All souls imm-4

by John Brady

  Minogue put on his protective coat of indignation.

  “Come on now, John. I wouldn’t go over anyone’s head. Except maybe my own.”

  “Come on, yourself. I’m saying, don’t do it. Last point. I know what your colleague, Seamus Hoey, did or tried to do. I’m saying nothing about it except this: Don’t be so sure that you know better than the caring professions.

  “You may phone me if you find yourself being crucified, though,” Tynan added. “Crucified unjustly, I mean.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Cut that out, now. Don’t spend time trying to think of a way. Phone Kilmartin.”

  Minogue walked slowly away from the phone. He was too bewildered to feel anything distinctly. One clear idea emerged from the fog. He would not phone Jim Kilmartin without having a lash of whiskey first. He waylaid a lounge-boy and had him bring a small Jamesons to the foyer. He thought of Kilmartin’s ugly mood awaiting ignition with a phone call. He tipped the returned lounge-boy, swallowed the whiskey in four gulps and headed back to the lounge. Hoey had slid far down in his chair in a defensive slouch, fortified as best he could against Crossan’s bulbous, straining eyes. Preoccupied, Minogue tripped over Hoey’s outstretched legs and staggered a few steps before regaining his balance.

  “For the want of it,” said Crossan.

  The Inspector’s befuddlement gave way suddenly to irritation. Thwarted, he thought, and he couldn’t even have a damn drink without having to hide it from Hoey.

  “Friend or foe?” Crossan asked. “The phone call?”

  “A bit early to tell,” Minogue grunted. “I have to make a call. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He returned to the foyer little mollified by the fact that neither Hoey nor Crossan had pressed him on whom he had been talking to. Had his expression told them all they needed to know? Kilmartin’s voice was full of the light inflections of whimsy, the sonorous and beguiling range of tones and emphases, of words lingered on, others dropped like petals on water, at once inviting and intimate, one minute wryly direct, dreamily inconclusive the next. Many still mistook such signs from James Kilmartin. Minogue guessed what could follow and it made him more nervous.

  “Yes, yes,” Kilmartin went on in an eerily light-hearted tone. “I neglected to tell you, you might be interested. That clown in Drimnagh, Nolan. He got bail.”

  “How? Why? When?”

  “Ah, well now, you surely know that there’s been so much progress in law reform in the country now, Matt, what with us being real Europeans now and the whole place rotten with consultants and the helping professions and what-have-you. All the fine barristers and social scientists and psychologists we have choking the universities.”

  “How?”

  “Well, now. It appears that this fucking slug, Nolan, is a walking compendium of troubles. Wisha, the poor little scrap. They’re after discovering he has a learning disability so he’s a class of illiterate, and that, you know, builds up all kinds of trouble. Has a, ahem, a poor self-image. He doesn’t feel good about himself, I was told. Poor lad has an alcohol problem too.”

  Minogue had had enough.

  “All right, Jimmy, all right. I was-”

  Kilmartin snapped back with the first show of anger.

  “Shut up and listen. I want you to know what you’re missing. Poor lad has a gambling syndrome. Worst of all, God help him, he has food allergies-”

  “Jimmy-”

  “Yes indeed! A walking collection of troubles and tribulations. His food allergies that he didn’t know he had must have caused him to kick the other fella, you see. Now why didn’t I think of that? I heard of the case in the States where a fella got off because he was demented by a bar of chocolate, but we’re obviously way behind here in our grasp of this new psychology. Nolan’s a victim of society.”

  The back of Minogue’s neck began to ache with tension.

  “But as I was saying,” Kilmartin resumed in a singsong voice, “I think that I didn’t give this place in Greece a fair hearing when you were talking about it.”

  “I was going to phone you anyway,” said Minogue.

  “You were on your granny’s teeth. Like hell, pal. The more I think of it, Greece is the best place for you. Without a doubt. I hear that the police there need experienced men for mountain work, chasing the runaway goats and sheep. After your few days in Ennis, sure that’ll qualify you eminently for that class of demanding work. Gob, you could count the sheep for them too. Oh, and I hear tell there are good-looking sheep there, as well. Why don’t you toddle down to Shannon Airport, it’s right beside you there, and head for Greece. And take Hoey with you-”

  “Leave Shea out of it, Jimmy.”

