“Don’t be worrying, counsellor,” said Minogue. “We’re housebroken.”
“I’m serious,” Crossan insisted. “It took a lot of persuading. Phone me. Will ye be back in Ennis tonight?”
Minogue doffed an imaginary hat.
“To be sure, your honour,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Minogue turned the Fiat into O’Connell Street and, within minutes, was accelerating down the Kilrush Road. While he drove he thought back to Crossan’s sardonic manner with the photographs, the subtle gibes at the Howards. Other images slid across his mind: a house afire, a man naked, drunk and terrified. Jamesy Bourke, the bearded spook leaving the pub in Portaree was now a stitched-up carcass. He shivered and tried to shake free of the undertow that could have him spiralling deeper into the grisly images.
“The Killimer ferry will save us an hour each way from Tralee,” he said.
“That fella’s eyes drill into you,” Hoey murmured. “Like a fish or something.”
“What do you make of him?”
Hoey rubbed his chin.
“Don’t know at all. I’d say he’s good at his job for one thing. Can’t read him much. Yet, anyway. I’d sleep with one eye open all the same.”
The two policemen reached Killimer dock in time to coincide with a sailing to the Limerick side.
“There’s timing for you,” Hoey said between yawns.
The ramp hummed and ground upright behind the car. Hoey followed the Inspector up the steps to the railing and there they fell to staring at the Shannon estuary, wide and grey before them. The tide was coming in and the air was tangy with salt. What had been a slight breeze on shore became buffeting gusts as they left Clare. With the engine throbbing underfoot and his lungs full of the sea air, Minogue watched a Jumbo going over, its wheels down for landing at Shannon Airport. Hoey turned to observe the coastline-Limerick or Kerry, Minogue couldn’t tell-drift closer to the ferry. His hair tousled in the wind made him look boyish.
“Where do you think that German fella is by now?” asked Hoey.
“I don’t want to be thinking of that at the present time,” Minogue muttered. He had been thinking of Crossan again. “Let our friends in the Department of Justice be the sitting ducks for Shorty Hynes on that.”
Hoey stayed on deck until the ferry docked. They made better time than Minogue had expected through Listowel and into Tralee, where he parked the Fiat in a street next to the hotel. He had decided to try and get Eilo McInerny out of the hotel for a chat in some unobtrusive place. A woman with flaming red hair, an overabundance of perfume and fine white teeth had a great welcome for Minogue when he approached the desk. Her broad smile faltered a little at Minogue’s question.
“I’m not sure Eilo’s actually on, now. But sure can’t I find out for you?”
She looked at him for an extra few seconds before dispatching a dour adolescent with a white shirt and a slow, reflective manner into the innards of the hotel. Minutes passed, the longer for Minogue because the piped music got to him. He caught the redhead’s eye, and she smiled with a professional benevolence back at him. He was about to rise and return to the desk when the general factotum reappeared and imparted his news to the receptionist. She frowned momentarily, regained her smile and beamed at Minogue to beckon him over.
“Well now, she’s not here this very minute. But she’s supposed to be on shift. I wouldn’t be surprised if she just stepped out for a minute. She was expecting you, was she?”
“She was.” Familiar strands of doubt worked stronger on him. “Did you see her leave?”
“Oh no. Can’t you sit down there and take the weight off your feet? She’ll turn up in a minute.”
Minogue elbowed onto the desk and mustered his best confidential bluff.
“Do you know now,” he whispered, “I’m in a bit of a spot. I’m only passing through and it’d save me a lot of bother if I could find her fairly fast. Do you know where she lives?”
The receptionist took in a breath and smiled. She was in her middle thirties, Minogue guessed, with the robust and hearty manner which even the Irish assumed was natural to redheaded people. Her lingering gaze into Minogue’s eyes made him think of country girls at dances long ago, their comfortable dumpling bodies sensual and inviting, a placid mockery in their smiles as they danced. She could probably tell what he did for a living, what food he’d like, how vigorous a lover he might be.
“Do you know now,” she whispered, in a subtle mimic of Minogue’s fake intimacy. “I don’t know her all that well. But, sure, if this is as important as you say, then you’ll find her around the corner here. She rents a house there on the terrace. It’s next to Nugent’s shop. You can’t miss it.”
She winked at him, and he felt the first itches of a blush starting around his neck. What did she think, that Eilo McInemy and he had a matinee session planned? He sensed her merry eyes on his back as he left. Did the same Eilo McInerny have the reputation of entertaining men?
No one answered the door. Minogue inclined his head closer and knocked again. Then he stood on tiptoe to peer through the patterned amber glass which formed an arch high in the door. He turned the door handle to no avail and then stepped into Nugent’s shop. A young woman with dyed black hair hanging down over her eyes was packing a shelf with bags of potato chips.
“Do you know Eileen McInerny who lives next door?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Have you seen her lately, in the last half hour or so, I mean?”
She put down the carton. “Well, she works over at the hotel.”
“You haven’t seen her coming or going this last little while?”
Her face seemed to set itself, as though she now knew that she didn’t need to be polite. She pushed back a strand of hair.
“It’s important that I see her,” Minogue tried. “She was expecting me.”
“Well, I don’t know now. Her little one, Melanie, came in from school and then I heard the door close about fifteen minutes ago, like someone slammed it. I didn’t actually see anyone.”
“Someone left the house a quarter of an hour ago?”
She tugged at a lock of hair, twirled it over her ear and gave Minogue a wary glance. He tried harder to control his impatience.
“It’s not trouble at all,” he said. “I just need to get in touch with her.”
He managed a smile. The girl gave him a feeble, distracted smile in return but backed into the shelves. She twirled some hair quicker now. Crossan had spoken with Eileen McInerny only an hour and a half ago, Minogue was thinking; her daughter got in from school, maybe after playing with some other kids, and off someone went from the house shortly afterwards. She spoke in a low voice without looking over at Minogue.
“Well, Eilo came in. She wanted a packet of fags.”
“How long ago?”
Her fingers stopped turning the lock of hair and she darted a look at Minogue.
“Are you a Guard?”
Minogue tried to smile again but immediately knew it was phony.
“Yes, I am. But that’s not why I’m calling on Eilo.”
“Herself and Melanie are gone down the road there.”
“To her car, is it?”
She tugged a lock of hair out until it was inches from her eyes and looked at it.
“It’s not the likes of us has cars. Her Melanie walks my little one home. Usually.”
A picture of two girls walking home from school hand-in-hand together came to him. It sawed into his chest. Iseult, he thought, she’s probably of an age with Iseult.
“We have the children all right, but we didn’t manage to hold on to their fathers.”
She let go of the lock of hair and it uncoiled quickly. He recognised the disdain, the small leavening of humour in her eyes. No matter what he said, he was a Guard. He was far across other chasms from her too: husband and father, middle-class. Detector, pursuer, catcher. Moses down from the bog, via Dublin, full of law and order. How could he persuade her otherwise?