Minogue thanked the waitress and started immediately in on the black pudding, a blood sausage favoured in rural areas yet. A generous portion, along with the waitress’s commiserations about the unsettled weather, accompanied the mixed grill.
“Kathleen asked how we were doing on our, em, hobby.”
Hoey grasped a chip with his fingers.
“What did you tell her?”
Much to Minogue’s distaste, Hoey kept a cigarette going in the ashtray, taking pulls at it between chips. The long plate-glass windows of the Beehive Restaurant were densely freckled with rain. Hardly a car passed on the puddled street.
“I informed her that we had the personnel to do a right good job of it. That’s probably a way of saying that we’ve gotten nowhere yet. But that we might know better tomorrow.”
Hoey munched reflectively on a chip.
“That wasn’t so big of a whopper,” he murmured.
Minogue watched two cars moving slowly down the street. A customer opened the door and Minogue heard the hiss of tyres from the Fords. Each car had three men in it, he noted. Light from the restaurant caught the antennae waving by the back windows of the cars. The faces were in shadow until the car drew level with the restaurant. A young man stared in the window and his eyes met Minogue’s for several moments. A hard-case from Dublin, the Inspector registered: prowling. The face fell back into shadow as the car passed. Hoey’s eyes were still fixed on the empty street.
“The cavalry,” said Hoey. “It’s getting to be like a garrison town.”
Minogue worked on his grill but had to leave most of the chips. He dared more coffee but wished he could smoke to blunt its taste.
“Kathleen asked how you were doing.”
Hoey rubbed his nose with a knuckle and concentrated on moving the ashtray in a pavane around the Formica. Minogue suspected that his colleague was putting his fingers to work so that his hands would not shake.
“Looked better by the hour, I told her. More or less, like. What I didn’t tell her, of course, is that I’m worried about leaving you on your own tonight while I go over to Howard’s place with Crossan.”
“Well, let me go along with frog-eyes and yourself, so.”
“Two Guards off the Murder Squad, Shea? I don’t think that’d be a sound move. I want it to be as social as it can be. More will come of it.”
“The Clare connection?”
“I suppose. Sorry.”
Hoey’s fingers slowed, and he rubbed his forehead with his thumb. He and Minogue had booked into a bed and breakfast run by a Mrs McNamara. She had kept her curiosity in check for the moment, issuing a great welcome for her two guests. She explained the weather to them, told them that there was plenty of hot water, the prospect of a session with melodeons in Davitt’s pub, told them there was another bathroom at the back of the house, asked them if they liked a big breakfast, invited them down to the parlour to watch the Miss Ireland beauty contest on the television tonight, recommended visits to the Ailwee Caves and the Folk Village by Bunratty.
The ashtray had begun its segue again. Hoey didn’t look up when he spoke.
“Tell Kathleen I’m all right. Considering.”
Minogue’s mind was drawn to the movement of the ashtray.
“I’ll head back to Mrs McNamara,” Hoey added. “Have a wash-up. I’ll take a gander at what Miss Ireland’s like this year.”
Minogue wrenched his eyes away from the mesmerising movements of the ashtray. He tried to lighten the atmosphere. He remembered the holy water font by Mrs McNamara’s door and the picture of the Sacred Heart reddened by the glowing bulb. Their widespread use and illumination on the island surely landmarked Ireland for sightseeing aliens, he believed.
“If you’re watching with Mrs Mac, I’d stick to the details about charm, personality and poise, Shea. Rather than dwell on the merely physical, I mean.”
Hoey feigned mild amusement.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “You can even take a drink or two with Crossan and not feel bad.”
“If I’m treating you like an iijit, Shea…”
“You’re not, it’s all right. I just have to decide for myself with this drink thing.” Hoey sniffed and slowed the ashtray’s dance,
“Us driving around today,” he murmured, “it’s hard to say. A few times I had the strangest ideas come into my head. It’s like I’ve lost something. Something is over. And I know that I can’t go back and get it, whatever ‘it’ is. Never. But I’m kind of glad of it.”
Hoey let go of the ashtray abruptly and pushed it into the middle of the table. Immobile, it seemed to draw his attention even more. He snapped open his packet of cigarettes, lit one and stared at the spotted, violet window.
“Do ye want anything else?” asked the waitress.
“No, thanks,” said Minogue.
He watched her load up with plates and head back for the counter. Hoey’s face eased, as though he had just understood a subtle joke. He nodded toward the window.
“I was looking at that window when we came in. For a few minutes I didn’t realise that the fella in the window was me. Did that ever happen to you?”
Minogue nodded.
“You are who you are,” Hoey said. “Hardly news now, is it? I’m not proud of what I did. I’m not ashamed of it either. But it’s me, and I’m here. That’s it. That’s all of it.”
Hoey’s face had cleared of lines. He returned to gazing at the window as though it were a lush landscape where he could see forever.
“If Herlighy heard that, he’d sign me in somewhere, I’ll bet you.”
Minogue held fast to his wish not to interrupt.
“Look at you, though,” Hoey went on. “Nothing seems to knock you down.”
“I have Kathleen and the children, Shea. And I do enjoy being around Jimmy and the others-”
Hoey waved away Minogue’s words with a tired, knowing grin.
“Yeah, yeah. The Killer looks out every day of his life to see how he can look good and have people think he’s the bees’ knees.”
“He’s a good leader, Shea. Has to crack the whip sometimes. But he leaves us plenty of room.”
“He’ll turf me out. That’s the kind of room he’ll give me.”
“He will not,” Minogue retorted. He met Hoey’s eyes. “I won’t let him. And that’s that.”
Hoey’s eyes lost their piercing intent after several moments and slipped back to the window.
CHAPTER NINE
You’re right! Jesus!”
“I told you, see?” He let the van coast by the restaurant, his foot on the clutch.
“Who’s the one with him? He looks like he was in a row.”
“Never saw him before. Here, do you think he’s an informer who got the shite beat out of himself at the station or something?”
The driver took a deep breath.
“There. I told you he was down here undercover. He’s Clare, so he wouldn’t stick out.”
“Shut up a minute!”
“Well, how come he’s back, then?”
“Jamesy Bourke getting shot, maybe.”
He turned the van into Cornmarket and stopped. The wipers began to squeak on the window.
“No, it isn’t! It’s because of the fucking German the other night! They’re sending in a spy-”
“Jases, get some sense, would you!”
“Well, what’s your bloody explanation then?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, “I just don’t know.”
“I’m telling you! It’s too much of a coincidence.” The passenger began squeezing his thumb again. He held it up to the windscreen. The streetlight showed the nail black.
“It’ll fall off and a new one’ll grow under it,” he murmured.
“Maybe we can find out more about him,” said the driver. “I’ll phone and ask.”
His passenger gave a scornful whinny.
“Run to that bollicks? Christ, us doing all the work and taking the risks. What’s he going to tell us, for fuck’s sakes? To go and hide?”
The driver was too tired to get angry. His passenger stuck his thumb in his mouth.
“Come on and we’ll go for a pint,” he grunted around the thumb.
“No, I’m going to go home and phone. Where will you be later on?”