The good life imm-5

by John Brady

  “That’s a different matter entirely. Do your business with his Lordship, can’t you, and I’ll give you your messages after. I have a message for Master Malone, too.”

  “What?” said Kilmartin a moment later.

  “A fella called Ryan took the pictures. So far I haven’t found ones of Mary Mullen but I have ones of Patricia Fahy.”

  “Aha, the flatmate. Are they any good?”

  “The pictures are bad, Jimmy. We call them pornography, remember?”

  “Late in the day to be playing the iijit with me, head-the-ball. Are you going to the Fahy one with this under your belt?”

  “Eventually, yes. But I’m phoning so’s you can-”

  “Who’s this Ryan?”

  “The link is Lenehan, the gouger who went haywire this morning. He was at some of the photo sessions, I suppose you’d call them.”

  “What else?”

  “What else yourself. That’s why I’m phoning. Where are we as regards filling in all the holes? What Mary Mullen did all day, for starters.”

  “Huh. I tried the mother again, just on the phone. She stuck to it, got a bit annoyed. Didn’t know what the daughter was up to at all. I almost lowered the boom on her, let me tell you. Ready to take her down to the local station and do the talking there. I told her to try hard and remember, as I’d be phoning again later on, begob.”

  “Anything turn up at the flat?”

  “Nothing of note. No money. No cheque-book. No bank cards. No drugs for that matter.”

  “And no sign of the handbag?”

  “Divil damn the bit.”

  “Sheehy and company, door-to-door…?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “The quare fella, Leonardo?”

  “Am I repeating myself here? No sign. John Murtagh talked to the mother again. She’s very agitated but still no lead on where he might be. Johnner has the impression she didn’t want to tell the whole story at all. I tell you, Matty, there’s a quare lot more people scared of gangsters than they are of us good guys.”

  Minogue stared at the people leaving the offices along the street. He felt the phone slipping along his palms. He changed hands and wiped his free hand on his knee.

  “Well, James. We’re going to sandbag this fella Ryan for a while. Then we’ll move on to Patricia Fahy.”

  “‘We’ my eye,” said Kilmartin. “You might end up doing a lot of running around on your own.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Your new sidekick. Voh’ Lay-bah. Eilis got a call for him. Personal, but I got a whiff of it though.”

  Minogue opened the door and laboured out onto the street. He returned the pedestrian’s glances, the phone still jammed against his ear.

  “Something to do with the brother,” said Kilmartin. “He’s out of the nick.”

  He knew that rubbing it wouldn’t help, but it was driving him mental. He shifted around on the cement and shoved his knuckle into his eye. He stopped rubbing and looked across the car-park at the dust rising from the building site. Rubble had been bulldozed up into a heap and a JCB was loading it into dumpsters. He tried to open his eye again, but it hurt. He covered the eye with his palm and looked about. There was grit mixed in with the sweat on his forehead.

  He watched the car-park attendant adjust the headphones on his Walkman. He thought of taking a crack at it, right here in broad daylight. Straight over, slide the knife out as he got into the doorway of the shed, right up against his belly, smiling all the time, grabbing the cash, walking off. Maybe even leave a nick on the guy’s belly to let him know he meant business. No knife, but. One-eyed too. Dreaming. He fingered out another cigarette. Instead of lighting it, he rolled it around in his fingers. He couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think straight either. He thought of the Park, the trees and shadow. Where was that herd of wild deer in the Park? And the bloody Guards’ barracks, headquarters actually, next to where he’d spent the night. Funny; dangerous. Maybe he could take a dip in that little pond he’d seen near the playing fields. No. It’d be scummy, and he’d catch some… He thought of Mary’s face with those creepy weeds across her face, those slimy green things that grew like anything, the dirtier the water, the better. Stupid, she’d gotten in over her head. But why hadn’t she told him more about what she was doing? It wasn’t like he would’ve screwed up on her, for God’s sake. And she’d thought she was so tough and everything. How nothing was going to get in her way.

