But to be fair, Murph had peeled the lid back enough to give Dermot Fanning some inkling of what it meant to be born into crime, to live it. Never to have had a job — to scorn any job, actually — to go from day to day, taking what you could, or what you liked, what you could get away with. No waiting, and all guilt-free. No lost sleep over global warming, or the direction of the Euro or house prices, or the meaning of life. To see the world as something to prey on, to resent not having what others seemed to have and to feel entitled to grab it, to steal it just to show you could, to use it and to break it if it disappointed you, to discard it. Murph and the rest of them would never need the services of a shrink to help them unravel their neuroses, would they.
His pencil suddenly stopped doing its tricks between his fingers. He looked at it, as though it had a life of its own, and then he felt the creeping presence of doubt. The question was never far off, and here it was back, sitting right in front of him yet again: where was the story in all this?
It pained him to consider that Breen might have been right the other day. Had he missed Breen’s thoughtful way of offering him a soft landing, with the mention of a documentary? For all she scorned Breen, Brid had always maintained that he basically meant well. You just had to find his wavelength, she maintained, his buzzwords. Then he should use some of them — discreetly, of course — in conversation. And, she had told him, with much enthusiasm, he should even learn to mirror little gestures that Breen made. Let the subconscious do the work.
Fanning could hear her now: Why was he so cynical about Colm Breen? And when had that started? Hadn’t they been friends? When had Colm Breen ever done him a bad turn? If Brid picked up signs of his aversion during these exchanges, she could put an edge to her suggestions: Why was he so allergic to advice anyway? What exactly was wrong with networking? Then the buzzwords from the staffroom would surface, and he’d let a few go by before calling her on them — collaborate, share, build relationships. Well at least it didn’t happen often, he thought then.
A familiar weariness was dulling his thoughts now, and he was adult enough to admit he knew why. It was because the things that Brid said were — for the most part anyway — probably true. If anyone would know about getting funding for a documentary, especially with social issues, and crime and what-have-you in the headlines every day, it would be the same Breen. A decent documentary might lead to more gigs, commissions even. It’d add to his portfolio at the very least, keep him in the game.
Game? His mind raced back to the dog fight, and again he saw the shouting mob, their faces twisted in contempt, and excitement, and blood lust. How was that not medieval? How was that not a thousand times more real than any documentary? Shouldn’t it be Breen, or even Brid, who should have to defend why they thought that fiction, real fiction now, couldn’t match a documentary? Yes, he thought, he should use the old caveman example about the power of story- He started when his mobile went off again.
He held it in his palm and between rings he listened to the sudden thumping of blood in his ears. It was Murph’s phone again.
Chapter 22
Minogue waited in the hallway, content to pace slowly and let his thoughts ramble a bit. He made way for several arrivals, uniforms and detectives both, returning any greeting that was offered. He paused by the door again in passing. There was barely a sound. In the interview room with the wire-haired Detective Duggan was one Maureen O’Brien, a Garda from the station who had a good rep for interviewing kids. The girl had been crying a lot, Minogue knew. Apparently the mother was beginning to balk.
Someone descended the stairs at the end of the hall, whistling. Minogue turned and resumed his stroll. The door opened. Duggan closed it quietly behind him.
“The mother’s had it,” he murmured. “She’s taking her young one home.”
“Maureen can’t persuade…?”
“Nope. The young one put on quite the performance. You should hear her. She’s bawling her eyes out. Hyperventilating, pretty well. The mother has her back up now, big-time.”
“Well,” said Minogue, “we don’t want wigs on the green, do we.”
Duggan tugged at his frizzy hair behind his ear.
“We don’t want to arrest the girl,” said Minogue. “But if Maureen’s getting nowhere?”
“Well do you want to give it a try?”
Messy, Minogue thought with some foreboding, so very messy, with kids. He said it several times in his head while he eyed the door, visualizing an angry mother and her distraught daughter barging out, knocking him and Duggan sideways en route. The seconds hung in the air.
But in he went. The room was warm, and the air was filled with a mix of sweat and worn-out, pseudoherbal perfume that Minogue loathed. He pushed back mentally at the claustrophobia that fell on him by glancing from face to face. The mother’s face was red, almost purple under the fluorescent light. She blinked angrily and uncertainly at the new arrival. Minogue had already put on his most avuncular expression. He introduced himself, sat down, and proceeded to say nothing for as long as the atmosphere would allow.
The girl was overweight, with those arms that reminded him of uncooked sausages. Her clothes did her no favours at all. Of course, everything was too small these days. With her wet, swollen face darkened by mascara or makeup gone astray, the girl looked like the usual mini-tornado of hormones, provocation, defiance.
O’Brien seemed resigned to the interview going south too.
Minogue tried again to make eye contact with the girl. She pushed her hair away long enough for Minogue to see she had some, but then she dropped her head again. She slid further down the chair, heaving every few moments to draw in breaths.
“I was hoping we could continue this chat, Mrs. Lynch,” he said.
She pointed at Duggan who was closing the door behind him.
“He said, that one said, that he was going to see about Legal Aid.”
“Why do you think you need Legal Aid?”
“Oh listen to you! I know what a leading question is. No more run-around. Come on Tara, we stayed long enough in this place.”
She reached out and grabbed her daughter’s upper arm as she rose.
“Here we are, trying to do what’s right,” she muttered hoarsely. “And this is what happens. I know my rights, and my daughter does too. She’s only a child, so she is.”
Minogue decided to maintain his oblique line.
“My expertise is in murder investigations,” he said.
She turned to him and frowned.
“This is a disgrace, you saying that. By Jesus I’m going to report you, the lot of yous. Disgraceful!”
“Disgrace,” Minogue said. “Why so?”
“Oh listen, I didn’t come up to Dublin on the last bus! That’s tactics, is what it is- ‘I’m an expert in murder.’ Intimidation, that’s what you’re trying to do.”
“The Murder Squad, have you heard of it?”
She let go of her daughter and slowly stood upright.
“This has nothing to do with Tara, or me, or why we’re here. If you think for one minute that we’re going to stay here.”
“I’ve been called in to work on it. This is a murder case, Mrs. Lynch.”
Minogue glanced at the daughter again. Her breathing had become less panicked and though her head remained resolutely down, she was now very still.
“Detective Duggan and I think that your daughter has vital information in this murder case.”
The mother’s eyes narrowed.
“Those are reasonable grounds. Have you heard that expression?”
She shook her head.
“I’m saying ‘reasonable grounds’ because that’s what comes up. It comes up when a Guard has to arrest someone.”