by Declan Burke
‘Pity he didn’t ask to be commemorated with a Ferris wheel,’ Martin said, which was when I knew he was a lost cause. We turned back up towards Baggot Bridge and cut left into town. I told him about Shay Govern’s confession, how he was planning to go public with his guilt and pay it off with a gold mine.
Martin, I could tell, was conflicted. Fascinated by Shay Govern’s personal tragedy but agog at the mine’s potential for tax breaks.
He’d been up half the night trawling the web, put in another couple of hours this morning while the kids watched TV.
‘So Govern’s theory,’ he said, ‘is the massacre was covered up.’
‘That’s what he’s saying.’
‘Sounds juicy. Except here’s the thing – I couldn’t find any trace of this so-called special mission Gerard Smyth says he was on back in 1940.’
Which was hardly surprising, given that it was a top-secret mission.
‘Sure. And at one point,’ he flicked through his notes, ‘here, yeah, he says a lot of Germany’s war-time records were destroyed. Which is true. The building housing a chunk of German military records burned to the ground during an air raid on Berlin early in 1945.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, grabbing Martin’s elbow and tugging him towards me, this to prevent his walking into a lamppost. ‘Here, let’s duck in for a coffee. Less chance of you concussing yourself that way.’
We were tempted to sit outside, on the basis that the weak sunshine was at least sunshine and there was no telling when we might see Baggot Street so prettily dappled again, if ever. Common sense and a creeping sense of paranoia prevailed, though, so we took a table at the back of the coffee shop, both of us turning our chairs so that our backs were to the wall. Once the coffees were delivered, plus a couple of almond croissants, Martin said, ‘Let me read out this bit, OK? This is Smyth’s own testimony.’
‘Have on.’
‘Right. So Gerard Uxkull, as he was then, was a Danish-born sailor serving in the German Kriegsmarine when the submarine U-43 sailed into Lough Swilly in northern Donegal on March twenty-ninth, 1940. On board the U-43, along with the usual crew, was an OKW operative.’ He looked up. ‘The OKW was the—’
‘Unless I ask, Martin, presume I already know.’
‘No problem. So the operative called himself Klaus Rheingold, although Uxkull, along with the rest of the crew, assumed that this was an Abwehr cover name. The U-43 was on a special mission, which meant the sailors weren’t told the operational details, but Smyth says that a submarine is a difficult place to keep secrets and everyone knew from an early stage that the plan was to land Rheingold in Donegal close to a beach just north of Buncrana. Kitted out as a British sailor, Rheingold would then hike southwest along the Malin Peninsula and cross the border into Derry, there to rendezvous with another agent, who was coming from London via Belfast. The U-43 was due to return to Lough Swilly a week later, to evacuate both agents and return to its base in Kiel. This is where it gets interesting.’
‘I had an early start. Just nudge me if I start to snore.’
‘There was a U-boat base at Kiel in 1940, all right. The first and seventh flotillas were operating from there.’
‘But?’
‘There was no U-43 based at Kiel during that time.’
‘No?’
‘Not officially. In fact, I couldn’t find a record of any U-boat called U-43. That said, I’m no expert on U-boats. Maybe they got different names, or numbers, every time they left base.’
‘That seem likely?’
‘Not to me.’ He shrugged. ‘But I don’t know. And with this being a special mission …’
I chewed slowly on some almond croissant. ‘You’d have to say it puts a dent in Smyth’s story. From the get-go, like.’
‘You’d be wondering about the consistency, sure. But look, it was sixty-odd years ago, maybe he got confused about that particular detail.’
‘It’s possible. Although, if he’s not certain, why put it in?’
Martin had a sip of his Americano. ‘The other way of looking at that,’ he said, his devious accountant’s mind filtering the options, ‘is why would he make it up, knowing it was bullshit, when it could be easily checked out?’
‘This is true. But no, you’re right. That’s good to know.’ I polished off the croissant while Martin shuffled his notes. ‘I don’t suppose you came up with anything concrete?’ I said. ‘Anything that might confirm his story?’
‘Well, there’s Delphi, we have that.’
‘It didn’t sink into the sea or disappear into the mist?’
‘Not unless it happened since early this morning.’
‘And we’d probably have heard about that. So what do we know about Delphi?’
‘I’ll spare you the geology, although that’s—’
‘Spare me. No massacres, right? We’ve established that.’
‘No massacres, atrocities or war crimes. What it has is a small enough population, couple of hundred at most. During the tourist season that can treble or quadruple in any given week; there’s plenty of attractions.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s not the Côte d’Azur, sure, but not everyone loves casinos and yachts.’
‘Or sunshine.’
‘Still, there’s plenty to see and do. The copper mine, it dates back a couple of thousand years BC. There’s beehive huts, an ancient monastery of sorts. There’s also a pretty impressive water sports centre, and apparently the island is top of the pops with hikers and walkers. And then there’s the bird sanctuary.’
