He stopped his surreptitious progress towards the foot of the stairs.
‘The census?’
‘That’s it. Do you know it’s just four years from the last one? I’d forgotten until they told me. There might not be another they said, with all the new technology – the government is “exploring alternatives” which I take it is another way of saying wasting the taxes. But have they nothing better to do than knock on people’s doors and ask questions?’
‘What sort of questions, Mrs Greene?’
If he wasn’t careful, he would be invited into the kitchen for late afternoon tea but he needed to know; as she talked, he thought back and checked. He had been here less than twenty four hours and had spoken only to the O’Neills and the Kellys, other than a few strangers in the city. He had carried out the usual precautions and was sure that no-one had been following him on foot or in Diarmuid Kelly’s car. There was almost certainly nothing to be concerned about.
‘Checking up on changed status since the last one, they said. Was this still a boarding house? Can they not read the sign on the door? How many customers do I have in year? How many do I have this particular day? What proportion are tourists, and all that sort of thing.’
‘That seems an odd question for a census, the one about tourists.’
‘I told them, I have a website now, of course I’ll get some international visitors and businessmen like yourself.’
‘Oh! Did you mention me in person?’
‘Only to show the sort of people that I have staying here, Mr Colgate.’
She must have seen something in the smile that he was managing to maintain – maybe just the effort it was taking to do so - and she put a hand on his arm to reassure him.
‘Don’t worry – I didn’t tell them what you actually do. The coffins and so on…’
Smith was sure that she could never have resisted telling them such a thing and so he said, ‘I don’t mind if you did, Mrs Greene. I consider the undertaker to be a most honourable profession. I imagine they were just students earning some spare cash, anyway.’
Now, ironically, he was hoping that she would continue, and she took up the invitation he had left for her.
‘Well, the man seemed a little too old for that, but then, these days who knows. I suppose the girl might have been. She wasn’t from these parts. Maybe she was from the university as you say.’
‘They weren’t Irish, then?’
‘Oh, he was, quite well spoken but he was an Ulsterman. She was English – she didn’t say much and she only spoke to him but I heard enough to know that. She was half-caste but we don’t say that now, do we? We have to say something else, now…’
‘Mixed race?’
‘That’s it, Mr Colgate. I can see you’re an educated man. Mixed race. Coffee-coloured, my husband used to say. Very pretty, but then, they often are, aren’t they?’
‘Are they?’
The conversation seemed to have reached its natural conclusion. Smith explained that he had some paperwork to do, holding up the folder, and Mrs Greene allowed her international businessman guest to climb the stairs. And oh, she thought to herself as he went, isn’t that a nice new stick as well.
Perhaps as a result of the many interruptions to her afternoon’s work, Mrs Greene had left one of the other upstairs doors open – the door to a room that must overlook the street outside. It was one of the guest rooms. Smith moved quietly towards it and then waited, listening for sounds of activity downstairs. Then he knocked quietly, paused and knocked quietly again. When there was no answer, he pushed the door open, looked and then stepped inside.
Mrs Greene had mentioned a couple staying, and the double bed and the shoes under the little dressing table indicated that this must be them – middle-aged shoes, hers black with a modest heel, his a pair of well-worn loafers. If he remembered correctly, these people must have booked before him, and so could not be any sort of threat. They would be out in the city, planning to get an evening meal, would not be back in their room at this time of day. Few B and B guests would be back at this time of the day, he reflected, again aware that his behaviour was not making him as invisible as he would like.
He moved to the window, to one side of it, and parted the blinds with a finger and thumb so that a section of the street was in view. He studied the parked vehicles one by one, and then the windows of the opposite houses for several minutes, and saw nothing to arouse suspicion. But then, he told himself, if they were any good then he wouldn’t, would he? As he watched, he went through it again, piece by piece; a well-spoken Irishman and a coffee-coloured English girl, a survey between censuses, a talkative landlady… All pretty unlikely to be anything other than one of those things that he didn’t like to name.
