All souls imm-4

by John Brady

  “Well, now,” said Hoey. “Look ahead there. We’re back to civilisation here now.”

  A Garda checkpoint was in place where the short road to the dock met up with the Kilrush Road. Minogue found first gear and approached the two Guards slowly. Rain poured thinly from their hats as they leaned to look in the window.

  “Hello now,” said one. “Where are ye coming from?”

  Minogue had his card out. In his side vision he saw a figure stirring across the back window. He reached up with the card while Hoey tendered his own to the Guard on his side of the car. The Inspector looked back and through the streaming window he saw a hooded figure standing to the driver’s side, just out of sight of his wing mirror.

  The Guard tried not to look surprised as he returned the card.

  “Thanks, now,” he said.

  Minogue guessed that the two Ford Granadas were Emergency Response Units.

  “We didn’t see ye on the way down,” said Minogue. “Around the two o’clock mark.”

  The Guard shrugged.

  “Ah, we do the spot checks for a couple of hours. Move around a lot,” he murmured. “Catch them on the move is the idea.”

  “‘The West’s Awake, The West’s Awake,’” Minogue half-sang, half-growled.

  “You said it,” the Guard grinned. “Pass on, now.”

  “By the way, is head-the-ball behind us from Dublin?” Minogue asked.

  The Guard took quick control of his smile but it lived on as a wry cast to his face.

  “How well you spotted him now. Was it the cars beyond?”

  “As well as where he’s standing, with the hardware hanging under his coat. Never thought we’d see Clare so lively, I can tell you.”

  “Ah, it might blow over…sooner or later,” said the Guard. The expression on his face reminded Minogue of a farmer guessing on the weather.

  “If only they’d stick to painting slogans on the walls.”

  Minogue wished the sodden Guard good luck and headed for the Ennis road. No shilly-shallying around the bog-roads by Carabane trying to save a few miles either, he determined. Cars the age of his sclerotic Fiat that had started out on such boreens had never reached their destinations.

  Save for streetlights smeared on the black, shiny streets, Ennis was grey and unfamiliar. Minogue parked under Crossan’s office window.

  “See the score with him,” he muttered. “It’ll only take a minute. Then we’ll go and get a bit of tea or something. Have you an appetite in that line?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hoey whispered, “I have a fierce thirst on me.”

  The despondent urgency in his voice startled Minogue. He looked to Hoey’s face and remembered his own whiskeys in Tralee while Hoey had nursed 7-Up. He knocked and made room for Hoey in the meagre shelter of the doorway. Crossan flung the door open energetically.

  “Yiz are back,” he announced. “Come on up.”

  Minogue felt his mood flattening out with each step as they trudged up the stairs after Crossan.

  “Ye’ll have a drink,” Crossan said.

  Minogue struggled with his reply. “None at all thanks. A bit of tea and the prospect of a bed would do wonders to, er, build morale.”

  “Had a call from Dan Howard,” Crossan called out. “Wants to help out with funeral expenses and what have you. Himself and the missus want to help in any way they can.”

  “Is Howard in Ennis right now?” Minogue asked.

  Crossan nodded. “I told him that I’d call by his house tonight if I could find the time,” the lawyer said. He looked toward Hoey. “That eye of yours is going green. Is that a good sign?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hoey.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Minogue.

  Crossan hesitated. Rain blew across the window with a sigh.

  “Let’s eat something for the love of God,” said Minogue. “Oh. I need to use the phone here first.”

  Crossan waved his arm over the phone and Minogue sat forward to reach it. He dialled his home number and watched Crossan shrug into his coat. Why had Crossan hesitated, he wondered? The phone was picked up.

  “It’s me, Kathleen,” he said. “Your present husband. I’m in Ennis. It’s raining.”

  “That’s not news to me,” she declared. “Tell me what else.”

  He detailed the sighting of the porpoises from earlier in the day, the trip to Tralee.

  “Is Shea Hoey holding up yet?”

  Minogue glanced over. Hoey was studying the ceiling, his head resting on the chair-back.

  “Yes, or so it looks.”

  “He’s there beside you?”