‘Hold me back. An actual bird sanctuary?’
‘Yep. Roughly a third of the island, the northern third, is private property, given over to this bird sanctuary. Right around now the place is white with Arctic geese on their way home for the summer.’
‘Good for them. They don’t happen to feed on red herrings, do they?’
‘They might. But listen, here’s what isn’t an attraction on the island of Delphi. Or who, I should say. There’s no mention in the official material, I mean on the island’s website, of Sebastian Devereaux.’
‘Really? They somehow neglected to mention some dead guy who wrote third-rate thrillers no one read about a million years ago?’
Martin shook his head, had himself a slug of Americano. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, Devereaux’s books were good. At least, the two I read were. Smart, although maybe too quirky for their own good. The point is the island’s website is raving about water-skiing and hill-walking and so forth, scraping the barrel when it comes to what they call attractions of interest. So why doesn’t it mention the only half-famous person ever associated with the place?’
‘Well, he was English, wasn’t he? They’re still a bit touchy about the whole Flight of the Earls bit up in Donegal.’
‘Maybe they are. Except it’s not a case of was.’
That took a second or two to process. ‘Devereaux’s still alive?’
‘I can’t find any record anywhere of his death. Also, when you drill down into the bird sanctuary’s own website, Sebastian Devereaux is listed as the honorary president of the foundation that runs the sanctuary.’
‘An honorary president? What’s an honorary president good for?’
‘No idea. But listen, I did a bit of digging on Devereaux too.’
‘Did you sleep at all last night?’
‘Not much, no.’
He’d found nothing more on Sebastian Devereaux than I had, but presented his bare details with a kind of flourish.
‘What am I missing?’ I said.
‘You don’t think it’s odd? A guy like that, this writer-hermit who lives in the back of beyond, and there’s sweet FA on him out there?’
‘The answer’s in the question, Martin. The guy’s pulled a Salinger, except I’m guessing Rendezvous on Thira isn’t exactly Catcher. And he wrote his books, what, forty years ago now? Why would anyone be interested?’
‘You know how it is, Tom. There’s always someone.’<
br />
‘These days, sure. But try thinking pre-Internet. If the guy was living in the wilds of Donegal, off on some island for Chrissakes, and was doing no interviews, any of that rot …’
‘Maybe he couldn’t.’
‘What, he’s a mute?’
‘Be serious, Tom.’ Martin the cautious accountant riffled back through his notes again as he built his case. ‘I want you to have a think about this English spy Smyth talks about. The one who wouldn’t give the Germans what they wanted, so they started herding the kids into the church.’
‘You think they’re the same guy?’
‘Tell me it’s not possible.’
‘Christ, Martin. Anything’s possible.’
‘Sure, yeah, but listen. We have Sebastian Devereaux writing a thriller about a Nazi massacre of children and setting it on Santorini. We also know that Devereaux came to live on Delphi in 1939, as an archaeologist’ – he gave the word some air quotes for effect – ‘where two different sources have told us there was a Nazi atrocity in which a group of children burned to death.’
‘Which means what?’
‘Well, now that Shay Govern is confirming Gerard Smyth’s story, you’re looking at Sebastian Devereaux being cheeky enough to write a thriller about an actual war crime, one he was actually involved in, and responsible for, and disguising it by setting it in the Greek islands.’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch,’ I said, although even as I said it I had to admit to myself that Martin wasn’t usually prone to anything that might be confused for lurid exaggeration. ‘I mean, if it all really happened, and some English spy was involved? We’re talking about Donegal, Martin. Those boys take no prisoners. They’d have burned him out long ago, wild geese or no fucking wild geese.’
‘Sure, yeah. Except it looks like he’s still there.’
EIGHT
Gerard Smyth’s address turned out to be a basement bed-sit on Fitzwilliam Lane, where steep slick steps led down to a tiny courtyard with its stone flags swept bare. There was paint flaking and rust showing on the iron bars at the single window, but the window itself was clean, the curtains inside drawn back. Yellow marigolds in pots either side of the front door gave a splash of colour.
The doorbell was working, and I could hear the phone ring inside when I called his number, but the marigolds remained the only sign of life. I gave the door a hefty thumping, in case Smyth was sleeping late, then went back up to the street and along to the Quiet Americano and took a high stool at the window counter, sipping a decaff latte and staring up the street towards Smyth’s bed-sit.
An hour later there was still no sign of Smyth and even the thought of another coffee, decaff or otherwise, was turning my stomach. I got out my notebook and scribbled a note.
Mr Smyth – I dropped by to let you know that I’m interested in taking on your story. I’d like to ask some follow-up questions, if that’s OK with you. Give me a call when you get this. Yours, Tom Noone.
I glanced up to check on the street, wondering if I should add a PS about Sebastian Devereaux, and saw a woman standing outside on the footpath in a knee-length grey wool coat. She was looking straight at me and didn’t glance away. Instead she nodded – not a greeting; a confirmation – then turned towards the door. She ordered straight away and pointed at the window counter and made her way through the maze of tables and chairs, slipping out of her coat to hang it on the high stool beside mine, leaving that one empty as she eased herself up on to a seat two stools along.
