The barrister rose slowly from his chair. Russell stood next to Kilmartin and stared at Crossan too.
“You, mister”-Kilmartin jabbed a finger in the air separating him from the lawyer-“you had better have some big, fat rabbits in your hat. Because, by Christ, we’re letting everything off the leash here. If and we can’t find rabbits to run down, we’ll eat anything that looks like a fuckin’ weasel!”
Crossan studied the bulk of James Kilmartin, recently disgorged from a helicopter onto the pad at Ennis County Hospital.
“Tell me now,” said the barrister, “did you gallop all the way down from Dublin in a pack or on your own?”
Kilmartin’s attention seemed to be suddenly taken up with a particle of undigested food caught on the tip of his tongue. His tongue scraped his teeth several times as if to flush out any more pieces of food still hiding in his dentures. When he spoke, it was in the gentle and intimate tone the Chief Inspector reserved for his better threats.
“Listen, head-the-ball. If and you don’t co-operate 200 per cent with us here”-the Chief Inspector paused and took a piece of something from his tongue with his thumbnail; he looked down his nose at it as though puzzled at its provenance, flicked it away and looked back into Crossan’s glazed, bulging eyes-“I’ll personally give you such a fucking belt that they’ll stop you for speeding above in Portlaoise.”
Kilmartin turned on his heel and headed for Russell’s office. Russell pursed his lips and looked out bleakly under his corrugated brow at Crossan.
“That’s merely a figure of speech, Mr Crossan,” he murmured, and followed Kilmartin.
The Chief Inspector couldn’t or wouldn’t sit. Russell closed the door behind him and watched Kilmartin as he stood by the window rolling on the balls of his feet.
“Minogue has a mouth on him,” said Russell.
Kilmartin’s reply came in a restrained monotone. “Well I know it, Tom. And I told him often enough. Sure, don’t I have to put up with it every day myself?”
“Didn’t help him much here, I can tell you. Matter of fact, I tore into him for it.”
Kilmartin nearly lost it then.
“I know, Tom, I know,” he said as he drew in a breath. “He has that knack. Definitely, yes, I’d have to agree with you 100 per cent on that.”
“Is that a job requirement for your mob or that class of thing?”
Kilmartin’s teeth were set tight.
“He’s Clare, Tom,” murmured the Chief Inspector. “He came by the sharp tongue honest enough.”
Russell weighed Kilmartin’s anger before he looked away to his desk.
“Well, he’s after pissing in the wrong pot today, Jim.”
Kilmartin whirled around and strode to the door.
“Wait until we have all the units-”
“I can’t fucking wait,” Kilmartin hissed. He slapped the door with the heel of his hand. “He’s out there somewhere. I was never a man to sit around like a dog by the fire.”
Russell hurried out after him. Kilmartin waved at Hoey.
“Drive us, D.J.,” Russell called out to Ahearne. “We can work from the car.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The small, choking black space around his face had become his world. Minogue tried counting his heartbeats to control his claustrophobia. His face felt swollen from the heat, and the musty, mildewed smell of the sack still stung his nostrils. He knew he was facing the wall and that there was a rickety back to the chair he had been tied to. Three men, he knew from their voices, the two from the van and a third he sensed was an older man. He tried to breathe more shallowly. The twine around his wrists was thin and sharp and he worried about the circulation in his hands. His body ached as he tried to sense some movement in the air around him. It was the voice of the third man, this newly arrived stranger, that took Minogue’s concentration. He knew that the man was using a clumsy but effective disguise to muffle his voice. A cloth or a towel, he guessed. Amateur or expert? He couldn’t decide. His skin prickled in anticipation when he heard someone getting up from a chair behind him.
“You’re not giving us much to work with,” came the muffled voice. “I’m after telling you that you need to do a job a work here. It’s up to you.”
Country accent, Minogue could tell. Clare?
“You have the solution, but there’s not much time.”
Minogue felt he should say something.
“A solution?”
“Yes, a solution. Get to work persuading us.”
For a moment, Minogue wanted to shout back that there was nothing he could tell them, that they were stupid to imagine he could.
“Well? Do you think we’re fucking iijits here, then?”
Though the man hadn’t raised his voice, Minogue felt some shock of familiarity. It was less the swearing than a tone of voice he had heard before.
“I was down here on account of a family matter. My brother’s family had-”
“Your brother, hah! And the son, no doubt. A right pair, they are. But sure, at least their hearts are in the right place. What brought you down the second time then?”
“When I heard about Bourke being shot-”
“Ah, don’t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes with some cock-and-bull story about this fucking thing, whatever it was. You were down here on dirty work-”
“I came down to see about Bourke. Doesn’t anybody care that he got shot out the back of-”
“What the hell do you care one way or another?” came Ciaran’s voice. “You took up with this Bourke thing as a cover for doing your spying and sneaking around. What was your mission here?”
Minogue coughed and the twine cut into his wrists.
“…this shite about you crusading down here, you and Crossan…”
He strained forward coughing and his chest tightened with the spasms.
Was this a ploy to make him believe that Crossan was in the clear? The stranger’s tone was less contemptuous now.
“…so stop being a fucking yob. You’ve worked up a speech and a story that you think is going to work. Guards are like that, aren’t they? You think everybody else is stupid.” The voice came closer. Minogue stiffened as he heard shoes squeak.
“Ah, but I shouldn’t be so hard on you,” the voice resumed. “You tried. But there comes a point when a man has to look out for himself. So let’s get down to business before we run out of time.”
Minogue sat very still now.
“Right. You’re an Inspector in the Guards. You work for the Technical Bureau, whatever that is-”
“The Murder Squad is one of-”
“Start with the Howards now. You were nosing around there this morning. What brought you there?”
Clare accent for sure, Minogue decided, but he could tell no more.
“I wanted to talk to Mrs Howard.”
“About what?”
“Other details from the night of that fire, when Jane Clark-”
Something shrieked on the floor and Minogue instinctively ducked his head.
“I told you he was a-!” shouted Ciaran.
“It’s the truth,” Minogue protested.
“Fuck you and your lies!” Ciaran shouted. “You’re scouting around for us! Waiting to pounce! You and a whole posse of cops and Branchmen and God knows what else! Aren’t you?”
A shiver ran up Minogue’s chest and seemed to light with a small piercing shock on his nipples. He waited for the stranger to calm them down a bit. The voice was no longer muffled when it whispered into his ear.
