“I don’t know.”
“You want to talk about money some more?”
“What are you talking about? Is this the thanks I get for giving you a few bob?”
He laughed.
“I knew you’d say that! I did! The exact fucking words, man! Hey, I have to go. So. You know I’m in town, right?”
“Okay, yeah.”
“You listen now, Jammy. Something’s going on. I got my eyes open, man. That cop wasn’t just talking about the weather, was he? All those questions about you.”
“Like what?”
“Yeah, well, that’s for me to know and for you to find out, isn’t it? Or maybe for Bobby to find out! Listen, we’re going to meet this evening. And you better change your tune.”
“Jesus, man! How can you talk like this?”
“Just shut up a minute! You bring me in on this!”
“On what? I don’t know-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah! I been thinking about you, you know? You’re just a bit too good to be true, aren’t you? The perfect guy stuff. Yeah.”
“You’ve got to be joking, man!”
“Oh, joking, am I? We’ll soon see who’s fucking joking! And don’t get any ideas. I got this down in writing and I put it in a safe place, so I did.”
He felt like he had run a mile flat-out. Had he gone too far? Jammy was talking.
“Look, Liam. I know you’re under pressure. And when you’re under pressure, the head can go on you, right? I mean, I felt bad me losing me rag at you the other day after finding out about Mary and all… Are you still there?”
“Ah, get off the fucking stage, will you? I could walk into Bobby Egan’s and you’d be fucking history, man!”
“Liam, Liam-listen. Just let me ask you one thing. Do you really think I had something to do with Mary getting, you know?”
He studied the graffiti in the booth. What if he’d got it all wrong?
“Do you?” Tierney repeated.
“Meet me down next to the canal there by Portobello. The bridge? Seven o’clock.”
“I can’t make it, I’ve got to meet a guy-”
“Don’t give me that crap, man! Eight, then.”
Warning pips sounded again. He wasn’t going to put in another coin.
“I can’t! Later, maybe-”
“Nine, then! That’s it! No more-”
The line was dead. He started at the little window on the phone. It’d be dark by nine. He should have made him stick to eight o’clock at the latest, the bastard. He placed the receiver back on the box. The pain in his side was coming back. He collected his coins off the top of the box. His arm hurt from just lifting it. He still didn’t feel hungry. When had he eaten last anyway? He counted back. It had been around nine o’clock when he’d tried to score last night. The middle of the day when that other cop finally gets up, gives him the look-over close up, tiptoes out-boom, he’s up and grabbing his clothes from the cupboard. No cop in the hall, hah! In the jacks, probably, having a smoke. Next thing he’s down the stairs and out the back door. Right into the street.
Another pint or two wouldn’t kill him. He had about four hours to kill. He stepped out of the telephone kiosk. He should make his way up toward the canal, get some smokes on the way. He should maybe try to get a snooze before that-no, he mightn’t wake up in time. A sandwich or something, in case he got hungry later on. Find a spot near the canal and lie low there. The canal, yeah, that was using the head all right, the old psychology. He passed another pub. A couple stepped out of his way. He wasn’t finished by a long shot. If it worked out tonight, maybe he was only starting. That cop, what the hell was his name again? Man… Minooley… Minogue. He stopped by the door of another pub and looked in. Half-full. One pint maybe.
TWENTY-FIVE
Okay,”said Kilmartin. “Enough of that.”Minogue looked over. “Kenny,”said Kilmartin. “Round two with him. Now.”
Minogue stretched. He eyed his watch as his arm slid by. God in heaven: seven.
“You want to pick him up?”
“Yes. No. Yes. Talk to me about him.”
No Murtagh, Minogue realized. He had gone for his tea just after receiving a call from a Garda detective in Pearse Street: Jack Mullen had remembered that he had stopped into a shop while he was out of sight on the time log. The proprietor remembered him. The shop was in North Strand. It looked like Mullen was clear. Murtagh had merely thrown his biro across the squadroom. Kilmartin, when he was told, had sworn for a count of ten.
“I’ve been reading and reading and reading. He’s still off the map long enough to do it. And I’m not going to wait. I want him under pressure. So talk to me about him.”
“Give us time to plant him for some of the gaps, James.”
“No. He has everything. Motive-she was going to throw the Egans at him. I want to put him through hoops. What do you say?”
“You’re just hungry. Look how late it is.”
“That’s your informed opinion?”
“When it is not necessary to make a decision, it is necessary not to make a decision.”
“Christ, you’re really contrary today. As for that frigging jaunt out to hell there with-”
“Scenery, James. Background. Context. Now we know whereof we speak.”
Kilmartin sat on the edge of the desk and began scratching under his arm.
“And what was so goddamned edifying about meeting Molly’s shagging brother? I mean, I hold with your good intentions and all that, but that brother’s a head-case.”
“So now you have a lot more sympathy for Tommy’s plight then.”
Minogue heard the rasp of Kilmartin’s stubble as the Chief Inspector rubbed his jowls. Kilmartin turned to survey the boards again.
“Don’t go getting ideas. I mean to say, look at us. Senior staff, seven o’clock in the evening. No Malone, no Murtagh. No firm road to follow yet. So why not squeeze Kenny?”
“Let him stew, Jim.”
“Talking to the wall, I am,” Kilmartin muttered. “How many left on the list John Murtagh finalized from the files?”
“Two that we haven’t filled in. Both of them are making statements as we speak. One in Coolock, one’s been interviewing since five over in Store Street. Nothing so far.”
“Nothing,” said Kilmartin. “Those thicks above in Serious Crimes! And us waiting around here like goms of the first order. You know what they’re telling us, don’t you.”
“I think so.”
“They’re telling us that they’ll get the statements, that they’ll get the evidence, that they’ll get the gouger we want for this case. ‘It’ll emerge’ style of investigation. ‘All in due course.’ Like the Holy Ghost or something.”
Minogue closed the folders. An image remained in his mind of the television schedule he had doodled on.
“Come on, Jim. Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“Out. Away. It’s the weekend, man. Buy me a sandwich.”
The Inspector pulled the phone out of the charger.
“Look at you,” said Kilmartin. “Grabbing the toy there. You told me you consider that device I fought long and
