A Carra King by John Brady

Goff’s, the horsey crowd out on the Naas Road.”
    Goffs, thought Minogue. High glam: millionaires, film stars, sheiks and princes, pop tarts — any celebrity might show up at these world-renowned bloodstock auctions.
    â€œName of Noel O’Hagan,” Malone said. “The photographer. He’s a freelancer. He says there were other newspaper fellas there too. It was a kind of a celebrity gig. There should be other pics somewhere handy.”
    Malone looked over Minogue’s shoulder at Kevin, Donavan’s assistant, who was letting a stream of water play on the bloodstains by Shaughnessy’s ear.
    â€œAnd the rented car,” Malone said. “Shaughnessy was number eleven to rent it. It’s a year old, the Escort.”
    â€œWhat’s the story so far on the contents?” Minogue tried.
    â€œI checked with Eimear again. They’ve inventoried the boot already. Very messed up. The bit of board over the spare wheel and that, well it’s broken. Like, something heavy had been dumped on it.”
    â€œThe weight of the body?”
    Malone shrugged.
    â€œEimear says she doesn’t think so. There was something more compact, says she, but right heavy. And there’s a good-sized ding on the bottom of the car. Major, like. A bad road? That’s what left the hole under the boot, it looks like.”
    â€œWhat’s the situation with prints, might I ask?”
    â€œThere’s a crew working through from the boot,” Malone replied. “They’re still at the inside of the car like. There’s no wallet yet. Passport, camera — nothing. There was a fair-sized bag of laundry. All men’s clothes. Guide books, maps, bits of stuff like biscuits, empty Coke cans. He smoked, or someone in the car smoked. Eimear says they see hairs coming from the carpet now too.”
    â€œAre there good prints coming out?”
    â€œWell, yeah, as a matter of fact. A lot, even from the outside. They’ll start the comparison search on Shaughnessy’s this afternoon.”
    Donavan was humming. Minogue tried again to pin the name of the tune.
    â€œTen renters before Shaughnessy,” he murmured.
    â€œThat’s the story so far,” said Malone. “Yeah. And then there’d be cleaners, staff borrowing the cars out there.”
    Minogue watched Donavan’s assistant wiping pieces of sponge in a circular motion, dropping the pieces into a specimen bag hanging at the sides of the table — “The Moon Behind the Hill,” that was the tune. Donavan stopped humming. Minogue turned back toward the pathologist.
    Water still trickled from the hose at rest by Shaughnessy’s elbow. Donavan was finished the external? Patrick Leyne Shaughnessy would shortly be sawn and eviscerated.
    The music gave way to a too-chatty presenter with a strong Ulster accent extolling the virtues of Clare music in general. An impertinence, Minogue decided.
    Malone murmured by his shoulder now.
    â€œSpots of blood from around the lid of the hatchback,” he said. “They’re in being typed.”
    The click of more instruments being laid on the stainless steel brought Malone’s glance to the table. He bit his lip, looked back at Minogue.
    â€œClobbered in the open doorway, the boot, what do you think?”
    â€œWell it looks like he didn’t react,” he said. “But there’s a spray pattern to sort out still, to be sure.”
    â€œHe knew the guy, then,” Malone went on. “Or the fella ran up, got his first one in?”
    The whirr always reminded Minogue of the dentist. Malone’s blink lasted too long. Minogue eyed the saw, which the assistant was readying. Donavan leaned over his clipboard, staring at the schematic of the back of the body.
    â€œSay he’d been drinking,” said Malone. “Closing time, you know? After hours even. A session maybe, buying rounds of drink and all. All hail-fella-well-met