All souls imm-4

by John Brady

  “Shea, it just occurred to me that I may have drawn you into a big pile of…”

  “What?”

  Minogue tried to put some order on the words.

  “I wonder if maybe I’m doing something very, very stupid indeed here.” The words dried up. His mind returned to the porpoises as the suburbs of Limerick joined up with the road. He imagined them smirking as they turned from the starlit harbours of the west of Ireland out to sea.

  “Look, Shea, I know you’re far from keen at this stage. I could leave you off at the train station as long as you promise me-”

  Startled, Hoey looked over at Minogue. The Inspector braked hard for a traffic light by the Gaelic Athletic grounds. They were a mile yet from the Sarsfield Bridge into Limerick.

  “I mean, it’s nothing to me basically,” Minogue went on, “I can take it, but you-”

  “I have my career to consider?”

  “Well…”

  “Well, what?” said Hoey.

  Minogue started off from the light but forgot that he had left the car in third. The Fiat staggered and stalled.

  “I don’t want to pull you down with me,” Minogue muttered. Hoey began to laugh. He tried to stop but he couldn’t.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Minogue knocked and inclined his head to the door. Naughton’s house was at the end of a terrace. Heavy curtains hung from the one window next to the door. The window wells were freshly painted with a thick cream gloss and the two upper windows had double-glazed aluminium frames. Minogue stepped back and looked at the upstairs window. Hoey was standing in the sunshine at the end of the terrace. The door opened abruptly and Minogue turned to face a tall man with a full head of white hair brushed back over a pink face. Two clear and piercing blue eyes stared into Minogue’s. A light scent of shaving soap and brilliantine came to the Inspector, followed by house smells of tea and a fry. Naughton had said something but Minogue hadn’t heard. He had been watching the harelip scar as Naughton had uttered the words.

  “Hello there, now,” said Naughton again.

  He was wide and big and his hands hung low alongside his thighs. There was something of the giant about him, Minogue thought, like those ex-RIC men he had known. The physical size of those precursors of the Gardai had been adduced to be one of the prime drivers of law enforcement until the guerilla warfare of the War of Independence had swept away any grudging respect accorded them.

  “Good day to you now, Mr Naughton,” he began. “I’m Matt Minogue, a Guard…”

  Naughton’s eyes were on Hoey now, who had sidled down to stand beside Minogue.

  “…and this is my colleague, Seamus Hoey.”

  Naughton folded his arms. Minogue looked at the bulk straining the jumper. A bit of a pot on him but by no means gone to seed. A bachelor, a retired Guard, who still wore a collar and tie under his jumper.

  “Well, I haven’t met ye before,” said Naughton. He looked up and down the terrace. “Are yiz here on some kind of business?”

  “We’re down from Ennis-”

  “Are ye attached to Ennis station?”

  “No, we’re not actually-”

  “So where are yiz from then?”

  Minogue paused and glanced at an old woman passing on the footpath behind them.

  “Good morning, now, Mr Naughton,” she crowed.

  “Isn’t it now,” said Naughton.

  Minogue looked beyond Naughton into the house.

  “Come in, I suppose,” said Naughton. “Come in.”

  The front room was a musty parlour, spotlessly clean and unused. The Inspector sat on a hard-sprung sofa and looked around the room. There were photographs of men in Guard’s uniforms of thirty years ago, one of an old woman with the face of a mischievous child, bunched in a smile. The fireplace had been fitted with a gas burning unit complete with bogus glowing coals. A nest of tables squatted under the window. Between two cumbersome chairs stood a buffet with glass doors over a series of drawers.

  “Ye’ll have something?” said Naughton.

  He rubbed the back of his huge right hand with the thumb of his left. Minogue associated the gesture with big men who could never lose a teenage awkwardness about their size.

  “Ah, no, you’re all right there, thanks,” said Minogue.

  “Are yiz sure now? A smathan, even.”

  The Inspector shook his head and stole a glance at Naughton’s face again as he made to sit down. If this was what recourse to alcohol in a big way did, Minogue wondered, then maybe there was something to be said for it. But no. Something about Naughton put the Inspector in mind of a bull elephant, a creature who might go suddenly, felled by a massive stroke, crashing to the ground.

