He saw the Escort a long way off. It was parked five or six houses down from his. It was the souped-up model, new, with fancy wheels and spot lamps. He didn’t remember seeing it here before. Maybe it was a robbed car. There was someone in the passenger seat. The back of his neck became itchy. He slowed. There was something familiar about the fella getting out of the car. Two cars passed on the road between them. He was a hundred yards from home. A shortish guy, bulky, with a green polo shirt. Where had he seen him before? Light caught on an ear-ring. The man skipped across the street onto the footpath ahead of him. He stopped as he approached the laneway between his home and the back of Carrick Gardens. The man’s hand moved down by his pocket. A signal he didn’t want anyone to notice. Something came from around the corner where he was walking by now. Cigarette smoke The man’s eyes met his for a moment.
Which came first, him running or the guy in the denim shirt coming around the corner of the laneway, he didn’t know. The panic was like an electric shock. A shout fell in the air behind him. He gathered speed, the balls of his feet bouncing off the pavement. By the bus stop and around the shops he sprinted. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that only the guy in the green shirt was after him. He had to get off the street: the car would be barrelling after him any second. He dashed across the road and leaped the parapet into the playground. He ran by a group of children down into the park. He was putting more distance between himself and the guy chasing him but he was getting a stitch. He heard the shriek of tyres and looked back. The driver of the Escort jumped out and leaped over the parapet after his mate.
His throat was burning when he came out of the park. Still he kept up his speed. Even in his terror he felt a glow of pride at being able to leg it like this. He remembered the races he had won in school, the only part of the bleeding school he had liked, the teacher who had tried to con him into staying on so he could go on for real training. He spotted the bus taking on its last passenger by Traynor’s shop. The indicator was already on before he made it across. He ran in front of the double-decker as it pulled away. The brakes squealed and he ran to the door.
“You stewpit iijit!” The driver reminded him of his uncle Joe. “Where in the name of Jases are you headed? Glasnevin cemetery?”
Patricia Fahy’s father kept rolling the cigarettes until he had ten made. He worked slowly, pretending to be intent on the paraphernalia in his lap. Minogue looked over at intervals. Fahy’s daughter hadn’t opened up, the Inspector reflected, and he was still undecided as to what to do about this.
“So she didn’t even mention a boyfriend,” Malone said. “Not even once?”
Patricia Fahy’s face looked grey against the glare on the wall outside the kitchen window. Minogue heard children yelling on the terrace.
“No.”
“You mean she had no fellas?”
“That’s what she said,” said her father. He moved his head from side to side as his tongue ran along the cigarette, but his eyes remained fixed on Malone. Neck like the trunk of a tree, thought Minogue.
“Let Patricia answer for herself, Mr. Fahy.”
“She did answer. It’s just you weren’t listening.”
“We’re doing our best here,” said Minogue. “We need Patricia’s help.”
“She’s in no condition to be interrogated.”
“She’s not being interrogated.”
“Then what the hell are two cops doing here in me kitchen?”
“Mr. Fahy,” said Minogue. “We’re not keen on this.”
“Keen on what?”
“You pitching comments around when we’re trying to conduct an interview on a murder investigation.”
“Too bad then, isn’t it? Why don’t you leave? And take Hair-cut there with you.”
“You’re here as a concerned parent worried about his daughter,” said Minogue. “Great. Now shut up, like a good man. Otherwise we’ll be conducting interviews on our own premises.”
Fahy stood.
“Will you now? Your mug on a card doesn’t get you anywhere here, sunshine.”
“Da! Give over, Da, will you?”
Her father didn’t hear her. His hands came into play. One pointed at the door.
“Cops don’t come around here without an armoured car, pal. Hair-oil here should know that, even if you don’t.”
“Da! Stop it, for God’s sake! It’s only making it worse!”
Patricia Fahy stalked out of the kitchen, sobs tearing at her breath. The Inspector turned back to Fahy. He seemed unable to find the words he wanted. His hand moved around the air instead. He sat down again.
“Phone calls,” he grunted. “Four or five of them the past couple of days. Two different fellas’ voices. Then there was a car. Did she tell you about the car?”
“What car?” asked Malone.
“She’s in shock, isn’t she, I mean to say. Last night about half-ten. It was parked up at the head of the street. Blue, it was. Stripes, the fancy wheels. New car, I’d say. A telephone thing sticking up out of it.”
“You’re worried that we can’t protect your daughter from the Egans,” said Minogue.
“Who said anything about the Egans?”
“Why are you so scared of them?” asked Malone. Fahy’s brows dropped.
“Fuck you, Hair-cut. I’m not afraid of any man.”
Malone set his jaw.
“You didn’t see the registration plate?” asked Minogue.
“It was dark last night, in case you didn’t notice.”
“But you saw it was new. Colour, fancy wheels. You saw it had a phone aerial.”
Fahy maintained his stare but his eyebrows moved up. He licked the edge of a cigarette paper.
“All right, Mr Fahy. You win. We’ll decamp. We’ll be off down to Store Street station where we can talk to Patricia in peace. ”
Fahy was up out of the chair fast.
“Like hell you will. You’ve no warrant to be in my house. ”
Malone stood slowly, as did Minogue.
“This ain’t Hollywood, brother,” said Malone. “Get a grip, there.”
Fahy nodded in Minogue’s direction but he kept his eyes on Malone.
“Take Junior for a walk there, Kojak, or he’s going to be part of the scenery. Rapid, like. Cop or no cop.”
“You and whose army,” said Malone.
“I’ll set your head singing before my daughter is-”
The door swung open again. Patricia Fahy looked over her hanky from face to face. Tears had left streaks down to her jaw line.
“God, Da! Go out and get stuff for the tea or something! Jesus! Ma left a list there in the hall.”
“I’m going nowhere until these two get to hell.”
“Well, go in the kitchen or someplace then!” Fahy looked from his daughter to the policemen and back. He shook his head and made for the door. He paused in the doorway and his face darkened again.
“Don’t you try anything,” he growled. Minogue looked at the photos over the table while he waited for Fahy to go. A wedding, a woman who looked like Patricia Fahy. A sunburned couple standing on white sand, an apartment or hotel in the background. Pennants for Spurs and last year’s Irish World Cup team. He heard Fahy swear and then the kitchen door slammed.
“The Egans, Patricia,” he said. She leaned against the cooker and folded her arms.
“What about them?”
“They’re on your da’s mind a lot.”
She narrowed her eyes and dabbed at her nostrils again with the tissue.
“He doesn’t know them,” she said.
“What would they want with you? What did they want with Mary?”
“Who says they want anything with me? Or Mary?”
“Ah, Patricia, come on,” said Minogue. She pivoted and took a packet of cigarettes from the counter. Her hands were steady as she lit one. She took a hurried second drag down deep in her lungs. Her words came out quickly with puffs of smoke.