Minogue switched off the radio. Did he really need to be told that the high pressure system still remained over Ireland this morning? A possibility of thunder? That had to be a joke. A cement lorry at the site of new apartments in the Coombe made him detour by Thomas Street.
Kilmartin’s tie was ambitious. His jacket was too up to date, however.
“What’s that thing around your neck, Jim?”
“For your information, smart-arse, that tie was a present from the wife. So keep your smart remarks to yourself, you. Unless you like fast trips in ambulances, like. Now. You have work to do, let me tell you, and you’ll have to do it on your own this morning. Molly Malone phoned in. He won’t be in until later on. You know yourself.”
The brother, thought Minogue.
“Now: the real business. There was a call in to you here at ten o’clock last night. A Mrs. Mary Byrne. She said it wasn’t urgent. Your name is tagged to a Byrne fella you met there?”
Byrne, the old man he had talked to by the canal. Had the wife seen something?
“She lives down off the canal there. Vesey Court. Put that aside now a minute and cast your eye over this one, but.”
Minogue took the photocopy. It was a print of a call to Central last night. It was made from a public box by Hatch Street. Kilmartin tapped him hard on the shoulder.
“It’s that Hickey fella,” said Kilmartin. “Mr. ‘Leonardo’ himself. He’s alive and well. He wants to play tough-guy over the phone too.”
Minogue noted the smile along with the glint in the Chief Inspector’s eye.
“I was onto CDU,” Kilmartin went on. “They have units ready. Fella the name of Cosgrave will handle it. That’s his number there. Sergeant. Let him know you’re on, okay?”
Minogue continued scanning the transcript of Hickey’s call. He felt his spirits rising.
“Not bad,” he murmured. “Not bad at all.”
“‘Not bad’? It could be the go-ahead, man! And Hickey was drunk. He’s on the run. He’ll sing, that’s what I say.”
The Chief Inspector hoisted an arm and withdrew it with a delicate shrug from the jacket. He settled the jacket carefully on his arm and tugged at the collar of his shirt.
“Oh, yes,” he muttered. “We’ll have that scut sitting across the table from us signing up for this one.”
“Nothing new come in on Jack Mullen? Any give on the car tests?”
Kilmartin shook his head.
“Leave Mullen for the time being. He may be a bit cracked, but that’s normal. It’s only religion with him.”
Minogue put down the photocopies.
“Has John Murtagh stitched him up tighter as regards alibi yet?”
“What, what?” exclaimed Kilmartin. “What am I hearing? Are you still trying to soak Mullen for it?”
Minogue didn’t answer but stroked his lip instead. Kilmartin shrugged.
“Ah, I’m not sure. Last I heard-and that was eight o’clock last night, when you were safe at home in bed-Johnner had him down to four gaps. One was about twenty minutes, near the nine o’clock mark. Put the bloody collar on this louser Hickey,” he said. “Maybe he could lead us to the Egans. There’d be no stopping us then, wait’n’you see.”
Minogue studied the Chief Inspector’s tie again. Eilis entered the squadroom.
“Good morning all,” she said. “Glorious bit of sun again today.”
“To be sure, Eilis,” said Minogue. “You’re an adornment to the facility this fine morning.”
Kilmartin rolled up his shirt-sleeves.
“I’m telling you,” he said. “This is the go-ahead day. I can feel it in me water! Here, what was this thing from the Fahy one I saw: this ‘Alan’ someone you’re looking for?”
Minogue was explaining when the phone rang. Eilis lifted the receiver after one ring. Kilmartin held out his hand. He and Minogue stared at Eilis’s face. She waved the phone at Minogue.
“Kathleen,” she called out. Kilmartin slapped his knee.
“Shite,” he said.
“Pardon?” said Minogue.
“Sorry. I was hoping it was the Hickey fella.”
Kathleen related to her husband how Iseult had left the house, the family seat in Kilmacud, in a huff not ten minutes ago.
“She was still asleep when I left,” he said.
“Well, she was. And I thought she’d be well rested. She came down the stairs and I had her favourite breakfast ready for her. She’s eating away, so innocently enough I try to, you know, have a little chat.”
“‘A little chat’? Don’t you mean a big chat?”
“Oh, stop that! That’s not one bit funny! All I said to her was, ‘Darling, isn’t it time to get whatever’s bothering you off your chest.’ ”
Minogue felt his jaws lock. He stared at Kilmartin but didn’t see him.
“Kathleen,” he murmured. “Listen. This thing about getting things off one’s chest-”
“I can tell by that tone that you’re annoyed now. I can!”
“Listen to me: all this guff about openness and sharing-”
“Oh, stop, stop! This is the twentieth century, Matt! People need to talk it out, for God’s sake! I’m sorry now I phoned.”
He had to make an effort to breathe. He rubbed hard at his eyebrows. What was the bloody point of another tilt at pop psychology? It was a lost cause.
“It’s you and her,” Kathleen said. “It’s coming out more in her as she gets older. Contrary, God!”
“We can’t be meddling. We just have to wait.”
“Talk to her, would you? Please?”
“I’ll listen, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Oh, Matt! Why are you so bloody obstinate?”
“I’m not. Everyone else I meet is, that’s the problem.”
“All right, all right. Anyway. I hope I haven’t taken your mind off something.”
“Ah, don’t be worrying. I shouldn’t have… Well, let it rest for the moment. Is she gone to the flat?”
“I think so.”
Minogue replaced the receiver and stared at the desk-top. Kilmartin came into view.
“Okay there?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Eventually. I don’t know.”
“I think you got them all there.”
Minogue looked up at his colleague. Kilmartin squinted at him. Minogue sat back.
“Iseult dug in her heels about getting married. Won’t go near a church.”
Kilmartin rubbed at his nose.
“Ah, don’t worry. She’ll get sense.”
“I hope not.” Kilmartin shook his head and began rearranging his rolled-up shirt-cuffs.
“Nothing’s good enough for you today, bucko,” he declared. “Saddle up now, and we’ll chase bad guys.”
Minogue winked at Eilis, lifted the receiver and keyed in Byrne’s number.
“Tommy Malone won’t be in ’til later, Eilis,” he said. “If at all today. And I’ll be going out on a lead now in a minute, I hope. Make sure the boss tells you about a call we’re supposed to get-a big prospect in the Mary Mullen case is going to phone, or so he says-Hello? May I speak to Mrs. Byrne?”
SEVENTEEN
Minogue turned away from the canal and let the Citroen freewheel down the lane. Vesey Court was a working-class enclave surrounded by a palisade of offices, mews houses and apartments. The Byrnes’ place was on the ground floor of a two-storey block of Dublin Corporation flats. Through wrought-iron gates Minogue caught a glimpse of a forest-green BMW squatting on an interlocking brick forecourt. Skylights with sharp angles erupted from several roofs; a glossy lilac-painted door stood out from a grey pebble-dash wall. He glanced at the dashboard: ten o’clock. Cars were crammed everywhere in the laneways. He’d have to jam some in to park the Citroen.
He set the alarm and strolled down the terrace. There was a faint smell of rotting rubbish in the air. A pneumatic drill began hammering away somewhere in the adjoining streets. Movement behind the coffee-coloured glass on the top floor caught Minogue’s eye. He kept his gaze there while he stepped out onto the laneway proper. Sudden movement to his side made him start. The motorbike swept by within inches of him. Star Couriers, proclaimed the rider’s jacket: “Consider it there.”