The Coast Road (Matt Minogue Mysteries)

by John Brady

  “Ignore what? Rumours? There’s always rumours.”

  “I mean serious talk. And it’s not going away.”

  “Tell it to go away, why don’t you. Wave a stick at it, like a strange dog.”

  Kilmartin didn’t revert to the disdain that Minogue expected.

  “Matt. I’ll spell it out for you. So as I can sleep at night. So I can say to myself, to my conscience, ‘I tried. I had a heart-to-heart with Matt. I didn’t pull any punches.’ Okay? So listen to me. A senior Garda officer told me that there are two scenarios here.”

  “Scenarios. What are we discussing now, opera?” A tight, lop-sided smile formed on Kilmartin’s face, but his gaze held steady.

  “You’re so funny. Just hear me out. Theory A: Malone threw Kelly off the roof to keep him quiet about what he knew. That put the kybosh on Kelly ever coughing up names, insiders. Yes, I said that: Garda insiders. Join up the bits: Kelly was looking at a long stretch. He was ready to snitch, cop his plea and spit out names.”

  Minogue studied the varnished wood beside Kilmartin’s shoulder.

  “I know you’re taking it in there, what I just said.” Minogue threw him a quick, challenging look. “I hope the B option is as entertaining.”

  “You won’t like Option B any better, but here goes: Kelly told Malone something up there, up on the roof. He tried to make a deal with Malone, even gave him a name. So if Malone knew nothing about crooked cops before, well by Jesus he does now. When it suits him, he’ll plant his own little garden, and start raking in his hush-money or whatever. And what’s his hurry? All he has to do is get through the GSOC thing, and he’s back in circulation. Like right now.” He leaned in a little and dropped his voice.

  “Take your pick,” he muttered. “But remember, either way, the shite’s going to hit the fan. Sooner or later it’s going to be wigs on the green with Malone. Big-time.”

  “I should be writing this down, should I?” Kilmartin stood to his full height, and stretched a little. “Oh you’d make a cat laugh,” he said, with a calculated vagueness. “There’s no doubt on that score. Well here’s a plan for you. Put a big fat lid on the big fat pot of indignation you’re cooking up somewhere, will you? And don’t shoot the messenger. I’m only passing it on, as a friend would do. Anything too difficult for you there?”

  “You always had a thing with Tommy. In the Squad, I remember.”

  “Ach! That was just the Dublin thing, the slagging. That’s part of life on our little island, man! Culture. Just to let a Dub like him know he shouldn’t be cocky. That’s all that was about.”

  “And when his brother died? That was a good-natured slag too?”

  Kilmartin raised his hand, palm out.

  “I won’t dispute that. But it was only natural to speculate.”

  “You did more than speculate. You were judge and jury on him.”

  “Me? Why did I let him stay on in the Squad so? I felt sorry for the poor divil. His own brother, for the love of God, going like that, that overdose? A tragedy. An outrage. And those bastards, the Egans, pushing the story that Malone was bent? I wasn’t taken in by that, no way. But I had my suspicions. And that’s normal.”

  “You still have them.”

  “Think about this for a minute: would I be waiting here to clap him on the back if I thought he was bent? I’m just telling you what you should know. Here’s a question for you: why does Drugs Central want Malone o-u-t? Why’s no-one sticking up for him? Face up to it: there’s a side to Malone that you don’t know.”

  Minogue busied himself with his pint again. Kilmartin began to say something else, but then he let his words trail off. His sudden, cautious grin told Minogue that behind him, Malone had arrived.

  Chapter 4

  An hour later, and long after the craic had gotten started in earnest, Minogue had slid into a brood. Kilmartin’s blather had revived doubts, and they had stuck in his mind. Of course Malone was different. Three years in Drugs Central nose-to-nose with gangs? ‘Intense’ didn’t begin to describe that. The qualities Malone had shown on the Squad wouldn’t change. He wasn’t a glory hound. No diva stuff out of him either – ever. A team player. A wicked sharp eye for inconsistencies. He read liars fast, and he read them well. And he never whinged about putting in the hours, or taking on donkey-work.

  A simple fact had escaped Kilmartin: Malone would be glad of a change. This posting was a break for him. He’d recharge his batteries, working with someone who wasn’t suspicious of him. Boring as it could be, case review wasn’t sitting thinking about – reliving – what had happened on that rooftop, or afterwards. Didn’t he deserve a fresh start, a chance to rebuild? Hadn’t he had enough stuff going against him to earn this?

  Sonia, Minogue thought then, Malone’s fiancée. Former fiancée? Things had gone astray between them. Those few seconds on that rooftop had surely barreled into Malone’s personal life too, ripping through everything there.

  He could only guess at what Sonia knew about Malone’s troubles. Her parents knew enough. Dublin might still teem with new faces and complexions and languages, but it was still a small place. It was one thing for a Chinese family to imagine an

  Irishman as son-in-law – a Dubliner, a cop with an unsavoury interest in boxing even – but for Malone to have a mysterious gravitational pull toward mayhem, that’d be a no-go.

