by John Brady
Praise for John Brady’s MATT MINOGUE series:
THE GOING RATE
“As always, Brady delivers an INTELLIGENT, SKILLFULLY CRAFTED NOVEL, with a wonderful, gritty urban setting. The Going Rate is a luxurious book, full of fascinating characters and wonderful insights into the new Ireland.” – GLOBE AND MAIL
“The Celtic boom may have busted but it has left behind the crime that comes with prosperity. There are no happy endings with John Brady, no punches pulled. There is justice, and heartbreak, and the knowledge that the streets will be just as dirty and dangerous tomorrow, though tonight you can set that aside and enjoy friends.” –NATIONAL POST
“THE GOING RATE IS JOHN BRADY’S BEST THRILLER YET . . . scenes so well composed that one is tempted to re-read them. Brady has reached new heights.” – THE HALIFAX CHRONICLE-HERALD
“One of Brady’s best gifts, besides fast, tight plotting, lies in dialogue that reflects not only idiom and wit, but the intricacies of relationaships.” –THE LONDON FREE PRESS
ISLANDBRIDGE **GLOBE AND MAIL TOP 100**
SHORTLISTED FOR THE 2006 DASHIELL HAMMETT AWARD
A GLOBE AND MAIL BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR “Particularly powerful stuff . . . genius.” – TORONTO STAR
WONDERLAND **GLOBE AND MAIL TOP 100**
“IF THERE ARE AUTHORS BETTER THAN JOHN BRADY at chronicling the events of modern Ireland, I HAVEN’T YET READ THEM . . . Brady’s best so far.” – GLOBE AND MAIL
“ANOTHER SUPERB NOVEL BY A WRITER OF INTERNATIONAL STATURE.” – TORONTO STAR
“BRADY’S BEST: informed, subtle and intelligent, with Minogue revealing a hitherto unseen depth of soul, humour and emotion.” – THE TIMES UK
A CARRA KING GLOBE AND MAIL TOP 100
“DENSE AND MULTILAYERED . . . a treasure of a crime novel.” – TORONTO STAR
“Brady has a great eye for the telling detail . . . and a lovely slow pace of storytelling. There’s much talk and thought about events and you can’t read this book at warp speed. Instead, save it to savour.” – GLOBE AND MAIL
ALL SOULS
“As lyrical and elegantly styled as the last three . . . A FIRST-RATE STORY WITH MARVELLOUS CHARACTERS . . . Another masterful tale from a superior author.” – GLOBE AND MAIL
“Nothing gets in the way of pace, narrative thrust or intricate storytelling.” – IRISH TIMES
“A KNOCKOUT.” – KIRKUS REVIEWS
KADDISH IN DUBLIN
“MATT MINOGUE, THE MAGNETIC CENTRE OF THIS SUPERB SERIES . . . and Brady’s tone of battered lyricism are the music which keep drawing us back to this haunting series.” – NEW YORK TIMES
“Culchie Colombo with a liberal and urbane heart . . . like all the best detective stories it casts its net widely over its setting . . . [Minogue is] a character who should run and run.” – IRISH TIMES
UNHOLY GROUND
“RIVETING . . . The suspense builds to barely bearable intensity . . . crackles with pungent Irish idiom and its vignettes of the country’s everyday life.” – TORONTO STAR
“Excellent Sergeant Matt Minogue . . . MARVELLOUS DIALOGUE, as nearly surreal as a Magritte postcard the sergeant likes, and a twisting treacherous tale.” – SUNDAY TIMES
A STONE OF THE HEART
“Towers above the mystery category as AN ELOQUENT, COMPELLING NOVEL . . . a tragic drama involving many characters, each so skillfully realized that one virtually sees and hears them in this extraordinary novel . . .” – PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“A MASTERFULLY CRAFTED WORK of plot, atmosphere and especially characterization . . . Minogue, thoughtful, clear-eyed and perhaps too sensitive . . . is a full-blooded character built for the long haul of a series . . .” – MACLEAN’S
THE GOOD LIFE
“Brilliant Craftsmanship.” – LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Brady’s dead-on ear for dialogue and his knack for creating instantly engaging characters keep the pages flipping . . . one line of prose leads inexorably, compulsively to the next . . .” – QUILL & QUIRE
“Brady, like Chandler, has a poet’s eye for place . . . (he) is emerging as one of the supreme storytellers of Canadian crime fictions.” –GLOBE AND MAIL
Also by John Brady
Matt Minogue Series
The Going Rate
Islandbridge
Wonderland
A Carra King
All Souls
Kaddish in Dublin
Unholy Ground
A Stone of the Heart
The Good Life
Other Novels
Poacher’s Road
www.johnbradysbooks.com
www.mcarthur-co.com
JOHN
BRADY
The Coast Road
A MATT MINOGUE MYSTERY
McArthur & Company
Toronto
First published in Canada in 2010 by
McArthur & Company
322 King Street West, Suite 402
Toronto, Ontario
M5V 1J2
www.mcarthur-co.com
Copyright © 2010 John Brady
All rights reserved.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the expressed written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Brady, John, 1955-
The coast road : a Matt Minogue mystery / John Brady.
