Merrion Square, his precarious caffeine optimism dulled and then died. Pulling into the manicured driveway of Walsh's house, he saw a curtain drawn back slightly to show a man's face, more disapproving than curious.
Portly, Minogue thought, like out of a book. He expected to see Walsh dressed in a three-piece with a pocket-watch in his fob.
Hair in place, thinning, no suggestions of sideburns. Walsh preceded Minogue into another carpeted area.
'Step into the living room, Detective Sergeant.''
Minogue tried to trace the accent but failed to get beyond a vague understanding that it was from some part of Munster.
The curtains were half drawn. Minogue was looking at a face which was used to being resolute but was now wavering. The man looked almost curious. Still, he was keeping together. Minogue noticed no decanters around. The room was large and tidy. The diffused light made pastels of most of the colours, themselves mainly beige or blue anyway. Minogue wondered if they lived in this living room. His eye was caught by a stand-up thing for holding magazines. Time and Newsweek looked out of it.
'Mr Walsh. Please accept my condolences.'
There was a few moment's silence between the men. Minogue felt himself sinking into the upholstered chair.
'I'd offer you a drink, Sergeant…'
'Thanks, but no. It's semi-official.'
'Semi?'
'Well, I'm looking for something or someone to fill the holes in my investigation. I'm less inclined to believe that your son was a random victim of violence.'
Walsh seemed to sit up more in his seat.
'Random?' he said.
'I don't believe in a master plan or that class of thing. I'm guessing that Jarlath was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that he may unwittingly have been involved in something.'
'Sergeant. I know my own son. He was not involved in gangs or whatever it is you're describing.'
Minogue heard himself speaking and he was taken aback by his own tone. This man, whom he had met but minutes before, rankled him somehow.
'Allow me to say, Mr Walsh, that I have built up a fair picture of your son over the last week too. What I need now are some little details which might not have seemed important enough to mention before. A hint.'
Walsh's face had changed. He licked a lip. Minogue wondered if he had been a farmer's son, big as he was, a big neck on a body going fat inside a few more years. A face you'd see under a cap herding cattle down a lane. The striped shirt and the marble fireplace belied that.
'Now, Sergeant, I had an inkling you-not you exactly now-but one of ye would come to that. I think that you crowd have run out of steam and now ye're worried about looking bad with no one behind bars for this.'
'So what do you do?' Walsh continued, sitting forward in his chair and clasping meaty knuckles together. 'Ye try to insinuate that there's something amiss with my son. Almost like he had it coming.'
'Now Mr Walsh, that's not the way it is. What I'm saying is that many investigations are successful due to the remembering of details which initially seemed of no consequence.'
'Oh that's a nice thing to say and a nice way to say it, Sergeant, but let me tell you. I think the place is out of control. That's what I think. I think you lads don't know whether you're coming or going here in this city. Ye're afraid to deal firmly with the likes of criminals walking the streets. Do you know, I don't care whether it was a lunatic or some gang. I want the fella or fellas caught. Punished. That's the size of it.'
Minogue stared idly at the television in the corner while Walsh talked on. He realised that Walsh had to be allowed to vent his frustration on someone. At times Minogue nodded in a show of sympathy to hurry him up. It wasn't working.
'Sergeant Minogue. I came to Dublin over twenty-five year ago and I had nothing at all. Now those were not the best of times. But the first thing I learned was that Dublin people are not the same as us. They don't like us doing well for ourselves. They want to sit around over pints and complain. So you know what I think is the pity of it though?'
Minogue was tempted to say he did.
'That every year the Gardai on the beat are learning the same thing. Young lads up from the farm like myself. A bit too trusting, I'm thinking. Didn't know how to deal with hooligans and vandals. Afraid of the firm hand. Oh don't get me wrong, I don't blame the Gardai entirely. I'm well aware of the way this country is going. I'll tell you that a spell of army service would do the youth of this bloody city a lot of good. What galls me is that these vandals here can hang around the pubs on the dole and never get told to shape up or ship out. They're getting so brazen they're robbing people on the streets. Drugs and everything. Look, I don't mind telling you that, same as yourself, I had some high jinks when I was a lad. A few glasses of porter, a bit of divilment. But I never in my life thought that the rest of my life could be like that. There was always hard work the next day. 'Work hard, play hard.' That's my motto.'
Walsh seemed to have spent himself. He was probably on the edge and confused for the first time in his life, Minogue guessed. How could a woman live with a man like that? He'd scarify her for any signs of weakness.
'Did Jarlath discuss any of his hobbies or interests, Mr Walsh? His girlfriend?'
Walsh's eyes widened, then narrowed and he shook his head gently. Damn, Minogue thought, set him off again.
'Girlfriend, is it? You mean that red-haired young one at the funeral? With the Northern accent?'
'Agnes McGuire,' Minogue said pointedly.
'Look, no one minds young people having a fling. These are different times than when we grew up. I always say play the field as long as your conduct is good, no one can fault you.'
Minogue was struck by the word 'conduct.' He hadn't heard it in years. He associated it with sentences or warnings, school or courtrooms.
'I said that to him. I said 'Jarlath, you are a free man. You don't owe anything to anybody so you're beholden to no one. You pick your own studies now and you make friends. Male and female alike. Your mother and I are a bit old-fashioned but you'll know later on what we mean. There's time enough for responsibilities later.'' Walsh paused.
Minogue felt a breeze of despair.
The words turned over in his mind. He thought of Daithi, foolish man-boy half astride a fence in these years. A mistake to call him a man. Kathleen had been at him to take Daithi aside. What did that mean, to'take Daithi aside?' To prepare him for life with a little chat? Like those stupid American shows on the telly, 'Well, my boy, it's time we had a little… ' A little what? A little man-to-man chat? About what? Passing on the secrets of males, the pathetic bullying ways of half the world who threw children into wars and sat around pubs uttering platitudes.
'Freedom. They used to talk about it a lot more. The hippies and the rest of it. Freedom doesn't mean that same some gutty has the choice to kill my son out of turn. That's not freedom. Jarlath picked his courses. He had his own politics and I never said boo to that. I worked in this bloody city so he can have those choices. I can tell you that it took a while for me to learn it, but Jarlath had as much right to go socialist as I did not to-'
'Socialist?' Minogue interrupted.
'Well, left or whatever they call it. You have to understand that Jarlath had no experience of the world. He didn't know what socialism was in practice. 'We're all socialists at heart,' I told him. 'Even Jesus Christ was a socialist,' I told him. I pay the lads well at work. Not that I have much choice with the unions…'
Experience being the name we give our mistakes, Minogue's inner voice copied Wilde's mordant truth.
'Anything about Irish politics? The North?' Minogue said.
'You're back to that girl again, aren't you? He told me once that we didn't know anything because we hadn't lived through it. I mean that's all fine and well to say. The enthusiasm of youth is a thing that can be easily turned to bad ends.'
So that was another gem, Minogue thought. He imagined father and son shouting at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Walsh trying to intercede. Mother Ireland.
'Anyway. I'd not describe her as a girlfriend. To answer your question,' Walsh said and sat back defiantly in his chair.