  “That’s true.”

  “I only hope he doesn’t do something wild, you know,” she went on in a whisper. “Because you might get caught up in it. I got to thinking that, you know, he should be staying up here in Dublin to get his, you know, treatment. I worry about him being next to you. What could happen, I mean.”

  “You should have seen them. I remember wanting to ride on their backs. Off they went, happy as Larry, I don’t doubt, off out to sea. Live with them and never come back home to the farm.”

  “What? What are you going on about? Those creatures? Be serious now.”

  Minogue took her advice. Yes, he had enough changes of clothes and was installed in a good B amp; B. He concluded the chat with a request to his wife to check yesterday’s temperature in Athens. When he put down the phone, both Crossan and Hoey were looking at him.

  Minogue thanked the waitress and started immediately in on the black pudding, a blood sausage favoured in rural areas yet. A generous portion, along with the waitress’s commiserations about the unsettled weather, accompanied the mixed grill.

  “Kathleen asked how we were doing on our, em, hobby.”

  Hoey grasped a chip with his fingers.

  “What did you tell her?”

  Much to Minogue’s distaste, Hoey kept a cigarette going in the ashtray, taking pulls at it between chips. The long plate-glass windows of the Beehive Restaurant were densely freckled with rain. Hardly a car passed on the puddled street.

  “I informed her that we had the personnel to do a right good job of it. That’s probably a way of saying that we’ve gotten nowhere yet. But that we might know better tomorrow.”

  Hoey munched reflectively on a chip.

  “That wasn’t so big of a whopper,” he murmured.

  Minogue watched two cars moving slowly down the street. A customer opened the door and Minogue heard the hiss of tyres from the Fords. Each car had three men in it, he noted. Light from the restaurant caught the antennae waving by the back windows of the cars. The faces were in shadow until the car drew level with the restaurant. A young man stared in the window and his eyes met Minogue’s for several moments. A hard-case from Dublin, the Inspector registered: prowling. The face fell back into shadow as the car passed. Hoey’s eyes were still fixed on the empty street.

  “The cavalry,” said Hoey. “It’s getting to be like a garrison town.”

  Minogue worked on his grill but had to leave most of the chips. He dared more coffee but wished he could smoke to blunt its taste.

  “Kathleen asked how you were doing.”

  Hoey rubbed his nose with a knuckle and concentrated on moving the ashtray in a pavane around the Formica. Minogue suspected that his colleague was putting his fingers to work so that his hands would not shake.

  “Looked better by the hour, I told her. More or less, like. What I didn’t tell her, of course, is that I’m worried about leaving you on your own tonight while I go over to Howard’s place with Crossan.”

  “Well, let me go along with frog-eyes and yourself, so.”

  “Two Guards off the Murder Squad, Shea? I don’t think that’d be a sound move. I want it to be as social as it can be. More will come of it.”

  “The Clare connection?”

  “I suppose. Sorry.”

  Hoey’s fingers slowed, and he rubbed his forehead with his thumb. He and Minogue had
booked into a bed and breakfast run by a Mrs McNamara. She had kept her curiosity in check for the moment, issuing a great welcome for her two guests. She explained the weather to them, told them that there was plenty of hot water, the prospect of a session with melodeons in Davitt’s pub, told them there was another bathroom at the back of the house, asked them if they liked a big breakfast, invited them down to the parlour to watch the Miss Ireland beauty contest on the television tonight, recommended visits to the Ailwee Caves and the Folk Village by Bunratty.

  The ashtray had begun its segue again. Hoey didn’t look up when he spoke.

  “Tell Kathleen I’m all right. Considering.”

  Minogue’s mind was drawn to the movement of the ashtray.

  “I’ll head back to Mrs McNamara,” Hoey added. “Have a wash-up. I’ll take a gander at what Miss Ireland’s like this year.”

  Minogue wrenched his eyes away from the mesmerising movements of the ashtray. He tried to lighten the atmosphere. He remembered the holy water font by Mrs McNamara’s door and the picture of the Sacred Heart reddened by the glowing bulb. Their widespread use and illumination on the island surely landmarked Ireland for sightseeing aliens, he believed.

