A stone of the heart imm-1

by John Brady

  Minogue began to observe the waitresses. They were perked up by the arrival of Friday. Some of them appeared exceedingly gorgeous to Minogue. He attributed his rush of feeling to the coffee. Then he began to go further and understand that he had been gladdened and emboldened somehow. The near miss with the car had brought him another taste of the calm perspicacity which had cradled him for those weeks in hospital. Minogue saw the cashier throw her head back and laugh at something a customer had said. A tramp snored lightly at the far end of the room. Each woman seemed stubbornly real to him. They'd be tired after the day, their backs, their feet. But look at the one still laughing. Maybe some of them were married to slobs, ah-good-ould-Dublin characters who came home late from the pub. Dublin. It dawned on Minogue that he was almost free. There was an ungetaroundableness to things now. Sequestered truths awaited him here in Dublin, which was neither Clare nor Montana…

  Truths? Did we always have to believe that things turned out well, that there were answers and happinesses ahead? Maybe they were badly paid here. Maybe someone was being shot in the North. Maybe Daithi might fail his exams. Maybe his brother Mick was unforgivable.

  Minogue opted for a second cup of coffee. Confidence welled in him, barely overshadowed by his sense of the puzzle of the murder waiting for him beyond this happy afternoon, the body of one Jarlath Walsh waiting for answers.

  Leaving Bewley's, Minogue reinserted himself in the traffic jam. As he finally made some headway beyond Merrion Square, his precarious caffeine optimism dulled and then died. Pulling into the manicured driveway of Walsh's house, he saw a curtain drawn back slightly to show a man's face, more disapproving than curious.

  Portly, Minogue thought, like out of a book. He expected to see Walsh dressed in a three-piece with a pocket-watch in his fob.

  Hair in place, thinning, no suggestions of sideburns. Walsh preceded Minogue into another carpeted area.

  "Step into the living room, Detective Sergeant.''

  Minogue tried to trace the accent but failed to get beyond a vague understanding that it was from some part of Munster.

  The curtains were half drawn. Minogue was looking at a face which was used to being resolute but was now wavering. The man looked almost curious. Still, he was keeping together. Minogue noticed no decanters around. The room was large and tidy. The diffused light made pastels of most of the colours, themselves mainly beige or blue anyway. Minogue wondered if they lived in this living room. His eye was caught by a stand-up thing for holding magazines. Time and Newsweek looked out of it.

  "Mr Walsh. Please accept my condolences."

  There was a few moment's silence between the men. Minogue felt himself sinking into the upholstered chair.

  "I'd offer you a drink, Sergeant…"

  "Thanks, but no. It's semi-official."

  "Semi?"

  "Well, I'm looking for something or someone to fill the holes in my investigation. I'm less inclined to believe that your son was a random victim of violence."

  Walsh seemed to sit up more in his seat.

  "Random?" he said.

  "I don't believe in a master plan or that class of thing. I'm guessing that Jarlath was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he may unwittingly have been involved in something."

  "Sergeant. I know my own son. He was not involved in gangs or whatever it is you're describing."

  Minogue heard himself speaking and he was taken aback by his own tone. This man, whom he had met but minutes before, rankled him somehow.

  "Allow me to say, Mr Walsh, that I have built up a fair picture of your son over the last week too. What I need now are some little details which might not have seemed important enough to mention before. A hint."

  Walsh's face had changed. He licked a lip. Minogue wondered if he had been a farmer's son, big as he was, a big neck on a body going fat inside a few more years. A face you'd see under a cap herding cattle down a lane. The striped shirt and the marble fireplace belied that.

  "Now, Sergeant, I had an inkling you-not you exactly now-but one of ye would come to that. I think that you crowd have run out of steam and now ye're worried about looking bad with no one behind bars for this."

  "So what do you do?" Walsh continued, sitting forward in his chair and clasping meaty knuckles together. "Ye try to insinuate that there's something amiss with my son. Almost like he had it coming."

  "Now Mr Walsh, that's not the way it is. What I'm saying is that many investigations are successful due to the remembering of details which initially seemed of no consequence."

