The Coast Road (Matt Minogue Mysteries)

by John Brady

  “There’s a place cleared here for ye up the stairs here. Well, half-cleared.”

  Behind him, Malone was uncharacteristically lead-footed on the stairs.

  “Fitzie,” Minogue said. “Sergeant Fitzgerald, I take it?”

  “That’s right. Mickey Fitz. Sarge, or even Mickey. He parks his rank.”

  They passed a small, narrow room that held unopened cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling, and ancient-looking file cabinets. The floor had a slant.

  “The front office there looks out over the road,” Corcoran said. “That’s Detective Unit Office. So youse’ll be well within shouting range. Don’t hold back, I say.”

  Minogue tried not to stare at the hair again. A generous mop entirely. Corcoran pulled open a narrow, moulded-panel door.

  “Not the Taj Mahal exactly,” he said “But it’ll get the job done, I hope?”

  A table and the two bockety looking chairs comprised the usable furniture. An arabesque of incomplete and overlapping circles on the surface of the table showcased the work of sloppy, bygone tea drinkers. A small, grimy glass panel in the door was flecked with a heavy emulsion paint applied, Minogue thought, before the Dead Sea was even sick. Spots clung to the edges of the linoleum too where it met the skirting board. A small window gave a pinched view of a gable, and a few slices of rooftops farther along the road. He guessed that the inevitable filing cabinets here were jammed full.

  “We use it as an interview room. But it’s a go-to room when there’s a major.”

  Major crime, he meant, Minogue realized. An Incident Room, he should have called it. A sign of how out of touch they were with front-line Garda work here?

  “Phone, of course. It hasn’t been cabled for a terminal here yet though.”

  “The evidence room, is it handy?”

  “Top floor. I have the sign-in sheet and the key waiting below.”

  “We were hoping to get hold of files too?” Corcoran frowned, but then his forehead quickly eased. “I nearly forgot,” he said. “Eight bankers’ boxes waiting below. Will I…?”

  “Thanks, one of us will get them, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not in the wide world. So like Fitz says, make yourselves at home.”

  Minogue thanked him, and drew the door shut. The room now smelled like a breadbox. Beneath that staleness, there was a mustiness he supposed could be mildew.

  “‘Make yeerselves at home,’” Malone said quietly. “Says Corky from Dorkey.”

  Minogue pulled one of the chairs across the lino, and he put down his bag. Someone had wiped the phone with a disinfectant spray, and it stung high in his nose.

  “Take a sabbatical from your acting career,” he said to Malone. “And start bringing up the boxes, the case files. And see what you can rig up for boards. Clear a wall or something – anything. We’ll need the use of a terminal. And ID, a password?”

  “Oh,” he called out before Malone closed the door completely.

  “The door has no lock too. What can be done about it, ask somebody.”

  Kathleen sounded busy.

  “Day one, superstar,” she said. “How are you liking it there in Coolock?”

  “Coolock is not bad I hear,” he said. “But I’m actually out here in Dalkey.”

  “Dalkey? Why Dalkey? What happened?”

  “Something came up.”

  “Something is always coming up with you. Is it bad?”

  “Not bad that I can see. It’s just a case got moved up the list. ‘Circumstances.’”

  “What about all the stuff you’ve done already, all you read for the other one?”

  “The one you’re not supposed to know about?” he tried. “That one?”

  “Spare me, will you. How can they switch you around like that, I’d like to know.”

  “Ours is not to reason why. It has to do with the long grass.”

  “Long grass? Have you had a few pints there? Hit your head against something maybe? I’m not even going to try to figure that one out.”

  “The case needs a robust review. Read between the lines, can’t you?”

  “Well,” she said. “I half expected something like this might happen. Everything in this country is gone upside down. Why should it be different for you, I suppose.” It was resignation in her voice, he realized, not anger. “They have you hopping and trotting. ‘This is no promotion.’ Didn’t I say that?”

  “This phone could be tapped, you know.”

  “I hope it is. Here’s the message: ‘Give my husband a real job, you shower of sh…”

  Her words ended with a sigh. He eased himself onto the edge of the table, and he began reciting in his mind the things he would not say here: Tynan wouldn’t have shuffled the pack if he didn’t need to; I never actually wanted what they call a career path; this gig will be good for Tommy Malone, to salvage his career – not that he deserved it after last night’s cock-up. “Tell you what,” he said then. “If you need any special goat cheeses, or reiki or something like that, well I am perfectly positioned here. It’s ground zero for that here.”

  “You have this thing about Dalkey, I remember. Don’t you?”

  He hedged on that. Her tone was serious when she spoke next.

  “You know what I’d really like? What a lot of people would like, actually?”

  “That we’re off Friday night to Paris, and by nine o’clock we’ll be in that room there in that Rue Daguerre, and ready to go out to dinner?”

  “Ah stop that,” she said, but her voice softened. “I know you mean well, but that’s for later. No, you’ll never get it. It’s a fantasy, of course.”

