by John Brady
Kilmartin held out his hand and shook it in a manner which reminded Minogue of farmers at a mart ready to settle on a price. He plucked at his little finger first.
“Let’s talk about the real world. One, he has a history of threatening the daughter. Two, he broke up with the wife. He used to beat her up too. Three, he’s taken up with a cult-ah now, don’t go interrupting me. I know about this ‘recovery’ stuff. Four, he gets the idea-here, I’ll use a big word just to keep you happy-an obsession: he has to save the daughter.”
“Saved in Jesus?”
“No need to be disrespectful there now, pal. But yes. He tracks her over time, he finds a pattern. He doesn’t need to be James Bond to do that, now, does he. He follows her that evening, tries to talk her into the car or the like. She gives him the P.O. He loses the head and clocks her. Rolls her into the water. She never goes near the taxi.”
Minogue pushed the plunger slowly, watching for grounds escaping around the rim. Kilmartin drew on his cigarette and studied the operation.
“So?” said Kilmartin when Minogue had poured coffee into the cup.
“I don’t know, Jim. A bit early, let’s remember.”
“But bear it well in mind, that’s all I’m saying. Stick with routine. Pin the alibi to the clock. Wait for the finals from the taxi. Check the site again. Go door-to-door with Sheehy and company if you’re too jittery waiting. Pull Mullen in again tomorrow and throw the same stuff at him, compare it with this statement and the tapes. I’m going to give serious thought to a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Mullen for the next week, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Minogue nodded. Kilmartin blew smoke at his shoes.
“All right there? Look, I’m game if you want to stick it to Mullen hard later on, the three of us. Object lesson for Molly in there.”
Minogue’s tongue moved to his front teeth. The coffee was stronger than he had planned.
“‘One a year,’ Matt. Hate to say it, but it looks like one. Do you think?”
Minogue looked up at Kilmartin.
“Well, why don’t we just sign it over to you?”
“Nice try there, pal. Like hell you will. Haven’t I given you Tonto to help you on this one?”
Minogue returned to sipping coffee. Kilmartin’s axiom was that at least one murder case per year turned out to be the most frustrating, difficult and head-banging case the Squad had ever handled. There was little point, Minogue knew, in reminding his colleague that this case looked like becoming about the seventh or eighth “one-a-year” this year. James Kilmartin claimed that these cases brought progress and improvement to the Squad’s procedures. This they did, he explained, by extending the rigorous use of police science and its sundry ancillary support services. He was easily wily enough to turn “one-a-year”s to good account by transforming them into Trojan horses for departmental budget claims. Over a pint, however-over several pints-the Chief Inspector usually lost little time in putting Police Science in its place: “All very well and good, but a man needs to know when to put it in the P.F.O. file.” It was one thing for Squad officers as adepts of police science to methodically take everything about a murder case into account; it was quite another to understand what to discount.
“Seven weeks pregnant, Jim. I’m hoping she tried with this drop-in centre.”
“Short of money for going to England to get the, you know, the job done?”
“The father.” Minogue looked up from his cup. “Patricia Fahy has to know him. She must.”
Kilmartin stroked his chin.
“This Hickey character,” he muttered.
Boots thumped in the hallway. A tall alien passed the doorway.
“Oi!” Kilmartin called out.
The alien returned. Minogue studied the motorcyclist’s visor.
“Take off the helmet, man!” said Kilmartin. “How do we know you’re not a robber?”
Eilis stood in the hallway behind the Garda motorcyclist. She nodded at Minogue.
“A phone call for you, your honour. A Sister Joe.”
The motorcyclist was a smiling, big-toothed motorcycle Guard in his early twenties.
“Ah,” said Eilis. “And how’s the bold Garda Madden?”
Footballer, thought Minogue. He picked up the jug. Eilis took the envelope.
“Thanks now, Gabriel,” she muttered and attacked the string on the flap. Madden stepped backwards into the hallway to let Minogue through.
“Gabriel?” Minogue heard Kilmartin say. “A messenger? Is this the Annunciation all over again?”
