John Brady - A stone of the heart

A black and white photograph of a group of young men and women at a party looked up at Minogue from his desk. This was a picture of a crowd of young ones at Trinity Ball, taken the previous year. Jarlath Walsh looked out from behind glasses. One of his arms disappeared behind the waist of the girl standing next to him. Others in the picture were Up to antics and posing, so they must have been into the gargle. Our man Jarlath looked composed, in place, as an older man might.

Next to this photograph was an assorted set of colour snaps, also taken from his parents' box, doubtlessly kept in the same kind of old shoebox on top of the wardrobe as Kathleen kept hers in. A younger fellow with different glasses, standing beside a grandparent; milking a cow somewhere; holding a certificate; seated, posing, at the piano. "Hardly started living really," Minogue murmured, but not the time or place to be maudlin. Stick to the necessities. Well, one of the necessities was to be realistic: this young fellow looked fairly stuffy, bookish and mannered.

Jarlath Brendan Walsh was the eldest of two children, the other one a girl, Maria, away at boarding school in County Kilkenny or to be up to date, currently in the family residence in Foxrock, grieving. Jarlath Brendan Walsh was a twenty-year-old observing Catholic with modest academic achievements behind him as he worked through his second year in the Faculty of Economic and Social Studies in Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. Jarlath Brendan Walsh had no known reason to get himself bumped off. "He had everything to live for," Minogue muttered.

Soap operas aside, Master Walsh could look forward to some entitlement. His father was a well-to-do fruit importer. The family lived in a big new Mclnerny house in Foxrock, a fine summit of achievement for a man from the country. Mustn't get snotty, thought Minogue: I'm a benighted peasant myself but, God help me, I have a Dublinwoman and a family of Dubliners in tow.

Minogue's view from his office consisted of a grey stone wall, patched decades ago with brick and mortar, slashed into a lunatic jumble by the thoughtless installation of distorting glass. He tried to stare through the glass but he became a little dizzy. Jarlath Brendan Walsh studied political science (is there such a thing?) and economics. If Jarlath Walsh wasn't dead and if his passing had not led to Minogue sitting at a desk with several fair-sized reports to read, Jarlath Walsh would be rather nondescript. Shouldn't think that: his parents must be in agony.

The door opened. The arrival was surprised to find someone in the room.

She introduced herself as Brid and announced that she would be adding to the file on Walsh. Minogue turned to the four carbon copy leaves when she left. Detectives from Pearse Street station had found a bloodied rock in the alley which ran next to the Pearse Street side of Trinity's walls. Looks like someone lobbed it over the wall after he'd made use of it. The blood matched. More crucially, there were four strands of hair stuck to it. The stone had apparently come from a stockpile of similarly sized and shaped stones which lay in a heap in Front Square. Trinity College had undertaken the Sisyphean task of repairing all of its historic Front Square. Workmen were ripping up the cobbled square and saving the stones so they could be reset. No wonder stone masons had a reputation for being stone-mad.

No prints that meant anything on said stone. Minogue sat back sipping at the sweet tea. The idea of it, a Catholic lad, parents up from the bog, finally emancipated into some status by attending Trinity College, the bastion of the Anglo Irish, and there he was done in by a stone in these ecumenical times, a stone taken from the squares where scholars walked. Would they find the spot where the boy's head had been smashed though? It had to have been a hard surface, likely cobblestones if it had been done inside the front end of the college. It might rain at any time and wash away clues like blood. At least the rock was something.

Minogue finished the tea. He then surprised himself with the enthusiasm he felt as he pushed off out of his chair. He selected from his files as his intentions required and left the office.

In between sessions with students, which Minogue had purposely set for the morning, his mind worked calmly, fitting details. Killed by a rock is not planned killing. Killed inside a university is hasty killing. Something had happened that very evening, something to precipitate things. It wouldn't have been an unconnected event. It may have been done by more than one person. If it was done by one, then he must have been hefty enough to drag a limp body into the bushes. Presence of mind to brush over the tracks. Professional? Not necessarily, just determined, desperate maybe. But still, if it was the latter, whoever it was, kept cool and saw to little things. Analytical, practical. Does that mean educated? Dragging bodies is not easy. Minogue stopped listening to the student friend of Walsh and remembered the whump, the glass flying like sand, the car turning slowly. Then he had felt a terrible silence and stillness as he crawled out of the car, knowing all the time what had happened. He had tried to drag the bloodslick body of the detective, the cheery lad, over to the bush. To what end? He was dead, of course. Minogue had passed out then…

Minogue had asked to see the president of the Students' Union. Walsh had been a class representative and, as such, should have been known to the president. Minogue looked over his notes in the intervals between students. He had made a point to thank them before starting. Only one of the young men had wept. Minogue rather liked that young man and he wasn't surprised at such a show of feeling. In a sense that boy had graduated much further than the acerbic self-assurance Minogue detected in the rest of them.

None of these students had been with Walsh in the hours before he died. Minogue found out that Walsh's girlfriend, the one in the picture, if they called one another boyfriend or girlfriend anymore, would not be back until tomorrow. Her friends had packed her off, inconsolable, on the Belfast train. Nothing to it, Minogue thought, even if it was a nuisance that they'd got only brief statements out of the girl last Friday. Plenty of kids from the North attended Trinity. Although it could be done, no one was about to phone the Royal Ulster Constabulary up there to interview her on their behalf or keep an eye on her movements. She'd be rested and ready tomorrow.

The door, formerly ajar, swung open. In walked a tall, bearded president of the Students' Union.

"You wanted a word?" said the newly arrived.

'Intense' is the word, thought Minogue, rising to show some equality.

"If you please, Mr, Mr…"

"Roche. I'm Mick Roche. My Da's name is Mr Roche. I haven't inherited the title yet. No hurry either."

"Would you sit down please, er, Mick. I won't keep you long."

Roche sat down. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He smelled of cigarette smoke. His eyes were lightly ringed. No comb had afflicted his hair since rising from his or whoever's bed today. He affected a look of distance and disinterest. He didn't succeed in concealing a keenness and an alertness from Minogue.

"Spelled R-O-C-H-E, is it?" asked Minogue.

"Yes. An agreeable enough name excepting for a prohibition against narcotics of the same name," said Roche without a trace of humour. Practised that one, Minogue thought.

"Well now. I'm Detective Sergeant Minogue. I'd prefer you call me Matt. To tell you the truth, Mick, I have no interest in that side of things at all."

"In the consumption or in the law enforcement end of things, Detective Sergeant?" asked Roche.

"Well neither, actually. It's about one of your representatives, your colleagues. Jarlath Walsh, the lad who was murdered."