“I’ll be moderately keen to find out how that Tara Lynch’s mother, how she’ll react,” he said, “when it gets to her daughter having sex with Matthews.”
“Begob,” said Duggan. “Blood and snots flying. See wuzzup then, homey.”
Minogue poked about for anything beyond tea. Though the room was warm enough, he shivered as he looked through the cupboard. There was granulated coffee, cup-o-soup stuff, sugar. He ended up making a pot of tea. Duggan was explaining to Wall that hip-hop was a lifestyle, but rap was only music actually, when the phone rang.
Minogue didn’t try to eavesdrop. His guess was accurate enough. Soon enough Duggan put down the phone. Slowly, thoughtfully, and a little wryly, he eyed Wall.
“The other girl is downstairs now,” he said.
“Good,” Minogue said. “I’ll do it.”
“Her, ah, father is with her this time too,” Duggan said.
“Grand.”
“Maybe not. He’s on the boil apparently. Big fella. One of the heavy equipment lads who dug the Port of Dublin tunnel. Dec Ahearne below says he might start throwing shapes any minute.”
“Vexed?” Minogue said. “Great. We’ll add that to the pot.”
“You mean tell the boys inside?”
Minogue nodded.
“Watery, or real tea?” he asked.
“All the way,” said Duggan. “Him too.”
Minogue dropped in three bags and put the lid on the pot. He studied the stains on the table.
“Whose girlfriend was the Tara one again?” Wall asked.
“Matthews’,” said Minogue. “The other one, Ali what’s-her-name. She won’t be fourteen until the end of the month, I found out.”
“Thirteen years of age,” said Wall and shook his head. “What are we coming to in this country?”
With that, the room fell quiet. Even the wail of an ambulance nearby seemed to leave the stillness intact. Lost in thought, Wall stroked his neck. Praying, Minogue wondered. Praying for the souls of Ireland. Duggan had his feet stretched out, almost pulling him down from the chair where he slumped, his elbows crossed jammed on the armrests. His hands joined at the fingertips only. This time the phone was painfully shrill. Wall was closest.
“Thanks,” he said after a few moments and put back the receiver.
“The Lynch clan,” he said. “The mother and the daughter only. Floods of tears apparently.”
“I’ve an idea,” said Duggan, grimacing as he hauled himself upright in the chair.
“We put the two girls’ families in a room with those two fellas. Let them do the work for us. How about that?”
He stood up slowly and stretched.
“Jesus,” he said with little feeling. “Oops, sorry there, em, Stoney.”
Wall issued a tired grin.
“Slips out,” said Duggan quietly.
“As my mother used to say,” said Wall, “God is patient.”
Duggan shot a brief, rueful look Minogue’s way.
“How long can they keep this up,” he murmured, “before even they cop on they’re going nowhere?”
Minogue took three Styrofoam cups off the pile.
“‘We only found him there, we didn’t do it!’” Duggan went on, in a poor version of a Dublin accent. “‘We thought it was a hit and run!’”
Minogue held the lid on the teapot and he poured.
“Thanks,” said Duggan.
“Who’s good downstairs at interviews?” Minogue asked.
“Dec,” said Wall. “Declan Ahearne I told you about. I know he’s on evenings. Fin Flaherty’s good too. Plainclothes.”
“I saw Fin earlier on,” said Wall.
“Big hefty fella, Finbar Flaherty,” said Duggan. “Very intimidating but he’s as mild as milk.”
“Have they any doings with this case yet?”
“They do,” said Duggan. “They were door-to-door for a few days, and they did some city-centre work with the notices and the photo circulation. They’re on call for this when we need them.”
“Can yous get them up to speed then,” Minogue asked, “on the situation with Matthews and Twomey? Ten-minute chat say?”
He looked up in time to see the two detectives exchange a glance.
“They’d be taking over then?” Duggan asked.
“Not a bit of it,” said Minogue. “We’re just going to shift the goalposts a bit. Let’s bring them in as specialists.”
Duggan’s eyebrows went up under his bedraggled hair.
“Specialists in what?”
“Sex crimes, let’s say,” said Minogue. “That ought to do it.”
“Well now,” Duggan said slowly. “I like it.”
Wall lowered his head a little and looked at his colleague before turning to Minogue.
“Wouldn’t last long on remand up on Mountjoy,” he said. “Would they?”
Minogue looked in the next cupboard for hidden biscuits.
“That might be of some concern to the pair of them,” he said.
“Jesus,” said Duggan quietly. “Ah sorry, Stoney. Sorry about that.”
“Jesus what,” Minogue said, suddenly exasperated with the enforced piety. “We have two fellas stonewalling us.”
He tried not to read any reproach into the pause that followed. Still, he felt a silent reproach from Wall for his use of the Holy Name.
“What about consent?” Duggan asked then. “These young ones are fierce… you know? These days?”
“A bit wild maybe,” Minogue agreed. “But I don’t see a thirteen-year-old girl consenting to sex, do you? I doubt her father would either.”
Neither detective said anything.
“Will you doctor your own tea lads?” said Minogue. “There’s only that lousy whitener stuff apparently.”
“Thanking you,” said Wall.
Minogue saw that Duggan was still thinking about it.
“They might be able to laugh off a trafficking charge,” he said to Duggan. “But if either one of them has a titter of wit about them, they’ll know it’s time to deliver.”
Duggan’s face took on a fixed expression.
“I like it,” he murmured. “Yes I do. I like it.”
Chapter 32
“I don’t see him” said Fanning. “He didn’t come out of the house.” Cully was looking through the menus on his mobile.
“Take it easy,” he said. “He’ll show.”
Fanning was sure that Cully sensed that he was on the edge of panic. He tried to breathe through his mouth calmly. The rubber tang from the stick-ons was making him nauseous.
“He’s late,” Fanning said. “Call it off.”
Cully looked over.
“You need to be patient,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”
“This makeup stuff is the worst, I feel like puking from the smell.”
“Ain’t you been around that stuff though? Your books thing, films?”
Fanning ran his fingers around his cheekbones and his forehead again. The stuff felt like scabs.
“I wouldn’t know you now,” said Cully. “I swear.”
“That’s ironic.”
“Ironic?”
“Coming from you, I mean. I don’t know you, do I?”
“That’s funny,” said Cully. “I like that, yes. Funny.”
There was that English accent slipping in again, Fanning noted. He pulled the mirror open at the back of the visor. The interior light of the car was yellow.
“See?” said Cully. “You’re a natural. It’s aged you ten, twenty years.”
Fanning tilted his head to see if the grey had streaked or gathered in one spot. Cully reached between the seats and pulled a jean jacket from the floor.
“Look, enough,” Fanning said. “This is not working out.”
“No worries I said. He’ll be there.”
“Is he watching us? Does he know we’re parked here on his road?”
“No he doesn’t,” said Cully. “You have to change into these boots — and you’re using a hat, right?”
“And if he doesn’t show up?”
“He’ll show up. He does what he’s told.”
“Who’s telling him?”
“We’ll talk about that later. Use this.”
He dropped a watchman’s hat on the console.
“Do the boots outside, then we’ll go into the shop. Wear the glasses.”
“I don’t want to wear glasses.”
“These glasses have a tint to them. It shifts your eye colour a bit.”
“‘Shifts?’”