He cut across the car-park and skipped down the alley toward the back door of the poolhall. He felt light-headed, happy almost. He sat on the edge of a window-sill and pushed his back against the iron bars. Sweaty already. He began to calculate again. With the fifty he could get a hit off Ginger down in Parnell Street. With the couple of quid he had left of his own, he’d have forty left. He’d try again later on with Mary. Why hadn’t she told him that she’d jacked it in with that Tresses kip? He looked up and down the alley. Two skins walked by the mouth of the alley and looked in. One broke his stride and slowed to eyeball him. He was moving toward the door of the poolhall when the skins disappeared. He stepped into a doorway and flattened his back against the metal panel. His knees had gone watery.
So what the hell were those two bastards looking for last night anyway? Maybe they’d mixed him with someone else? Narcs? No: one of them looked familiar. You couldn’t tell these days. He thought about the time that a narc who looked like a knacker and smelled like a knacker put the hand on Ginger. In broad daylight, in Stephen’s Green, for God’s sake, Ginger laughing because he was high and didn’t believe it was happening. But those two last night, not a word out of them. They’d just come after him. Why was he shivering, and it like bloody Morocco, for God’s sake? Get the money, score off Ginger; phone the ma, see if she knew what was going on.
Steps. He looked out. Jammy was standing in the alley with his helmet in his hand.
“Jammy! Thanks a million, man! I won’t forget it, I swear! You and me are-”
Tierney’s hand was on his shirt. He looked into Jammy Tierney’s face and saw the contempt. Tierney began to twist his collar.
“You lying fuck, Leonardo!”
Tierney pushed him away and laid the helmet down.
“Jammy! Are you mad? Jesus! What’s with you, man?”
Tierney closed on him. He took a step backwards.
“Jammy! Don’t, man! What are you doing? What have I done? What?”
Tierney wasn’t stopping.
“Tell me, Jammy!”
Jammy Tierney reached out and shoved. The push caught him as he was taking another step back. He fell. Tierney lifted his foot.
“Jesus, Jammy! Man!”
He scuttled back until his shoulder hit a bin.
“Don’t, man! For Jases’ sake, just tell me what I’ve done! Tell me!”
“Get up.”
“I’m not going to get up just so’s you can start in on me, man!”
“Get up or I’ll use me boots on you.”
He elbowed around the bin until he was at the wall. He laid a hand on the dustbin. Jammy Tierney was breathing heavily. He tried to decide which way to run.
“Go ahead,” said Tierney. “Try and run. See how far it gets you.”
A sob almost escaped him. At least Tierney was talking.
“Is it the money, Jammy? Is it? What have I done? Give me a chance here, man!”
“You and your Mary this and your Mary that. I should have known. Your brain is fried, man! It’s gank! You’re a fucking menace, that’s what you are. You drag everyone down with you.”
“What? Honest, man-”
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Get up, you fucking waster.”
He drew himself up until he was on his hunkers. He could get a good start if he went for it. Tierney jammed his hand into his pocket and flicked something at him. Folded paper-money.
“You
still going to run?”
“Thanks, Jammy! Thanks! Look, man, whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
There were more bills than there should be. He tried to smile but Tierney kept staring at him. He looked down and thumbed through the bills. There was two hundred quid. Had Jammy made a mistake? He looked back into his eyes.
“So you’re sorry,” said Tierney. His eyes had a weird glittering light in them now.
“Yeah, Jammy, you know…? Whatever it is…”
“What use is sorry to Mary? Tell me that, you fucking bastard!”
“Jammy, I swear to you-”
“What? You’re always swearing to me about something!”
“If it has to do with, you know, what I said about Mary and me, that was just, well, I suppose I was just spoofing a bit. It’s just a dream, sort of-”
“Shut fucking up!”
“I swear-I mean, really! The truth is, she doesn’t think much of me. You know that. Look, tell you what. I’m going around to see her this afternoon. You know?”
Was Jammy nodding or just shaking?
“She’s going to talk to Bobby Egan, see if he’ll give me a start. Then I’ll pay you-”
“See?” Tierney’s voice rose. “You’re lying again! This morning you told me-You’re such a lying… You just-Ah, Christ, who cares. Get the boat tonight. Stay away.”
“To England you mean?”
“To the North Pole! The Sahara! Fucking Timbuktu, I don’t care!”