  "Oh that's a nice thing to say and a nice way to say it, Sergeant, but let me tell you. I think the place is out of control. That's what I think. I think you lads don't know whether you're coming or going here in this city. Ye're afraid to deal firmly with the likes of criminals walking the streets. Do you know, I don't care whether it was a lunatic or some gang. I want the fella or fellas caught. Punished. That's the size of it."

  Minogue stared idly at the television in the corner while Walsh talked on. He realised that Walsh had to be allowed to vent his frustration on someone. At times Minogue nodded in a show of sympathy to hurry him up. It wasn't working.

  "Sergeant Minogue. I came to Dublin over twenty-five year ago and I had nothing at all. Now those were not the best of times. But the first thing I learned was that Dublin people are not the same as us. They don't like us doing well for ourselves. They want to sit around over pints and complain. So you know what I think is the pity of it though?"

  Minogue was tempted to say he did.

  "That every year the Gardai on the beat are learning the same thing. Young lads up from the farm like myself. A bit too trusting, I'm thinking. Didn't know how to deal with hooligans and vandals. Afraid of the firm hand. Oh don't get me wrong, I don't blame the Gardai entirely. I'm well aware of the way this country is going. I'll tell you that a spell of army service would do the youth of this bloody city a lot of good. What galls me is that these vandals here can hang around the pubs on the dole and never get told to shape up or ship out. They're getting so brazen they're robbing people on the streets. Drugs and everything. Look, I don't mind telling you that, same as yourself, I had some high jinks when I was a lad. A few glasses of porter, a bit of divilment. But I never in my life thought that the rest of my life could be like that. There was always hard work the next day. 'Work hard, play hard.' That's my motto."

  Walsh seemed to have spent himself. He was probably on the edge and confused for the first time in his life, Minogue guessed. How could a woman live with a man like that? He'd scarify her for any signs of weakness.

  "Did Jarlath discuss any of his hobbies or interests, Mr Walsh? His girlfriend?"

  Walsh's eyes widened, then narrowed and he shook his head gently. Damn, Minogue thought, set him off again.

  "Girlfriend, is it? You mean that red-haired young one at the funeral? With the Northern accent?"

  "Agnes McGuire," Minogue said pointedly.

  "Look, no one minds young people having a fling. These are different times than when we grew up. I always say play the field as long as your conduct is good, no one can fault you."

  Minogue was struck by the word 'conduct.' He hadn't heard it in years. He associated it with sentences or warnings, school or courtrooms.

  "I said that to him. I said 'Jarlath, you are a free man. You don't owe anything to anybody so you're beholden to no one. You pick your own studies now and you make friends. Male and female alike. Your mother and I are a bit old-fashioned but you'll know later on what we mean. There's time enough for responsibilities later.'" Walsh paused.

  Minogue felt a breeze of despair.

  The words turned over in his mind. He thought of Daithi, foolish man-boy half astride a fence in these years. A mistake to call him a man. Kathleen had been at him to take Daithi aside. What did that mean, to'take Daithi aside?' To prepare him for life with a little chat? Like those stupid American shows on the telly, 'Well, my boy, it's time we had a little… ' A little what?
A little man-to-man chat? About what? Passing on the secrets of males, the pathetic bullying ways of half the world who threw children into wars and sat around pubs uttering platitudes.

  "Freedom. They used to talk about it a lot more. The hippies and the rest of it. Freedom doesn't mean that same some gutty has the choice to kill my son out of turn. That's not freedom. Jarlath picked his courses. He had his own politics and I never said boo to that. I worked in this bloody city so he can have those choices. I can tell you that it took a while for me to learn it, but Jarlath had as much right to go socialist as I did not to-"

  "Socialist?" Minogue interrupted.

  "Well, left or whatever they call it. You have to understand that Jarlath had no experience of the world. He didn't know what socialism was in practice. 'We're all socialists at heart,' I told him. 'Even Jesus Christ was a socialist,' I told him. I pay the lads well at work. Not that I have much choice with the unions…"

  Experience being the name we give our mistakes, Minogue's inner voice copied Wilde's mordant truth.