  “And take that double-dehydrated, know-it-all, trouble-making bollocks Hynes with you. Where the hell did you get the idea of letting that bastard out of the bottle? That move was well below the water-line, man.”

  Minogue did not think it wise to tell Kilmartin that he could muzzle Hynes for the moment because he intended to give Hynes exclusive if the Bourke thing came to anything. Then Kilmartin could afford to smile again at seeing Hynes all over the likes of Tom Russell and the Supers who wanted Kilmartin’s monkeys in their own zoos.

  “I can phone the airport for ye, and lay on a plane,” Kilmartin was saying.

  “Tynan told me to lay off the shooting death here, the one with the German tourist. That I’ll do.”

  “Very big of you. Why didn’t you tell him to piss off? He’s only the Garda Commissioner.”

  “But the rehash of the Bourke thing still stands. It stinks. I feel bad that I sort of fobbed off the thing when Crossan got to me, and now it’s too late. Maybe I can get something out of it-”

  “For who? Isn’t the man dead now?”

  “I plan to talk to the principals in the case, if I can find them.”

  “Did I tell you that the hearing is gone bad on me?” Kilmartin asked remotely. “Maura says I should have me ears checked. I get a buzzing in me ears at certain times.”

  “Look, Jimmy. I used Hynes because I had the local nabob, Tom Russell, slam a door in my face here. Hynes phoned Tynan about the German.”

  The Chief Inspector’s voice turned gravelly.

  “A word to the wise now, hair-oil: Tom Russell’s a hard man. Russell has his friends and Tynan knows that well. If you play trick-of-the-loop with Tom, he’ll nail you. And he’ll set the phone-lines to Tynan’s office burning.”

  “He already has. He might do it again if he finds out I’m talking to the witnesses and so on.”

  “Listen,” Kilmartin said with a softer urgency. “You started out this thing with some remarks that this lawman fella-what’s his name again?”

  “Crossan. Alo Crossan.”

  “…that Crossan made. If you really want to firm up, why not do the paperwork for an official reopening? I’ll phone Sheehan or someone in Justice, if you want. See what the score is. The appeal period is long gone but maybe we can work out a back door to getting the trial record typed up. Then you might see that you’re going nowhere.”

  Minogue was taken aback by this sudden solicitude.

  “Well,” he hesitated, while he tried to guess Kilmartin’s motive. “We don’t really have any new evidence to warrant a…”

  The Inspector imagined Kilmartin’s smirk.

  “Okay, look, Jimmy. My quandary is that I’ll have nothing until I talk to the people involved in the case. It’s tricky, I admit.”

  “Tricky, you admit. Hhnn. And if you find the investigation produced the proper conviction?”

  “I’ll walk away from it, with me head hanging. And I’ll buy you a hearing aid.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” said Kilmartin solemnly. “Very smucking fart, I’m sure. Keep your head, that’s what I say to all that. By the way, how’s the patient?”

  “Progressing.”

  “Unn-hhh. Florence Nightingale. Off the jar, I hope. That’ll be the cure, if you ask me.”

  “
Yes.”

  “Well, I can tell you’re not going to be talking your face off about that particular matter. I have something to tell you now and you’d better mark it well. Monsignor Tynan spared me five minutes of his precious time here on the phone. ‘Asked’ me to let you alone on this Bourke thing-”

  “He did? Well, why didn’t you tell me that first?”

  “Because I wanted to hear your bloody side. Do you take me for an iijit? Do you think I don’t know what Tynan’s up to here? Anyway, he phones me. As if he wanted you seconded, bejases. Gave him a soft ball, you know, ‘The Inspector is on his holidays,’ says I. ‘That’s the whole idea,’ he says back to me. Very shagging strange conversation. Tynan did not tell me that he’d be pleased as punch if you dug up any dirt in Tom Russell’s field. Do you know why he didn’t tell me that? It’s because I bloody well know that already!”

