Kilmartin sat on the edge of Minogue’s desk looking down at the floor. Minutes crawled by. The phone didn’t ring.
“Damn,” said Minogue. “They’d be on to us by now if they’d nabbed him.”
“Ah, hold your whist,” said Kilmartin. He seemed to be scrutinising the Inspector’s forehead. Perhaps it had just dawned on Kilmartin that Barney’s was on the edge of a warren of streets and alleys which led on and through the markets up to Smithfield.
“A little unorthodox there on the phone, weren’t we, Watson?” he whispered. Minogue glared at him.
“No, we weren’t.”
“What was the rationale to driving into his face the way you did, then?”
“He was drunk, Jim. I thought I could go direct while he was out of it. Maudlin and the rest of it. Prolong the call.”
Kilmartin threw his empty cigarette package across the room. It missed the bin by two feet. He stood.
“Maybe there’s a Guard off the Olympic team on foot patrol up there in the Markets.”
“Maybe,” sighed Minogue. He rose from his chair. “I need some air. Out of the way or I’m going through you.”
“Oh, the tough talk is out now, is it? Hold me back. Learn to relax, man.”
The air was muggy and thick with the tang of exhaust and hops from the Guinness brewery. He strolled about the yard, his thoughts on Iseult. Drive by her studio, that’s where she’d hidden out. Entice her out for a walk and a pint? That’d get her talking. He was leaning against the boot of his Citroen when Kilmartin emerged. From the Chief Inspector’s wary hangdog gait, Minogue concluded failure.
Kilmartin paused to light a cigarette.
“Well, Jim?”
Kilmartin shook his head. Minogue swore.
“And the rest of it. He’s alive, he’s scared. We’ll find him.”
“He’s also smart, James. He picks his phones very damn well.”
“We’ll bag him yet, old son. Barman put it at about two minutes between him hightailing it and a Guard bursting in the door. Left a half pint of beer on the counter behind him too, the little shite. But it’s not over, old bean. There are a half-dozen cars in the area.”
Kilmartin blew out smoke, cleared his throat in a long, modulated gurgle and spat across the yard.
“Look at the time now, for the love of Jases,” he groaned. “No wonder you’re gone crooked. Are you lost without your new sidekick?”
“Keep it up, Jim. You’ll probably get your wish.”
There was an outbreak of hurt innocence on Kilmartin’s face.
“Oh, is it my fault for trying to insist we hire dependable and dedicated staff?”
“He can’t help it if he has a family, for God’s sake, or if his brother ran amok, can he?”
“Oh, I forgot-everybody’s a victim these days. Quick, fetch me a consultant-a counsellor!”
“In case you forgot, Jim, you’re not supposed to take family details into account from his personnel file. It’s strictly performance, commendations, record-”
“I know that, Professor.”
Kilmartin, in his truant, shifty schoolboy incarnation, let his tongue swell his cheek.
“What’s the latest bulletin on this soap opera of a family of his anyhow.”
“Terry the brother is all over the place. He has a drug problem. He’s gotten in with the Egans. They got to him right when he walked from the ’Joy. They’re going to destroy him. Tommy thinks they’re trying to take him down in the job too. Quits for arresting Lenehan.”
“Well, there’s a thesis now. This is real Egan style, I daresay.”
Minogue nodded.
“That’s right. Nobody’s immune.”
“You think they might be blackguarding our Molly somehow, using the brother?”
“They might try but he won’t go.”
Kilmartin’s eyes lingered on his colleague’s for a moment before he looked down at the Citroen.
“Here, let’s climb aboard this rig and I’ll buy you your tea.”
“Sorry, James. I’m going to drop by Iseult’s studio.”
“Fine and well. I didn’t want to be seen in this frigging nancy-boy spaceship anyway.”
Minogue held up his fist. Kilmartin shoved the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and made a feint. Minogue went into a crouch.
“Plan for six months in traction there, you bullock! Tommy Malone gave me tips.”
“Go to hell, you Clare lug! It’s yourself that’ll get the astronomy lessons here!”
Christ! Couldn’t a fella read the bleeding paper any more? He tried again to ignore the barman. The gobshite behind the bar must have wiped the counter twenty times since he’d come in. Maybe he was drinking too fast or something. But it was a hot day, for Jases’s sakes! He was still jittery after the row on the phone, the running from Barney’s. He peered over the top of the paper again. What a kip. Things living in the carpet. The stink of the place was made even worse by the smells of the rotting fruit and vegetables and fish hanging in the air all around the Markets. They should knock the place down. He finished the pint. Which one was that, number three or four? Three. He looked at the clock. Three pints in a half an hour. He watched the two oul lads cocked up on stools by the bar. At least they weren’t bothering him any more, trying to put talk on him. Another fella had come in a few minutes ago, a big fella with an apron. The barman had a pint ready for him and he downed it in about ten seconds. Not a word out of him. At first he’d thought it was a cop and he was up out of the seat before the guy had stepped through the door properly. Yeah, maybe that’s what had done it.
He studied the leftover froth on the sides of the glass. Maybe the barman was trying to fit him to some picture he’d seen but didn’t remember enough. Surely to God there weren’t pictures of him up, in the papers. Up on walls: “Wanted Leo Hickey. Murder.” Jesus! He folded his paper and looked down at the seat beside him for his cigarettes. He didn’t want to go, he realized. He didn’t want to be out there in the streets. He didn’t want to go back to the Park. He let himself lean back against the seat. He hadn’t been ten steps from the phone when he’d heard the the tyres of the squad car through the open door of the pub. Straight out the side door into the lane-way and through the Markets. What a pack of lying bastards, the Guards. They must have had the cars ready again, waiting for him. That could only mean they had him fitted for this, for Mary. Even that guy, the culchie who’d told him straight out: standard procedure, Liam.
Why was the guy still looking at him, for Christ’s sake? He stood up. The bar seemed to move with him. Hey! He felt in his pocket for the knife. The bar seemed brighter now. The barman was rubbing the counter again, but slowly now. He saw his own face in the mirror. A sight. No wonder he’d been keeping an eye on him. The anger began to drain out of him. He let go of the knife and grasped the coins instead.
“Here. Give us another pint there.”
He watched the barman pouring it, pretending to watch the filling glass but watching him at the same time.
“Any grub here, man? Sandwiches or stuff?”
“Crisps-”
“Okay. Three crisps. Smokey Bacon?”
The barman looked up from the glass. The two old geezers had stopped talking. Christ, why was the kip so quiet? Didn’t they have a telly or anything?
“-or peanuts,” the barman added.
“Yeah, well, all I want is the crisps, see? Smokey Bacon.”
The barman placed the pint on the counter. Why was he moving so slowly? He turned aside to get the bags of crisps.
“Three bags of Smokey Bacon,” he said. He turned back, placed them next to the pint and rested his hands on the counter-top to either side of the glass. Now he was looking straight at him. What the hell was this guy’s problem? Like this was such a fancy place they didn’t want riffraff or something? Like, it was so fucking exclusive or something? He let his hand slide back into the pocket. His fingers closed on the knife again. He imagined his hand coming out of the pocket so fast, the blade opened already and coming down on the guy’s hand: right through it,
