by John Brady
Murray made a church-and-steeple of his fingers.
"He'd only have agreed to go to Ireland for a period of time, I imagine," said Kenyon. "Under certain conditions, I mean. There's nothing in his file about the deal which brought him to Ireland."
Murray collapsed his chapel and smiled indulgently.
"Purely informal, I expect. Hardly a signed contract. Tricks men don't get the lawyers to sign deals."
"What conditions?" Kenyon persisted.
"Well," Murray began, "I believe that Combs was offered a deal whereby he'd be allowed to return here. A new passport, if he did a little work for us in Ireland for a short while."
"A short while?"
"Can't be precise. We couldn't expect more than a couple of years. Combs was getting on already."
Meaning that they knew Combs was drinking heavily and wasn't in the best of health to begin with, Kenyon reflected. Murray and company had had good odds that Combs would die before they'd have to live up to the deal about repatriating him. A relic, Murray had said: nuisance, expendable.
"What did you think of the stuff Combs sent? Overall?"
"My assessments are in the file, James. Remember, Combs was very low-level. Intentionally so, I don't need to add. We had nobody on the ground there at that time. The area in south County Dublin was a haven for IRA on the run. All we wanted from Combs were sightings, a name here, a car number there. Not too taxing. His material tapered off this last while, I must say. Could have been the booze, I daresay. Fact is, the IRA may have learned to stay out of that area. The Irish police did a few swoops off their own intelligence there, too. Several things combined to flush them out, I expect."
Murray took up his cup again.
"Combs reported to the Second Sec on a regular basis?"
"Yes. Ball tried to hold him to some reasonable schedule," Murray said vacantly. "Didn't really work, though. You've seen the calibre of stuff that came from Combs lately."
Kenyon nodded. The dull burn in his chest was not going away, he realised then. It was more than his distaste for what lay under the tailored facade which Murray had inherited from the other fops in the Foreign Office. Murray was playing down Combs' death. The Combs that Kenyon had read about in the Registry yesterday afternoon was a different entity from the man whom Murray was now discarding. As he watched Murray draining the cup, it dawned on him that Murray's assessment was wrong because Murray simply hadn't the experience, the depth-most of all, the damned imagination-to see into Arthur Combs. Just for the record, he'd ask Murray.
"So you feel confident that Combs would not have material which could be prejudicial to us?" he murmured.
"'Us,' James?" asked Murray.
"What made this Arthur Combs enough of a security risk to bar him from Britain for nearly forty years? Was it what he was doing in Ireland these last two years?"
Murray paused and tugged at his cuff-links. Kenyon wanted to scream at the gesture. Murray seemed to be considering the question deeply.
"Oh balance, if it's a yes/no question… I'd have to say no. It's my sense that the matter is sealed."
"Excepting for the fact that he was murdered." Kenyon said, hearing the sarcasm plain in his own voice. "And we don't know why."
Murray sat up.
"Is there a need for melodrama like this, James? If our Mr Combs had damaging material to use he would have used it by now, I'm sure. He had no reason to betray his confidences. Really. We're talking about an antique queer who drank half the day. Do you think the Catholic Irish have some soft spot in their hearts for old bum-boys, old English bum-boys at that? Wait and see, you'll find something squalid about him-letting his inclinations get the better of him around some unfortunate youngster. You know what they're like over there. Touchy, temperamental. Peasants in many ways still."
Murray leaned forward over the table, a gesture of readiness to leave.
"Did I hear his place had been burgled, too? The very fact of him living there may have been enough to incense people. Terrible bloody country. A robbery attempt gone astray, I'd start with that if I were a copper. Combs must have looked an easy mark to a local hoodlum. Crime in the Republic is soaring, especially in Dublin. The peons want loot there, too, James. Their economy's on the skids…"
"We can't leave the matter as it is," Kenyon said evenly. "You liaise with this Ball in the embassy, I understand."
"He is one of a number of personnel who reports to me regularly, yes. We have rather a lot on our plates with the border security conference coming up, you'll allow."
"I have to talk to him. It's better he comes here. Will I have difficulties?"
