by John Brady
“Well, those times I gave you may not be exactly accurate, down to the second, I mean. I’ve been doing my best to be accurate about the times but maybe I was out on a few of them. I mean, when I got into the car and drove from Marco Polo’s…”
Kenny’s eyes had become fixed. He broke his stare with a slight shake of his head.
“What if I can’t account for every single minute of that night? Until I got home to Julie, I mean?”
Minogue took his time sipping the tea. That Mercedes had better cough up enough to float a warrant for Kenny’s house by a JP, he thought-and soon. He laid down the mug.
“What do you know of Eddsy Egan, Mr. Kenny?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Kenny. Minogue smiled.
“Nor you mine.”
Kenny moved back up a little in the chair. His jaw moved from side to side.
“I’ve nothing to hide,” he said. “In spite of this, well, I don’t know if it merits the word provocation… This atmosphere of suspicion. Yes, I’ve heard of him. Eddsy Egan. I’ve seen him. In the clubs. He’s the guy I was talking about. Someone told me Mary was his moll.”
“Moll?” said Malone.
“She hung around with him. He looked to me like a fat dwarf with a walking stick. Pasty-faced. Didn’t look much the gangster, I’d have to say.”
“Ever talk to him?” asked Minogue.
“No way. Jesus. The glamour is fine at a distance, thank you very much. I found out that he and his brothers are rough customers.”
“That they are, Mr. Kenny. That they are.”
“You also know Bobby Egan then?”
“I know of him, yes.”
Minogue looked over at Malone.
“Wouldn’t want the likes of Bobby Egan on my case, now, hah, Tommy?”
Malone nodded solemnly. Minogue laid his hand on the file folder he had taken from the car.
“Do you know a man called Dermot Ryan, Mr. Kenny?”
“I don’t think so. No. Is he a criminal type?”
“He works as a photographer. ‘Precious Moments’ is his business.”
Minogue paused to observe Kenny’s expression.
“Do you mean in the film business, is it?”
“Not that I know of,” Minogue replied. “I understand he’s much sought after. In a certain sense.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Ah, it’s a long story. It has to do with the Egans. A modelling agency. A shocked wife somewhere. A disgusted fiancee maybe. Photographs. Rackets-no, not squash. Prostitution, I suppose. Protection. Blackmail.”
Minogue slid the photos out face down. Kenny’s eyes stayed on them until Minogue’s stare awoke him.
“Drugs, Mr. Kenny.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Oh, it is.” He nodded at the cell-phone which Malone had parked on the table.
“We’re all in the Big Time here now, Mr. Kenny. Our place in the sun. Standard of living, etcetera.”
Kenny’s eyes seemed to be getting brighter. Minogue waited some more. Kenny was shrewd enough. It wouldn’t be too long before he would realize that outside of the rigours and the all too often dogged procedures of police science, there were no rules of conduct in a murder investigation. It was useless to guess at how much Mary had or hadn’t told Kenny about her own life, how much she had shown him. It was probable that Mary Mullen had lied to him, lied a lot. Kenny mightn’t be in any of the photos.
“Look,” said Kenny, and swallowed. “You’ve been beating about the bush here. Why don’t you just come out and say what you have on your mind. Get all this, I don’t know what to call it, all this crap out in the open.”
Minogue turned over the first photo. Kenny tried to keep his eyes on the Inspector but he couldn’t.
“A rather poor shot,” murmured the Inspector. “But I’m hardly a good judge. I mean to say, what would I know? I’m your sort of suburban type, am I not, Tommy?”
Malone nodded.
“A culchie too?” Malone shrugged.
“Not your fault, boss.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Anyway. The blurry stuff there are clothes, I am told by our imaging experts here. Thrown off rather precipitously I imagine. This was in a place called the Cave. There’s no name on the door now. Do you know it?”
Kenny’s expression didn’t change. Minogue sat back and stretched.
“I bet you’re wondering how it’s done, aren’t you? The actual photography, I mean. Not the actual, well, you know what I mean. The recreation there.”
“Not really.”