  Minogue had no difficulty recognizing another fine chance to say nothing.

  “I’d love to hear you tell me that they’re all under arrest. Under lock and key.”

  “Is this one of those kinky things where you dress up and get frisky?”

  “No, no, no. It probably isn’t even on your radar. The commission.”

  “What commission?”

  “See? I knew it. What I meant is when that Murphy Report comes out, when we finally get the truth about those priests, and the bishops covering for them. Each and every one of those – I can’t say the word, I just can’t. But it’s going to be bad. Father Gorman mentioned it at the end of his sermon, Sunday. Pity you weren’t there to hear it.” “What did I miss?”

  “How our faith is going to be tested next week, when the report comes out. And that we should be praying, and preparing. Father Gorman is depressed himself, I think. But this has to come out in the open, no matter what. It just has to.”

  Malone was back with the first of the case files. Kathleen had heard him.

  “Is that Tommy Malone I’m hearing?”

  “It is. Yes, that’s him, mullocking around in our, ah, our command post.”

  “Our ould granny flat,” Malone called out.

  After his call ended, Minogue still held his mobile to his ear.

  “Yes I will,” he said. “I’ll tell him all right. Definitely.” Malone watched him close the phone. “Tell me what?”

  “Kathleen says congratulations on yesterday. The Ombudsman’s report. Not your carry-on with those two headcases in the pub.”

  “Very nice of her, say thank you.”

  “And you’re to behave yourself, she says too. To mind your manners.” “Really.”

  “Oh, and remember who’s boss, she says to tell you too – and to call me sir.”

  Malone’s stare lingered on the stained desktop.

  “Okay,” Minogue said then, rising. “Lot of catch-up to do here. I’ll go visit this drop-in place, and see this squeaky wheel, Sister Immaculata.”

  “Are you going to get your feet washed there?”

  “So you know a bit about her already?”

  “Found her on the Internet,” said Malone. “Bit of a saint.”

  “We’ll see. Now I want you to start at the other end, will you? A fella the name of Joseph McCarthy. He goes by JJ Mac, maybe Joey Ma
c. Supposedly connected with a paper out here, one of these ads masquerading as a community newspaper.”

  “McCarthy, with a h?”

  “With an h. You’re on the South Side now.”

  “Thanks for that. And that Sister What’s Her Name?”

  “Immaculata. Im-mac-u-la-ta?”

  “She speaks Latin or something?”

  He looked up, saw Minogue’s raised eyebrow, and resumed tapping the keyboard.

  Chapter 9

  Minogue took the first chance he got to turn onto the coast road. And why not? There was more than one way to get to this Disciples place. Disciples: the word circled in his thoughts. Back in school, it was always ‘Jesus and His Disciples,’ and the pen drawings in the religion texts had Jesus looking young, sort of naïve, distracted. But when push came to shove, those so-called disciples were a huge let-down, and those beseeching words of Jesus had been repeated so often in the Holy Weeks of his childhood: Will none of ye stay awake and pray with me?

  The sea was grey and surly-looking, and out from shore, a stiff breeze was raking the tops of the swells. On the edge of the bay, a finger’s length from the featureless, grey lump that was today’s version of Howth, a cargo ship lay at anchor. His view of the sea ended at a sea-wall with an elderly couple walking resolutely behind a fat dog.

  The door to the drop-in centre was painted a canary yellow. Was it meant to be some kind of a beacon? He couldn’t spot any sign on the door, or the walls adjoining the place. He geared down and dawdled. The place looked closed. A van suddenly filled his back window, and he pulled in. Naturally, the parking had to be metered. Walking back with his ticket, he mentally retraced the road out to Dalkey from here. He figured it was under an hour’s walk. How long would have taken this Larkin fella though? The doorway smelled of disinfectant and mothballs, and other smells he wanted to keep from consideration. He checked his pockets, feeling again for his wallet and mobile. The door opened before he had to grasp the handle. A wet-eyed man with a rubbery face and eyes fixed in a dull stare came out, swaying a little. Minogue caught the closing door with his forearm. The smell enveloped him, and he held his breath. Homelessness had a smell to it, a peppery musk of unwashed bodies and slept-in clothes, and cigarettes. He tried to quash his thought that taste and smell were allied.

  Snared between aversion and shame he paused just beyond the doorway. Ruddy, weary faces half-turned toward him from the open area ahead. There were close to a dozen men sitting around. Several lingered before turning away again, some toward the telly, some to stare at nothing. An older man with a blaze of white hair stared blankly across the room. Another was canted awkwardly at the end of a sofa, his bandaged fist dug in hard under his chin, his eyelids flickering. What talk there was, was subdued.

  He took in the bags parked by some of the chairs, the posters with words that he couldn’t make out yet, the magazines and books. A figure emerged from a doorway behind the television, an elderly woman of medium height, slim, carrying a plate of sandwiches. Civvies or not, Minogue pegged her for a nun. Was it the hair, the clothes? Or was it some bearing, a set to her face that said competent, or strict, or compassionate? He tried to calculate how many years had passed since he had seen a nun in her proper regalia, an old-style nun under full sail. They had been mysterious and frightening to him when he was a child. They didn’t walk, they glided, in a swirl of robes and clacking rosaries.

