that comb under the seat. The odometer said Shaughnessy had gone nearly 1,400 km. He stared at the stripped section of tar by the back of the Escort.
“Anything definite to tell us he was attacked here?”
Tuttle tugged at his ear.
“Do you want the considered version or the man-in-a-hurry version?”
“Whichever you like, now Paddy. No miracles expected.”
“That’s where the back bumper was, see? The ‘B’?”
Minogue looked along the chalk line.
“We ’scoped and scrubbed for blood all up and down there before we took that patch up. The rain would’ve carried it off fair enough, but there are plenty of crevices in the tar that’d hold it. Minute though, very minute. It’d be degraded there fast too. Acidy. The compounds in there, well…”
“Tires, shoes?”
“There’s residue all over the place,” said Tuttle “But you’ll never distinguish them. That’s going nowhere. We measured under where the wheels were. There’s a difference all right but that’s good for nothing, time-wise ”
“Cars parked there before, you’re going to tell me,” Minogue murmured. “And will do so again?”
“I measured just a half an hour after to compare,” Tuttle went on. “Sure the damn stuff comes back up again. Spongy. The time of day. A bit of sun.”
“Paddy. The site. I know you’re not a betting man now.”
Tuttle looked away toward the terminal. The sky had brown tints.
“Sorry, Matt. I couldn’t really.”
“ ‘Forensic science wouldn’t support it’?”
Tuttle nodded.
“Eoin?”
“Ditto. You’d be reading tea leaves.”
“It’s in the car you’ll get anything here,” said Tuttle.
Minogue tugged at the tape. Emerald Rent-A-Car had an option to leave their car at the airport but Shaughnessy hadn’t taken it. Had he changed his mind, or had whoever driven the car thought they could lose it for a while? Some bloody scut, he thought again, a hitchhiker, traveling on Shaughnessy’s credit cards. Match the entry to the exit from the Aer Lingus passenger lists: point of entry passport controls from the ferries. But if they’d come through the North he’d have the UK control data to reckon with.
Tuttle was still waiting.
“Sorry, Paddy. Yes. Thanks. The car, yes, we have that, to be sure.”
The Guard helped them take down the tape and fold the uprights.
Inspector Minogue was getting to know the Swords Road a bit too well. He thought of the trips back from the airport each time they’d brought his son and de facto daughter-in-law out for their flight back. Kathleen silent, her crying done. Daithi pale, himself bewildered. The trips were getting spread out now. There had been three trips in four years — a trend — and Daithi wasn’t sure about this Christmas either. Wasn’t sure, quote unquote. The job was intense. It was the price you paid for the fast track. If he’s not coming home at least once a year well… Kathleen had started the sentence often but had never finished it.
A low-slung sports car with a laughing driver and a woman pushing back her long hair rocketed by only to brake sharply as a taxi passed a van at a leisurely fifty miles an hour. Malone kept trying to see the driver.
“Jases,” said Malone. “That’s what’s his name. Isn’t it?”
Minogue looked over. A Porsche, by God, and a turbo at that.
“It looks like him all right.”
“Yeah, I knew it was. The film fella. A Rebel Hand What’s his name?”
Malone gave the inspector a sly look.
“Fannon. Gary Fannon.”
“Will I flash the badge? Have a go at him for the driving?”
Minogue studied the gestures of Ireland’s enfant terrible director while he waited for the taxi to move out of the fast lane. Who was the girl?
“He was doing ninety,” Malone said. “Seen him bombing along in the mirror. Eighty in anyhow.”
“Ah, leave him alone ”
“Why? Are you hoping to stay the good side of him? Get hired?”
“He’s a cultural icon, Tommy ”
“Icon? Is that the same as a fucking chancer?”
He stood on the brakes in time to leave six inches or so between their Nissan and the van ahead.
“Shit — sorry. What’s he like, Leyne?”
Minogue waved him back to watching the road.
“The son and him weren’t that close, right?”
“He wants to help,” Minogue said. She was a singer, the girl, wasn’t she? What was her name? “He told me he’ll back me up. Anything I want.”
“Me too?”
“No. Only me. You’re from Dublin. But I’m a countryman ”
“Fu — . That’s not very nice, is it.”
“Dublin’s a kip, Tommy. Mr. Leyne so pronounced it. Sorry, but.”
Malone squirmed in his seat and tapped the steering wheel.
“Anything you want, is that the story?”
“Correct,” replied Minogue. “So that’s two anythings now. One from Tynan, one from Leyne.”
Malone shifted again.
“You mind me asking you something there? The Killer’s always gotten under Tynan’s skin, right? And vice versa, like. Right?
Ryeh, Minogue heard. Loike.
“’Cause yours truly runs the shop with a shagging hammer in one hand,” said Malone. “We’re the elite and all that. His style, right?”
“He has his ways.”
“Yeah, yeah. What I’m trying to say is, well… Tynan and you are on, ah, good terms. So Tynan’d be happy if, well, you know what I’m saying.”
The Porsche had attracted a lot of attention ahead. Malone raced the Nissan in first.
“I know this Shaughnessy’s high profile,” he went on, “so we’re in the spotlight? But, like, Tynan’s got to be happy the way you-know-who is off in the States ’Specially the timing, right…? And with the Larry Smith thing hanging…?”
The Porsche headed up Griffith Avenue. Going to the Gravediggers by Glasnevin, Minogue decided. He’d heard from Iseult that was where visiting movie stars and glitterati checked in. Ambience, sawdust on the floor, pints of Guinness.
Minogue didn’t rise to the bait. The traffic was slowing again. Malone U-turned back to Home Farm Road.
“When do we get a session with the Mr. and Mrs.?”
“Tomorrow,” Minogue replied. “Mrs had the most contact with him, the last contact over there.”
Malone turned up the radio at the mention of pursuit. Three suspected shoplifters were legging it down Parnell Street. One of them had flashed a knife. Another had used a baseball bat on a cashier. Two squad cars were heading over. Malone turned it back down.
“That’s who it was,” he said. “Now I have it. Only I can’t think of her name.”
“Who?”
“Leyne’s missus. That’s who she looks like, that film star. I can see the face exactly but. Way back, I’m talking about now. The oldies ”
“How oldie, exactly?”
“Ah, ages ago Your time probably. Tall, cool type. Ended up marrying some king or the like… ”
“Grace Kelly?”