  In spite of himself, another notion circled in the back of Minogue’s mind, a notion so brazenly irrational, or so downright superstitious even that he wouldn’t utter it aloud: did Thomas Martin Malone trail bad karma?

  He listened to Plateglass Sheehy’s few Kerryman jokes, proof of the man’s indefatigable pride in his native county. Only two were recycled: the revolving door one, and the goat with the driver’s licence. He turned to observing Malone then, saw that the tight, ambiguous smile was holding. Enjoying himself. Two lads from Drugs Central had shown up finally, and three others from Records where Malone had bided his time waiting for today. Shea Hoey had phoned, said he was sorry, but the baby had puked. Kilmartin edged closer, flicking his eyes to his left.

  “See the fella holding up the bar over there? Seán Brophy. Forensic Seán?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “None other. Looks fierce shook, doesn’t he? Had a brief how-do with him. Got him up-to-date a bit, why we’re here tonight, well one of the reasons. You and Malone, the new Cold Case Crew. Seán didn’t know about it.”

  Kilmartin paused, and let his thumb trace the curve of his lower lip.

  “You know it was Seán’s daughter who found that man back in June, the dead man out there in Killiney. That old, well I shouldn’t say it maybe, that down-and-out.” He made half-hearted air-quotes.

  “The ‘homeless person’? June, this year? It’s on your list, isn’t it?”

  Minogue played vague. The photo of the dead man had stayed with him long after he had read the case summary last week. It had looked too much like that photo of Saddam Hussein, the one they’d taken after they had pulled him out of his hidey-hole.

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. What does this have to do with me?”

  Something stronger than irritation rippled across Kilmartin’s face. He pushed abruptly out of his lean against the partition.

  “Jesus Christ, Matt. Look at the state Seán’s in. His daughter is in bits – she’s having some class of a breakdown. A post-traumatic thing. Won’t leave the house. They have to keep an eye on her so she’ll eat. The whole family’s in a fierce state, entirely. So how could I not give him a bit of hope. You’d want to be made of stone not to.”

  “What hope? Were you offering my services, is that it?”

  “I know, I know, I know. No doubt you have your priorities. Fine.”

  “You think a six-month project will clear every open murder case in Dublin?”

  “Christ’s sakes man, no need to turn Turk on me. Listen, Seán is so out-of-it that – get this, are you ready? – Seán actually thought we were still in the game, the Murde
r Squad. Swear to God. That’s why he asked me. Long story short, I said I’d put it to you.”

  “Put what to me.”

  “Don’t be a gobshite. Give him a listen. Or is that too hard to do?”

  Kilmartin’s insouciant stare didn’t falter.

  “Listen to me, you,” Minogue said. “Go get Seán. Put Seán in your car. Drive Seán home. On the way, tell Seán you made a mistake. Is that too hard to do?”

  “What mistake? You’re heading up this effort, right? I can’t tell a lie, can I?”

  “You said it yourself. I have a list of cases. Pri-or-i-ties.”

  “What, a poor homeless divil getting murdered isn’t one of your pri-or-i-ties?”

  “I notice he’s not a ‘down-and-out’ now’ anymore. Look just tell Seán you made a mistake.”

  “I made the mistake all right – thinking you mightn’t be a cold-hearted hoor.”

  “Tell him he can get in touch with me later on. Next week, maybe.”

  Kilmartin seemed to weigh this information.

  “Rhiannon,” he said then. “That’s his daughter’s name. Welsh, is it?”

  Answering Kilmartin would only draw him on.

  “Seán’s your pal,” he said. “So he’s all yours. Carry him out of here.”

  Kilmartin looked into his glass, and he rolled the whiskey around slowly.

  “This little Rhiannon is very artistic, I hear,” he said. “Just like your own daughter, if I might be so bold. Iseult, yes. Lovely girl. How’s she getting on anyway?”

  “Could you be pouring it on any thicker?”

  “Well I have to, don’t I?” Kilmartin retorted. He shook his head several times, and shrugged. “What turned you so cold? I never knew you were that type at all.” “What exactly did you tell Seán?” A pained look came to Kilmartin.

  “Not much. I said you might be able to help – might. Sometime. Maybe.” “So now Seán thinks—”

  “—How the hell do I know what he thinks?” Killmartin swallowed then, and a sheepish look came to him.

  “Look: here’s this man murdered, this down-and-out, vagrant – whatever. I know, I know, you can’t use those words. But the way it’s gone, the man is nearly a martyr, a victim of society type of thing. You know the routine.” Minogue reached for his glass.

  “My point is,” Kilmartin went on. “This Rhiannon kid gets nothing, Seán’s little girl, I mean. Nothing! I mean, nice that people care, but – Look, are you listening to me at all?” Kilmartin’s nudge made him turn back.

  “I am trying not to,” he said. “Does it occur to you that the country is up the creek precisely because of what you’re asking?” Kilmartin looked more shocked than puzzled.

  “All because I’m asking you a simple question?”

  “It’s the whole insider thing again. ‘A pal of mine’ll fix you up.’