  "Anything about Irish politics? The North?" Minogue said.

  "You're back to that girl again, aren't you? He told me once that we didn't know anything because we hadn't lived through it. I mean that's all fine and well to say. The enthusiasm of youth is a thing that can be easily turned to bad ends."

  So that was another gem, Minogue thought. He imagined father and son shouting at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Walsh trying to intercede. Mother Ireland.

  "Anyway. I'd not describe her as a girlfriend. To answer your question," Walsh said and sat back defiantly in his chair.

  "Why not?"

  "Well, we never met her. She was never introduced to us. In a formal way."

  Minogue's pessimism deepened. The boy had learned enough to be ashamed of them probably.

  "I was just thinking, Sergeant Minogue. Doesn't the Bible say 'an eye for an eye?' Don't you think there's something in it all the same? Where's the justice even if the fellow is caught? Jarlath had a great future ahead of him with the business. Sure the university was just a general training. Did I insist he do accountancy or the like? No, I did not. 'Every lecture has something for everybody,' I told him. A liberal education as they say. Strange as it may seem, I believed in that."

  Minogue realised that he was probably the first and perhaps the last visitor to the house since the funeral. The man looked like a bachelor somehow. The place was spic and span, unused. Walsh's face held an intensity which was still disbelief as to how the world had fallen apart. Soon it would turn to anger. Walsh would want answers and no one would be able to provide them.

  Walsh was fingering his lip now. His voice had dropped and he was staring at a print on the wall.

  "The North. Well, that's part of it, I'm sure. Not directly of course but it sets the thermostat, you could say."

  He looked intently at Minogue and continued.

  "They're not the same as us, Sergeant. Not one bit. They're a different race entirely… My suppliers sometimes ask things but I explain that it's like another world up there. It could be another continent. Still they ask. What about the vast majority though, I ask myself. They're trying to make a living and keep their businesses going, like the rest of us. They're the same as us in that respect. Unsung heroes I might say, the ones who put the food on the table and keep the economy afloat. Where's the justice in that though? Bitter people. Too much politics. We don't need that here."

  Minogue's mind echoed with 'vast majority.' He heard it often, usually to do with bad news. He felt weak in the company of this man, surrounded by his achievements. Walsh stood up and pocketed his hands. Minogue, no psychologist, recognised his chance.

  "Mr Walsh. I'm wondering about your son's brief-case. It was stolen in the college. Did he mention it at all?"

  "Matter of fact he did. I haven't told his mother at all on account of it being a present she gave him. I suppose no place is safe now, not even Trinity College Dublin."

  "Any strange phone calls or visitors looking for your son this last while?" Minogue tried.

  Walsh looked carefully at Minogue, considering his answer.

  "No, Sergeant. And your insinuations can stop at that point. You're trying to suggest that our son was a stranger to us. We made it our business to know what he did. We were interested in how he did and not just with the books. We knew our son. We talked and discussed things with him. If you leave here with nothing else aside from that fact, well that'll be fine with me."

  Minogue stood. Too far, he thought. Yes, this Walsh was a country man and no stranger to Minogue. Minogue had been meeting these men less and less over the years. He remembered a line of a poem but couldn't remember the poet.

  'Will it be the bourgeois coma or the bully's push?'

  Walsh had enough of the bully in him not to be comatose in the suburbs here. Yes, Walsh had the age-old dislike for the peelers and the law. Walsh led him to the door. Brass fittings caught Minogue's soupspoon head in passing. You're wrong, Walsh. Your son was a stranger to you because he was learning to know you too well. Familiarity…

  "Thank you, Mr Walsh. I regret the inconvenience."

  "We all do our job, Sergeant. Good day now."

  Another bloody clumsy hint, Minogue realised as he heard the door clunk behind him. A cement statue in the middle of shrubs reminded him of a cemetery. Who had educated Jarlath Walsh really? Agnes McGuire, that's who.

  Within a mile of the Walsh house, Minogue was faced with a choice. The Friday traffic was flowing south. Minogue's home was but three miles in toward the city. Couldn't he justify staying j out here rather than returning to the city?

