by John Brady
Kilmartin swung the tape-recorder on its straps into the back seat of the police car. He drove himself. Minogue signed in on the radio, available for calls through. The traffic seemed to have eased. Kilmartin capitalized on Dublin people’s sharp facility for recognizing Gardai in any garb and Garda cars of plain hues and stared down drivers beside him at traffic lights. None tried to jam him out of lanes.
“Play it, why don’t you?” he said to Minogue.
Minogue listened to the clicks and tones as the voice asked to be put through to the chief officer investigating the Fine murder. He was not available, would another do? No. Could Inspector Minogue return your call? What was that name again? Minogue. The caller hung up.
Minogue rewound the tape. “Gives me the willies,” he said. “I hope there’s enough there for one of these fellas to identify it as Kelly’s voice.”
“Now you’re talking-get out of the way, you half-wit-but the thing is,” Kilmartin paused to give a withering look at a slow driver he was passing. “Why you’re along for the outing is, I want you to watch how they react to the tape. You’ll know what I mean if you see it.”
“I’m an experienced lie-detector, am I?”
“Well you’re always blowing your horn about magic powers from Clare.”
“That’s only hurling and politics, Jimmy.”
“We’ll see about that. I could have called Kelly’s brother in and he could have given me a fit for his brother’s voice if that was all we wanted. I’m not saying I expect them to tell me a lie about it, but there’s this secrecy thing, the reputation for conniving. Like the shagging Masons. We’ll see if us old dogs can pick up a fox here, won’t we, begob?”
An old dog. If this Father Heher was sharpish and started playing professor, would Minogue be expected to spring like a loyal wolfhound and do battle with a theological brain?
“Isn’t it odd the way everything looks different without buses? You’re so used to seeing them all over the place, holding up the traffic. At least there’ll be people getting healthy exercise,” said Kilmartin as he passed a lorry at speed. “Fire the lot of them, I say. Like Reagan did with the air-traffic crowd. Then they’ll know you’re serious, so you can give them their jobs back and they won’t be so cocky again. I hope to Christ someone stands up this weekend at this bloody Ard Fheis and lays down the law about this strike business. Paralysing the capital city and not caring a damn what havoc they wreak. There’s millions of pounds being lost every day, I’m sure. Who’s running the country, I ask you? Is it they or is it us?”
Minogue had no reply. He didn’t know from one moment of James Kilmartin’s hyperbole to the next who the ‘us’ and the ‘they’ were. Paralysis. James Joyce calling the place the centre of paralysis. Should he vex Kilmartin by mentioning Joyce? Bloom, a Jew. Who would these Opus Dei people be then, in this play? All priggish Dedaluses with minds like drawn plans for medieval cathedrals, all edges and God-given certainties?
“Bollocks,” said Kilmartin. “Missed the turn.”
Kilmartin reversed at speed, the transmission whining, and drew a squeal out of the tyres as he turned on to Churchtown Road. The house was sedate, large even, stolidly middle-class.
“Here it is. Read ‘em and weep.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Upon entering the house Minogue forgot that the outside of it had looked like any other along the street. The small front garden had been tidy, the driveway clean. Additions had been made to the back of the house but the annexe could not be seen until one had taken several steps inside the gate. Shrubs and small trees had been well attended to, as though by a gardener. A replica of an old Irish cross hung on the wall in the hall, the imitation black bog-oak stark and striking. Instead of the clutter of a family-shoes or bags higgledy-piggledy next to stairs as unconscious traps for parents, the smells of cooking and carpet and clothes-the hall was a plain vestibule. What was it about the smell of floor-wax that reminded Minogue of alien life? Who would take the trouble to wax and polish floors, and why would they want to be doing it? Did they have nothing better to do, like sit around or drink or read or argue?
Finbar Drumm led them to an oversized kitchen, spotless, with no pots lying around, all new fixtures. It looked institutional to Minogue, right down to the arrangement of coffee mugs on hooks by the sink. A bearded man with very good teeth and twinkling eyes rose from his seat by the table and greeted the two policemen. He was wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. His feet were bare. Father Heher was a man who took exercise, a man who might exert himself in many ways, Minogue believed. He looked into this healthy face as it smiled broadly.
