“Tell me about the flat being done,” said Kilmartin. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Jim, and neither do you. Patricia Fahy is missing a bit of money and a ghetto blaster worth a hundred and something quid. But the place was really tossed.”
“Do we have any idea of what was taken belonging to Mary Mullen?”
“No. Not yet.”
Kilmartin closed his eyes, groaned and tried to scratch high up on his back.
“Leave aside the idea that this is burglary number nineteen thousand nine hundred and whatever for Dublin this week,” he said. “What might Mary Mullen have that someone wanted?”
“Drugs,” said Malone. “Kind of staring us in the face, like.”
“Attaboy, Molly,” said Kilmartin. “Drugs.” He opened his eyes. “I phoned Mick Hand and had a chat about this Egan mob. They do more than robbing and beating. Hard drugs, soft drugs, protection rackets, fences, car robbery ring. They have certain parts of the city well terrorized. Anything they’re not into, says I. Jail, says he.”
Kilmartin stopped and gasped: he couldn’t reach a point high up between his shoulder blades.
“So. Molly. We have to find out what’s behind her, who’s behind her. Mary Mullen. If she was tied into the Egan clan… Ah, bugger, I can’t get at it!”
Kilmartin grabbed a biro and found the spot.
“Ahhh… Got caught up in a row with a rival outfit. Maybe she fell foul of the Egans themselves. Ahhh… God, that’s the spot now!”
“Any sign from the PM yet that she was a user, John?” Minogue asked.
“No needle tracks.”
Kilmartin scratched the bristles on his chin.
“How soon before the first toxicology?”
“Three, four o’clock,” said Murtagh.
Minogue stretched out his legs. There was a check-mark and a (P. St.) beside Jack Mullen’s name on the board. It took him a moment: Jack Mullen’s statement was being taken in Pearse Street Garda station.
“We’re definite on the cause of death, John?” Murtagh looked over at him.
“Yes. She was unconscious when she went into the water.”
“And that bruise again?”
“He said we should consider it very possible that her head was slammed against something.”
“How hard?”
“Enough for a concussion. The cheekbone has a hairline fracture in it. No bruises or pressure marks anywhere else.”
“Not even her arms? She didn’t resist?” Murtagh shook his head.
“She knew him,” said Kilmartin. “Proceed as planned.” Minogue looked up at Mary Mullen’s picture on the board. A punch, he wondered. Facing her. Nothing on her nails, her hands. Unexpected.
Kilmartin elbowed away from the wall and began a slow, measured prowl of the squadroom.
“We have Harcourt Street station doing the banks again,” he said. “Along with Sheehy and two Scenes men. God help them. I was able to get him a half-dozen from Donnybrook too. He’ll need them. Did you see the place in daylight? Christ, what a mess. And the stink! Dear Old Dirty Dublin, my eye. A slurry pit is what it is. Anyway. The lock-keeper-what’s his name?”
Malone glanced up at the noticeboard.
“Kavanagh,” said Murtagh.
“Him, yes. He’s a hundred per cent certain. Nothing went through there after lunchtime.”
Kilmartin paused and looked around at the three policemen. Minogue thought he recognized the look: the Chief Inspector’s chronic flatulence was about to score again.
“Who’s taking Jack Mullen’s statement?” Minogue asked.
Kilmartin looked at his watch.
“Conor Madden,” said Murtagh. “And the other fella. Larry Smith. Used to be in Store Street. Yes. They took him in an hour ago.”
“Any word yet?” Murtagh tossed his biro into the air and caught it.
“Well, I’m going to phone,” said Minogue.
He dialled, asked for Madden and watched Malone while he waited. Malone was writing, frowning at what he had written, underlining, staring at the boards, grilling Murtagh.
“Matt, oul son. How’s things?”
“Holding my own, so I am, Conor. Warm, don’t you think.”
“Hot as the hob of hell. But sure, what harm? We’ll be long enough without it.”
“Ah, don’t be talking. Now. You’ve had time with Jack Mullen.”
“I did that. Will one of yous be by to go at him proper soon?”
“I will indeed. How’d he strike you first?”
“Well, he knew already. The wife had left a message at his job. ‘First time she’s gotten in touch with me in a year and a half,’ says he. ‘And it had to be this.’ ”
“How does he look to you?”
“So far, he seems sound,” said Madden. “Broke down a few times. Genuine enough, I thought.”
“What’s his alibi looking like?”
“He was working that night, he says. The taxi. Day shift, but sometimes fills in on an eleven to seven if he’s asked. We can get a log of the fares he had. There are times on it too, a computer printout.”
“Does he own the car or just drive it?”
“He owns it, but he works for Capitol.”
“How’d he pay for the car?”
“He got a settlement from a back injury when he worked in England. He was on the buildings. To make a long story short, he came back to Dublin. He messed up everything with drink but then he was able to beat it. Finally he was able to get an in with the taxi business. There’s a kink in him now, I should tell you. He’s some class of a born-again. It has to do with being an alcoholic, he says. A club called the Victory Club.”
“The Victory Club? Salvation Army? What is it?”
“It’s kind of like the AA. He shares a place out in Ballybough with two other fellas. They’re ex-alcoholics as well. They’re all part of this Victory Club. The idea is, as I understand it so far, that these fellas have to put themselves back together again. They stay together so as to buck one another up against relapsing.”
“So it’s a recovery group,” said Minogue.
“Well, I’m no expert. It has to do with finding yourself and that. I didn’t hear him say he’d talked to Elvis or anything of that nature now. Repeated a lot of the same phrases.”
“Try a few on me.”
“‘Coming home’?”
“Okay.”
“Something to do with a hole. Not the one you dig, now. Making yourself whole.”
“Holistic?”
“That’s it. Yep. I thought it was part of the born-again kick, you know. He talks about the time before he gave up the jar as his ‘past life.’ Later on he says, ‘God has decided.’ Yep. ‘God called her home’,” says he. He said that he hadn’t been much of a father to her. Broke down again. He was at it a while. That’s hard to fake right, I figure.”
Minogue watched Malone patting his crew-cut while he concentrated on something in his notebook.
“He admitted that he used to tap the wife a bit. I hadn’t even asked and he popped out with that one. Now that’s odd. Like he was confessing his sins.”
“Beat her, you mean,” said Minogue. “As opposed to a tap.”
“Well, yes, I suppose. He has a bad back now. He’s still a big buck of a fella. He goes to a fitness club. He does weights and exercises for the back and goes for physio sometimes.”
“When did he last have contact with Mary, according to himself?”
“Said he saw her on the street back in March.”
“What, where?” asked Minogue.
“Along Baggot Street, the Stephen’s Green end.”