  He lit the cigarette and sucked fiercely on it. If she’d only trusted him a bit more, she wouldn’t be dead. He imagined her calling him out of the shadows by the canal: Liam-and it wouldn’t be Leonardo either- Liam, this guy thinks he can mess with me. With us, Liam. Do for him, Liam. Show him. And he’d clatter the guy before he knew what hit him. Karate: flying kick in the belly and then straighten him up with a boot in the snot. One for good measure in the nuts, then take the wallet or whatever. Roll him into the canal himself, see if he makes it. Go off laughing with Mary, have a few jars with your man’s stash. If she…

  Stupid bitch, no! How the hell could she do it, be so stupid as to put herself in danger? It was such a mess. Such a mess. Her oul lad caused it all. He should be had up. Mary wouldn’t have been on the game at fifteen if her oul lad hadn’t been such a thick shite. A thick, fucking alco bastard. Yeah, her da should be charged with all this. The bastard. There was no justice.

  He took his hand off his eye and tried again. It was watering and scratchy but the lashes parted halfway. He let them part further. Gone! At least something, some stupid bloody thing, was going his way.

  Maybe just closing his eye had done the trick. He explored in the corner of his eye and found the grit. He looked at it. So small, so much trouble. Maybe that was what happened to Mary: one tiny thing. A word, a look, bad timing. She thought she knew the guy but maybe she didn’t. Had she been doing a nixer out there by the canal, just to turn a hundred quid she needed in a hurry?

  The end of the cigarette tasted awful. He flicked it out onto the street. Maybe the cops were doing the exact same as he was, trying to figure out what had happened. Yeah, but they weren’t sitting here on the side of the bleeding street, baking in this idiotic weather, with no place to go, not even a place to sleep tonight. Should he try again? They probably had a lot of calls like his. The stupid cop on the switchboard had given him the phone number of the Murder Squad. Didn’t give a damn, didn’t even try to con him into talking a while. As if they didn’t want anybody’s help at all, like they knew everything or they’d do everything their own way, in their own sweet fucking time. Typical. But what could he tell them? If he sat on the phone somewhere, they’d trace him in a few seconds, Christ, everybody knew that.

  He got up and stretched. It was like putting on two or three stone weight overnight, this bloody heat. He should be out at the seaside somewhere, sunning himself. He still had that kink in his back from sleeping crooked last night. What the hell time was it anyway? He walked over to the car-park attendant. He could hear the guitar riffs out of the headphones even over the noise of the traffic. The guy must be stoned. He looked at his watch. Four? Already? Christ! Had he fallen asleep somewhere along the line? The day had been a succession of tins of Coke, cups of coffee, biscuits. A hamburger, yeah. That stupid phone call. He’d walked by the pool-hall a few times too. He’d nearly gone in once. To hell with Jammy in anyhow. Even the money. It was like what’s the guy in the place they drag Jesus into and he washes his hands? Punch us the Pilot they used to call him.

  He tripped on the edge of the footpath. His legs were tired, his back was aching. He stopped by a shop window and looked at his reflection against the camping equipment. His eyes came to focus on the gear in the window. A lot of this stuff would be handy for the Park. Maybe he’d get some of this stuff and head up the mountains, up the back of the Pine Forest or somewhere. A sleeping bag, waterproof pants; a compass so he wouldn’t lose his way off the paths and stuff. A gas thing to cook your dinner up on the side of Mount
bleeding Kilimanjaro, boots you could probably wear in space. His eyes stayed on the knives. He studied the blades. The one he liked had a jagged bit on the top side. He fingered change in his pocket, heard it click. It was a Bowie-type knife, for skinning bears or something. Just showing a blade like that would do the business. Eighteen quid though? He would have felt a hell of a lot better last night if he’d had one of those in his hands.

  All the ideas that had been buzzing around in his head stopped. The blade shone. He wasn’t just going to sit back and bleeding roll over for anyone. Everyone took him for a gobshite, Mary even. But that was history now. He wasn’t going easy, he wasn’t going to take anything lying down. He’d phone the cops. Give them a minute or two, let them have it with a few facts. Get them fucking thinking for a change. Then they might just wake up and see that it was the Egans they should be picking on. And phone Jammy Tierney too: tell him to get on to the Egans. Tell them to smarten themselves up or else. He moved toward the door but stopped and moved back. It was a small reflection of himself he had seen moving across the polished surface of the blade.