“Joe Heher, how do ye do?” said the sunny, barefoot priest. A tight handshake, the slow vowels of a countryman from the Midlands. Drumm waved them into chairs. Everything about the kitchen and these two men was solid and clean and functional. Drumm smelled faintly of aftershave. His ruddy face and well-groomed hair suggested the same pursuits as Heher. Mens sana in corpore sano.
“I hope ye weren’t expecting any special regalia,” smiled Heher, catching a glimpse of Kilmartin’s look of appraisal. They miss nothing, Minogue thought, and they smile so readily. He was not displeased at Kilmartin’s discomfort at having to talk to a barefoot mind-reader.
“No bother at all, Father,” said Kilmartin trying to regain a solid ground of titles proper to his Ireland.
Heher was having none of it. “Joe, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m not one for keeping barriers of any kind. There’s tea to be had.”
“Ah no, thanks,” said Kilmartin. Minogue heard in his demur a tone of contest and rebuttal. Kilmartin placed the cassette-recorder on the table.
“A plug-in, is it?” said Drumm, ever-helpful.
“Batteries, thanks very much.”
“It’s truly a shock to think of Brian no longer with us,” said Heher. Looking intently into Kilmartin’s face and then settling on Minogue’s, his sad smile faded into an expression which Minogue guessed was to convey a deep understanding.
“Such a tragedy gives us all pause for reflection. I only hope that Brian’s death will lead to an enriching of those of us he left behind in this life.”
“He may not have headed for the next life willingly,” said Minogue. “And that’d make it the more tragic, I’m thinking.”
Heher’s eyes widened and he looked to Drumm.
“Dear God,” Drumm whispered. “Awful.”
“Burned to a crisp in the back of his car,” said Kilmartin. “Is it something he would have done himself, knowing him as you do?”
“I ask myself every day if we ever know our deeper selves,” said the now-contemplative Heher. “What fears and clouds lurk in the back of any man’s mind? For myself, I had no inkling that Brian wanted to end his life.”
“Nor I,” added Drumm. “Brian was a gifted and hopeful person. The roots ran deep.”
“He was a member of Opus Dei?” said Minogue.
“Indeed,” said Heher. The faint signs of a smile returned to flicker around his mouth.
“But he lived on his own. Is that unusual?”
“Not at all,” said Drumm. “Our calling accommodates itself to many situations. God calls where he finds you.”
Not too early, Minogue wanted to say.
“But, for example, if Brian were one of your Numerary members, he’d very likely have lived in one of your residences. Like this one, for all the world?”
Heher’s face showed well-meaning puzzlement. “I see you know a little about our work. Normally we don’t disclose information about our members: it’s enough to know that they come from all sections of society. Everyone is different, and we all have different needs. It’s very difficult to deal in terms of normal and abnormal, as Opus Dei respects everyone’s individuality and path to God.”
“We tend to think of violent crime as abnormal, even though some incidence of it might seem normal,” said Minogue.
“An interesting reflection there. Brian was not a N
umerary, he was an Associate. We have no need of secrecy per se but we need some measure of privacy to ensure our apostolic effectiveness,” said Drumm gently.
“So Brian was well enough known to members of this house then, such as yourselves?”
“Oh, I teach bits of philosophy and French at Clonliffe,” said Heher.
“What exactly is your role here, Father?” Kilmartin asked.
“I’m a member of Opus Dei myself. I help with some doctrinal matters, some guidance.”
“So the Archbishop’s office always turns to you in the event that someone is enquiring about Opus Dei?” asked Minogue.
“Now you have it,” said Heher, regaining his smile. “I had the telephone call this morning and that’s how I knew to meet ye here with Finbar. They love to load me down with jobs. I think I’ll have to learn to complain better.”
Which means the exact opposite, Minogue realized. He wondered if complaining was not a mortal sin for members of Opus Dei. Did Heher flog himself the odd time too, and take cold showers?