  “If you’re watching with Mrs Mac, I’d stick to the details about charm, personality and poise, Shea. Rather than dwell on the merely physical, I mean.”

  Hoey feigned mild amusement.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “You can even take a drink or two with Crossan and not feel bad.”

  “If I’m treating you like an iijit, Shea…”

  “You’re not, it’s all right. I just have to decide for myself with this drink thing.” Hoey sniffed and slowed the ashtray’s dance,

  “Us driving around today,” he murmured, “it’s hard to say. A few times I had the strangest ideas come into my head. It’s like I’ve lost something. Something is over. And I know that I can’t go back and get it, whatever ‘it’ is. Never. But I’m kind of glad of it.”

  Hoey let go of the ashtray abruptly and pushed it into the middle of the table. Immobile, it seemed to draw his attention even more. He snapped open his packet of cigarettes, lit one and stared at the spotted, violet window.

  “Do ye want anything else?” asked the waitress.

  “No, thanks,” said Minogue.

  He watched her load up with plates and head back for the counter. Hoey’s face eased, as though he had just understood a subtle joke. He nodded toward the window.

  “I was looking at that window when we came in. For a few minutes I didn’t realise that the fella in the window was me. Did that ever happen to you?”

  Minogue nodded.

  “You are who you are,” Hoey said. “Hardly news now, is it? I’m not proud of what I did. I’m not ashamed of it either. But it’s me, and I’m here. That’s it. That’s all of it.”

  Hoey’s face had cleared of lines. He returned to gazing at the window as though it were a lush landscape where he could see forever.

  “If Herlighy heard that, he’d sign me in somewhere, I’ll bet you.”

  Minogue held fast to his wish not to interrupt.

  “Look at you, though,” Hoey went on. “Nothing seems to knock you down.”

  “I have Kathleen and the children, Shea. And I do enjoy being around Jimmy and the others-”

  Hoey waved away Minogue’s words with a tired, knowing grin.

  “Yeah, yeah. The Killer looks out every day of his life to see how he can look good and have people think he’s the bees’ knees.”

  “He’s a good leader, Shea. Has to crack the whip sometimes. But he leaves us plenty of room.”

  “He’ll turf me out. That’s the kind of room he’ll give me.”

  “He will not,” Minogue retorted. He met Hoey’s eyes. “I won’t let him. And that’s that.”

  Hoey’s eyes lost their piercing intent after several moments and slipped back to the window.

  CHAPTER NINE

  You’re right! Jesus!”

  “I told you, see?” He let the van coast by the restaurant, his foot on the clutch.

  “Who’s the one with him? He looks like he was in a row.”

  “Never saw him before. Here, do you think he’s an informer who got the shite beat out of himself at the station or something?”

  The driver took a deep breath.

  “There. I told you he was down here undercover. He’s Clare, so he wouldn’t stick out.”

  “Shut up a minute!”

  “Well, how come he’s back, then?”

  “Jamesy Bourke getting shot, maybe.”

  He turned the van into Cornmarket and stopped. The wipers began to squeak on the window.

  “No, it isn’t! It’s because of the fucking German the other night! They’re sending in a spy-”

  “Jases, get some sense, would you!”

  “Well, what’s your bloody explanation then?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, “I just don’t know.”

  “I’m telling you! It’s too much of a coincidence.” The passenger began squeezing his thumb again. He held it up to the windscreen. The streetlight showed the nail black.

  “It’ll fall off and a new one’ll grow under it,” he murmured.

  “Maybe we can find out more about him,” said the driver. “I’ll phone and ask.”

  His passenger gave a scornful whinny.

  “Run to that bollicks? Christ, us doing all the work and taking the risks. What’s he going to tell us, for fuck’s sakes? To go and hide?”

  The driver was too tired to get angry. His passenger stuck his thumb in his mouth.

  “Come on and we’ll go for a pint,” he grunted around the thumb.

  “No, I’m going to go home and phone. Where will you be later on?”

  “Up in O’Loughlin’s. Miss Ireland’s on tonight.” The driver looked over into the shadows where his friend sat. “That’s as near as you’ll get, is it?”

