“Right, Tommy. Good point, that,” said Kilmartin with a grave expression on his face.
“Just that, er, you’ve had valuable input and naturally you’d want to interview persons we pick up tonight. We have the manpower and everything, you understand,” Farrell continued in a restrained manner. “And if yous were to talk to a suspect directly upon arrest, you could have him at his most talkative.”
“Absolutely,” said Kilmartin. “That’s decent of you, Tommy.”
Minogue was seeing a Kilmartin he knew only too well at work on Farrell. There was no love lost between the two senior policemen. Kilmartin’s nose told him that Farrell was under orders to consult the Murder Squad, probably to the extent of having Squad officers present at arrests. A suspect surprised is often glad to talk. Now, Minogue bet an imaginary ten-pound note with his gargoyle, Kilmartin’s frown of concern and concentration was the practised foil for what he would come out with the minute they were away from Farrelclass="underline" The bollocks, Farrell letting on he was doing us a favour, after Tynan laying down the law with him and telling him to co-operate with us. Oh we showed him, didn’t we!
“Would there be one suspect, say, that yous’d like to question in particular?” Farrell asked in a strained voice which could not carry the casual flavour he wanted.
Kilmartin put on a face of intense deliberation. Even Hoey knew that Kilmartin was dragging the time across Farrell’s patience like nails across a blackboard. Minogue spoiled the fun.
“Gibney. I’d like to have him the minute you lift him.”
“Good, so,” said Farrell, relieved.
“And I want to be in on the arrest too,” said Minogue.
“All right so, Matty. Do yous want to listen to any more of this? Ah, you probably don’t,” Farrell said busily. “Top secret, this tape. Gorman’ll ride to hell on this little thing yet. Yous heard the best of it, the worst of it. There’s work to be done, though.”
Gallagher was already rewinding the reel.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The stars twinkled and the moon rose. A faint breeze that had come in across Dublin Bay exercised itself in blotches of light which wavered on the footpath. Branches stirred slowly beneath the street-lamps. There was nothing left in the western sky, not the slightest brightness. Minogue thought about the planet turning, shadows creeping over land and water.
He could smell Kilmartin’s stale breath. Kilmartin was smoking constantly. Minogue was very nervous. Kilmartin had listened in disbelief when Gallagher had phoned earlier to say Gibney had left his flat on Morehampton Road and driven to Gorman’s house in Sandymount. Oblivious of the two teams assigned to watch him, Gibney had gone into Gorman’s house almost an hour earlier.
“That’s Gorman’s home, so it is,” Kilmartin said. “What about his missus and kids in there? Why didn’t they take Gibney when he left his place?”
Minogue didn’t understand it either. Gallagher’s explanation was that neither pair of Special Branch detectives knew what to do. They had been awaiting the arrest team proper. The swoop had been set for nine minutes after nine, but at a quarter to nine Gibney had simply walked to his car and driven to Gorman’s home in Sandymount.
“It must have been a regular appointment with them, and that’s why they didn’t mention it on the phone. That’s the only charitable excuse I can think of for those fellas to banjax this up,” said Kilmartin. “Walked out the front door and they didn’t know what to do. Farrell’ll eat those boyos… if I don’t first.”
It was now three minutes short of ten o’clock. Kilmartin held the cigarette in his cupped hand by the arm-rest and blew the smoke out of the window in measured puffs. Hoey had the volume on the car radio almost completely down. He was whistling softly, a sign of his nerves, too, Minogue remembered, tongue against his upper teeth. Occasionally Hoey rubbed a hand over his chin. Minogue could hear the stubble rasp.
“So Burke wonders if the people in this clique are quite capable of murdering someone,” said Kilmartin.
“They may have done it twice already,” answered Hoey. “They could do the same and worse, I suppose.”
“No wonder Farrell is hopping about the place,” Kilmartin added with some satisfaction.
The three policemen fell silent again. Their car was parked nearly eight doors down from Gorman’s house. It was a quiet street in the better end of Sandymount, within a quarter mile of Sandymount strand. On bright days, the strand was an enormous mirror for the sky when the tide drew away from this side of Dublin Bay. Horses galloped and trotted down the sands at low tide every day of the year. Some hardy souls still swam there despite the general belief that Dublin Bay was too polluted to be safe. The southbound trains of the Dublin Area Rapid Transit system, the DART, shot out from between the hedges of the inner suburbs on to the water’s edge at Merrion Gates, almost gratefully leaping out to the open sea and sky all the way to Dun Laoghaire and beyond. James Joyce had walked Sandymount strand and been visited by beauty there… had Gorman walked the same watery emptiness, alone or with these cronies of his, concocting a salvation for Ireland?
Claustrophobia added to Minogue’s tension. All but one of the Special Branch cars had been parked in the next street over. One car was parked by Gorman’s gate. It would not arouse suspicion, since two armed policemen customarily formed a guard outside the homes of Government Ministers. The two on shift tonight were to help net Gibney as he left the house. Three detectives sat in a Toyota van directly across the street from Gorman’s. The van advertised chimney-sweeping services and the bodywork was battered and grimy. Minogue had been told that those in the van were monitoring a relayed tap off Gorman’s home telephone: Farrell was worried that news of the swoop might reach Gorman by phone from a member of the clique who had evaded detection so far.
Minogue stretched his arms out straight and yawned.
“Didn’t I tell you that Tynan is the cute one?” said Kilmartin, breaking off from an interior conversation to let the two detectives know how astute he had been.
Minogue remembered Tynan’s expression as he had knocked back the glass of whiskey last night: regret, and some contentment too, Tynan staring down into the cubes rattling in his empty glass. It had been like a farewell toast to the memory of someone whose funeral he and Minogue had attended.
“You did,” said Minogue.
“Ah, but what a waste when all is said and done,” Kilmartin dropped into a tone of melancholy. “All that talent. All well-educated, and with the best of intentions.”
Minogue’s anger burst loose. He struggled to get out of the car. “Jesus Christ, Jimmy. I don’t want to hear any more about the best of intentions. The damned island is full to the brim with the best of intentions. Loads of genius and no talent. Full of imagination and too damn scarce on ideas that might be in danger of working. The priest who married the Ryans below in Tipperary had the best of intentions, as did the Ryans themselves. Heher has the best of intentions, but he makes my skin crawl. Archbishop bloody Burke has the best of intentions.”
“Calm yourself, would you,” said Kilmartin.
“What matters is what and who’s left after the best of intentions have done their work. Gorman had the best of-”
“That’ll do it, Matt,” said Kilmartin. The tone was now one of rank, Minogue realized. Kilmartin was sitting still, blinking. What could be excused in private could not be let go in front of Hoey.
Minogue kicked the door open and stepped on to the footpath. The relief was immediate. Kilmartin got out of his side and walked reluctantly around to Minogue. Like fence-wire that grows into the bark of a tree, Minogue was thinking: Jimmy Kilmartin and Matt Minogue. Tied together by a quarter-century of knowing one another as cops.
“Ah, I know how you feel, Matt. You’re very involved. When you’re in this line of business as long as me, you’ll be able to be more objective, you know.”