“Form a union, Father,” said Kilmartin. “Then you’ll be set up nicely.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Heher, showing his teeth in a broad smile. “You’re referring to the bus strike, I take it.”
“Did Brian Kelly ever belong to a different rank than Associate?” Minogue asked, rafting in on the pleasantries.
Drumm cleared his throat before answering. “Matter of fact Brian stayed in this residence for several years.”
“Why did he leave?”
“He felt ready for a move,” Heher replied easily. “Nobody is shackled here.”
“Same rank here, then, as when he left?”
“I was coming to that,” said Drumm. He was working to maintain the genial air. “Brian was experiencing difficulties with his calling as a Numerary member. He had demonstrated great effectiveness and faith, but all of us have our clouded days. We all strive to renew our faith and commitment. It would be a poor and unreflective member who didn’t experience the anxiety which the deepest and most sincere self-examination can bring.”
Drumm looked hopefully into Kilmartin’s face.
Heher looked down at the grain on the bare table-top and nodded his head several times. “We’re out in the world, you see,” he joined in. “We’re mortal and fallible, all of us. We meet with the stress of modern living like anyone else. Our apostolic work brings us into tough situations and it’s no surprise that we should feel the pressures sometimes, the same as any other thinking men, thinking Christian men. We don’t hide in foxholes, metaphorical or otherwise. We don’t shun the world. Finbar here is a successful doctor, for example.”
Drumm smiled shyly and Minogue thought he saw the first genuine emotion in the group. Praise, nothing more, nothing less: a little praise was the hook when it should always be a pillow. Minogue made a mental note to praise his children to the eyeballs the next time he saw them.
“The other brothers in this house include a solicitor and a town-planner. If you came here at tea-time you’d see plenty of cars parked outside in the driveway. What kind of car does Pierce drive now, Finbar?”
“A Saab,” Drumm smiled. An inside joke, Minogue realized.
“There’s even a television in nearly everyone’s room here. Not to speak of fancy clothes,” Heher went on, smiling indulgently at the two policemen.
Minogue felt his unease turn to distaste. “So ye’re not Martians, I take it,” he said.
“Precisely,” said Heher, showing his teeth again.
“Any of the membership work in Radio Telifis Eireann, Father Heher?” Minogue asked quickly, his gaze holding Heher’s and watching Heher’s smile falter.
“An interesting question that. Not here, I think, is there, Finbar?”
“No, er, Inspector. We can’t boast such glitterati here, I’m afraid.”
“Any work on the buses then?” said Kilmartin, trying to ease the sudden tension. “Cause if they are, they’re not at work today, the rascals. Ha ha.”
Undeterred, Minogue went on. “How would I find out if there are any Opus Dei members in, say, advertising companies or factories? Or in the Army, say?”
“Well, you’d ask an Opus Dei member where he or she worked, I suppose,” said Heher.
“From the top down, I mean. Working from a membership list.”
“Well now, you have me there now. I expect you’d have to apply to our President and see if he’d be willing to discuss it.”
“The man in Spain, is it?”
“Good for you. In Rome, actually. Our office is in Rome, yes.”
Drumm was sitting very still. Heher’s smile was a frozen ruin.
“Nobody here in Ireland?”
“The authority to give out the names of members must come from Rome,” said Heher.
“Has such been asked of you before, Father?”
“No, it hasn’t,” said Heher evenly.
“If the civil authorities thought it a matter of great urgency…?”
“I must confess that I’ve no experience in this. I’d really need to seek guidance myself if it were a matter of such urgency.”
“How about a court order, Father Heher?”
Heher shrugged and worked on the smile again. “If my writing would speed things up, I’ll certainly try. But may I ask you then if you’ll be candid about why you’d want such information?”
“You certainly may,” said Minogue, feeling more vindictive now that Heher’s unctuousness stood out so freakishly in an atmosphere unmistakably tense. “We’ll be investigating the possibility that Brian Kelly’s death is connected to his membership of Opus Dei.”
Heher’s expression changed for an instant and Minogue thought he saw a moment of hostility shimmer in his eyes. In the few seconds of strained silence that followed, Minogue berated himself for dancing so easily to Kilmartin’s tune. Here was Minogue, leaping on command. Was he that addicted to his dislike of Heher and what Heher represented?
