Hoey kept his eyes on the screen. The biologists retreated to safety, ready for the release.
Hoey replied with a cheer which Minogue found disquieting,
“Tell you the truth, I’d probably be in a pub.”
The Inspector struggled to recover from his own folly. He studied Hoey’s profile as the door of the grizzly’s crate was opened. Was it the glare from the screen or was there really a dull sheen of sweat on Hoey’s forehead? Hoey didn’t look keen on a walk. Minogue wanted a bloody drink and couldn’t for fear of tempting Hoey: a prisoner in his own home. He picked up his book and tried to read again. The phone trilled twice before he recognised it as a phone at all.
Crossan screwed the top on the bottle and waited for Minogue to answer. He took a belt of the whiskey and rubbed the glass in a slow semicircle on his desk. An hour ago he had felt that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from puking, but the anger had taken over and had saved him this humiliation and a greater one-being sick in front of two Guards. They’d have it all over the town by tea-time that the great Aloysious Crossan had made a gobshite of himself when the going had got tough. He still felt the outrage and shock like acid in every part of his belly. Ahearne and another Guard, along with Tom Igo, the county coroner, had been waiting for him in the morgue of the County Hospital. The body had been brought there just after nine o’clock last night. It was only this morning, after several hours of Gardai trying to find next of kin, that Ahearne had thought of contacting Crossan.
Jamesy Bourke’s chest had taken most of the charge, but a scatter of pellets from the blast had lodged in his neck. Like those black spots, Crossan thought numbly, recalling from his youth the warts treated with burning lotion. Bourke’s jacket was shredded and soaked in blood. His eyes were still open in shock. One minute Crossan’s throat was tight with outrage, and then, with the sheet pulled back, his stomach had fallen, almost taking his control with it. Only anger and will had prevented him from vomiting. He remembered turning to meet the eyes of the Guards, Ahearne and Murphy, defying their expectations. Yes, I attest that this is the body of James Bourke, known to me personally. The bitter formality had registered on the faces of the two Guards, and Crossan had walked steadily out of the morgue, knowing that he had seen a hint of shame on both faces. Through the rushing noise and the nausea, Crossan had heard Tom Igo whispering wheezily next to his ear that Bourke had “gone instantly.”
Two rings. Where was Minogue? Maybe half-ten was a bit late to be phoning him. What the hell took him back up to Dublin anyway? So he could avoid being bloody-well asked to do something for Bourke. He thought again of Jamesy Bourke’s body being lifted from the compost heap as though he, like his dog, had merely to be disposed of. “Gone instantly”-no: Jamesy Bourke had died slowly over the last twelve years.
The phone was picked up at the other end.
“Minogue?”
Minogue packed two changes of clothes, extra socks and a few books in a soft-sided overnight bag and went downstairs to wait for Kathleen. He tried to imagine her reaction. Would she laugh? She’d want him to take up the job of talking to Mick and Eoin again. Hoey had stretched out his legs and was pouring more tea while the ads rolled. Minogue sat across from him and watched an aging rock star peddle soft drinks.
“Last night,” Hoey said.
“Around eight o’clock, he said,” replied Minogue. “According to what the Guards told Crossan, this Spillner fella thought that it was the same thing that had happened the night before at another place.”
“Was Bourke…?”
“Not at all. He was mooching around the man’s car, looking for something.”
Hoey drew on a fresh cigarette, blew out smoke and scratched at the back of his neck. The pop star of forty-five landed improbably on his feet and was surrounded by teenagers who made skilled, jerky motions in a wave around him. He grabbed one of them-a delighted girl-and she hung on to his arm while stars burst behind them.
“Well, I don’t want to be…”
Hoey left the sentence unfinished and fell to staring at the fireplace. Minogue squirmed and thought of phoning Kilmartin tonight. He looked down at his watch and decided against it. Half-ten. God
Almighty wife of mine hiding out at Costigans’ while we sat here like iijits watching rubbish on the box.
“I don’t want anything backfiring, Shea,” Minogue stated. “I feel bad enough about not having talked to Bourke. I have to go down and find out what happened, at least. But I can’t be looking over me shoulder. You know what I’m saying now.”
Hoey’s puffed eyes remained fixed on the fireplace.
“I might be shaky, but I’m game,” he muttered.
“Look, Shea. It mightn’t be smart to be getting involved in something like this. At this stage.”
Hoey drew hard on his cigarette.
“Did the Squad get a call on it at all yet?”
“Don’t know. I’ll ask Eilis in the morning. This Spillner fella who shot him was brought to the station. He’s been moved to HQ in Ennis since. Crossan told me that he heard that there’s someone coming down from the German Embassy to sort it out too.”
“Where did he get the shotgun?”
“Well, I’m only going on what Crossan was told. Apparently Spillner brought it with him in the boot of his car on a trip here last summer. Since the trouble below in Clare and Limerick and so forth. The arms finds and the shooting and the foofaroo starting up about the tourists buying up places. Last I saw of him he was sitting next to a musician, clapping his hands.”
Kathleen opened the hall door. He intercepted her in the hall as she was taking off her coat.
“Guess where I’m going?” He paused and decided. “Where we’re going, tomorrow. Shea and myself.”
CHAPTER SIX
A bad patch of road outside Nenagh jostled Hoey’s lolling head against the headrest. He elbowed up slowly and licked his teeth. Minogue looked at his watch. Two and a half hours from Dublin: that was fast.
“Sorry,” said Minogue. “But that’s Tipperary County Council for you. Did you sleep last night?”
“I did, I think,” said Hoey. “Better than the other night, I can tell you. These bloody pills. Stayed up awhile talking to Kathleen. It’s too bad she didn’t want to come down…”
He looked out at the fields. It was midday now and sluggish clouds had moved in from the coast. Minogue had expected rain since Portlaoise.
“Nenagh,” Hoey whispered. He stretched and felt his pocket for the orange bottle of pills.
“That’s it. We’ll be in Ennis before you know it.”
The Inspector had made several phone calls before leaving Dublin. Kilmartin, still in his kitchen, hadn’t argued with him as much as he had expected. Eilis reported that no call had been logged to the Squad yet about Bourke. Minogue had phoned Crossan and arranged to call to his office by dinner-time.
“Look at that,” said Hoey.
By a bend in the road Minogue spotted what he took to be a County Council crew working with little vigour to remove slogans spraypainted onto a wall. Hoey turned in his seat as the car passed them.
“EC Robbers Beware. What’s the other one? Irish Land for Irish People.”
“Maybe they should write their slogans in German or Dutch or whatever,” Minogue murmured.
Forty minutes later he was accelerating out the Ennis Road from Limerick.
Ennis had changed, he believed. The town of bright streets and busy shops was now slow, dulled by clouds and stillness. The streets were almost deserted. Not every day can be market day, he tried to reason with himself. That logic didn’t gain any ground against his impressions. The air felt heavy. The walls of the buildings seemed to be thicker, their windows turned inward. He reached Bank Place and drew into the curb by Crossan’s office. He touched the horn and looked up at the windows along the terrace. Crossan appeared at one and waved once. A minute later, he closed the door behind him, paused to throw on a raincoat and swept down the steps toward the Fiat.