  “I don’t think Tynan’s playing politics,” said Minogue.

  “God, you’re the trusting little schoolboy, aren’t you?” Kilmartin scoffed with genial scorn. “Sure what do you know? You have your head in the clouds half the time. You don’t care who’s backstabbing who here. Tom Russell got passed over for Tynan several years ago. He can’t stand Tynan!”

  “A question, James. Tell me something now, my memory is failing. Is Tom Russell also one of the Divisional Superintendents asking for the Squad to be dispersed?”

  “Ha, ha,” said Kilmartin. “You finally woke up! You’re a quick learner. Figure it out for yourself, smart arse. Ha, ha, ha!”

  There was bounce in Minogue’s step as he headed back to the dining-room. Hoey was alone at the table.

  “What’s the word?” said Hoey.

  Minogue sat down.

  “Well, we still have jobs. Jimmy stepped aside for Tynan, but don’t expect an overdose of help and encouragement is about the size of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Tynan? Where does he fit here?”

  Minogue considered his reply.

  “Remember the archaeologists going through the Viking rubbish pits down by the City Hall?”

  Hoey frowned and began playing with coins in his pocket.

  “You can tell a lot about what’s been kept by what’s been swept under the carpet.”

  Crossan strode across the floor and flopped into his seat.

  “I’m not guaranteeing Eilo McInerny will sing, now,” he said. “And she sounds cagey enough, but she’ll be in the hotel this afternoon.”

  His eyes had returned to their full, startled appearance. He handed Minogue a piece of paper with the phone number and address of the hotel.

  “I told her you were Guards, mind,” Crossan warned. “Everything above board. She wasn’t too keen, but I think I have her persuaded.”

  “Did you tell her what happened to Bourke last night?”

  “No. Let it be a trump when you deliver the news.”

  Minogue nodded his appreciation slowly.

  “We’ll be off this minute,” he said. “Before she or anyone else up in Dublin changes their minds.”

  “What does that mean?” Crossan asked. “About Dublin?”

  “It’s an inside joke.”

  “Well. Go easy on her now,” said Crossan, and rolled his watch around his wristbone. “I told her that, for Guards, you were all right.”

  “Don’t be worrying, counsellor,” said Minogue. “We’re housebroken.”

  “I’m serious,” Crossan insisted. “It took a lot of persuading. Phone me. Will ye be back in Ennis tonight?”

  Minogue doffed an imaginary hat.

  “To be sure, your honour,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Minogue turned the Fiat into O’Connell Street and, within minutes, was accelerating down the Kilrush Road. While he drove he thought back to Crossan’s sardonic manner with the photographs, the subtle gibes at the Howards. Other images slid across his mind: a house afire, a man naked, drunk and terrified. Jamesy Bourke, the bearded spook leaving the pub in Portaree was now a stitched-up carcass. He shivered and tried to shake free of the undertow that could have him spiralling deeper into the grisly images.

  “The Killimer ferry will save us an hour each way from Tralee,” he said.

  “That fella’s eyes drill into you,” Hoey murmured. “Like a fish or something.”

  “What do you make of him?”

  Hoey rubbed his chin.

  “Don’t know at all. I’d say he’s good at his job for one thing. Can’t read him much. Yet, anyway. I’d sleep with one eye open all the same.”

  The two policemen reached Killimer dock in time to coincide with a sailing to the Limerick side.

  “There’s timing for you,” Hoey said between yawns.

  The ramp hummed and ground upright behind the car. Hoey followed the Inspector up the steps to the railing and there they fell to staring at the Shannon estuary, wide and grey before them. The tide was coming in and the air was tangy with salt. What had been a slight breeze on shore became buffeting gusts as they left Clare. With the engine throbbing underfoot and his lungs full of the sea air, Minogue watched a Jumbo going over, its wheels down for landing at Shannon Airport. Hoey turned to observe the coastline-Limerick or Kerry, Minogue couldn’t tell-drift closer to the ferry. His hair tousled in the wind made him look boyish.

  “Where do you think that German fella is by now?” asked Hoey.