He left the room, moving the door back to its exact position before he entered it. In his own room, he switched on the small kettle of unknown brand and stared at the small tray of hospitalities on the bedside table: individual packets of powdered, freeze-dried coffee, a selection of individually wrapped tea bags including various herbal abominations, individual cartons of UHT milk, and two kinds of biscuits, six in total, plastically separated into threes – three custard creams, three ginger nuts. The evening meal.
He thought about the couple in the opposite room, about their comfortable shoes side by side under the little table, and wondered where they would be eating together tonight. Maybe they were going on to a show at the opera house, or simply planning to stroll along the riverside – it was fine enough and warm enough now. He thought about them, then he filled the kettle and tore open the packet that contained the English breakfast tea-bag and the packet of ginger nut biscuits. Then he propped a pillow against the bedstead, opened the folder and began to read.
Chapter Eight
At five thirty, Diarmuid Kelly picked him up on the corner where Albert Street met the Falls Road, as agreed. There was no quick drive out to Glencolin this time; the work traffic leaving the city meant that the journey was often little more than a westward crawl. In response to a question about the contents of the file, Smith said that it was thorough enough, competently done, but offered nothing else – it seemed clear that he would rather talk about it when the rest of them were present. As to who the rest of them would be, Kelly was unclear; his mother would be there and he could not imagine that Aunt Lia would allow herself to be shut out again. Along with himself, that would be enough. He glanced across, thinking he would say what had happened with Martin McCain and saw that the Englishman was looking fixedly away from him, as if he would rather not say anything else at all, and so he maintained his own silence as they made their slow way towards the house. At the turn into Hannahstown Hill, he saw that Smith was still looking out of the car in the same way, and then he realised why – he was watching the road behind in the passenger-side rear-view mirror.
They parked in the same spot, and Smith admonished himself – there was a disabled badge in the windscreen of the red Astra in the drive and he had missed it last time. He needed to sharpen up. He was reaching for the door handle when Kelly spoke.
‘You should know this before we go in. I spoke to Martin McCain this afternoon.’
‘Go on.’
‘I said that I wanted to come and see him. I said it was about the same business as before and that I wouldn’t be coming on my own. He said OK – he didn’t ask me any questions, so I didn’t say…’
McCain had been one of the brightest of them. Even today he would know not to say names unnecessarily in telephone conversations, but Kelly’s call would have alerted him - he would at least allow for the possibility that it might be Stuart Reilly or David Smith, or both. At least Christopher Colgate was in the clear, for now.
‘When?’
Kelly hesitated before he answered, as if saying it made it more real.
‘Tonight, if you want. I just have to phone ahead before we actually turn up.’
Neither of them felt the need to voice the possible implications. Smith nodd
ed, and pushed down on the handle.
Kelly opened the door into the kitchen and went through first. Smith stepped forward after him, and he saw the expression on Catriona’s face change to fright, heard her shout something, a name - “Bradey, no!” Instinctively, Smith moved his head back an inch or two before he looked to his left where she was looking, and as a result the swinging fist caught him a glancing blow on the side of his jaw rather than the full one that might have felled him. The man who had thrown it was carried forward by the momentum, and, again instinctively, Smith seized the upper arm with his right hand, twisted down and propelled him into the table and chairs with his left shoulder. The table scraped noisily in protest and the nearest two chairs went onto their sides, while Bradey O’Neill went onto his knees.
Now both women were shouting. Diarmuid stepped in between as O’Neill got heavily to his feet and turned to face Smith. Their eyes met over the young man’s shoulders.
Catriona said, ‘Bradey, you promised us!’
‘Ah, maybe. But I also promised myself one punch if I ever saw this scumbag again.’
Bradey O’Neill was still a big man, some inches taller than his nephew but when he made a move forward towards Smith, Diarmuid Kelly’s hand was planted solidly on the centre of his chest, and there was no fear in the voice that said, ‘And you’ve had it. That’s enough now.’
