John Brady - The going rate

“Irish, though?”

“Half and half. The mother is. The father, well he shagged off. Mother reared him herself.”

“No family here?”

“No. There’s a brother of hers, his uncle. But they’re not on speaking terms. Plus, he’s in the nick. Fancy that.”

“But this Kilcullen, he’s not a career criminal, according to them?”

“Huh,” said Malone. “That’s what they’re telling us. But they’d hardly be admitting they get their recruits in jails. I mean, this isn’t any oul regiment we’re talking about.”

“The Queen Mother’s crowd, I seem to remember,” said Minogue.

“I never thought there’d be Irish fellas in the British Army, I have to tell you. Shows how little I know.”

“Well he wasn’t in it that long, was he. Just long enough.”

“That’s a fact,” said Malone, in a leaden tone. “Teach them how to use weapons, let them loose over there in Iraq. Big surprise they go haywire, isn’t it. Well, some of them anyway.”

Minogue tried to remember the name of the officer who had given that speech before the fighting started over there. An Irish name, maybe even born here somewhere. Some controversy about him afterwards?

“Nothing on the second fella yet?”

“No. Could be anyone. They’ve contacted the regiment, and they’re going through their records. Their list of nicknames, for all I know.”

“West Ham. I don’t follow the football.”

“They’re nothing much anymore. But the fans are another matter. ‘The Hammers.’ They have a name for going over the top.”

Minogue looked down at the cooling smears of grease on his plate. There would definitely need to be more coffee. He switched on his mobile.

Kevin Wall was at his desk already. He gave no sign he was at all annoyed about Minogue’s rebuff last night. Minogue asked if he would do court, for Matthews and Twomey. No problem, was Wall’s cheerful response, and Minogue believed there was no sarcasm involved. Mossie Duggan would prepare the charges for the two girls.

Minogue closed the phone and stifled a belch. He thought of phoning that Danute Juraksaitis woman from the consulate. And tell her what, exactly? That they had two iijits in custody, and two more being charged, but that they weren’t willing to charge any of them with the death of Tadeusz Klos? Well he should phone the Assistant Comm then, and let him give the news to Barry, and whoever else was in the spin cycle on this.

Malone seemed to be mulling something over in his mind, eating distractedly and with little enthusiasm. Minogue decided that he would return to the house, take a shower, and pretend he could get a day’s work done. He wondered how he’d last the afternoon. He remembered Malone’s take on it — you’re the case officer now, you say what goes — and wondered if he dared going down that road a little.

Malone pushed the plate away.

“They could be long gone,” he said. “Nobody has said that out loud yet.”

The second cup of coffee was not up to the mark. Minogue didn’t want to argue about it with a waitress whose English was poor, who looked harried, and almost in tears.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Malone.

Malone rolled his eyes when his phone went off. Minogue watched the waitress try to juggle a tray while getting a bill to two brittle-looking fashion plates in their forties. To have to smile in the job was the worst of it, he remembered Iseult saying several times.

Malone hunched lower over the table, his finger is in his ear now.

“Right this very minute?” Minogue heard him say, and then, “Are you sure about this? Really? Well you better not be spoofing me.”

He took his hand from his head and looked at Minogue.

“Are you ready for this? There’s something after happening up at a place in Dorset Street, one of those hotels. There was shooting. Not five minutes ago.”

He took away his hand, and turned aside from Minogue again.

“Who says?” he demanded. A frown settled on his forehead while he listened. Then he said a yeah and hung up.

“Are you coming?” he asked Minogue.

“Not my parish, Tommy, but thanks.”

“I’m serious. Come on. Seeing is believing, they say.”

“I’m not a fan of shootings. Go on yourself.”

“You’ll miss your chance. One of them is dead.”

“One of who?”

“They think the West Ham one is the one is dead. The other fella is touch and go. If it is them, like.”

No less than five detectives, two openly displaying submachine guns, were marauding on both sides of the tape. The uniforms milled about, many of them edgy with the show of guns. One of the detectives yelled at Malone as he pulled up by a squad car. As though to placate him, two uniformed Guards skipped over.

“Move on there, you can’t park here. Move on.”

Minogue fumbled for his wallet. Malone was ahead of him.

There were brown faces in the small crowd gathering across the street. What little traffic was abroad this hour of the day had been stopped, and Minogue saw more tape going up across the whole street by the traffic lights farther on.

“Oh look who shows when the time is right,” said the detective who had yelled. There was little sign of humour on his face.

“Tell your sister me answer is still no,” said Malone. Minogue watched the detective’s reaction.

There were plainclothes in the hallway, and more standing on the stairway. The place smelled damp, and Minogue took an instant dislike to the feel of the carpet, and the tacky mirrors, the thoughts of how many lonely nights people had spent here.

“Too many heroes in the one place,” said Malone to a red-faced detective who seemed to be waiting on some answer from his phone. The detective reached over to try to swat him on the way by. Minogue had to wait until he stepped back.

He held up his card, and followed Malone upstairs. There was a burnt smell here on the stairs now. Malone took the stairs two at a time. Looking up, the man standing in a doorway looked familiar to Minogue but he could not fix on a name. Did nobody secure crime scenes anymore, he wondered. Well, now. Best he keep that question to himself until later.

The man said something to Malone, and shook hands, and he looked down at Minogue. He made his way over to the top of the stairs.

“Top of the morning to you,” he said to Minogue, and extended a hand. “Brian McNamara, Serious Crimes. I’m the ringmaster here.”

McNamara’s face put Minogue in mind of an Easter Island statue. In his late thirties, Minogue guessed, an expert in controlling his impatience. For no clear reason, he wondered if McNamara didn’t have a kind of a divorced look to him.

“There’s people would pay money for such a mighty Clare name like that,” he said to him.

McNamara had a neutral nod for Minogue, but no remarks that could be even mildly congenial.

“You have an interest in these fellas here, I was told.”

“I think so,” was all Minogue could think to say. “I hope so.”

McNamara craned his neck to see what he could between the banisters leading to the upper floors. More armed detectives appeared, and then Minogue could see two fully kitted ERUs two floors up, the chins of their balaclavas pulled down under the helmet straps. They seemed to be taking their time.

“Every floor,” said one of them.

The smell of cordite was stronger, but there was the beginnings of some kind of aftershave too. McNamara turned back to him.

“They took the live one,” he said. “The other one can wait.”

He seemed to have divined Minogue’s unspoken question.

“Mightn’t make it,” he added. “The way he left here.”

An ambulance attendant came out of the room, carrying a bag. He was looking for someone. The someone seemed to be McNamara. He said something to McNamara about dressings. McNamara said they didn’t want them.