  “From Ennis, you say now,” said Naughton. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, a massive hand clasped around the knuckles of the other.

  “Yes.”

  Minogue tried to put on a friendly face, but he continued to be distracted by details. The soapy smell from a face meticulously shaved, the faint smell of shoe polish, the razor nick by Naughton’s ear, the outline of the braces that the retired Guard still attached to his trousers. A life of habit, a man who liked and needed routines.

  “But yiz are not Ennis.”

  “We work in Dublin.”

  “God help yiz, so.”

  Minogue tried again to smile.

  “It’s gone desperate in Dublin, I believe,” said Naughton. “Not safe to walk the streets, they say.”

  “I suppose,” said Minogue. “But sure troubles can come anywhere. The divil has his own guide, as they say.”

  “Tis true for you. Tell me, are you a Sergeant?”

  “I’m an Inspector, in actual fact. They kicked me upstairs to be rid of me.”

  Naughton issued a sceptical, knowing wink.

  “I came down on a visit to my relations this little while back,” Minogue said. “And I, er, ran into a man above in Ennis. He told me a few things about events back, now, a good number of years back…”

  “Who?”

  “Aloysious Crossan.”

  Naughton scratched the back of his head.

  “I knew him,” he muttered. “He’s a big name in the law. Is he still at it?”

  Minogue nodded. “To great effect too, I believe.”

  “Hah,” scoffed Naughton. “He was mighty sharp with his mouth as I recall. But he had the name of being good for them that needed it.”

  He sniffed and gave Minogue a grin with no warmth in it.

  “You know yourself,” he said.

  Minogue raised his eyebrows.

  “His clients,” said Naughton, his hands working over one another. “He hires himself out to scuts.”

  “I’ve heard that said,” said Minogue.

  “If and he was a woman, he’d be a prostitute,” Naughton added. He glanced down at his own hands. Like a boxer listening to a pep talk, Minogue thought, a horse of a man. “But sure you wouldn’t know these days, with the homos and what have you, would you? Anything goes, nowadays.”

  The blue eyes which came up from the stilled hands had a glaze of satisfied amusement. Minogue’s eyes were drawn to the wiry white hairs, like pigs’ bristles standing out by Naughton’s collar.

  “He is a Protestant, all right,” said Minogue. “But you probably knew that.”

  “Prostitute, I said.”

  Minogue feigned relief. “Oh. That’s not so bad. I thought you said Protestant.”

  With no movement that Minogue could detect, the face had become blank and hard.

  “What do yiz want?” he said.

  Minogue thought about the house afire in his dream, himself weirdly aerial over the blaze, with the sea black under the stars and the porpoises racing out to the sea.

  “How much did you have to drink the night of the fire?”

  “What fire? What are you talking about?”

  “Jane Clark. Jamesy Bourke. Dan Howard. You.”

  “Fuck off. Inspector or no inspector, you’re nothing to me. Get o
ut of here.”

  “Or you’ll call the police?”

  “Fuck off outa my house.”

  “Where was she when you got to the house?”

  Naughton’s hands reached for the armrests.

  “Where was she?”

  Naughton propelled himself up. Hoey also stood. The Inspector raised a hand toward Hoey.

  “Take yourself up and outa my house this minute.”

  “Phone. Go ahead,” said Minogue, and concentrated on the sunlit window.

  He wondered if Naughton would take a swipe at him. He leaned slightly to his left, away from the giant. Naughton clumped by him and walked down the hall. Hoey cleared his throat and rattled his cigarette box in his pocket.

  “Are you sure you want to go at him like this?”

  “Head first, Shea,” Minogue whispered. “No other way at this stage. If he’s a drinker, got to shake him. And Eilo McInerny got it hard from Naughton too. Man’s a bully, Shea. We’re going after him.”

  “We could get run out of the place and get nothing,” said Hoey. “Except maybe a thick ear.”

