“Huh,” said Kilmartin “What photos are you using, Fergal?”
“File mugs from her last conviction ”
Kilmartin licked his lips and looked down at his cigarette. Minogue yawned but couldn’t stop after one. Malone was still writing in his notebook. Kilmartin waved at the notice-boards.
“Patricia Fahy. Molly and Matt took her statement…?”
Minogue tagged on to the unfinished end of Kilmartm’s sentence.
“We’re not entirely thrilled. She’s scared. Her whereabouts look pretty sound. She spent the evening with her fella, James Tierney, Jammy Tierney. He appears to be a clean bill of goods. John tracked him down handy enough.”
Murtagh took his cue.
“They watched a soccer match on the box. Tierney’s a soccer fanatic. Arsenal and Everton. He had chapter and verse of the game. She stayed over.”
“Say no more,” said Kilmartin. “Now, before we move on, a few things to bear in mind. She does not appear to have been a drug user. She had not had intercourse that evening. What she did have was between three and four glasses of alcohol which appears to have been vodka. What she also had was a hair-line fracture of her left cheekbone. Mary Mullen was hit hard with something which left no transfer, fragments, pigment, impression-nothing-on, in or about the tissues. She was very unconscious when she went into the water. She drowned. Her bag’s missing. Was she back on the game, for that night anyway? A ‘curb job,’ as this class of trade is called, I believe?”
He paused and drew on a fresh cigarette.
“Is she short of money? She’s jacked it in with this place Tresses. She hasn’t applied for Social Welfare. She’s pregnant. Does she need money for an abortion? Does she have a pimp who makes her take up the trade again? Do the oul hormones lead her astray?”
Kilmartin arched his back and scratched with his thumb.
“So,” he groaned. “No sign of this fella Patricia Fahy mentioned. Hickey.”
He nodded toward one of the boards where Leo Hickey’s photocopied and enlarged mug shot had been taped.
“Hands up those who think we’ll find him belly-up somewhere too,” said Kilmartin, looking at Malone.
No hands were raised.
“Well, his mother’s plenty worried. He didn’t show up at home last night. Hickey’s a petty, hang-around type of a scut. He’s probably a drug user, to what extent we don’t know. But anyway, we’ll move ahead. We know from our fine colleagues in the Serious Crime Squad that Mary Mullen has been seen in the company of one Eddsy Egan, in a club called Too De Loos. Mick Hand has several sightings of her in the recent past there with the little shitehawk. Eddsy Egan. Are we right there, Mick?”
Kilmartin had worked his way around to a seat next to Minogue. Hand walked to the boards. Minogue looked at the photos of the Egans. Two of the three were mug shots. There was a definite resemblance between two at least-Martin and Bobby. Eddsy, the oldest, had a heavily lined face. He looked at least ten years older than the next one, Bobby. Minogue scanned the paragraphs and let the pages slip from his fingers one by one. Tout Des Loups was the spelling of the night-club.
“Lads,” said Hand, and smiled. Now that he was standing, there was something about Hand’s long legs and small lined face that put Minogue in mind of a camel.
“Thanks, er, Jim. And thanks for the photocopying there. You should all have a copy of the summary we did as regards Mary Mullen and the Egans. It’s from the surveillance reports. The phone calls are marked with three fat dots at the beginning and the end. The stuff is date-ordered. We went back a month for this. If you turn to the fifth page, I think it is, there’s a surveillance log of Eddsy Egan’s house.”
Hand flipped the board back and began tapping the marker on some words. The Inspector let his eyes return to focus on them. The Egan family had been mapped out in red, green and blue.
“Eddsy was number one,” said Hand. “Before he was run over. It was a gang thing. He has plastic knees and pins and bits of things holding him together now.”
“Christ,” murmured Kilmartin. “We could have saved the taxpayer a pile of money if I’d have been driving, let me tell you. At least I know where reverse is.”
“Martin runs things day-to-day,” said Hand. “Eddsy sits in the shop. Martin’s on the go. Carphones, faxes, the whole bit. Martin’s the brain, the planner. Eddsy had set up the rackets but he had to bow out. Last is Bobby. Bobby’s a madman. He’s into drugs but we don’t know if he’s into them on a regular basis. Probably. He has a very short fuse. Bobby scares everyone, his brothers included. He’s the one who looks after the enforcement end of things. Mention of him is enough to get the job done.”
“So he’s the one who looks after the whores?” asked Malone.
“There’s a loose confederation of pimps and gougers in the trade. The Egans decide about some areas. They don’t exactly control the pimps or the trade, but pimps give them some of their take or a quid pro quo, at least.”
“What quid pro quo?” demanded Kilmartin.
“Girls. Information on clients that the Egans could use. We think the Egans pass drugs along a network of girls. For their clients, like, or for the girls themselves.”
“What’s the extent of that now?” asked Minogue. Hand shrugged.
“We don’t know. But we’re working on the belief that the Egans are trying to develop new markets for drugs away from the street. It’s getting a bit hairy for them there on the streets. So Bobby has two or three fellas on the payroll as enforcers. They move between the operations- drugs, fencing stolen goods, moving property and money around. We’ve put some away but there are always fellas available. Fellas get out of jail and, bang, they show up on surveillance. Next thing is they’re caught again. It’s like a merry-go-round with them.”
Kilmartin exchanged a glance with Minogue. Tommy Malone was examining the backs of his hands. Minogue wondered if Hand knew of Terry Malone.
“This Bobby Egan character,” said Kilmartin. “Drag him in and work at him. Squeeze him a while?”
Hand scratched at the back of his neck. Kilmartin’s eyes had taken on a glint.
“Well, now, I don’t know,” said Hand. He didn’t return Kilmartin’s gaze.
“Well, we shagging well do, Mick. Bring ’em in tied onto the back bumper of a squad car for all we care.”
Hand cleared his throat and glanced at Kilmartin.
“Well, as I said to you earlier on, Jim…”
Kilmartin wasn’t budging, Minogue saw. He’d make Hand say it in front of the Squad.
“Yes?” said Kilmartin. Hand’s tongue worked around his upper teeth. Minogue sat back and joined his hands behind his neck.
“What are we hearing here, Mick?” asked Kilmartin. “A hands-off, is it?”
Hand shifted in his seat.
“God, no,” he said. “But there’s a very big operation ongoing. Very big thing now.”
“Very big,” said Kilmartin. “How big? Sure, we’re very big here ourselves.”
Hand smiled wanly.
“Well, it’s really a matter of co-ordinating your involvement now,” he said. Minogue felt a little sorry for Hand. Mere messenger or not, he still deserved to leave with one arrow in his back.
Hand looked hopefully to the faces in the room. “Your investigation could turn out to be a really valuable tool, another bit of leverage-”
“We don’t queue here, Mick,” said Kilmartin. “Murder’s top of the list. Garda Handbook, sweet pea. Page 777. Criminal code. We’re in first. All the time, every time.”
Hand shrugged and looked down at his notes. Kilmartin looked from face to face and then back to Hand.
“Before you go now, Mick. Bring us back to the house you had under surveillance. Eddsy Egan’s place, where Mary Mullen was spotted.”
Relieved, Hand sat up.
“Okay. Sure. She arrived the night before in the taxi-actually the morning. Half-two, with Eddsy. No sign of her until eleven then. A taxi rolled up and she came out.”
The whole afternoon ahead of her, thought Minogue. “Now, if you look back to the summary, you’ll see that she seems to have come and gone from the house fairly regularly…”