Murray regained his faint smile.
"Only too happy to assist our colleagues in the Security Service."
Which meant the exact opposite, Kenyon thought as he followed Murray out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER 4
Stepaside Garda Station was in the centre of the village. Keating met Minogue in the adjoining carpark. Keating was whistling, tongue behind his teeth. Curly head, mother's love, Minogue mused. He guessed that Keating might be the youngest in his family. Keating winked.
"You found the place all right, did you?"
"Course I did, Pat. I'm a detective. Now who are these Mulvaneys?" asked Minogue.
"They're a bit like hillbillies so far as I can tell from the lads in the station, sir. We have sheets on them for car theft, B amp; E, petty larceny. Three brothers and they live on their own up above Barnacullia. Up there," Keating nodded toward the rounded top of Two Rock Mountain over the hedges.
"Barman at Glencullen said that they had words with Mr Combs one night recently."
"Glencullen? You mean Johnny Fox's pub? But didn't Combs live in Kilternan? Why would he be going up there for his gargle?"
"Don't know, sir. Maybe he didn't like the one around the corner from him. The Golden Ball. Can't say I blame him either."
"Aha," Minogue murmured.
"And the barman says the Mulvaneys were in the pub with their usual carryings on. Mr Combs used to go in early in the evening for a brandy and a chaser. He'd be in about half seven and gone by nine o'clock, he says. Now one or another of the brothers Mulvaney had words with Combs. They were langers drunk. Drinking all day, by the cut of them," Keating said and paused to rub his eye.
"I think the barman is a bit leery of the likes of the Mulvaneys, sir," he added. "Now he has a chance to get a dig at them without having to face them. There's a lot of people up in these parts are not the full shilling, I believe."
"What was the row about anyway, did you hear?"
"Something about Combs' accent. 'Why is there an effin' Brit bein' served in this effin' pub with all the boys fightin' for freedom not a hundred miles up the effin' road?' and the rest of it," Keating replied.
"Barstool heroes. When they're not falling off them," Minogue muttered darkly. Three Gardai in shirtsleeves came out the back door of the police station. They carried batons.
"Come along up with us lads, the view is only tremendous," quipped a balding Garda. Minogue recognised him from somewhere. The Garda football club? A Cork accent, as thick as a ditch, and a clown's loaded smile. Another Cork exile here in Dublin.
Keating drove. The car made heavy work of the steep, winding road to Barnacullia.
"The official line is that we'll be requesting their assistance on several break-ins around the area. That way if they mention Combs at all, they'll be coming to him cold and we'll know what's what very quickly."
"Any assaults or threats on their records?" Minogue asked.
"Not yet, can I say, sir. Only resisting arrest, one of them. It's a bit thin, I know, but sure we can only try, can't we?"
Minogue nodded.
"They'll be dragging their arses out of bed around now. Says the sergeant below, anyway. Oh, the three brothers have names, too. Do you want to hear them?"
"Go on out of that. Are they special?" asked Minogue.
"The oldest one is called the Bronc. H
e wears a cowboy hat. The middle one is Seamus, but if you call him that, he'll pick a row with you. Everyone calls him Shag. Shag Mulvaney."
"Has a nice ring to it. And the third lad?"
"He's called Quick."
"Isn't that rich?"
"Quick has a bad leg now, so he's more law-abiding than the other two. He was the scourge of south County Dublin a few years ago. A real careful burglar, you know the worst kind, the ones who do it off a list, shopping for stuff they can fence straight away. We could never pin one on him. He could walk up a wall and do houses while people were fast asleep in the next room. He got a bit cocky, though, and started to take a few jars before a job. One night himself and another lad were half-way in the window of a house and didn't the man of the house hear them. 'Quick,' says Mulvaney and…"
"And what?"
"And that was all he said. Fell thirty feet into a bloody glasshouse, all over someone's rare tropical plants, and he didn't get up either. He has one leg longer than the other one since, and the long one is stuck together with a big bolt or something at the knee."
"A pin, you mean."
"A big fat pin. One of the lads at the station saw it."