Lia Wisbey said, ‘For God’s sake Bradey, you’re too old for fighting, and a fool to boot. Pick up the chairs and sit on one of them.’
Smith had remained perfectly still as he watched Bradey O’Neill. When the old man finally prised his glare away from the Englishman’s face, Catriona looked at him from her wheelchair with raised eyebrows while her sister shook her head at Diarmuid. No-one apologised or asked anyone else to do so, and that was good as far as Smith was concerned – this would be quicker and easier if people were not wasting time concealing their feelings. Bradey O’Neill had certainly not wasted any time concealing his.
At least on this occasion there was to be a cup of tea – Lia busied herself at the sink behind her sister. Smith had brought the folder with him, and he laid it on the table as he sat down; he had one side of the kitchen table to himself, facing the others who would be arranged in a semi-circle when all were sitting down. Brann O’Neill’s name had been stencilled on the cover, and he saw Catriona reading it though it was upside down for her.
Smith said, ‘I’ve read through the file. As I said to Diarmuid on the way over, it has been competently done. There are statements from all of you, which saves time, and-’
‘Listen to you! “It has been competently done!” Who the hell are you to be pronouncing on the work of the Inquiry?’
They had not told Bradey everything, then – perhaps there hadn’t been time.
Diarmuid said, ‘He’s a policeman, uncle. He’s a detective.’
‘Is he indeed? Oh well, that makes a kind of sense. I can’t say I’m surprised at that.’
Outside it was a warm June evening but Bradey O’Neill’s smile came from the depths of a personal winter. Smith thought to himself, it’s a good thing that I did not come here looking for forgiveness. He took a breath and continued the interrupted sentence.
‘And I only have a couple of questions to follow up on those statements. But, thinking about it now, as I’m here, I should probably give you all the chance to ask me any questions that you have first.’
The four of them exchanged brief glances. Lia stood up to pour the tea, and Diarmuid was keeping a watchful eye on his uncle, having positioned himself where he could intervene if the old man lost control of his temper again. Finally Smith’s eyes met those of Catriona, and he found it difficult to read the expression in them – perhaps she had so many questions that she did not know where to begin. It was her brother that broke the silence.
‘Right. If you’re the man with all the answers, tell us what happened to Brann.’
Catriona said, ‘He doesn’t know that, Bradey. He’s come to-’
‘He knows. He disappears the very same night as Brann. Are we meant to believe that’s a coincidence? He knows, and one way or another he’ll tell us tonight.’
Bradey’s fists were huge. They lay side by side on the table, as heavy and as red as half bricks, and then Smith recalled that Diarmuid had told him that the old man had been a builder until the arthritis got hold of his hands a few months ago. Bradey, then, was a man who dealt in solid things – timber, mortar and bricks. He would have little time for words, ideas and theories.
‘I don’t know, Mr O’Neill. If I did, I would tell you now, whatever the consequences, but I don’t. Until a few days ago, I did not know that he had disappeared.’
‘You know something about the business, I’ll swear to that. Otherwise-’
‘Uncle – he doesn’t know where Brann is. Why would he come here and pretend all this if he did? It’s a dangerous thing he’s doing just being here at all.’
Bradey looked at Diarmuid in silence – Smith could see the knuckles whitening as the fists clenched and unclenched, as if they were breathing of their own accord.
‘Ah, well, that much it true.’
There would be more to come, and Smith waited. They had to get past this to make any progress. The rest of the family seemed to agree; Bradey’s anger had sucked the air out of the room, and they all waited in silence.
‘Is there anything else you wanted to say now, Mr O’Neill?’
‘So where did you go to so damned quickly that day?’
‘Friday the 21st? I left Northern Ireland that evening. I went back to England.’
