by John Brady
Donavan, wreathed in Amphora smoke, laughed gently.
"Is your man just after his dinner?"
"He's new to the department, Doctor. He is a very quick and able officer-in-the-making, I believe."
"Gob, he's quick at getting through doors. Ah, Nora says I have a warped sense of humour. God knows, maybe she's right. Do you know, there's nothing to this really. I mean, I put the radio on. There'd be the news, a bit of music, an interview or the like. I'd be pinning back skin or using the saw or dissecting one thing or another. I work on my own you know, me and the tape recorder with Radio Eireann in the background. I don't like working with an assistant. It seems rude, somehow. I'm trying to help the poor divil there in the room with me, but sure he's dead. Still trying to explain things even after the person is dead. But it helps. It's preventive medicine in a sense. Your pal will get used to it. It's not personal. You're in the presence of some final truth."
Minogue thought for an instant of the stories about Donavan. Maybe it was by default that he seemed to enjoy the living so much. Donavan was no fool. He was a philosopher who knew enough to be able to laugh. Good man at a wake. Maybe invite him to mine.
"Anything worth hanging onto, Doctor?"
"Well, this is the preliminary, you understand. It'll be all typed up and a few more tests will be in but that won't make much difference. You have the gist of it."
Both men were silent for a minute. Donavan turned his gaze from the window to Minogue.
"As an aside, er-"
"— Matt-"
"Yes, er, Matt… I have the feeling of some kind of intention behind this thing. Some kind of deliberation. Maybe it's the shows on the telly. Still, I think there's something to this one. Don't quote me now. That stuff is not my job at all. I'd expect anything."
Minogue was to remember this remark; not the words themselves, but the speculation on Donavan's face. Have to do some Sherlocking on this one.
Connors was leaning on the boot of the car outside trying to make his attempt at nonchalance outdo his sheepishness.
"Come on now and we'll go back to the Castle. Jimmy Kilmartin says he has a desk for me and odds and ends from the other lads in the Squad who were at it over the weekend."
"To be sure," Connors said spiritedly. He was grateful that Minogue had passed up on that very Irish liking to send a jibe his way.
CHAPTER THREE
On Tuesday morning, Minogue found himself at his new desk in Dublin Castle, HQ of the Garda Murder Squad. 'Found myself were the words that came to him as he settled into the chair, and those were the words he'd report his day to Kathleen with: 'Well, I found myself at this desk, you see.'
He tried the phone. Glory be to God, it worked. Would he have to start taking seriously the Minister for Post and Telegraph's threat to make the phone system work? He took another sip of tea. Jarlath Brendan Walsh, k/a Jarlath Walsh. He must have had a lot on his plate with a name like that. Saint Jarlath was a Galway saint. Minogue had known but one person before in his life by that name and the fellow had wisely called himself Jer.
A black and white photograph of a group of young men and women at a party looked up at Minogue from his desk. This was a picture of a crowd of young ones at Trinity Ball, taken the previous year. Jarlath Walsh looked out from behind glasses. One of his arms disappeared behind the waist of the girl standing next to him. Others in the picture were Up to antics and posing, so they must have been into the gargle. Our man Jarlath looked composed, in place, as an older man might.
Next to this photograph was an assorted set of colour snaps, also taken from his parents' box, doubtlessly kept in the same kind of old shoebox on top of the wardrobe as Kathleen kept hers in. A younger fellow with different glasses, standing beside a grandparent; milking a cow somewhere; holding a certificate; seated, posing, at the piano. "Hardly started living really," Minogue murmured, but not the time or place to be maudlin. Stick to the necessities. Well, one of the necessities was to be realistic: this young fellow looked fairly stuffy, bookish and mannered.
Jarlath Brendan Walsh was the eldest of two children, the other one a girl, Maria, away at boarding school in County Kilkenny or to be up to date, currently in the family residence in Foxrock, grieving. Jarlath Brendan Walsh was a twenty-year-old observing Catholic with modest academic achievements behind him as he worked through his second year in the Faculty of Economic and Social Studies in Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. Jarlath Brendan Walsh had no known reason to get himself bumped off. "He had everything to live for," Minogue muttered.
