through in the distance. The air had gone cooler. Malone still had no appetite.
“A bit of cake before we hit the trail,” said Minogue. “And brewed coffee?”
McGurk piloted them to the Western Hotel. Vivaldi was playing in the foyer. They sat at a table across from the reception desk. Malone walked around, stopping to eye the goings-on in the street outside. Then he went wandering.
McGurk ordered a piece of cheesecake. He asked Minogue about prices in Dublin: the pictures, a dinner for two — not an all-out type dinner now, just a good one — a flat in Donnybrook. Minogue almost smiled. McGurk had heard there were new nightclubs in Dublin, really quite the thing. Had the inspector heard of them.
Minogue was about to try an answer he’d heard from gossip with Eilis and John Murtagh about prostitutes setting up in those new apartments when Malone reappeared from the lounge. He flicked his head toward the doorway. Minogue followed him into the lounge.
There were a half-dozen men at the bar, some couples at tables. The television was high over the bar, ignored. Beside Kilmartin’s face were some kinds of charts. Another one slid out. Direct quotes and the date prominent — “no developments in the case. ” Four months ago Larry Smith’s brother walking with his widow down a Dublin street. Another clip of a taped scene: the sheet over Smith out in Baldoyle with the blood from his pulped head soaked in. Minogue caught a glimpse of his own back and the bald spot Kathleen had taken to tickling after a few jars had made her frisky, as he stood with Kilmartin by the sheet.
The news reader reappeared. Gemma O’Loughlin’s name, a columnist with the Irish Times. Papers turned over, the next item the camera slid left: a European Union meeting of agriculture ministers.
“Shite, meet fan,” said Malone.
“What did I miss?” Minogue asked.
Malone looked around.
‘“Allegations of a cover up,’” he said. “And Christy Smith sitting there with Larry’s wife. He has a leg up on her, I heard. Tough talk ‘Hold them responsible. ’ Finger pointing. ‘Public inquiry.’ Shite like that.”
“Names mentioned?”
“No, I didn’t hear them. They mentioned the squad all right. But no names ‘Senior Gardai’ aware of it, it said.”
Minogue made his way back to the doorway into the foyer.
“Any reply from us?”
“Something about Garda sources denying it. And saying that we’d been bollocked by the family when we’d gone looking for clues anyway. Jases, the nerve.”
The coffee had been too good probably. Minogue adjusted the seat belt again. Malone sat woodenly in the middle next to the driver, O’Callaghan.
He looked over his shoulder several times through the tinted glass. Their carryalls and evidence bags weren’t moving around.
Minogue looked at the air-conditioning controls again. O’Callaghan noticed, started an explanation. The thermostat was always set low, he said There was no need for it to tell you the God’s honest truth. But people wanted to know you had it. Why? They’d heard about it, that was all.
He’d made the Dublin run before, but not in this direction. A lot of people living in Dublin even fifty years wanted to be buried at home. Home sweet home. Or people coming in from the States. There was a man of ninety-seven flown home from Los Angeles to be buried and two fellas from a funeral director’s there came with the remains, if you don’t mind. The money involved? No place like home. First thing they looked for, would you believe it, was an air-conditioned hearse.
It was dark by Foxford. The roads were dry here. Did they mind if he smoked, O’Callaghan asked. Minogue hadn’t the heart to refuse. Swinford, eight miles. The inspector looked down at the clock. They’d be lucky to be back in Dublin by eleven. A signpost by the bridge over the River Moy sped by. Fishing, he thought, there’s a thought. Couldn’t you read and fish at the same time? O’Callaghan smoked heavily, savoring it. The smoke was yanked out the sliver of window by O’Callaghan’s ear into the dark wake of the car.
What the hell did Shaughnessy get himself into here? Minogue listened to the changing notes of the wind from the window. Eist le fuaim na habhainn, mar gheobhiadh tu bradan: If you want to catch a salmon, you listen to the river. He’d phone Kathleen from Longford. A pint with Malone at Ryan’s by closing time.
“Will you make it to Dublin before eleven?” he murmured.
No bother, from O’Callaghan. Something in the brash assurance told the inspector that he knew the reason the question, that he wouldn’t mind being included in the arrangement for the pint. Strange isn’t it, he began to talk in a monotone, how people are about certain things. Minogue rested his head on the headrest and leaned harder against the door. How people wanted to be buried and where. Tells you a lot about people, doesn’t it? I suppose, from Minogue, a maybe, from Malone. O’Callaghan warmed to his subject
Minogue watched the speedometer stay steady on one hundred. He wondered how well O’Callaghan knew the roads. He looked out at the dark shapes falling behind the headlights’ glow. Not three feet behind him, through the glass, in a chilly space being driven through the Mayo night was the body of Aoife Hartnett.
O’Callaghan was beginning to annoy him seriously. Home, he was saying, sure home is only where you come from these days. And that’s about it, wouldn’t you say? Malone said he didn’t know. The States, Europe, said O’Callaghan, we were only catching up. Mobility is the future. God knows where we’ll end up with that stuff, hah? They’d have computers the size of a book soon and you could talk into them. Minogue let his eyes close. The monologue moved to cars.
Minutes passed. He had to talk to Mrs Shaughnessy. She must know something of the son’s recent shenanigans, for God’s sake. He thought of the tracks out over the bog, the one that led to the cliff where Aoife Hartnett’s car had plummeted to the rocks and water below. Bog holes, ponds, loughs of water even. But that track had been passable. Who’d know that? Noonan’s reply last night on the phone — you’d get a car up there maybe but you wouldn’t get it back down again too easy.
“Plane?” said O’Callaghan again. “From Dublin down to Knock Airport?”
“Right,” said Malone. “A plane.”
“And now ye’re heading back in a hearse. A howl or what?”
Malone didn’t answer. Did they mind him turning on the radio, he asked instead. Minogue opened his eyes anything, anything. Malone found a live chat show from Galway The question was: Had GOD sold out to the recording industry? A caller argued that women were still treated like shite in the rock industry and GOD had definitely sold out. She’d never listen to GOD again. Ever. Were they allowed to say words like shite on the radio now, Minogue wondered. O’Callaghan had to stop for a leak and a package of cigarettes. Did they want anything? Fishing about to see if they’d frown on having a few pints.
“The blather out of him,” said Malone. “Be better off in the back with her.”
Minogue fiddled with the radio Not a gig out of it until the key was in.
“I can’t figure it out,” muttered Malone. “What am I missing here?”
“Who drove the car,” said Minogue and yawned. “That’s the key here now.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Malone turned to face him.
“I can see them driving out there,” he said. “I can even see them — or him or her or whoever — driving up that track a bit. Why? To keep the car out of sight, say. They don’t want people knowing they’re around. Why? She’s dead already? He plans or they plan to dump the car somewhere ’cause he doesn’t want to be spotted on the road. I mean it sort of fits, being as what we’re seeing people who kept off the beaten track on purpose.”
“They had a tent, say.”
“Well, yeah. But would you actually want to rough it out here? The bleeding rain and everything?”
Minogue surveyed the dashboard again. Blaupunkt, electric windows; the climate controls for the back: invincible. Who won the war again?
“Was she the outdoor type? I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Him?”
“Don’t know, Tommy. We’ll have to get better background. You’re right.”
“She was done there though. Yeah?”
Minogue nodded.
“You think he raped her? That was it?”
