“You go through the pub, there’s another door out, do you hear me.”
Fanning stood rooted to the ground, watching the other man skip rapidly down the street.
“Gary, take him with you.”
Fanning felt exhausted, and the cold, sweaty calm that came before vomiting had enveloped him. Somewhere in the nausea and reeling thoughts, it registered with him that now he at least knew this lunatic’s real name.
Chapter 24
Minogue was almost finished making his notes from the Effects list. Hughes himself had compiled it from the room at the hostel. Passport, Polish government documents: social welfare card, bankcard. No driver’s licence for a twenty-two year old? No address in Ireland for contacts, for friends. Former friends even?
“We have one of the boys in here now,” said Wall. “Mr. Aidan Matthews.”
“Arrest, or for questioning?”
“Straight arrest,” said Wall, with a strong hint of satisfaction.
“And what class of humour is he in?”
“No real fireworks,” Wall replied. “But he’s a Dub, isn’t he. A bit belligerent when we put the word on him. Bit of effing and the like, but no actual resistance. He said we’d be sorry. Promises to sue us.”
“And you told him to take his place in the queue?”
“I will if he says it again, I suppose.”
“Well what does Mr. Matthews do when he’s not litigating?”
“He sells phones at a place down there on Henry Street.”
Minogue sat back.
“Any giveaways yet from him?”
“Nothing so far. He’s not in the system at all, no form on him. Lives at home. Doesn’t admit to being her fella. Says he hasn’t a clue what she’s talking about. Thinks she’s trying to get back at him for something. She’s being a bitch, quote unquote, and he has no idea why, et cetera.”
Minogue checked his watch.
“Let him cool his heels awhile,” he said to Wall. “Do you think?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“And when the other fellow’s coming in, what’s his name?”
“Justin Twomey.”
“Nineteen as well?”
“Eighteen actually.”
“We can audition them both then.”
Minogue sat up again and turned the page of his new notebook back.
“Can you bring me up to date on a few things?” he asked Wall.
“Fire away.”
“Online stuff. Email, chat stuff. Messaging.”
Wall tugged at his cuffs and suppressed a frown. Minogue had no trouble reading his puzzlement. In Wall’s mind, that one phone call from the girl’s mother, and the kid’s admission, was money in the bank.
“Just so I’m caught up,” Minogue said. “And I don’t make an iijit of myself.”
Wall shrugged and walked to the table in front of one of the boards. He pushed aside a stained plastic tray with teacups haphazardly abandoned amid granules of sugar.
“Klos phoned his mother twice to tell her he was okay, landed, etc. She said she heard other people talking so she thinks he was at a phone booth or one of those calling shops. He left his mobile back in his apartment in Poland remember. Nothing from the Internet cafes or phone shops, as of yesterday. City centre ones.”
“No texting? Anyone in Poland? “
“Unless someone let him use their phone, say someone in the hostel.”
Something in Wall’s tone alerted Minogue, and he gave Wall a friendly, questioning look. Wall had large ears he realized and tried not to look at them. Was it the light here? A shadow?
“These two fellas,” Wall said, uncertainly, “sad to say, and all that. But…”
“You think this one’s capable, do you? The demeanour?”
“I do. Especially the denial she’s his girlfriend. Lots to hide, I say.”
“Girlfriend, my eye” said Minogue. “That age difference.”
Wall wrinkled his nose.
“True for you,” he said. “But we know how it is these days. Anything goes.”
Minogue sat back again. How often he had heard these two simple words over the years, and how much it said of the person who uttered them.
“Around our neck of the woods here anyway,” Wall added.
Minogue underlined the men’s names.
“Well,” he said, “I’d be a bit more excited if these two fellas had some form on them.”
Wall seemed not to have heard him.
“Property crime of course,” Wall said. “But sure that you could almost understand. It’s the disrespect for life, I meant. I mean, it’s all over the papers even. Killing a man is nothing these days, is it.”
Minogue did not want to agree.
“Rap, films, what have you,” said Wall. “Only skimming the surface.”
Minogue let the quiet speak for him.
“Kids yourself?” Wall asked.
“Grown up. Well, for the most part. Yourself, Ciaran?”
“Five,” said Wall with a quiet pride. Minogue tried not to react. He suspected now that Wall had steered this topic onto many people.
“I know, I know,” said Wall, and tugged at his tie again. “You don’t see that much anymore. I was one of eleven. ‘The Irish Family’ is gone, but, isn’t it.”
Should have known, Minogue scolded himself. The tweed tie, the grooming.
“Yep,” said Wall. “When that goes, well anything goes.”
He turned to Minogue with a kindly smile.
“Take God out of the situation like we’re doing in Ireland, and you can expect things to slide. Common sense.”
Minogue’s irritation snowballed. He eyed the kettle and the Mikado biscuits next to the printer. A peace offering was his way out.
“My turn I think, Ciaran,” he said rising.
He filled the kettle slowly from the tap in the tiny lunch room, and plodded back to the caseroom. Wall was on the phone.
“The Twomey lad’s on his way up,” he said to Minogue. “Mossie’s taking him in.”
There was a spark from the plug of the kettle as he pushed it into the socket. Unused Styrofoam cups stood stacked in a corner. He’d forgotten the milk from the fridge. He might as well have washed the damn mugs — and that manky-looking tray along with it. He’d better call Kathleen and tell her the case had started to move. His mobile signal was down to half strength in the lunchroom. She answered halfway through the first ring.
“Back on board the time machine,” she said after his explanation.
“Short-handed,” he said. “But it’s no hardship on me. Is it on you?”
“What’s that sound? Don’t tell me you’re in the toilet.”
“I put it on speaker phone. Multitasking, with dishes.”
“Can other people hear our conversation then?”
“No. I’m in a cubbyhole here in Fitzgibbon Street station.”
“And you’re enjoying yourself. Go on admit it.”
“I admit I am enjoying myself. Somewhat. Not overdoing it, of course.”
“‘Happy days are here again…’ Go on, you might as well say it.”
