footpath in Dawson Street. The staff of the otherwise stand-up-and-eat-it-quick delicatessen had placed tables, chairs and imitation Martini umbrellas out on the sidewalk in an effort to make boulevardiers of their clientele. Cotton-wool clouds moved quickly across the sky, a breeze flapped the umbrellas in the sun.
'What's that stuff?' Corrigan declared. Meant to be a question, his words came out as an accusation when he pointed to Minogue's scrambled egg.
'Take it easy, Pat. It's paprika. Your palate is crying out for some training.' Minogue spooned more soup.
'That's cold soup, too. I've heard about that stuff.'
'Gazpacho. It's meant to be cold.'
Corrigan dusted crumbs off his trousers.
'So there they were. We had a team up in Glencullen for ten days then. It was only sight stuff with a few good snapshots.'
'No tap on the blower, Pat? You must be getting very slack. Don't the District Justices watch the telly and see how every other jurisdiction does it?' Minogue said.
'You're a howl, Matt. We didn't do much about it except stuff more files. Anyway, Costello stayed there for a week or so. We got word that he had just done a job up in the North. Then he cleared out of the house and we lost track of him. But sure the next thing is he's full of holes and butchered.'
'But sure, indeed,' Minogue echoed the Irish national phrase.
'Tell me now, Matt, how you knew the answer before I knew the question.'
'I don't follow you.'
Minogue was distracted by the groups of students on the sidewalks. Trinity College was down the end of the street. No Iseult among them.
'You put me up to looking into Costello's files again. Making it up like you didn't know the answer. Come on now and spill the beans.'
'Beans?'
No Daithi either. A couple was kissing passionately. Minogue was shocked. It was the girl who was pinning the boy against the railings. Busses screeched. People at the next table were laughing. The girl disentangled herself slightly. The better to dive back into the kissing, Minogue thought. It was not Iseult's face, he noted with relief. The woman grasped the man around the neck again.
'Jases. They'll be peeling off their clothes and having a wear next,' Corrigan grumbled.
'What beans?' Minogue asked.
'What put you onto this idea? Costello?'
The boy encircled her with his arms. That was nice. And one hand strayed to her hair. Very nice hair. Would it feel like Iseult's, the way she was always complaining about it being too dry? And stroked her hair. Lovely hair. Lustrous hair.
'Well?' Corrigan prompted again.
'Let's call it an association which, like Count Dracula, can't stand the light of day.'
'Combs is English. British. Was, anyway. What was he doing living in bloody Kilternan? There, answer me that one.'
'I'm not sure that I can, Pat. You tell me what he was doing going up to Glencullen for his sup of drink every evening.'
'Is that a fact? Right enough, you mentioned that before. Sure it's only a bit up the road.'
'It most certainly is not up the road a bit. Not if you're seventy something years of age and you have a pub around the corner from your own house.'
'You think that Combs was snooping around or the like?' *
'I'm exploring the outlandish possibility that Mr Combs might have been in touch with Mister Ball over an item concerning the late Mr Costello and Mr Costello's friends.'
'Mr Costello's friends are mainly members of the INLA. By the leaping Jesus, Matt. Do you know what you're saying?'
Corrigan sat back in the wire chair and placed his ham hands on the armrests.
'You don't say,' Minogue said.
Corrigan leaned forward suddenly.
'So the INLA killed your man?'
'No, they didn't.'
'Who did, so?'
'I don't know who killed him, Pat. If I did, I would be buying you the dinner. I need to talk to someone in the embassy, though. Someone in the same line of work as Ball was. To spring something on them and see what they say.'
'You can't. We're not supposed to assume that intelligence operatives work out of embassies, Matt. Rules is rules.'
'A poke at one of them, Pat. One of us has to poke at him. You do it if that's the way it has to be done, but I need some finger on them.'
Corrigan noted the discrepancy between Minogue's tone and his slouch in the chair. He looked like he was daydreaming, but the tone was acid.
'Come on now, Matt. There's a Second Secretary shot and killed on the streets not twenty-four hours ago. We're not even allowed near the place to interview anyone in the embassy. Damn it man, my own men are playing second fiddle to a team of Brits that landed off the plane this morning, and we're being phoned every hour from Justice. To remind us to let their 'experts,' if you please, do their investigation. 'Experts,' is it? Now how am I going to get anyone to let me do what you want? These are diplomats. This is Ireland, remember. We have this wee issue going on with the British for eight hundred years or so. They make the rules and you and I, we follow the rules. Especially at times like this. That way we don't bollocks up things.'
Minogue's eyes remained out of focus. Corrigan wondered if it was the effects of that odd food he had eaten.
'Well, I bollocks things up, Pat. As a matter of routine. I have, I can and I probably will again.'
'That's a different class of a game you're talking about now,' Corrigan said evenly. 'Don't come the heavy with me.'
'What are we fighting over, yourself and myself?' Minogue said languidly. 'Someone at the embassy knows something about Combs. Ball seems to have had some contact with our Combs. I want to know what they knew about Combs' murder. Not to mention me helping my friends in the Branch with this assassination last night…'
Corrigan leaned forward again.
'Look. I can't get at them. I told you that Ball was probably some kind of intelligence officer-'
'It's 'probably' now? But one small favour at least,' Minogue said studying Corrigan's frown. 'Nothing out of this world now,' he added.
The frown drove a deeper crease between Corrigan's eyebrows.
'Will you arrange a tail on someone for me?'
Corrigan rocked back in his chair. He shook his head. He pushed back the chair, still not looking at Minogue's face.
'Matt, sometimes when I hear people saying that you're a bit cracked, I wonder to myself if maybe they're not right?'
Corrigan made a minor ceremony of standing and buttoning his jacket. Minogue stayed seated, looking up Dawson Street.
'I might have to do it myself then, Pat. I don't think any of Jimmy Kilmartin's lads is up to doing the job properly. And I'll tell you what. If Moore is who or what I think he is, then we'll need an expert. I'd ask you for a phone tap, but I know that your blood pressure would pay the bill in the end.'
Corrigan nodded once, decisively.
'Just do it for twenty-four hours.'
Corrigan stood with the pained expression still wrinkling his forehead. He stroked his chin. Minogue propelled himself up from the chair. He eased the skepticism on Corrigan's face with a squeeze of Corrigan's upper arm.
'Something will give way, Pat. Don't be fretting.'
'There's always the pension, isn't there?' said a resigned Corrigan. 'Listen. You'll get one full day out of me. I
