The Going Rate (25 page)

“I want my phone call.”

“Detective Wall and I have some questions for you. Detective Wall will start, I believe.”

Twomey folded his arms, slouched deeper in the seat, and looked away.

“We have a sworn statement from a person who was with you on the night of the fourteenth of this month,” said Wall, “so be aware that we already have information concerning your actions that evening.”

Both detectives waited for a reaction. Minogue sipped at his tea and glanced down at the tape travelling through the spools.

“You were on Amiens Street, at eleven p.m. or thereabouts in the company of three other parties – people. Do you dispute that or can you confirm that for me?”

Minogue held the mug close to his mouth and watched Twomey's face.

“Do you dispute the statement that says you were in possession of cannabis resin that evening? Furthermore, that you were trafficking in same?”

“Lawyer,” said Twomey.

“You're aware of the penalties for drug trafficking, Mr. Twomey?”

“Lawyer,” he said, “phone call.”

“And you're aware that a search warrant has been executed on your home, your family home, looking for evidence of this and further crimes?”

Twomey pursed his lips, drew in a deep breath and let it out noisily through his nose. Then he crossed his legs at the ankle and started studying his shoes.

“You may want to consider what forensic science can learn from even the most minute items,” said Wall.

“My nute?” Twomey asked.

“Small,” said Wall. “Tiny.”

Wall exchanged a glance with Minogue.

“These drug charges are a start,” he said to Twomey then. “We'll move on to child exploitation. Do you know what the age of consent is?”

“Lawyer,” said Twomey and sighed, “phone call.”

Minogue shifted in his seat. Wall took the hint and he sat back. Minogue let the quiet last. Twomey looked up after a count of twelve.

“So can I go now?”

“You can stop the performance,” said Minogue, “if that's what you mean.” “Good cop, bad cop? I get it.” “You got your caution when you were arrested,” Minogue said. “Fine and well if you want to play the sound citizen. You'll get your counsel. But as for ‘my phone call' you'll only get that on the telly.”

“I can sue you for this.”

“Sue all you like. You have that on tape too. You'll have plenty of time on your hands to start your career as a hob lawyer.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Me,” Minogue said. “I'm going to talk some more. You can listen or not.”

“I don't need to be here to listen to you talking. So let me go.”

“You're under arrest, Mr. Twomey.”

“If I'm under arrest I want a phone call. Not to listen to you talk, or threaten me.”

“What I'm giving you is information. Your paranoia's your own business.”

“You have nothing, you're just trying to–”

“–First thing is, we're not in a play here. Nobody's acting here, except you. Nobody's trying to cod you, or put one over on you.”

“Will Santy Claus be coming soon? With toys…?”

“We have plenty to do instead of listening to you, whinging about your rights. My job here is – was for many years – murder investigations. That's why I'm here. I think you need to know that.”

Minogue mentally checked off a few signals from Twomey: the gaze stayed up to a corner of the ceiling, the forced attempt to stillness, the swallow.

“I'm assuming that you're listening and understanding. Will Detective Wall confirm that?”

Wall sat up a little and turned toward one of the microphones.

“Mr. Twomey is alert and can hear my colleagues' words.”

“You need to know that this is about you going to jail for drug offences and exploitation of a minor. There won't be bail. Your pals are going to drop you like lightning. You're going to get slagged something fierce for going out with a fourteen-year-old child. There are people who really despise that to the point they'd want to show you in no uncertain terms. You might meet these people. You might hope and pray that the likes of me are there to protect you.”

“Child,” muttered Twomey, “what do you know about ‘child'? Christ.”

“Who cares what I know? What does the law say? We interviewed your girlfriend today. Two hours ago.”

“And you believe what she says?”

“Let the court decide. To me, it's evidence.”

“Not if you treated her like you're treating me. Refusing me my rights here. That'd be thrown out.”

“Well now,” said Minogue and sat back, “you're just full of bad ideas here.”

“It's the company I'm keeping,” said Twomey, with a sniff.

“You're determined to be your own worst enemy with your lawyer. I'll let you in on a few details then.”

“Very big of you. But what's this story got to do with me? Nothing, that's what. Nothing. No thing.”

Minogue waited a few moments.

“This girl was in the company of her mother when she was interviewed. Being as you're one for contesting the law, you might already know how it works, a minor giving an interview through the care and consent of her parent or guardian. Have you come across that in your law studies?”

“That's bullshit. You're making it up.”

“You hope I am. But I doubt you're thick enough to believe your own propaganda here.”

“Charge me. Let's see who's bullshitting now. Charge me, or let me go.”

Minogue pushed his mug to the side of the table and he slid his clipboard near. He didn't look at Twomey when he spoke.

“You were arrested on a charge of possession of illegal drugs, cannabis resin to be correct. I'm expecting the search would yield further evidence to that crime and other charges. You are also being investigated for child exploitation. You are being the least cooperative when you should be the most. We haven't even gotten to the one that will surely have you really roaring and shouting for your counsel. Small blame to you, I'll be thinking too, because that's what I would be doing too. Yes, Mr. Twomey, there'll be wigs on the green shortly.”

“Wigs on the green? My granny used to say that.”

“This is the end of my peroration, you'll be glad to know. After these few words you'll be getting your phone call and your list of Legal Aid counsel. We are shortly going to charge you with murder.”

“You're mad,” said Twomey. “Totally off-the-wall, raving bonkers.”

“You're not alone in your predicament,” said Minogue.

“What does that mean? I'm not alone?”

“You know who. He was there that night too. He's in the same boat.”