“You aren’t? Well, my goodness, I was, I can tell you. I thought of the old Hollywood stuff, of course. The one-way glass masquerading as a mirror and all that. But, sure, fool that I am, I’d look straightaway for something like that. If I were interested in that class of an encounter, I mean. The way I was reared, I suppose. Here, Tommy, what about you?”
“Definitely,” said Malone. “First thing I’d check. Yeah. Be a fool not to.”
“Did you check, Mr. Kenny?”
“What?” snapped Kenny. “I’ve never been to this Cave place in my life.”
“Ah. You know the place then?”
Kenny turned away. Minogue sat up and leaned on the table.
“To make a long story longer now… Those Japanese wizards. Miniaturising everything, I’m told. They’ll soon be making them so small that you won’t even see them. The camera is wrapped in a piece of sponge, slipped in behind a small mirror and hung on the wall. The pictures are all taken remotely. Hardly a peep out of it.”
Kenny didn’t look over. He kept up his study of a corner of the ceiling.
“Don’t know what the colour is like,” Minogue went on. “Very grainy without the flash, I’d say. But sure, who needs colour? Oh, by the way, do you know this fella here in the picture? Just on the off chance, now?”
Kenny didn’t answer.
“No? We don’t either. Yet. We’ve been having a kind of a lottery in the office there since we got hold of these pictures. I have fifty pence on this man here being a Tipperary dairy farmer. No?”
Kenny turned his head. There was a vague suggestion of pity on his face. He looked from Minogue to Malone and back.
“Up for the mart here, I decided. The Spring Show maybe. The wife out shopping in Grafton Street, most likely. Your man had enough of the tractors etcetera early on in the day. He even has the look of a heifer about him. A bullock maybe, though.”
“It’s a good story,” said Kenny. “At another time.”
Minogue put on a startled expression and turned to Malone.
“As a matter of fact-no, it couldn’t be. Could it, Tommy?”
“What?” asked Kenny.
Minogue dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand.
“Couldn’t be. Ah, no! It just struck me that this man bears a passing resemblance to a man we work with… Well, Tommy, what do you think?”
Malone didn’t crack a smile. He half stood and examined the picture.
“Well, the build, maybe…”
“No, couldn’t be,” Minogue declared. “He’s Mayo. I’m forgetting the basics here. It’s the married men are the meat and potatoes of operations like this, Mr. Kenny. If I can use that expression. But you’re not married, so what harm.”
A glaze had fallen over Kenny’s eyes.
“That’s just about enough,” he said. “If you want to talk to me again, phone my solicitor. I’ve sat here long enough. Do you know what my time is worth? I charge-ah, what’s the use. Here I am, doing my best to co-operate with the Guards and what do I get-”
“Twenty years, Mr. Kenny. Probably.”
Kenny’s head tilted to one side. Minogue sat forward in his chair and joined his hands.
“Pardon? What did you just say?”
“You asked me what you could get,” replied Minogue. “Average it out at about twenty years. Depends a bit on the demeanour of the defendant, of course. The posture he takes as regards co-op
erating with the police.”
Minogue watched the changing expressions cross over Kenny’s face. His jaw began to go from side to side again. When Kenny spoke, his voice was hoarse.
“You know, I’d heard rumours that this was how the Guards worked. Sometimes. When they were stuck. When they were desperate to get someone, anyone, so they could claim they were getting on with a case. I tell you, I used to discount this kind of blatant intimidation. That was probably because I had some faith in cops. I mean, maybe the Guards knew more about the clientele, the background, than the man in the street, like. One thing for sure, though: I never expected that a Guard would try this crap on the likes of me. Some illiterate with a record maybe, someone who didn’t know his rights-sure. But I never imagined that this day would come-”
“ Carpe diem, Mr. Kenny.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Loosely translated, ‘Let’s get going.’ Sort of a way of saying-”
“I know what it means. I want to know what this latest installment of weird and unbelievable-”
Minogue turned to Malone again.
“Tommy. Do you think Eddsy has the pictures?” Malone continued his scrutiny of Kenny’s face.
