He pre-empted the civil servant whose face was already taking on a set of disapproval.
"And I don't like it either. There's no point in picking them up and interrogating the whole lot of them."
He slid the list across the table toward the civil servant and he sat down. Nobody spoke for a half minute. The civil servant looked up from the list and said,
"Inspector, can I see you after the meeting?"
A rustle of papers moved the committee on. The army intelligence had reports of sightings of Russian trawlers just outside the boundary last week, the week before and again this week. They had left the area before fishery protection vessels could get there and confirm the sightings. Nothing special, he said, time of year perhaps. A report from British Intelligence that it was almost certain one of their men had been killed by a sniper who used a Startron nightsight. Nothing else could explain him being shot in the head at nearly three hundred feet in the dead of night. Queried to the States because it was restricted on the Munitions List from their State Department.
Toward the end of the meeting, the inspector looked up from his fingerplay to find the civil servant's limpid gaze fixed on him. The civil servant was absent-mindedly drawing a thumb to and fro over the edge of the sheet which listed the names for the telephone taps. He looked away as the inspector met his stare, affecting attention to the speaker.
Scared, the inspector reflected. He feels things are slipping, but he doesn't want to tell his Minister that, because the Minister would rather believe otherwise. The inspector gave him a lingering look, knowing the civil servant would be aware of his mild scrutiny. Not as scared as some of my men, he's not, the inspector guessed. Probably not as scared as me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The playwright listened to what he knew were Americanisms. He looked around the pub for some relief from the tight-lipped anger of the Yank.
"I had to close the god-damn place down rightaway after I heard about your goons," the tanned man hissed. "So much for you loaning out a hot car to those assholes."
"Who gave you the job of deciding what I do?" the playwright retorted. "I gave them the car because I didn't want them trying to lift one for themselves and getting caught. We need those men up there-"
"Right. We don't need them screwing up the works down here, I tell you-"
"— They're coming from a battle zone, mister. Maybe you don't realise that. Your crowd can have your Vietnams and your Chiles a thousand miles away. Our men on the ground are under pressure all the time. They need a break. We do what we can for them-"
"— Like tell them to take on a bank? Shoot cops?"
"That's out of bounds and they know that. They'll answer for it. To the appropriate authorities."
The tanned man heard the changed inflexion in the playwright's words now. So that was it, his trump card, the appropriate authorities. At least it was more out in the open now. He felt a grim satisfaction take the place of his anger. He'd have the playwright's head on a plate after he got through with this.
"Look, let's drop it for now," said the tanned man. "We'll be bringing the present for Aunt Maggie tomorrow. Everything is settled isn't it?"
"That car? Yes," the playwright replied.
"No screw-ups, O.K.?"
The playwright returned the Yank's glare but said nothing. The only other detail really is that you are out of the running, my fine flowery mid-Atlantic fancy man. You're washed up as of tomorrow. He smiled up at the Yank.
"By the way, your home phone is being tapped again, so go through your list consecutively if it's on business," the tanned man said. Show-off, thought the playwright, as he smiled more broadly at the departing pest.
Minogue had sought refuge in Bewley's. Needed something to keep him going. He had been on his way out to Walsh's despite the reception he had gotten on the phone from Mr Walsh. A mixture of tentativeness and arrogance which mystified Minogue had been his reward for phoning. Mrs Walsh was under sedation and the doctor was ready to send her to hospital at the drop of a hat. Did Minogue really need to see her today? She couldn't stand to be around the house with memories. Mr W. hadn't been to work in the last week. What good would it seem to talk now? Hadn't they told the police everything they could?
A large white coffee and a gooey bun brought some solace to Minogue. He ensconced himself near the window in the non-smoker's section on the first floor. Sun streamed in over the rooftops opposite. Between Minogue and the office windows across Grafton Street lay the paralysed traffic below, a snake of exhaust and metal.
Minogue began to observe the waitresses. They were perked up by the arrival of Friday. Some of them appeared exceedingly gorgeous to Minogue. He attributed his rush of feeling to the coffee. Then he began to go further and understand that he had been gladdened and emboldened somehow. The near miss with the car had brought him another taste of the calm perspicacity which had cradled him for those weeks in hospital. Minogue saw the cashier throw her head back and laugh at something a customer had said. A tramp snored lightly at the far end of the room. Each woman seemed stubbornly real to him. They'd be tired after the day, their backs, their feet. But look at the one still laughing. Maybe some of them were married to slobs, ah-good-ould-Dublin characters who came home late from the pub. Dublin. It dawned on Minogue that he was almost free. There was an ungetaroundableness to things now. Sequestered truths awaited him here in Dublin, which was neither Clare nor Montana…
Truths? Did we always have to believe that things turned out well, that there were answers and happinesses ahead? Maybe they were badly paid here. Maybe someone was being shot in the North. Maybe Daithi might fail his exams. Maybe his brother Mick was unforgivable.
Minogue opted for a second cup of coffee. Confidence welled in him, barely overshadowed by his sense of the puzzle of the murder waiting for him beyond this happy afternoon, the body of one Jarlath Walsh waiting for answers.
Leaving Bewley's, Minogue reinserted himself in the traffic jam. As he finally made some headway beyond Merrion Square, his precarious caffeine optimism dulled and then died. Pulling into the manicured driveway of Walsh's house, he saw a curtain drawn back slightly to show a man's face, more disapproving than curious.
Portly, Minogue thought, like out of a book. He expected to see Walsh dressed in a three-piece with a pocket-watch in his fob.
Hair in place, thinning, no suggestions of sideburns. Walsh preceded Minogue into another carpeted area.
"Step into the living room, Detective Sergeant.''
Minogue tried to trace the accent but failed to get beyond a vague understanding that it was from some part of Munster.
The curtains were half drawn. Minogue was looking at a face which was used to being resolute but was now wavering. The man looked almost curious. Still, he was keeping together. Minogue noticed no decanters around. The room was large and tidy. The diffused light made pastels of most of the colours, themselves mainly beige or blue anyway. Minogue wondered if they lived in this living room. His eye was caught by a stand-up thing for holding magazines. Time and Newsweek looked out of it.
"Mr Walsh. Please accept my condolences."
There was a few moment's silence between the men. Minogue felt himself sinking into the upholstered chair.
"I'd offer you a drink, Sergeant…"
"Thanks, but no. It's semi-official."
"Semi?"
"Well, I'm looking for something or someone to fill the holes in my investigation. I'm less inclined to believe that your son was a random victim of violence."
Walsh seemed to sit up more in his seat.
"Random?" he said.
"I don't believe in a master plan or that class of thing. I'm guessing that Jarlath was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he may unwittingly have been involved in something."