The Sergeant beckoned him closer.
“Hughsie worked like a demon,” he murmured. “Night and day, on this.”
“Well it certainly shows.”
“And a top-notch crew above there too, let me tell you.”
Was the whole station full of comedians, opinionators?
“And a direct line to the Man Above too,” the Sergeant added. “But don’t let on I said that. Might be offended. But he wouldn’t let on, fair dues to him.”
“To whom, now?”
“Wall. A detective above. Very strong on the old religion. Shocking nice fella, don’t get me wrong. But just so’s you know, the cursing and that?”
“I shouldn’t curse? Well there won’t be much getting done so.”
The Segreant smiled thinly.
“The Holy Name,” he said. “You can eff and blind good-oh.”
He nodded at a younger Garda standing in the doorway beside a photocopier. Minogue followed the Garda up the stairs.
“Incident room,” said the Guard, stopping by a door with a glass panel that had been covered from the inside. “Or command centre. Call it what you like.”
Detective Garda Kevin Wall turned in his chair, a squeaky swivel from where he had been consulting something on a computer screen while he conversed on the telephone.
He slid his hand down the receiver, freeing the other to shake Minogue’s hand and introduce himself.
“Mossie’s on his way,” he said. “Tomas, that is.”
Trim, and with a face that said teacher — or maybe priest — sooner than Guard, Wall pointed Minogue to the table where he had placed the casebook, along with two file folders. Behind the table was a monitor with a slowly moving screensaver picture of Zidane headbutting the Italian player.
“Look around,” he said to Minogue. “I’ll be done here in a minute.”
Chapter 19
Brid had a half cup of coffee in front of her. She didn’t look up but kept writing, her head sideways on her palm.
“Still at it,” he said. She nodded.
“Is Aisling asleep?”
Brid’s writing slowed, and she wagged the pen from side to side. She seemed to be trying to think what way to phrase something.
“The usual marathon,” she murmured. “I must have conked out with her.”
Fanning looked at the sinews that stood out on the back of her hand as her pen sped up again. The sleeve of her T-shirt had rolled up over her upper arm. He saw the outline of her bra strap. Caravaggio, he thought, and Rembrandt, the shadow on the light from the table lamp she preferred to work by. Her T-shirt had shrunk and he saw the small of her back, the channel of her spine pushing against her skin. He stepped closer and began to massage the muscle that stood out over her collarbone.
She put the pen down slowly and lifted her head and turned to him.
“Well,” she said.
“I might be on to something,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes as though to assess him more exactly.
“The crime story,” he said. “The script.”
“Your research,” she said.
Resentment crushed his stirring lust.
“Yes, a character. Well, a guy who seems to have an inside…”
“Insight, did you say?”
“Inside.”
“You have one already don’t you?”
“He wasn’t my first choice. I knew he was a gobshite.”
He tried to read her comments on the paper she was marking. The Irish Monastic System.
“Well we’re not short on iijits in Dublin.”
“Well this seems to be more of what I need.”
“Really.”
“I think he’s different.”
“How so.”
“It’s hard to describe. He sets a tone. Scary guy, perhaps.”
He saw that now.
“Perhaps?”
“Who knows,” he said. Her T-shirt had slid up at the front too.
“You like that.”
She didn’t look up, or even pause, when she said it.
“It’s not exactly ‘like,’” he said. “Come on.”
“Come on yourself,” she retorted, almost kindly. “You get a kick out of meeting people like him. The more dangerous, the better. A thrill.”
“No, actually. I am not ‘thrilled’ to meet him.”
She smiled briefly.
“It’s nothing to be guilty about.”
“Did I say I felt guilty?”
“He’s a criminal though, isn’t he.”
“Well that’s a funny thing, isn’t it. I actually don’t know.”
“Hit a tender spot there, did I.”
The warmth was gone from her voice, he realized.
“Whatever. The thing is, there’s something about him that you catch on to right away. If you’re careful, I mean. He strikes me as smart. Disciplined or something.”
“Well that’s a nice change.”
“He’s not a slob. A careful sort of guy, I think. A planner.”
She looked down at the papers in front of her.
“You’re getting a crush on him, are you.”
“Well maybe I will then.”
“Is he your run-of-the-mill Dublin gangsta?”
“I haven’t quite figured out,” he said.
“How hard could it be? Dis dat dese and dose. Gimme dis, givis dat.”
“A few times he sounded English, actually. ‘Innit?’ ‘Roight.’”
“Man of mystery then.”
She’d go on, he knew, until he’d react.
“He could deliver on bits that are weak now. The way he talks even.”
“Grit.”
Perhaps she wasn’t taking subtle digs at him, he thought.
“Not that, more weight, sort of. A bit of gravitas, I was going to say, but that would be stupid. I mean, face it, it’s probably criminal, whatever it is.”
“Your Mista Gangsta.”
“Okay, I get it. Loud and clear. Thanks.”
She folded her arms. He imagined her breasts held there just as they would be when she’d lie on him.
“We’re close,” he said then. “With this story, I know it. It’s not science. But you know it when it shows
