John Brady - All souls

“Damn,” said Tynan and headed out again. “Sugar.”

Minogue tried to gather his wits as he studied Tynan’s well-tailored frame marauding around the cashier’s desk. What was Tynan doing here? Coincidence?

“Slow day?” said Tynan. He sat on Minogue’s side of the table.

“It’s always murder,” said Minogue. “I’m charging the batteries. I was late into the night on a case. Just a break to, em, build morale.”

Tynan eyed Minogue while he stirred his coffee.

“‘Building morale’? I phoned the Squad and was told that you were, quote, ‘doing research.’”

“Eilis might have given me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Anyway. I’m on a walkabout myself.”

Minogue smiled.

“That’s it. Look surprised. No minders, no gun in my pocket.”

Tynan plucked a slim cellular phone from his jacket pocket and showed enough of it for Minogue to recognise the device.

“What do you think?”

The Inspector knew of Tynan’s ways. The new Garda Commissioner had taken to walking about town in civvies, getting a feel for how Dublin was policed. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was annoying several senior civil servants and Gardai with his perambulations.

“Great,” said Minogue.

Tynan looked around the restaurant.

“And how are you all?” he said.

“Good,” said Minogue. “Jimmy’s as ever. You know the style.”

“I meant Kathleen and the children.”

Minogue squirmed a little in the seat. “Great. We’re empty-nesters now. Discretionary income up. We’re getting quite selfish, I suppose.”

“Oho,” said Tynan with no real enthusiasm. “And the children?”

Minogue knew that Tynan had no children. Tynan had studied for the Jesuits many years ago. Rachel Tynan was a Protestant, a former teacher. Her laughter and pottery studio intrigued Minogue. He had watched Tynan at functions, exchanging asides with his wife between speeches, she laughing, he with a straight face. Tynan the cold fish, many thought; Rachel Tynan, whose face reminded Minogue of a peach.

“Oh, we monitor them at a distance. The routine seems to be that I reassure Kathleen. Then I get the willies myself when I see what they’re actually up to.”

Tynan took some more coffee from his cup and sat back.

“I need to pay yous a visit soon.”

Minogue nodded as though considering the news.

“Throw around a few ideas, you know,” Tynan added.

“Great,” said Minogue. Had Kilmartin been tipped off about this?

“Busy enough, are ye?” asked the Commissioner.

Was this a probe? “There’s always work. But we still don’t kill one another that much, don’t forget.”

“Compared to…?”

“Well, compared to the really civilised countries, I mean.”

The Commissioner continued his survey of the clientele in the restaurant.

“We need changes, that’s clear,” he murmured. “It’s a matter of how and where at this stage.”

“So they say in the press, John.”

Tynan gave him a glazed look.

“The Delahunty Factor, you mean?” Tynan asked, his mouth set tight. Minogue nodded.

An Inspector Delahunty, well-known and well-liked by his officers, had told a journalist that the solution to finding people with guns on them was to pull out your own-as long as you were Special Branch- and shoot them down in the street like dogs.

“‘Make-My-Day’ Delahunty. I’ve had more letters about that-”

“Were I not so discreet, John, I might speculate.”

“Let fly, so.”

“This same party let loose those comments as a way to see how our new Garda Commissioner would handle them, our new Garda Commissioner being but months in the office, I mean. And our new Garda Commissioner being a bit of an enigma as yet. One wonders if our new Garda Commissioner is one of ‘de boys’ or if he is one for rocking the boat.”

Tynan almost smiled before turning away. Nothing to tell Kilmartin here, Minogue thought.

“I’ve taken a long hard look this last six months,” Tynan murmured. His eyes returned to Minogue’s. “And what I seem to be seeing is something I last heard of twenty-five years ago when I studied mediaeval society. Warlords squabbling over their own territories. Some of it’s beyond an outrage. It’s nearly comical.”

Indolent and intent, his eyes bored into Minogue’s for several moments.

“It’s stifling. It’s bad for morale. It’s inefficient. And it’s going to stop.”

Minogue took in the force of Tynan’s determination. Should he report the warlord term to the Killer, James Kilmartin? The Commissioner was again looking at the faces around him in the cafe.

Minogue told him about the holiday he was planning. Tynan nodded and told Minogue that the islands were indeed beautiful. Minogue didn’t ask how he knew but he filed away this fact about Tynan to tell Kathleen later. Tynan turned in his seat and stared at Minogue. He seemed cautious now.

“I want you to drop by my office after your jaunt below in Clare,” he said. “A chat.”

“Jimmy too?”

Tynan flicked away the question with a quick movement of his hand.

“Don’t be fretting. It’s smarts that should be the basis of entitlement to comment, not rank alone. So don’t be kicking in the stall now.”

“I’ll be sure and phone you,” said Minogue. He felt pleased and bewildered. Tynan finished his coffee, rose and replaced his chair under the table. He looked down at the Inspector.

“Like the suit? There’s stripe to it but you’d need glasses to see it.”

Minogue issued a wink that he hoped might convey a sybarite’s approval. Tynan’s baleful gaze swept the room again.

“Well,” the Commissioner murmured. “I’m going to see if what some journalists write is true. That some Gardai are not, em, sensitive to Dubliners of lower socio-economic status.”

A swell of sympathy and liking swept over Minogue. He hoped that Tynan was not too isolated. “See you, John,” he called after him.

Minogue hummed along with the radio while he waited for Donnybrook to unjam itself. It was early in the afternoon for traffic jams, he thought. At least the sun had come out. An ambulance passed him, heading into town. A crash? Several teenagers in masks-one of Mick Jagger-trudged by carrying a shopping bag with the outlines of bottles straining at the plastic. Good day for pulling a bank job, thought the Inspector. The traffic moved. Minogue waved to a Guard directing traffic around a Toyota sports car which had taken down a lamp post on its way through the railings in front of a house. A youth with a sullen, pale face and a gash on his forehead sat in the back seat of the squad car. Joyriders, Minogue guessed. Were others hurt? The Guard was talking to himself and frowning. He didn’t wave back to Minogue.

The Inspector stopped in Donnybrook and quickly settled on a bottle of wine to celebrate the beginning of his break from work. Couldn’t be worse than the bottle of home-made plonk that Iseult’s boyfriend, Pat, had opened for dinner last week, the red stuff with the homemade label “Banshee.” Kathleen was on the phone when he turned the key in the hall door. “Maura,” she mouthed at him. “Matt’s just in the door,” she said. “Yes, that’s the job, come and go as you like…”

She handed the receiver to her husband. He exchanged it for the bottle of wine and raised his eyebrows. Kathleen shook her head.

“Down in the dumps again,” she whispered. “I told her we’d be down for sure tomorrow.”

Minogue tried to hide his irritation. He picked up one of the bars of chocolate that Kathleen had lined up for the Hallowe’en callers tonight.

“Hello, Maura, and how are you all below?”