ISBN 978-1-55278-805-9 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-55278-915-5 (electronic)
I. Title.
PS8553.R245H37 2010 C813’.54 C2009-904287-8
The publisher would like to acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for our publishing activities. The publisher further wishes to acknowledge the financial support of the Ontario Arts Council and the OMDC for our publishing program.
Design and composition by Szol Design
eBook development by Wild Element www.wildelement.ca
For Anton and Elfriede, who have
come so far and done so much.
And as always, for Hanna
“Every day miracles dwindle and marvels go away.”
–Baal Shem Tov
Dalkey – ‘Isle of thorns’ and a forgotten saint
“…Turning the corner in the centre the village, one enters upon a narrow road lined on both sides with high walls. But within a half statute mile, one is returned to the coast road, for before us lies the small harbour of Coliemore. As modest and snug as this harbour may present itself, this appearance is sure to deceive, for there is much to contemplate. Known in earlier times as Dalkey Harbour, this port was until the 1600s nothing less than the maritime port for the city of Dublin six miles to the north, then an estuarine settlement whose waters were choked with silt. Sitting on a cape, and providentially girded by its geology, this tiny harbour saw passing through it kings and their armies, cargo and goods of every kind, travelers and emigrants, and as the wayside poets recite, ‘the pilgrim and the pirate.’
“The view across the sound is of Dalkey Island, that very place that gave the area its name from the Old Irish Delg Inis, ‘the island of thorns.’ Surveying this grassy islet, the eye is drawn to the ruin of an ancient church, and to the south of it, a Martello tower. Many centuries before Napoleon sought to make cause with the Irish against his foe, this small but strategic isle had been a redoubt from which the Vikings preyed on the coast and struck terror far and wide. It is from before these times however that this church, of which we see only the wa
lls, was erected, dedicated to a local saint, Saint Begnet.
“Little or nothing is known of Begnet. Some contend that she cannot be separated from earlier peoples, those ‘shadowy presences, faintly glimpsed at twilight’ who lived here in the times of the Druids, and to whose enigmatic presence stone edifices across the area bear silent witness. The Ireland of those times was remote from Roman authority, and its many female saints attest to a native church with roots firmly in local custom. One such saint was Begnet, and born the daughter of a notable in early Christian Ireland, this young woman of great spirit and startling beauty was much sought after in marriage. Her father thus arranged a match for her with a son of the King of Norway. Yet unbeknownst to him, she had taken vows to dedicate her life to God, and thus refused marriage. Angered by this, her father took against her, only relenting when she revealed to him how her vocation had come to her as a child. She had been visited by an angel, and as proof she displayed a bracelet that the angel had given her to symbolize her fidelity.
“Taking only that bracelet with her, Begnet became one of the first who sought ‘the green exile’ for that divine purpose. She and her successors would usher in what would become known as Ireland’s Golden Age, those centuries when its monks left in their thousands, bearing the light of learning back to a darkened continent. The only account that the author has been able to discover, sees Begnet completing her earthly duties as a renowned abbess in Britain. There are two accounts of Begnet’s bracelet as a relic or an object of veneration and miracles in later times, and of its use as a proof of truthful statements.”
– J.G. Sadlier, Walking Ireland’s Coasts, 1883
Chapter 1
By midday of that soggy June Tuesday that was to turn his life upside down, Detective Garda Thomas Malone was fighting off impatience. That battle wasn’t going well. He had about six minutes yet before he’d see the impossible, a man trying to fly.
Slouched next to him in the rear of the unmarked Mondeo was Keaveney, another Drugs Central veteran. Keaveney was okay company most of the time. He had a sharp, dry answer for almost everything. In the three years since Malone had moved to Central, Keaveney had become his most frequent partner.
“Christ Almighty.”
It was Buckley, from the passenger seat. His words came in a rueful murmur.
“It’s rounding up animals we should be doing, lads. Two by two, and all that?”
Buckley had been a Sergeant for several months now. He had been posted to the Drugs Unit office in Store Street Garda station the day of his promotion. But not even Flynn, the driver, and by far the most junior in the car, felt he should offer Buckley anything for his wit. Things were bad enough, on the job and off. And it had all been said anyway, hadn’t it? Dire summer so far. The economy in meltdown. Gang crime out-of-control. Pay cuts on the way for certain. Blah blah blah.
Malone’s earpiece came to life again. It was Doyle, one of the detectives in the runner car: Kelly and the Chinaman had hit the road again.
