Free A Carra King by John Brady Page B

the Iceman. Eight o’clock this morning for the love of God. The frigging Inquisition. When did he pounce on you?”
    â€œNine or so.”
    â€œWhat’s he want to talk to you for? It’s me he’d want to slice and dice.”
    Minogue let his eyes wander along the frosted glass wall of his cubicle. He lingered on the black-and-whites of the footprints from the Dun Laoghaire Park murder. Ninety-quid Nike runners, half-burned. His eyes finally settled on the roadmap of Ireland. Sligo. Had Shaughnessy been heading up to Donegal or down to Mayo? Where had the “touring the west of Ireland” bit come from anyway?
    â€œWell, there’s a series being done on the Guards,” he said to Kilmartin. “He said to watch what I say.”
    â€œTalk about the understatement of the frigging century. Are we running a police force or a PR outfit, I hope you asked him. Where did he put in the knife anyway?”
    â€œHe got word of some items overheard at the Garda Club.”
    Minogue thought he heard the intake of breath in the pause.
    â€œIs that a fact now,” Kilmartin said. “Let me tell you about that . That’s what has dropped us all in it. Hey, did you recognize her there? That bitch, what’s her name . . .?”
    The Holy Family, Minogue thought. Iseult on a rant about patriarchy.
    â€œWell she sort of looked familiar but . . .”
    â€œI only got word on this newspaper thing, this profile thing, at one of Tynan’s come-all-yes there a month ago. I mean to say, does anyone actually go for this ra-ra stuff, open-house, relationship shite? Anyone who’s been in the job more than six weeks, like? Anyone with time on the beat? Anyone with a brain bigger than a shagging pea ? Anyone smarted than Lawlor trying to feather his nest for promotion?”
    The counties had yellow borders. County Sligo was the collar on the teddy bear that was the map of Ireland. Donegal Bay there, then the ocean. He’d never liked Sligo. He didn’t know why really. Maybe it was because it was in the way of getting to Donegal, his real destination on holidays years ago.
    â€œWell?” Kilmartin said again. “Am I tarred with the Smith thing?”
    â€œI don’t know, Jim. Things get around though.”
    â€œCh-a-rrist! A man can’t voice an opinion without some gobshite hiding in a corner and making a big deal about it! Had she nothing better to do?”
    Minogue detached the phone from his ear. Hard to blame Kilmartin really.
    â€œWell, how in the name of Jases did that bitch get into the bloody club in the first place anyway? Answer me that one, if you can! Lawlor brought her, that’s how. It was Tynan started this whole thing, getting the press to play ball — and now look!”
    Minogue’s extension buzzer stopped Kilmartin. It was Murtagh.
    â€œA few things coming in,” Murtagh said. “They had Shaughnessy on the news this morning. Woke a few people up. Four phone calls came in to Missing Persons. Donegal, the two of them, one from some place called Falcarragh. A local station. A call from a couple who run a Bed & Breakfast near town.”
    â€œFalcarragh,” Minogue said. “Which days?”
    â€œEarly last week, before the Sligo B & B. The other one’s a guest house in Glencolumbkille.”
    Glencolumbkille, almost as far west as you could get in Donegal.
    â€œHere’s a wobbler for you,” Murtagh went on. “A call came from the Museum.”
    â€œThe Museum, here in Dublin? To do with Shaughnessy?”
    â€œYep, above in Kildare Street. There’s a Seán Garland phoned. Says he thinks this Shaughnessy came in for a chat awhile ago. Yep, a week or ten days back. He thinks Shaughnessy was asking about something or other. But here’s the thing: he didn’t come in as any Shaughnessy, says Garland. Garland saw the picture in the morning paper. He thinks that your man used the name