  At this same time, the playwright had executed his choice. He replaced the phone. Maybe, on reflection, he should have phoned the Brits instead of the Gardai. A car of a given make and colour would be worth inspecting. It would be going through Dundalk tomorrow. It wouldn't be exactly full of petrol.

  Minogue pulled in beside a shop, aching for a cigarette. He sat in the car for a minute, listening to the engine. Then he drove off onto the Bray Road toward his work. On his way to the city centre, there were times when he couldn't remember how he had driven this far^ paying no heed to what he was supposed to be doing. By the time he reached Trinity, his mind had caught up with him. He was surprised to find himself parking there. He gathered his notes and checked the drawers. He locked the door behind him. He wrote a thanks, slipped the key into an envelope and sealed it. He walked under cooing pigeons at Front Gate and handed the envelope to a porter.

  "And thank Captain Loftus for me. We'll be in touch," Minogue said.

  Instead of returning directly to his car, Minogue turned toward Allen's office. The heavy varnished door took his knuckles and offered nothing. Minogue put his ear to the door but he heard no sound. He felt relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  In truth, Minogue felt washed up. Almost unknown to himself he was lying in wait on the bank for some moving thing to pass, something he couldn't predict or control. Like waiting for a bus after you've had a few jars, idly detached from things. The implacable closed door and the bird song coming in from the square made him feel silly and lost. Walsh was right, he'd run out of steam.

  He gathered his papers better under his arm and turned to leave. Turning, he caught sight of a faint sliver of brightness under the door. He bent to look and noticed that a folded sheet of paper had been slipped under the door. Minogue fished it out with the end tooth of his comb. The note was from a secretary apparently, reminding Allen to phone Captain Loftus when he got back. "When you get back Sun/Mon." Minogue slipped the note back under the door.

  Minogue explored his way to the back of the building. Turning a corner, he heard a typewriter. He knocked and entered. No, Dr Allen would not be in for the remainder of the day. Who was looking for him. Mr Who? Minogue. Had he an appointment? No. Well Dr Allen is very fussy about that. No less fussy than yourself, Minogue thought. Where could he reach him? He had rooms in college but he wou
ldn't be there either. How come…?

  His lectures took him away at least twice every month. And where would he be delivering his next one? That's a private initiative on his part. Sorry for asking.

  "Well, more power to his elbow. I'll be seeing you," Minogue said to annoy her. A face on her like a plateful of mortal sins, Minogue thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Detective Garda Connors was trying to unbunch the large muscle group which comprised his arse. Connors welcomed the break from Kilmartin's company. Kilmartin had become morose and then angry by turns. Connors could feel Kilmartin's imploding anger and helplessness. The two killers were still at large. It looked like every single Garda in Dublin would be on the job following suspects around. Suspects indeed. Connors had drawn surveillance on an old-timer, a playwright, who had been active nearly thirty years ago. He had faded into the background more and more as the war in the North became a city war. The playwright hadn't been under regular surveillance for over three years. The file read like a story about a film star in decline.

  Connors tried to remember some of the plays this fella had written. All with a nationalist bent or some bloody propaganda. Well, at least it was only play-acting. Maybe he'd be flattered to think he was being followed. He could boast about it to his cronies, be a fecking hero.

  Connors' backside began to ease. He ordered another glass of Harp and looked around at the Friday afternoon crowd in the Bailey. Oh very poosh. More like a crowd of gobshites. And the women dressed up, laughing like actors on the telly. Mutton dressed up as lamb. Vixens, they'd take a lump out of any honest man in their path. Hardly ideal company for the patriotic playwright. Who was the fella with him though?

  Connors took a slug out of the glass and watched the playwright talking. The other one looked like a Yank. The playwright might be softening him for a few jars or maybe a bit in the theatre line. That was one of his plays, At the Wall. Connors was pleased with his memory. A play about what might have happened if the leaders in the Rising hadn't been shot in 1916. Maybe it'd go down well in the States. Hardly though. That fella had a good tan, typical Yank. Looked after himself with the hair and the clothes. How did the Yanks make good suits like that?