John Brady - A Carra ring

“I’m afraid I have to repeat that my instructions are to contact you in person and deliver the material to you.”

Minogue caught Malone’s eye.

“Enough of this trick of the loop playacting. I’m bringing you in.”

Malone pointed down at Freeman’s name. Minogue nodded.

“Wait,” said Freeman. “This won’t help. It’s a goddamn mess already.”

“Do you think so, now,” Minogue said. “Well it’s only starting for you. You’re about money, mister; I’m about crime.”

“If you give me a chance,” Freeman said.

“You should have handed this over when your boss dragged in those reports, the private-eye stuff on Shaughnessy.”

“Believe me,” Freeman said. “We’re acting in good faith here. Please.”

Minogue let down his arm, held his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Throw him out the window, boss?”

He looked up at Malone. Murtagh was slowly nodding. But Freeman didn’t need to phone, he realized. And this “You’re known”? Leyne’s bluster in the car coming in from the airport, he’d known all about Minogue all along. There had been a broad enough hint, with Leyne’s happy disdain for the “researchers” he hired. How Leyne got himself those copies of police investigation records involving this wayward son of his back in the States, that said something about his reach too. The personal touch, insiders. Now this Freeman fella was holding his nose, for a fine fee too no doubt, and trying to engineer another inside track for Leyne to get to Inspector Minogue.

He closed his eyes for several seconds. He saw Leyne’s sallow face again, the strain as he labored out of the car. Damn! He shoved the phone back on his ear.

“Listen,” he said, “I’m coming over.”

“I really appreciate it, and so will, so would — ”

“Well I don’t, let me tell you. Give me everything you’ve got. I want a statement from you; I want whatever documents and records you have. I want your utter and undivided attention. I don’t want to hear name dropping or flag waving or client privilege talk. Leyne picked you for something, I don’t know what, but I hope for your sake he picked right. Are you with me on this now?”

“I hear you. It’s all aboveboard.”

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

“Fine. Oh, you can tell your guy in the lobby or wherever he is, that I’m not going anywhere.”

Tynan, was Minogue’s first thought: he had left him in the dark on purpose.

“I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

Malone glanced over before racing from the lights at the head of Dame Street. The Audi he had raced kept beeping.

“How much again?” he asked Minogue.

“I heard two hundred million.”

“Dollars or pounds?”

“I can’t remember.”

Malone turned sharply around two cyclists.

“So he says one of ours or some of ours are on the prowl.”

“He, she, or it is not one of mine, Tommy.”

“You don’t care? I still think you should check with C3.”

Minogue bit his lip. He really should get advice on how to give Freeman some serious grief. An American lawyer executing a brief for his client in Ireland. He doesn’t trust the authorities… Had Leyne known he was on his last legs?

“’Cause you’ll find out Tynan has us on a string. ”

“Be quiet, can’t you. I’m thinking.”

“Collar him,” Malone declared “The whole shebang: drag him out of the place, shove him into the back of the car, and bring him around the corner to Pearse Street. Take him apart. What’s the big fu — what’s the big deal here, like?”

Minogue didn’t answer. He’d been thinking about the computer screen, the pictures fading and returning, the drums and the talk of time before the pharaohs.

“Like, what made you change your mind and tell him we’d go to his place.?”

“I don’t know. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it. Don’t be asking me any more. ”

“Come on now, boss. He killed her. The da knew, because your man phoned him. And this fukken Freeman dude is trying his best to bury it. Share prices, all that’s bullshit. Freeman’s following a plan. Tynan’s after pouring cement on us somewhere too. We’ll be lucky if we even get told what the hell happened.”

Minogue looked up to see the restoration work being done above the facade of what had been a tobacconist shop by Cuffe Street. Dust drifted away from a sandblaster overhead.

Malone pulled hard on the hand brake and stepped out onto the roadway, in one fluid movement.

“Jases, will you look at the doorman,” he said. “The hat on him. Jases.”

Minogue checked his door was locked and looked over the roof of the Nissan at the front of the Aisling Hotel. All glass, brass, and crass.

“Gardai,” Malone said to the doorman. “Won’t be long ”

Minogue quickstepped through the foyer. Carpets up to your ankles, flowers, marble. He looked into two alcoves. Empty except for a group of three elderly women. Hardly C3.

The lift was all tinted mirrors. Minogue didn’t much like the look of the middle-aged cop looking back at him. Annoyed-looking, a bit tired. Malone was trying to get some shape on his hair. The back of his jacket bulged as he leaned forward. Had he been carrying the pistol yesterday, Minogue wondered.

“This better be good,” Malone said. The lift jiggled and opened onto a maroon and gray carpet. The two policemen stood by the door for several moments.

“Someone with him, boss. What do you think?”

Minogue couldn’t make out the words.

He knocked. There was a burr as someone’s shoe slid on the carpet inside. The spyhole darkened, and the handle was turned.

Freeman was a very different kettle of fish now. Denim shirt open two buttons. Minogue declined the hand. He stepped in and stared at Kieran Hayes. Kieran Hayes, as in Mr. Slick from C3, as in fixer and golden boy trailing glory and the glamour of Special Branch intrigue in his wake. “Works out of Harcourt Street,” did he? Angry as he was, Minogue kept trying not to look stunned.

Hayes stood up slowly.

“Matt,” he said. “How are you keeping? And Tommy?”

Declan King was standing by the window. He nodded at the two policemen.

“Anyone else?” Minogue asked. “Under the bed here maybe?”

“Not that we know of,” said Hayes. “Cup of tea?”

Minogue waved off the tea. He nodded at Freeman.

“Mr. Freeman?”

“Yes?”

“I am arresting you for obstruction of — ”

“Whoa, there,” said Hayes. “We have a big misunderstanding here now, Matt. Let’s talk this out. That phone call you made here, well — ”

“Out of me way. ”

“What?” asked Hayes.

“You going to obstruct the investigation too?”

“Enough now,” said Hayes. “That’s not going to help.”

“Enough is right,” Minogue said. He took out his phone.

“We’ll fill you in on the gaps now,” King said.

“What are you doing?” asked Hayes. Minogue ignored him. Murtagh answered.

“John? Yes. We ran into a bit of a barney here at Freeman’s. Get’s a wagon and two or three uniforms. Large size.”

“Wait a minute, hey!”

Minogue turned away and plugged his other ear.

“No, no trouble,” he said to Murtagh. “Yet. And place a call to Tynan’s office. Tell O’Leary I’ll be phoning later on. Tell him the show’s over. We’re tired of the routine. We want our man.”

He closed the phone and dropped it in his jacket pocket. Hayes looked from him to Malone and back. Minogue studied the curtains and the carpet. Let them eat cake up in Ballymun; this is the real Ireland. Someone should tell Colm Tierney that Ireland had reappeared. It was high class, European, and it smelled nice.