Soap operas aside, Master Walsh could look forward to some entitlement. His father was a well-to-do fruit importer. The family lived in a big new Mclnerny house in Foxrock, a fine summit of achievement for a man from the country. Mustn't get snotty, thought Minogue: I'm a benighted peasant myself but, God help me, I have a Dublinwoman and a family of Dubliners in tow.
Minogue's view from his office consisted of a grey stone wall, patched decades ago with brick and mortar, slashed into a lunatic jumble by the thoughtless installation of distorting glass. He tried to stare through the glass but he became a little dizzy. Jarlath Brendan Walsh studied political science (is there such a thing?) and economics. If Jarlath Walsh wasn't dead and if his passing had not led to Minogue sitting at a desk with several fair-sized reports to read, Jarlath Walsh would be rather nondescript. Shouldn't think that: his parents must be in agony.
The door opened. The arrival was surprised to find someone in the room.
She introduced herself as Brid and announced that she would be adding to the file on Walsh. Minogue turned to the four carbon copy leaves when she left. Detectives from Pearse Street station had found a bloodied rock in the alley which ran next to the Pearse Street side of Trinity's walls. Looks like someone lobbed it over the wall after he'd made use of it. The blood matched. More crucially, there were four strands of hair stuck to it. The stone had apparently come from a stockpile of similarly sized and shaped stones which lay in a heap in Front Square. Trinity College had undertaken the Sisyphean task of repairing all of its historic Front Square. Workmen were ripping up the cobbled square and saving the stones so they could be reset. No wonder stone masons had a reputation for being stone-mad.
No prints that meant anything on said stone. Minogue sat back sipping at the sweet tea. The idea of it, a Catholic lad, parents up from the bog, finally emancipated into some status by attending Trinity College, the bastion of the Anglo Irish, and there he was done in by a stone in these ecumenical times, a stone taken from the squares where scholars walked. Would they find the spot where the boy's head had been smashed though? It had to have been a hard surface, likely cobblestones if it had been done inside the front end of the college. It might rain at any time and wash away clues like blood. At least the rock was something.
Minogue finished the tea. He then surprised himself with the enthusiasm he felt as he pushed off out of his chair. He selected from his files as his intentions required and left the office.
In between sessions with students, which Minogue had purposely set for the morning, his mind worked calmly, fitting details. Killed by a rock is not planned killing. Killed inside a university is hasty killing. Something had happened that very evening, something to precipitate things. It wouldn't have been an unconnected event. It may have been done by more than one person. If it was done by one, then he must have been hefty enough to drag a limp body into the bushes. Presence of mind to brush over the tracks. Professional? Not necessarily, just determined, desperate maybe. But still, if it was the latter, whoever it was, kept cool and saw to little things. Analytical, practical. Does that mean educated? Dragging bodies is not easy. Minogue stopped listening to the student friend of Walsh and remembered the whump, the glass flying like sand, the car turning slowly. Then he had felt a terrible silence and stillness as he crawled out of the car, knowing all the time what had happened. He had tried to drag the bloodslick body of the detective, the cheery lad, over to the bush. To what end? He was dead, of cours
e. Minogue had passed out then…
Minogue had asked to see the president of the Students' Union. Walsh had been a class representative and, as such, should have been known to the president. Minogue looked over his notes in the intervals between students. He had made a point to thank them before starting. Only one of the young men had wept. Minogue rather liked that young man and he wasn't surprised at such a show of feeling. In a sense that boy had graduated much further than the acerbic self-assurance Minogue detected in the rest of them.
None of these students had been with Walsh in the hours before he died. Minogue found out that Walsh's girlfriend, the one in the picture, if they called one another boyfriend or girlfriend anymore, would not be back until tomorrow. Her friends had packed her off, inconsolable, on the Belfast train. Nothing to it, Minogue thought, even if it was a nuisance that they'd got only brief statements out of the girl last Friday. Plenty of kids from the North attended Trinity. Although it could be done, no one was about to phone the Royal Ulster Constabulary up there to interview her on their behalf or keep an eye on her movements. She'd be rested and ready tomorrow.
