said.â
âLooks good on you, boss,â said Murtagh. âAnd the missus, of course.â
The missus, Minogue wondered; the missus will freak.
âItâs the rearing,â Murtagh added.
âIseultâs going to be famous,â said Ãilis.
Minogue looked from Ãilis to Murtagh and back. He studied the picture again. A greasy Irish breakfast. The barbed wire, the crucifix. Motifs?
âShe makes a point of saying itâs not her,â said Ãilis. âPersonally, like.â
Minogue let it drop back on to his desk. Murtagh picked it up and whistled.
âDonât you get it?â Ãilis asked again.
âTell me what to get, Ãilis.â
âItâs like that poem, Larkin. âYour mom and dad, they â well, have you heard that one? Philip Larkin?â
âHeâs dead, but, isnât he?â
ââYour mom and dad, they . . . mess you up.â Do you get it now?â
The call from Kilmartin saved Minogue.
âWhat,â was Kilmartinâs greeting, âare you bloody paralyzed and you couldnât use a phone? Too heavy to carry, was it?â
âForgot, Jim. The battery was low. I must have forgotten to switch it back.â
âGet off the stage,â said Kilmartin. âFlemming lies there! Try again.â
âAll right. I turned it off because I donât like the damned thing.â
âYouâre a bollocks, Matt. What use is a cell phone if you wonât use it!â
âIâll try again. To adapt better.â
âIâll line you up for a course on it or something. How to relate to it.â
âYouâre on holidays, Jim. What do you want?â
âThe fella at the airport. Heâs ours now, I take it. Who is he? The Yank?â
âDonât you like holidays, Jim? Give âem to me if you â â
âShag off, will you. Youâd only waste them canoodling around dives in the arse end of Paris or something. Whoâs the new case, I said.â
Minogue tried to condense it into three sentences.
âLeyne,â said Kilmartin. âHe went big with frozen foods first didnât he? Potatoes, was it? Chips?â
âI think it was.â
âAnd the whole frozen food thing took off. Yes. Whatâs the son doing here?â
âA tourist, it looks like.â
âLooking for his roots, was he?â
Minogue waited for Kilmartin to work his way around to asking about Tynan.
âRobbed at the airport? Then murdered?â
âWeâre not up on placing him yet.â
âJesus. âCéad MÃle Fáilteâ et cetera. How longâs he missing?â
âSix days. We can place him in a B & B in Sligo. He was booked into Juryâs Hotel here, but never showed. Then he didnât appear for the flight either.â
âHe travelled Bed & Breakfast down the country but then he went back to tycoon class when he hit Dublin?â
Minogueâs eyes prickled. He held the phone away. The sneeze didnât come immediately. He tried squinting at the fluorescent lights with his eyelids half open. Kilmartin was still talking.
âThatâs right, Jim,â he tried.
âWhat time?â
âIt was getting on for half-three when I jacked it in at the site.â
âWhat? He phoned you at half-three this morning?â
âWhat did you ask me again, Jim?â
âTynan! I asked you if youâd heard from him lately!â
The sneezes rocked Minogue. Four in a row: he scrambled for paper hankies he hoped heâd kept in the bottom drawer. A final sneeze left him head down, dripping onto a file folder. He let the phone down and swivelled around. He wiped the phone last.
âMother of God,â said Kilmartin. âThatâs dog rough, what you have. But Iâll tell you one thing, weâre all victims of foul play here. You getting pissed at a site last night, me getting the treatment from