in a plastic bag, and that’s that.”
Fanning watched an older couple come out of the shop and light up cigarettes, then they began a slow amble down the footpath toward the pub.
“If I don’t do it,” Fanning said, “then that’s it for the research? I have to find someone else I suppose, start all over again?”
Cully stopped tapping on the gearstick.
“Not necessarily,” he said.
“You mean I can say forget it, this thing here, and we just carry on?”
“Not that,” said Cully. “My advice to you would be to leave the entire matter and go find other things to do. Other stories or something.”
The quiet tone jarred with the message.
“You know something,” Fanning said. “I just realized earlier on. I never made any arrangement here, like what kind of fee you expect for this.”
Cully nodded.
“Right,” he said.
“Like what’s your role in this.”
“Role? Like my part?”
“No. I mean why you took over from Murph. We never talked about that.”
“We can get to that later.”
“I don’t know anything about you. A name? Cully, Cullen?”
Cigarette smoke billowed and hung in the damp air.
“Where else could we go?” Fanning said after a moment.
“Back the way we came,” said Cully and reached for the ignition.
“That’s it then?”
“That’s it.”
“Can’t we skip this thing and just go on whatever?”
“That’s not on,” said Cully. “Now if you’d rather walk home from here, just tell me.”
Cully backed the car into the forecourt of a small garage, and turned the BMW back toward Churchtown. Fanning couldn’t detect any anger in him at all.
“Better all around,” Cully murmured. “You do your thing. Nice setup you seem to have there. The whole family thing. Education, all that. Stick with that. That would be my inclination. A lot of people would like to have what you have. You’ve no bother coming up with ideas now.”
“This one I’m working on is pretty good. It’s worth sticking with.”
“It’s a free country, but people need to realize that people don’t like getting their toes stepped on.”
“Have I done that?”
Cully made a noncommittal gesture.
“Look,” he said. “Someone must have told you at some point in your life that it’s not good to piss off people?”
“Tell me who I’m pissing off.”
“There’s stories, and then there’s the real world. They don’t mix.”
“But fiction shows reality better than facts, so-called.”
“You really believe that?”
“As a matter of fact I do. It informs everything I do.”
“And others too,” said Cully. The quickness took Fanning aback a little. Deceptive, he’d have to add in his notes.
“I mean, everyone likes a good story,” Cully went on. “But if I’m hearing you right, this thing of yours be leaving a trail for other people.”
“Others, like…?”
“You’ve got it figured out, I’d say. Bloke like you, your talents?”
Every traffic light was red, it seemed. Cully was humming a tune very low while he waited. In the deserted bus shelter across from where they sat, the ad for gum rolled up to reveal one for Top Ten Talent, the lame new reality show.
His thoughts cleared.
“Pull in here.”
“Crap night for a walk. And a long walk too.”
“No. Turn around, I mean.”
“Come on. It’s a bit late for that one.”
“Really,” said Fanning. “I’m not joking. Really.”
Chapter 31
Garda Mossie Duggan’s accent seemed ideal for his technique. That Monaghan drone reminded Minogue of bogs and lakes, and the long roads that always seemed to end in some secret place amongst the low hills or the drumlins of Duggan’s native county.
Minogue had left Garda Wall with Matthews, and he was now sitting in on the Twomey interview. Yes, Detective Garda Duggan from Ballybay, County Monaghan, was a plotter. It was all under the radar, slyly effective, with a momentum that kept the talk going. Minogue began to conclude it was all about pacing, and that some kind of mild hypnosis was going on. Duggan would occasionally pounce on something Twomey had said, and he’d go into fast-forward, peppering Twomey with questions in a kindly, interested voice as though bubbling with a shared enthusiasm.
The effect was to make Twomey blurt out answers. It often ended with Twomey sitting back, arms crossed, refusing to say more. At those times Duggan backed off completely. Bashfully — almost apologetically — he gave off an air of regret, or embarrassment, at having apparently derailed things. But almost always it was Twomey who would put an end to the brittle quiet by trying to qualify, to explicate what he’d said in that rapid-fire flurry and back. Like boxing, Minogue reflected, if he’d understood Malone’s explanation.
Minogue gave it a few more minutes, and then he gave Duggan the nod for a break. While he waited for them, he put the kettle on and he phoned Malone. Waiting for the call to connect, he heard the raised voices from the public office downstairs. Though he couldn’t make out the words, he recognized the indignant tones and ragged voice of someone drunk. The evening’s grim entertainment for this Garda station was started, then.
Had Malone been having a snooze?
“Tommy, am I phoning you at a bad time?”
“No. You’re all right.”
He had been asleep, Minogue decided.
“Just checking,” he said.
“Checking what?”
“Well I don’t want to be annoying you.” “Well you are annoying me, what — oh, now I remember. But I told you I’d phone you when I got hold of the bastard.”
“Starts with an M? We’re talking about the same fella?”
“Look,” said Malone, an irritable tone coming to his voice now. “When I have something, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thank you. I do appreciate your efforts in the matter, Thomas.”
“Oh my jases, will you listen to that. I’ll keep trying — but remember, he’s not top of my list right now. You know?”
“Fair enough. Whatever you can do. Any break in the weather there?”
Malone didn’t get it for a few moments, Minogue decided.
“Ah, hard to say. It’s mad really. There’s double the response teams out now, so…”
Minogue imagined the dozen and more unmarked cars, each with two detectives armed to the teeth.