“You’ll be aware that nothing like this has happened before,” Heher said coolly. “And I note that you are saying in effect that Brian Kelly may have been a victim of foul play. Not that despondency got the better of him and he took his own life, but that one of our fraternity may know something about the death of his brother?”
“Former brother, I believe,” said Minogue.
“Well, now,” Kilmartin intervened, scaping his heels on the floor. “Before we go into details about Mr. Kelly’s tenure here and what ye knew of the deceased, I’d like ye to listen to this little tape which myself and Inspector Minogue have with us. The wonders of science. Would ye listen carefully and consider separately whether ye recognize this person’s voice?”
Kilmartin pushed Play and sat back in his chair. His eyes flickered to Minogue once. Looking to the intent Heher who seemed like he might be praying, Minogue believed that Heher had seen Kilmartin’s glance.
“Great,” said Kilmartin acidly. “Fuckin‘ great. You’re always dragging me in here. Sooner or later God Almighty or an Assistant Comm will be here and he’ll see us and want to know why we’re not at work. Where’ll we be then, I’d like to know?”
Minogue took the change from the cashier.
“It certainly is,” he replied to her. “Me and me boss here are going to mitch off work for the afternoon and go up to the Phoenix Park. Frighten the deer.”
“Don’t be waiting on the bus,” said the girl dryly. She knew Minogue both as a Garda and a large white coffee with a sticky bun, no butter. Minogue grinned. She might even know that he was referring to Garda headquarters in the Park, not the hundreds of acres of parkland where deer ran free.
“Where will we be then?” Kilmartin repeated.
“In good company, if they’re here too, I suppose,” Minogue replied. “What’s it to our legion superiors where we do our thinking, here or back in the squadroom? Anyway, you owe me.”
“I owe you a kick in the arse if I owe you anything,” said Kilmartin.
&nb
sp; “You owe me for upping my blood pressure with those two moonies back up on Churchtown Road. You knew I’d see red with the likes of Heher.”
Kilmartin had no reply ready. He began shovelling brown sugar into his coffee and looked around at the motley crowd which made up Minogue’s congregation in this, his favourite branch of Bewley’s Oriental Cafe.
“See that little shite over there in the corner pretending to be invisible?” said Kilmartin moodily.
Minogue looked toward the corner and picked out a small middle-aged man with the features of a wary cat.
“Yes, him. I shopped him first nigh on twenty years ago. Never forget a face. He was forever breaking into church poor-boxes. As well as that, the bugger could climb anything. A shagging fly, he was. I wonder is he the same now. Take the eye out of your head, he would. Right from under your nose too.”
“All God’s chillun got wings, Jimmy. That’s what I like about this place.”
“All God’s children, my royal Irish arse. They’ll phone God Almighty’s office, you know. That Heher fella… bad news if he’s vexed, I’d say.”
“Do I care, though?” Minogue murmured, an image of Heher’s face still lingering.
Kilmartin lit a cigarette, shook his head and fell to stroking his nose. A tall woman with her hair cut severely, a single sharp-looking earring dangling from her ear over Kilmartin’s head, appeared at their table. “This is non-smoking,” she announced. Kilmartin looked up into an impassive face. Minogue clamped his jaw muscles in an effort not to smile: she was holding a paperback and he recognized the title as one he had borrowed from Iesult, The Rights and Wrongs of Women. The woman left when Kilmartin topped his cigarette.
“Sorry for breathing,” he said in a savage undertone.
Minogue could resist the temptation no longer. “See the book? The Rights and Wrongs of Women.”
“Jesus Mary and holy Saint Joseph. Everywhere you look there’s a fuckin’ WAMmer. She knew I was a Guard, too, of course. And she and the likes of her sitting in Bewley’s instead of being out at work somewhere. Bad cess to the bitch, the dying leper’s vomit,” Kilmartin growled. “If it was a man that was in it, I would have told him where to go and made no bones about it,” he added. “Taking advantage of my breeding to be polite to the fair sex.”
