Tuttle was still waiting.
“Sorry, Paddy. Yes. Thanks. The car, yes, we have that, to be sure.”
The Guard helped them take down the tape and fold the uprights.
Inspector Minogue was getting to know the Swords Road a bit too well. He thought of the trips back from the airport each time they’d brought his son and de facto daughter-in-law out for their flight back. Kathleen silent, her crying done. Daithi pale, himself bewildered. The trips were getting spread out now. There had been three trips in four years — a trend — and Daithi wasn’t sure about this Christmas either. Wasn’t sure, quote unquote. The job was intense. It was the price you paid for the fast track. If he’s not coming home at least once a year well… Kathleen had started the sentence often but had never finished it.
A low-slung sports car with a laughing driver and a woman pushing back her long hair rocketed by only to brake sharply as a taxi passed a van at a leisurely fifty miles an hour. Malone kept trying to see the driver.
“Jases,” said Malone. “That’s what’s his name. Isn’t it?”
Minogue looked over. A Porsche, by God, and a turbo at that.
“It looks like him all right.”
“Yeah, I knew it was. The film fella. A Rebel Hand What’s his name?”
Malone gave the inspector a sly look.
“Fannon. Gary Fannon.”
“Will I flash the badge? Have a go at him for the driving?”
Minogue studied the gestures of Ireland’s enfant terrible director while he waited for the taxi to move out of the fast lane. Who was the girl?
“He was doing ninety,” Malone said. “Seen him bombing along in the mirror. Eighty in anyhow.”
“Ah, leave him alone ”
“Why? Are you hoping to stay the good side of him? Get hired?”
“He’s a cultural icon, Tommy ”
“Icon? Is that the same as a fucking chancer?”
He stood on the brakes in time to leave six inches or so between their Nissan and the van ahead.
“Shit — sorry. What’s he like, Leyne?”
Minogue waved him back to watching the road.
“The son and him weren’t that close, right?”
“He wants to help,” Minogue said. She was a singer, the girl, wasn’t she? What was her name? “He told me he’ll back me up. Anything I want.”
“Me too?”
“No. Only me. You’re from Dublin. But I’m a countryman ”
“Fu — . That’s not very nice, is it.”
“Dublin’s a kip, Tommy. Mr. Leyne so pronounced it. Sorry, but.”
Malone squirmed in his seat and tapped the steering wheel.
“Anything you want, is that the story?”
“Correct,” replied Minogue. “So that’s two anythings now. One from Tynan, one from Leyne.”
Malone shifted again.
“You mind me asking you something there? The Killer’s always gotten under Tynan’s skin, right? And vice versa, like. Right?
Ryeh, Minogue heard. Loike.
“’Cause yours truly runs the shop with a shagging hammer in one hand,” said Malone. “We’re the elite and all that. His style, right?”
“He has his ways.”
“Yeah, yeah. What I’m trying to say is, well… Tynan and you are on, ah, good terms. So Tynan’d be happy if, well, you know what I’m saying.”
The Porsche had attracted a lot of attention ahead. Malone raced the Nissan in first.
“I know this Shaughnessy’s high profile,” he went on, “so we’re in the spotlight? But, like, Tynan’s got to be happy the way you-know-who is off in the States ’Specially the timing, right…? And with the Larry Smith thing hanging…?”
The Porsche headed up Griffith Avenue. Going to the Gravediggers by Glasnevin, Minogue decided. He’d heard from Iseult that was where visiting movie stars and glitterati checked in. Ambience, sawdust on the floor, pints of Guinness.
Minogue didn’t rise to the bait. The traffic was slowing again. Malone U-turned back to Home Farm Road.
“When do we get a session with the Mr. and Mrs.?”
“Tomorrow,” Minogue replied. “Mrs had the most contact with him, the last contact over there.”
Malone turned up the radio at the mention of pursuit. Three suspected shoplifters were legging it down Parnell Street. One of them had flashed a knife. Another had used a baseball bat on a cashier. Two squad cars were heading over. Malone turned it back down.
“That’s who it was,” he said. “Now I have it. Only I can’t think of her name.”
“Who?”
“Leyne’s missus. That’s who she looks like, that film star. I can see the face exactly but. Way back, I’m talking about now. The oldies ”
“How oldie, exactly?”
“Ah, ages ago Your time probably. Tall, cool type. Ended up marrying some king or the like… ”
“Grace Kelly?”
Malone slapped the wheel and turned to Minogue.
“That’s her! How’d you know?”
CHAPTER 8
The lab had sent eimear kelly over. She sat by Murtagh’s desk reading her notes with an intent frown. Minogue sat on the edge of the desk. How did the windows get so grimy so fast here, he wondered. Eilis clapped bundles of photocopies on the top of the photocopier.
Murtagh had photos up on the boards.
“He says he’s waiting on ones from two other fellas,” he called over to Minogue. “They’re freelancers.”
Minogue scrutinized the faces. Everyone was having a good time apparently. Shaughnessy had a big sunny smile. No guile in it, a bit of a gom really. He held a glass of wine in one. O’Riordan had the hat right, just like Vincent O’Brien, as he held the bridle on the racehorse. Leopardstown, a big race in the calendar the Prime Foods Cup for four-year-olds. Shaughnessy was in profile there. Two women, one of them O’Riordan’s age. A trainer, by the look of him, up front with O’Riordan too.
The inspector sipped his tea and looked down the timetable on the board. Murtagh had updated the map with pins for Shaughnessy’s Dublin dates too.
Murtagh pointed at a group standing in front of a doorway.
“That one there,” he said. “That’s at an auction in Goff’s. The fella on the left is a Saudi Arabian prince. Can you tell? Ha ha.”
O’Riordan was beaming at the Saudi prince. Minogue studied the camera slung over Shaughnessy’s shoulder. A sleek-looking model, couldn’t tell the make.
“An art exhibition,” said Murtagh. He capped the photo four times with his finger. “Kind of hoi-polloi there. It was Donohoe took those two. They’re in the papers last Sunday week. That’s Shaughnessy talking to some art dude. Film people showed up. Julia Whatshername was supposed to show but she didn’t.”
“Tough,” said Malone. “Pops up a lot, doesn’t he. How’d he get his intros?”
Murtagh shrugged.
“Connected through O’Riordan? He’s keen on the socialite bit.”
Fergal Sheehy arrived. Murtagh held up his mug. Sheehy sidled over to Eilis and said something out of the side of his mouth. She scowled and tapped the photocopy bundle one more time, hard. She began dropping the copies on the table.
“Eimear,” said Minogue. “I know you’d like to get home. Start us off will you?”
Minogue checked his list in his notebook. Blood from the bootlid typed the same as Shaughnessy’s. No receipts on the floor of the car. Fine particles from the seat covers in the front not yet matched to belongings found in the car. Nine fags in the ashtray lipstick traces plain on at least four. Tests? A week at least.
“Eimear,” said Minogue. “The inventory from the boot again. Have ye tried all the clothes for fiber matches?”
“All the jackets. Yes.”
There were signs of someone’s efforts to wipe prints? Lab staff had lasered the seats for latent prints and had found plenty. The comparisons were started already.