  Minogue left Hoey at Mrs McNamara’s door. The rain seemed to have eased off. The television glowed behind the curtains in the parlour. Mrs McNamara might well drag Hoey away to watch Miss Ireland while she poured tea into him. There she could pry at leisure and not be rushed into indiscreet questions.

  The Inspector felt the weariness return to his shoulders. He fought free of a belch from deep in his diaphragm and grimaced at the greasy aftertaste. He let the Fiat coast lumpishly through the narrow streets before he drew it next to the curb by Crossan’s office. He honked once and saw the light being extinguished in Crossan’s office. The lawyer came down the steps two at a time.

  “Such a night,” said Crossan with a hiss. “We’ll be drowned. Go out the Gort Road. I’ll give you the billy when we get near to the Howards.”

  A mile outside town, Crossan jabbed a finger toward two stone piers. The gates had been drawn back. The house was out of sight of the road. Minogue turned onto the avenue and felt the Fiat sink slightly into the pebbled drive. The swish of the stones under the tires made him think of the steel-hooped broughams of the gentry cutting lines in gravel raked daily by servants. The headlights swept over old trees, rhododendrons and a white metal railing which led to the front of the house. Minogue parked by a white Audi and stepped out. The rain had let up but the gardens and grounds around the house seemed to be waiting for more. Sounds persisted: drips and pats, the gurgling of a gutter close by, the wet hiss of a car passing on the road below the house. The earth released smells of damp, decaying leaves.

  The Howards’ residence was two storeys over a high cellar which could be entered through a door under the steps. Tall windows to both sides of the front steps formed oblongs of yellow on the face of the white house. Flower beds of turned sod with rose bushes recently cut back fronted the house. White wrought-iron chairs surrounded an elaborate table on a bed of cut stone to the side of the house. A lorry’s air brakes squealed on the road. Crossan slammed his door hard, a gesture whose intent Minogue was not sure of. His toes sank back into the pebbles as he tru
dged toward the steps, making him lean forward to gain some momentum.

  “Grand spot,” he tried on Crossan.

  “The White House,” grunted the lawyer.

  Minogue gained the foot of the steps and looked back. The lights of Ennis twinkled between the trees.

  “Don’t feel you need to doff your cap here and you in from the wilds of Rossaboe,” said Crossan skipping up the steps. Half-way up the flight he paused and scraped his sole on the edge of the step.

  “Jesus,” he muttered.

  Minogue strained his eyes. After a few seconds he could see the spots on the steps.

  “Watch out,” said the lawyer, still scraping. “The slugs are out after the rain.”

  Crossan reached the top of the steps and hit the bell with his fist. Minogue decided against voicing the gibe that came to his mind: a lawyer in a hurry to knock on a door could only mean someone’s misfortune. Minogue was half-way up the steps when Sheila Howard opened the door. She watched him ascend and Minogue felt as if he were floating up. He tried to keep his breathing regular by using his nose alone, but the breath came in whistles. He became acutely aware of the condition he was in. His hair and shoulders were still damp from stepping in and out of cars and houses and pubs. Hoey’s cigarettes, the smell of the Fiat. Have to get a new car, damn it. He wished he had bathed and shaved and done his hair and brought fancy clothes with him down from Dublin, changed his shoes at least…

  “Aloysious,” he heard her say. “And…the Inspector.”

  Crossan’s voice was a bark of forced humour.

  “But, sure, let him in anyway, will you?”

  Minogue’s impressions collided with the thoughts and feelings welling up inside. He stood in the doorway feeling like an unkempt supplicant. A scent of flowers wafted out from the interior. She stood aside near Crossan and waved Minogue in. He swallowed, glanced and nodded at Sheila Howard before walking into the hallway.

  “I’ll take your coats here,” she said, and closed the door. Minogue wished she wouldn’t. A stairway curved up to a landing overhead. Polished wooden floors ran through the hallway and then disappeared under what the Inspector took to be a Persian carpet covering much of the floor of the front room to his left. Track lighting bathed the hall but the peach-coloured walls softened its glare.