  She laid down the plate and then began loading a tray, murmuring all the while to one of the men. A piece of white something, his coat lining, flowered at his shoulder. DTs, Minogue thought, the man trying to nod and drink from a cup at the same time. The man said something back to her. She glanced at Minogue, and went back to gathering dishes, all the while keeping up the conversation with the Mr. Torn-coat. His nods became more vigorous. He seemed to be getting what she was saying. He wiped at his beard and he looked up at her, and he beamed. Yikes: no teeth.

  He’d have to breathe at some point. He concentrated on blocking his nose and keeping his breath shallow, and he pretended to read the pages pinned to a corkboard. Know Your Rights. Health Clinic. Pictures of the Sacred Heart, Mary at the foot of the Cross with lightning in a torn sky behind. That poster with the footprints on the beach. One of the seated men sat up and turned a little to get a better look at him. Minogue offered a small nod, his friendly but distant Garda model.

  Then the shouting began. A man with a swollen face and a Kerry or Cork accent was doing the shouting. The target of his anger was a short, brittle-looking man with hollow cheeks and a Fu Manchu moustache. Minogue caught some of the words. A row about the Eurovision Song Contest? The Kerryman called the other one a liar. The other began to chant ‘Romania, Romania.’ The argument grew louder. The Kerryman sat back hard in his chair, scraping its legs along the tiles, and he started in on the curses.

  That seemed to do it for this Sister Immaculata. She left her tray full of dishes and made her way out towards the pair. She was singing even before she reached them.

  All kinds of everything

  Reminds me of you.

  Dances, romances…

  Dear God, thought Minogue. That song was Ireland’s great moment from decades past: All Kinds of Everything. Nineteen… seventy? Yes – Dana, that wholesome Catholic girl from embattled Derry had beaten all of Europe to win Ireland’s first Eurovision title. She’d married, gone holy-roller since, and now in midlife, she haunted Ireland.

  But the singing seemed to be doing the trick. What’s more, this Sister Immaculata had a damned good voice too. She wiped her hands in her apron as she launched into another verse, and then she slowly began to make her way over to Minogue. Her hand was soft and damp from washing dishes.

  “I knew a Minogue years back,” she said. “A priest out in Africa.”

  “I can’t claim that one I’m afraid, Sister. I wish I could.”

  “Mary. Call me Mary.”

  It was said conclusively, with none of the usual emollient smiles or the ‘ah sures’ he had expected. She owned the lightest of light blue eyes, grey almost, and they looked out calmly from beneath an unlined forehead. They communicated zero. Was it possible that nuns these days could get their hair styled, or even tinted? Maybe a life spent not having to deal with men directly was a life where grey hair could take its time arriving. An outdoor plant too, this nun, he felt sure, and well-preserved.

  “You juggle a few careers,” he tried. “The singing?”

  “I wouldn’t make a living out of it.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short now. You have the pipes, I’m thinking.”

  She wiped her hands and glanced toward the men. The bickering had not revived.

  “Do you know anything about horses?”

  “Enough to keep my distance. I got a right good kick off one when I was a boy.”

  She kept her eye on the man with the red face and the wild eyes – Mr. Furious.

  “You need to talk to horses. Did you know that?” Minogue offered a vague, benign nod. He had known from childhood about nun powers. Nuns could see your whole life in the space of a second, secret parts included. They could probably see your eternal destiny too. This particular nun was some kind of über-nun too by the looks of things, one with the power to move a Garda Commissioner.

  “There’s a little office of sorts over beyond,” she said. “Let’s have a chat there. I have a few things to show you, if you’re interested.”

  He followed her, waited for her invitation to sit. She drew open the top drawer in a file cabinet, and craned her neck to find something there. There was a small blemish on her neck, and now that he’d noticed it, it kept drawing his eye. A wen, that’s what it was. The word rolled around in his head. Was it something to do with witches?

  She seemed to be aware of his thoughts. Pointing out details in the photos she had spread on the table, her thumb and forefinger pressed closed the collar of her blouse. “Christmas dinner,” she said. “Last year’s.” He imagined the same slow, delibe
rate murmur sounding the decades of the rosary in a cold chapel. “That’s him. That’s Padraig there.”

  Minogue studied the other faces again. Stubbled and windburned, several glared at the camera with glittering eyes. Others looked bewildered, anxious to the point of fright even, with expressions that could mean drunken or high, or off in a private mental hell. Over all of them though, he saw weariness.

  “The men there, are they sitting together for a reason, or just at random?”

  “Both. But Padraig had a couple of regulars that he could manage, for a while anyway. This one is Seánie, Seánie Walshe. The little lad, the one who looks like a jockey, he’s another, Davey McArdle.”