  ‘Ah, don’t bother going through the steps, I’ll look after you.’ Nudge nudge, wink wink.” Kilmartin rolled his eyes.

  “Christ’s sakes,” he said. “Am I a bank asking for billions to bail me out? This is Seán, his family we’re talking about. They’re being destroyed! It’s common decency has me asking! Or are we gone so low in this country that we can’t even do that anymore?”

  “There’s only so many cases we can go at.”

  “No doubt. No doubt. Well, it’ll look good in the papers at least. Yes, very nice.” “What does that mean?”

  “Cop on to yourself, will you? You don’t have to actually do anything in this job of yours. You just have to look like you’re doing something. Look, did you sleep through the past twenty years or something? It’s all PR these days. All you have to do is just emote. Express ‘grave concerns,’ recite your script, and move on.”

  But before he could give Kilmartin a bollocking, Minogue spotted Brophy making his way over. Brophy strayed toward a chair, slowed and swayed a little, and moved on.

  “Look how bockety he is,” Kilmartin said. “Give him something to hope for?”

  Brophy’s long yawn seemed to make him change course. He came to a halt in front of them. From the corner of his eye, Minogue saw Kilmartin nod his head.

  “That’s great,” said Brophy, wavering more now. But Kilmartin was already on the move, and calling out to Farrell.

  “Long time no see, Matt,” Brophy said, edging onto a stool and exhaling noisily through his nose. “You and Jim and… Like old times. Just the men I need.”

  He spoke through the last of a yawn, opening his eyes again.

  “So did Jim tell you? The per…, the predicament I’m in?”

  “He mentioned it. But there are things he shouldn’t have told you too.”

  Another yawn was tugging at Brophy’s jaw. He fought it off. “Jim’s an old dote,” he said. “Heart of gold, has Jim. A big softie. Not a lot of people know that about him, did you know?”

  Minogue sought out Kilmartin, but he had already corralled Farrell.

  “Jim’s has his own troubles, his own ‘dark night of the soul’.”

  “Jim has no soul at all, Seán. No souls were handed out to Mayo men. Ever.”

  Brophy wanted to laugh, but something stopped him. He blinked at Minogue.

  A sharp suspicion came to Minogue then, that as drunk as Seán Brophy might be, he might be all too lucid too. A deadly combination.

  “Seán. Let’s be clear here. Jim overstepped himself. You need to know that.”

  Brophy was rubbing at his eyes now. When he spoke now, his voice had gone flat.

  “Does my little girl have to die too?”

  Brophy stopped rubbing. His eyes found Minogue first, but looked through him.

  “Is that what has to happen,” he said. “For anything to get done? Is it?”

  Chapter 5

  Minogue eased his Peugeot onto Charlemont Street. The lights along the canal were soon in sight, the Ranelagh Road waiting for him just over the bridge.

  “That car of mine,” Brophy asked. “Will it be safe back there overnight?”

  Minogue slowed for the lights.

  “Safe enough, Seán. Safer than if you were behind the wheel of it.”

  Brophy nodded, and swallowed noisily. Minogue let down his window more as the car slowed. Any doubts he’d had about how much whiskey had been in Brophy’s evening were gone.

  Brophy took an inebriate’s keen interest in the smokers next to the doors of pubs.

  “Those hoodies,” he said. “Like monks, aren’t they? Or priests, maybe?”

  “Hip-hop monks, Seán. Or they could be Franciscans.”

  “Ah hah hah hah,” said Brophy, his words going wispy before he coughed. “But I do appreciate this, Matt, I tell you. I really do.”

  “Tomorrow’s another day, Seán.”

  “‘Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, Don’t stop, it’ll soon be here—”

  “You know them all, don’t you.”

  “Fecking sure I do. Those lyrics, man, they’re etched on my soul.”

  “Not under your shoe, now. The real soul, right?”

  Another weak braying laugh came from Brophy.

  “I can still belt it out, you know,” he added. His voice slid back down to a murmur. “Well, I used to. Me and a few diehards, we used to get together …” He looked over at Minogue

  “The great ones live on,” he said. That’s music for you. Isn’t it?”

  “You’re right on the money there, Seán.”

  “None of this hos and bros stuff. Monotonous ould… Am I right or what?”

  “How about Nina Simone,” Minogue said. “‘I wish I knew how’…?”

  Brophy punched the air twice.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “They play that in heaven. That’s how you know you’re there.”

  The metronomic tack-tack of the tires over the patched roadway took over in the lull.

  “Funny thing,” Brophy said then. He had slumped further into the seat, and Minogue had sensed his mood growing sombre. “None of mine show any interest i
n the guitar. Not a one.”

  “They go their own way. That much I learned – still learning, in actual fact.”

  “A billion tunes on their iPods,” Brophy croaked, trapping another belch in his throat. “But ne’er a one of them can play an instrument. All Facebook now, MyFace, whatever – MySpace. Texting dah dah dah.…” “Ah now, Seán. Hope springs infernal.”

  The last of Brophy’s heavy sigh whistled out his nostrils. His train of thought continued to plough on through this unlit tunnel.