‘And we all know why. Running for your life like the tout and the coward that you were. That you still are, never mind what others here might think.’
Catriona, Lia and Diarmuid were watching him, and he felt the need to choose his words with care. He did so after a pause.
‘You’re right in some respects at least, Mr O’Neill. My life was in danger. At least one person was intent on killing me that day, and leaving Belfast made perfect sense at the time, even though it wasn’t an easy choice. I had good reasons to stay…’
He didn’t look at her – his gaze remained firmly on the angry face.
‘But I was also following orders. I was a British Army officer, working undercover. I believed then and I still believe now that what I did was justified. I know that it saved innocent lives.’
Lia said, ‘Our Brann was an innocent too.’
Smith said, ‘Yes, he was. He was, as I remember it, the least interested in the struggle out of the whole family. I don’t understand how he became a victim of it,’ and then, looking back at Bradey O’Neill, ‘and that’s the truth. I never met him on that Friday, the 21st – the last time I saw him was the day before, the Thursday. He came into the bar that evening and stayed for maybe an hour. That ties in with his movements as recorded in this file.’
Bradey said, ‘Well, you’ve had thirty years to get your story straight.’
Lia had gone to the work-surface to pour the tea into mugs. She said, with her back to him, ‘If we’re clearing the air, I’ll say my piece. You used this family. We welcomed you in – well, some of us did – and then you used us. We were just camouflage for your grubby little undercover operation. Who would suspect anyone who had been accepted by the O’Neill’s? You abused my father’s trust. He was devastated by it. You abused my sister’s trust, and so was she.’
They had come to the heart of it more quickly than he had expected. Catriona was looking away from the table, and Diarmuid was staring at him as if he was an odd-looking specimen trawled up from the bed of the Lagan.
He said, ‘Again, there is some truth in what you say. We did look to make friendships amongst the two sides – not just the Catholics. I can see how that hurt people, and I had difficulties of my own with it at the time. Increasing difficulties… I liked your family for what they were, not because of the advantage it gave me. I didn’t expect to like them as much as I did.
I didn’t expect to…’
Smith sensed her gaze, Catriona’s, coming back to him from wherever it had been.
Lia said, turning, her hands full of mugs, ‘What? You didn’t expect to fall in love?’
Catriona’s voice was small as she said, ‘Lia, please…’
Diarmuid spoke then, seeing and hearing her distress, and Smith thought, as he listened, what does he make of this? The bitterness and recriminations and heartbreaks of people he has known all of his life suddenly exposed by this flash-flood of anger.
Diarmuid said, ‘This isn’t helping Brann, is it? We’re wasting time on things that can’t be changed now. I know the Inquiry hasn’t succeeded yet but we might have another chance here. Let’s hear him out. He says he’s willing to speak to other people from back then if we can find them. Who knows?’
Lia said, ‘What other people?’
It was not the time to name any names – Smith simply exchanged a warning look with Diarmuid, but Catriona was there before the other two.
‘No, if you mean what I think you mean. You mustn’t do that.’
Bradey said, ‘Do what? Stop talking in riddles, all of you.’
‘Go looking for them, Bradey.’
‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Them.’
O’Neill understood then.
Smith said, ‘The report is vague in some respects. It says things like “A number of approaches were made to”, and so on. I can see why there are no names in any of the documentation. I have to assume that these approaches didn’t get them anywhere. One of my questions to you all is this – do you know who they spoke to about Brann’s disappearance, apart from yourselves?’
Lia shook her head but that might not have been in answer to his question. Bradey took a long pull at the mug of tea – for the first time that evening he seemed to have nothing more to say. Catriona stared at her son for some seconds but Smith sensed that it would be her who gave him an answer.
‘We don’t know for certain. We’ve always assumed they would have approached the people from Rourke’s, the ones who used to meet there. I mean the group, you understand, not everyone, not every customer. We know they spoke to Sadie Callaghan.’
In This Bright Future Page 9
