“Christ,” said Malone to nobody. “Nothing they won’t do?”
“It’s a private collection,” said Ryan. “That’s perfectly legal.”
“A collection of privates, you mean,” said Minogue.
The Inspector didn’t always look at the faces first. The fake smiles began to get to him. The phony ecstasy, the make-up, the lie of beckoning, of need, clouded his lust more and more. There were few who didn’t look painfully amateur. Some couldn’t hide their shame. In others he thought he saw a fear beyond the feigned helplessness. It was Malone who spotted Patricia Fahy first. There were two pictures of her. Her face was red, her eyes glistened. He exchanged glances with Malone.
“These don’t look like Scandinavian furniture to me. Are these all the Irish girls?”
“All I’ve got,” said Ryan. He turned from the window. “Look. What are you really after?”
Minogue said nothing.
“Look, is it such a major crisis if I have pictures? All of them are over eighteen, I hasten to add. You’re obviously working on something. I’m nobody really but maybe, you know, I can help out?”
“What does hasten mean?” asked Malone. Ryan frowned.
“What gives?” he said. “I mean, what do you want to know?”
“I think you should hasten to wake yourself up, pal. Who are your customers?”
“Who said I had customers?”
“Do you know all these people?” Minogue asked. “These women?”
“Of course I don’t. But if you’re looking for someone, maybe I might know them.”
“How can you tell who’s who here then,” said Minogue. “It looks like the camera was an inch from various crotches half the time.”
Ryan sat back.
“Well?”
“The people who commission them, well, they want the pictures for their own sake usually.”
“‘Commission?’ ” said Malone.
“I don’t know anything about any other stuff,” said Ryan.
“What ‘other stuff?”
“Whatever it is you’re getting at. I think you’re trying to frame me for something.”
Malone guffawed.
“Frame you? We don’t need to frame you for anything, pal. You’re the accessory to all the charges that landed on Tarzan, there. He works for you, right?”
He closed the folder and shook his head.
“Here, give me another one. I’m nearly getting used to this stuff. What was the name of that folder I just had?”
“‘All for one and one for all,’ ” Ryan muttered.
“I think that’s the one I have,” said Minogue.
“Yours must be ‘Sports’ then,” said Ryan. He handed him another folder.
“What’s this one?”
“‘Workout.’”
Malone rolled his eyes and grabbed the new folder.
“This is the stuff you said you wanted. Painless and them.”
Minogue looked up from his album. Malone opened the folder. A woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a steam bath was tied by her ankles and wrists to what seemed to be a row of bars in a prison cell. The beads of sweat or water glistened in the harsh light of an overhead bulb. Painted on her breasts or real, Minogue couldn’t tell, were weals from a whip. Malone’s frown deepened. He turned in the seat and glared at Ryan.
“Don’t take this too much to heart, Ryan, but you’re a fucking slug.”
Minogue followed the pages as Malone turned them.
“Where do these come from?” asked Malone. “Who are these girls?”
“People phone me. I bring the equipment and I do the photography.”
“Where?”
“Different places.”
“Don’t be jack-acting around here,” said Malone. “Talk in English.”
Minogue closed the folder and adjusted the mirror. Nice car, he decided. Wouldn’t mind a blast out the Naas Road with it. He watched Ryan’s face.
“I get a call to come to a place and that’s it. Flats, apartments, hotels. Offices even.”
“Yeah, but who are the people that call you?”
“How do I know? Hey, look, I’m just a hired hand.”
“So you go to these places and…?”
“I go to the address, set up and do the routine.”
“Then?”
“I hand over the rolls of film or negs I have from the session. Then I walk out the door.”
“Who do you give the stuff to?”
“Whoever’s at the door.”
“All out of the goodness of your heart. Do you tell the girls what to do too? Is that your kick?”
Ryan let out a sigh.
“A lot of the time it doesn’t take much to get them going.”
“Ah, come on now,” said Minogue. “These girls look like any girl you’d meet walking down O’Connell Street. They’re hardly professional models. You’re trying to tell me they’re volunteering?”
“Volunteering? Jesus, you’re definitely out of touch.”
“Tell me more,” said Minogue. Ryan began nibbling on a fingernail.
“That’s all there is. I told you everything.”
“‘Doesn’t take much,’ you said. What do you mean?”
Ryan still held his hand up under his chin, looking at the fingernails.
“Well, you’re not going to get much done without a leg opener, are you?”
“What kind are you talking about?” asked Minogue.
“I don’t know. A few jars. Whatever. Did I ask? I just showed up and took pictures.”
“How’d you get paid?”
“Who said anything about getting paid?”
“I did,” snapped Malone. “Because I say you wouldn’t lift a finger if you weren’t getting money for it.”
Ryan seemed to be deciding which fingernail to nibble.
“Sometimes I’d get a set of negatives. Not all of them, only some. Then the fee in an envelope. Be delivered to the office.”
He stared back into Minogue’s eyes in the mirror.
“How many girls are there in these books?” the Inspector asked.
“Twenty-five, thirty. Around that.”
“And you run off your own photos of these and sell them.”
“Sell them? Who says-”
“Shut up with that rant. Are these all the girls you’ve done this kind of work for?”
“No.”
“You’re telling me that, whoever your employers are, they only bother with some of these girls?”
“I suppose.” Minogue glanced at Malone.
“So where are the pictures of the rest of them?” asked Malone.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know a person by the name of Mary Mullen?”
“No.”
“Patricia Fahy?”
“I don’t ask names. Look, I’m only a middleman. This is a business.”
“Who calls you?” Malone asked.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
