“So,” Minogue said. “Leyne. Who else is in there?”
“Billy O’Riordan. There’s a handler too, a Yank. A lawyer fella, I think.”
“Freeman?”
“The very one.”
“Tony, I don’t want to be giving you grief, now. But we don’t work for Foreign Affairs or Industry and Commerce. Much less Bord Failte.”
O’Leary glanced over as Malone crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
“I know, Matt,” he said.
“So I want a word with himself before we’re dropped into this whatever you call it. This, er, cabaret.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Malone stared at the door after O’Leary closed it behind him.
“Fucking golfer,” he said. “Paper boy ”
“Give over, will you, Tommy. He’s holding his nose too.”
Malone strolled down the hall toward the lift. Tynan’s head and shoulders appeared leaning out of the doorway. For a moment, Minogue didn’t recognize the face sideways. What was the name of that header from Monty Python years ago?
Malone came in from the hallway last. Tynan sat on the edge of a secretary’s desk. O’Leary stood by the door to a conference room. Malone began to take a keen interest in a postcard on a partition wall.
“Long day for you,” said Tynan.
“It is that,” said Minogue. “But there’s plenty more of it left.”
Tynan nodded toward the door by O’Leary.
“There’s Leyne, Billy O’Riordan. A fella by the name of Freeman. You met him earlier on the way in from the airport.”
Minogue nodded. Malone folded him arms again and leaned against a wall.
“I asked them in,” Tynan went on. “They’d phoned earlier.”
Minogue rubbed at his nose. It was getting sore from wiping and blowing.
“Can we park the badges a minute here, John?”
“Certainly.”
“How much do we have to deal with these people in the near future?”
“As you need them. They’re here to talk. It’s information and it helps.”
“Talk about what?”
“The deceased.”
“Why are they in here, and not down at the squad?”
“They could and would if I’d told them. If I couldn’t have raised you here on the phone while you were in town and handy to here, they’d have been dispatched there. He wanted to get my advice first.”
“The deceased,” said Minogue. “Our case.”
“There’s history to him,” Tynan said.
“He has form?”
“It’s not a criminal record,” Tynan replied. “He’s dirtied his bib. It goes beyond police files, so we can use it.”
“Police files from where?”
“The hat holder, Freeman, has copies of files from Boston police. There’s even an FBI mention. State police too.”
“There’s nothing in over our fax,” said Minogue.
“Right. Leyne steered this stuff in here. Technically he shouldn’t have access to this information, but he got ahold of it. So he wants us to use it, if it helps at all.”
Minogue stared unseeing at the wall panel behind O’Leary. Malone shifted his weight to his other foot.
“The deceased related poorly to members of the opposite sex,” said Tynan.
“He’s gay?” Malone asked.
“Gay men don’t go around beating up women,” said Tynan. “Do they?”
“A woman is missing,” said Minogue. “She was seen with Shaughnessy.”
“That’s why Leyne’s here — so don’t be giving me the eye. Tell me about her.”
Minogue sat on a desk and related to Tynan what he had learned about Aoife Hartnett. Malone filled in bits about the photos at the dos.
“So,” said Tynan. “Good career. High up in her job. Socializes. ‘Networks.’”
“We’re waiting for word of her passport or travel stuff from her place. A brother-in-law of hers let us in.”
Tynan studied Malone’s shoes.
“Well now. Mr. Shaughnessy: four charges, three from one incident. There are arraignments related to assault, both on women. One was in a club or a pub. The other was his fiancee. She dropped the charges then, upset the prosecution ”
“Shorthand for bought,” said Minogue. “Or did he say?”
“Leyne admits to a settlement. ‘A matter of conscience.’ So, his son has, had, no criminal record.”
“Well whaddya know,” said Malone. “Ain’t life strange.” Tynan gave him a glazed look.
“The father weighed in to save his neck,” he said. “Leave the hows and whats aside a minute. The father has been detailing the son’s troubles with the drink. And drugs ”
Minogue rearranged his seat.
“Recent?”
“He thinks the son went clean this last year. We’ll see soon enough with the toxicology?”
“Tomorrow,” said Minogue. “A preliminary.”
“Cocaine, the father’s talking about, but highbrow. He was part of a set.”
“What,” said Malone. “Rich prats?”
“That’s right,” Tynan said.
“Out of control, was he?”
“The father says no.”
“The father covered up before.”
“I daresay,” said Tynan. “But fathers will do that, I hear. An only child.”
“All his ducks are swans, is that the story.”
“You don’t have to be the Holy Family to take that line.” There was no sting to it, Minogue realized. Tynan’s gaze lingered. So he had seen the article on Iseult then. Tynan stood and tugged at his sleeves. “So are you ready to go in and have a go at him for a proper statement?” Minogue nodded.
“Another thing then. Leyne appears to be half-cut.” Lucky man, Minogue almost said. “So give me a minute,” said Tynan. “And we’ll bring ye in?”
CHAPTER 12
Arms folded, Malone paced up and down the hall. Each step seemed carefully considered, as though where he so precisely placed each foot was a matter of delicate planning and balance. Minogue asked O’Leary where Shaughnessy’s mother was.
“No contact. Leyne said they’d talked it over and agreed he’d come to us.”
What us, Minogue wanted to know, but O’Leary excused himself. Malone kept up his carpet patrol.
“What if we get tired of sitting here pulling our wires, and just split the gaff?”
Minogue looked at Malone’s back as the detective passed.
“Ballyhaunis,” he murmured. “Bicycle patrols, Tommy. Rain. Culchies.”
Tynan yanked open the door. The commissioner waited for Malone before pulling the door closed behind them. O’Riordan rose from his chair first. Younger than he imagined, Minogue realized. Maybe it was because he was used to seeing O’Riordan in a suit on the business pages. A slight smile set off by thick eyebrows raised high in greeting, but something puckish, even adolescent about the face too.
Leyne’s greeting was a raised hand quickly dropped back onto the table. Minogue took in the watery eyes, the open shirt, the ashtray half-full in front of him. Fianna Fail, he thought: bagman, fixer. Leyne waved at a half-standing Freeman.
“You met Jeff here,” he said. He looked up sideways.
“What are you now, Jeff? What do we call you?”
“On our good days, Director, Management Support Services.”
Minogue noted the attache case on the floor behind Freeman. Leyne tapped his cigarette on the ashtray.
“You may know Billy O’Riordan.”
Minogue nodded but O’Riordan extended his hand. Minogue turned to Malone. His colleague had jammed his hands in his pockets.
“Garda Malone here’s a principal investigating officer on this case.”