“Hard to say,” he said. “Not hard to get though.”
“Oh? Mr. Kenny here does not appear to be unduly alarmed,” Minogue went on. “So presumably he is of the opinion that Eddsy Egan-”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“ ‘The hell?’ Mr. Kenny?”
“Cut the crap. You can delay things here a bit, but it won’t stop me phoning my solicitor.”
“God between us and all harm,” said Minogue.
“Do you think you can get away with this?”
“With what?”
“Your colleague here is a witness. Unless he wishes to perjure himself.”
“No, thanks,” said Malone.
“Your tape of this conversation is also evidence. You’ve presumably logged in here for the use of this room. Need I say more?”
Minogue loosened his collar. Water the garden tonight, even if he had to do it in the dark. A big tin of very cold beer in the fridge. Like America at home, by God. He stood up and faced Kenny.
“You need say nothing at all that you believe could be used-”
“Aha! So I am under arrest!”
Kenny’s eyes had narrowed. His lips tightened in ironic satisfaction,
“You seem well-versed as regards your rights,” said Minogue. “Not to speak, my God, of the most mundane procedures here in Harcourt Square. Logging in for the use of this room. How did you know that?”
Kenny said nothing. He began tapping his fingers on the chair-back. Malone had eased himself up now. He leaned against the wall by the door.
“You’ll naturally be aware then, Mr. Kenny, that the State does not proceed with posthumous convictions. Sort of obvious, isn’t it?”
“What’s going on here? Come on!”
“You want me to charge you, arrest you? Do you, Mr. Kenny?”
“I dare you.”
Minogue tugged at his earlobe.
“I’ll have to turn you down on that one, Mr. Kenny. Yes, indeed. The edge, no doubt. You’re a gambler and a risk-taker, so you are. No. You can go back out there and take your chances.”
“Unreal,” said Kenny. He shook his head. “I’d never have believed it. That real cops, Guards, would act like this, talk like this.”
“Act, Mr. Kenny? We’re not doing auditions here.” The Inspector turned and nodded toward Malone. The detective’s expression wavered between amusement and contempt. “No make-up, no special effects. The unvarnished truth.”
“As you picture it, you mean,” retorted Kenny. “It’s not how my solicitor will see it.”
“Oh, well,” said Minogue. “Maybe we’re wrong.” He returned Kenny’s look.
“I mean about the snapshots,” he added. “Maybe Eddsy Egan hasn’t a good shot of your face. If so, I can’t imagine what parts of your anatomy he might trace you from. For your sake, I hope the light was bad. Maybe Mary never let slip enough about you to anyone who could give Mr. Egan a trail to your door.”
The Inspector drummed his nails in a quick tattoo on the chair-back. He stopped abruptly.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Kenny. Take care now. Detective Malone here will drop you off. And your Mercedes. It’s a Two…?”
“It’s a 190.”
Minogue beamed. “Ah! The pocket Mercedes. A gem entirely. Tell me, how do you find it at speed? On a twisty road, more particularly?”
Kenny’s cheeks inflated. Minogue maintained the smile. It’d be some recompense to hear a good, rich curse from Alan Kenny. Nothing.
“Your car should be processed by midday tomorrow, Mr. Kenny. If all goes well.”
Kenny let the air out from his cheeks with a pop. He bit his lip.
“Are there facilities?” he said. “A toilet, I mean.”
Minogue almost smiled. He looked over at Malone but the detective shrugged. Right, thought the Inspector. Malone didn’t know his way around the place.
“Follow me, Mr. Kenny.”
Kenny closed the door behind him. Minogue stepped over to the urinal. He was happier than he wanted to admit to have discovered that he was dealing with a fastidious man. Kenny was probably up in a heap about being monitored in the toilet by a cop. Doubtless a chartered accountant would do his best to piss to the side of the bowl.
Minogue zipped and headed for the washbasin. There was no sound from the cubicle.
“Are we right there now, Mr. Kenny?”
The intake of breath stopped Minogue dead.
