being charged, but that they weren’t willing to charge any of them with the death of Tadeusz Klos? Well he should phone the Assistant Comm then, and let him give the news to Barry, and whoever else was in the spin cycle on this.

  Malone seemed to be mulling something over in his mind, eating distractedly and with little enthusiasm. Minogue decided that he would return to the house, take a shower, and pretend he could get a day’s work done. He wondered how he’d last the afternoon. He remembered Malone’s take on it – you’re the case officer now, you say what goes – and wondered if he dared going down that road a little.

  Malone pushed the plate away.

  “They could be long gone,” he said. “Nobody has said that out loud yet.”

  The second cup of coffee was not up to the mark. Minogue didn’t want to argue about it with a waitress whose English was poor, who looked harried, and almost in tears.

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Malone.

  Malone rolled his eyes when his phone went off. Minogue watched the waitress try to juggle a tray while getting a bill to two brittle-looking fashion plates in their forties. To have to smile in the job was the worst of it, he remembered Iseult saying several times.

  Malone hunched lower over the table, his finger is in his ear now.

  “Right this very minute?” Minogue heard him say, and then, “Are you sure about this? Really? Well you better not be spoofing me.”

  He took his hand from his head and looked at Minogue.

  “Are you ready for this? There’s something after happening up at a place in Dorset Street, one of those hotels. There was shooting. Not five minutes ago.”

  He took away his hand, and turned aside from Minogue again.

  “Who says?” he demanded. A frown settled on his forehead while he listened. Then he said a yeah and hung up.

  “Are you coming?” he asked Minogue.

  “Not my parish, Tommy, but thanks.”

  “I’m serious. Come on. Seeing is believing, they say.”

  “I’m not a fan of shootings. Go on yourself.”

  “You’ll miss your chance. One of them is dead.”

  “One of who?”

  “They think the West Ham one is the one is dead. The other fella is touch and go. If it is them, like.”

  Chapter 49

  NO LESS THAN FIVE DETECTIVES, two openly displaying submachine guns, were marauding on both sides of the tape. The uniforms milled about, many of them edgy with the show of guns. One of the detectives yelled at Malone as he pulled up by a squad car. As though to placate him, two uniformed Guards skipped over.

  “Move on there, you can’t park here. Move on.”

  Minogue fumbled for his wallet. Malone was ahead of him.

  There were brown faces in the small crowd gathering across the street. What little traffic was abroad this hour of the day had been stopped, and Minogue saw more tape going up across the whole street by the traffic lights farther on.

  “Oh look who shows when the time is right,” said the detective who had yelled. There was little sign of humour on his face.

  “Tell your sister me answer is still no,” said Malone. Min
ogue watched the detective’s reaction.

  There were plainclothes in the hallway, and more standing on the stairway. The place smelled damp, and Minogue took an instant dislike to the feel of the carpet, and the tacky mirrors, the thoughts of how many lonely nights people had spent here.

  “Too many heroes in the one place,” said Malone to a red-faced detective who seemed to be waiting on some answer from his phone. The detective reached over to try to swat him on the way by. Minogue had to wait until he stepped back.

  He held up his card, and followed Malone upstairs. There was a burnt smell here on the stairs now. Malone took the stairs two at a time. Looking up, the man standing in a doorway looked familiar to Minogue but he could not fix on a name. Did nobody secure crime scenes anymore, he wondered. Well, now. Best he keep that question to himself until later.

  The man said something to Malone, and shook hands, and he looked down at Minogue. He made his way over to the top of the stairs.

  “Top of the morning to you,” he said to Minogue, and extended a hand. “Brian McNamara, Serious Crimes. I’m the ringmaster here.”

  McNamara’s face put Minogue in mind of an Easter Island statue. In his late thirties, Minogue guessed, an expert in controlling his impatience. For no clear reason, he wondered if McNamara didn’t have a kind of a divorced look to him.

  “There’s people would pay money for such a mighty Clare name like that,” he said to him.

  McNamara had a neutral nod for Minogue, but no remarks that could be even mildly congenial.

  “You have an interest in these fellas here, I was told.”

  “I think so,” was all Minogue could think to say. “I hope so.”

  McNamara craned his neck to see what he could between the banisters leading to the upper floors. More armed detectives appeared, and then Minogue could see two fully kitted ERUs two floors up, the chins of their balaclavas pulled down under the helmet straps. They seemed to be taking their time.

  “Every floor,” said one of them.

  The smell of cordite was stronger, but there was the beginnings of some kind of aftershave too. McNamara turned back to him.

  “They took the live one,” he said. “The other one can wait.”

  He seemed to have divined Minogue’s unspoken question.

  “Mightn’t make it,” he added. “The way he left here.”