Kilmartin balanced his glass on his palm.
“Oh well, what the hell,” he said at last. “Here’s to Hoey. Whatever else you could say about Shea Hoey, he’s no gom. He’ll soon learn to put the foot down. Did you see where she keeps her own name and everything? What’s the point, I’d like to know.”
Minogue said nothing. He believed Aine’s maiden name, Moriarty, was too good of a name to walk away from. Kilmartin lit a cigarette.
Minogue took another mouthful of lager. The Chief Inspector began tugging at the loose skin under his chin.
“Eighty-eight quid actually,” he murmured. “That Waterford glass bowl I gave Hoey.”
Malone made his way back to the two detectives just as the barman laid down another round of drinks. Kilmartin eyed Malone sorting a handful of change. He winked at Minogue as he called out to Malone.
“Hoi,” he said. “What poor-box did you rob to get that fistful there, Molly?”
Malone’s eyebrows inched up but he kept counting.
He stepped on his cigarette and stared at the car. It wasn’t just the heat, he knew, that made him feel that his chest was full of smoke. His hands were tingling too. The dryness in his mouth had spread to his throat. He might get forty for the leather jacket on the back seat. Probably a tenner for the Walkman. As for the bloody racquets and the bag, he hadn’t a clue.
The driver had activated the alarm with the remote on his key-ring. Tall type, hair-do, nice clothes.