“Hah. They turn out to be the same.”
“A miracle.”
“The same clothes. Favourite drinks. Cars. Each had three kids. Petite wives-”
“What’s petite?”
Kilmartin folded his arms and looked away.
“You just don’t want to find out I’m right, that’s your problem.”
Minogue yanked the wheel to take the turn. He released it quickly. The Citroen righted itself immediately. Great stuff. He slowed for the Toyota to close the gap. Ahead of him he saw the Garda van parked. There was no traffic. He pulled into the curb and switched off the engine.
“Asked for a van, did you?”
“Wild West here sometimes, Jim. You never know.”
“ ‘Sometimes’? Christ. Understatement of the year. Okay. Are we right?”
“Yep. Let them go in first.”
“I thought-”
“I don’t want the glory, Jim. I just want the arrest.”
Kilmartin rubbed the passenger-side window as the three figures passed along the footpath. Minogue saw the passenger door of the van open, a uniformed Guard step out.
“Oi! Who’s number three of ours there? Christ! Where’s the bloody winder for the window?”
“The ignition has to be on. It’s electric.”
“Let me out of this bloody box! Where’s the door thing? Jesus Christ! What kind of a shitbox am I stuck in here? Bloody Frenchmen! They shouldn’t be let near anything to do with cars!”
He turned angrily to Minogue. The Inspector ignored him. He switched on the ignition and pushed the wipers. Two detectives were at the door already. Fergal Sheehy was the back-door man.
“Open the frigging door, for Christ’s sake! They’re nearly in the house already.”
“Sorry, Jim. It’s that sideways-looking thing there. Yes. Don’t break it off now…”
Kilmartin was out. He slammed the door hard and took off at a trot down the gleaming footpath. Minogue winced before completing his sentence.
“…you clumsy bullock.”
The hall door was opened. One of the figures stepped in smartly. Someone tried to close the door but Murtagh had already put his shoulder to it. Minogue heard a shout. Kilmartin was almost there now. A second Guard had emerged from the van. A scream now, a woman’s. Minogue stepped out of the car. It was Patricia Fahy’s da all right. The door was being pushed and pulled. Kilmartin skipped in and pushed at the door alongside Murtagh. The Guard in uniform stepped around them. He reappeared almost immediately and came out the door backwards, his arms tight around Fahy’s neck. Kilmartin followed them out onto the terrace. Murtagh slipped into the house. Kilmartin slid a leg behind Fahy’s knees and the Guard turned Fahy as he fell. The second Guard stepped around Minogue, bent down and yanked up Fahy’s arm. Kilmartin stepped away. Minogue asked the Guard with the knee in Fahy’s back if he wanted help with the restraints. Fahy stopped groaning and began shouting.
“Shut up,” said Kilmartin. “You’re in enough trouble.”
“Don’t you fucking touch her! Yous don’t know anything about what goes on out here, you bastards! Useless, yiz are! The crimes is going on all around and yous are blind!”
“You’re under arrest too, Mister Hard-Chaw. Is your daughter inside?”
“None a your fucking business! Why aren’t yous tearing into the Egans and their like?”
The two Guards lifted Fahy to his knees and pulled him upright. A shriek erupted from the top floor of the house. Minogue looked up and down the street. The rain had lightened to a patter on his crown. He caught one Guard’s eye and nodded.
“We all right inside then?” said Kilmartin.
“ ’Course we are. Come on in and we’ll see.”
More shrieks from upstairs. A woman screamed No. Kilmartin looked into all the rooms. Minogue stepped into the kitchen and made for the back door to let Sheehy in.
“Action’s all upstairs, Matt.”
“I’ll follow you up, I just want to get Fergal in.”
Minogue watched Kilmartin lumber up the narrow staircase. Patterned socks again today, he thought. Over the lumpen tread of the Chief Inspector’s leather-soled shoes, Minogue could hear the crying still. The detectives’ voices came to him in tones only. Kilmartin reached the top of the stairs. Minogue looked up at the ceiling and tried to follow Kilmartin’s passage through the bedrooms. Another shriek. Patricia Fahy’s mother called out. Something heavy clumped on the floor. Minogue studied his own face in the hall mirror. It looked jowly, different. Fergal Sheehy appeared at the top of the stairs. He descended sideways, his hand on Patricia Fahy’s elbow. No cuffs, thought Minogue. Mrs. Fahy told someone to get out of her fucking way. An answering growl came from Kilmartin.
Patricia Fahy’s hair looked like it was glowing. Her head bobbed at each step. Behind her came Malone, each step almost grudging. He caught Minogue’s eye but did not smile. The mother was shouting now. Minogue leaned around the banister and looked up to catch a glimpse of Kilmartin’s back pressed against the banisters on the landing. That’d keep him busy for a while. Patricia Fahy didn’t look at him as she passed. He said her name again. She told him to fuck off. A handful of neighbours had gathered on the path outside. Two Guards in uniform were standing in front of them. Let me down the fucking stairs in me own fucking home, Mrs. Fahy was shouting at Kilmartin now.
Malone looked like he had fallen into the sea. Minogue followed him outside and watched Sheehy lead Patricia Fahy to the Toyota. Patricia Fahy’s father was shouting inside the van. He began kicking the panels as it pulled away. Another unmarked car drew into the curb across the street, splashing a puddle across the full width of the path. Three Guards stepped out. Minogue heard the footsteps clattering down the stairs fast. He turned to see Kilmartin coming out the hall door. The Chief Inspector had his head down and his arms were out from his side, the hands clawing at the air.
“Get in there to hell and put that woman in order!” he barked at one of the Guards. “She’s off the deep end.”
Kilmartin had stopped to talk to the Guard. He stayed put, his hands still working, glaring at Minogue. Malone came up the path behind Minogue and stood next to him. Minogue saw Kilmartin’s chest heaving. Kilmartin began to walk slowly toward them.
“This… is… fucking… serious… messing,” Minogue heard him say. Kilmartin stopped abruptly in front of Malone.
“Molly. What the hell are you doing here?”
From the tone, Minogue knew that Kilmartin was still off-balance.
“Helping to arrest the person who murdered Mary Mullen.”
Kilmartin’s jaws opened for several seconds and then closed. Two teenaged boys on bikes, soaked and euphoric from cavorting around in the cloudburst, Minogue guessed, stopped their bikes next to them.
“What’s going on?” one of them asked.
“Bugger off,” said Kilmartin. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Malone’s face. He took a step closer to Malone. His voice was a monotone now.
“What are you doing here then, Molly? You’re supposed to be sick or something.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Well, I’m feeling better now, like. Thanks. Yeah.”
Loike, thought Minogue. Betther. He smiled.
Kilmartin blinked and looked from Malone to Minogue. His hands fell limp by his sides now. Patricia Fahy’s mother was shouting again. Kilmartin pivoted to have a look at the doorway and turned back with a look of distaste. The Chief Inspector had put his hands in his pockets now too. He leaned toward Malone as he spoke.
“You…” he began. He stopped and shook his head. “You got beat up, did you?”
“Yeah. But you should see the other fella.”
Minogue turned away.
“What other fella?”
“The brother.”
“The brother,” said Kilmartin. “The brother? Tell me something, Molly. Where is that brother of yours right now?”