“Fine. Yes.”
Like hell, thought Minogue. He studied his own reflection in the mirror.
“You’re er…?”
Minogue heard the vomit an instant before the gagging sound. Damn, he thought, had this bugger swallowed something? Another scratching sound from Kenny’s throat now but less puke this time. A sweet, soupy stench reached the Inspector’s nostrils. He pushed up from the handbasin. Well now: Mr. Hairstyle Mercedes had come undone. He had better make sure that this clown didn’t damage himself on police premises. Did drug users have episodes like this? Maybe Mr. Hairstyle was proof they did.
“Mr. Kenny?” The answer came in a wheeze.
“I’m okay.”
He ran water over his hands and rubbed the soap around his knuckles. The soap made slurping sounds as he worked it toward a lather.
“I’m serious about the Egans, Mr. Kenny. And I’m serious about the photo sessions.”
He waited for Kenny to say something.
“When I find photos of you and Mary, you’ll be glad it’s me walking by your secretary’s desk first.”
Sounds of toilet-paper being tugged and torn. Minogue turned the tap on high. Drops of water splashed onto his shirt and trousers but he didn’t care. He glared at the reflection of the cubicle’s closed door.
“Me and not Eddsy Egan, I mean. Can you hear me?”
A whistley, choked-off sigh sounded from behind the door.
“Listen now. If you’re that worried, you should talk.”
Kenny said nothing. The Inspector swore under his breath, shook the water off his hands and walked into the adjoining cubicle. He let down the seat and stood on it. With his feet to either side of the seat he jammed his cheek against the ceiling and tried for whatever he could see in the three or four inches between the cubicle wall and the ceiling. Kenny’s glossy hair was all that he saw. It moved down over his forehead until he shook it back.
“Come out and wash your face. You’ll be the better of it.”
With the shudder and the wheeze, Minogue realized that Kenny was sobbing. His wet hands on the wall felt colder. Kenny’s hair began to tumble forward again. He sniffed and flicked it back.
“Talk to me, man. You can’t just hide in the corner, for the love of God.”
Kenny turned and looked at the door.
“Up
here,” said Minogue. “I don’t normally do this class of thing, mind you.”
Kenny’s watery, red eyes turned up toward him. He stood and rubbed at his face.
“She told me that he could do anything,” he whispered. “Anywhere. Anytime. I wouldn’t even be safe behind bars.”
The stench began to make Minogue woozy. “Almighty God… Open up the door, man. We can talk outside.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“Who? Eddsy Egan?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly. Probably. Don’t bet that he doesn’t. Or can’t find out.”
Kenny was drawing the door back when Minogue stepped out of the cubicle. Minogue watched him roll up his shirtsleeves with his fingertips. He turned on the hot tap for him.
“You’re going to talk to me now.”
Kenny cupped water in his hands.
“I need guarantees,” he said.
“You want what?” The Inspector took a step back and pointed a finger at him.
“Do you think you’re buying a new kettle or something? I’ll give you guarantees then. If and when Eddsy Egan finds out who you are and where you fit, that he will call on you when you will be least able to escape his attentions. Is that the kind of guarantee you’re talking about?”
Kenny grasped the edges of the basin and let his head drop. He let out a deep sigh.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered.
“What-the meaning of life? Enough of this caper: you’re under arrest.”
Kenny stared at the Inspector’s face in the mirror.
“How can you do that?”
“You killed her, that’s how.”
“No, I didn’t! I couldn’t! No!”
“You hung Mary out to dry, that’s what you did. You left her out there, didn’t you?”
Kenny’s jaws worked but no words came.
“No deals! Dry up there and let’s get going. Mr. Alan Kenny, I am placing you under arrest in the death of Mary Mullen. It is my duty to inform you that anything you say can and will be used-”
“She never told me! Never! I swear to you!”
“-as evidence against you. You have the right-”
“Never! She just said…”
Drops of lather still fell from Kenny’s outstretched hands.
“Said what?”
“If I didn’t take it off her hands, she’d say that I’d ripped her off. She did!”