The door, formerly ajar, swung open. In walked a tall, bearded president of the Students' Union.
"You wanted a word?" said the newly arrived.
'Intense' is the word, thought Minogue, rising to show some equality.
"If you please, Mr, Mr…"
"Roche. I'm Mick Roche. My Da's name is Mr Roche. I haven't inherited the title yet. No hurry either."
"Would you sit down please, er, Mick. I won't keep you long."
Roche sat down. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He smelled of cigarette smoke. His eyes were lightly ringed. No comb had afflicted his hair since rising from his or whoever's bed today. He affected a look of distance and disinterest. He didn't succeed in concealing a keenness and an alertness from Minogue.
"Spelled R-O-C-H-E, is it?" asked Minogue.
"Yes. An agreeable enough name excepting for a prohibition against narcotics of the same name," said Roche without a trace of humour. Practised that one, Minogue thought.
"Well now. I'm Detective Sergeant Minogue. I'd prefer you call me Matt. To tell you the truth, Mick, I have no interest in that side of things at all."
"In the consumption or in the law enforcement end of things, Detective Sergeant?" asked Roche.
"Well neither, actually. It's about one of your representatives, your colleagues. Jarlath Walsh, the lad who was murdered."
"Like they say on the telly, I can fill you in on some background, but I knew him superficially really."
Minogue suppressed a smile by diligently writing a word in his notes. He wrote "superficially" thinking that this would be a word to bounce bad‹ at this president fellow. He'd be smart enough to catch the drift.
"You were in the same class as Jarlath, I understand."
"If you know that, you'll know that there were about two hundred students in that year. It's a general course we all take, then we branch off."
"Am I right in thinking that it is very unusual for a second-year student to hold your office? You must know your onions, Mick."
Roche said nothing, but Minogue detected with a father's acuity the pride which Roche tried to conceal. Minogue was so relieved that he almost burst out laughing. This Roche boy is ordinary, he blooms with praise, Minogue thought.
"Incidentally, what would you be studying if you were an ordinary student?"
"For the files, Sergeant?"
"Well no actually. I have a son and a daughter in college. I'm just interested." That sounded corny, Minogue thought.
"Political science."
"Isn't that one of the things Jarlath was taking?"
Roche's eyes suggested the beginnings of a sarcastic answer.
"It is. There are different types of oddities which call themselves political science. Let's say that Jarlath Walsh's studies would be different from mine."
"I don't understand."
"Well he followed up notions they call consensus theory. Stuff like the rise of the party system or the role of the Senate in decision-making. Jarlath didn't understand the notion of class or the influence of economics. He looked at surface things."
"So Jarlath wasn't afraid to speak up, then? I mean you knew his opinions readily in a class of two hundred."
"We were in the same tutorial group. He stuck to his guns even when it didn't make sense. His position was eventually tautological. He ended up with these unopened boxes like 'culture' or 'nationalism' or 'parliamentary democracy'-American stuff, like Coke. Hymns to the status quo."
Minogue began to appreciate the deadly gifts that brought Roche to where he was. A liking for the phrase matched with a passion and knowledge he tried to conceal. 'Tautological,' if you please.
"I think I know what you mean. 'The best of all possible worlds,' don't they say?" essayed Minogue.
Roche looked at him and grinned, then nodded his head lightly.
"Exactly, Sergeant. He was the property of his class. Why wouldn't he follow that line."
Meaning you don't, because you've seen through it all, Minogue thought.
"Northern Ireland is a rather mysterious set of events for the likes of Jarlath and the parvenus who'd just as soon forget they came from the bog. In one sense they're right when they say that nothing worth learning can be taught…"
"Oscar Wilde said a lot of things like that. What do you call them?" Minogue murmured.
"Aphorisms. Conceits. Sophistry."