  “I don’t want to be thinking of that at the present time,” Minogue muttered. He had been thinking of Crossan again. “Let our friends in the Department of Justice be the sitting ducks for Shorty Hynes on that.”

  Hoey stayed on deck until the ferry docked. They made better time than Minogue had expected through Listowel and into Tralee, where he parked the Fiat in a street next to the hotel. He had decided to try and get Eilo McInerny out of the hotel for a chat in some unobtrusive place. A woman with flaming red hair, an overabundance of perfume and fine white teeth had a great welcome for Minogue when he approached the desk. Her broad smile faltered a little at Minogue’s question.

  “I’m not sure Eilo’s actually on, now. But sure can’t I find out for you?”

  She looked at him for an extra few seconds before dispatching a dour adolescent with a white shirt and a slow, reflective manner into the innards of the hotel. Minutes passed, the longer for Minogue because the piped music got to him. He caught the redhead’s eye, and she smiled with a professional benevolence back at him. He was about to rise and return to the desk when the general factotum reappeared and imparted his news to the receptionist. She frowned momentarily, regained her smile and beamed at Minogue to beckon him over.

  “Well now, she’s not here this very minute. But she’s supposed to be on shift. I wouldn’t be surprised if she just stepped out for a minute. She was expecting you, was she?”

  “She was.” Familiar strands of doubt worked stronger on him. “Did you see her leave?”

  “Oh no. Can’t you sit down there and take the weight off your feet? She’ll turn up in a minute.”

  Minogue elbowed onto the desk and mustered his best confidential bluff.

  “Do you know now,” he whispered, “I’m in a bit of a spot. I’m only passing through and it’d save me a lot of bother if I could find her fairly fast. Do you know where she lives?”

  The receptionist took in a breath and smiled. She was in her middle thirties, Minogue guessed, with the robust and hearty manner which even the Irish assumed was natural to redheaded people. Her lingering gaze into Minogue’s eyes made him think of country girls at dances long ago, their comfortable dumpling bodies sensual and inviting, a placid mockery in their smiles as they danced. She could probably tell what he did for a living, what food he’d like, how vigorous a lover he might be.

  “Do you know now,” she whispered, in a subtle mimic of Minogue’s fake intimacy. “I don’t know her all that well. But, sure, if this is as important as you say, then you’ll find her around the corner here. She rents a house there on the terrace. It’s next to Nugent’s sh
op. You can’t miss it.”

  She winked at him, and he felt the first itches of a blush starting around his neck. What did she think, that Eilo McInemy and he had a matinee session planned? He sensed her merry eyes on his back as he left. Did the same Eilo McInerny have the reputation of entertaining men?

  No one answered the door. Minogue inclined his head closer and knocked again. Then he stood on tiptoe to peer through the patterned amber glass which formed an arch high in the door. He turned the door handle to no avail and then stepped into Nugent’s shop. A young woman with dyed black hair hanging down over her eyes was packing a shelf with bags of potato chips.

  “Do you know Eileen McInerny who lives next door?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “Have you seen her lately, in the last half hour or so, I mean?”

  She put down the carton. “Well, she works over at the hotel.”

  “You haven’t seen her coming or going this last little while?”

  Her face seemed to set itself, as though she now knew that she didn’t need to be polite. She pushed back a strand of hair.

  “It’s important that I see her,” Minogue tried. “She was expecting me.”

  “Well, I don’t know now. Her little one, Melanie, came in from school and then I heard the door close about fifteen minutes ago, like someone slammed it. I didn’t actually see anyone.”

  “Someone left the house a quarter of an hour ago?”

  She tugged at a lock of hair, twirled it over her ear and gave Minogue a wary glance. He tried harder to control his impatience.

  “It’s not trouble at all,” he said. “I just need to get in touch with her.”

  He managed a smile. The girl gave him a feeble, distracted smile in return but backed into the shelves. She twirled some hair quicker now. Crossan had spoken with Eileen McInerny only an hour and a half ago, Minogue was thinking; her daughter got in from school, maybe after playing with some other kids, and off someone went from the house shortly afterwards. She spoke in a low voice without looking over at Minogue.