  Minogue reconsidered his strategy for a moment. Shock treatment for a drinker might backfire. Who would Naughton phone? A minute passed. Hoey shrugged, took out his cigarettes and lit one. He made a half-hearted survey of the room for an ashtray. Minogue watched him all the while, listening for Naughton’s voice.

  “You’re in the pink, anyway,” Minogue murmured. “Excepting for those lungs of yours.”

  Hoey took the cigarette out of his mouth and eyed Minogue, the fag poised in his hand.

  “It’s the excitement. Never a dull-”

  Minogue knew immediately that it was glass, and he was first out the parlour door. The door to the back room was closed. He opened it and looked down to the tiny kitchen where Naughton was stooping. The rest of the room was taken up with a table, television and dresser. A red-faced Naughton stood up. The smell of whiskey reached Minogue and he looked down at the shattered bottle, the pool by Naughton’s feet.

  “Get to hell out of this house,” said Naughton in a growl, “or I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.”

  “Who will you be responsible to?”

  “Fucking smart-arse. Get out to hell!”

  “You can’t hide in a bottle, Guard,” said Minogue.

  “Who the hell are you to be coming around here, without a by-your-leave? You come marching in here, without any notice-”

  “What do you need notice of?”

  “If you had’ve phoned or let a man know there was an inquiry…”

  Hoey’s smoke stung Minogue’s eyes.

  “You march in here with accusations… By God, I’m going to have you drummed out. You’ll be in court over this, so help me.” Naughton’s hands turned into fists.

  “Easy does it, now,” murmured Hoey.

  “Who are you, you pasty-faced iijit? No wonder you have two black eyes. I’ll have you thrown out of your job too, so I will.”

  Minogue looked at the chairs tucked in under the table.

  “Why don’t we just sit down like civilised human beings for a few minutes? And discuss the matter in a calm, gentlemanly manner.”

  “Ye’re not in that category,” Naughton called out. “By Christ, I’m glad I never had to meet the likes of yiz on the force. We were above board and dacent in my time.”

  He reached out suddenly and pointed at Minogue. Hoey stepped back.

  “We didn’t take our orders from maggots like Alo Crossan. The shitehawk. Hah, look at ye! Hook, line and sinker, bejases! He’s got you codded. It’s sorry for you I should be.”

  “You said in testimony that Jamesy Bourke was falling-down drunk when you got to the cottage. That the whole place was an inferno.”

  “Do you know what a thatched roof is?” Naughton sneered.

  “But you were there when the fire was put out. And you were the first policeman in the door.”

  “What if I was?”

  “Where did you find her?”

  “What difference does it make to you where she was?” Naughton’s voice rose. “She was gone to glory by then.”

  “You were drinking that night, weren’t you, like the way you did and the way you still do,” said Minogue.

  Naughton pushed away from the sink with his backside and came at Minogue. Hoey had anticipated it, but Naughton took him in his rush toward the Inspector. The three fell across the table and Minogue felt Naughton’s boozy breath rush out over his face. Hoey wriggled to the side, extricated himself and rolled off the edge of the table. Naughton was trying to clamber up on the table fully. His hand found Minogue’s throat and squeezed. Minogue yelped and tried to raise his arm but Naughton pinned it with his own. Hoey shouted at Naughton and grabbed him by the shoulders. Naughton kicked at Hoey who groaned as he tottered away, falling over a chair. Minogue’s eyes began to bulge and the grip on his throat turned to a stabbing pain. Naughton was wheezing and muttering under his breath. Minogue tried with his arm again but all he could do was thump Naughton on the head. Dimly he heard Hoey scrambling to get up. Naughton’s feral eyes darted over to Hoey and Minogue took his chance. He chopped with his free hand down inside Naughton’s elbow. Before the giant could straighten his arm again, Minogue’s head shot up and butted him. Naughton reared back with a grunt and fell groaning from the table. Minogue elbowed up slowly, the crack still resonating in his head.

  “Jesus,” he heard Hoey say. He watched his colleague pull himself up crookedly, holding his crotch. Minogue gulped in air and rubbed his throat.

  “Are you all right?” he said to Hoey.

