”
Murtagh shrugged.
“Is Himself inside?”
Murtagh leaned in closer. He nodded at the door to Kilmartin’s office.
“He went in there ten minutes ago with Mick Hand. ‘Conferring.’ ”
“The Egans?”
Murtagh stroked his neck and studied the ceiling.
“On the agenda, you can be sure, boss. He came out a few minutes ago looking fit to brain someone. ”
Murtagh was about to add something when Kilmartin’s door was jerked open. Sergeant Mick Hand emerged ahead of Kilmartin. Something about Hand’s gait and expression reminded Minogue of teams leaving the field at half-time trailing by three goals. He looked to Kilmartin. The Chief Inspector shook his head once, stalked to the boards and stood with his hands on his hips.
“All right, all right,” he called out. “Away we go. We’re going to get an education about the people that Mary Mullen was mixed up with. But first we’ll take a few minutes to update ourselves. Can you wait, Mick?”
Hand nodded. He caught Minogue’s eye for a moment.
“Thanks, Mick. Site report, forensic and door-to-door for starters. Who wants to go first? Don’t all rush, now.”
Minogue observed Kilmartin’s slow passage around the room. Murtagh talked on. There was no yield yet from Mullen’s Volkswagen. Spotless for a taxi, said Theresa Brophy, Kilmartin’s favoured conduit for early forensic leads. Jack Mullen could reasonably claim to be a conscientious taxi-driver concerned with the welfare and comfort of his passengers. Passengers, thought Minogue. He carried maybe a dozen different people a day. That’s upwards of a hundred people a week. Five thousand a year. He made another effort to listen carefully to Murtagh. Known offenders, prostitutes known to the police in that area… Offenders on bail, recent parolees… Addicts known to frequent the area, assaults in the area in the last year… Minogue underlined addict.
“Well, why not?”
It was Kilmartin who had barked at Murtagh. The detective looked up from his papers and pushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
“Which now, boss?”
“The brassers, man! The ladies of the night! Why were none of them plying their trade at that hour of the night, we want to know.”
Murtagh glanced at Minogue.
“Doyle maintains that there’s a hiatus around that time of the night,” said the Inspector.
“Hiatus?” said Kilmartin. “Isn’t that from lifting stuff that’s too heavy? Try a bit of English there, Shakespeare. For working men, the likes of Voh’ Lay-bah there and meself.”
Malone’s expression didn’t change. He tapped his pencil on his notebook several times.
“The business only really gets going when the pubs close,” said Minogue. “Donnybrook station did a sweep of the area three weeks ago. Doyle says the drive-by trade has slackened off there anyway.”
“Let me guess,” said Kilmartin “Telephone dates and the Companions Wanted ads do the business now, is it?”
Minogue nodded.
“So says Doyler.”
Kilmartin tugged at his ear.
“Fergal?”
Sheehy delivered in a rococo Kerry accent.
“Well now, door-to-door, we have nothing yet. We’re doing a quarter-mile radius. We’re a bit over half-way through the pubs, clubs, eating houses, hotels. I’m chasing down cleaners and night staff in offices near the canal too. Potentials from residents too.”
He turned his notebook sideways to scrutinise a drawing he had made.
“There are video cameras on a place two hundred-odd yards up,” he said “But they’re the wrong side of the bridge ”
“Speaking of which,” Kilmartin broke in and turned to Murtagh, “you’re working through the video of the site, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” said Murtagh “I’ve got two fellas from CDU on it. We’re about, I suppose, a third of the way. So far, they’re all legit. Six cars were parked overnight. We got statements from five.”
“All good citizens in that part of town, are they,” said Kilmartin
“As good as you’ll get in Dublin,” said Sheehy. Hand smiled and crossed his legs.
“Huh,” said Kilmartin “What photos are you using, Fergal?”
“File mugs from her last conviction ”
Kilmartin licked his lips and looked down at his cigarette. Minogue yawned but couldn’t stop after one. Malone was still writing in his notebook. Kilmartin waved at the notice-boards.
“Patricia Fahy. Molly and Matt took her statement…?”
Minogue tagged on to the unfinished end of Kilmartm’s sentence.
“We’re not entirely thrilled. She’s scared. Her whereabouts look pretty sound. She spent the evening with her fella, James Tierney, Jammy Tierney. He appears to be a clean bill of goods. John tracked him down handy enough.”
Murtagh took his cue.
“They watched a soccer match on the box. Tierney’s a soccer fanatic. Arsenal and Everton. He had chapter and verse of the game. She stayed over.”
“Say no more,” said Kilmartin. “Now, before we move on, a few things to bear in mind. She does not appear to have been a drug user. She had not had intercourse that evening. What she did have was between three and four glasses of alcohol which appears to have been vodka. What she also had was a hair-line fracture of her left cheekbone. Mary Mullen was hit hard with something which left no transfer, fragments, pigment, impression- nothing-on, in or about the tissues. She was very unconscious when she went into the water. She drowned. Her bag’s missing. Was she back on the game, for that night anyway? A ‘curb job,’ as this class of trade is called, I believe?”
He paused and drew on a fresh cigarette.
“Is she short of money? She’s jacked it in with this place Tresses. She hasn’t applied for Social Welfare. She’s pregnant. Does she need money for an abortion? Does she have a pimp who makes her take up the trade again? Do the oul hormones lead her astray?”
Kilmartin arched his back and scratched with his thumb.
“So,” he groaned. “No sign of this fella Patricia Fahy mentioned. Hickey.”
He nodded toward one of the boards where Leo Hickey’s photocopied and enlarged mug shot had been taped.
“Hands up those who think we’ll find him belly-up somewhere too,” said Kilmartin, looking at Malone.
No hands were raised.
“Well, his mother’s plenty worried. He didn’t show up at home last night. Hickey’s a petty, hang-around type of a scut. He’s probably a drug user, to what extent we don’t know. But anyway, we’ll move ahead. We know from our fine colleagues in the Serious Crime Squad that Mary Mullen has been seen in the company of one Eddsy Egan, in a club called Too De Loos. Mick Hand has several sightings of her in the recent past there with the little shitehawk. Eddsy Egan. Are we right there, Mick?”
Kilmartin had worked his way around to a seat next to Minogue. Hand walked to the boards. Minogue looked at the photos of the Egans. Two of the three were mug shots. There was a definite resemblance between two at least-Martin and Bobby. Eddsy, the oldest, had a heavily lined face. He looked at least ten years older than the next one, Bobby. Minogue scanned the paragraphs and let the pages slip from his fingers one by one. Tout Des Loups was the spelling of the night-club.
“Lads,” said Hand, and smiled. Now that he was standing, there was something about Hand’s long legs and small lined face that put Minogue in mind of a camel.
“Thanks, er, Jim. And thanks for the photocopying there. You should all have a copy of the summary we did