stave off the four o'clock meeting. Minogue read the gesture to mean that Keating had nothing better than Hoey. Chasing after straws. As he passed the smoking Eilis, Keating confided what Minogue guessed was a remark with amorous overtones to her. With the expression of a tired croupier who was used to impoverished amateurs, Eilis batted her eyes but once at Keating before smiting him.
'Come back when you're grown up, Pat Keating.'
Minogue held up his hand. Hoey stopped reciting.
'Lads. Get yourselves tea or something. There'll be a briefing in ten minutes,' Minogue said sharply.
He watched the two detectives leave. Jimmy would have been proud of me, he thought, laying down the law. He had admitted to himself that the first stages of the investigation and the concomitant up-down of the detectives' hopes were played out now. Hoey, more experienced than Keating, had been more circumspect, knowing not to raise false hopes. It was now necessary to make a break with expectations of a quick and ready resolution and get down to slogging over details.
Minogue ruminated again on Shag's declaration that Combs was homosexual. Bad enough that Combs had called the IRA 'heroes' in a tone that even the Mulvaneys could detect was sarcastic, but to be a nancy-boy. He looked up to find Eilis by his desk. Behind her were three of the Gardai Minogue had met that morning.
'Well lads, four o'clock is it? Will ye go with Eilis here and I'll be in, in a minute?' spacebarthing
By five o'clock Minogue understood that the murder of Mr Combs would stay an enigma for some time today and tonight and tomorrow. And probably the day after that, too. He wished Murtagh would stop talking. Murtagh had very bad breath indeed. Murphy's Law had Murtagh unconsciously edging closer to Minogue as Minogue drew back from the rancid smell. Minogue had to give up before being trapped against the wall. He was now breathing through his mouth.
'Malone says it has to be new boys,' Murtagh was saying. Malone had an alibi. He had been in bed with his brother's wife in Inchicore. His brother was doing time for car theft.
'Malone's all right for Saturday and Sunday. He's of the opinion that only lunatics would do a house on a Saturday night. He says drugs.'
'Very helpful of him,' said Minogue wearily. 'He means city thugs, I suppose.'
'That's the gist of it, I think-'
'Local though,' Minogue interrupted. 'Someone local had to hear about or know about Combs. Knew he lived alone, might have a few shillings around the house. Has to be local.'
'There's the Mulvaneys, sir. Their stories might leak yet,' Murtagh tried to inject some enthusiasm. 'And some fellas in or around Sandyford used to do houses. Stepaside are doing them now. I have the names here…'
Minogue copied four names.
'Wait a minute, sir. Sorry. Driscoll says the last one, that Molloy, he's in England since Christmas. Nix him…'
'And was it yourself that got the statements off the neighbours?'
'Yes, sir. Me and Driscoll. Driscoll and I, yes.'
'There's the matter of Mr Combs' sexual orientation we can't be ignoring,' said Minogue.
He saw weary curiosity in all the faces save Keating's. Keating was chewing the end of his pencil. The lead didn't seem to be affecting his brain yet. He stretched one arm out in search of additional comfort to prolong his slouch. Minogue addressed Murtagh.
'Sean. We need photos of Mr Combs; get personnel to go to various pubs with them. I mean pubs where gay people go.'
Murtagh rubbed at his nose.
'Do you know which ones I'm talking about?'
Keating couldn't contain his smile any longer.
'Like the back of your hand, Seanie, am I right?' he said. One of the district detectives laughed aloud.
'Fuck you and all belonging to you, Pat Keating,' said a blushing Murtagh. 'I'll put money that it's your name and number I'll find on the wall of the jacks in that class of pub. And the price listed, too.'
More laughter.
'We may be looking for a young lad who turned turk on Mr Combs after a pick-up, don't you know,' said Minogue. Murtagh nodded solemnly. Minogue saw Hoey look at his watch again. Taking the hint, he delegated to Hoey the task of going to Stepaside station the next morning to co-ordinate the second interviews both in Kilternan and in Glencullen.
'I'll hear from ye during the day,' Minogue said.
Minogue nodded toward the district detectives from Stepaside. He visualised them returning home later and enlarging upon their meeting with members of the Murder Squad. Excitement. Drama. Tall tales.
'I'm obliged to ye for coming in, all of ye. It's no small matter to be running around and taking statements like ye did today. Ye've laid great foundations, I'm sure,' Minogue said above the screech of scraping chair-legs on the linoleum.
He remained seated, watching the policemen leave the room. He had been more embarrassed by his little morale speech than by the plain fact that they still knew next to nothing about Combs' life. It was almost two full days since the man had been murdered. He looked at the card which Eilis had left on his desk.
Along with a long telephone number, the card also had Inspector Newman's address-down to his room number-with the London Metropolitan Police. The card mutely informed Minogue that Newman was the head of a section called C11 in C Department, the office which travelled under the agreeable name of International Liaison. Would this crowd be working after five o'clock, though?
It took Minogue but a half minute to hear a man's voice announce himself as Inspector Newman. The accent made a funny 'r' at the end of his rank, not an accent that Minogue expected. Not like Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai, for example.
'Detective Sergeant Minogue calling from Dublin, Inspector. I'm in the Investigation Section of the Gardai here. The Murder Squad, that is. I'm calling on behalf of Inspector Kilmartin. He's indisposed at the moment…' Minogue paused to allow Newman to digest his intro. Should he tell him that Jimmy had his arse in a sling?
'Yes, I know Inspector Kilmartin. And you're…?'
Minogue repeated his name.
'We're looking to a murder here, Inspector. A citizen of the United Kingdom. He last lived in London. A place called Wood Green. Am I making sense?'
Newman said that he was.
'Mr Combs. Mr Arthur Combs. Will I spell it?'
'Honey — C-O-M-B?'
'The very thing. Do you want a date of birth and the like?'
Newman said 'righto' each time he recorded details. Recounting those details, Minogue wondered at what meagre things these accoutrements of a life were. A middle name, a height, a weight, a job. All pegs to keep you rooted while life buffeted you, its gusts and lulls alternately testing the pegs. Finally to have a lid closed over you, cold in the earth.
Minogue told him that the Gardai had not assigned a motive for the murder. He did not tell him that the other two of the policeman's morbid trinity-opportunity and resources-were as wide as a barn door with the wind whistling through. Mr Combs had been strangled rather expertly by a person or persons who had been waiting for him as he entered the kitchen door of his house. The Gardai would be glad of Newman's help in furnishing information about Mr Combs before he came to live in Ireland, and after too, if that was to be had. Newman said that he would do what he could. Minogue liked the sound of that. Inland Revenue, army service, would that be a start? Minogue said that would be a great start. Would the Inspector be needing written requests to get it going? He would not. Then he surprised Minogue.
'What kind of weather have you in Dublin?'
Newman pronounced the name of the capital city as if there were a hyphen in the middle, much as a respectful traveller might try to say 'Zambesi' without offending the sensibilities of tribesmen leaning on their spears nearby.
'Oh, it's very nice, you'd love it,' Minogue said. He had guessed right from the accent. Newman was no sooty Londoner but one of God's chosen, a countryman like himself.
Newman paused.