  “You’re all right,” said Minogue.

  Malone stood leaning in through the open door. “It’s not going to, well, you know?”

  The Inspector shook his head.

  “The job? No, Tommy. It stays personal. Don’t worry.”

  “Christ, I could just kill him.”

  Minogue took in the lines on Malone’s forehead.

  “I mean to say. Look at him. He’s hardly out of the bleeding nick and he’s a walking breach of the peace again. It’s got to be drugs. It’s got to be.”

  Minogue shrugged. Malone’s eyes swept down from the sky. His fist thumped on the roof.

  “Fuck it! Goddamn it to-sorry. The new car and all…”

  “Listen, Tommy. I’m off before you beat the car to a pulp. I’ll go to Patricia Fahy. Call in when you get the chance, okay? Home number too-any time up to about eleven.”

  “Are you sure? I’d hate to think-”

  “Family’s first, Tommy. Just go.”

  With words rattling loose in his mind, Minogue drove off. He was still thinking about Iseult when he reached Fahy’s house.

  Patricia Fahy’s father was itching to say something. He stood with his arms folded in the hall looking at Minogue. Missus, a compact, harassed-looking woman with a big chin and a sagging neck, had gone upstairs to get Patricia.

  “Hot again today, Mr. Fahy.”

  “Too hot,” said Fahy. Minogue tapped the envelope on his palm.

  “Is the kitchen free maybe?” Fahy shifted his feet.

  “Free for what? Yous were here with her already, in case you forgot.”

  Minogue heard murmurs upstairs. The house was tidy and newly decorated. One of the advantages of having an unemployed father.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Fahy. I didn’t forget. It’s Patricia who did the forgetting.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Minogue nodded in the direction of the top floor.

  “Does she always take a snooze in the afternoon?”

  “The doctor gave her a sleeping pill. What was that about-”

  “Any unfamiliar cars or people hanging around the street since we talked?”

  “Wait a minute there… As a matter of fact, no.”

  Minogue heard scuffing from upstairs, feet crossing a rug or a carpet. He eyed Fahy.

  “We can nail them, Mr. Fahy,” he said. “We can, you know.”

  Fahy nodded his head several times but the eyes told Minogue it was scorn. Patricia Fahy’s feet moved hesitantly down each step. She had a long dressing-gown on. Veins stood out by her heels. She stopped on the bottom step, one hand on the dressing-gown by her neck and the other on the banister.

  “Yeah?” she said. Her voice had a sleepy, fearful alertness to it.

  “Hello, Patricia. I need to talk again.”

  “But I told you everything. I mean…”

  “Just a chat, Patricia, and I’ll be on my way.”

  She looked down at the floor in the crowded hall. Minogue tapped the envelope on his palm again and saw her eyes dart over.

  “The kitchen, is it?” He turned to Fahy and his wife in turn. “Just the two of us, thank you.”

  Patricia Fahy’s hand slipped on the handle of the teapot as she poured. The clatter of the cup and saucer brought a question through the door from her mother.

  “No, Ma,” she called out. “It’s only the teapot!”

  She pushed her hair away, glanced at the envelope he had laid on the table and lit a cigarette.

  “Well, what is it?” she said.

  “I found the photos of you, Patricia. I’m still looking for the ones of Mary.”

  Her head lowered. She stared at the envelope. Minogue watched her eyelashes.

  “It’s time to talk, Patricia. We need to move on this.”

  She drew on the cigarette but did not brush her hair back.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “We’ll see you right. Just quit stonewalling.”

  She pulled on the cigarette again.

  “It’s bad for everyone, Patricia. For you most of all right now.”

  She seemed to curl up. He could see her scalp. Her head was almost on the table now.

  “Patricia?”

