stood by the window watching people running in from the rain, surrendering bags to the security check by the doors. A double-decker bus drew up at the stop outside and that decided him. He entered the bus, paid and opened out a map of the city. Combs' house was beyond the suburbs even, on the map for County Dublin.
Moore followed the bus route on his map as it made for the city centre. The driver was whistling in a dispirited way, losing track of the air and changing his whistle to one made between tongue and teeth. He stopped his whistling only to mutter to himself or to wipe condensation off the side window. As Moore was leaving the bus, the driver spoke to anyone who would listen to him.
'Ah, you'd be tired of all that sunny weather, wouldn't you?'
Moore got into a taxi at O'Connell Bridge. The Dublin he had seen while he was coming in on the Airport Road was a dishevelled, grey sprawl. There were kids all over the place, on bikes, running, walking in wet groups. From his street map he knew that the trip to the Burlington Hotel was a short one.
The hotel was a clone of every and any nondescript hotel that had been designed in anonymous American Vulgar. It was like an office block, quite without features local to where the developer had slapped it up. Moore thought that the taxi-man had gone less directly to the hotel than he could have, despite his protestations of roads being 'up' and one-way streets. Moore declined an offer of help from a doorman with a florid drinker's face, a stage Irishman who probably even enjoyed donning the silly livery he wore. The gear reminded him of Emperor Bokassa.
Moore followed a young woman from the Reception. She flicked his room-key against her thigh as she walked. Her badge said Maura.
'That rain is down for the day,' she said without turning to him. 'As soon as I woke up and looked out the window this morning, I knew we'd be swimming in it all day.'
'Yes,' he said.
'That's Dublin for you,' she added and showed a distracted smile while she watched the floors light up in the ascending lift. Moore was wondering how best to explain his business here in case the police asked. Would they know enough to wonder why Combs' bank had not simply called on a law firm here in Dublin to do the work? He could say, as Kenyon had suggested in his briefing this morning, that his firm prided itself on being on the spot promptly and that it had the necessary expertise to negotiate affairs in the new Europe. The European Economic Community and all that. He could deflect any curiosity by talking about how much new law membership in the EEC had brought with it. Even if they knew he was lying, they'd probably believe that he was boasting more than anything else, or greedily chasing commissions even outside Great Britain.
Maura stopped and unlocked the door into the room. Moore couldn't understand why she had led him. Why not give him his key and let him find his own way? He had already refused help from a doorman and a porter at Reception. Couldn't they take a hint?
She entered the room and stood to the side of the bed. It was clean, luxurious even. There was no smell of stale ashtrays from the last boozy travelling salesman either. Moore didn't hide his approval.
'It's nice, isn't it?' she said.
Moore snorted lightly at the incongruity of it all. What kind of a place was this where a porter or portress would stand in his hotel room and comment on the place? More amused than baffled, Moore agreed. She left without hanging around for a tip. He sat on the bed.
Yet again, Moore mentally rehearsed a scene where anyone might query his haste in coming to Dublin to settle an estate. At least it was easier than having to explain why he was there in the first place: inventory effects as soon as possible and thereby secure them for disposal later. Had to be tactful, though, about insinuating that an Irish thief might be a shade quicker off the mark or more heartless about breaking into a dead man's house and lifting stuff. Moore had heard of instances in Britain where thieves had kept an eye on death notices in the papers and plundered houses even as the funerals were taking place. He could mention that, and emphasise that it happened in Britain, of course. Of course… Plus the idea that Combs may have had valuables around the house.
Moore found the telephone book in a drawer. He didn't know what 'Cuid a hAon' might mean, but the numbers were for Dublin. It took him two calls before he heard a woman with a thick singsong accent, but who sounded bored too, tell him that he had reached the Investigation Section. Moore glanced at the name in his notebook again as if one more look might finally tell him how to pronounce it now that he had to try and utter it.
'Sergeant Min-ogg, please.'
'Sergeant Minogue?'
'Yes. May I speak with him please?'
Moore's gaffe with the pronunciation abruptly reminded him that his own accent was beginning to sound different to him. A foreign country, just off the coast of Britain?
'He's not here at the moment. You might leave a message.'
'It's in connection with a Mr Combs. I'have just arrived from London to try and settle Mr Combs' estate.'
'Give me your name and where you can be gotten in touch with,' Eilis said instead.
Moore wondered if her offhand manner was typical of what he could expect from anyone else on the island.
'The Burlington, is it?' she asked.
'Yes. I'll be starting just as soon as I can, you see, and I need to okay it by the police rather than surprise them at Mr Combs' house.'
Moore, like many other well-meaning Britons, assumed that a little humor oiled the wheels when dealing with the Irish on their home turf.
'You had better not stir as regards the matter until you meet up with Sergeant Minogue,' Eilis said stonily. 'I'll see to it that he telephones you within the hour. Is that good enough for you?'
CHAPTER 8
It took Minogue forty minutes to get to Stepaside. To be exact, it took Keating forty minutes to drive himself and Minogue to Stepaside. Minogue dozed on the trip. He stretched before opening the car door. Two Gardai ran by them to the door of the station, one with a newspaper held over his head.
Michael Joseph Joyce was sitting alone in a room on the upper floor of the station. The door to the room had been locked. The Garda who led them upstairs called himself Tobin.
'How's it going on this thing anyway?' he asked as he clumped slowly up the stairs ahead of them.
Tobin cast a glance back at Minogue. The look on Keating's face drew his attention then. Tobin read what he suspected from Keating's wide eyes. He tucked his head into his shoulders, averted his eyes and made speedier progress up the last of the stairs. He rattled the lock as he was unlocking the door. An unconscious gesture of authority to the nervous man within, Minogue thought. A heavy, noisy man in a uniform. Not Minogue's cup of tea, this Tobin who had been devoured by his uniform. The place smelled mothbally, damp. Minogue stayed Tobin's arm before he had turned the key fully.
'Joyce has been here since this morning, am I right?' asked Minogue.
'Yes, sir,' Tobin answered. 'We put the heavy word on him when we brought him home last night. Begob if he wasn't sober and dressed up in his finery waiting on the squad car this morning. Shaking like a leaf he was. The DTs, I'll bet.'
Minogue fixed a languid smile on Tobin.
'A spot of tea for him too then, Garda. Lots of sugar, if you please. Any chance of buns in the village here? My colleague Detective Keating and I frightened one another on the way here with the way our bellies were growling. We've had no dinner, you see.'
Tobin headed back down the stairs. Minogue knew by Keating's face that Tobin had given him the look of incredulity which he didn't dare show Minogue. Minogue rested his hand on the doorknob. The room smelled of woodsmoke and unwashed clothes. Joyce was standing by the window. He was indeed nervous, his hands in and out of his pockets, reaching for buttons on his shirt, touching his belt, rubbing his nose.
Joyce had the puffy, tired face of a heavy drinker. Watery eyes darted from Minogue to Keating to the door.