“Jesus, Jammy. Why would I want to make a move like that, you know?”
The movement was even quicker than he guessed it could be. It wasn’t a fist, but it stung.
“Because you’ll be fucking next!”
His ear was burning from the slap. He rubbed at it and backed away.
“I don’t get it, man! What are you saying?”
Tierney’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.
“What do you mean, Jammy?” Tierney stuck his face right up against his.
“Mary was taken out of the canal yesterday, you fucking bollicks! Can you fucking hear me in there? She’s dead!”
He studied Tierney’s eyes, the drawn lips, the anger.
“Did you hear me? She’s on your conscience! Whatever you did, you and your fucking messing-whatever you conned Mary into. You got her killed, man! Whatever you talked about, whoever you talked to- you’re poison, man! Fucking poison!”
He couldn’t move. He tried to say something. The whole place seemed to glow. Everything grew sharp and scary. He tried again but only his jaw moved. Tierney’s chest was heaving. He looked up at the sky over the alley. He wondered if he was going to faint.
“This isn’t really happening, is it?” he whispered. “You can’t be serious, man.”
“You don’t think so?” Tierney snarled. He pushed him in the chest.
“Swear to God, Jammy! Don’t make up stuff, man. It’s not funny any more!”
“You’re telling me you don’t know? The Egans think you do. Talk to them about it.”
“How can you…?” His throat closed on the last words. Tierney took a step back.
“You’re so fucking out of it,” he hissed. “I don’t know what the hell stuff you do any more. I bet you don’t even remember your name.”
Jammy had given him a lot of money. That meant… His thoughts rushed back.
“Jammy! She had some fella set up, that’s what she told me!”
“What? What fella?”
“I don’t know! I don’t! She had an in with him. Told me it could go serious. He had money. She was going to take him, you know, like?”
“You don’t even know when you’re lying! It was you hanging around got her-”
“Jesus! If you really want to know, Mary was always giving me the brush-off!”
“Not often enough, you bastard! Not hard enough, either!”
He stared into Jammy’s eyes. For some reason he couldn’t keep them in focus. Smells and sounds and colours kept leaking in somewhere. His head began to feel light. The Egans, he thought. Tierney was still talking to him.
“What?”
“See, you’re out of it again! Don’t you get it? Get to hell out of here! Dublin!”
“What? How do you…? Where was she… you know?”
“How would I know? Here I am like a gobshite giving you a pile of money so as you can piss off out from under the Egans.”
“Jammy! You got to tell them I didn’t! You got to, man! You believe me, don’t you? You know I’d never hurt Mary! We’re mates, man! You’re Mary’s friend too, man!”
“Shut up. You’re making me puke here.”
“But where was she?”
“Read the paper, man, on the boat to Liverpool or somewhere.”
“Come on, man!”
Tierney’s eyes narrowed.
“Listen! There was a time when Mary had a chance. But she got dragged down, didn’t she? And it was you, you were one of the bastards that dragged her under!”
“Come on, Jammy! You know I could never do anything to Mary!”
The anger slid off Tierney’s face. What took its place scared him even more.
“Aw, Jesus, Jammy,” he whispered. “Jammy! You can’t be serious!”
“Do you think it matters what I think? You’re the fella telling me you could do anything. Wanted the Egans to know so’s they’d take you on. You’re the one, man.”
“The Egans? The fucking Egans? Jammy. Man! You’ve got to get the word to them! They won’t listen to me! Jammy? Is the whole fucking place gone mad?”
Tierney nodded his head slowly. This time he didn’t raise his voice.
“Yeah, Leonardo. As a matter of fact, it has. Didn’t you notice?”
NINE
I have to sit down, Joe.”
He yanked on the leash. The dog gasped. She leaned on his arm and lowered herself to a bench. God, he thought, the day would soon come when he’d have to take her to the toilet.
“Grand now,” she said. “I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”
He sat down next to her. The canal was calm and full. Why did she want to go for a walk by the canal this hour of the morning? He took off his glasses and rubbed them with his hanky. The edges of his vision had the familiar blur now. He tried to remember if the eyes had already been like this last year.
“They said that there’s low pressure on the way.”