Buckley leaned around the headrest.
“Well, lads? Praise the Lord. Well worth the wait, I say.” Malone shifted and pulled his new vest to the side and down a little. Somehow he had managed to find a way to strap in his Glock so that the grip was poking him inside his upper arm. That had never happened before. What the hell had been so wrong with the vest he had used before, the one that fit?
“Kelly’ll have to change his name after this,” Keaveney said. Buckley eyed him in the mirror.
“Walking into this?” Keaveney explained. “‘Artane Kelly’ is going to be history after this. It’s going to have to be ‘No-Brain Kelly.’”
“He’s a crackhead,” said Buckley. “What do you expect?”
“My point is, Kelly was never a rocket surgeon. Was he, Tommy?”
“He’ll do,” Malone said. “It’s him they sent.” Keaveney’s sigh was a show of resignation.
“Can’t argue with that. You’re the resident expert on him.” Buckley cleared his throat, and pretended the mirror needed adjusting. The suspension on the Mondeo squeaked as he stretched, and then settled again. His eyes found Malone.
“No love lost there between you and Kelly,” he said. “Is there, Tommy?”
Malone shrugged. He focused again on a patch of graffiti. Not a single tag here in the lane made any sense to him.
“Okay lads,” Buckley said. He rubbed his hands together.
“Just a reminder. We want actual entry into this lockup. We want them standing in there, a key in their hands – that’s possession.
And we want the both of them going in. The whole shebang – conspiracy, possession. Are we right?”
“Grand,” said Keaveney, and opened his door. He followed Malone over to one of the doorways, where the shutters had buckled. He watched him open and close the Velcro on his vest.
“Mister Dramatic there.” Malone squinted at him.
“Not you,” said Keaveney. He flicked a glance toward the car. “Boss-man.”
Buckley’s door was still open. He had more redundant instructions for Flynn.
“Kelly’s a big nothing,” Keaveney went on. “Cheese on the mousetrap. But Mr. Whoflungdung, mystery man, well he’s going to be an interesting fish.”
Malone zipped up his jacket a third of the way. He tested it then as he always did, reaching in once quickly, and then a second time. His knuckles slid down the nylon and his hand closed smoothly on the grip. His thumb found the quick-release right away.
“For sure he’s Triad. Sniffing around for years, haven’t they?”
Malone shrugged. Keaveney scraped something from his shoe.
“Well they’re a bit late to the party then,” he said. “The Tiger’s passed out. In a coma. On life support? Anyway, the competition got here first. Nigerians, Ukrainians, Moldovans, Bulgarians – am I missing any?”
“Romanians. Russians. Bylorussians. Balbriggan men even, I hear.”
“Ah,” said Keaveney, a smile flickering around his mouth.
“A man in the know. But you keep things to yourself, don’t you? All the goods from your old pal there, what’s his name, Mannion, over in the glamour end there.” “Minogue. Like you didn’t know.” Moments passed.
“Tell you what,” said Keaveney then. “Let’s get ahead of the game. You ready? Fire off a few bits of Chinese at him, this Chinaman. Just to see what he does. The look on his face…? How about it?”
“Ease off, will you.”
“‘Ease off?’ What ‘ease off’ are you talking about?” Malone made a quick study of his colleague’s expression. Keaveney had never said anything directly about Malone’s girl-friend, Sonia, eldest of an immigrant family from Macau. The nearest he came was to state his keen preference for Chinese food.
“Because it’s raining, is why,” Malone said. “Rain. June? Because the country’s up the creek. But mainly because I have six frigging days’ leave for the rest of the year. That kind of ‘ease off.’”
“Just a few Chinese words. Like, I don’t know – how do you say Céad Míle Fáilte in Chinese? No, wait. Triad – how do you say Triad? Or no, how about: Why are you hanging around with a scumbag like Artane Kelly?” Malone gave him a hard look.
“And ease off because you’re giving me a headache,” he said. Keaveney snorted quietly, and he looked away. Buckley stepped out of the car.
They followed him down to the mouth of the laneway. Where Kelly and Chan were supposedly heading was the third unit in a row of battered, roll-up doorways. The whole place here had been jerry-built, a decade before the Boom. Signs of neglect were plain: dark and layered oil stains, broken glass shoved against walls of fraying brickwork, weeds amongst the rubbish. Malone found a spot by an oil drum that was overflowing with rusting pieces of engine transmissions.
He paused then to catch the radio traffic. The Audi that Kelly was piloting was turning in off the road. “A minute or so,” Buckley called out.
“What’s the Chinaman’s name again?” Keave
ney asked. “I forgot already.”
“Chan.”
“Charlie Chan, like?”
“Ask him when you get a chance.”
“Is Chan like Smith or Murphy for the Chinese, is it?”
