“Tell the crowd sitting around the back office in that meeting we dragged you out of too,” said Minogue with an edge in his voice.
Russell hammered the counter before waving them toward the door.
“At least they’re proper professionals! They know what they’re up against!”
“The beef’s nice,” said the waitress. “They don’t overcook it like a lot of places do. Hardly a pick of fat to it.”
Minogue sat down opposite, looking a lot less annoyed. Hoey fiddled with his fork, trying to trap his knife between the tines.
“We’re expecting another one in a few minutes,” said the Inspector. He looked up sideways at her. “Put me down for the fish.”
“Something light,” said Hoey. “An omelette with nothing in it maybe.”
The waitress pencilled it in, smiled and turned on her heel.
“Do you think Russell is trying to cover for Naughton or someone else?”
“I doubt it,” replied the Inspector. “It’s more a case of look-after-our-own, to my way of thinking. Until he knows the facts of what happened down in Naughton’s place, he’ll be full of-”
Hoey shivered and dropped the fork.
“God,” he hissed, and shivered again. “Just remembering it now gives me the willies. I don’t know now if I can face up to a dinner…”
Minogue wondered when the shock would return to him in full. Would he wake up in the early hours, his own heart hammering, the pistol shot echoing in his ears, the awful liquid thud as the bullet tore into Naughton?
Again he considered phoning Tynan. Tell him what, exactly? Something stinks, John. Tynan’s subtle communication by not communicating struck him again. If Inspector Matthew Minogue were actually to phone him, the Garda Commissioner might well be obliged to recall Minogue ex officio to Dublin. Russell had probably levelled warnings at Tynan that the Commissioner could no longer fend off. Tynan had obviously not passed anything on to Kilmartin-yet, at any rate-because the said Chief Inspector’did not seem at all aware of Naughton’s suicide. But this was different now, Minogue knew as he looked across the almost empty dining-room. Guards of any stripe did not like to hear of one of their own killing himself, especially a retired one who was being interviewed by other Guards skilled at driving a man into a corner. Even Jimmy Kilmartin might have to stay on the sidelines if Russell went on a rampage over it.
“You’re sure she didn’t mention anything about a row with Tidy Howard that night?” Hoey asked. “Or that she had left the pub either, in the car-”
“Just let me talk to her first,” Minogue murmured. “Hear what she says. Then we can alibi her or look for corroboration.”
Hoey looked away and took a long drag on his cigarette.
“You’re shielding her from someone, aren’t you?” he said then. “Crossan, is it?”
Minogue blinked. He was ready with a retort about Hoey himself being shielded from Kilmartin when he spotted Crossan tramping across the dining-room carpet toward them. A relieved Minogue glanced at his colleague. Hoey’s stare stayed on the Inspector until Minogue looked away again to Crossan.
He pushed home the padlock on the cottage door, tested it and walked to the van. He was bone weary. They’d be finished this job in three weeks but he already planned to pad out the bill with a few days’ dossing. Plenty of money in Germany. The bastard’d never get tradesmen like him for twice his pay back in frigging Germany anyway. Nearly pitch-dark already, God. The radio was on in the van.
“Did you pack the blades and the masonry bits?” he called out.
“What?”
“The saw and masonry bits?”
“Yep. Are we right?”
An ad for holiday get-aways in Spain came on the radio. He clambered in and pulled the door behind him. The driver wriggled in the seat and started up the van. Get away from all this crap. Spain’d be nice. Take her too, do it in the water. Swimming and drinking and eating right. The lust hovering in his belly met with the misgivings sliding down his chest. She was getting out of hand: nearly running the show.
He looked across at his friend. Him, this, the dirt caked under his nails, the slogging away renovating this cottage for a German. And then to have people tell you that you were lucky to have a bloody job! Germany, he thought, and a little hope flared. Maybe. Drop everything, just walk away from it all and get a job over there. Be nobody there for a while. Tell nobody, just pack up one morning and go. No more worrying, holding back. No more watching and waiting. When was the money supposed to be rolling in anyway? You have to be patient, he was being told all the time, the insurance business takes time. Your clientele has to know that you’re serious. What about all the fucking Guards crawling all over the county this last while, he had protested. Be more careful, plan better and go at it, came the answer. They need to know that the cops can’t protect them, so they’ll have to strike a bargain in the end. The money’ll come in soon… Hah.
“You’re buying,” said the driver. The van wallowed at the end of the laneway.
“Aren’t you?”
“Amn’t I what?” The driver shifted in the seat and sat up from the chair-back.
“It’s your turn to buy the jar now.”
He didn’t answer but looked out into the night instead. Christ, the place had been emptied by emigration and famine, and now the rich wanted to take their holidays here. Culture, for God’s sakes-you can’t eat culture. They had money and they wanted culture: We have no money, just loads of culture. Sick joke. And he wanted receipts for every damn thing, this bloody German. He’d be flying into Shannon for the afternoon at the end of next week, coming to the cottage to inspect the work too. Suspicious, complaining. What effect would the Spillner thing have on them? They never just tell you that you did a good job. No thanks, just pay. Flying in for the afternoon, being driven up by a chauffeur probably.
The driver sat upright over the wheel and squirmed a little as he whistled to a tune on the radio.
“What are you doing? Is it fleas you have?”
“Ah, no. Are you buying or aren’t you?”
“Think of something else instead of the drink, can’t you?”
“Wouldn’t mind a ride, so…” The driver looked over knowingly and squirmed again.
“It must be fleas you have.”
“It’s my insurance policy.”
“What in the name of Jases are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m not going to be a sitting duck-”
The passenger suddenly understood. He lunged across and shoved his hand under the back of the driver’s jacket.
“Here! Fuck off, Ciaran! I’m driving!”
He felt it but the driver sat back and pinned his hand against the seat.
“Stop, can’t you, or the van’ll be in the ditch!”
He leaned over with his other hand and levered the driver forward. As he did, he grasped the pistol and yanked it out of the driver’s belt. He held it and ran his thumb toward the safety.
“You stupid, fucking iijit!”
“Gimme! Come on!” His voice was just short of a roar.
“You think this is going to help? Is this fucking cowboys and Indians you’re playing here or something?”
“Gimme, it’s mine!” The van was slowing. The driver held out his hand for the gun.
“Some kind of a fucking film you saw, is it? Jesus Christ, Finbarr! The place is rotten with fucking Guards and you’re walking around with a-”
“I’m not going to be caught with me pants down! I’m never going without a fight! Give it back, it’s my decision!”
“It’s not even your fucking gun, any more than it’s mine, you gobshite! He got this out of a dump along with the other stuff. We’re not supposed to have it-”
“It’s us that’s doing the dirty work! Don’t mind him! We’re the ones putting our arses on the line! And what do we have to show for it? Nothing! Fuck-all, that’s what! So don’t tell me how to carry on!”