  She let her forehead fall onto the edge of the table. Her hands came around under her armpits. Her back began to shake. The cigarette burned in the ashtray. He looked around the kitchen again.

  “Patricia? Patricia. I’m not here to threaten you. Do you understand that?”

  She shuddered and sniffed.

  “I have a daughter your age. I’m talking to you sort of as a parent, Patricia.”

  “Oh yeah?” she sobbed. “You’re here to put the law on me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this stuff before?”

  “I don’t know! All I know is that you can do what you like.”

  “We want to get whoever killed Mary.”

  “And you’re going to trample all over me for that.”

  Minogue looked around the kitchen again. She blew her nose.

  “Here,” he said. “Take the envelope. It’s your stuff. Do what you want with it.”

  She kept pulling at strands of hair by her ear. Crying had made her face puffy.

  “So,” she said. She fished out the cigarette and took several drags from it.

  “Nothing’s for free. What do you want?”

  “Who has pictures of Mary?”

  She shivered and looked out the window.

  “Eddsy Egan, I suppose,” she said. “Bobby, maybe.”

  “Do you know for sure?”

  “How could I?” Minogue stared at her.

  “Where was Mary on the night she got murdered?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Listen, Patricia-” She turned toward him with her hands wringing the air.

  “I swear to you! Jeesis! What am I supposed to say? You want me to make up stuff for you so’s you can go away happy, is it? Look-that was just her way! She wouldn’t tell anyone, would she? I remember once she said that. ‘Don’t lean on anyone. They’ll let you down when you need them the most.’ Something like that. She never let on where she was going or who she was with. I used to think that-well, I don’t know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Christ, I don’t know-that it was just a put-on.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Ah, come on. Like she was the Southside, glamour-doll type. Putting it on, you know? ‘You take the bus,’ she used to say. ‘I prefer my Mercedes.’”

  “A Mercedes-”

  “It was a, an expression with her, wasn’t it?”

  “Maybe you saw her once in a Mercedes, did you?”

  She squinted at him.

  “Are you joking me? Didn’t I say it was just an expression. The way you’d say, I don’t know, ‘Bob’s your uncle.’ Yes, she’d say that the odd time: ‘I prefer champagne.’ Messing, you know?
”

  Minogue examined the scribbles in his notebook. His biro slid around like wet soap against his fingers.

  “Don’t you ever hear people talk like that?” she was saying. “Well, younger people, like?”

  He glanced up at her. Younger people. Huh.

  “‘Ooohh, Alan wouldn’t like that.’ Putting it on, like.”

  “Alan?”

  “Joe, Pat, Alan. Anyone.”

  “Why ‘Alan’?”

  “It’s just an example. Don’t you get it?”

  Her forehead wrinkled.

  “Everyone has their own expressions. Families, like?”

  “Mary said that: ‘Alan wouldn’t like that’?”

  She blew smoke from the side of her mouth and looked away.

  “Could have been Mary. I just heard it, you know, the way you remember things in bits? It’s a snotty-type name. ‘Alan.’ ‘Jonathan.’ You know what I’m saying? Maybe it was her who said it, maybe that’s why it sticks in my mind. I don’t know.”

  “But it could have been Mary? Try to remember, Patricia.”

  “I am trying! Jases. I can’t even think straight with that pill. I told you the last time.”

  Minogue sat back.

  “How did Mary get around?”

  She took a deep breath and let her eyes close.

  “We’re not going to go through all that again, are we?” The biro slipped from Minogue’s fingers onto the table. He’d had enough.

  “It’s here or in an interview room down at the station.”

  Her breath came out in a rush. She sagged in the chair.

  “I don’t know how she got around,” she groaned. “Like anyone else. Bus. Walking. Taxi. I don’t know!”

  “Well, she didn’t stay in the flat every night, we know that from what you told us.”

  Her hand went to her forehead. Her jaw began to quiver.

  “It’s no good crying now, Patricia. Let me get it right this time. I just can’t believe that you didn’t wonder about her and then ask her things.”

  “She didn’t like that, I told you. She told me to mind me own business more times.”

  “You never worried about her those times she didn’t come home?”