Keating had turned onto a narrow road which meandered erratically under Two Rock Mountain. He guided the car cautiously through blind elbow bends. Minogue heard roadside grass lash along the door-panels. The glimpses of view between the bushes and banks to the right side revealed the city and south suburbs below. The sea-horizon was above Howth, they were that high. The Garda squad-car was waiting for them at the foot of a steep path, which led further up the side of the mountain.
"Jases," Keating said to himself, he thought. "We'll be needing mules next."
Rusting hulks of cars surrounded a cottage which crouched by the path. The path itself was no more than the dual tracks that cars had left in their wake. Other mysterious pieces of vehicles lay at the sides of it: bits of tractors, a piece of tread from a caterpillar, the frame of a lorry.
A district detective whom Minogue didn't recognize was leaning his elbows on the roof of the Garda car ahead. He came over and introduced himself as Eamonn Driscoll.
Then, like potatoes tumbling out of a sack which had fallen over, the three Gardai emerged from their car. There was much tucking in of shirts, fingering of batons and scratching of noses. They left their hats in the car.
"Do you want in on this, Sergeant?" sotto voce from the Corkman.
Playing it up a bit, Minogue considered. Maybe he thought it was all terribly funny to have to pick up the Mulvaneys for these detectives out from Dublin. Did he already know what Minogue had suspected, that the Mulvaneys weren't in a class to kill someone? Minogue said he'd come along.
"I hear these lads hunted with Finn McCool," Minogue said to the Corkman.
"Wisha Sergeant," he whispered. "Not to be disappointing you now, but these three Mulvaneys have been trading on their reputations a long time now. There's nothing to them. Petty thieves. Whoever tipped you off to these lads wasn't Charlie Chan. But we'll try anyhow."
Minogue followed the Gardai up the path. Driscoll fell back from the group and introduced himself to Minogue. At the top of the path, Minogue chose a deceased '57 or '58 Ford Prefect to lean his weight on. A dog began barking as the Gardai and Driscoll approached the house. Curious at first, the dog settled into a staccato, monotonous yelping. It didn't sound like a chained dog to Minogue. Then he caught sight of it, an old collie sitting surrealistically in a path of lettuce plants. If the collie was all they had to contend with, then the three brothers could take all their attention.
Driscoll's knock on the door went unanswered. No faces appeared at the windows. The cottage had small windows with sashes that hadn't been painted for a long time. Several panes had been repaired with tape and patches of what had been clear plastic. Minogue heard rustling by a sagging shed, which lay to the rear of the house. The old collie kept up its rhythmic barking. Minogue tried to listen again. Was it a small engine, a power tool of some sort? The shed door opened slightly as though a breeze had caught it. A large Alsatian shot out the gap in the door. The dog hesitated on its hind legs for an instant, caught sight of the group by the front door and began to race toward the policemen.
Its path brought it by Minogue. As the dog hared past him, Minogue stepped out from behind the car and landed a sharp kick on the fleeting dog's backside. It was enough to throw the animal off-course with a yelp. Two of the Gardai turned at the sound.
The dog had spun with the kick, righted itself and turned to face Minogue. Having nothing to hand, Minogue summoned up saliva and spat at the growling dog. The Alsatian's tail wavered. Minogue bared his teeth and crouched slightly, his arms out. He made to spit again, but the dog had already backed into the weeds.
"Hey, look it!" Minogue heard one of the Gardai shout.
A gnomic head peeped out of the shed door.
"Ya dirty animal," the head called out.
The Alsatian backed away further from Minogue then loped back to the shed. Driscoll ran up to Minogue, looked at him and then called out.
"Quick, come outa there where we can see you. Tie up that dog of yours or I'll do for it. Do you hear me talking to you?"
The dog wriggled through the door opening and disappeared. The old collie was still barking, as though having remembered how to do it, he was loath to surrender the skill to forgetfulness. A short, barrel-chested man came out of the shed door and closed it noisily behind him. He walked sideways to the policemen, dragging a stiff leg.
"Get those two brothers of yours up, Quick," Driscoll said.