  “He kicked me in the nuts!” Hoey wheezed. “Me. A Guard did that to me!”

  “Retired Guard,” said Minogue, still trying to catch his breath. He looked down at Naughton who was holding his head and muttering. Hoey suddenly kicked at Naughton.

  “Shea!”

  Hoey glared back at the Inspector. “If and he gets up and tries that on me again, I’ll give him what-ho!” said Hoey. “A fuckin’ oul’ hooligan.”

  “Get outa my house,” Naughton whispered hoarsely from below. The stench of whiskey nauseated Minogue now. He beckoned to Hoey.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “This is only the start, whatever your name is,” said Naughton sitting up. “Yiz don’t know the trouble yiz are in.”

  Minogue inclined an arm and Naughton took it.

  “Sit yourself down now, Guard,” said Minogue. “We’ve had our spat and handed out our clouts.”

  “You’ve more coming to you,” snapped Naughton. “The fat’s in the fire on you now. And you the big knob down from Dublin with your gutty moves like that!”

  “What do you call kicking a Guard in the balls?”

  “I was attacked!” shouted Naughton, but then grimaced and held his head. “And then your man here pulls that low stunt like that. The Ringsend kiss, by Christ!”

  “Trying to choke the life out of me isn’t a great way to tell me what happened to Jane Clark,” said Minogue. Naughton groaned again and closed his eyes with a pain.

  “There’s nothing to tell, you gobshite. Ask the man who killed her.”

  Hoey still looked angry. Minogue nodded to a chair. Hoey sat with a delicate motion.

  “I’m only sorry I didn’t get the chance to do exactly that,” said Minogue.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Jamesy Bourke got killed the other night. That’s what it means.”

  Naughton looked up in pained disbelief. Hoey was almost hovering over the seat. Wheezing, Naughton clawed his way up off his knees, righted a chair and sat into it. Minogue plugged in the kettle and stepped back over the glass on the floor.

  “Go ’way. You’re trying to cod me. Jamesy Bourke?”

  “He was shot dead the other night. Yes, he was,” Minogue replied. “A German who thought he was shooting an IRA man with a gun in his fist. We haven’t been driving all over the west of Ireland here for the sole pu
rpose of trying to cod you. What about some tea or something and a proper civilised conversation?”

  “Fuck the tea so and give me something proper,” said Naughton.

  “So. Who called the station that night?”

  The hulking man’s tone turned suddenly gentle. He rubbed slowly at his head and his expression changed into something Minogue would later recall as a smile.

  “Have you been digging into this a long time?”

  “Awhile.”

  “And what did yiz find?”

  That faint smile held fast at the corners of Naughton’s mouth. His hand came away from the red swelling over his eye and, as though it were independent of him, began to massage his neck. He looked out the small window to the roof of what might have been an outdoor privy. A battered-looking ginger cat walked languorously across the corrugated surface, its shadow black on the sunlit grey. Minogue looked at Naughton’s hand stroking the bristling neck. People paid a lot of money for haircuts like Naughton’s these days, he thought.

  “Did yiz meet up with Dan Howard at all?” murmured Naughton. The cat stretched and turned its eyes away from the sun.

  “Yes, I did,” replied Minogue.

  “Our home-grown statesman,” said Naughton to the window.

  “He doesn’t claim to be,” said the Inspector.

  Naughton wheeled on his heels from the window.

  “ ‘He doesn’t claim to be.’ What do you know? Dan Howard’s a fucking child!”

  Minogue felt an instinctive anger. To be young and unstamped with adult knowing was for Naughton contemptible.

  “Nothing to his da, by Jesus,” Naughton went on. “But sure look at the da now. He’s like a cabbage or something, lying in the bed. Fed with a tube, like he’s being watered. Hah. I hear that Sheila Howard visits him more than does Dan himself. What does that tell you?”

  “Have you seen Tidy Howard since he had the stroke?”

  Naughton fixed a look on Minogue. There was condescension in it, hostility too. The kettle began to sigh and give low cracking sounds as the element began to disperse and move the water within.

  “Mind your own fucking business.”