“It’d please me to know you’re not going to be bungee jumping or the like ”
“Ah don’t be fussing! I’m only going out into the bay proper, for a real dip.”
“You’re serious? I can’t tell. I want to sleep — ”
“It’s all arranged. Orla’s da. He has a boat.”
“Any chance you’d swap that for a walk in the woods by Katty Gallagher?”
“What are you going to do, roll me up to the top?”
“I might. Tully, then — no climbing? A little pick-me-up in Jerry Byrnes on the way home. -”
“- Oh you’re cruel, so you are! I haven’t had a pint since I found out.”
“Sorry. I forgot. Watch me drinking one then, can’t you Imprint that?”
“Ah you’re a bad pill, Da!”
The smell of fresh tea brewing had made Minogue even dopier. He nibbled slowly on the biscuits. Nearly eight million a year passing through Dublin airport. He listened to the two detectives Murtagh had detailed to handle the call-ins. No, he assured one of them, they didn’t have to okay a follow-up by him. Murtagh was the ringmaster for communications within the squad, or what was now technically a task force. What procedures need they follow to secure resources from other Garda departments, a Serious Crime specialist, for example, one of the detectives wanted to know. Demand instant compliance, Minogue had murmured. Only half joking, he told the most visibly surprised, a Liam Brophy new to the pool from the Kevin Street station. Run it first by John Murtagh if he, the inspector, was not there.
He reminded them that all lines in were monitored and recorded. He warned them again that while most of their calls would be coming in through the switchboard, there could be directs. These were often the most valuable They needed to be handled with extreme care The request for a trace was automated now the orange button to the side of the redial. Signal immediately to a squad member if a direct came on: don’t worry about being overcautious. A corpulent, fuzzy-redhead detective named Boyle asked if they’d be detailed interviews on follow-ups.
It was only when Minogue was listening to Sheehy explaining why it would take so long to go through the flight lists for stand-by passengers that he remembered he had meant to phone Kathleen. He thought of the barbed wire, how Iseult had wound it around the piece. What have we done, I done, Kathleen must wonder, that my daughter could think like this. Nothing personal Ma, it’s art?
Sheehy moved on to a summary from Serious Crimes. A Danny Donegan from Fairview had tried a small ring of car specialists at the airport several years ago. One of his cronies, Peter “Bongo” Murphy, had been done for breaking into cars there. Murphy was currently in jail for later offenses: house breaking, several shops, a lorry load of beer he’d robbed at a new stop on the N 11, and tried to fence solo in Galway. Serious Crimes were stuck for staff as usual. They’d try to get time for follow-up on them. Drug Squad and Intelligence were compiling a list of operations they’d handled that had any airport connection.
Charlie Blake was the current liaison officer between the Gardai and the Airport Police and Fire Service. Minogue studied Blake’s profile while he spoke. What kind of a bird would have a beak like that nose of Blake’s, he wondered. The divinity that shapes our ends indeed. The way he tugged at his nose: was that body language for I don’t want to be here or I don’t really know what I’m talking about? Minogue picked up another biscuit, eyed it. Shouldn’t, he thought, and bit into it.
There was no organized ring working cars at the airport recently, Blake believed. The passenger baggage flows had all been done since the new terminal went up. Hoax runs had turned up excellent results. Money spent on state-of-the-art electronics, the imaging and the sensors, was paying off The last paramilitary run on the place had been two years ago: a header from a breakaway bunch of the UDA tried to place incendiaries. The APFS had done a joint snatch with some of Trigger Little’s squads. Minogue remembered a would-be bomber claiming that one of Trigger Little’s squad had shoved a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Fergal,” said Minogue “We keep on hearing video and electronics and the whole rigarmarole. So how come we find nothing on the car park?”
“‘Upgrading,’” said Sheehy. “‘Updating.’ ‘Long-term area’s not a priority zone.’”
“It would be if there was a shagging car bomb parked there,” said Malone.
Sheehy put up his hands. Minogue studied the map on the board again. He followed in his mind’s eye the access road in from the motorway.
“So I think we’ll have to ask…” Sheehy was saying. Minogue scrambled to retrace the comments he’d been half-listening to.
“To be sure, Fergal. I’ll phone myself and turn the wheel.”
Promised the world, he thought seconding two detectives from Serious Crimes, short of staff or not, to go full-time on airport leads was little enough for Tynan to take. He looked at the blank TV screen. No phones ringing. The nine o’clock news would deliver?
“‘Touring the west,’” said Minogue. “Where’d that one start?”
“The girl at Emerald,” Murtagh said “She’s certain. He asked how long to Donegal. She advised going through Sligo and staying out of the North.”
And he might well have taken her advice, Minogue thought. He’d push that over to Tynan too. The commissioner could decide for himself who’d put in the request for assistance from the Brits on border traffic. The phone rang.
“Yes it is,” the detective said. He waved at the group by the boards. “Good. What’s her number?”
“John,” said Minogue. “The one who thinks he was traveling with a woman. Did you get anything there?”
“It’s the one in Sligo, Mrs. Rushe. I had a chat with her about four o’clock. She said that Shaughnessy showed up looking for a place. ‘Nice enough, American.’ Half an hour later, a woman shows up and signs in. ‘ Irish, well dressed.’ She had her own car, but Mrs. doesn’t know what kind. Signed in as Sheila Murphy. ‘Nice girl,’ midto late-thirties. Well spoken. It was only the next day Mrs. got the idea that the woman and Shaughnessy might be connected. Chatting at the breakfast, they were, says she.”
“A color even?” Minogue tried. “The car, I mean?”
“Nothing on that. I’ll have to try again.”
“They left around the same time anyway,” said Murtagh.
“Does Mrs. know who was sleeping where that night?” Minogue asked.
“She doesn’t be inquiring, she says. As long as there’s no messing going on.”
B amp; Bs in rural Ireland not checking for wedding rings or the like? Now there was progress, Minogue reflected. He’d tell Leyne that too, if he was asked.
Murtagh nodded at the computer screen.
“There’s no Sheila Murphy in the crime box,” he said. “Social Welfare has thirty-seven Sheila Murphys. Twenty-something of them could match the age.”
“Any description of this woman to go on, John?”
“‘Refined’ ‘Casual, but well turned out.’ She thought Dublin first, but says she heard a country accent under it. Very fair hair, stylish do. A pageboy kind of cut, Mrs. said, the way you see it in the magazines. Jeans though. An over-the-shoulder class of bag was all Mrs. saw. Paid cash.”
“She went out later on in the evening?”
“She did. So did Shaughnessy. Mrs. heard one of them coming in about twelve. Only one, she thought, but then she heard some whispering. She didn’t check who went where.”
“A one-night stand?” asked Malone. “Did you ask her about the sheets?”
Minogue leafed through the photos again. He lifted out the one taken at the opening of the art exhibition. The woman’s back was to the camera. You could only see from her shoulders up. Her hair was blond.