She was tall and slim. The eyes were smoky-grey, accentuated by black eye-liner, and she wore her blonde bob in a ragged mess of a bird’s nest that probably took no longer than most birds’ nests to get just so. It was the nose that stood out though, long and narrow from the bridge but swelling wider than it should have over the full lips. I’d hate to know what Freud might have made of it, but I’ve always liked a woman with an interesting nose.
She nodded at the notebook and said, ‘Please don’t tell me it’s a screenplay.’
I took my time ripping out the page and folding it up, making a point of tucking it into my back pocket. She wore no ring on her wedding finger, and I was guessing her to be late thirties, so she’d probably earned the right to the sardonic drawl, the cynical appraisal in the watchful grey eyes.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’ I said.
The barista arrived with her coffee. She nodded her thanks, gave the barista a flash of a warm smile, and turned back to me. She left the smile where it was, which gave her the look of sun glinting on frost.
‘Gerard Smyth,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
‘You were kicking in his door just now. How come?’
‘Kicking, no. Knocking, yes.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘I’m concerned,’ she said. ‘Mr Smyth didn’t come home last night, which is by all accounts highly unusual behaviour for Mr Smyth. Or by one account, at least. His neighbour, an admirably concerned citizen, is worried that Mr Smyth may have come to some harm. According to his neighbour, Mr Smyth is not, and I quote, “a man to run off on the lash with some floozy”.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no.’
‘So when the neighbour rings up and says someone’s having a good old batter at Mr Smyth’s door, and the man who did the battering is now sitting up the road in a coffee shop, I thought I’d have a word.’
No uniform – if she really was a cop – meant a detective. I’d always thought you needed to be missing for twenty-four hours before the cops got involved, but then and there didn’t seem to be the right time, if there ever is a right time, to ask stupid questions.
‘He’s missing?’ I said.
‘His neighbour is concerned,’ she said again, ‘so we’re concerned. I don’t suppose you’d have any ID on you?’
I did, but I was entitled to see hers before I showed her mine. She dug into a coat pocket and flipped open a battered black leather wallet that said she was a Garda detective sergeant called Alison Kee. It looked bona fide, so I took out my wallet and gave her my driver’s licence.
‘Would you mind,’ she said as she handed it back, ‘if I had a look at your phone?’
‘What for?’
‘Clues,’ she said. ‘Bloodstains and semen traces and suchlike.’
I gave her the phone, trying to remember if it was detectives or uniformed gardaí who generally pursued missing-persons cases. She scrolled down through my contacts, the list of calls made and received, the text messages. Then she placed it on the counter, slid it across. ‘What do you want with Gerard Smyth?’ she said.
‘I want to talk to him. He wasn’t at home, so I thought I’d hang around and see if I could catch him coming back.’
‘And this chat,’ she said. ‘What might that be about?’
‘A book we’re working on.’
‘You’re a writer?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what’s the book about?’
‘That’s confidential.’
She grinned at that. Then, when she realized I was serious, she said, ‘Maybe he told you something in confidence, but that’s not really the same thing, is it? And anyway, the man’s missing. So it’s all in play now.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to be difficult, but—’
‘Have you paid?’
‘What?’
‘For your coffee,’ she said. ‘Have you paid for it?’
‘Sure, yeah. Why?’
She ducked in so fast I nearly wound up with a mascara smear on my nose.
‘Do not fuck me around,’ she hissed from about three inches away. ‘There’s an old man gone missing who could be wandering around right now not knowing who or where he is, and that’s probably our best-case scenario.’ She tapped the counter three times with her forefinger. ‘So you tell me exactly what you know right fucking now, or I’ll drag you out of here quick fucking smart.’
So I told her what I knew of Gerard Smyth, and why I was sitting in the coffee shop watching his basement flat. As a goodwill gesture, I even gave her the note I’d written him.
She sat back on her stool and read it, then placed it on the counter and had a hearty slurp on her black coffee. ‘Nazis in Donegal,’ she said.
‘So he says.’
‘And he was one himself?’
‘Not a Nazi, no. A sailor, he says.’
‘And you believe all this?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ I gestured at the note. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here.’
‘If you didn’t think there was something in it, you wouldn’t be hanging around.’
‘I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. For now, anyway.’
‘OK,’ she said. She drained her coffee, then announced she was giving me a lift home. I told her I was fine, I was driving myself, had my car parked up on the canal. She was persistent, though. In the end she dropped me at my car – she drove an unmarked maroon Renault Mégane, the radio tuned to Classic Hits FM – and followed me home. I zapped the security gates and drove on through into the car park, leaving Kee to park on the double-yellow lines outside the apartment complex. By the time I got back to the gates she was propping a ‘Doctor on Call’ card on her dashboard.
