“I’m very happy for you,” he said.
Iseult swallowed and grinned and rose from her chair. Kathleen dabbed at her eyes. He looked over at Pat’s distracted smile as he kissed Iseult. Her cheek smelled of peaches.
“That’s another fiver,” she whispered.
Minogue woke up thinking about Jack Mullen. Jack Mullen was off his rocker. He’d stalked his wayward daughter. He’d argued with her, pleaded with her. She’d refused, and probably ridiculed him. She’d gotten one of the Egans or their gang to lay the heavy word on him: leave our Mary alone-or else. She was too far gone then, wasn’t she, and the only way to bring her home, to bring her back to Jesus, was to kill her?
He sat on the side of the bed and opened the curtain a little. Not a cloud in the sky. Day what of the drought was it? Day eleven. The last rain had been a ten-minute shower a fortnight ago. His mouth was chalky from last night’s wine. Where the hell had Mary Frances Mullen spent her time? She was a live-in with the Egans or one of their hangers-on, that’s what. “Drug-barons” was the latest cliche. Go into this meeting this morning and cobble together a warrant, take crowbars to their places. He tried to shake off his rancour. Wasn’t his daughter going to get married? Daithi’d come home for the wedding. Maura and Mick, the whole Clare contingent, would come up, by God. Hoey, Kilmartin, John Tynan. Kathleen’s crowd, Iseult’s mad friends… It’d be one good hooley. My gods are household gods, he thought. He tapped the radio and plodded into the bathroom.
The talk over breakfast was brittle. Iseult had been adamant about the registry office. Pat had maintained the vague smile as he slumped in a deck chair rubbing at his lip. It’s more than just the two people getting married that are involved, Kathleen said. Was it too much to expect Iseult to get married in a church? He didn’t know, he said. Surely Iseult would realize that when she sat down to think things through. Hadn’t she thought things through already, he dared. Kathleen’s expression told him that she didn’t believe that their daughter had. Couldn’t she find some other way to make her statement? She could, was his answer, and it had stopped their conversation on the topic: she mightn’t bother to get married at all. He sat in his Citroen relieved to be on the move: my rows are household rows.
Eilis was collating bundles of photocopies. The Inspector studied the notice-boards which had been wheeled out to the centre of the room. He stood up close to the photocopies of the Dublin street-map taped next to Sheehy’s name. Pink fluorescent, lime green, Blessed-Virgin-Moving-Statue blue for the door-to-door teams Sheehy had set up. He recognised Murtagh’s handwriting on a column titled “Bail/released” and the Garda stations he had phoned to tap those suspects. None of the seventeen names was familiar. Only one entry, with a question mark after it at that, under the Incidents column, again in Murtagh’s writing. The Known Offenders list comprised twenty-three names. It must have taken him half the night to amass this. He looked toward Murtagh who gave him a lazy smile in return. Kilmartin’s door was shut. Minogue opened his folder and took out the points he had marshalled on a sheet of photocopy paper last night.
“Nice going there, John,” he said. “I feel a crushing guilt for leaving early. The daughter announced that she’s going to get married. ”
“Great. Congratulations. Has she anyone particular in mind?”
“She asked if you were still available. Had to tell her no. Sorry and all that now. Don’t take it personally. ”
Murtagh shrugged.
“Is Himself inside?”
Murtagh leaned in closer. He nodded at the door to Kilmartin’s office.
“He went in there ten minutes ago with Mick Hand. ‘Conferring.’ ”
“The Egans?”
Murtagh stroked his neck and studied the ceiling.
“On the agenda, you can be sure, boss. He came out a few minutes ago looking fit to brain someone. ”
Murtagh was about to add something when Kilmartin’s door was jerked open. Sergeant Mick Hand emerged ahead of Kilmartin. Something about Hand’s gait and expression reminded Minogue of teams leaving the field at half-time trailing by three goals. He looked to Kilmartin. The Chief Inspector shook his head once, stalked to the boards and stood with his hands on his hips.
“All right, all right,” he called out. “Away we go. We’re going to get an education about the people that Mary Mullen was mixed up with. But first we’ll take a few minutes to update ourselves. Can you wait, Mick?”
Hand nodded. He caught Minogue’s eye for a moment.
“Thanks, Mick. Site report, forensic and door-to-door for starters. Who wants to go first? Don’t all rush, now.”
Minogue observed Kilmartin’s slow passage around the room. Murtagh talked on. There was no yield yet from Mullen’s Volkswagen. Spotless for a taxi, said Theresa Brophy, Kilmartin’s favoured conduit for early forensic leads. Jack Mullen could reasonably claim to be a conscientious taxi-driver concerned with the welfare and comfort of his passengers. Passengers, thought Minogue. He carried maybe a dozen different people a day. That’s upwards of a hundred people a week. Five thousand a year. He made another effort to listen carefully to Murtagh. Known offenders, prostitutes known to the police in that area… Offenders on bail, recent parolees… Addicts known to frequent the area, assaults in the area in the last year… Minogue underlined addict.
“Well, why not?”
It was Kilmartin who had barked at Murtagh. The detective looked up from his papers and pushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Which now, boss?”
“The brassers, man! The ladies of the night! Why were none of them plying their trade at that hour of the night, we want to know.”
Murtagh glanced at Minogue.
“Doyle maintains that there’s a hiatus around that time of the night,” said the Inspector.
“Hiatus?” said Kilmartin. “Isn’t that from lifting stuff that’s too heavy? Try a bit of English there, Shakespeare. For working men, the likes of Voh’ Lay-bah there and meself.”
Malone’s expression didn’t change. He tapped his pencil on his notebook several times.
“The business only really gets going when the pubs close,” said Minogue. “Donnybrook station did a sweep of the area three weeks ago. Doyle says the drive-by trade has slackened off there anyway.”
“Let me guess,” said Kilmartin “Telephone dates and the Companions Wanted ads do the business now, is it?”
Minogue nodded.
“So says Doyler.”
Kilmartin tugged at his ear.
“Fergal?”
Sheehy delivered in a rococo Kerry accent.
“Well now, door-to-door, we have nothing yet. We’re doing a quarter-mile radius. We’re a bit over half-way through the pubs, clubs, eating houses, hotels. I’m chasing down cleaners and night staff in offices near the canal too. Potentials from residents too.”
He turned his notebook sideways to scrutinise a drawing he had made.
“There are video cameras on a place two hundred-odd yards up,” he said “But they’re the wrong side of the bridge ”
“Speaking of which,” Kilmartin broke in and turned to Murtagh, “you’re working through the video of the site, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Murtagh “I’ve got two fellas from CDU on it. We’re about, I suppose, a third of the way. So far, they’re all legit. Six cars were parked overnight. We got statements from five.”
“All good citizens in that part of town, are they,” said Kilmartin
“As good as you’ll get in Dublin,” said Sheehy. Hand smiled and crossed his legs.