Must be a holy terror for the lecturers here if he has things like that at the tips of his fingers. Minogue wondered if he had made any ground with the dig about Wilde. A fellow who could remember stuff like that would be a favourite with the girls, no doubt, especially with his grim, illusionless sight of reality. Outside the window, Minogue saw the ordered history of the college, all grey and angled with manicured lawns, worn steps to the chapel, professors waltzing around in gowns.
"You'll know that Jarlath was in the Fine Gael association here, Sergeant. He bought into them calling themselves social democrats, not fascists. I'm more or less an anarchist, on Saturday nights anyway."
Ah, a joke, Minogue recognised.
"Actually I'm a grumbler in the Labour Party. I spend most of my time trying to get grants for students. I have time for rhetoric usually after office hours. If it's friend or foe with this thing of Jarlath, chalk me up as friend. He didn't deserve what happened. He would have changed, I know it, he would have come round. You know what would have brought him around? His girlfriend. Agnes McGuire. She lived in the real world."
"Isn't she the young lady that accompanied him to the Trinity Ball?" inquired Minogue.
"How did you know that?"
"I might well ask you the same thing," Minogue replied.
For the first time, Roche looked ill at ease. His eyes widened, then he regained his composure.
"Wasn't she my girlfriend in first year?" Roche said with a decidedly emphatic irony. A fraction would have conveyed it to Minogue. So they still called them boyfriend and girlfriend, Minogue thought. Isn't that rich. Touche, the atmosphere changed. Minogue asked Roche if he remembered any particularly acrimonious debate involving Walsh. They were all acrimonious, Roche replied. Demonstrations? Out of fashion, said Roche. Other issues? Roche replied after a pause:
"Well, I know that he irritated some people who run the Students' Union magazine with his yarns. We, or rather the editorial board, wouldn't run them because they weren't researched. That's putting it mildly really. They were figments of his imagination. Wild swipes at things."
"Such as?"
"Oh I don't remember a lot of it. Misappropriation of money; you know, the executive filling up on free beer at student expense. Or politics."
"Anything on drugs maybe?"
Roche looked directly at Minogue. Minogue thought he was flicking through his list of possible answers.
"No. I wish he had. Might have brought home some news about the r
eal world."
"I don't get it. Drugs bring you reality?" Minogue asked.
"Do you know what heavy drugs are doing to a lot of kids in Dublin? Well, I do. You wouldn't believe it. No one wants to know about it. Stuff like pot is a joke. It's stupid to chase people for that. I know that heavy stuff surfaces here in college a lot more than people think, but Walsh wasn't going to help anyone with his approach. If you ask me, he was setting himself up for a go at journalism after college. Building a rep for himself here."
"I see. That was Jarlath at his, let's say, most tendentious then?"
"Yeah. He'd jump on the bandwagon with rumours about IRA here in Trinity. No one takes those comments seriously. I mean, look around. What would they be doing here with all the boys and girls from the stockbroker belt going to school here? Ask around. He was just trying to start up some stuff so he would be known."
"Something to think about. Thanks, Mick. If I need to see you again, is it O.K. to phone the Students' Union office?"
Roche stood up to leave.
"Well, yeah. But just give your name. Forget the Sergeant stuff."
As he listened to the feet clattering down the stairs, Minogue privately remarked upon titles. Hadn't Master Roche been the one who insisted on it in the conversation?
Minogue gathered his papers but left his impressions scattered. He followed Roche down the bare stairs. He was looking forward to dinner. The Junior Dean had arranged everything. They would eat in the Staff Lunchroom, if you don't mind.
Minogue stepped out onto the cobbles and took in some of the sulphurous air of Dublin. He felt sprightly. He eyed a few girls, students, dressed up to look ugly but in a certain good taste which Minogue couldn't put his finger on. This was the new wave, then. He felt the sharpness of the square in the sounds it held and echoed. A blind man was tapping over the cobblestones. A bicycle tinkled by him. Laughs and footfalls came abruptly over the air. Something ascetic about it, like a Protestant chapel, Minogue mused. Then it struck him that he knew nothing about Protestant chapels.