“What? This is just absolutely ridiculous, stupid. I don't believe this. I mean, you two are completely full of– Why are you doing this?”

Wall stood up slowly.

“Take a while to think things over,” said Minogue. “Let me go downstairs and get that list of counsel. Then the system takes over.”

“Wait 'til the papers hear about this,” Twomey said. “The television, everything. This is crazy, unbelievable.”

“Was it worth it?” Wall asked.

Twomey glared at him.

“Like what did he have on him? Twenty Euro maybe? Thirty?”

Twomey said something under his breath, shook his head, and turned away.

“Inspector Minogue is leaving the room.”

Minogue held the door for the Guard.

“Garda O Keefe entering,” he heard Wall say in the room behind him. “Interview concluded at 4:17 p.m. Garda O Keefe remaining in the room.”

Chapter 25

F
ANNING CAUGHT THE
11A on O Connell Street Reflexively, he stayed on the lower level of the bus, and headed down the aisle toward the back seats. Sitting down, he had the sensation that he was actually falling in upon himself, even collapsing. It was as though his frame had been unhooked and he was now tumbling into a collection of limbs and aching joints. The ache in his neck and his shoulders was like a big bruise.

How often he had sat into a bus, all his life practically, and let the familiar streets and buildings go by the windows. There was a different quality to what he saw now, some strangeness about things that unsettled him. A fever, he thought. Food poisoning, the flu? Images flared insistently in his mind – the fear in that man's face, the way that West Ham calmly and savagely went about his business.

He distracted himself by checking his mobile. There was nothing. Again he considered phoning the Guards. They could track mobile though, couldn't they? He wished he knew more about that technical stuff.

He felt the phone slide from his fingers and knew he couldn't catch it. It slid down his lap and stopped on the seat. He wiped his palms and his fingertips on his trouser leg. The bus lurched and righted itself, the traffic slowed. His hands were sweaty again. He took out his notebook, but before he opened it, he tried to settle his mind by planning the evening ahead. That was the only way to get through this.

He had the fish thawing out in the fridge, yes. Broccoli – yes again! – and mash the spuds from yesterday. Milk? Had it – oh: yogurt for Aisling, the raspberry. She'd have her noodles as usual, and then he'd bring her out in the buggy. Bríd could decompress, have a bath, a cup of tea on her own – whatever she wanted.

Three women got on just as the driver was about to close the doors and drive off. They were breathless and smiling after their dash, and like sailors in rough seas, the three made their way down the passageway. The one with the head-scarf didn't look Arab at all. She looked more, well, white, he supposed. The other two had frizzy hair and glowing, muddy-coloured skin. They giggled and sat, and they began speaking in French. Fanning decided they were North Africans, and words cartwheeled gently through his thoughts: Sahel, Berber, Toureg. … One laughed, revealed gums over snow white teeth before she covered her mouth with her hand.

O'Connell Bridge wasn't crowded. Maybe it was a bit early in the season for the hawkers to be selling their Celtic beadwork and jewellery shite. A lone, middleaged duo dressed in the fawn and khaki colours that Fanning pegged as German was taking pictures. The Liffey was at full tide, and its dull, coral green swill did nothing to awaken the colours about, or the seamless grey sky settled over the city.

He tried to imagine himself in a market, in Morocco say, where these women must have come from. Shadows cut on the high stone walls by a sun in a cloudless sky, stalls, awnings, fruit, coffee and cigarette smoke, and roasting lamb, donkeys waiting in the shadows. A land of simple, harsh choices, stark in its beauty, with burning sands leading south to the empty Sahara. This was where the world outside the city was medieval. Or so he had read in National Geographic probably. At least the tightness in his chest was easing now.

He began to make up a story then. Leaving their country would have changed these women utterly. Then, when they went back to visit, to a cousin's wedding, say, there'd be the clash with the old world… a marriage arranged by their families, an instruction to come home… a former boyfriend who…?

He took the pencil from the spine of his notebook. Scanning the notes he had from yesterday, he realized that he barely recognized his own writing. Shot: like a door slam? Like heavy books falling on a floor? Blood: lines, gouts? Wet fur, maroon. Smell: B.O., raw meat, cigarettes. Whiskey? Dust, oil? Disinfectant?

A long, deep yawn overtook him, and he gave into it. The tension was ebbing then, and the adrenaline gone. He could almost fall asleep here on the bus. His eyes slid out of focus, and he leaned his head against the window. Outside the glass, Westmoreland Street teemed with traffic and people. Three cranes stood out against the sky of the railings at Trinity College. The bus staggered and braked, wallowed and jerked as the driver fought to get into the lane around College Green. Fanning's gaze slid over the faces gathered by the bus stops and at the traffic lights. They looked expectant, listless, distracted. He had done this since the time he started university, grabbing images and scenes from the city and dropping them as words in his notebook. Which reminded him.

His fumbled with the notebook and it slid away from him. Dropping everything today, he was. He caught it before it went over the edge of the seat. The sudden movement had caught the eye of one of the three women, the one who sat sideways in her seat, fingering a small earring as she listened to her friends. She seemed so happy, he thought, so at ease with herself. Caramel skin: he must write that down too, caramel. Was caramel from Africa originally?

The closest he had ever gotten to Africa was Spain, that winter with Bríd. They taught English in Barcelona before it was a big deal, and then headed for the coast and Majorca – Robert Graves territory. Then in the new year they'd moved to the south of France, and later down to Siena. Returning to plain contradictable Dublin had been a strange pleasure. Unemployment, pasty-faced people, begrudgers and whingers galore, and a shocking lack of colour.