"Dirty animal," Quick hissed.
Minogue watched the sideways gait of the balding man, a face on him that looked like it had been caught in a door.
"Jases, disgusting so it is. Spitting at an animal. I never seen such a disgrace as that," Quick said.
"I suppose he slipped the leash by accident all of a sudden," Driscoll said.
"Can 1 help it if the smell of yous rozzers drives the dog wild?" Quick retorted.
Minogue studied Quick's uneven face. Quick's beard served to emphasize his resentment at the world. He wondered if such spite could lead him to strangling an old man.
"Show us your search warrant," Quick sneered.
"Get up the yard with yourself, Quick," Driscoll broke in. "You're not watching the telly now. Let's have your driving license and your insurance, too. Then you can start showing us all the jalopies you have around here and where you got them."
Quick's expression didn't change. He sidled crookedly by Minogue, looking him up and down at the sea off Dublin. Kilternan was hidden behind a rise of woods below and to the south of where he stood. He recalled the Cork Garda's remarks about the brothers. A household of three drunken bachelors, their forte would be squalid misdemeanours or, at the apogee of a binge, a brawl.
Minogue checked the time. He did not want to wait around long enough to be disappointed. He asked Hoey what time to hold the confab back at headquarters. Hoey said that four o'clock in the briefing room would be manageable from his point of view. Minogue could be in the city by one, his dinner eaten by half one… ready for business by two… and a break in Bewley's Cafe after three. To gather his thoughts, of course.
A breeze searched his jacket. Motive, he thought: why is this old man dead? Simple bloody question, no answer. He thought again of the drawings in Combs' house. Tully church, the pagan symbols on warm, smooth stones…
Quick's limp had soured his face into that of a malignant dwarf. The Bronc was hatless, also wore a beard and smelled like a damp ashtray. He seemed mild, almost co-operative, as he stepped out in his socks onto the flagstones by the door. Evenings, and perhaps mornings too, had left him with an overhanging belly which his vest could not get under. There'd be no competition among the policemen as to who could sit beside The Bronc.
"Yous have nothing on me. Not a fuckin' sausage!" the Bronc hissed.
Minogue watched them trek down the path. Shag w
as the last of the brothers into the Garda cars. His eyes were darting about, but he remained silent.
"That was easy enough," Keating murmured.
"They were flattered by so much attention, I'm thinking," said Minogue. "Here, I'm off to town directly we get back to the station. Is someone going to go over the place for rope here?"
Keating concealed his surprise.
"Em… Driscoll and another fella will do it while these three divine persons are down in the station."
"Phone me in the unlikely event that…" Minogue didn't finish the sentence. "And can you be in by four along with the others? We'll go over what we have." spacebarthing
Alistair Murray wrote the cable message in longhand, authorized it himself and had it delivered by hand to the Communications Section. Ball would be waiting for official word that MI5 had inherited Combs. Information was to follow in due course, Murray had written in officialese, as to what dispositions and assistance Foreign Office staff could make for Mr Kenyon should the Security Service request same.
Murray omitted the second letter of his initials in the "reply to" box. The omission was a signal to Ball to telephone him at a public telephone booth in Knights-bridge at one o'clock this afternoon. He settled back in his chair and stifled a yawn. Maybe he should have let Combs off the hook sooner, he reflected. But getting him out of Dublin would not have been risk-free either. A cantankerous Combs would have nourished his resentment and had it flower sooner or later, at a time when he, Murray, would have less control. Kenyon and the Security Service would nose about until he had exhausted his irritation and assured himself and the Service that Combs could be boxed and buried permanently. Combs, whether he had liked it or not, had earned his keep. Under the circumstances… Murray's thoughts slid away.
His memory drew him back yet again to the drizzly expanse of aerodrome tarmac, the blanket of grey clouds low over the small groups in uniform huddled under umbrellas. He remembered the savage ironies; here he was, standing in the rain at an RAF base where England's finest hours had been played out in the war, with fliers limping back to base in that spring of 1940. Heroes' return… and so many never returning; England's best.
