The Going Rate (24 page)

Chapter 24

M
inogue 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.”

“It wouldn't be true. Totally.”

“Ah,” she said with gentle scorn. “But if you-know-who was there with you it'd be perfect entirely.”

“You're determined not to believe me.”

“Guilty as charged,” she said. He could tell that she was smiling.

The printer came to life beside him, drawing a paper in with a lisp. He watched it issue out.

“I have a question for you now,” Kathleen said. “About you-know-who. A certain person phoned me, and she asked for advice – listen, are you sure no-one can hear you there?”

“Are we referring to the same you-know-who we were referring to a minute ago?”

“Oh come on. It was Maura Kilmartin phoned.”

“Do I need to know what ye were gostering about?”

“Don't be like that. Listen to me. This could be the start of something. Are you ready? She said that Jim put out an overture to her.”

“Fortissimo?”

“Stop that, I said. Through a friend of hers. An overture, you understand.”

“It's a tin ear you're talking to, pet. I don't do overtures.”

“Don't act the iijit with me now. Give me your take on it. That's all I'm asking.”

“All right. What harm could it do. That's my considered take.”

“Go on.”

“That's all. Look, I have to go.”

“So you'll do it then?”

“Do what?”

“She says she'd feel secure if we were there, an outing or something.”

“You're having me on.”

“And Jim will feel more secure too.”

“Jim would, I suppose. If that were ever to happen.”

“What evening will we do it?”

“I'm not in the marriage counselling business.”

“Who asked you to be? All you have to do is sit there, have a pint, and smile every once in a while. Do you think you could do that?”

The conversation was soon over. Minogue squeezed the power button as hard as he could.

He brought the cups back to the caseroom. Wall had made the tea. Its aroma calmed Minogue.

Wall sugared his after it had been drawn, and he put in a bit of milk to colour it.

“I'll take mine in with me,” he said. “Okay with that?”

“To be sure. Now, the interview room's set up for recording, I take it.”

“It is that. The controls are in the top drawer of the desk. A digital recorder there too; you can take the data home on a stick.”

Data, a stick going home? Minogue was lost for several moments. Then he remembered USB sticks, and the circulars on their use and abuse that had been repeated several times over the past few months. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and he headed downstairs after Wall.

A corridor leading out from the main office led to a short hall that was chicaned by a photocopier and a newish vertical file folder. Wall's small tics seemed to be more apparent as he walked: straightening his jacket, gently tugging his shirt collar, spreading his fingers over the knot of his tie. The communications room door was open and Minogue got a glimpse of a uniformed Guard with his headset, stretching. Somebody had farted here recently. Wall pulled the communications room door closed and he approached the first of three doors. He turned and nodded at Minogue and then opened the door.

Minogue waited until the uniform left the room, and then he entered.

Twomey's face was pale and he frowned so much it looked like a permanent grimace. He kept eye contact with Wall as the detective moved two chairs.

“You've decided to help us with our inquiries then,” said Wall.

“Are you bleeding joking me?”

“No, I'm not. Merely inquiring.”

“Those two cops, the two Guards, at the house said I was under arrest. That's against my rights. No bleeding way am I here voluntarily, I can tell you.”

Dublin accent, Minogue reflected, but not one that would scrape your eardrums. He was already storing impressions: acne; sweat by his hair; a smoker; trying to look confident and much put upon; fidgety. Scared.

He wondered if he were looking at the man who had killed Tadeusz Klos.

“What size of a shoe do you wear,” he said, staring at Twomey.

“Shoe? What are you talking about shoes for? Jases. Shoes?”

There had been no give, Minogue realized.

“Eleven, I'm guessing.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

“I'm a Garda detective,” said Minogue.

“That's nice. But how do I know? I need to see some ID, don't I?”

Minogue downed the tea and then the clipboard and pulled out his wallet.

“You look different than your picture.”

“Better or worse, would you say?”

“I'm not going after that one. As a matter of fact I'm not saying nothing to neither of yous. Talk to my lawyer.”

“Your counsel.”

“Lawyer, whatever.”

“What's your counsel's name?”

“Legal Aid, whatever. Whoever. When I make my phone call.”

“What phone call?”

“Don't try that one. Everyone gets a phone call. Basic democratic rights.”

Minogue wrote the date on his clipboard. He opened the drawer and took out the microphones and placed them within arm's reach. Stretching his arm, his sleeve slid up, and he saw four o'clock on his infallible wedding anniversary watch.

Minogue ejected the tape, looked it over, and slid it back in again. He closed the lid on it and cued it, and then he hit Record and Pause.

“You're wasting your time with that,” said Twomey, “I've nothing to say.”

“So you were saying.”

Minogue looked up to the corner of the ceiling where the Plexiglas covered the camera.

“You know what that is up there?”

“Of course I do. But you won't be needing it.”

“It's to help safeguard your rights, Mr. Twomey.”