A Carra King by John Brady Page B

Pierce?”
    â€œCourse you can.”
    Donavan looked under his eyebrow from Minogue to Malone and back. Minogue glanced over at his colleague. Malone’s jaw was slack, his tongue was working slowly against the inside of the cheek.
    â€œWe’ll go in now,” said Donavan. “Kevin?”
    Minogue nodded toward the door. Malone followed him over.
    â€œFollow up on the newspaper thing now instead of waiting,” Minogue said. “Get this fella, the photographer again. O’Hagan, is it?”
    Malone nodded.
    â€œIf Shaughnessy was on the society pages, there’ll be other pictures somewhere. Pinch these photographers if you get waltzed around. Call in uniforms, even. Get Éilis to have the warrants expressed if we need them. I’d be thinking there’d be other pictures of the same crowd or the same do somewhere in their files.”
    â€œContact proofs,” said Malone. “That’s what they do first, right?”
    â€œThat’s it. And then do a check with the lab again.”
    Malone looked up at the clock.
    â€œNo great hurry back now,” said Minogue. “But you’re buying dinner today.”
    Kevin drew up jars from a cart he had wheeled over and placed six of them beside Shaughnessy’s left arm. Donavan switched on the saw for a test. Minogue became aware of a new ache at the base of his neck. He kept his gaze on the jars. Kevin placed the roll of labels by Donavan’s clipboard and began writing in Shaughnessy’s name and the date. Minogue forced himself to look over Shaughnessy again.
    Donavan’s gloves looked very tight. Maybe they were some new type of plastic or rubber. He should really put on glasses himself. The saw might throw up bits of . . . He watched Donavan draw the scalpel up from Shaughnessy’s pubic hair. The radio began to play a reel. Donavan finished the Y with a sharp flourish. There was a flute and a harp, airy sounds that reminded him of a windy May morning. Kathleen was off tomorrow. Phone Iseult and . . .
    The tissue parted by the rib cage as though it had been unzipped. Minogue held his breath again. It took an effort to keep his feet planted now. He let his eyes go out of focus. He was already there, just in time: that turn in the lane by Tully that sliver of sea off Bray.

    Donavan turned the diagram around. Minogue recalled the deft slicing of the liver, the pathologist’s unwavering hand as he held the sample for the jars.
    â€œI can’t tell,” said Donavan. “But it wasn’t more than a couple of hours before the systems shut down. A sizeable meal, call it. Do Americans have big appetites?”
    Irony? Minogue didn’t know. He squeezed the back of his neck. He looked around the conference room and tried another mouthful of tea. Pretty poor. He eyed his notebook next to the stain from the cup. His writing had definitely changed after Donavan had opened the skull. He remembered fighting against the noise of the saw, wandering through the woods by Carrigologan, stepping around the stones and the long grass in Tully. “Drink?” he had written under Internal.
    Malone had found out that both of Shaughnessy’s parents would be coming over. Geraldine Shaughnessy, the mother and Leyne’s ex, hadn’t remarried. Leyne himself was already on the plane, someone said. It was O’Riordan, Leyne’s old pal in Ireland, who had identified the body at four in the morning. It had been at the joint request of the mother and father. A representative of Leyne had faxed through the confirmation to Tynan’s office this morning.
    â€œThe blood alcohol will be done by three or so, I imagine,” said Donavan. “If you have the queue jumped. As per your routine fashion.”
    â€œThanks, Pierce,” said Minogue. He looked down at his notes again.
    â€œDo you be over Glencree much still?”
    â€œMost Sundays,” said Minogue. “More, now the autumn is