What was she talking about? She turned to him and smiled.
“The news, Joey. The weather forecast, I mean. Do you know what that means?”
No, he didn’t. Forecast sun and you’d better bring an umbrella. They were as bad as the politicians. Not for him the endless speculation about the weather. Guessology. Facts or nothing. He’d been the happy man in his job. Forty-four years of inventories, lists, parts, serial numbers. Locating, ordering, shipping, investigating.
“Long enough we’re waiting, aren’t we, Joe? For the bit of rain.”
Jennings, his boss, had died four years ago. A big crowd at the funeral, all his kids-grown up, of course. Seven kids, Jennings had had. Lucky number, ha ha. If anything ever happened to him or the wife, he used to say, didn’t they have the seven to fall back on? He yanked on the leash again.
“What’s wrong, Joe?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking.”
Daughters loved their fathers more, he’d heard. If they’d had a boy, it would have been an Edward. Eddie, his own father’s name. Edward Thomas Byrne. Thomas after his uncle.
“Were you thinking about the poor girl?”
He looked into her eyes.
“Why would you think that?”
“I’m just asking, amn’t I? That Guard you met.”
He shifted on the bench and looked out over the water.
“What about him?”
“You were talking to him, weren’t you?”
“That’s right, Mary. I was talking to him. And he was talking to me.”
She
sighed.
“I can tell you’re getting annoyed.”
“No, I amn’t. Why would I be getting annoyed about meeting a Guard?”
The skin around her eyes creased but she didn’t smile.
“You get like that when you’re annoyed.”
He stood and let the dog lead him a few steps.
“He’s the one’d be annoyed. ‘A bit late in the day for yous to be showing up,’ says I.”
Mary Byrne rose slowly from the bench. She took a few steps before standing upright. Clutching his arm, they walked toward the lock.
Method, he thought. Everything accounted for, sorted, on the proper shelf. You knew where you were going, what you were looking for, where it would be. A simple rule: there was a place for everything. And that was long before computers too. The wands you wave at a label and that puts the numbers in a computer-they’d taken over completely now. Next step’d be robots getting the parts and taking the bloody money off the customers. Jennings, God rest him. Of course he was fond of the gargle and everything, but a decent man, saying to him: “By God, Joe, you have the most remarkable system here in Parts, the best in Dublin.” He’d meant it too. Jennings was the old school, of course. Always had the time of day for you, would ask your opinion and all. Always asking to be remembered to the wife.
“It was on the news,” she said. “They asked for anyone who was around the place.”
“Yes, Mary,” he said.
“Witnesses, like.”
Why couldn’t people conduct business like that in this day and age? Get organized, be smart about things. Know where everything was, or, if it wasn’t in stock, where to get it. He remembered the satisfaction, the joy even, of finding a bulb, a bracket, a clamp-right there on the shelf, exactly where it was supposed to be. Put it right down on the counter in front of their noses. And the look on their faces! How did you do that, Joe, was the usual question. I went to where I knew it was, he’d tell them, to where it was supposed to be. That simple. Oh, you’re a beaut, Joe, they’d say. Fellas phoning up from all over the country, looking for parts.
“You heard that, I suppose.”
“They do that a lot nowadays, Mary.”
Always came to work with clean hands; always left work with clean hands. Nails were important too. Nothing wrong with using your hands for a living, but that didn’t mean that you arrived in or went home with the dirt under your nails. Jennings would do that an odd time, yes. Over he’d march with a customer or a bigwig visiting, grab his hands and lift them up, turn them over. Look at these, Jennings’d say. This is Joe Byrne, the best Parts man in Dublin. Look at those hands, would you? Not a speck of dirt, not a speck! And do you know why? ‘Cause there’s no messing goes on here. No dirty work here, sir!’ The smell of the few jars off Jennings took a bit of the pleasure out of it, of course. He’d go on a bit too much about it by times, especially if he’d started early on the bottle. Once he’d apologized to him but it hadn’t clicked with him at the time. It was the apology that had done more damage. But how could he get mad at Jennings for that? Sorry there, Joe, about the “passing it onto the sons” bit. Forgot. It was the drink. A good oul skin, Jennings.
