“She was still asleep when I left,” he said.
“Well, she was. And I thought she’d be well rested. She came down the stairs and I had her favourite breakfast ready for her. She’s eating away, so innocently enough I try to, you know, have a little chat.”
“‘A little chat’? Don’t you mean a big chat?”
“Oh, stop that! That’s not one bit funny! All I said to her was, ‘Darling, isn’t it time to get whatever’s bothering you off your chest.’ ”
Minogue felt his jaws lock. He stared at Kilmartin but didn’t see him.
“Kathleen,” he murmured. “Listen. This thing about getting things off one’s chest-”
“I can tell by that tone that you’re annoyed now. I can!”
“Listen to me: all this guff about openness and sharing-”
“Oh, stop, stop! This is the twentieth century, Matt! People need to talk it out, for God’s sake! I’m sorry now I phoned.”
He had to make an effort to breathe. He rubbed hard at his eyebrows. What was the bloody point of another tilt at pop psychology? It was a lost cause.
“It’s you and her,” Kathleen said. “It’s coming out more in her as she gets older. Contrary, God!”
“We can’t be meddling. We just have to wait.”
“Talk to her, would you? Please?”
“I’ll listen, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Oh, Matt! Why are you so bloody obstinate?”
“I’m not. Everyone else I meet is, that’s the problem.”
“All right, all right. Anyway. I hope I haven’t taken your mind off something.”
“Ah, don’t be worrying. I shouldn’t have… Well, let it rest for the moment. Is she gone to the flat?”
“I think so.”
Minogue replaced the receiver and stared at the desk-top. Kilmartin came into view.
“Okay there?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Eventually. I don’t know.”
“I think you got them all there.”
Minogue looked up at his colleague. Kilmartin squinted at him. Minogue sat back.
“Iseult dug in her heels about getting married. Won’t go near a church.”
Kilmartin rubbed at his nose.
“Ah, don’t worry. She’ll get sense.”
“I hope not.” Kilmartin shook his head and began rearranging his rolled-up shirt-cuffs.
“Nothing’s good enough for you today, bucko,” he declared. “Saddle up now, and we’ll chase bad guys.”
Minogue winked at Eilis, lifted the receiver and keyed in Byrne’s number.
“Tommy Malone won’t be in ’til later, Eilis,” he said. “If at all today. And I’ll be going out on a lead now in a minute, I hope. Make sure the boss tells you about a call we’re supposed to get-a big prospect in the Mary Mullen case is going to phone, or so he says-Hello? May I speak to Mrs. Byrne?”
SEVENTEEN
Minogue turned away from the canal and let the Citroen freewheel down the lane. Vesey Court was a working-class enclave surrounded by a palisade of offices, mews houses and apartments. The Byrnes’ place was on the ground floor of a two-storey block of Dublin Corporation flats. Through wrought-iron gates Minogue caught a glimpse of a forest-green BMW squatting on an interlocking brick forecourt. Skylights with sharp angles erupted from several roofs; a glossy lilac-painted door stood out from a grey pebble-dash wall. He glanced at the dashboard: ten o’clock. Cars were crammed everywhere in the laneways. He’d have to jam some in to park the Citroen.
He set the alarm and strolled down the terrace. There was a faint smell of rotting rubbish in the air. A pneumatic drill began hammering away somewhere in the adjoining streets. Movement behind the coffee-coloured glass on the top floor caught Minogue’s eye. He kept his gaze there while he stepped out onto the laneway proper. Sudden movement to his side made him start. The motorbike swept by within inches of him. Star Couriers, proclaimed the rider’s jacket: “Consider it there.”
The fright ran like cold water down to his knee caps.
“Goddamn you and your bloody machine!” he called out.
He spotted the curtain drawn back before he reached the door. He rang. Why was it taking so long to answer? The door opened to show Mrs. Mary Byrne, stooped and shuffling.
“You’re the Guard? The one was talking to Joey there the other day?”
Her face was damp, her eyes were small and intent.
“I am that. Mrs. Byrne?”
“Oh, none other. Do you use those cards now, like on the telly?”
“We do indeed. The card says I’m Matt Minogue.”
“Go on into the kitchen, will you. I’m a bit slow on the pegs.”
“Same as myself, by times, Mrs. Byrne.”
“Oh, yes. But I’ll bet you don’t have plastic things for hips now, do you? Sit down there. God, you’re a bit tall, aren’t you? Oh, well. Find your own way.”
Minogue eased himself into a kitchen chair.
“Does your husband know that I’m coming by?”
“No. I sent him down to the shop for rashers. He’ll be back in ten minutes, give or take, like. So you’re a Guard, are you. Which crowd do you work for?”
“You’d probably know it by its old name, Mrs. Byrne. The Murder Squad.”
Her eyes left his and Minogue looked around. The kitchen was spotless. The cooker gleamed and the counters were clear, what’s more. She had noted his appraisal.
“Oh, I can’t really take the credit for that! Joey does all the stuff around the house.”
“You’re well set up then, Mrs. Byrne. Is your husband a Dublinman?”
“ ’Deed and he is. Right down to his toenails.”
She grimaced as she shifted in her chair and squeezed out the words.
“Salt of the earth, he is.”
Her eyes were still closed.
“Are you, em…?”
She opened her eyes and smiled.
“Ah, I’m grand. It’s the hip. No. My Joey’s a man in a million. Doing housework all his life. Likes to be busy. Nicest man you could meet in a long day’s walk. Amn’t I lucky?”
“To be sure you are. Is he long retired now?”
“Eight year, so he is. You’d never guess to look at him but! And I’m not just saying that. Oh, no! I’m the oul wan in this family, so I am. Ha ha! I put on the wrinkles for the both of us. Joe’s the same today as he was twenty year ago. Oh, yes.”
“That’s great.”
“He used to be a ringer for Victor Mature. What more could a woman want?”
Minogue smiled and looked around the room again. Maybe all the grandchildren’s First Communion pictures etcetera were in the front room. His eyes returned to her face.
“Seventy-six he is. Oh, but you’d never guess! Sure, didn’t he lift me out of the chair the other day?”
Minogue’s wandering thoughts slowed.
“Swept you off your feet, did he now.”
“Ah, go on with you. Ha ha! No. I sort of got locked into position, don’t you know. The joints, like. And I’m no featherweight, I can tell you.”
He smiled.
“Great for a man of his age,” he said.
“Of course, being tidy and organized is second nature to him,” she went on. “A place for everything,
