Free A Carra King by John Brady Page A

said.”
    â€œLooks good on you, boss,” said Murtagh. “And the missus, of course.”
    The missus, Minogue wondered; the missus will freak.
    â€œIt’s the rearing,” Murtagh added.
    â€œIseult’s going to be famous,” said Éilis.
    Minogue looked from Éilis to Murtagh and back. He studied the picture again. A greasy Irish breakfast. The barbed wire, the crucifix. Motifs?
    â€œShe makes a point of saying it’s not her,” said Éilis. “Personally, like.”
    Minogue let it drop back on to his desk. Murtagh picked it up and whistled.
    â€œDon’t you get it?” Éilis asked again.
    â€œTell me what to get, Éilis.”
    â€œIt’s like that poem, Larkin. ‘Your mom and dad, they — well, have you heard that one? Philip Larkin?”
    â€œHe’s dead, but, isn’t he?”
    â€œâ€˜Your mom and dad, they . . . mess you up.’ Do you get it now?”
    The call from Kilmartin saved Minogue.
    â€œWhat,” was Kilmartin’s greeting, “are you bloody paralyzed and you couldn’t use a phone? Too heavy to carry, was it?”
    â€œForgot, Jim. The battery was low. I must have forgotten to switch it back.”
    â€œGet off the stage,” said Kilmartin. “Flemming lies there! Try again.”
    â€œAll right. I turned it off because I don’t like the damned thing.”
    â€œYou’re a bollocks, Matt. What use is a cell phone if you won’t use it!”
    â€œI’ll try again. To adapt better.”
    â€œI’ll line you up for a course on it or something. How to relate to it.”
    â€œYou’re on holidays, Jim. What do you want?”
    â€œThe fella at the airport. He’s ours now, I take it. Who is he? The Yank?”
    â€œDon’t you like holidays, Jim? Give ’em to me if you — ”
    â€œShag off, will you. You’d only waste them canoodling around dives in the arse end of Paris or something. Who’s the new case, I said.”
    Minogue tried to condense it into three sentences.
    â€œLeyne,” said Kilmartin. “He went big with frozen foods first didn’t he? Potatoes, was it? Chips?”
    â€œI think it was.”
    â€œAnd the whole frozen food thing took off. Yes. What’s the son doing here?”
    â€œA tourist, it looks like.”
    â€œLooking for his roots, was he?”
    Minogue waited for Kilmartin to work his way around to asking about Tynan.
    â€œRobbed at the airport? Then murdered?”
    â€œWe’re not up on placing him yet.”
    â€œJesus. ‘Céad Míle Fáilte’ et cetera. How long’s he missing?”
    â€œSix days. We can place him in a B & B in Sligo. He was booked into Jury’s Hotel here, but never showed. Then he didn’t appear for the flight either.”
    â€œHe travelled Bed & Breakfast down the country but then he went back to tycoon class when he hit Dublin?”
    Minogue’s eyes prickled. He held the phone away. The sneeze didn’t come immediately. He tried squinting at the fluorescent lights with his eyelids half open. Kilmartin was still talking.
    â€œThat’s right, Jim,” he tried.
    â€œWhat time?”
    â€œIt was getting on for half-three when I jacked it in at the site.”
    â€œWhat? He phoned you at half-three this morning?”
    â€œWhat did you ask me again, Jim?”
    â€œTynan! I asked you if you’d heard from him lately!”
    The sneezes rocked Minogue. Four in a row: he scrambled for paper hankies he hoped he’d 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.
    â€œMother of God,” said Kilmartin. “That’s dog rough, what you have. But I’ll tell you one thing, we’re all victims of foul play here. You getting pissed at a site last night, me getting the treatment from